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-all fill us with mute but exquisite delight, and we revel in the luxury of mere sensation. But in the depth of winter, when nature lies despoiled of every charm, and wrapped in her shroud of sheeted snow, we turn for our gratifications to moral The dreariness and desolation of the landscape, the short gloomy days and darksome nights, while they circumscribe our wanderings, shut in our feelings also from rambling abroad, and make us more keenly disposed for the pleasure of the social circle. Our thoughts are more concentrated-our friendly sympathies more aroused. We feel more sensibly the charm of each other's society, and are brought more closely together by dependence on each other for enjoyment. HEART CALLETH UNTO HEART; and we draw our pleasures from the deep wells of loving-kindness, which lie in the quiet recesses of our bosoms; and which, when resorted to, furnish forth the pure element of domestic felicity.

The pitchy gloom without MAKES THE HEART DILATE ON

ENTERING THE ROOM FILLED WITH THE GLOW AND WARMTH OF THE EVENING FIRE THE RUDDY BLAZE DIFFUSES AN ARTIFICIAL SUMMER AND SUNSHINE THROUGH THE ROOM, AND LIGHTS UP EACH COUNTENANCE IN A KINDLIER WELCOME. WHERE does the honest face of hospitality expand into a broader and more cordial smile-WHERE is the shy glance of love more sweetly eloquent-THAN BY THE WINTER FIRE-SIDE? and as the hollow blast of wintry wind rushes through the hall, claps the distant door, whistles about the casement, and rumbles down the chimney, what can be more grateful than that feeling of sober and sheltered security, with which we look upon the comfortable chamber and the scene of domestic hilarity?

The English, from the great prevalence of rural habits throughout every class of society, have always been fond of those festivals and holidays which agreeably interrupt the stillness of country life; and they were, in former days, particularly observant of the religious and social rites of Christinas. It is inspiring to read even the dry details which some antiquaries have given of the quaint humours, the burlesque pageants, the complete abandonment to mirth and good-fellowship, with which this festival was celebrated. It seemed to throw open every door, and unlock every heart. It brought the peasant and the peer together, and blended all ranks in one warm generous flow of joy and kindness. The old halls of castles and manor-houses resounded with the harp and the Christmas carol, and their ample boards groaned under the weight of hospitality. Even the poorest cottage welcomed the festive season with green decorations of bay and holly; the cheerful fire glanced its rays through the lattice, inviting the passengers to raise the latch, and join the gossip knot huddled round the hearth, beguiling the long evening with legendary jokes and off told Christmas tales.

GOOD TEMPER.

[Cheerfully and with vigour.]

There's not a cheaper thing on earth,
Nor yet one half so dear;

'Tis worth more than distinguished birth, Or thousands gained a year.

It maketh poverty content,
To sorrow whispers peace;
It is a gift from heaven sent,
For mortals to increase.

A charm to banish grief away,

To free the brow from care

Turns tears to smiles, makes dullness gay,
SPREADS GLADNESS EVERYWHERE.

And yet 'tis cheap as summer's dew
That gems the lily's breast-
A talisman for love as true

As ever man possessed

As smiles the rainbow through the cloud
When threat'ning storm begins-

As music 'mid the tempest loud
That still its sweet way wins--

As springs an arch across the tide
When waves conflicting foam :
So comes the seraph to our side,
The angel to our home.

What may this wondering spirit be,
With power unheard before-
This charm, this bright divinity?
GOOD NATURE-NOTHING MORE.

GOOD TEMPER-'tis the choicest gift
That woman homeward brings,
And can the poorest peasant lift
To bliss unknown to kings.

VOLTAIRE, THE INFIDEL PHILOSOPHER, AND THE POOR BOBBIN WEAVER.

[Earnest and vigorous.]

The path to bliss abounds with many a snare;
Learning is one, and wit, however rare.
The Frenchman first in literary fame-
(Mention him, if you please. Voltaire? the same)
With spirit, genius, eloquence supplied,

Lived long, wrote much, laughed heartily, and died.
The Scripture was his jest-book, whence he drew
Bon mots to gall the Christian and the Jew;
An infidel in health; but what when sick?
Oh-then a text would touch him at the quick.
View him at Paris in his last career:
Surrounding throngs the demi-god revere;
Exalted on his pedestal of pride,

And fumed with frankincense on every side,
He begs their flattery with his latest breath,
And, smothered in 't at last, is praised to death.
Yon cottager, who weaves at her own door,
Pillow and bobbins all her little store;
Content though mean, and cheerful if not gay,
Shuffling her threads about the livelong day,
Just earns a scanty pittance, and at night
Lies down secure, her heart and pocket light;
She, for her humble sphere by nature fit,
Has little understanding, and no wit,
Receives no praise; but, though her lot be such,
(Toilsome and indigent) she renders much;
Just knows, and knows no more, her Bible true-
A truth the brilliant Frenchman never knew ;
And in that charter reads with sparkling eyes
Her title to a treasure in the skies.

O HAPPY PEASANT! O unhappy bard!
His the mere tinsel, HERS THE RICH REWARD;
He praised perhaps for ages yet to come,
She never heard of half a mile from home;
He lost in errors his vain heart prefers,
SHE SAFE IN THE SIMPLICITY OF HERS.

97

HEAVEN.

THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL.
BY ADDISON.

[Earnest and bold.]

It must be so-Plato, thoú reason'st well!
Else, whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire,
This longing after immortality?

Or, whence this secret dread, and inward horror,
Of falling into nought? Why shrinks the soul'
Back on herself and startles at destruction?
'TIS THE DIVINITY THAT STIRS WITHIN US,

'TIS HEAVEN ITSELF, THAT POINTS OUT AN HEREAFTER, AND INTIMATES ETERNITY TO MAN.

ETERNITY! thou pleasing-dreadful thought!
Through what variety of untried being

Through what new scenes and changes must we pass !
The wide, the unbounded prospect lies before me;
But shadows, clouds, and darkness, rest upon it.
HERE WILL I HOLD! If there's a power above us-
And that there is, all nature cries aloud

Through all her works-he must delight in virtue ?
And that which He delights in must be happy.

But when? or where? This world was made for Cæsar.
I'm weary of conjectures-- this must end them.

(Laying his hand on his sword.) Thus I am doubly armed. My death, my life, My bane and antidote are both before me. THIS in a moment brings me to an end; But THIS informs me I shall never die ! The soul, secure in her existence, smiles At the drawn dagger, and defies its point.The stars shall fade away, the sun himself Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years; BUT THOU SHALL FLOURISH IN IMMORTAL YOUTH, UNHURT AMIDST THE WAR OF ELEMENTS, The wreck of matter, and the crash of worlds!

WHAT KIND OF PLACE IS HEAVEN?

[Earnest and cheerful.]

The summer-day was almost closed;
Yet lingering in the west,

The glorious sun with parting beam
Lit up the mountain's breast.

And flushed the clouds with golden light,
With glory filled the sky;

A little child in mourning weeds
Gazed up with wondering eye.

Then drawing to her mother's knee,
Inquired with earnest tone,

66

Mamma, what kind of place is Heaven,
Where brother Willie's gone?"

A tear sprang to that mother's eye,
But stooping down, she said,
"IT IS A HOLY, HAPPY PLACE,

AS IN GOD'S WORD YOU READ.

""Tis purer than yon spotless sky,
And brighter than yon sun;
There's neither night nor sorrow there,

Where our dear Willie's gone."

"And are there streets and houses there?"
"Yes, mansions of the blest;
Its gates are pearl, its streets are gold,
All formed and built by Christ.'

"What do they do in Heaven, mamma

66

'They sing the songs of God;

They all have robes of dazzling white,
Each one a harp of gold.

"They pluck the fruits of Paradise,

They walk by Eden's stream;

With angels bright their God they serve,
And praise his holy name."

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"And is it very far away?"
""Tis farther than the moon!
"Tis farther than the farthest star
That shines when day is gone."

"How shall I ever get to heaven,
Away so very far?
How shall I ever be so good

As those bright angels are?'

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