Make you a Bishop.-Come, we'll go to dinner,
And talk the while of methods to advance
Our Mother Church. Ah, Joseph,-Bishop Joseph!

CHRISTMAS.

Washington Erving.

THERE is nothing in England that exercises a more delightful spell over my imagination, than the lingerings of the holiday customs and rural games of former times. They recall the pictures my fancy used to draw in the May-morning of my life, when as yet I only knew the world through books, and believed it to be all that poets had painted; and they bring with them the flavour of those honest days of yore, in which, perhaps with equal fallacy, I am apt to think the world was more homebred, social, and joyous, than at present. I regret to say, that they are daily growing more and more faint, being gradually worn away by time, but still more obliterated by modern fashion. They resemble those picturesque morsels of gothic architecture which we see crumbling in various parts of the country; partly dilapidated by the waste of ages, and partly lost in the additions and alterations of latter days. Poetry, however, clings with cherishing fondness about the rural game and holiday revel from which it has derived so many of its themes-as the ivy winds its rich foliage about the gothic arch and mouldering tower, gratefully repaying their support by clasping together their tottering remains, and, as it were, embalming them in verdure.

Of all the old festivals, however, that of Christmas awakens the strongest and most heartfelt associations. There is a tone of sacred and solemn feeling that blends with our conviviality, and lifts the spirit to a state of hallowed and elevated enjoyment. The services of the church about this season are extremely tender and inspiring. They dwell on the beautiful story of the origin of our faith, and the pastoral scenes that accompanied its announcement. They gradually increase in fervour and pathos during the season of Advent, until they break forth in full jubilee on the morning that "brought peace and good-will to men.' I do not know a grander effect of music on the moral feelings, than to hear the full choir, and the pealing organ, performing a Christmas anthem in a cathedral, and filling every part of the vast pile with triumphant harmony.

It is a beautiful arrangement, also derived from days of yore, that this festival, whieh commemorates the announcement of the religion of peace and love, has been made the season for gathering together of family connexions, and drawing closer again those bands of kindred hearts, which the cares, and pleasures, and sorrows of the world, are continually operating to cast loose; of calling back the children of a family who have launched forth in life, and wandered widely asunder, once more to assemble about the paternal hearth, that rallying place of the affections, there to grow young and loving again, among the endearing mementos of childhood.

There is something in the very season of the year that gives a charm to the festivity of Christmas. At other times we derive a great portion of our pleasures from the beauty of nature. Our feelings sally forth and dissipate themselves over the sunny landscape, and we "live abroad and everywhere." The song of the bird, the murmur of the stream, the breathing fragrance of spring, the soft voluptuousness of summer, the golden pomp of autumn, earth with its mantle of refreshing green, and heaven with its deep, delicious blue, and its cloudy magnificence, 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 cloud of sheeted snow, we turn, for our gratifications, to moral sources. 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 pleasures 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 living kindness, which lie in the deep 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 into 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 fireside? And as the hollow blast of wintry wind rushes through the hall, claps the distant door, whistles about the casement, and rumbles down the chimne what can be more grateful than that feeling of sober and sheltered security with which we look round upon the comfortable chamber, and the scene of domestic hilarity ?

THE FOLLY OF WAR.

Byron.

HARK! heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note?
Sounds not the clangs of conflict on the heath?
Saw ye not whom the reeking sabre smote,
Nor saved your brethren ere they sunk beneath
Tyrants and tyrants' slaves ?-The fires of death,
The bale-fires flash on high-from rock to rock,
Each volley tells that thousands cease to breathe ;
Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc,

Red battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the shock.
Lo! where the giant on the mountain stands,
His blood-red tresses deep'ning in the sun,
With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands,
And eye that scorcheth all that glares upon;

Restless it rolls, now fixed, and now anon,
Flashing afar,—and at his iron feet

Destruction cowers to mark what deeds are done;
For, in this morn, three potent nations meet

To shed before his shrine the blood he deems most sweet.

Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice;

Three tongues prefer strange orisons on high;
Three gaudy standards flout the pale blue skies;
The shouts are France, Spain, Albion, Victory!
The foe, the victim, and the fond ally

That fights for all, but ever fights in vain
Are met—as if at home they could not die—
To feed the crow on Talavera's plain,

And fertilize the field that each pretends to gain.

There shall they rot-Ambition's honour'd fools! Yes, Honour decks the turf that wraps their clay! Vain sophistry! in them behold the tools, The broken tools, that tyrants cast away By myriads, when they dare to trace their way With human hearts-to what?-a dream alone. Can despots compass aught that hails their sway, Or call with truth one span of earth their own, Save that wherein at last they crumble bone by bone?

THE RETURN OF RODERIC.

Southey.

'Twas even-song time; but not a bell was heard ;
Instead thereof, on her polluted towers,

Bidding the Moors to their unhallowed prayer,
The crier stood, and with his sonorous voice,
Fill'd the delicious vale where Lena winds
Through groves and pastoral meads.

The sound, the sight

Of turban, girdle, robe, and scimitar,

And tawny skins, awoke contending thoughts

Of anger, shame, and anguish in the Goth;

The unaccustomed face of human kind

Confused him now, and through the streets he went
With haggard mien, and countenance like one

Crazed or bewildered.

All who met him turned

And wondered as he past. One stopt him short,
Put alms into his hand, and then desired,

In broken Gothic speech, the moon-struck man
To bless him.
With a look of vacancy,

Roderic received the alms; his wandering eye
Fell on the money, and the fallen king,
Seeing his own royal impress on the piece,
Broke out into a quick convulsive voice,
That seemed like laughter first, but ended soon
In hollow groans supprest. The Mussulman
Shrunk at the ghastly sound, and magnified
The name of Allah as he hasten'd on.
A Christian woman, spinning at her door,
Beheld him; and, with sudden pity touch'd,
She laid her spindle by, and running in

Took bread, and following after called him back;
And placing in his passive hands the loaf,
She said, Christ Jesus, for his mother's sake,
Have mercy on thee! With a look that seemed
Like idiotcy, he heard her and stood still,
Staring awhile; then, bursting into tears,
Wept like a child, and thus relieved his heart,
Full, even to bursting else with swelling thoughts.
So, through the streets, and through the northern gate,
Did Roderic, reckless of a resting-place,
With feeble, yet with hurried steps, pursue
His agitated way. And when he reached
The open fields, and found himself alone,
Beneath the starry canopy of heaven,
The sense of solitude, so dreadful late,
Was then repose and comfort :-There he slept,
Beside a little rill, and brake the loaf;

And shedding o'er that unaccustomed food,

Painful, but quiet tears, with grateful soul

He breathed thanksgiving forth :-then made his bed
On heath and myrtle.

Where Etna stands, and thou look'st up to it.

And yet, methinks, thou knowest not thou stand'st

In Sicily.

Fern. I know it as well as thou.

Proc. Deny it, then! Tell him who says thou stand'st there He is mistaken! Rather say thou stand'st

In

any other isle that spots the sea;

And give thy oath to it, though Etna there,
Before thee, should break silence at the lie,

And bellow forth-" "Tis Sicily thou stand'st in!"
Fern. Beware! young blood is hot.

Proc. Behoves it, then,

Beware it runs no peril from its heat.

Young blood is generous, too!-not always!-then
Its heat is virtue bringing virtue forth,

As does the healthful plant in stronger flower.

Its heat is as the thing it acts upon,

As summer in the garden genders fruit,

But in the swamp breeds poison. Know me, sir,

So far. I wear a sword! [throws off his gown] Now, of thy heat, Why should I stand in fear?

Fern. Lest thou offend

Mine honour!

Proc. Show it me, I'll not offend it;
Else I offend mine own. If I gainsay
The square, the plummet, or the level, what
Shall I gain credence for? I am a fool
Or knave. I either know not; or deny,
Yet know. But honour is the name as well
As thing, and with the thing not always goes,
But serves a spurious owner, as the stamp
Of gold at times is given to base coin.

The gambler that will load a die, will cut

Your throat, so you dare tell him on't-for honour!
The libertine who uses, for your shame,

Your hospitable trust-a felon, worse

Than he who filches purses with his sword

Demands your blood, if you impugn his honour!
Whence, with a coward world, the bully lust
Hath gracious entertainment at the hands
Which hold the custody of maidens' snow,
And never-question'd matrons. What do you say

To the honour of a traitor-false at once
To his liege lord and country? taking part

With their arch, pitiless, contentless foes?

Shall such a man have honour? Ay, shall he so,
Hath he the bloodhound's quality to vouch
The barefaced lie a truth!

Proc. No, I love virtue, sir, and fear not danger. Art thou Sicilian?

Proc. In the mountain island first drew breath?

Fern. Yes.

Proc. Art thou sure? Where saw'st thou first the sun, To know him as thou recollectest?