It is remarked, in the "Literary Pocket Book," that now, Christmas-day only, or at most a day or two, are kept by people in general; the rest are school holidays. "But, formerly, there was nothing but a run of merry days from Christmas-eve to Candlemas, and the first twelve in particular were full of triumph and hospitality. We have seen but too well the cause of this degeneracy. What has saddened our summer-time has saddened our winter. What has taken us from our fields and May-flowers, and suffered them to smile and die alone, as if they were made for nothing else, has contradicted our flowing cups at Christmas. The middle classes make it a sorry business of a pudding or so extra, and a game at cards. The rich invite their friends to their country houses, but do little there but gossip and gamble; and the poor are either left out entirely, or presented with a few clothes and eatables that make up a wretched substitute for the long and hospitable intercourse of old. All this is so much the worse, inasmuch as christianity had a special eye to those feelings which should remind us of the equal rights of all; and the greatest beauty in it is not merely its charity, which we contrive to swallow up in faith, but its being alive to the sentiment of charity, which is still more opposed to these proud distances and formal dolings out. The same spirit that vindicated the pouring of rich ointment on his feet, (because it was a homage paid to sentiment in his person,) knew how to bless the gift of a cup of water. Every face which you contribute to set sparkling at Christmas is a reflection of that goodness of nature which generosity helps to uncloud, as the windows reflect the lustre of the sunny heavens. Every holly bough and lump of berries with which you adorn your houses is a piece of natural piety as well as beauty, and will enable you to relish the green world of which you show, yourselves not forgetful. Every wassail bowl which you set flowing without drunkenness, every harmless pleasure, every innocent mirth however mirthful, every forgetfulness even of serious things, when they are only swallowed up in the kindness and joy with which it is the end of wisdom to produce, is

ANCIENT CHRISTMAS.

And well our christian sires of old

Loved, when the year its course had roll'd,
And brought blithe Christinas back again,
With all its hospitable train.
Domestic and religious rite
Gave honour to the holy night :
On Christmas-eve the bells were rung;
On Christmas-eve the mass was sung;
That only night, in all the year,
Saw the stoled priest the chalice rear.
The hall was dress'd with holly green;
The damsel donn'd her kirtle sheen;
Forth to the wood did merry men go,
To gather in the misletoe.
Then open wide the baron's hall,
To vassal, tenant, serf, aud all;
Power laid his rod of rule aside,
And ceremony doff'd his pride.
The heir, with roses in his shoes,
That night might village partner choose:
The lord, underogating, share
The vulgar game of " post and pair."
All hailed, with uncontrouled delight,
And general voice, the happy night,
That to the cottage, as the crown,
Brought tidings of salvation down.

The fire, with well-dried logs supply'd,
Went, roaring, up the chimney wide;
Scrubb'd till it shone, the day to grace,
The huge hall table's oaken face,
Bore then upon its massive board
No mark to part the squire and lord.
Then was brought in the lusty brawn,
By old blue-coated serving man;
Then the grim boar's-head frown'd on high,
Crested with bays and rosemary.
Well can the green-garb'd ranger tell,
How, when, and where the monster fell;
What dogs before his death he tore,
And all the baiting of the boar;
Garnish'd with ribbons, blithe did trowl.
While round the merry wassel bowl,
There the huge sirloin reek'd; hard by
Plum-porridge stood, and Christmas pie;
Nor fail'd old Scotland to produce,
At such high tide her savoury goose.
Then came the merry maskers in,
And carols roar'd with blithsome din;
If unmelodious was the song,
It was a hearty note and strong,
Who lists may in their mumming see
Traces of ancient mystery;
White shirts supply the masquerade,
But, oh! what masquers, richly dight,

And smutted cheeks the visor made;

Can boast of bosoms half so light! England was merry England when Old Christmas brought his sports again. "Twas Christmas broach'd the mightiest ale; "Twas Christmas told the merriest tale; A Christmas gambol oft would cheer A poor man's heart through half the year.

Sir Walter Scott.

There was much of character in the men themselves. One was tall, and had that kind of face which distinguishes the Italian character; his complexion a clear pale cream colour, with dark eyes, black hair, and a manner peculiarly solemn : the second was likewise tall, and of more cheerful feature; but the third was a short thick-set man, with an Oxberry countenance of rich waggery, heightened by large whiskers: this was the humourist. With a bit of cherry-tree held between the finger and thumb, they rapidly twirled the wires in accompaniment of various airs, which they sung with unusual feeling and skill. They were acquainted with every foreign tune that was called for. That Italian minstrels of this class should venture here for the purpose of perambulating our streets, is evidence that the refinement in our popular manners is known in the "land of song," and they will bear testimony to it from the fact that their performances are chiefly in the public-houses of the metropolis, from whence thirty years ago such aspirants to entertain John Bull would have been expelled with expressions of abhorrence.

To the accounts of Christmas keeping in old times, old George Wither adds amusing particulars in rhime.

Christmas.

So now is come our joyfulst feast;
Let every man be jolly;
Each room with ivy leaves is drest,
And every post with holly.
Though some churls at our mirth repine,
Round your foreheads garlands twine;
Drown sorrow in a cup of wine,
And let us all be merry.

Now all our neighbours' chimnies smoke,
And Christmas blocks are burning;
Their ovens they with baked meat choke,
And all their spits are turning.
Without the door let sorrow lye;
And if for cold it hap to die,
We'll bury't in a Christmas pie,
And evermore be merry.

Now every lad is wond'rous trim,
And no man minds his labour;
Our lasses have provided them

A bagpipe and a tabor;
Young men and maids, and girls and boys,
Give life to one another's joys;
And you anon shall by their noise.
Perceive that they are merry.
Rank misers now do sparing shun;
Their hall of music soundeth;;

And dogs thence with whole shoulders run,
So all things there aboundeth.
The country folks, themselves advance,
With crowdy-muttons out of France;
And Jack shall pipe and Jyll shall dance,
And all the town be merry.

Ned Squash hath fetcht his bands from pawn,
And all his best apparel;
Brisk Nell hath bought a ruff of lawn
With dropping of the barrel.
And those that hardly all the year
Had bread to eat, or rags to wear,
Will have both clothes and dainty fare,
And all the day be merry.
Now poor men to the justices

With capons make their errants;
And if they hap to fail of these,

They plague them with their warrants : But now they feed them with good cheer, And what they want, they take in beer, For Christmas comes but once a year, And then they shall be merry.

Good farmers in the country nurse

The poor, that else were undone ; Some landlords spend their money worse, On lust and pride at London. There the roysters they do play, Drab and dice their lands away, Which may be ours another day,

And therefore let's be merry.

The client now his suit forbears,

The prisoner's heart is eased; The debtor drinks away his cares, And for the time is pleased. Though others' purses be more fat, Why should we pine, or grieve at that? Hang sorrow! care will kill a cat,

And therefore let's be merry.

Hark! now the wags abroad do call,
Each other forth to rambling;
Anon you'll see them in the hall,

For nuts and apples scrambling.
Hark! how the roofs with laughter sound,
Anon they'll think the house goes round,
For they the cellar's depth have found,
And there they will be merry.

The wenches with their wassel bowls
About the streets are singing;
The boys are come to catch the owls,
The wild mare in it bringing.
Our kitchen boy hath broke his box,
And to the dealing of the ox,
Our honest neighbours come by flocks,
And here they will be merry.

Now kings and queens poor sheepcotes have,
And mute with every body;

The honest now may play the knave,
And wise men play the noddy.