eye-thou who hast learnt this lesson more sternly than even I, and speakest so well of all things! Many a "Winter's Tale" have we two read together (Shakspeare's among the rest—and how often!) and many a written lay has linked our thoughts in a sympathy of sentiment, on many an evening of Christmas. It may be that on some night of that which is approaching, these lines may meet thy notice,—and through them, one more winter's eve may, yet, be spent by thee and me, in a communion of thought and feeling. No fear that joy should carry it all, with us! No danger that the ghosts of the past should fail to mingle with our Christmas feelings, in that hour! There can be no future hope built up for thee or me,―or for most others who have passed the first season of youth-to which something shall not be wanting; -which shall not, like the houses of the Jews, be left imperfect in some part; and for the same reason,—even for the memories of the ruined past!

Farewell!-I do not bid thee weep,

The hoarded love of many years,
The visions hearts like thine must keep,
May not be told by tears!

No! tears are but the spirit's showers,

To wash its lighter clouds away,

In breasts where sun-bows, like the flowers.
Are born of rain and ray;

But gone from thine is all the glow

That helped to form life's promise-bow!

Farewell!-I know that never more
Thy spirit, like the bird of day,
Upon its own sweet song, shall soar

Along a sunny way!—

The hour that wakes the waterfall

To music, in its far-off flight,

And hears the silver fountains call,

Like angels through the night,

Shall bring thee songs whose tones are sighs,
From harps whose chords are memories!

Night!-when, like perfumes that have slept,
All day, within the wild-flower's heart,
Steal out the thoughts the soul has kept
In silence and apart;

And voices we have pined to hear,

Through many a long and lonely day,
Come back upon the dreaming ear,
From grave-lands, far away;
And gleams look forth, of spirit-eyes,
Like stars along the darkening skies!
When fancy and the lark are still-
Those riders of the morning gale!
And walks the moon o'er vale and hill,
With memory and the nightingale ;—
The moon that is the daylight's ghost
(As memory is the ghost of hope),
And holds a lamp to all things lost
Beneath night's solemn cope,
Pale as the light by memory led
Along the cities of the dead!

Alas, for thee! alas for thine!
Thy youth that is no longer young!
Whose heart, like Delphi's ruined shrine,
Gives oracles-oh! still divine!-

But never more in song!

Whose breast, like Echo's haunted hall,

Is filled with murmurs of the past,
Ere yet its "gold was dim," and all
Its "pleasant things" laid waste!
From whose sweet windows never more
Shall look the sunny soul of yore!

Farewell!-I do not bid thee weep,-
The smile and tear are past for thee;
The river of thy thoughts must keep
Its solemn course, too still and deep
For idle eyes to see!

Oh! earthly things are all too far

To throw their shadows o'er its stream!

But, now and then, a silver star,

And, now and then, a gleam

Of glory from the skies be given,

To light its waves with dreams of heaven!

To the out-door sports of this merry time, which arise out of the natural phenomena of the season itself, we need do no more than allude here, because every school-boy knows far more about them than we are now able to tell him-though we too reckoned them all amidst the delights of our boyhood. The rapid

motions and graceful manœuvres of the skilful amongst the skaters the active games connected with this exercise (such as the Golf of our northern neighbors, not very commonly practised in England)—the merry accidents of the sliders-and the loud and mischievous laugh of the joyous groups of snow-ballersare all common amongst the picturesque features by which the Christmas time is commonly marked, in these islands. To be sure, the kind of seasons seems altogether to have abandoned us in which the ice furnished a field for those diversions, during a period of six weeks;—and the days are gone when fairs were held on the broad Thames, and books were printed and medals struck on the very pathway of his fierce and daily tides. Even now, as we write, however, in this present year of grace, old Winter stands without the door, in something like the garb in which as boys we loved him best, and that old aspect of which we have such pleasant memories—and which Cowper has so well described :

*

"O! Winter! ruler of the inverted year!

Thy scattered hair with sleet-like ashes filled;
Thy breath congealed upon thy lips; thy cheeks
Fringed with a beard made white with other snows
Than those of age; thy forehead wrapt in clouds:
A leafless branch thy sceptre; and thy throne
A sliding car indebted to no wheels,

But urged by storms along thy slippery way!"

In looking over a description of London, we have met with a quotation of a passage from Fitz Stephen, an old historian of that city; in which he gives a quaint description of these familiar sports, as they were practised in King Henry the Second's day, on the large pond or marsh which then occupied the site of what is, now, Moorfields. The passage is short, and we will quote it.

“When that vast lake," he says, "which waters the walls of the city, towards the north, is hard frozen, the youth, in great numbers, go and divert themselves on the ice; some taking a small run for the increment of velocity, place their feet at a proper distance, and are carried, sliding, sideways a great way. Others will take a large cake of ice, and seating one of their companions upon it, they take hold of one another's hands, and

draw him along; when it happens that, moving so swiftly on so slippery a place, they all fall headlong. Others there are, who are still more expert in these amusements on the ice; they place certain bones, the leg bones of animals, under the soles of their feet, by tying them round their ankles; and then, taking a pole, shod with iron, into their hands, they push themselves forward by striking it against the ice; and are carried on with a velocity equal to the flight of a bird, or a bolt discharged from a cross-bow.” But amongst all the amusements which, in cities, contribute to make the Christmas time a period of enchantments for the young and happy, there is another, which must not be passed over without a word of special notice; and that one is the theatre-a world of enchantment in itself. We verily believe that no man ever forgets the night on which, as a boy, he first witnessed the representation of a play. All sights and sounds that reached his senses before the withdrawing of the mysterious curtain, all things which preceded his introduction to that land of marvels which lies beyond—are mingled inextricably with the memories of that night, and haunt him through many an after year. The very smell of the lamps and orange-peel, the discordant cries, the ringing of the prompter's bell, and above all, the heavy dark green curtain itself, become essential parts of the charm in which his spirit is long after held. It was so with ourselves; and though many a year is gone by since that happy hour of our lives, and most of the spells which were then cast have been long since broken, yet we felt another taken from us when, at Drury Lane, an attempt was made to substitute a rich curtain of crimson and gold, for the plain dark fall of green. And then the overture! the enchanting prelude to all the wonders that await us!-the unearthly music leading us into fairy land! the incantation, at whose voice, apparently, the mysterious veil on which our eyes have been so long and so earnestly riveted, rises, as if by its own act, and reveals to us the mysteries of an enchanted world. From that moment, all things that lie on this side the charmed boundary are lost sight of;—and all the wonders that are going on beyond it are looked on with the most undoubting faith. It is not, for a moment, suspected that the actors therein are beings of natures like ourselves,-nor is there any questioning but that we

are gazing upon scenes and doings separated from the realities of life. Verily do we believe that, never again in this life, are so many new and bewildering and bewitching feelings awakened in his breast, as on the first night in which the boy is spectator of a theatrical performance,-if he be old enough to enjoy, and not quite old enough clearly to understand what is going on.

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At this holiday period of the year, the boxes of our theatres are filled with the happy faces, and their walls ring with the sweet laughter, of children. All things are matters of amazement and subjects of exclamation. But in London, above all things,-far, far beyond all other things (though it does not begin for some days later than this), is the Pantomime, with its gorgeous scenery, and incomprehensible transformations and ineffable fun. Ready to leap out of the box," says Leigh Hunt, "they joy in the mischief of the clown, laugh at the thwacks he gets for his meddling, and feel no small portion of contempt for his ignorance, in not knowing that hot water will scald, and gunpowder explode; while with head aside to give fresh energy to the strokes, they ring their little palms against each other, in testimony of exuberant delight." The winter pantomimes are introduced on the evening next after Christmas night; and some account of this entertainment seems, as a feature of the season, due to our Christmas readers.

From Italy, then, we appear to have derived our pantomime— the legitimate drama of Christmas: and to pagan times and deities the origin of our pantomimical characters may be directly referred. The nimble harlequin of the stage is the Mercury of the ancients, and in his magic wand and charmed cap may be recognized that god's caduceus and petasus. Our columbine is Psyche, our clown Momus, and our Pantaloon is conjectured to be the modern representative of Charon,-variously habited, indeed, according to Venetian fancy and feelings. Even Punch, the friend of our childhood,-the great-headed, long-nosed, humpbacked "Mister Punch," it seems, was known to the Romans, under the name of Maccus.

Our pantomime, however, is an inferior translation, rather than a good copy, from its Italian original. The rich humor, the ready wit, the exquisite raciness of the Italian performance, have all evaporated, and with us, are burlesqued by the vapid joke,