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 
Wisest, virtuousest, discreetest, best 
and Milton’s Eve, who suggested those epithets to her husband, would have thought so too, if we are to 
judge by the poet’s account of her hospitality.” 
ANCIENT CHRISTMAS. 
And well our Christian sires of old. 
Loved, when the year its course had roll’d 
And brought blithe Christmas 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 damsel donn’d her kirtle sheen; 
The hall was dress’d with holly green ; 
Forth to the wood did merry men go, 
To gather in the misletoe. 
Then open wide the baron's hall, 
To vassal, tenant, serf, and 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; 
The huge hall table’s oaken face, 
Scrubb’d till it shone, the day to grace, 
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 rosemar y. 
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 ; 
While round the merry wassail bowl, 
Garnish’d with ribbons, blithe did trowl. 
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, 
And smutted cheeks the visor made ; 
But, oh ! what masquers, richly dight, 
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. Walter Scott. 
“ In this, the last month of the year/’ says the Mirror of the Months, — “the beautiful Spring is almost 
forgotten in the anticipation of that which is to come. The bright Summer is no more thought of, than is 
the glow of the morning sunshine at night-fall. The rich Autumn only just lingers on the memory, as the 
last red rays of its evenings do when they have but just quitted the eye. And Winter is once more closing 
its cloud-canopy over all things, and breathing forth that sleep-compelling breath which is to wrap all in a 
temporary oblivion, no less essential to their healthful existence than is the active vitality which it for a while 
supersedes.” Yet among the general appearances of nature there are still many lively spots and cheering 
aspects. “The furze flings out its bright yellow flowers upon the otherwise bare common, like little gleams 
of sunshine; and the moles ply their mischievous night-work in the dry meadows ; and the green plover 
‘ whistles o’er the lea:’ and the snipes haunt the marshy grounds; and the wagtails twinkle about near the 
spring-heads ; and the larks get together in companies, and talk to each other, instead of singing to them- 
selves ; and the thrush occasionally puts forth a plaintive note, as if half afraid of the sound of his own 
voice ; and the hedge-sparrow and tit-mouse try to sing ; and the robin does sing still, even more delight- 
fully than he has done during all the rest of the year, because it now seems as if he sang for us rather than 
for himself — or rather to us, for it is still for his supper that he sings, and therefore for himself.” 
We are indebted for the figure and description of the Macleania to Professor Lindley’s excellent work 
the “Botanical Register.” 
