225 lines
12 KiB
Plaintext
225 lines
12 KiB
Plaintext
1819-20
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THE SKETCH BOOK
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CHRISTMAS
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by Washington Irving
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CHRISTMAS
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But is old, old, good old Christmas gone? Nothing but the hair of
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his good, gray, old head and beard left? Well, I will have that,
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seeing I cannot have more of him.
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HUE AND CRY AFTER CHRISTMAS.
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A man might then behold
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At Christmas, in each hall
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Good fires to curb the cold,
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And meat for great and small.
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The neighbors were friendly bidden,
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And all had welcome true,
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The poor from the gates were not chidden
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When this old cap was new.
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OLD SONG.
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NOTHING in England exercises a more delightful spell over my
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imagination, than the lingerings of the holiday customs and rural
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games of former times. They recall the pictures my fancy used to
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draw in the May morning of life, when as yet I only knew the world
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through books, and believed it to be all that poets had painted it;
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and they bring with them the flavor of those honest days of yore, in
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which, perhaps, with equal fallacy, I am apt to think the world was
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more homebred, social, and joyous than at present. I regret to say
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that they are daily growing more and more faint, being gradually
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worn away by time, but still more obliterated by modern fashion.
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They resemble those picturesque morsels of Gothic architecture,
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which we see crumbling in various parts of the country, partly
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dilapidated by the waste of ages, and partly lost in the additions and
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alterations of later days. Poetry, however, clings with cherishing
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fondness about the rural game and holiday revel, from which it has
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derived so many of its themes- as the ivy winds its rich foliage about
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the Gothic arch and mouldering tower, gratefully repaying their
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support, by clasping together their tottering remains, and, as it
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were, embalming them in verdure.
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Of all the old festivals, however, that of Christmas awakens the
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strongest and most heartfelt associations. There is a tone of solemn
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and sacred feeling that blends with our conviviality, and lifts the
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spirit to a state of hallowed and elevated enjoyment. The services
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of the church about this season are extremely tender and inspiring.
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They dwell on the beautiful story of the origin of our faith, and
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the pastoral scenes that accompanied its announcement. They
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gradually increase in fervor and pathos during the season of Advent,
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until they break forth in full jubilee on the morning that brought
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peace and good-will to men. I do not know a grander effect of music on
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the moral feelings, than to hear the full choir and the pealing
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organ performing a Christmas anthem in a cathedral, and filling
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every part of the vast pile with triumphant harmony.
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It is a beautiful arrangement, also, derived from days of yore, that
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this festival, which commemorates the announcement of the religion
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of peace and love, has been made the season for gathering together
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of family connections, and drawing closer again those bands of kindred
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hearts, which the cares and pleasures and sorrows of the world are
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continually operating to cast loose; of calling back the children of a
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family, who have launched forth in life, and wandered widely
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asunder, once more to assemble about the paternal hearth, that
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rallying place of the affections, there to grow young and loving again
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among the endearing mementos of childhood.
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There is something in the very season of the year that gives a charm
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to the festivity of Christmas. At other times we derive a great
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portion of our pleasures from the mere beauties of nature. Our
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feelings sally forth and dissipate themselves over the sunny
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landscape, and we "live abroad and everywhere." The song of the
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bird, the murmur of the stream, the breathing fragrance of spring, the
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soft voluptuousness of summer, the golden pomp of autumn; earth with
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its mantle of refreshing green, and heaven with its deep delicious
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blue and its cloudy magnificence, all fill us with mute but
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exquisite delight, and we revel in the luxury of mere sensation. But
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in the depth of winter, when nature lies despoiled of every charm, and
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wrapped in her shroud of sheeted snow, we turn for our
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gratifications to moral sources. The dreariness and desolation of
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the landscape, the short gloomy days and darksome nights, while they
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circumscribe our wanderings, shut in our feelings also from rambling
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abroad, and make us more keenly disposed for the pleasure of the
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social circle. Our thoughts are more concentrated; our friendly
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sympathies more aroused. We feel more sensibly the charm of each
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other's society, and are brought more closely together by dependence
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on each other for enjoyment. Heart calleth unto heart; and we draw our
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pleasures from the deep wells of loving-kindness, which lie in the
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quiet recesses of our bosoms; and which, when resorted to, furnish
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forth the pure element of domestic felicity.
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The pitchy gloom without makes the heart dilate on entering the room
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filled with the glow and warmth of the evening fire. The ruddy blaze
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diffuses an artificial summer and sunshine through the room, and
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lights up each countenance in a kindlier welcome. Where does the
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honest face of hospitality expand into a broader and more cordial
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smile- where is the shy glance of love more sweetly eloquent- than
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by the winter fireside? and as the hollow blast of wintry wind
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rushes through the hall, claps the distant door, whistles about the
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casement, and rumbles down the chimney, what can be more grateful than
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that feeling of sober and sheltered security, with which we look round
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upon the comfortable chamber and the scene of domestic hilarity?
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The English, from the great prevalence of rural habit throughout
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every class of society, have always been fond of those festivals and
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holidays which agreeably interrupt the stillness of country life;
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and they were, in former days, particularly observant of the religious
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and social rites of Christmas. It is inspiring to read even the dry
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details which some antiquaries have given of the quaint humors, the
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burlesque pageants, the complete abandonment to mirth and
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good-fellowship, with which this festival was celebrated. It seemed to
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throw open every door, and unlock every heart. It brought the
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peasant and the peer together, and blended all ranks in one warm
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generous flow of joy and kindness. The old halls of castles and
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manor-houses resounded with the harp and the Christmas carol, and
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their ample boards groaned under the weight of hospitality. Even the
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poorest cottage welcomed the festive season with green decorations
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of bay and holly- the cheerful fire glanced its rays through the
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lattice, inviting the passengers to raise the latch, and join the
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gossip knot huddled round the hearth, beguiling the long evening
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with legendary jokes and oft-told Christmas tales.
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One of the least pleasing effects of modern refinement is the
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havoc it has made among the hearty old holiday customs. It has
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completely taken off the sharp touchings and spirited reliefs of these
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embellishments of life, and has worn down society into a more smooth
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and polished, but certainly a less characteristic surface. Many of the
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games and ceremonials of Christmas have entirely disappeared, and,
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like the sherris sack of old Falstaff, are become matters of
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speculation and dispute among commentators. They flourished in times
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full of spirit and lustihood, when men enjoyed life roughly, but
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heartily and vigorously; times wild and picturesque, which have
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furnished poetry with its richest materials, and the drama with its
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most attractive variety of characters and manners. The world has
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become more worldly. There is more of dissipation, and less of
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enjoyment. Pleasure has expanded into a broader, but a shallower
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stream; and has forsaken many of those deep and quiet channels where
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it flowed sweetly through the calm bosom of domestic life. Society has
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acquired a more enlightened and elegant tone; but it has lost many
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of its strong local peculiarities, its homebred feelings, its honest
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fireside delights. The traditionary customs of golden-hearted
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antiquity, its feudal hospitalities, and lordly wassailings, have
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passed away with the baronial castles and stately manor-houses in
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which they were celebrated. They comported with the shadowy hall,
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the great oaken gallery, and the tapestried parlor, but are unfitted
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to the light showy saloons and gay drawing-rooms of the modern villa.
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Shorn, however, as it is, of its ancient and festive honors,
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Christmas is still a period of delightful excitement in England. It is
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gratifying to see that home feeling completely aroused which holds
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so powerful a place in every English bosom. The preparations making on
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every side for the social board that is again to unite friends and
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kindred; the presents of good cheer passing and repassing, those
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tokens of regard, and quickeners of kind feelings; the evergreens
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distributed about houses and churches, emblems of peace and
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gladness; all these have the most pleasing effect in producing fond
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associations, and kindling benevolent sympathies. Even the sound of
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the Waits, rude as may be their minstrelsy, breaks upon the midwatches
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of a winter night with the effect of perfect harmony. As I have been
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awakened by them in that still and solemn hour. "when deep sleep
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falleth upon man," I have listened with a hushed delight, and,
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connecting them with the sacred and joyous occasion, have almost
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fancied them into another celestial choir, announcing peace and
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good-will to mankind.
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How delightfully the imagination, when wrought upon by these moral
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influences, turns every thing to melody and beauty! The very crowing
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of the cock, heard sometimes in the profound repose of the country,
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"telling the night watches to his feathery dames," was thought by
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the common people to announce the approach of this sacred festival.
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"Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes
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Wherein our Savior's birth is celebrated,
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This bird of dawning singeth all night long;
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And then, they say, no spirit dares stir abroad;
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The nights are wholesome- then no planets strike,
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No fairy takes, no witch hath power to charm,
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So hallow'd and so gracious is the time."
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Amidst the general call to happiness, the bustle of the spirits, and
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stir of the affections, which prevail at this period, what bosom can
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remain insensible? It is, indeed, the season of regenerated feeling-
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the season for kindling, not merely the fire of hospitality in the
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hall, but the genial flame of charity in the heart.
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The scene of early love again rises green to memory beyond the
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sterile waste of years; and the idea of home, fraught with the
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fragrance of home-dwelling joys, reanimates the drooping spirit; as
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the Arabian breeze will sometimes waft the freshness of the distant
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fields to the weary pilgrim of the desert.
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Stranger and sojourner as I am in the land- though for me no
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social hearth may blaze, no hospitable roof throw open its doors,
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nor the warm grasp of friendship welcome me at the threshold- yet I
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feel the influence of the season beaming into my soul from the happy
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looks of those around me. Surely happiness is reflective, like the
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light of heaven; and every countenance, bright with smiles, and
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glowing with innocent enjoyment, is a mirror transmitting to others
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the rays of a supreme and ever-shining benevolence. He who can turn
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churlishly away from contemplating the felicity of his
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fellow-beings, and can sit down darkling and repining in his
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loneliness when all around is joyful, may have his moments of strong
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excitement and selfish gratification, but he wants the genial and
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social sympathies which constitute the charm of a merry Christmas.
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THE END
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