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The Holiday.
Merry■ Christmas, lias enrao and
gone, the old advent around which
clusters those kindly sentiments,
which embellish the heart with
its sweetest odors, and chase away
those perplexities which robe our
frail humanities in woods of dark
despondencies and withered hopes.
Grim-visaged war with his ruthless"
retinue of thirsty murder, guatit fa
mine and incendiary rapine, is hur-
tleing in every breeze that fatins our
Southern homes his lurid blasts,and
the prido of our land and tho wealth
of our hearts, are shielding us with
their valorous? bosoms, from the
Saturnalia of his bloody revels. They
wero not with us around the fire
sides, commingling their greeting
smiles and joyous salutations of the
season at the old dais altar, but yet
in the happy visions of the spirit
they wero present. Though, no
silvery peals of merry bells nor au
gust ceremonials of Coventry myste
ries, nor the imposing rituals of gor
geous altars and gilded decorations,
irradiated with the sublime harmo
nics of the miserere divini, ushered
in the holy morn, yet still it came
redolent with the same bright halo
which shed its effulgence, near two
thousand years ago, from the man
ger of Bethlehem, echoing o’er the
plains ot Judea Peace on earth and
good will to all mankind.
No Lord of misrule in ivy ermine
and holly crown, with his train of
full-mouthed joys and laughing gra
ces, “sported round the gibe, the
joke, tho roundelay and riddlo, - ’ but
the yule log blazed from many a
hearthstone, casting its disenchant
ing glare "even to tho bogles of
Lochloman’8 graves” and tho vacant
chairs of those absent ones on the
tented field, seated their photo
graphs, in tho festal circle,
and as often as the coy maid
en blushed under tho mistletoe bough
to pluck a berry in remembranco of
the gallant one, the picture smiled
with the clairvoyant murmur, of a
merry Christmas and a happy seas
on to youallwhilotho“sandelof the
morn ’ glowing with its cspcrancc,
wafted to the nbsenteo a “Heaven
bless noblo one, may no evil you dis
may.” The grey wings of the early
East enmo wet with bitter dews, that
yet they had not como, but before
old Santa C/aus had unleash
ed his tiny coursers, the sad remem
branco was embalmed in the
wassail-bowl, and its spiritual
incantations had wrought a thousand
rich behests and proud resolves for
the hero boy, who then trampt his
silent sontinol-round, or dreamed on
tho bleak bivouac of home, sweet
home; while the spirits of his loved
ones hovered round him with the
heart’s cheer ot a merry, un. * ■.
j Christmas. In lieu of tho “waits
with pipoand labor” our little village
was grouted with a concert for the
sufferers of tho Charleston fire, ant
a treat it was as rich ns it. was
chaste, for the daughters of music
with their blythc carrols, made glad
_ | oven tho Christmas hearts. Music
tho divine breath of nature “the mo
siacof the air,” spirits its beauteous
u j creations in those impassioned loves ,
which moulds tho warm impuls- 1
cs of the heart alone in celestial
forms, and when woman in the first,
bloom and charm of her sex’s graces
becomes the idyl of inspired song,
music'is then an opera of sweet har
mony, written by tho hand of God
in flowers of fragrant melody. The
concert was a full success, for each
performer essayed her part with ex
quisite grace and intelligent delinea
tion. Wo plight personate each
with a more just compliment for
ns a whole it was enchanting. Tho
impassioned ardor of tho cahaletta-
thc naivete and bmyancy of the vi-
vandicr breathing the sorrow-notes
of the cbvic'n pnrtir- the rural co
quetry of the talismanic batli, batti,
with those “warbling snatches” of
song, which fill the soul with the
memories of happier days, all were
inoxpressably touching, painting in
alt a relievo, the tender, gentle crea
tions of a Donizetti, and the inspi
rations of a Mozart, a Verdi arid a
Rubini.
With our inimitable Charlie, we
can-say we admired all and could
not refrain from ndoring one; for
were wo to declare that no jewel of
tho lyric wreath, sparkled brighter
than its associates, would be as
surely a lie, as wore we to declare,
that no flower of tho sweet boquet,
was fairer than its fragrant sisters.
By tho by J he has authorized us to
say, “ho is due extras at the noxt
thanksgiving” for tho encore of
“within a mile of Edinboro,” and
wo doubt not from his rapturous
confessions, between the be witchery
of song and tin glamour of Harry's
canvass, the gallant soldier had
rather don the costas of Mrs. Mars
than the shield of her lord; for I am
sure ho is still dreaming of blue-oyedj
Eva Allens and the first prize of a
lucky artist
rtnrniKit'nY tub auacio.
