ivy winds its rich foliage about the Gothic arch and mouldering tower,
gratefully repaying their support by clasping together their tottering
remains, and, as it were, embalming them in verdure.

Of all the old festivals, however, that of Christmas awakens the
strongest and most heartfelt associations. There is a tone of solemn and
sacred feeling that blends with our conviviality, and lifts the spirit
to a state of hallowed and elevated enjoyment. The services of the
church about this season are extremely tender and inspiring. They dwell
on the beautiful story of the origin of our faith, and the pastoral
scenes that accompanied its announcement. They gradually increase in
fervour and pathos during the season of Advent, until they break forth
in full jubilee on the morning that brought peace and good-will to men.
I do not know a grander effect of music on the moral feelings than to
hear the full choir and the pealing organ performing a Christmas anthem
in a cathedral, and filling every part of the vast pile with triumphant
harmony.

It is a beautiful arrangement, also derived from days of yore, that this
festival, which commemorates the announcement of the religion of peace
and love, has been made the season for gathering together of family
connections, and drawing closer again those bands of kindred hearts
which the cares and pleasures and sorrows of the world are continually
operating to cast loose; of calling back the children of a family who
have launched forth in life, and wandered widely asunder, once more
to assemble about the paternal hearth, that rallying-place of the
affections, there to grow young and loving again among the endearing
mementoes of childhood.

There is something in the very season of the year that gives a charm to