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THE VISIT OF ST. NICHOLAS.

BY HOWARD.

'T WAS night before Christmas, and all through the house Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In the hope that St. Nicholas soon would be there.
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plumbs danced in their heads,
And mamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap;
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash-
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below-
When what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer,
With a little old driver, so lively and quick

I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:

"Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer! now, Vixen !

On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Dunder and Blizen!

To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall,
Now, dash away! dash away! dash away, all!"

As dry leaves before the wild hurricane fly,

When they meet with an obstacle mount to the sky,

So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,

With a sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each tiny hoof;
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of toys was flung on his back,

And he looked like a pedlar just opening his pack.
His eyes-how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry;
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself.
A wink of his eye, and a twist of his head,

Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread,
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all his stockings-then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,

And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew, like the down of a thistle;
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
"Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!"

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HOUSEHOLD TREASURES! What are they? Not gold and silver. Not full wardrobes, and well stored cellars and pantries. These are all

of the earth, and earthly. The treasures of the household are the young immortals, that bear the image of their parents-the olive plants around the table.

Lo, children are our heritage. There is no possession equal to thisnone so priceless. Parents have no earthly interest to be compared with those bound up in their little ones. This fact has received abundant practical illustration. Even the natural life of a child is above all price in the eyes of its parents. All that a parent hath, will be given for his child. Yea, a sense of the value of the natural life of an infant, is not even confined to the parental heart, but is general. Let a fire break out in a building worth fifty thousand dollars, and the crowd will look on with comparative composure, till some one exclaims: "There is a child in the building!" At these words the multitude will roll in commotion like a forest, when a mighty wind has suddenly come upon it. An almost superhuman strength will seize upon the nerves of the firemen, and hearts, in which nothing tender was supposed to slumber, will dare and do what in other circumstances, would have been thought impossible. Gold bags and silver bags and bundles of bank notes will be forgotten, all will cry out, "save the child!”

Reader, look again at the little Innocents in the picture. Would you not run through whipping flames, and rush in under a falling roof, to save them? Yes you would do all that; and the whole multitude of lookers-on-even the hardest specimens of seared humanity among them would make the welkin ring with their shouts of, "Well and bravely done!" The morning papers would print your name with large letters, use mightiest words in your praise, and all the parents in the land would read with tears of joy, and echo, "Well and bravely done." All this would be done and said for a little child.

Such is the value put upon these Household Treasures. But what is the natural life of a child compared with its immortal part. In this precious casket the spirit is the jewel. Look at the picture. What is is it that shines out of the eyes, and plays like the smile of an angel upon the countenance. Look at those faces! Is there a light like that in sun or star?

What a value has christianity given to infant life. Look at the picture again. Are those heathen infants? Would you expect to find the same tender surroundings in a picture of a pagan family. No. Heathenism is dark, cruel. It first undervalues, and then neglects infant life. It even offers them a sacrifice to ferocious gods! Not knowing their immortal destiny, they cannot value their temporal life.

Judaism is in advance of paganism in its estimate of infant life. In

deed it seems as if its system was constructed with a view to the elevation of the parental feeling and affection. The great Hope centres in an infant-the covenant includes them-the promise nurses them. Every Jewish mother sees in her infant, one which may be either the mother of Christ, or Christ himself. Oh, who can measure the influence which this fact exerted upon parental feeling, and thus upon the value of infant life, through all the ages of types and shadows. Thus, in fact, Christ was blessing little children before he was born.

Christianity, however, brings the value of infant life to light. The model mother and the model child have sanctified and elevated parental affection, as the world never did know, and never could have known it without this mystic influence. Those infarts are most blessed which are imbedded in the holy bosom of a christian family. Jesus truly became an infant for infants. The "Infant God," as Milton calls Him, in a thousand senses is the Saviour of infants. Let all parents sing with good Ottfried, in Coleridge's beautiful translation of his Ode:

"Blessed, blessed was the mother,

Who wrapped His limbs in swaddling clothes,
Singing placed Him on her lap,

Hung o'er Him with her looks of love,

And soothed Him with a lulling motion.
Blessed! for she sheltered Him

From the damp and chilling air-
Blessed, blessed! for she lay

With such a babe in one blest bed,
Close as babes and mothers lie!"

Household treasures. Look again at the picture, or look around you in your own family, christian parent. Bless God for christianity. Above all, bless Him for a christian heart, and a christian home, if He has graciously given you these priceless blessings. Train your infant treasures for heaven, and rest assured they will look yet more beautiful in our father's house above, with white robes and palms of everlasting victory, than they do in the picture.

Perhaps a god-less parent may see this picture, and read these reflections. Look again at the picture-look at the dear little immortals around you, whom you have brought into this sinful world, and who so fondly calls you father-mother! Are you worthy of that name? Go too, now, and show yourself worthy of such a trust of treasures. Augels would be proud of such a charge-and will you train them up, outside of the Church, to curse you in the presence of the Judge in the day of awful retribution, and to share your perdition forever!

LIFE IN DEATH.

THERE is hope for the blossom folded,
In the dark unsightly germ;
In his silken tomb enshrouded
Hope for the buried worm;

For to each shall come a summons,
And a Resurrection Morn

For the bursting of the blossom,
And the worm on swift wings borne!

There is hoe for the seed we scatter,
In the furrow dark and cold;
Hope, in the harvest promise,
That quickens 'neath the mold;
For soon shall come a summons,
And a Resurrection Morn,
With the joyous shout of reapers,
And sheaves in triumph borne !

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Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam
His first, best country, ever is at home,
And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare,
And estimate the blessings which they share,
Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find
An equal portion dealt to all mankind;

As different good by art or nature given,

To different nations, makes their blessings even.

ONE half the world don't know how the other half lives; that both halves do live is pretty certain. But that man, with all his facilities for acquiring knowledge, should know so little of his brother, from whom he is only separated by the boundaries of a ten days' voyage, is a reflection upon his interest in the world abroad. Indeed, the great bulk of mortals never dream that there are souls living beyond their state, or country, or that the world is a large forum, all parts of which are thronged with a busy race, coming and going, never to return again. And that each of this vast throng is a little world in himself, whose heart has a history that could many a thrilling tale unfold, if we were allowed to read it. Ah, what precious food for the moralist or philosopher, as he elbows his consciously unimportant person through the millions of earth's children, and watches the diversity of motives and pursuits, the anxiety or indifference, the passion or apathy, which their visage and conduct unrols like a heart's panorama, before his vision; finding good where he least expected it, and discovering evil where he only had hoped for good. And then what a pure delight to get back into his cell, to redistil the honey he has extracted from sweet and noxious flowers, and see and feel how his treasures grows.

Hoards after heards his rising rapture fill,

Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still.

A few days ago, I visited a gentleman in a retired region, unfrequented by travelers, who expressed his surprise at the refined appearance of Americans. Why, said he, a few years ago I was visited by an American, the first I had ever seen, and I could scarcely persuade myself that he was actually such, because he was not black. Although we have a better opportunity to become acquainted with European society, through emigrants, such a large part of them are from the dregs sent off to purify the country, that they give us a very incorrect idea of the state of things at home. Though we may not be surprised to find that they are white, many would be surprised to find them generally so thoroughly educated and of such refined manners-I speak not of their religious habits.

Nearly 2000 years ago, while yet roving over the uncultivated plains of the North, in wild nomadic tribes, Tacitus praised the Germans for

their respect and kindness to woman. Though they still deserve praise concerning this virtue, for some reason or other they are not entirely guiltless, in permitting woman to be pressed out of her sphere among the laboring classes. Some ascribe it to poverty, others to the rigor of government or the rapacity of capitalists; I fear a vitiated public opinion has something to do with it. Let the fault be where it will, after seeing females mowing their swarths of grass with men, sawing wood on the streets, threshing grain with heavy flails, and wheeling long lines of heavy-ladened barrows in the constructing of railroads, I could not resist the conclusion that there is a fault somewhere. I will not be so uncharitable as to charge them with selling their glorious birth-right, but ascribe it to the stubborn force of unpropitious circumstances. Though not a universal custom, it is prevalent enough to attract the attention of travelers and incurs severe reproach.

There is a certain intimacy and mutual tenderness in the family life of Germany, which seems to be a national characteristic I have frequently seen and felt it, but know not how to define it. The family here, often becomes a kind of domestic retreat-das stille hauslich leben—in a very peculiar sense, a little circle of mutual enjoyments, entirely undisturbed by the cares and vexations of out-door life. And then the habit of addressing each other with the little pronoun Du, everywhere used here, between intimate friends, sounds so sweetly familiar, that the conversation between the different members of the family has a peculiar charm to the ears of a stranger.

German hospitality has become proverbial. "If a man be gracious to strangers, he shows that he is a citizen of the world, and that his heart is not an island cut off from other lands, but a continent that joins them." Their freedom from pomp and formality, and their unsuspecting, artless simplicity, enables them to exercise this agreeable virtue with great success. It is a hospitality that takes you by violence, dispels all timidity and reserve, and in a few moments kindles in you the sympathies and spirit of the whole circle. Perhaps you approach a man whose world reputation and long string of titles have taught you to look upon as a being to be dreaded, and you wonder what will become of you when you get into his awful presence. But a warm grasp of the hand, a short familiar conversation, and a place among the little circle gathered around a centre table, sipping a cup of coffee and asking a thousand questions about the new world, with child-like frankness, disarms you of every vestige of that embarrassment which a person naturally feels in a foreign country. You feel so agreeably at home, that it afterwards will almost seem like a dream. This is a delightful art, and happy the nation so proficient in its practice. The abundance of titles, and the punctilious manner in which they are used in some circles, are impediments to a person not thoroughly at home in the German language. Almost every professional man, even down to the architect, is a Rath of some kind. A lawyer, is a Justizrath; Physicians, Medicinrath; and so up to the top. In conversation it is customary to address persons by their titles instead of their proper names, and some of these are of such an unpronounceable length, that a novice in the language is in danger of breaking a cog out of the wheel by his clumsy speech, which would make some titles exceedingly ludicrous. Even the wife often takes the title of her

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