Note 77 — JOURNAL. (continued 5)

There is a species of home religion, so to speak, which is kept alive by the gathering together of families at stated periods of joy and festivity, which has a far deeper moral than most people imagine. The merry-making at Christmas, the watching out the old year, and in the new, the royalty of Twelfth-night, the keeping of birth-days, and anniversaries of weddings, are things which, to the worldly-wise in these wise times, may savour of childishness or superstition; but they tend to promote and keep alive some of the sweetest charities and kindliest sympathies of our poor nature. While we are yet children, these days are set in golden letters in the calendar,—long looked forward to,—enjoyed with unmixed delight,—the peculiar seasons of new frocks, new books, new toys, drinking of healths, bestowing of blessings and wishes by kindred and parents, and being brought into the notice of our elders, and, as children used to think in the dark ages, therefore their betters. To the older portion of the community, such times were times of many mingled emotions, all, all of a softening if not of so exhilarating a nature. The cares, the toils, of the world had become their portion,—some little of its coldness, its selfishness, and sad guardedness had crept upon them,—distance and various interests, and the weary works of life had engrossed their thoughts, and turned their hearts and their feet from the dear household paths, and the early fellowship of home; but at these seasons the world was in its turn pushed aside for a moment,—the old thresholds were crossed by those who had ceased to dwell in the house of their birth,—kindred and friends met again, as in the early days of childhood and youth, under the same roof-tree,—the nursery revel, and the school-day jubilee, was recalled to their thoughts by the joyful voices and faces of a new generation,—the blessed and holy influences of home flowed back into their souls, at such a time, by a thousand channels,—the heart was warmed with the kind old love and fellowship,—face brightened to kindred face, and hand grasped the hand where the same blood was flowing, and all the evil deeds of time seemed for a while retrieved. These were holy and happy seasons. Oh, England! dear, dear England! this sweet sacred worship, next to that of God the highest and purest, was long cherished in your soil, where the word home was surely more hallowed than any other save heaven. Far, far off be the day when a cold and narrow spirit shall quench in you these dear and good human yearnings, and make the consecrated earth around our door-stones as barren as the wide wilderness of life in strange lands. In this country I have been mournfully struck with the absence of every thing like this home-clinging. Here are comparatively no observances of tides and times. Christmas-day is no religious day, and hardly a holiday with them. New-year's day is perhaps a little, but only a little, more so. For Twelfth-day, it is unknown; and the household private festivals of birth-days are almost universally passed by unsevered from the rest of the toilsome days devoted to the curse of labour. Indeed, the young American leaves so soon the shelter of his home, the world so early becomes to him a home, that the happy and powerful influences and associations of that word to him are hardly known. Sent forth to earn his existence at the very opening time of mind and heart, like a young green-house plant just budding that should be thrust out into the colder air, the blight of worldliness, of coldness, and of care, drive in the coming blossoms; and if the tree lives, half its loveliness and half its usefulness are shorn from it. These are some of the consequences of the universal doom of Americans, to labour for their bread: there are others and better ones.