the Catholics of Italy. Should they interest you, I may return to the subject, for many more remain unnoticed, as striking and as important as those to which I have briefly alluded. That such acts of devotion were practised by the ancestors of the people who inhabit these lands, is undubitably true; but whether such resemblance between the customs of the present and the past be the result of silent, unconscious transmission, or whether it be purely accidental, is one of those points in the history of the human mind which it is impossible to determine, nor is it, perhaps, after all, very important. It is interesting, indeed, to trace such resemblances, and therefore have I troubled you with these observations. It is curious, too, to witness, that time, which destroys or changes all things, has left these external manifestations of religion intact; that the heart, as it still throbs with the same impulses now as it did eighteen centuries since, in like manner resorts to the same methods of giving expression to those impulses; and that Jehovah and Jupiter, Christ and Bacchus, the Madonna and Cybele, are, and have been, saluted with a kiss and worshiped with a genuflection. Here, however, the resemblance terminates. Beneath the unmeaning forms and ridiculous fripperies and Heathen practices which encumber Catholicism, there is a living spirit, a spirit Paganism never knew, which waits its time to manifest its power and its beauty. A thousand circumstances may exist to conceal its fair proportions and retard its operation. National ignorance, and decrees of Popes and councils, and relics of Pagan superstition, may all concur to throw a guise about it not its own, Still is it there,

and, like its mighty Author, when lying swathed and helpless in his cradle, subduing the hearts of the wise, strong in its very weakness, it is insinuating itself into the heart, and gaining increasing influence over the affections. When, in the course of ages, it may please God to remove all impediments to the free manifestation of his truth in these lovely lands, we cannot know be it, however, our effort to cultivate in ourselves the real spirit of Christ, and to embrace as members of the same holy brotherhood all who call upon the name of the Lord Jesus.

CHRISTMAS! How the heart beats at the bare writing the word! What a world of feeling does it awaken from the slumber of a year! How numerous are the families severed by time and distance, and perhaps coldness, whom this magic term draws around a common hearth and unites once more in the name of the Prince of Peace! Blessed season of religion and rejoicing, of harmony and of gaiety! There is a poetry about it which never loses either its freshness or its charm,—a poetry, too, so benevolent and pure, that it never fails to indicate the heavenly fount from whence it draws its inspiration. I can remember but as yesterday the childish delight with which I always looked forwards to this season, and watched every indication of its approach. First might be heard sounds so sweet stealing on the silence of the night, that surely they must be angelic voices announcing the nativity of the SaviThen the forests of holly and misletoe, with their pretty red and white berries, as they were brought into the city, gave undoubted notice of the near approach

our.

of the joyous day. At length we are arrived at the very vigil of it. Christmas eve has assembled us once again around the paternal hearth,-all but one, who is expected this very night to complete the circle. And now a knock is heard, a step is on the threshold,— one minute more, and the absentee is once again amongst us. We look around and find no place vacant; we are the same who have met this many a year with hearts unchilled by time or indifference. Health and peace and plenty are our lot. Great God, how merciful art Thou, who hast preserved us to another of these seasons, and in this family union has permitted us another foretaste of the joys of heaven! These reminiscences are all that are now left to me of this happy season, and I find it difficult, very difficult, not to repine, as I sit in my solitary chamber in a foreign land, that Christmas-day is nothing more to me than the 25th of December (always excepting, of course, the great event it commemorates). I have been thinking over your happiness, however, and wishing you many happy returns of the day, and trying to create a kind of reflected happiness for myself. It occurs to me, too, that I may make some positive addition to yours by giving you a description of an Italian Christmas; so, following out the plan which I have adopted in my other letters to you, I will initiate you into the mysteries of the Roman and Neapolitan festivities and fêtes peculiar to this season, and attempt to shew how far they have been acted on by antiquity. The world is becoming with us, as with you, so unpicturesquely civilized, that all those poetical excresences which once were found on society are quickly disappearing: still,

What can this

morning after Alas for me!

some are left, and sufficient, perhaps, to interest one who is curious in the customs and usages of the stranger. I must tell you, then, by way of commencement, that the Italian, as well as my own countrymen, is very unseasonably awakened on a Christmas morning by sounds which are anything but angelic, I assure you. Scarcely have the first purple streaks appeared in the east, when a continual whirr, occasionally relieved by two or three shrill notes, salutes the unwilling ear of many a dreamer of golden dreams. harsh disturbance be? I demanded, morning, on my first visit to Rome. mine was a corner house, and there was an image of the Madonna Addolorata beneath my window, and there stationed himself every morning the pious Zampognaro, with his shrill bagpipes, to celebrate the praises "della Regina Coeli." Now, the Zampognaro is a shepherd, who at this season leaves his usual occupations in the Abruzzi or different parts of the Apennines, and wanders, with many hundreds of his brethren, through the south of Italy. His costume is an undressed sheepskin around his lower limbs, a brown mantle on his shoulders, a pointed Calabrian hat on his head, not unfrequently adorned by a peacock's feather. The bagpipe is, of course, a necessary appendage, and thus equipped he wanders through every paese, and explores the intricacies of every vicolo, personating the shepherds who watched their flocks at the birth of Christ, saluting every image as he passes it, himself almost an object of reverence to the superstitious popolaccio. It is curious to witness the interest which the arrival of this rough precursor of Natale

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