with a chorus of young, fresh voices. There
is a somewhat lengthy sermon—too long,
almost, for those that wait, and long to go
home to watch the Ckristkindchen, which
just now is giving the finishing touch to the
gorgeous display it has been preparing these
many weeks. The clergyman is in secret
correspondence with the Christkindchen. His
sermon must be long, for there are so many
houses to provide for, and so many small
things have been forgotten, which now must
be put there in a hurry.

At length the sermon is over. Another
hymn, and the schoolmaster, on his organ
seat, "plays the church out," with an old
Austrian Grenadier's March. There is a
violent rush through the narrow porch into
the cold morning air, and over the frozen
snow, while the candles, left to the wind,
flutter like so many will-o'-the-wisps, as they
are borne over the broad expanse of the
Kirchhof, and the narrow lanes of the village.
As each door is gained, there is a violent
shuffling and stamping off of the snow at the
threshold; and the children muster in the
hall with eager eyes and beating hearts, their
ears strained for the signal of the bell. The
Christkindchen has a very small bell, which
it rings as it flits out of the houses.

There's the bell at last! A rush at that
dark mysterious door! It flies open. A
shout of joy passes from mouth to mouth,
and the next moment all is still; for the
"Bescheerung," the array of gifts, is so
splendid, so flooded with light, and covered
with gold tinsel, that it actually takes one's
breath away to look at it. There is the
"Christbaum," with its wax candles,
economically cut into very small pieces; with its
gilt apples, and nuts, and splendid gilt egg-shells,
and pieces of gingerbread; with here
and there a wooden horse of the smaller
breed, or a lovely doll, with purple cheeks
and coal-black eyes, and real hair, suspended
among its branches. Aud then there are
plates all round, with a name to each—plates
literally heaped with sweetmeats and apples;
there are school-books, and hobby-horses, and
wooden swords; and—stop, what is that?

Even the Christkindchen cannot eschew
discipline! There,—leaning against the tree,
and sturdily glaring in the light, stands a
thick gitt rod, the Christkindchen's gift to
the parents, for the due correction of their
children. Alas! that rod is to be stuck up
behind the glass, as an ever-present monitor,
the ultima ratio parentûm, from which there
is no appeal. But even the rod, and all its
terrors, cannot prevail against the exultation
of that morning; and for once in the year
the voices of the children are heard in the
tones which nature gave them, unmoved
by terror, and unrestrained by the fear of
admonition and rebuke from the heads of the
family.

Next comes the quiet ennui of a Christmas-
day. Expectation is at an end, and
hope lost in possession. Besides, this is a
holy day, and in Germany it is kept very
much like an English Sunday. But the
second day of Christmas, especially if that
second day happens to be a Sunday, is the
great season of rejoicing for grown people of
all classes. Games of forfeit and blind-man's
buff are the order of the day, and in the evening
there are balls everywhere. Ball's in the
Gesellschaft, or "Casino," and in the "local
clubs for the Honoratiores."

And New Year's Eve, the very night which
sees me all lone and dreary on the pavement
of Piccadilly, is a great "ball-night" with high
and low, young and old, in my country. People
must dance from the old into the new year,
and, consequently, there are balls in the great
hotels of the towns, and balls in the second-class
inns, and balls in every village public-house;
in low smoky tap-rooms on the first-floor,
where the stairs, which, as at fashionable
balls and routs in this metropolis, serve as "salle
de conversation," and flirting-places, are so
crowded that even the "Herr Bürgermeister"
and the "Herr Pastor" find some difficulty
in gaining the top, and the entrance to the
ballroom. These two dignitaries of every village
make it a point to visit all the dancing places,
and to exhort to enjoyment and moderation.
Their good advice is always followed to the
letter while they are present, but when they
are gone, the tempo of the waltz becomes
more rapid, brown sunburnt women rush
violently onward in their giddy career, and
stout, blue, brass-buttoned coats are dofted
and flung into the corner by peasant boys,
carriers, and stone-masons, who, pipe in
mouth and with their hats on, dance with
a devotion which many countries emulate,
but which none can surpass. And as the
night wears on towards morning, and the
musicians drop off from sheer exhaustion,
the melody of the last waltz is taken up by
the girls, who sing it in inarticulate sounds,
loud and low by turns, and alternately
advancing and receding, as if swayed by the
modulations of their primitive music. This is
the ancient "ballare," the singing of snatches
of verses to the dance; and here it is that the
curious in the history of poetry must look for
the origin and the last remains of the ballad.

And, oh! the walk home, through the
frost and the grey dawn of the morning,
over the snow-clad mountains and "brinks;"
and down into the wooded "dellen," angelic
dales, where the mountain torrent, but
half icebound, roars amidst large smooth
stones, and the gnarled roots of the alder;
while the full deep tones of the matin
bells come from all the villages around; and
the baying dogs, and the shrill exulting cries
of the women are answered by the report of
firearms, muskets, and pistols, which the
peasants bring to their festivities to fire them off
as they walk home. But most zealous are
they in firing their guns all through the night
of the last and the morning of the new