early life the finest opportunities of becoming both a gentleman and a scholar, but devoted himself to blowing out at his mouth what otherwise crept into his brains. Such has been his devotion to this windy instrument, that his face has become as pale and weazen as that of the clarionet-player who, according to Geoffrey Crayon, officiated in the orchestra which celebrated the Christmas holydays in the little chapel near Bracebridge Hall. Our clarionetist is distinguished principally by a broad-brimmed hat, a heavy suit of tangled hair, a cravat of gaudy colors, and a pair of striped breeches, which give him the mingled aspect of a Frenchman, a Dutchman, and an Italian bandit; all of which appearances are entirely compatible with the rakish, devil-may-care costume of clarionet-players in general. He has been somewhat of a beau in his time, but is now rather dilapidated in that branch of the fine arts; and is after all such an equivocal character, that the least that may be said about him, the better. He now seems content to be amused by making himself audible in the most retired streets of the village and at the most unseasonable hours of night, when he makes the air melodious, to the great delight of all neighboring damsels, and the entire abhorrence of veteran spinsters and vinegar-faced bachelors.

Such is the group which constitutes the 'Idleberg Amateur Band.' We are nothing if not musical.' It were tedious, belike, to tell in what midnight serenades, what joyous holydays, we have played conspicuous parts, to the admiration of whole crowds of boys and ostlers. The Fourth-of-July would be no go,' notwithstanding its periodical effusions of patriotism and eloquence, unless we were there to play Hail Columbia;' and a wedding would be postponed a week to insure our inspiring presence. We have been puffed in newspapers, toasted at feasts, and flattered by the cherry lips of the fair. We have gathered all the inspiration to be inhaled by moonlit walks and midnight serenades; and have seen day dawn much oftener from not having retired to rest, than from any imprudent acts of early rising. The thought of what we are reminds us of what we might have been, with the cords of love and affection twining about our hearts, and gentle, dark-eyed spirits nestling there; but Music has been our mistress, and we are still content to be bachelors.

No — we are not all bachelors. A change came over the spirit of our bugler, and a bright gleam of sunshine glanced into his bachelor cell; or rather, a blooming girl from foreign parts bounced into his affections, and there maintained her ascendancy until Celebs was routed. At hearing of the felonious offence, we assembled in solemn conclave to decide on some righteous punishment for the offender; but after a most laborious investigation, conducted by our second flutist, we found to our regret that this peculiar species of treason was not provided for either in the common law or the stattutes. A voluntary exile from our agreeable good-fellowship was his self-inflicted punishment; though even now he manages occasionally to tear himself from the chains of petticoat government, 'the lisp of children, and their earliest words,' and to delight us with the martial strains that were erewhile the admiration of all Idleberg.

We might have lamented the loss we thus sustained but for the recent admission of a new candidate into our musical fraternity. How my heart beats with warm pulsations at the thought! It is the gentlest name that poets know; and surely there is no poet at Idleberg, or the name long ere this would have lived in song. The very

soul of music must have been shed around her earliest fortunes and her youthful bloom. And then her eyes are so blue, and her brow so fair, and her heart so gentle !

'And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!'

If it were possible to revive at Idleberg the pleasant custom of celebrating May-day, every body knows who would be the Queen of Love and Beauty. She says her piano is her entire fortune; but she does not reckon those qualities of virtue and gentleness, more valued than mines of gold or beds of pearls. I have often thought of late that the author of 'Zanoni' must have seen and known her well-she is so much like Viola. The same passion for music; the same love of birds and flowers; and like Viola she is always talking about love in a cottage, and building those gay castles in the air, that glow and fade and then glow again, like summer's sunsetclouds. But she sometimes murmurs that 'eighteen is a frightful age; not married yet! she must really set about making her fortune; she is getting heartily tired of us crusty bachelors.' And under the influence of these considerations, we are prepared to see her ere long venture upon life's troubled sea. May it ever be calm to her; with some lucky fellow who may have nothing to offer but an humble cottage and a loving heart!

Such are the musical delights which have made Idleberg so dear to us. Let the world wag! What care we for the storms that howl abroad, when such exquisite pleasures lie within our grasp? Truly, 'our lots have fallen to us in pleasant places, and our heritage is peace.' And the very stranger who sojourns in our borders will be forced to acknowledge the interest which may be thrown around this obscure retreat by the countless floating sounds which comprise the MUSIC OF IDLEBERG.

THE SPOILS OF TIME.

WHO laid your shroud of sable on,
O Tadmor, Thebes, and Babylon!
Then left, your spectre-forms to deck,
Nought but the ruin of the wreck?

Proud cities! hives of prouder men,
What are ye now? Th' hyena's den;
With hoof unshod, the zebra bounds
O'er proud Palmyra's mouldering mounds.

THERE are doubtless many new things to be said about the New Year if one had wit enough to think of them; but an' if it be not so, may we not think over our last year's thoughts, or those which pleased us ten years ago? It is certain that Providence sends us this holyday season, with all its stirring influences, once every year; and doubtless intends it should be enjoyed by thousands who never had an original thought in their lives. So we will write down our roving fancies as they rise, and leave them to be woven into the fire-light reveries of just such comfortable people.

'What does 'holyday' mean, George?' said we once to a shouting urchin of some seven years' standing, as he was tossing up his cap and huzzaing at the thought of a vacation. What does 'holyday' mean?'

He stopped, looked serious, and then replied:

Why I don't know-but-I always thought it was because the boys holla so when they are let out of school.'

We predicted on the spot that George would write a dictionary if he lived long enough. A decidedly etymological genius, and quite original; for he owed but little to books, to our certain knowledge.

We cannot hope to make as lucky a guess on the origin of the new year festival; but we will venture to say, nothing could be more natural than the disposition to observe this way-mark on life's swift-rolling course. In proof of this, the practice of noticing anniversaries prevailed from the earliest times. It is only in these wondrously wise days, that the notion has arisen that it is being too minute and vulgar to recognize these occasions so revered by our fathers:

'We take no note of time save by its loss,'

in another sense than that of the poet. We are disposed to 'cut' holydays, as we do other antiquated worthies. Then again the young and gay, in the levity of their hearts, think it tedious to mingle with their joyance any touch of old-time remembrances. We admit that the New-Year, though a season for placid and hopeful smiles, is scarcely one for laughter; yet we might (under privilege of our gravity,) inquire whether an element of sobriety may not sometimes be profitable, even in our pleasure. The bereaved and sorrowful tell us that the habit of commemorating particular days only makes more striking the chill blanks in the social circle; pointing out the vacant chair; recalling the missing voice, already but too keenly remembered. This is true; but while sorrow is yet new and fresh, what is there that does not bring up the beloved? And after the great Consoler has done his blessed office, and grief is mellowed into sadness, do we not attach a double value to whatever awakens most vividly the cherished memory?

Gifts and keepsakes and little surprises used to be a pretty part of the holyday season; and in Europe the New-Year is still the time of all others for cadeaux, and souvenirs, and gages d'amitié, and gages d'amour. But the increase of luxury and the cultivation of pride have almost spoiled all these pleasant things for us. I fear we have leavened these matters with the commercial spirit. Presents are made a sort of traffic, or a device of ostentation. When emulation begins, sentiment is lost. The moment we admit the idea that our generosity or our splendor will attract admiration; the moment we think that our friend, if poor, will receive our new-year gift as payment for some past kindness, or, if rich, that he will be sure to give something still more elegant in return, the present is degraded into an article of merchandise. Indeed, costliness is no proper element of a mere present, since a symbol is all we want.

In England the celebration of New-Year is almost lost in that of Christmas, which is a high and universal festival; whether kept exactly in accordance with its true meaning and intent we shall

not here stop to inquire. Be this as it may, its approach arouses 'the fast-anchor'd isle' to its very heart. Even thread-bare courtgayety receives an accession of something like sentient life; and maids of honor new furbish their languid smiles, and gentlemenin-waiting pocket their scented 'kerchiefs, no longer needed to veil inadmissible yawns. If high life brighten, how much more the common folk, always so wisely ready to be pleased! The housekeeper spends her evenings for six weeks stoning 'plums' in preparation for prelatic mince-pies and national puddings. Huge sirloins of beef jostle at the corners of the streets. The confectioner gives an additional touch of enchantment to his sparkling paradise, which needed not this to make it irresistible to the longing eyes that linger round it, unconsciously endowing each individual temptation with the dazzling beauty of the whole, and so really coveting all, though wishing only for a modest portion. Christmas taxes all the invention of all the artists in Pleasure's train for the production of novelties and excellences in their several departments, and as there is not time for a renewal of energy before New-Year, they blend the two occasions, and rejoice double tides. Even the poet, though not always in the way when money is to be made, finds his services now in request, and enjoys the farther delight of hearing his darling verses chanted by the farsounding throat of the street-singer: true fame this, and not posthumous, like that of most poets. Verses like those which follow, married to airs well deserving such union, awaken the Queen's subjects earlier than they like on Christmas morning:

'The moon shines bright
And the stars give a light
A little beforetis day,
And bid us awake and pray.

Awake! awake! good people all!
Awake and you shall hear

The life of Man

ls but a span,

And cut down in his flower.

We 're here to-day and gone to-morrow;
We're all dead in an hour.

O teach well your children, men,
The while that you are here;
It will be better for your souls
When your corpse lie on the bier.

'To-day you may be alive, dear man,
With many a thousand pound;
To-morrow you may be dead, dear man,
And your corpse laid under ground;
With a turf at your head, dear man,
And another at your feet;

Your good deeds and your bad ones
They will together meet.
God bless the ruler of this house
And send him long to reign;
And many a happy Christinas
May he live to see again.

'My song is done, I must be gone;
can stay no longer here;

God bless you all, both great and small,
And send you a jovial New-Year.'

So runs a Christmas carol,' entitled 'Divine Mirth,' bought in the streets of London not many years ago. But we are like our transatlantic neighbors - letting Christmas swallow up New-Year. To return from these 'specimens of English poetry.'

We KNICKERBOCKERS date our New-Year festivities from our honored Dutch progenitors; and it should be considered treason even to propose the discontinuance of such time-honored commemorations. Among the innovations of the day, few try our patience more severely than those pseudo-refinements upon pleasure, which have been devised by the little great and the meanly proud of our land, who in their agonizing efforts after a superiority to which