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tion of which opinion, the following observation is quoted from the Roman calendar, respecting the first of November: "The feast of old fools is removed to this day;" though it is at the same time acknowledged that the old fool's day is different from the "Feast of Fools," which was held on the first of January; but by a removal, which was often convenient, in the crowded Roman calendar, it was applied to the first of April. This last observation, however, it would seem, instead of strengthening, refutes the well received, but certainly circuitous and far sought explanation of all being a corruption of auld, and auld the synonimous term of old, so as to make the day old fools, instead of all fools, as it is noted in the oldest almanacs extant.

The festum fatuorum, or feast of fools, or fool's holiday, which, as above explained, is stated not to be the "feast of old fools," was introduced with the intention of ridiculing both the old Ro、 man "Saturnalia" and the Druidical rites, each of which superstitions the early Christians found in existence when they commenced the task of conversion in this country. It was at first kept on or about our present new year's day, and if, as alleged, it was not the same with the old fool's day, now April fool's day, it would appear to have been removed to the sixth of December, St. Nicholas's day.

SELECTED POETRY

GOOD-BYE AND HOW-D'Y DO-BY W. R. SPENCER.

ONE day Good-bye met How-d'y-do,

Too close to shun saluting,

But soon the rival sisters flew,

From kissing to disputing.

"Away, says How-d'y-do, your mein

"Appals my cheerful nature,
"No name so sad as yours, is seen

"In sorrow's nomenclature.

VOL. Y.

"Whene'er I give one sunshine hour,
"Your cloud comes o'er to shade it;
"Where'er I plant one bosom flower,
"Your mildew drops to fade it.

"Ere How-d'y-do has tuned each tongue
"To hope's delightful measure,
"Good-bye in Friendship's ear has rung
"The knell of parting pleasure!

"From sorrows past my chemic skill

"Draws smiles of consolation,

"Whilst you from present joys distil
"The tears of separation.".

Good-bye replied, "Your statement's true,
"And well your cause you've pleaded;
"But pray, who'd think of How-d'y-do,
"Unless Good-by preceded?

"Without my prior influence

"Could yours have ever flourished;

"And can your hand one flower dispense "But those my tears have nourished?

"How oft, if at the court of Love

"Concealment be the fashion,

"When How-d'y-do has failed to move,

"Good-bye reveals the passion!

"How oft, when Cupid's fires decline,

"As every heart remembers,

“One sigh of mine, and only mine,

"Revives the dying embers!

"Go, bid the timid lover choose,

"And I'll resign my charter;

"If he, for ten kind How-d'y-dos,
"One kind Good-Bye would barter!

"From Love and Friendship's kindred source "We both derive existence,

"And they would both lose half their force "Without our joint assistance.

""Tis well the world our merit knows,

"Since time, there's no denying, "One half in how-d'y-doing goes, "And t'other in good-byeing!"

TO A SLEEPING CHILD.

ART thou a thing of mortal birth,
Whose happy home is on our earth?
Does human blood with life embue
Those wandering veins of heavenly blue,
That stray along thy forehead fair,
Lost 'mid a gleam of golden hair?
Oh! can that light and airy breath
Steal from a being doom'd to death;
Those features to the grave be sent
In sleep thus mutely eloquent;

Or, art thou, what thy form would seem,
The phantom of a blessed dream?
A human shape I feel thou art,

I feel it, at my beating heart,

Those tremors both of soul and sense
Awoke by infant innocence!

Though dear the forms by fancy wove,
We love them with a transient love;
Thoughts from the living world intrude
Even on her deepest solitude:
But, lovely child! thy magic stole
At once into thy inmost soul,
With feelings as thy beauty fair,
And left no other vision there.

To me thy parents are unknown;
Glad would they be their child to own!

And well they must have loved before,
If since thy birth they loved not more.
Thou art a branch of noble stem,
And, seeing thee, I figure them.
What many a childless one would give,
If thou in their still home wouldst live!
Though in thy face no family line
Might sweetly say, "This babe is mine!"
In time thou wouldst become the same
As their own child, all but the name!
How happy must thy parents be
Who daily live in sight of thee!
Whose hearts no greater pleasure seek
Than see thee smile, and hear thee speak,
And feel all natural griefs beguiled
By thee, their food, their duteous child.
What joy must in their souls have stirr'd
When thy first broken words were heard,
Words, that, inspired by heaven, express'd
The transports dancing in thy breast!
As for thy smile!-thy lip, cheek, brow,
Even while I gaze, are kindling now.

I called thee duteous: am I wrong?
No! truth, I feel, is in my song:
Duteous thy heart's still beatings move
To God, to Nature, and to Love!
To God!-for thou a harmless child
Has kept his temple undefiled:
To Nature!-for thy tears and sighs
Obey alone her mysteries:

To Love!-for fiends of hate might sec
Thou dwell'st in love, and love in thee!
What wonder then, though in thy dreams
Thy face with mystic meaning beams!

Oh! that my spirit's eye could see
Whence burst those gleams of ecstasy?

That light of dreaming soul appears
To play from thoughts above thy years.
Thou smil'st as if thy soul were soaring
To Heaven, and Heaven's God adoring!
And who can tell what visions high
May bless an infant's sleeping eye?
What brighter throne can brightness find
To reign on than an infant's mind,
Ere sin destroy, or error dim,
The glory of the Seraphim?

But now thy changing smiles express
Intelligible happiness.

I feel my soul thy soul partake.
What grief! if thou shouldst now awake!
With infants happy as thyself

I see thee bound, a playful elf:
I see thou art a darling child
Among thy playmates, bold and wild.
They love thee well; thou art the queen
Of all their sports, in bower or green;
And if thou livest to woman's height,
In thee will friendship, love delight.

And live thou surely must; thy life
Is far too spiritual for the strife
Of mortal pain, nor could disease
Find heart to prey on smiles like these.
Oh! thou wilt be an angel bright!
To those thou lovest, a saving light!
The staff of age, the help sublime
Of erring youth, and stubborn prime;
And when thou goest to Heaven again,
Thy vanishing be like the strain
Of airy harp, so soft the tone

The ear scarce knows when it is gone!
Thrice blessed he! whose stars design
His spirit pure to lean on thine;

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