By this time the sound of a gathering crowd below, which he had not heeded at first, was forced more and more upon his notice; and the anxious voice of his oldest deacon calling, “Mr. Dudley!  Mr. Dudley!” rose high and loud; while a great thundering at the front door of the church announced that the people below had also caught the sound of the music, and were clamorous for admission.  Mr. Dudley hastened round to prevent their causing any disturbance to the congregation within; but he came only in time to see the door burst open, and to be borne in with the crowd.  All gazed about in wonder.  The congregation, indeed, were gone, and the preacher, and the choir; and the room was cold.  But there was a great green cross over the pulpit, and words along the walls, and festoons upon the galleries, and great wreaths, like vast green serpents, coiled about the cold pillars.  The church of the Orthodox parish of ——­ had been fairly dressed for Christmas by spirit hands.

When Mr. Dudley reached his home, after the wonder had in part spent itself, he found that an enormous Christmas pie had been left at his door by a white-haired old man dressed in black, about six in the morning, just after he had gone to visit his sick parishioner.  The girl who received it reported the old man as saying, in a tremulous, but very kind voice, “Give your master the Christmas blessing of an old Puritan minister.”  How the meaning of this message would have been known to Mr. Dudley, had not the events we have told disclosed it, who can say?

Need I add, that my friend, Mr. Dudley, from whose lips I have taken down the above narrative, has directed the decorations to remain in his church during the coming month, and that he avows the intention of observing the Christmas of the following year with public services, unless, indeed, he should be anticipated by his ancient predecessor.  It may not be impertinent to observe, that I am invited to dine and spend the day with the Dudleys on that occasion, and I shall not fail to make an accurate report of whatever glimpse I may obtain into the mysterious ceremonies of a Puritan Christmas.

IN THE CHURCHYARD AT CAMBRIDGE.

A legend of lady Lee.

  In the village churchyard she lies,
  Dust is in her beautiful eyes,
    No more she breathes, nor feels, nor stirs;
  At her feet and at her head
  Lies a slave to attend the dead,
    But their dust is white as hers.

  Was she, a lady of high degree,
  So much in love with the vanity
    And foolish pomp of this world of ours? 
  Or was it Christian charity,
  And lowliness and humility,
    The richest and rarest of all dowers?

  Who shall tell us?  No one speaks;
  No color shoots into those cheeks,
    Either of anger or of pride,
  At the rude question we have asked;—­
  Nor will the mystery be unmasked
    By those who are sleeping at her side.