In the church of England it commences at the same period. In 1825, St. Andrew’s day being a fixed festival on the 30th of November, and happening on a Wednesday, the nearest Sunday to it, being the 27th of November, was the first Sunday in Advent; in 1826, St. Andrew’s day happening on a Thursday, the nearest Sunday to it is on the 3d of December, and, therefore, the first Sunday in Advent.

New Annual Literature.

THE AMULET.

The literary character and high embellishment of the German almanacs, have occasioned an annual publication of beautifully printed works for presents at this season. The Amulet, for 1826, is of this order. Its purpose is to blend religious instruction with literary amusement. Messrs. W. L. Bowles, Milman, Bowring, Montgomery, Bernard Barton, Conder, Clare, T. C. Croker, Dr. Anster, Mrs. Hofland, &c.; and, indeed, individuals of various denominations, are contributors of sixty original essays and poems to this elegant volume, which is embellished by highly finished engravings from designs by Martin, Westall, Brooke, and other painters of talent. Mr. Martin’s two subjects are engraved by himself in his own peculiarly effective manner. Hence, while the Amulet aims to inculcate the fitness of Christian precepts, and the beauty of the Christian character, it is a specimen of the progress of elegant literature and fine art.

The Amulet contains a descriptive poem, wherein the meaning of the word advent is exemplified; it commences on the [next page].

The Rustic Funeral.
A Poetical Sketch.
By John Holland.

’Twas Christmas—and the morning of that day,
When holy men agree to celebrate
The glorious advent of their common Lord,
The Christ of God, the Saviour of mankind!
I, as my wont, sped forth, at early dawn,
To join in that triumphant natal hymn,
By Christians offer’d in the house of prayer.
Full of these thoughts, and musing of the theme,
The high, the glorious theme of man’s redemption,
As I pass’d onward through the village lane,
My eye was greeted, and my mind was struck,
By the approach of a strange cavalcade,—
If cavalcade that might be called, which here
Six folks composed—the living and the dead.
It was a rustic funeral, off betimes
To some remoter village. I have seen
The fair or sumptuous, yea, the gorgeous rites,
The ceremonial, and the trappings proud,
With which the rich man goeth to the dust;
And I have seen the pauper’s coffin borne
With quick and hurried step, without a friend
To follow—one to stand on the grave’s brink,
To weep, to sigh, to steal one last sad look,
Then turn away for ever from the sight.
But ne’er did pompous funeral of the proud,
Nor pauper’s coffin unattended borne,
Impress me like this picturesque array.
Upright and tall, the coffin-bearer, first
Rode, mounted on an old gray, shaggy ass;
A cloak of black hung from his shoulders down
And to the hinder fetlocks of the beast
Depended, not unseemly: from his hat
A long crape streamer did the old man wear,
Which ever and anon play’d with the wind:
The wind, too, frequently blew back his cloak,
And then I saw the plain neat oaken coffin,
Which held, perchance, a child of ten years old.
Around the coffin, from beneath the lid,
Appear’d the margin of a milk-white shroud,
All cut, and crimp’d, and pounc’d with eyelet-holes
As well became the last, last earthly robe
In which maternal love its object sees.
A couple follow’d, in whose looks I read
The recent traces of parental grief,
Which grief and agony had written there.
A junior train—a little boy and girl,
Next follow’d, in habiliments of black;
And yet with faces, which methought bespoke
Somewhat of pride in being marshall’d thus,
No less than decorous and demure respect.
The train pass’d by: but onward as I sped,
I could not raze the picture from my mind;
Nor could I keep the unavailing wish
That I had own’d albeit but an hour,
Thy gifted pencil, Stothard!—rather still,
That mine had match’d thy more than graphic pen,
Descriptive Wordsworth! This at least I claim,
Feebly, full feebly to have sketch’d a scene,
Which, ’midst a thousand recollections stor’d
Of village sights, impress’d my pensive mind
With some emotions ne’er to be forgot.[397]

Sheffield Park.