home. Here they did not understand how to celebrate Christmas. In Sweden however we do understand this festival.
I went to church on Christmas-day, to a grand church, the darkly painted windows of which deprived it of all light, and heard a dry, soul-less sermon. I was not edified, and felt as if New Orleans was a dry and wearisome place. I thought of the Christmas early-morning service in our country churches, of the sledgings thither in the morning-twilight through pine woods, along the fresh snow; I thought of the little cottages in the woods, shining out with their Christmas candles; of the train of small peasant sledges with their bells ringing merrily by the way; of the beautiful church with its dark back-ground of wood beaming with all its lighted windows; of the cheerful scene of light and people within it; those good country folk in their warm costume; I saw the representative of the Diet of Thyreste enter in his wolf-skin cloak at the church door; I saw the children with their beaming glances; I heard the animated, powerful hymn,
“Hail to thee, lovely morning hour!”
Yes that was Christmas life, and Christmas joy!
In New Orleans Christmas is no Christmas. I felt as if I were in a heathen country.
On the evening of Christmas-day I was amused by a free-spoken, original, elderly lady—a somewhat unusual personage among the women of the New World. Mrs. D. is worldly, but witty and peculiar with a vengeance; does not bend to the world, but has the courage to do what she likes, even in dress. And her red velvet blouse which, without a girdle, enwrapped her like a mantle, whether it is becoming or not in company, is very becoming to her tall, strong figure, which had quite a regal appearance, and was a refreshing sight to me. Thanks, Mrs. D.!
If it clears up in the afternoon or in the morning,
