A HOLIDAY BOOK FOR CHRISTMAS AND THE NEW YEAR. A HOLIDAY BOOK FOR AND T H E NEW YEAR: EMBRACING LEGENDS, TALES, POETRY, MUSIC, SKETCHES OF M A N N E R S AND CUSTOMS, GAMES AND SPORTS, ETC. LONDON: INGRAM, COOKE, AND CO., 227, STRAND. tthtt. f SINCE 4 the first publication of the ILLUSTRATED LONDON NEWS in 1842, a considerable number of its pages have been devoted each year to articles, pictures, and music, having special reference jft man is evidently enlarged by sympathies $ { of hospitality towards his fellow-creatures, J\ ( in providing good cheer for himself and those whom Fortune has less favoured. Nowhere is this more substantially realized than amongst the farmers of Devon, who also preserve forms and ceremonies which the march of intellect has swept from other places. Wishing to see some of the sports in which our forefathers revelled, we stepped over one Christmas Eve to Farmer B/s. Passing the village, we were surprised at the silence prevailing,; but an old woman cleared the mystery, by saying, " All the volk be up at the varm:" and, approaching this, the loud laugh and cheering light streaming through the chequered glass—making more dark the dull cold night without—told of a warm reception within. Entering the kitchen, amidst steam reeking from huge rounds of beef, joints of pork, heaps of turnips and potatoes, with puddings of monster rotundity, we discovered the burly host dealing out with unsparing hand to gladden the hearts of his lusty labourers. And truly, each seemed possessed of an appetite equal to the occasion—and, we trust, with powers of digestion such as we dyspeptics know of but by Hearsay. Cider also flowed abundantly; and we felt that this meal to the man who receives but 6s. or 7 s. a week as wages, must have proved a feast on which he could dwell with a satisfying delight. We could not but consider that the scene before us disproved the landlords' assertion so frequently made, and responded to by the gallant yeomen, " that the farmers are in a starving condition •" nor could we see that our host's provisions enjoyed protection, for all seemed to make free-trade with them. " Bring in the fagot!" " Behold him here \" Fagots; like most other things, are by many in these parts termed of the masculine distinction. "Clear the way!" Now the ashen mass of 3 cwt. is raised on the dogs of the hearth, and in a few minutes the blaze from the hissing, crackling sticks, heightened the ruddy hue of the rustic guests. Song succeeded song, and when one presented more stupidity than another, shouts of laughter and bravos applauded to the roof. Now and then a fine voice broke upon the ear, leading us to regret that it was possessed by those whose souls had never been attuned to harmony. Many of their tunes were of the old English ballad class, and charmed us, not only as things of the past, but as having beauty in melody. Our hostess singing the song of "Barbara Allen," awakened the memory to emotions of the past; for we had listened to this song on a similar festivity, now thirty years agone. Thou rapid, rolling flood—0 Time! where hast thou borne those lips that sang, those ears that listened, those hearts that warmed with ours, leaving us alone to live again the associate scene? Hark! what shout is that on which confusion seizes all—men, women, and children, rushing pell-mell, scrambling to the highest bench—" The mummers are coming, hurrah! The mummers are coming, hurrah!" And then entered six or seven youths fantastically bedecked with ribbons, and gay, antiquated garments, ransacked from the bureaus of the granddames; here and there, a new bright silken bow, worn as a favour from their own dear Marys. Space being cleared, the play, representing the invincibility of Old England, partially attracted the attention of the noisy audience. A warrior, lip corked a la moustache, personating the ambitious Napoleon, is brought to encounter St. George, who, after a fierce encounter, lays the vaunting Gaul dead upon the earth, the walls echoing the boisterous applause that greets his downfall. However, by the interposition of old Father Christmas, he is restored, to partake again of the season's blessings. Near this point our Sketch is taken. At the right are seated those whose hunger craves relief, which the farmer's wife is labouring to accord. Facing are they who, with their senses quickened by the juice of apple, shout at the valiant heroes. Inclining against the chimney, behold the farmer watching to supply the wants of any of his friends. Beneath are placed a group of children, whose minds are wondering at so strange a sight. The old sheep-dog, from custom, appears a complacent observer; whilst the younger one barks at the quaint intruders. Above the door the fiddlers three add discord to the din; and from confusion worse confounded we gladly made a retreat, g, 10 A HOLIDAY ^QpK DEAWN BY KfENNY MEADOWS. FOR CHRISTMAS AND THE NEW YEAR. BRINGING IN gEKISTMAS^pK^WN BY WIMUM! HABVSTf II A HOLIDAY BOOK 12 " B R I N G I N G I N CHRISTMAS." " A merry Christmas! and a happy New Year ! I'm very glad to see yoti." H E pair of noble pictures upon the preceding pages—by two of the master pencils of this graphic age—require but slight literary illustration. Peri l s , they tell their own national story: we say national, for the commemoration of Christmas in this country is peculiar, and exclusively its own. Hear the evidence of a contemporary, in a passage which has been, as it were, the epigraph of our Artist's " Bringing in Christmas :"— " Of the c high days of the Calendar/ Christmas was always the one which held the chief place in England, where it was celebrated in a manner so different from what was customary in other countries, as to excite the astonishment of foreigners. As soon as the Christmas holidays had arrived, work and care were universally thrown aside; and, instead of devotional practices, by which other countries commemorated the sacred occasion, England rang from one end to the other with mirth and joviality. Christmas Carols were trolled in every street; masquerades and plays took possession of houses and churches indifferently; a Lord of Misrule, whose reign lasted from All-Hallow Eve till the day after the Feast of Pentecost, was elected in every noble household to preside over the sports and fooleries of the inmates, while each member prepared himself either to enact some strange character, or to devise some new stroke of mirth, The towns, on these occasions, assumed a sylvan appearance ; the houses were dressed with branches of ivy and holly; the churches were converted into leafy tabernacles; and standards bedecked with evergreens were set up in the streets, while the young of both sexes danced around them/' No description, however, can give us an idea so vivid of the reign of this madcap potentate, and the character of an English Christmas, as the following sketch, in which the bile of Stubbs rises into absolute eloquence:— " First, all the wild heads of the parish, conventing together, chuse them a grand captain (of mischief), whom they ennoble with the title of my Lord of Misrule, and him they crown with great solemnity, and adopt for their king. This king annointed chuseth for him twenty, forty, three-score, or a hundred lusty guts, like to himself, to wait upon his lordly majesty, and to guard his noble person. Then, every one of these his men he investeth with his liveries of green, yellow, or some other wanton colour. And as though that were not gaudy enough, they bedeck themselves with scarfs, ribbons, and laces, hanged all over with gold rings, precious stones, and other jewels; this done, they tie about either leg twenty or forty bells, with rich handkerchiefs in their hands, and sometimes laid across over their shoulders and necks, borrowed for the most part of their party of pretty Mopsies and loving Bessies for bussing them in the dark/' Our Artist has grouped the most characteristic celebrities of the season. High above the mirthful band hangs the evergreen. The storm rages without, but not to chill the Mummers and Minstrels, with their ludicrous frolics, not forgetting the Hobby-horse Dance :— We are come over the Mire and Moss: We dance an Hobby-horse; A Dragon you shall see, And a wild worm for to flee. Then we have the Loving Cup, borrowed from the Wassail-Bowl, though the latter was carried about with an image of Our Saviour. Nor is the huge Yule Log forgotten—to light up "the loud festivity of mirth/' OLD ENGLISH CHRISTMAS. (See the Engravings.) W H I L E young and old, and grave and gay, Have all their merry modern way Of making " Christmas Mime;" Come let us see, how full of glee The jolly Monarch used to be All in the Olden Time ! His fun and frolic, by your leave, Were full as bright on Christmas Eve As ever are they now: He used to have his bowl, I ween, And quaff his toast of " Death to Spleen'3 Beneath the kissing bough ! He used— . . . . but mercy on our rhyme! Here is his Majesty sublime, By all the household known As jolly CHEISTMAS—and, see ! see ! They chair him, like a new M.P., In triumph to his throne. Ay, thus it was the ancient way, For every home on Christmas Day To have its proper King; They brew'd his bowl, they rear'd his throne, They rigged a CHEISTMAS of their own, And made him dance and sing. ' And so they bore him hand in hand, The Bacchus of their merry band, With cup, and crowu, and bough, And made him drink, and laugh—ho ! ho! Beneath the kissing mistletoe— Even as we see him now ! Look out! Look out! Beyond the door The white snow driveth more and more— The moon rides through the cloud ! But there are murmurs 'neath her light, And though it be a winter night, Their mirth shall yet be loud ! Look in ! Look in !—the sports begin; Now listen to their merry diD. What gleeful voices sing Their well-dressed Christmas on his way; Arch President of all their play, And in their homestead King ! Maiden and yeoman—ripe for kisses— Together bear this king of bl'sses, With mistletoe in hand. The Wassail Bowl is borne before, The huge Yule Log is on the flo r, The blaze is near at hand. But ere he reach his throne, I vow ! Well placed and velvet-cushioned now, They make him pause beneath the bough, With flagon full in hand. There must he pledge a cup of joy To chubby little Cupid boy (" Love, life, and youth, without alloy"), The pet of all their band. Fair lovely women round him group, And reverend age that still can stoop To mix in childhood's mirth ; And lusty boys, who proudly bear The bowl in which he drowns his care— That mighty Christmas river there, Enough to drown the earth. Now let him on his throne alight, He's brought us all a jovial night; Of old it was a pleasant sight, To see him brisk and mellow! But whether in the days we've sung, Or modern moments, old or young, CHEISTMAS is own'd by every tongue To be a BAEE OLD FELLOW! FOE CHRISTMAS AND THE NEW YEAR. CHRISTMAS MORNING—GOING TO CHURCH. CHRISTMAS MORNING. 13 DRAWN BY DODGSON. A CHRISTMAS ODE. BY GEORGE WITHER. H I S picture represents the Vicar receiving the congratulations of his parishioners at the Church; for, at this season, "every Christian should show his gratitude to the Almighty, for the inestimable benefits procured to us by the Nativity of our blessed Saviour, by an ample display of good will toward our fellow-men." To be "ready to distribute" is, likewise, one of the most grateful orisons of the day; and how past generations, rich in this world's wealth, have bequeathed such goods to their posterity, the walls of yon ancient church tell in letters of gold; and how the hearts and homes of the needy are gladdened by the bounties of this day, happily every town and hamlet will attest. A glance at the venerable church recals the glorious opening of our great poet's " Oration for the Morn of Christmas:"— This is the month, and this the happy morn, Wherein the Son of Heaven's eternal King, Of Wedded Maid and Virgin Mother born, Our great Redemption from above did bring; For so our holie sages once did sing, That he our deadlie forfeit should release, And with his Father work us a perpetual peace. That glorious form, that light unsufferable, And that far-beaming blaze of majesty, Wherewith he wont at Heaven's high council-table To sit the midst of Trinal Unity, He laid aside, and here with us to be, Forsook the courts of everlasting day, And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay. As on the night before this happy morn, A blessed angel unto shepherds told, Where (in a stable) He was poorly born, Whom nor the earth nor heaven of heavens can hold; Through Bethlem rung This news at their return, Yea, angels sung That God with us was born; And they made mirth because we should not mourn. Their angel carol sing we then, To God on high all glory be, For peace on earth bestoweth He, And showeth favour unto men. This favour Christ vouchsafed for our sake; To buy us thrones He in a manger lay, Our weakness took that we His strength might take, And was disrobed that He might us array. Our flesh He wore, Our sin to wear away : Our course He bore, That we escape it may; And wept for us that we might sing for aye. With angels, therefore, sing again, To God on high all glory be ; For peace on earth bestoweth He, And showeth favour unto men. 14 A HOLIDAY BOOK THE "MUSIO IN THE HALL." (A fire upon the tvide hearth-stone; an oalcen table, with a goodly company; closed doors; the mistletoe aloft, upon a mighty beam; garlands of evergreens abundant; the " M I N S T R E L S " in the tapestried gallery; quaint figures of'"MUMMERS," drolly attired, peep from behind the half drawn curtains dependent before the recess of the deep bay window,) Silence! Silence! my boys! w £ a sound! Whilst the flagon of liquor moves steadily round, Tilting so gay, let the " MINSTRELS " play In " welcome and joy" to the holy day! THE "MJNSTRELS." A thousand voices welcome thee from every English home, And the high-sounding harp is tuned to songs of ancient glee; The merry bells, with cheerful round, from every moonlit dome, Surge forth a pleasant music, like a chorus on the sea. Listen! listen! Remember the strain— "Home again! home again!" "Home! home!" "Again!" The breathing of angels, who wander through space, To summon all hearts to a gathering place. A gift to the poor, A song at the door, Thus hand in hand, and side by side, We welcome holy Christmas Tide! OLD (A general shouting of " Yule, Yule, Yule I" and enter the " WASSAIL-BOWL," wreathed with ivy and artificial flowers, the instruments braying, the cymbals clashing, and the " kitchen, boys" i( cock-a-hooping" vociferously, a%& with deafening energy.) Silence!— Silence! my boys ! not a sound! As the wmsqil-bowl goes round and round ; Only so gay, let " the Minstrels" play, In welcome and joy, to the holy day! "MASTER OF CEREMONIES." A revel! g, revel! a rout! a rout! "A wassail!" before the year goes out! Honour the bowl! well wreathed around With the green life, that doth abound In dismal forest^ when the trees Shiver before the northern breeze; And Greybeard Winter, frozen sire, Cuddles the woodman by the fire. Gather "the poor" th' accustomed dole! Then for a song, and the "Wassail-Bowl!" (The "dole" being collected, is distributed at the aperture in the hall-doors; " P o o r " hurrah without.) CHRISTMAS, BY CROWQUILL. THE "MINSTRELS." the " MINSTRELS." Old years have been—New years have been—and fleeted fast away, Since first brave " Father Christmas" came, and caroll'd at the door; He always found a cheerful cup, ,and a jesting word to say, And a thousand fervent wishes—he deserves a thousand more. The student in the chamber, the herdsman poor and lowly, The hermit in the wilderness, the baron proud and high, Are mindful of the " swaddling" Babe—the " Virgin, pure and holy," And the " Shepherds" listening to the " Hymns of Angels" in the sky! " Old Christmas," he loves innocence—he loves brown vulgar faces— Good wine—good company*-good sport—he is a wondrous soul! He loves to see old comrades round, in their accustomed places, And kindred kindly meeting:—He deserves the Wassail-Bowl So follow the r u l e Sing Yule ! yule ! yule ! And bring the Wassail-bowl! God rest, rest ye! merry gentlemen ! and send you hearty cheer! Whilst "Father Christmas" trims a bowl to rouse the drooping year; Be merry and wise, when sports arise—the old year swoons away, Full soon to lie in lullaby! where the Autumn leaves decay. May Gladness, Unity, and Love, descend upon us all; And when green boughs adorn the house, and glisten from the wall; Bead well the emblematic leaves—" Since human life hath been, Virtue survives cold wintry age," and " truth is evergreen!' The nut-brown bowl for the jolly old soul-—the mistletoe for maids; Dance and song for the youthful throng, and jests for jocund blades, " The moon shines bright, and the stars give a light"—?we hear the midnight bell! Bemember the poor, who sing at your door, and fee the minstrels well! "MASTER OF CEREMONIES." Thanks, my good minstrels, for your strain ! So now (drinking) befal Merry Christmas to all! The same when the season comes again. (Exit Wassail-Bowl—Exeunt " Minstrels"—Tankards of spiced ale are laid upon the sideboards, and the "Mummers" with a shout, rush from concealment, dressed as the " Months of the Year." They bear torches in the left hand, and the usual cudgel, or " Play-stick," in the right. They dance a " Morrice" (double six). The Master of Ceremonies, and the company seated around the yule log, attend the successive pastimes. The ladies occupy the gallery vacated by the minstrels, tvhich is now brilliantly illuminated.) FOR CHRISTMAS AND THE NEW YEAR. 15 A CHRISTMAS " A T HOME." THE YULE-BLOCK* A O l l l i T M A S CAKOL. < A cross-grain'd block of elm we'll take * And by his light hold merry wake ! " OldBalfad. W H E N holly leaves and ivy green, With berries bright and dark between, Around the cottage room are seen, The simple place adorning— What joy before the cheerful blaze, The almost conscious fire displays, To srfc in Christmas' merry days, Ay! sit up till the morning! And hear the early carillon Of village bells—-while old and young Are mingled in that festal throng, Through Life we aye remember! To feel the heat of Summer's glow, In frosty depth of Winter's snow, And think we're Maying it, although 'Tis flowerless December! To join the hearty laugh around, When some coy damsel's feet are found To thoughtless tread the fairy-ground The Mistletoe that's under ;-*=* And see some longing lover steal A kiss from cheeks that ill conceal The secret joy they inward feel, 'Neath frowns and'blushing wonder! What face with summer's sun embrQwn'd Was ever half so joyous found As those in ruddy gladness 'round The YuLE-BLOCK'sf cheerful gleaming! Romance may seek wild solitudes, By waterfalls in lonely woods— But Mirth and Love, with happier moods, O'er Christmas hearth are beaming! # Yule, from the Saxon, yeol or yehul, the Christmas time. t In many parts of the country it was a practice to preserve a portion of the yule ihofe to the next year, in order to light the new Christmas log. A SCENE FROM LONDON LIFE. THE wintry winds are blowing shrill, the rain-drops thickly fall, And night upon the busy town has drawn hte dismal pall : Through warmly curtain'd windows shines the ebe§SiW Christmas i r e ; All within is joy and comfort—all without is, cold &M mire. As an angel doing deeds of good, that fire sends forth! itft ray Into the cheerless stormy night, not to the tell-tale day; For 'tis not in open sunshine, when Man stands by to see, But in the silent darkness moves forth fair Charity. And, see! below the window, list'ning the joy within, With face so pale, so careworn, hovers the girl of sin ! Behind those flaunting robes of hers are want, and grief, and care, And beneath that hollow, hideous laugh, a terrible despair! She hears the voice of childhood—she remembers former days, When, in her quiet village horjpte, she joined in songs of praise; When her thoughts were good and happy, and free from sin and guile, And all were wont to greet her with an ever-present smile. But now, in gaud and gewgaw, grown hateful to her eye, For the bright and varied colours give to her pale face the lie, She powers beneath that window, uncared for and unknown; In want, and shame, and misery, her life wears out alone! Sisters ! that beam of light and warmth shone on her upturned face,— And for a moment chased away her sorrow and disgrace ; Pliant and penitent she stood beneath its kindly glare, And a gleam of better, happier times illumined her despair! Sisters of lowly mercy, go forth with faith and love; Remember what ye cannot do is done by Him above ! There are precious moments—many—when a kind word timely given May win a soul from wickedness,—may win a soul for Heaven ! Go to the fetid alleys, where God's name has never i n c h e d ; Where His words of truth and mercy are seldom—**§ier—preached; Where want and direst poverty have taken up their stand ; Where, in all its hideous features, dwells the darkness of the land ; Where, crowded thick in cellars, is a mass of human life ; Where each daughter is a mother, where no mother is a wife ; Where light of day is nev§r mm; where fever has its birth ; Where Plague and ]P#iIteeB stalk forth to thin the crowded earth ! To these dwellings, sisters, hasten, armed with food, kind words, and prayer; Your kindly acts will banish sin, your gentle words despair ; Fewer then will pause to listen, fewer then will mourn the light Streaming out from happy casements on some coming Christmas night! 16 A HOLIDAY BOOK OLD CHEISTMAS. —DEAWN BY W I L L I A M HAEVEY. FOR CHRISTMAS AND THE NEW YEAR. 17 OLD CHRISTMAS. CHRISTMAS DBAWN BY WILLIAM HAUVEY. IN TOWN AND COUNTRY. I like them well—the curious preciseness And all-pretended gravity of those That seek to banish hence these harmless sports, Have thrust away much ancient honesty.—Old Poet. BY THOMAS MILLER. to appreciate the spirited composition of this tableau, the reader must carry his mind's eye back to the picturesque celebration of Christmas, such as we find it sung in an Anglo-Norman carol of the thirteenth century:— Now, Lordlings, listen to our ditty, Strangers coming from afar; Let poor minstrels move your pity, Give us welcome, soothe our care: In this mansion, as they tell us, Christmas wassail keeps to-day; And, as the King of all good fellows, Eeigns with uncontrolled sway. RIGHTLY Lordlings, in these realms of pleasure Father Christmas yearly dwells ; Deals out joy with liberal measure, Gloomy sorrow soon dispels : Numerous guests, and viands dainty, Ml the hall and grace the board; Mirth and beauty, peace and plenty, Solid pleasures here afford. - The scene is the carved screen of a baronial hall. Upon the central compartment hang the helmet, surcoat, and shield, of the period—the insignia of a physical triumph, encircled with holly and evergreens, the emblems of " t h e victory gained over the powers of darkness by the coming of Christ/' This group is flanked with the weapons of war and the chase—the trusty sword and spear, the twanging bow and echoing horn—in trophied boast of the heroism of the lord, richly dight, Casting a dim religious light. In the triptic are pictured three of the great events of our Saviour's life: in the centre, lies the heaven-born child All meanly wrapt; and in the side compartments are shadowed forth the baptism and the transfiguration. These pictures from " t h e divine checkerwork" of the story of our religion are the characteristic glorification of the Holy Season by the hand of art. The eye descends now to the commemoration in a more secular sense. From the altar of plenty, the lord and his family are ministering to the wants of the lame, the halt, and the poor in this world's goods:— Lordlings, 'tis said the liberal mind, That on the needy much bestows, From Heaven a sure reward shall find j From Heaven, whence every blessing flows. Who largely gives with willing hand, Or quickly gives with willing heart j His fame shall spread throughout the land, His mem'ry thence shall ne'er depart! Upon the opposite side is the coming into the hall of the Hobbyhorse, with minstrelsy of pipe and tabor, in full-blown grotesque pride—• We are come o'er the Mire and Moss j We dance an Hobby-horse. Upon the face of the altar is the welcoming of the Yule Clog, with sound of trumpet:— Come, bring with a noise, My merrie, merrie boyes, The Christmas Log to the firing; While my good dame, she Bids ye all be free, And drink to your heart's desiring. Upon the altar are grouped the kindly fruit and costly flagon, to gladden the hearts of all comers: here, too, is the Wassail Bowl, spiced to the brink:— Next crowne the bowle full With gentle Lamb's Wooll; And sugar, nutmeg, and ginger; With store of ale too; And thus ye must doe To make the Wassaile a swinger. At the foot of the altar lie the animals killed in the chase; and forming an effective foreground to this impressive picture of OLDEN CHRISTMAS, HUNDREDS of silver toned bells of London ring loud, deep, and clear, from tower and spire, to welcome in Christmas. The far-stretching suburbs, like glad children, take up and fling back the sound over hill and valley, marsh and meadow, while steeple calls to steeple across the winding arms of the mast-crowded river, proclaiming to the heathen voyager who has brought his treasures to our coast, and who is ignorant of our religion, the approach of some great Christian festival. Through the long night of departed centuries has that old Saxon sound pealed over our ancient City—from soon after the period when Augustine and his brother monks landed in England, with the banner borne before them, on which was emblazoned the figure of the dying Redeemer, while they moved gravely along, chanting the Holy Litany. We have often paused, with closed eyes, in some star-lighted lane in the suburbs, and listened to the sound of those sweet Christmas-bells, until the imagination was borne far away to the fields of Bethlehem (flooded with heavenly light), and we fancied we again heard those angel-voices which startled the shepherds as they watched their flocks by night, while proclaiming high overhead, "Peace on earth, and goodwill towards men/' We seemed again to catch glimpses of The star-led wizards hastening with odours sweet, as Milton beheld them with the far-seeing eye of poetry, coming From far upon the Eastern road, until they reached the lowly roof which sheltered the God-born child and his meek mother, when they offered up " gold, frankincense, and myrrh/' Such images floated before our mental vision as the great Rubens seized upon and transferred to his glowing canvas, and such as we have pictured in our present pages from the work of the immortal artist, with all its rich masses of flooding light and deepening shade, and wanting only the matchless colouring to bring the original before the eyes of our readers. Such a splendid illustration as we have here given needs neither the garniture of holly, ivy, nor mistletoe to render it a fitting present for the old festival of Christmas: the beauty of the Virgin Mother, the simple majesty of the Holy Child, and the pious adoration of the kneeling sage, bear the stamp of the hand of the mighty master who was alone competent to grapple with so great a subject. MISTLETOE. Glancing for a moment at the evergreens which are used in our Christmas decorations, we see no cause for searching in the ancient heathen rites of other countries for their origin. That the Mistletoe was held sacred by the ancient Druids, we have the authority of the classic Roman historian to prove) and which no one has ever doubted. The altars of Thor and Woden were not overthrown in a day: those who worshipped the true God were at first compelled to kneel before these heathen shrines. Redwald, the King of East Anglia, had two altars in his temple, one to Woden and the other to the Almighty; for although his heart yearned towards the true God, he was afraid of the vengeance of the imaginary idol he had so long bowed before. Amid pagan altars and hideous images, the early Christians knelt: and the beautiful Bertha (through whose meek persuasion Ethelbert was converted to the true faith) first worshipped beneath the roof of one of these old heathen temples in which the mistletoe was hung ; and where the grim images of Thor and Woden frowned from the walls, there did she kneel and offer up her prayers to heaven. The far-seeing Pope Gregory attempted not to abolish these heathen rites altogether, but rightly argued that if their pagan temples were held sacred while set apart for the worship of rude shapeless images, how much more would such spots be revered when the light of the true Gospel broke through the heathen darkness. By many of the early Christians would the mistletoe be held in reverence; for although it had hung above the heads of their idols, it was not the work of the image-maker, but a production of nature, and a native of their own wild forests; it twined around the grey oaks under which the Roman legions had marched, and was, perhaps, the only remnant they at last retained of their old idolatry—the only link that remained between Christianity and Heathenism. HOLLY. The very beauty of the green-leaved and red-berried Holly would recommend it as a fitting ornament for the great Christmas Festival* "Wh^t the oak is to the summer wood, the pride and ornament of the Q A HOLIDAY BOOK 18 grove, such is the holly in the land of trees, amid the nakedness of winter. When the mountain ash has shed its rich garniture of green and crimson on the funeral pyre of autumn (that pile .kindled with all the gaudy hues of the decaying flowers and bowers of summer), the holly stands unchanged amid the death and desolation of the landscape, and seems sole King of the outstretched forest, While far and wide the woods are covered with snow, looking as if Winter lay asleep beneath the leafless trees, in such a spot we have seen the holly crowning some eminence (the pillow or head of the sleeper), as if wreathing his grey old locks with a garland of evergreen and flaming rubies. IVY, The ancient emblem of friendship, seems sacred to time and old ruins. It grows about our churches, and droops above the weather-stained windows, where it hangs waving between us and the outer light, as if to force itself upon our notice. It climbs around our country-houses, and grows above the churchyard graves, as if it claimed kindred with the living and the dead. Whether it winds its way to the topmost boughs of a tree, the battlemented tower of some sacred edifice, or around the twisted chimneys of the manor-house, it tells a tale of by-gone years, and of the many old Christmases which have passed away since it first shot up its wiry stem, and threw out its few green leaves below, unnoticed by human eye. We cannot gaze on it without thinking of the many Christmas feasts it has decorated; how year after year eager hands gathered its dark-waving trails; how eyes once bright looked upon it, and fond hearts heaved and fluttered as they bore home the winter garland—eyes now dark, and hearts for ever cold, which once beamed and beat in the midst of old festivities, but will never more brighten nor bound to the merry ringing of the Christmas bells. These reflections make Christmas a solemn time; and when we think of the awful year now fast fading away, a deep shadow throws itself over our pages—the Shadow of the Valley of Death. treasures of wines, spirits, foreign fruit, and fish; while from many an ancient hamlet and old thatched grange are sent back the produce of field and farm. Fowls from the inland meres and rushy pools; game from many a secluded woodland, dell, and wild moor, are offered up on the great altar of Christmas, until the sacrifice of Friendship throws its delightful odour throughout the whole length and breadth of the land. The swift-winged railway-carriages groan beneath the heavy loads of good things which they are doomed to drag to and fro; while the streets of busy London are filled with carriers' carts; and Parcel-Delivery-men flit hither and thither, the attendants of Plenty, clothed in decent livery, and occupying the place of those nude nymphs whom ancient fables portrayed as attendants upon the ever-bountiful goddess. OLD CHRISTMAS CUSTOMS. Although the Great Fire of London destroyed thousands of houses whose roofs were blackened by the smoke of many a huge yule-clog, a few of the old edifices still remain which have looked down on the merry Christmases of other days, when Pomp and feast and revelry, With,masque and antique pageantry, broke the silence which now reigns around their ancient walls. Nor is the yule-clog yet extinct; for there are still many old-fashioned families in England, who would never fancy that it was Christmas, unless the huge tree-root blazed on the hearth, and shot its tongue of flame high Up the huge chimney gaping wide. CHRISTMAS PRESENTS, In the country, long before it is light, you hear the voices of children going from house to house on Christmas-Day morning, and repeating the simple old couplet— I wish you a merry Christmas And a happy new year; A pocket full of money, And a cellar full of beer! To brighter scenes will we now turn—to the life and happiness which Merry Old Christmas brings to millions of human hearts, while he throws a sunshine, brighter than that of summer, over thousands of English hearths. Pleasant memories are brought to the mind by the interchange of presents at this hospitable season. London pours into the country its when, perhaps, instead of receiving the Christmas-box for which they thus earnestly plead, a voice is heard from within the house (by the door of which they stand) exclaiming, " The same to you, my lad !"—a poor recompence for rising so early, and braving the wintry cold before daydawn. In town and country we have still the " waits" playing -in the m0' J "// pHRTSTMAS PRESENTS,—PBAWN BY HABVYEY, ?&> ( %^. '//^^ a FOE CHRISTMAS AND THE NEW YEAR. streets, and breaking the deep midnight silence with much sweeter music than that of the rude pipe and tabor which disturbed the sound slumber of our simple forefathers. Though the boar's head and the huge wassailbowl have vanished from our feasts, and there are fewer ceremonies and putwarpl shows to usher in Merry Old Christmas than formerly, there is nothing to regret in the decay of many of those barbaric customs which gave pleasure to our laughter-loving ancestors. Such masques and mummings as were the delight of an old English baron's retainers, and were well adapted for the rude revelry of the huge baronial hall, are no mpre suited to our modern tastes, than the rush-strown floors and chimneyless apartments would be to the wants of an English lacfy in the present day, There is no more to deplore in ihe absence of Friar Tuck, Maid Marian, Robin Hood, with all his merry men, the huge dragon, and the hobby-horses, than there is in the extinction of the old moralities, whose places are now supplied by the dramas of Shakspeare, and others which have appeared since he first wrote. Christmas has outlived all antique mummery, and is all the better for having shaken off his ancient and faded trappings. His mighty soul still lives, and for one day in the year he throws the light of his bluff, hearty, old English countenance over the meagre board of the hungry workhouse, and the gloomy walls of the debtor's prison. True, there are no longer the gates of the monastery, abbey, or castle thrown open as of old for the relief pf "loop'd and windc^'d raggedness " on Christmas day, when none were permitted at tliat J^oly time to go away hungry, thirsty, nor empty-handed. Alas! thj3 J^jaseless beggar is too often left to stand shivering in the all but emDty s t r e e t s Homeless beside a thousand hearths. PSBISTMAS CHAFES. Open-handed Charity, thank God! still walks abroad at this inclement season of the year; and in no country in the world does she scatter her gifts more profusely than in England—for, surrounded as we are by poverty and misery, mtiijpns, are pai.d and given away annually to the poor. The picture has its bright and dark sides; and to-day we will turn the gloomy part to the wall, with a sigh. Charity has, for one day in the ypar? caused the poor pauper to forget his poverty, and he again smiles as he sits before the board which she has so bountifully spread. His thoughts wander back to the happy Christmas dinners over which he once presided, when he had a home which he proudly called his own. Memory pictures the past—his wife, his children; some now dead—others scattered over the world, he knows not whither. He sees old faces glittering in the bright holly berries—he hears old voices in the cheerful crackling of the 10 fire, and smiles faintly while his thoughts wander to the days of other years; and he talks over these old times to his companion in adversity— to one who, perchance, like himself, has seen happier and better days. Wealth has ever at its command the power of dispensing such pleasures as these over the land; nor would any feeling man who pays a poor-rate begrudge an extra shilling or two to make the inmates of the workhouse happy on such an occasion as this—even though he himself is poor. With what a zest a man sits down to his Christmas dinner, when he knows that he has made some poor family happy by having provided for them on this day—whether it be to subscribe to some coal charity, suph as our Engraving represents; or only to throw in his mite towards purchasing blankets for the poor, or supplying them once a day with soup. And oh! how little is required to throw the sunshine of happiness around some miserable abode—to scatter smiles where tears and sighs are too often found; and to know that, instead pf a sorrowful group, huddling around the all but tireless grate, the little pudding is boiling in the pot? and the small joint turning on its worsted jack, from the fork stuck into the mantlepiece above the fire—that there is a happy light dancing in the children's eyes—a clapping of little hands every time the saucepan lid is uplifted—and that five paltry shillings purchased all this happiness. Trifles such as these make both the giver and the receiver happy; and though, without, " all aloud the wind doth blow/9 there is within the breast " a peace that surpassed al). riches." If we sigh for the Christmases of the olden time, it is because pharity then overflowed the land. From the Court, the glad stream ran through abbey an,4 baronial hal1^ into the lowliest postage and the humblest shed : evej}. tJatQ serf, who was so}d like a slave wj.jbh the soil, share4 the feast amid jbj^e general rejoicing, though he sat far below the salt, and, through the r&e]ring and savpury o.dours, obtained but a dim glimpse pf the lorcjjy $a^ ; pverhung by armour and sylvan trophies. Honest old Thomas ^ p p p , in his '* H^ndreth Good Poyn£es of Husbandrie/' first printed in \§§%} says— At Christmas he merry, a&d Jtjjank jGp^ for a}}? And feast t\j p&pr ^eigJ^QTO? the great wij^p^ gmall. And the author of tjie " Sketch Book," in a few brief, ]}appy sentences, says those were good times " when the pld halls pf pasties and manorhouses were thrown open at day-light; when $he tables were covered with brawn and beef, and humming ale; when the harp and the carol resounded all day long, and when rich and poor were alike welcomed to enter and make merry; when the Old English Gentleman, on Christmas Day in the Morning, had all his tenants and neighbours at his hall by daybreak; when the strong beer was broached, and the black-jacks went plentifully about with toast, sugar, and nutmeg, and good Cheshire cheese; when the great sausage was boiled by daybreak, or else two CHRISTMAS DISTRIBUTION OP COALS,— PRAWN BY FOSTER, C 2 A HOLIDAY BOOK 20 CHRISTMAS EVE IN YORKSHIRE.—DRAWN BY DOEGSON. young men took the cook by the arms and ran her round the villagegreen until she was ashamed of her laziness/' The engraving on page 19 shows one of the many " distributions" that are made in the metropolis at this festive season. CHRISTMAS EVE IN YORKSHIRE. This Sketch, drawn on the spot by Dodgson, is a representation of a Merry-making on Christmas Eve in one of our northern counties. The scene is one of those large kitchens which are only to be found in some old English manor-house. Supper is over, and all cleared away for the dance ; drinking will go on until the " waits" come, which will be long after midnight, when the large table will once more be spread with refreshments, and the cup will continue to circulate until morning. Elder-wine, spiced ale, and " egg-hot," are the principal beverages drunk in the north of England on Christmas Eve. The fiddler is generally some old man who attends all the wakes, feasts, statutes, harvest-homes, and sheep-shearing feasts for miles around. He plays only old English tunes: were you to ask him to play some polka, ten to one he would open his eyes in astonishment, and say, " Is it owt good to yeat V He hates all sorts of " new-fangled tunes," as he calls them, and would not give a straw to play to dancers who do not shake the house, and all but drive the floor in through stamping on it. He sighs for the good old times when gentlemen danced in top-boots, and wore spurs, and says, "Loaks ! there wore some fun then." Nor does there appear to be any want of it in the Sketch which our Artist has here placed before us. There is sure to be a smash amongst the crockery before the laughing girl on the dresser is caught, or the kiss is obtained, which they have overturned the chair in struggling for. The old woman seated in the arm-chair by the fire looks on the scene with delight, and perhaps recalls the time when she was as merry a romp as any in the group before her. She who is drawn under the mistletoe-bough half averts her head, and seemingly grants with reluctance the kiss which her heart flutters to receive. Even the boy, who has helped to capturs the fair prisoner, appears to chuckle again, as he beholds the pleasant penance she is undergoing. The " toddling child" is also "timing its footsteps" to the dance at the very moment the words " Hands across!" have been uttered by the old fiddler, who acts the part of musician and master of the ceremonies, and " rates" the rustic dancers in no very measured terms when they miss >vhat he calls "the figure," THE GAME OF FORFEITS. We have here a sketch by the far-famed Kenny Meadows, who stands second to none in his delineations of character; other proofs of which we also present in his "Game of Blindman's Buff," and his inimitable " Christmas Pudding"—two subjects belonging to another portion of our description of Christmas. The Game of Forfeits is now, we believe, very rare in London: it is too romping and noisy an amusement for the chilling atmosphere and somewhat too stately decorum of our modern drawing-rooms; so we must confine our description to what we have seen in the free-and-easy country. While gazing on this picture, the curtain seems once more uplifted which had closed over and shrouded the merry Christmas revels we joined in twenty years ago; faces and forms wellremembered are again thrown upon the mirror of Memory; and instead of the happy group here presented, we are once more under the roof of the old thatched grange, among Honest lads and bonnie lasses* The Game of Forfeits commenced by spinning a wooden trencher Oldish, and was called "Turn-Trencher." We took our seats round the room, when one of the party stepped forward and spun the trencher on the floor. No one could tell who would be called upon to catch it while spinning, until the name was proclaimed by the spinner, which was seldom done until the trencher appeared ready to fall. If not caught before it fell, we had to pay a forfeit. The girls gave up their purses, necklaces, gloves; the young men their watches, pencil-cases, nay, even coats and hats, if nothing better could be obtained; for not one in five caught the trencher while spinning, though we were all eye, all ear, and up in a moment When "turn-trencher" ended, the real fun commenced by redeeming the forfeits, which stood piled high on the table. We well knew that some kind of freemasonry existed between the bonny girl who held up the forfeit* and the sly gipsy that knelt down, as if pretending not to know to whom the pledge belonged, while she passed sentence with her face buried in the lap of her laughing companion. There was something only known to themselves in the way of introducing "the pretty thing, or the very pretty thing," by which the kneeling sybil was as well able to identify the party to whom the pledge belonged as if she looked him fully in the face; and what hearty roars of laughter pealed through the room when the modest Mr, Simpkins was sentenced to kiss 'some blushing damsel through the tongs before he could redeem FOE CHEISTMAS AND THE NEW YEAR. 21 FORFEITS.—DRAWN BY KENNY MEADOWS. the article he had forfeited; then his endeavouring to look sentimental all the while he stood looking through the tongs, as if screwed in an iron pillory; and the " Oh, dear! it was so ridiculous, she could not think of such a thing;'" so, after much intercession, poor Simpkins was let off, after having kissed the knob of the poker three times. Then the tall, starched Mr. Prim, who would have fainted had there been a crease in his neckcloth or a wrinkle in his tightly-strapped trowsers, what must he do to redeem the gold watch which everybody knew he forfeited only to let it be known that he had one? The pretty gipsy on her bended knees titters: there is mischief brewing; he must touch the hearth three times with his nose. They say he wears stays. You would as soon think of the Monument bowing to you as of Mr. Prim stooping so low as the hearth. Mercy on us! he smirks and kneels; and bang goes one strap—his knee has also gone through, and he is off like a shot. Pride has indeed had a fall. Or picture yourself having to whistle some tune through the keyhole without once laughing—you, whose roar is evo^ ready if you only see some grotesque head on the knocker of a door; or to look fixedly at the candle five minutes without once smiling, and that too when one of your companions, renowned for his long face, is puckering up his mouth like a pair of old-fashioned nut-crackers: or perchance you are sentenced to kiss some crusty old aunt through the chair-back, it being well known that you have not been on speaking terms with her for nearly twelve months. Then there is such a good-natured smile in the dear old lady's face, as she kneels behind the chair-back, that you see at the first glance all is forgotten and forgiven, and you date the commencement of a lifelasting friendship from that merry Christmas-Eve, and noisy Game of Forfeits. Dear Harriet, Rose, Julia, Sarah with the mild hazel eyes, and thou, sweet May, whose very name was "lover's own poetry"—oh! whither have ye fled? Alas! hushed are many of the "daughters of music/' whose blythe carols made glad the merry Christmases of other days—voices which we hope are now heard among the angel-ranks of heaven, far away beyond that wing-swept pathway above the silvery shivering of the stars. May, with her golden hair veiling her face, and kneeling with folded wings beside the Stream of Life, and looking at her own shadow like another Eve in the "glassy, cool, pellucid wave." Grim old Scythe-Bearer, thou hast cut down a flower here and there, and left the warden in which we once delighted naked and desolate, and us to sigh alone amid the desert waste. Instead of the fresh dews of morning, thy grey wings are wet with bitter tears; thou art indeed the "Mower whose name is Death!" But the course of time is marked by changes; the ups and downs of life are the mile-posts that dot the road over which we travel, each telling us that we are drawing nearer to our journey's end, BLINDMAN'S-BUFF; Clear the decks! and leave us ample space enough for this thorough old English game. Turn up the largest table, with the leaf towards the fire, and remember that it is not fair to hide behind it: let us be wise in the'midst of our harmless folly, and avoid danger. But what has Meadows introduced here ?—the old grandfathers and grandmothers amongst the children! "The child is father of the man," says Wordsworth; and there can be no harm in the bald-headed old sire stepping back again into the spirit of childhood. What a touch of nature is that, where the dear old lady, having all but lost her cap, is trying to save her peruke or false front! Not for worlds would she be seen with her t o p Bare through hoar antiquity. Rely upon it, her bald pate is a secret to all, saving the hearty old fellow (no doubt, her husband) who enters into the joke, and seems to exclaim, "Pull away, and then you will see the nakedness of the land;" for Time has left him a few "sad grey hairs" behind, and he wears them with pride and honour. What a merry, mischievous leer there is in his dim old eye; and what sly jokes he will crack all the remainder of the year about the narrow escape she had at Christmas! And some of the hearty old blades will, perhaps, write to her, and beg a lock of her hair; and, though angry for the moment, she will at last join in the laugh against herself, and talk about her poor bald pate. Long may your graceful ringlets throw their shadows on your damask cheeks, my dear young ladies; and you live to' laugh, as you do now, at the bewilderment of the dear old woman. How eagerly the sweet children enter into the sport, except the least of all, that lies squalling and neglected on the floor, and cannot make its tiny voice heard above the uproarious laughter. What an expression of delight there is qn the boy's sweet countenance, who is looking up to the portly gentleman that is the cause of so much merriment. Sadly is he disfiguring the "thick rotundity" of the stout old lady with her back to us, to A HOLIDAY BOOK 22 the great amusement of the old man who stands with one leg drawn up, and with whose countenance we seem to have been familiar from childhood. But oh! the shouts of delight when three or four children, who have huddled together in one corner, are caught by Blindman-buff: their struggle to escape as they tumble head-over-heels, one over the other— this with a torn frock, that with a shoe off, the other with its little round fat arm clean out of its dress. That is sport, indeed; and their deary merry voices seem to ring like music through our hearts weeks and months after the festival of Christmas. It seems but as yesterday when we assembled in the large did parlour to play at BlindmanVbuff: when the huge bunch of everlasting flowers was removed from its accustomed place on the ceiling to make room for the mistletoe bough, whose berries we should as soon think of numbering as the kisses which were given and received befieath them. What sweet faces did the huge yule-clog flash upon on thai merry night! what eyes, " which ever loved the ground/' saving when glancing upon that mysterious bough, amid whose leaves and pale berried some spell seemed to be secreted! Often do they still rise befof &tiejin the still midnight— their shadows appearing to fall, as of old, upon ihe walls—long locks and swan-lite necks ever shifting like pillars of light, as we sit and dream c-f the past. In the low tongues of flame that babble in the barred grate> they at tirnes seem speaking to us of old festivals and merry days that can never riibfe return—subdued kissfei^ Smothered before they found utter&fice, alid driven back upon th<3 heart, like bees fluttering among flowers^ frdni which they have not the power to escape. But we will hd longer Idok ujjdri thb$3 forms WMbse dwelling is the light of settiiig stta THE CHRISTMAS PUDDINGS "We miss the father in this eager, hungry-looking picture; and if he has gone out to dine anywhere on such a day as this, he ought to be ashamed of himself. Perhaps Meadows intended conveying some such rebuke, for it seems difficult to keep the children in order, nor does the lady look at all pleased at having to serve so many, The little thing holding the plate beside the mother ought, in our opinion, to have been served first, as it is, to all appearance, the youngest. That beautiful girl seated at the end of the table will wait patiently until the last, and then her eye will often wander to her little sisters, to see that they are not eating too fast, or burning themselves. Master Freddy, in the plaid frock, should wait awhile, if we had him to deal with, for pushing himself and plate so forward. Master Jack has stuck a piece much too large for a single mouthful on his fork, and is also holding up his leg, in a very unbecoming manner. As for Bill, he seems to be eating with two spoons at once: that boy will make himself ill, depend upon it, for, after having been served twice, he is sure to ask for more. Bill and Jack look like two mischievous young rascals, and we would wager a trifle that, if their pockets were searched, crackers would be found there; and that, if their mother's back were turned for a moment, they wouldn't at all mind throwing one into the fire; alid making the little creatures who are eating tlieir pudding beside the fender jump again. A pretty life do those ybung dogs lead that servant; and, unless their father is a little more at home, the neighbours say they do not know what will becorhe of them. There is iidt a cat about the place but what they are after it; and they are constantly firing little cannons through keyholes, and frightening the people "btit of their wits/' It was only the other day that Master Jackey shoved a paper full of gunpowder under the pan in which an old woman roasted her chestnuts, at an apple-stall at the end of the street, and blew up her whold establishment. He would not have Imd any pudding at all if his fsither had been at home. Those boys, if 16ft to themselves, would malte a tremendous hole in the pudding before they left off, and> very probably, be under the doctor's hands on the following day. But there is something delightful, after all, in seeing children1 enjoy themselves, in watching their little eyes sparkle, noticing them pause for a moment or two to recover breath, then try again: slower and at longer intervals are the pieces of pudding How taken up—the dear rosy lips have scarcely any motion, and at last the sweet rounded mouth is at rest* for, wrong as it is, they have eaten until they are surfeited. Pretty dfears, if they are ill; Christinas only corned once a year; and although they will PLmDMAN'S-BUEE'. — DKAWN BY KENNY MEADOWS. FOR CHRISTMAS AND THE NEW YEAR. 23 f^THE C§ijSTMAS tfUDDINGi — DBAWN BY KENNY MEADOWS. kids, and stream dreMluUy when compelled to swalldw the physic, they have enjoyed themselves beforehand, and there is no real pleasure without a little pain. We know no readier way of turning little "babbies" into angels than allowing them to gorge themselves with Christmas pudding: all goad mothers know that such heavy dainties ought to be dealt out with a sparing hand. We hope that many of the Master Jackies and Billies will read this portion of our article on Christmas, and bear in mind that even pudding (carries its own punishment when swallowed te> excess. CHRISTMAS PIfctZE CATTLE. Although we are not amongst the admirers of unnatural fatness, we cannot refrain from visiting the Cattle Show, nor peeping into the butchers' shops at Christmas. We know no country that could pasture such bulk and bone as we there behold, except England, nor any stomachs that could digest such rich bilious food except those of Englishmen. We have seen some of our huge London draymen and sinewy coal-heavers pick out the fattest portions they could find, seeming to regret that there was a single stripe of lean in the whole joint. Fine Laplanders would those fellows make, and do ample justice to a banquet of whale's blubber. They would glory in a portion of a bullock that w&s fed only on chopped suet and oil-cake. What monstrous pigs do we also see at this season of the year ! if they ever walked at all r they must, like Falstaff, have " larded the lean earth" over which they passed. As for the sheep, we can scarcely fancy that such huge legs of mutton ever moved, but by some secret process must have been dipped as they dip candles, layer upon layer, then left to cool before they were again immersed, until they finally attained their unnatural thickness and fatness. There we see calves that may have been suckled by elephants, and that seem to have shared in the bulky proportions of their gigantic foster-mothers. Alive, they look clean and beautiful; but when slaughtered and hung up, we should intercede for the levelling ipf a few o | those useless mountains of fat before we were tempted to become purchasers. After all, a sirloin of Christmas beef is a noble adjunct to the table, and is generally valued all the more if it has been cut from a prize ox. The roast beef of Old England was the boast of our forefathers, and our national pride will never degenerate M permit mf other p#tion to bear away this trophy. OOGSE-CLtJBB Are held at hundreds of the public-houses in London. The members pay a shilling a-week for eight or ten weeks before Christmas, and, in addition to a goose, are generally entitled to a bottle of gin for their ten shillings. Those who pay but sixpence weekly have a piece of beef: tea and'sugar for the women are also amongst these Christmas prize's. These clubs are got up " to benefit the house/' as it is called; and there is but little doubt that, with the money spent over the meetings, eveVy goose costs at least a pound in the end. Bight proud is the landlord to show his prize geese to his customers ; and great delight does he take in telling them about the number of miles he travelled by rail, of the bargain he made weeks b3fore to be supplied with geese of the first quality at so much per head, and, " not to be done/' he examined them all; and that, when the time came for fetching them away, the goose-feeder said that he shouldn't mind " giving him a five-pun' note for his bargain." He tells you that they were stubble fed in autumn; that up to Christmas they had—he can hardly tell you what—but you almost believe, while you listen, that when roasted, they will, without any addition of any kind whatsoever, have the flavour of apple-sauce, sage and onions, and fine mealy potatoes. But he always advises those who carry off a fine goose to take with them a bottle of spirits; for "goose is rich," he says, "and spirits are always handy in a house, especially at Christmas time, for goose will sometimes disagree with the strongest of persons / ' in a word, he is as kind as a father to his customers. A perfect babel of sounds is a public-house on Christmas Eve when the prizes are drawn, and many a pint of gin is won and lost about the weight of the different geese before the members separate for the night. MEETING OF FAMILIES AT CHRISTMAS; One of the greatest pleasures Christmas brings is, the assembling of members of families—the bringing together once more all "the old familiar faces" around the household hearth. To see the venerable father and 24 A HOLIDAY BOOK. mother still occupying their old arm-chairs; to sit at the same place at the table which they formerly claimed as their own, beside the sister with whom they once kissed and quarrelled a dozen times a day, yet loved all the more after each childish squabble—these are the little home touches that send a silent thrill through the heart, and force tears into the eyes unawares: to see the old man still hale and hearty, though bearing the marks of the winter of age in his silver hairs—his eye scarcely dimmed, though he cannot see to read such small print as he formerly read; his whole countenance brightened up by that light from within, which proclaims a clear conscience and " a heart at peace with all mankind/' To see the tears gathering in his eye, as with tremulous voice he uplifts his glass after the Christmas dinner is over and the dessert placed on the table, while in a few apt words he expresses his delight at seeing them all again, and ends by praying God to bless them all; words which unloosen the fountains of every heart, and fill each eye with tears of gentle joy, causing them to weep "at what they are glad of," as the great Shakspeare has expressed this silent language of the heart. And she who perchance at that moment sits beside him, her gentle eyes beaming with the light of love—who has shared his pilgrimage for fifty long years, slides her hand gently into his own, and by that silent pressure proclaims how much she feels; then glancing through her tears on all the beloved faces which surround her, breathes an inward prayer to be united to them for ever in heaven; for dearly does she love them all, and calmly awaits the hour when she must lead the way along that path which, sooner or later, they must all tread. Then there are the little grandchildren, all wearing something of the old family likeness, and the married sons and daughters see them seated on the grandfather's knee—on the knee where they once sat—playing with the large gold seal which they can just remember to have played with, or listening to the ticking of the great gold watch, which they, when children, believed to be alive. Then come the little histories of those who are absent, who have got on but indifferently in the world, who have made good or bad marriages; and there sometimes reigns a silence for several moments, as they recal thev faces of those whom they have so often met around that hearth. The image of some pretty cousin rises up, who was the pride of their Christmas parties—the very life of their childish amusements; and tender is the appeal of some one present (one, perhaps, in whose heart she once fondly reigned), when he speaks of her unfortunate marriage, her poverty, and her sufferings—how she now dwells in an attic or a cellar in some distant town—and they are again made to feel how all loved her; a tear is shed over the recital of her misfortunes, and in a day or two after this meeting amongst those who can never wholly forget her, she receives some present which almost breaks her heart through very joy—that joy which is the grief of gladness. KISSING UNDER THIS THE MISTLETOE. custom may be a relic of the age when Forth to the wood did merry men go To gather in the Mistletoe. It is a scene of harmless mirth, which even "the schoolmaster" has not yet entirely whipt out of "offending Adam:" Oh ! well may the Mistletoe honoured be By the brave and the beautiful, sage and free; It takes not its birth from the cold Earth's yoke, But springs from the breast of the glorious Oak. There, planted by Heaven's own blessed breeze, It wreaths a fair crown for the King of the Seas. And the Druid's old Mistletoe well, I trow, May beam on a Monarch's or Maiden's brow. The Mistletoe clings to the brave Oak tree, An auspice propitious and benison free; 'Tis not like the Ivy, that cankers the tower, But the bright flower twining round Purity's bower; And the true Hearts of Oak which, aye gallantly brave, The commotion of (Europe as cliffs dare the wave, Will treasure the<.Ki$sf—oh ! the Kiss 'neath the bough "Which hallows the louver's fond voiceless vow. ! $«§7i; M ^ ^ H =P—-—gn^^^ ^Rfe^F^H illSSlr^"-_' ~ S^jpL^Egr^r— ^^ = ^ £ -£^^ r _-__r_ ta ^~=. HJ^srtt^r— \ . = ^HHW BjHB^ ,IfcsJiSl CHRISTMAS IK THE COUNTRY. KISSING UNDEK THE MISTLETOE.-DEAWN BY KENNY MEADOWS. 26 A HOLIDAY BOOK CHRISTMAS. song—a Christmas song That shall not be sung alone, For rich and poor—for the Altar pure, The good Church and the Throne ! For the Judge's Court and the College hall^ And the Bar with burly brow, Noble and Peasant—Man and Child} The sail—the loom—the plough ! For the soldier brave—for the son of the wave, With the British flag unfurl'd, A Christmas song—a Christmas song For all the living world ! CHRISTMAS II. A Christmas song for the beautiful Queen, Star of a loyal love, A priceless Crown and a peerless brow And a heart warmed from above ! Daughter, and mother, and wife, With the flowers of virtue fair, That garland the bosoms of common life Royally blooming there! Happiness cling to her soul! Joy laugh out in her tone ! And ring loud and long a Christmas song For the Lady of the Throne ! III. A hymn for the glorious Church! A sacred strain and slow, Whose music there, with the breath of payer, Shall Heavenward seem to go ! The murmur of hope and faith From the Christian's spirit-shrine, Rising on holy wings above With a melody divine ! A hymn for the Christmas-day, A blessing amid its mirth, And paeans of praise let myriads raise In the song of the Saviour's birth, IV. A Christmas song for the Judge With justice in his soul, That hath ever a thought of God above As he wieldeth his Earth-control; That looketk iaor left nor right, But still to Afe truth inclines, And marketh 3bSfc'oiirsewith a wisd'om bright That chasteneth While it shines ! A holiday song, for the Bench and Bar, When duty is o'er and done : And may Christmas be a time of glee To gladden them every one ! A Christmas song for the Peer— With joy may his castles ring, Giving away with a generous cheer Whatever his lands may bring ! Food that has waxed fat—• Wine that hath long grown old— With glowing ale from a wassail vat, And wool for the poor and cold ! A Christmas carol for all such Lords— And may good warm hearts be gay: Be blessings spread on the path they tread On every Christmas*day! VI. A Christmas song from the Peasant's lip, To tell of a happy lot— And that-labour has won, by snow and by sun, Peace for his lowly cot, That his wife is glad within, His children there break bread— That logs are ablaze on his rugged hearth, And the fire is not dead ! The Peasant's Christmas song, Merry, and clear, and shrill— Oh I love to hear it, wild and sweet, Gome trillingly o'er the hill! VII. A Christmas song for the rich Of every thriving trade; Oh ! blessings round bring every pound That honesty hath made ! If once they wanted—lest the tide Of Fate should change again— May they remember those who now Are poor as they were then ! Charity warmeth the heart, And maketh it leap and bound. Then a Christmas song for the wealthy throng Who still in her train are found. VIII. A Christmas song for the poor— May light fall on their life, And Want lose all its bitterness And Sorrow all its strife ! May Hunger go' with Cold and Woe, Food bid starvation die ! Clothes warm—and beds grow under them Where resting limbs may lie ! A Christmas song from every voice, With music that can pray; God, Man and Mercy to relieve Their wretchedness away! IX. A Christmas song for the loom— Oh ! work it not all for gain, But set it to spinning of mortal joys, And not to the Woof df pain! A Christmas song for the plough, Gladfully be it sped, Furrowing well in the hill and deli The furrows that bring us bread ! A song for the commerce-Wing, That fluttereth to the gale. Ay! a Christmas song while the lungs are strong, For the loom, the plbugh, and the sail. A Christmas song for the gallant troops Who wield our country's glaive, Brothers in arms of hero tars, Whose home is on the wave. A Christmas toast from England's soul To music warm and wild— " The Nelsons and the Wellingtons," Who made her Victory's child ! A Christmas song for all the lads Who on her missions roam; God bless them, be they where they will, God speed them safely home! XI. A Christmas song—a Christmas song That shall not be sung alone, For rich and poor—for the Altar pure, The good Church and the Throne I For the Judge's Court and the College hall, And the Bar with burly brow, Noble and Peasant—Man and Child, The sail—the loom—the plough. For the soldier brave—for the son of the wave, With the British flag unfurl'd, A Christmas song—a Christmas song For all the living world! FOR CHRISTMAS AND THE NEW YEAR. 27 CHRISTMAS FAMILY PARTY. CHRISTMAS PICTURES. T is hardly worth while to inquire what has led to the discontinuance of the spectacles of this festive season; or, rather, what has diverted men's joy at the return of the day—from to us unseemly revel and roistering—into channels of holier observance, and of rejoicing tempered with moderation and pious reflection. The religious commemoration of the *$V day remains intact, as an ecclesiastical usage coeval with, the great event which it keeps in remembrance. " The close of the year/' says a late illustrator of our " Feasts and Fasts/' " brought round in the Western^ and from the age of Chrysostom also in the Eastern, Church, the celebration of the birth of Christ; to use the words of the father whom we have just named, that c most venerable, most astonishing, of festivals, the fountain whence the other great festivals flowed, for had Christ not been born he would not have been baptised, which is the Epiphany; he would not have been crucified, which is the Passover; he would not have sent down the Spirit, which is Pentecost. But not only on that account/ he continues, 'is this festival worthy of pre-eminence, but because what happened upon it is more astonishing than what happened upon the others; tor that Christ should die was a natural consequence of his having been born a man; for though he diii no sin, yet he had assumed a mortal body; but that being God, he should be willing to become man, and to endure to humble himself to a degree which thought cannot follow, is most awful, most full of amazement/ " Hence, we find the observance of the festival to have been almost entirely spontaneous. In the work just quoted it is stated that " Christmas Day, like Sunday, was forbidden to be kept as a fast by the Council of Braga (A.D. 563); which anathematised such as 'did not duly honour the birthday of Christ, according to the flesh, but pretended to honour it by fasting on that day / a practice attributed by this canon, and by Pope Leo the First, to the same conception which led to the practice of fasting on the Lord's Day, namely, the belief that Christ was not truly born in the nature of man. But, as the practice, probably, became extinct in later times, no repetition of this canon has come within our observation. Nor are we acquainted with any other positive regulations specially affecting the observance of Christmas." "We pass from these sacred usages to the more secular observances which our Artists have chosen for their illustration of the season. And, first, of— CHRISTMAS EVE. The old poets have left us many charming pictures of Christmas Eve (Dec. 24), celebrated .because Christmas Day, in the primitive Church, was always observed as the Sabbath Day, and, like it, preceded by an Eve, or Vigil. For our present purpose, we prefer a picture painted by a poet of our own time—with a little garniture from other hands, it is true, but, altogether, homely and life-like, picturesque and poetical. It is from the series of Notices of the Months, by Thomas Miller, in the " Illustrated London Almanack :"— Dreary would December be, did it not bring with it merry Christmas, with its holly, and ivy, and mistletoe, through the leaves of which peep the scarlet, and purple, and dull white berries, giving a green and summer appearance to our rooms, and throwing a cheerfulness around our heMths. We see the laden coach rolling past our window, piled high with game, hares, and pheasants; and great white geese, and black turkeys, whose plumage the wind blows back aS they swing suspended from the roof; conjuring up visions of huge comfortable fires, well-spread tables, and happy faces, all congregated to do honour to good old Christmas, Whom Southey has beautifully drawn as seated beside the high-heaped hearth in his great armed chair, watching the children at their sports, or pausing at times to stir trie huge fire, M d every now and then sipping the bright brown ale. For nights before the > happy season arrives, we hear the village bell% Mv^kehing the Surrounding silence by their silver music, and throwing & ^neerful sound ever the wild wintry landscape. When the morning of that old and holy day arrives, we hear the rustic waits chanting some simple Christihas carol, as they stand in the grey moonlight, at the front of the picturesque parsonage-house, telling how Christ was on that day born, and that, while shepherds were attending their flocks by night, the Angel of the Lord descended, and proclaimed A HOLIDAY BOOK 28 For pleasure hath not ceased to wait On these expected annual rounds, Whether the rich man's sumptuous gate Call forth the unelaborate sounds, Or they are offered at the door That guards the lowliest of the poor. tidings of peace and good will to all mankind. How plaintively and tremulously do those old chants fall upon the ear, sinking noiselessly and peacefully into the heart, and filling the soul with a holy and reverential a w e ; and, while the cock from the neighbouring farm makes answer to the Carol of the village waits, we recall that exquisite passage of Shakspeare, in which, alluding to some old superstition, he says :— SNAP-DRAGON. Some say that, ever 'gainst that season comes Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated, This bird of dawning singeth all night long. Or we turn to those by-gone times, so beautifully and feelingly described by Irving, who says :—" Christmas seemed to throw open every door, and unlock every heart. I t brought the peasant and the peer together, and blended all ranks in one warm generous flow of joy and kindness. The old halls of castles and manor-houses resounded with the harp and the Christmas Carol, and their ample boards groaned with the weight of hospitality. Even the poorest cottage welcomed the festive season with green decorations of bay and holly; the cheerful fire glanced its rays through the lattice, inviting the passenger to raise the latch and join the gossip knot huddled round the hearth, beguiling the long evening with legendary jokes and oft-told Christmas tales/' Wordsworth, too, has given us a delightful " Picture of Christmas Eve," addressed from his mountain retreat to his brother, " on the proud margin of the Thames." The poem opens t h u s : — The minstrels played their Christmas tune To-night beneath my cottage eaves ; While, smitten by a lofty moon, The encircling laurels, thick with leaves, Gave back a rich and dazzling sheen, That overpowered their natural green! Through hill and valley every breeze Had sunk to rest with folded wings; Keen was the air, but could not freeze, Nor check the music of the strings; So stout and hardy were the band That scraped the chords with strenuous hand. And who but listened ? till was paid Hespect to every inmate's claim; The greeting given, the music played In honour of each household name, Duly pronounced with lusty call, And "merrie Christmas" wished to all. Oh brother! I revere the choice That took thee from thy native hills ; $ # * # Yet, would that thou, with me and mine, Hadst heard this never-failing rite; And seen on other faces shine A true revival of the light, Which Nature, and these rustic powers, In simple Childhood spread through ours! This is a Christmas pastime of no great antiquity. Dr. Johnson gravely defines it as " a kind of play, in which brandy is set on fire, and raisins thrown into it, which those who are unused to the sport are afraid to take out, but which may be safely snatched by a quick motion, and put blazing into the mouth, which being closed, the fire is at once extinguished/' Strutt's account of the affair is somewhat more candid than the lexicographer's : he tells u s — " This sport is seldom exhibited b u t in winter, and chiefly at Christmas t i m e : it is simply heating of brandy, or some other ardent spirit, in a dish with raisins; when, the brandy being set on fire, the young folks of both sexes, standing round it, pluck out the raisins, and eat them as hastily as they can, but rarely without burning their hands, or scalding their mouths." However, it may soon be decided which definition is the more perfect. The sport affords much fun in a darkened r o o m ; not the least of which is the spectral appearance of the young players from the spirit flame, THE CHRISTMAS PARTY. Although much of the custom of profuse hospitality has passed away, Christmas is yet universally recognised as a season when every good Christian shows his gratitude to the Almighty, for the inestimable benefits procured to us by the Nativity of our Blessed Saviour, by an ample display of good will towards our fellow-men. This, however, is the season for the exercise of hospitality—and that threefold : " for one's family; this is of necessitie: for strangers; this is of courtesie; for the poore ; this is charitie." Or, as old Tusser sings:— At Christmas be merry, and thankful withal, And feast thy poor neighbours, the great with the small. W e must now leave the chants and carols of other days, the minstrelsy and the boisterous mirth of a more picturesque age than our own, and join the Christmas-Day Family-Party which our Artist (see p. 27) has assembled in his Illustration. And here we may remark that custom immemorial hath stamped the Family Party at Christmas as the most sincere and genuine meeting of the whole year. Many an imagined wrong and many a heartburning are soothed by the season of hallowed mirth. The sweet sanctity of its associations seems to shut out all meaner joys. Well, the party have left the substantial luxuries of the dinner table, and are now enjoying the more refined delights that spring from the interchange of affection reared around the same hearth—the same fond home. The room is cosy, nay luxurious, in its appointments, and there is the very atmosphere of hospitality and enjoyment throughout the place. The family pictures are decorated by the holy tree, as if " to SNAP-DKAGON. FOR CHRISTMAS AND THE NEW YEAR. 29 CHILDBEN'S CHEISTMAS PARTY. commemorate the victory gained over the powers of .darkness by the coming of Christ/' What a radius of joy and hope does this reflected light shed over the happy party ! View the deepening circle: the grandfather, in his easy Ashburnham chair, his heart brimming o'er with gladness. Opposite are seated the matrons of the party, whose delight in " talking over old times/' is one of those touches of nature that the painter loves—his conversation-scenes. To be brief, in this beaming circle we see almost every phase of existence —from the cradle to the, grave; old age watching the gambols of early childhood: in short, mid-age, manhood, and youth—every stage of a generation is portrayed in, our artist's Christmas Circle. And such scenes are not rare, every Christmas day, throughout the length and breadth of the land:— In town or hamlet, shelt'ring middle life, Down to the cottaged vale, and straw-roofed shed This western isle hath long been famed for scenes "Where bliss domestic finds a dwelling-place : Domestic bliss, that, like a harmless dove, (Honour and sweet endearment keeping guard), Can centre in a little quiet nest All that desire could fly for through the earth; That can, the world eluding, be itself A world enjoyed; that wants no witnesses But its own sharers, and approving heaven; That, like a flow'r deep hid in rocky cleft, Smiles, though 'tis looking only at the sky. KENNEDY* THE CHILDREN'S CHRISTMAS PARTY. Ah! that I were once more a careless child.—Coleridge, Of all the festivities of the season, this is, in many respects, the most interesting. It has more of the simplicity of the festival than any other scene of its commemoration: there is such innocent gaiety, and brimming mirth in a party of frolicsome children, that we are not surprised at the fondness of painters for children as impersonations of purity and as the attributes of virtue. Who is there that has not, in after-life, looked back upon childhood, and there seen what innocence he hath outlived. How fondly, too, does he remember this season of presents, anxiously counted on for months beforehand, So, in the Kinderlied, or Child's Son gilded nuts, apples, ribbons, all made as gay and brilliant as possible, varying in splendour with the means of the family. Round the tree are placed the presents of toys, &c, which are to be distributed among the children. The hopes and fears, the little triumphs, and the unbounded merriment may easily be imagined. In South Germany, Rhenish Bavaria, and the Catholic States, something of a religious character has been blended with the celebration. The children are told that the Christ-child (Christ-kindschen) brings the gifts, and some one represents it, dressed in white, with gilt crown and wings, and a long white veil ornamented with gold. The custom, however, is dying out; many thinking it irreverent, besides involving a deceit, into which the elder children are obliged to be admitted as partners. In other respects, the custom in North and South Germany is much the same. "We subjoin a more lengthened account of it by William Howitt:— " In the descriptions of Christmas Eve by Richter, and by Coleridge, the Christmas Tree is by one said to be birch, in the other, yew. Possibly this may be the fact in some parts of Germany, or it may be, in one case, a mistake of the translator, in the other of the author; the Tree is generally, if not always, of fir. The poor, in their small dwellings, must find it somewhat difficult to set up the Tree and their gifts, unknown to the children. That was probably the/ reason that formerly it was first exhibited to the children on Christmas morning, before daylight, having been set up after they were in bed. We are told, however, that it is every year becoming more common for the poor ;to bring out their Tree ~ in the evening, the children being sent out of the way on some pretext or another, while it is done. And in truth, there, as all over the world, the gifts of the poor are soon displayed. It is quite affecting to see the little simple things which the poor people will buy as Christmas gifts for their children. Little dolls, of a few kreutzers in value; some even of the mere cost of an English penny. As you pass their cottages in the evening for a fortnight afterwards, you may see, by the lights within, the little Tree, with a few apples and little figures hung on it, standing on a table, and the children around it admiring it; if there be a baby? some of them holding it up to see the precious sight, But not onlv A HOLIDAY BOOK 32 the poor in their cottages have their Christmas Tree: in schools and other institutions it is set up. A prettier or more affecting sight we have seldom seen, than the celebration of Christmas Day in the Infant School at Heidelberg. Here, at three o'clock in the afternoon, were the parents and children, the patrons and friends of the school, assembled. Upwards of eighty little boys and girls, all under six years of age, were seated on low forms in the middle of the school, opposite to the master's desk, in front of which, on a raised platform, stood four tall Christmas Trees, or, as they called them, Sugar Trees, decorated with the usual appendages of cakes, apples, &c; and at their feet stood a row of tapers ready to be kindled. Besides these were various coloured engravings: an excellent one of " Christ Blessing the Little Children;'' a kind of erection of straw-work, containing stages, on one of which was a dancing bear, on another a tournament, with knights riding, with candles burning all over it. These figures revolved by means of a perpendicular spindle, having attached to its top a sort of fan, like the ventilator of a window, which was moved by the warm air ascending from the candles. There were many funny little three-legged pots, of true German fashion, set on the platform amongst the lights, a gift to the children from some one to amuse them inv their school play-hours. To the right sat the spectators, many ladies and gentlemen of the place; to the left, the parents of the children. The master lit up the tapers on the trees, and the row of them at their feet, and a murmur of delight rose from the little troop of children. The blinds had all been drawn down, to exclude as much of the exterior light as possible, and the scene was very bright. The master read from his desk an address prepared for the occasion, and after the little scholars had sung a Christmas Hymn or two very prettily, they were dismissed, one by one, with their pinafores full of toys, good warm articles of clothing, and a quantity of cakes and apples, the former of which had been sent as a Christmas gift to them by a worthy baker. It was pleasant to see the delighted faces of all present; the eager looks of the parents, as their children came forward to receive their presents; and how the mothers, as they advanced towards the door, snatched them up, and carried them off, gifts and all together. Even inmates of the asylums, as if they w^ere at home amongst their children, are treated to a Christmas Tree, and the brilliance of Christmas Eve. It is the great sacred festival of Germany, and is much more regarded than Sunday, Such are the Christmas customs of Germany." In " Christmas and Christmas Carols," by T. B. Sharpe, we find the following LEGEND OF THE CHRISTMAS TREE. 'Tis Christmas Eve, and through the ancient town Rest and rejoicing meet— A little child comes wandering sadly down The silent street * Alone, and very sorrowful is he, Fatherless and motherless; He has no friend on earth a Christmas Tree For him to dress. The door is closed against him, and in vain With grief indeed, He gazes through the latticed window-pane— No one takes heed! Weeping, he turns away, and passes by Both light and sound From many a humble roof and mansion high, Scattered around: Then pauses meekly by the lowliest door, Where a faint ray Breaks through, and shows how fast the little store Of tapers wears away. Alas! alas! his latest hope is vain— By word and blow Of harsh unkindness driven forth again, Where shall he go? The night is dark—but the poor orphan child, Amid his woe, Bethinks him of the infant Saviour mild, And kneeleth low. In prayer to Him who is not slow to hear He kneeleth there, And soon he sees a little child draw near, Exceeding fair; With whitest raiment shining like the day, And crown of light, And as he moves along the darken'd way, AH becomes bright! So to that patient wanderer came he, And bade him raise His wond'ring eyes where springs a glorious tree, And offer praise To God, who heareth the sad orphan's cry, And sendeth aid When earthly hope is none—and misery Maketh afraid. No longer sad and fearful is that c h i l d He turns to see, Where stands at bidding of the infant mild His Christmas tree! A wondrous tree, radiant in heavenly light—> With one glad bound, He leaves the gloom of sorrow's bitter night— His home is found! THE LIGHT OF HOME. BY MRS. HALE. With tearful gaze, he turns his steps aside, Where gleams the light From a tall house, and youthful figures glide Before his sight, As each, with festal dress, and happy brow, Surrounds a gorgeous tree; And there he asks, "Amid these is there now No place for me ?" Alas! alas! no place for him is there,— With scornful jest, They drive him forth, into the cold night air, To seek for rest 'Neath some more modest roof, where warmer hearts A nook may spare, And gladly own that sharing joy imparts More to their share! Hark! 'tis a burst of hearty merriment, The child draws nigh— 'Tis from a burgher's simple tenement. With longing sigh, lie watches the glad group of faces bright, And so for him He thinks the Fir-tree once was decked with lights; His eyes grow dim, And timidly he knocks, again to tell His piteous tale* Alas! for hirn—on stony ears it fell Without avail! ' MY boy, thou wilt dream the world is fair And thy spirit will sigh to roam; And thou must go; but never, when there, Forget the light of home. Though pleasure may smile with a ray more bright, It dazzles to lead astray: Like the meteor's flash, 'twill deepen the night When thou treadest the lonely way. But the hearth of home has a constant flame, And pure as vestal fire: 'Twill burn, 'twill burn, for ever the same, For nature feeds the pyre. The sea of ambition is tempest-tost, And thy hopes may vanish like foam; But when sails are shiver'd, and rudder lost, Then look to the light of home;— And then, like a star through a midnight cloud Thou shalt see the beacon bright! For never, till shining on thy shroud, Can be quench'd its holy light. The sun of fame, 'twill gild the name; But the heart ne'er felt its ray; And fashion's smiles, that rich ones claim, Are but the beams of a wintry day. And how cold and dim those beams must be, Should life's wretched wanderer come ! But, my boy, when the world is dark to thee^ Then turn to the light of home* FOR CHRISTMAS AND THE NEW YEAR. A GERMAN CHRISTMAS TREE. BY R. H. HORNE. H E bright-eyed holiday children's " Christmas Tree'"' possesses everywhere the same general characteristics of fabulous splendour; but, as all these Trees are the product of imagination, their varieties are infinite, and in accordance with the individual mind of the " growers/' and also with the length of their pockets. We will describe the last of these delightfully impossible specimens of the horticultural science, at the ceremony of whose verdant illumination we happened to be present. It was at the country-house of Dr. Claudius Shillingkite, of Cologne. All the sons, daughters, nephews, and nieces of Dr. Claudius Shillingkite, together with many juvenile friends, down to little boys and girls of four and five years old, were assembled in the court-yard of the Doctor's house on Christmas Eve, which was white all over with snow. In the centre stood a gigantic Man of Snow, which the elder boys had been engaged, during the last three days, in making and setting up in an attitude, intended to be of great dignity. His dark and expressive eyes were formed of two large coals; a small bush covered with icicles made his beard. In his breast was a huge bouquet of mistletoe and red hollyberries. Hand-in-hand the children all danced about him in a circle, raced round and round him in a joyous whirl, and then leaped up and down, and shouted and sang. Every year they were indulged with a Weihnachts-feier (Christmas festival) of the most enchanting kind. It was now evening ; and as the shades of the sky grew more dusky, the elder boys and two of the elder girls gradually slipped away from the merry throng, one by one, mysteriously, and with signs to each other, and little pluckings of frocks and touchings of elbows. Something was to be done in the house which was to overcome all the rest of the children with wonder and ecstatic delight. Now, we have forgotten to mention, and we hasten to repair the omission, that among this merry group of the juvenile members of the Shillingkite families and their small friends of various sizes, there were also several little rustics, children of peasants who lived on the outskirts of Cologne. These peasants were the tenantry of the Doctor, and sent him large quantities of grapes every year from their vineyards to make his physic with. Every year their children were invited in this way to join the party on Christmas Eve, and a most wonderful pleasure and honour it was felt to be. Among these latter on the present occasion we must mention two in especial—Zachary and Jane, the boy being nearly eight years old, and the girl just seven. The little rustics were brother and sister, both dressed alike in new Prussian peasant blouses of light blue, except that Zachary wore a very small leather cap with a peak, and Jane had the attempt of a hair-plait behind, not unlike the curl of a little pig's tail, and wore a pretty wreath of small ivy-leaves besides. And Zachary and Jane were now about to behold a CHRISTMAS TREE for the first time in their lives ! We shall therefore describe everything from this moment, not exactly as it was, but as it appeared to their allwondering and enraptured eyes. Lights flashed from the sides .of the closed window-curtains of the largest room in the house ! All the children ceased their merriment, and cried, " Look !" They quite forgot the Man of Snow; but he, also, showed signs of excitement, for a smile of light gleamed across his pale countenance. The children clustered together in a group, looking at the lights that glanced from behind the curtains of three large windows on the ground-floor, and then suddenly, by some secret, yet unanimous impulse, they all began to leap up and down, as though this would enable them to see what was behind the mysterious curtains. A bell now rang loudly in the ouse. Away flew all the children, pell-mell; and Zachary and Jane, being the smallest of those who made this delighted rush to the door, were both overturned, and rolled in the snow. Several young Shillingkites, however, instantly turned back, and helping them up, hurried them along, and into the passage after the rest. " We are not hurt, and we don't mind," cried Zachary. " And I don't care for a mouthful of snow; do I, Zachary?" said little Jane. The passage which they entered, and where all were now huddling and laughing, and groping about, was quite dark. "Where are we?—which is the way?—where are we going?" cried many voices at the same time. Again the bell rang in the house, while a voice cried "Aufs schnellste!" (quick! quick!) from a room not far distant, to judge by 33 the sound. Meanwhile the throng continued to press onward somehow or other, led by several children of the family, who of course knew the way very well, but pretended to be in as much doubt and confusion as the rest. Suddenly a side door opened, and displayed another dusky passage with a green star at the further end. Thitherward moved all the little feet in a tramping crowd, though getting slower and slower as they approached the green star, which turned out, on a closer inspection by two of the oldest and most courageous of the children, to be a hole in a dark curtain, with a beautiful piece of coloured glass fastened over it. The curtain was now drawn aside by an invisible hand, and a great light burst through, as the children found themselves urged onward by a strong pressure from the crowd behind into the very room where a blaze of illumination told them that the Christmas Tree was placed. Dr. Shillingkite himself, attired in a long white robe bordered with ivy-leaves, a black cord round his waist, a bear-skin cap on his head, and wearing a huge pair of spectacles with red glasses, received them at the entrance, waving one hand in a most polite yet important manner. Dazzled and intoxicated with the light and splendour around them, the children all remained in one close group, little Zachary and Jane being placed in front, and standing hand-in-hand, gazing with bright round eyes at the astonishing Christmas spectacle that rose up before them at the opposite end of the room. In a vase of enormous size, which seemed to be made all of ivory, with bands of gold (though, in truth, it was an old wine-barrel covered with glazed paper and gold-leaf), stood the stem of a dark fir-tree which rose up into a succession of expansive branches, putting out their arms in varied lengths, so as to form the outline of a fine pyramid. But the outline was scarcely visible, owing to the glancing rays of light that shot from every part. On every branch stood up a number of bright flames, sometimes like the flame of a candle, sometimes like the sparkling of steel or glass, sometimes like lamps of scarlet and violet and green light, sometimes like little brilliant peeping stars. The number of the lights was only equalled by the number of minute fairies dressed in white, who floated about in the air all round the Tree, so as almost to touch it, and of little elves dressed in short jackets, made of the peel of russet apples, who popped in and out of the openings between the boughs, in all directions. The children had remained motionless and breathless for some time ; and then they all said " Oh !"—and began very slowly to approach a few steps nearer towards the wonderful Tree. But the fairy-land inhabitants of the boughs and around them were only a part of their many charms and treasures. As to fruit of an edible kind, the abundance and the variety were alike unspeakable. Grapes, both white and red, hung in large bunches beside clusters of dried raisins; and now and then a wind seemed to shake the boughs, and down fell a shower of nuts and sugar-plums of all sizes, shapes, and colours, and rattled about over the floor, till Zachary and Jane, unable to contain themselves any longer, clapped their hands and laughed aloud, in which the whole company immediately joined. But again the little rustics grew silent, and continued to gaze with rapture and a degree of awe at the beautiful Christmas Tree. New enchantments and fresh objects of curiosity were discovered every moment; so that they grew giddy with the vision of golden oranges and silver apples, rings and bracelets of all sorts of jewelled fashions, and sugarwork in all sorts of colours and devices, dangling by invisible threads from the same bough; while on the next bough, above, grew small picture-books and toys; and on the next bough, below, sat a row of canarybirds and bullfinches, who sang and piped every now and then, and danced up and down on their twigs. "Suppose," said Dr. Shillingkite, "we should venture to advance close to the Christmas Tree! Now the youngest go foremost. Who are the youngest ? Several of those have hidden themselves. It must be Zachary and Jane, I think. Yes, my small friends, it is your privilege to advance before all the rest." Zachary felt little Jane's hand tremble in his; indeed, it was evident that they both trembled. " Don't be frightened, dear Jane," said Zachary, in a whisper. " The good Tree will not set us on fire." " I t is a great light to go near," answered Jane, drawing back; " I feel it." " But if it does burn us," said Zachary, " it would be with beautiful fire, like the dear God's heaven, and not hurt, you know, Jane." " No," said Jane, trembling, " not to hurt us." " Now," exclaimed Dr. Shillingkite, "approach! Enjoy, Baron Zachary, and you, Princess Jane Eosenkohl, enjoy to the utmost the Weihnachts spiele (Yule games). Why do you stand still,.Baron Zachary? Do you not know that this beautiful Tree, covered all over with brightness, and happiness, and the gifts of all the riches of the four quarters of the earth —a Tree whereon no living thing makes war upon another, and where fairies and elves, and canary-birds, and bullfinches sing together in harmony—a Tree where Turks of baked dough and currants, and Jews who rejoice in preserved citron faces, and are dressed in light yellow robes of D 84 A H0BID4Y" BOOK. fresh lemon-peel, sit under the same.tent with Christians, as you see there to the left, where they all sit round an egg, painted like the terrestrial globe—do you not know that the nearer you approach to the light and the warmth of this Tree, the more safe you are from all the scorchings of life which may happen in the house, and all the cold storms which may blow when you are unsheltered in the fields; therefore, approach, Zachary and Jane,- and fear not/' "And so we will/' said the little fellow. "Gome, dear Jane/' The two little rustics now advanced hand in hand. On coming closer to the Tree they descried between the lower and broader boughs small stages made of straw. On one of these was represented a field in harvest time, with all the peasants at work with their horses and carts, piling up and carrying away the corn. On another stage they saw four lions and four lambs in a green meadow, dancing a quadrille; their music being the singing of goldfinches and nightingales who were perched on the backs of slumbering hawks and purring cats. A wonderful manufactory, full of machines and wheels all at work, filled a third and very large space. On another stage they saw a fine soldier in his helmet, but with a muzzle and chain, who was dancing round with a pole in his hands, while a handsome brown bear sat near him, holding the end of the chain with one hand and a Christmas pie in the other. On another stage they saw the waves of the sea, all moving and glittering; and presently a ship came bowing and swaying, and gliding on its way till it gracefully passed out among the dark green boughs, and a soft music was heard for a moment in the distance, as it disappeared. " Oh, take me with you !" cried little Jane, enraptured at the fair vision of the ship, not knowing what she said, and holding, very fast by Zachary's hand. On another stage was represented a large infirmary or hospital; and an old green dragon, dressed in a nurse's gown and cap, was very busy in attending upon the sick; while a remarkably fine figure of St. George was seen in the dispensary, stirring up some medicinal ingredients in a mortar—his breast-plate and helmet being full of cordials, and his shield covered with pill-boxes. The youngest but one of Dr. Shillingkite's daughters called particular attention to this. " I t is our dear father's favourite one/' said she. "He furnished us with the figures himself, all made of corks out of his drawers, and the cordials and pill-boxes are all his own." " Ha ! ha ! ha !" laughed all the children in a loud chorus. "Do I stand here for this?" ejaculated the Doctor, in a great fluster of offended dignity. " Bring Lieschen before me, that I may give her something to do her good." But Lieschen had vanished in the throng, and was nowhere to be found. Again attention was called to the stages, and a new one, which had hitherto been unobserved, was discovered. It was a scene in a forest, where, at a rustic table in front of a pretty wooden hut, sat a Bengal tiger, playing chess with a young gentleman, a student of natural history. There is yet another stage. It is the highest of all, and not very distinctly seen; but there it is to a certainty. Upon it there rise the walls of a Temple which is being built. Artists and workmen are all labouring away, and there is a great crowd, also very busy, and doing its usual part of looking on, and doubting if the thing in hand can ever be accomplished. One more stage—the last—has hitherto been quite overlooked. It is the lowest of all on the Tree, and lies in a direct line beneath the stage with the Temple. This stage, just discovered by the children, is a very dark one, nearly hidden by the fir-boughs. Two hostile armies are arrayed in the background, with needle spears and rout-cake shields, and cannons formed of broken sticks of peppermint painted black, while two Kings, all made of rich sugar-work, and with bright sceptres in their hands, are standing in front, ready to order the armies to fight for a particular sugar-plum. This was in direct opposition to all the Doctor had said of the universal peace and harmony and love of which the Tree was the illustrious emblem. Several of the children remarked this to each other; but their attention was again called to the military stage, where a tiny trumpeter was almost blowing his eyes out in sounding a charge. The two Kings advanced towards each other, and raised their dainty sceptres to fight. The deadly swords and spears of the armies were advanced— the cannons pointed—when, at this moment, a large corner-stone fell from the hands of the workmen above, who were building the Temple, and down it went between the two warlike sugar-work Kings, knocking them both into red and grey powder. A shout, partly of alarm and partly of merriment, burst from the children; but this was changed into a more real alarm, with no fun at all, when they saw that some of the burning stars of the Tree, and lights, and coloured lamps, had set fire to a part of the boughs below. The two hostile armies were burnt up to nothing in no time; and even the records of the particular sugar-plum for which they were about to fight were lost to the page of history in the general conflagration. Noble music now sounded from behind the Tree. Dr. Shillingkite &nd his two eldest sons, with Lieschen and another little girl, exerted "themselves successfully in extinguishing the fire, so that it extended no farther among the boughs, with all the precious fruits and fancies. Again, the grand music sounded; and as it proceeded with its harmonies, the walls of the Temple were seen to rise in the light, higher and higher, till crowned with cupolas and screen-work, with statuary and spires. " Want to go there !" ejaculated little Jane, with devout eyes. " There won't be any more fire to climb up, to hurt the Temple, will there ?" asked Zachary, in a most anxious tone. " No," said the Doctor. " The fire of that TBBl burns nothing that is good, or burns it only for its good; so that dust and ashes alone are destroyed, while the good life of things remains. As for all these wonders of the Tree—its toys, and elves, and ornaments, and fairies— these are the gifts of Christmas Eve—the happy memorials of peace, abundance, and universal love. Share them among you, my children; and in the mode of sharing, remember that ye 'love one another/ " t CHRISTMAS. UBLIC men, public measures, and public opinion, so far as all of them are merely political, are at no period of the year so completely forgotten and overlooked as during the preparations for Christmas, and the festivities of the season itself. Nor is it to be regretted; the evil spirit too often evoked by the conflicts of men and parties should sometimes be exorcised and laid to rest; and at what season could this be more fitly done than at this, when the thoughts are recalled by sacred associations to things holy and solemn, and by social usage to those kindly and cheering observances that have given-—and we hope long will retain—to Christmas the adjunct of Ci Jlerry." It was a beautiful belief—one we can scarcely bring ourselves to call a superstition— • which disarmed, at this season, the malignant beings of the popular ima' gination of all power to harm mankind at the epoch of the birth of man's Eedeemer. But there are other spirits than these, and unhappily they are almost ever present, who are our worst tormentors; the most potent enemies of man are his own bad passions, his strifes, uncharitableness, and envyings that " suffer not to rest." That there should be one period of the year, then, when these can be, even in part, forgotten or suspended, is a thing to rejoice over. One of the great sources of public bitterness being politics, it is pleasant to see all that belongs to them put for a short time in abeyance, and as far as we are able we will heartily assist in doing so, turning with pleasure to the many other associations which the recurrence of Christmas brings. Some of them are too sacred to be dwelt on here; the feeling of reverence that should surround the cradle of the Divine Founder of our ' faith, cannot permit that they should be brought into conjunction with lighter and trivial things; they may be alludedlto, inasmuch as they cannot but be remembered; but more than an allusion would be out of place. Remembering, then, the humble roof in the village of Bethlehem, • which was once the shrine to which came the star-guided steps of the Eastern Kings, with offerings of gold and incense, foreshadowing the homage the nations and monarchs of the world were yet to pay to the Christian faith, let us pass over all the mighty space of time between that hour and this, and, noticing not the wondrous changes it has effected, let us come at once to our own day and time, to the period in which our own - lot is appointed. How did last Christmas leave us? How will this Christmas find us? In two things there is a certainty that will applyfto all; we are older in « time and richer in experience; in all else what variety of change; which, . however, great as it is, does not diminish the heartiness of the welcome we all give to Christmas! "Why should it do so ? It is a good, old, and hearty English festival, that has received much of its spirit from the character^ the nation, and national peculiarities are the last things that ever alter. The Frenchman of to-day is the same as his ancestor was described by Caesar, and the - Englishman is now what he was in the days of Crescy and Agincourt. Steam and Railways, and the modern manufacturing system, have not ; changed his spirit; they have merely given his energies a new direction. Nay, is it not his energies that have produced thenr? Why then should i Christmas be less welcomed than of yore ? We have more than our forefathers' means of celebrating it worthily; let not the only thing lacking - be the heartiness and goodwill with which our predecessors went about it. " Old England" did its part in this respect, and it is one of the best FOR CHRISTMAS points as yet visible among the peculiarities of " Young England/' that it is disposed to observe more freely the spirit of our Festivals. It wishes even to restore those which have died away—a, thing we take to be impossible. But if it will turn its attention to the very few—we might almost say the solitary one—yet spared us, it may effect some good. Mayday is gone, nothing but a miserable mockery of it remaining; but there is body, life, and spirit in old Christmas still; *it is one of those things we hope the world will " not willingly let die." So far from it, we trust to see it flourishing yet in all its pristine vigour. Our hope is founded on many indications of better influences at work among us than society has as yet received credit for. Christmas was once famous above all things for its carols and songs; this was when we were a musical nation, ere mirth and music too perished under the sway of the fanaticism of the Commonwealth. Are we not becoming a musical people again ? Do not teachers of the art count their pupils, and not unskilful ones, by thousands? Is not Exeter Hall vocal with the choruses of Handel, and does not Crosby Hall give a fainter, but still a kindred response; while both are, beyond a doubt, gradually but surely forming the taste of the many % The old social essentials of Christmas were good cheer, song, and charity; that we are not deficient in the first let our shops and markets testify; they look as if a horn of plenty had verily been poured out in each of them; the sight of them shakes for the moment our belief in the possibility of hunger and want till it is too quickly restored by the sight of some famishing creature gazing on the abundance like Lazarus on the table of Dives. And the sight immediately recals the necessity of that third great essential, Charity, with all the force of contrast. Now much is said of the hard, utilitarian, commercial character of the age, nor do we mean here to dispute that in many things " the world is too much with us." But at the same time we should not underrate the extent of what the age does for the poor and destitute, with all its utilitarianism. To say that England raises a greater amount of money every year for the poor, will not be perhaps admitted as a proof of the prevalence of charity as a national feeling; it will be said the fund is greater than that raised by any other nation, because more than in any other nation it is needed; arid it is besides a compulsory one. But is not the amount given as alms by private benevolence vast also, to say nothing of our countless institutions which have the relief of suffering and destitution of various kinds for their object? Much of the misery we see, exists because those who could relieve it are ignorant of it; but when brought to their knowledge, we do not see any culpable reluctance to give the relief required. Were not thousands of pounds raised one winter directly it was known that human beings,were herding in the Parks by night without shelter or food! Is not every case of more than usual distress exposed at the police-office, followed by abundant contributions, even though some of them prove to be impositions? That the ignorance in the upper ranks of much that exists below them, is great, we admit, but that benevolence has diminished, we deny. And Christmas is the season at which a still more active exercise of it is called for; it is one of the best acknowledgments of individual and national blessings. Our country is at peace :— THE N^W YEAR. HUNTING THE WREN. WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY JAMES MAHONY. We hunted the Wren for Robbin the Bobbin, We hunted the Wren for Jack of the Can, We hunted the Wren for Robbin the Bobbin, We hunted the Wren for every one* IJCH is the rude chant of the Manx lads, after having chased the poor Wren, "the most diminutive of birds/' on New Year's Day; when the juvenile hunters, unreflectingly following a barbarous custom, have their unfortunate victim borne before them, affixed, with its wings extended, to the top of a long pole. Having made the circuit from house to house, and collected all the money they can, they lay the Wren on a bier, and carry it in procession to the parish churchyard, where, with a whimsical kind of solemnity, they make a grave, bury it, and sing dirges over it in the Manx language, which they call her knell. The obsequies being performed, the company, outside the churchyard wall, form circle, and a dance to music especially provided for the occasion. A tradition lies at the root of this ceremony. Once on a time, a fairy of uncommon beauty by the sweetness of her voice fascinated the men of the Isle of Man to follow her footsteps, till by degrees she led them into the sea, where they perished. At length, a knight-errant resolved on countervailing the charms of the Syren; but, on attempting the task, and almost in the moment of success, the subtle minx took the. form of a Wren, and escaped him. The evil-disposed fairy thus evaded instant destruction; but was, nevertheless, subjected to a spell, by which she was condemned, on every succeeding Hew Year's Day,, to re-animate the same form, with the definitive sentence that she must ultimately perish by human hand. Elsewhere, Christmas Day and St. Stephen^ Day are dedicated to this barbarous hunting. Aubrey, in his " Miscellanies/' records that, at the last battle fought in the north of Ireland, between the Protestants and the Papists, in Glinsuly, in the county of Donegal, "near the same place, a party of the Protestants had been surprised, sleeping, by the Popish Irish, were it not for several Wrens, that just awakened them by dancing and pecking on the drums as the enemy were approaching. For this reason the wild Irish mortally hate these birds to this day, calling them the 'Devil's servants/ and killing them wherever they can catch them. They teach their children to thrust them full of thorns; you'll see sometimes, on holidays, a whole parish running like madmen, from hedge to hedge, a Wren-hunting!' f K o war nor battle's sound I s heard the world around; The idle spear and shield are high ttphung; and no alloy of national hate diminishes that " goodwill towards men," which was the first blessing that heralded the coming of the Prince of Peace. The people are busy and labour is employed. An abundant harvest crowned the year with increase—and the people are fed. For all these blessings thanks at this season of joyfulness are due. But let us not forget the while, that in these blessings all are not partakers. There is the workless hand, the cold hearth, the shivering frame, the hungerwasted countenance. These we have with us always, the dark contrast to the bright side of the social picture. To say to these, Be ye warmed, and be ye filled, is not enough. We must act as well as feel; relieve as well as commiserate; and one of the best companions to the cheerful hearth and plenteous board which welcome Christmas in thousands of happy English Homes, is the thought that Charity has shed a re'flex of their light in some dark retreat where that light was sorely needed. HUNTING THE WEEN AT CHEISTMAS. m A HOLIDAY BOOK PKOCESSION OF THE WEEN BUSH AND WEEN BOYS. Alas, poor Wren! of what guilt wert thou the doer, in the state of pre-existence, that thy race should thus have become the victims of a various superstition? For we read, that, not only in the Isle of Man and in Ireland, but in France likewise, this little bird is, in like manner, superstitiously sacrificed. Once, however, as its name imports, it had been participant of better fortune. By the Druids it was esteemed the King of Birds, and of the augurs of old it was held to be the favourite. These distinctions, however, were fatal to its continued happiness. The superstitious respect shown to it gave offence, it is said, " t o our first Christian missionaries, and, by their commands, he is still hunted and killed by the peasants on Christmas Day; and on the following (St. Stephen's Day) he is carried about, hung by the leg in the centre of two hoops"—(such is the account given by Colonel Vallancey, in his " Collectanea de RebusHibernicis")—" crossing each other at right angles; and a procession made in every village, of men, women, and children, singing an Irish catch, importing him to be the King of all Birds/' By some authorities, the antipathy of the Irish to the Wren is connected with the invasion of the Danes, respecting whom a similar tale is told us by Aubrey of the Protestants. Disputes among the learned have arisen touching the proper day of the Hunt—whether St. Stephen's or Christmas Day? The latter is that on which the Hunt now takes place, whilst the doggrel rhymes anent the custom mention "good St. Stephen's Day" as that of merriment. Young and old join in the sport, as illustrated in the accompanying sketch. To the sport, the ceremony of the " Wren-bush" succeeds, whereon, as above stated, the feathered sacrifice is borne in funeral state from door to door. The bush is composed of holly and ivy, which deck on Christmas Eve the kitchen, the parlour, and the hall, and from which portions are contributed by rich and poor. " Bedecked with ribbons gay," the royal bird was, of old, borne aloft by selected attendants, and paraded in a processional group as picturesque as it was fantastical—hobby horses, fiery dragons, and rampant serpents, whisking terribly their tails about, having been amongst the accessories of the scene, to the intense enjoyment of the assembled crowd. But of these ancient honours the ceremony is now shorn. It has dwindled down, we are told by a correspondent, to " a gay affair;" but amongst the celebrators may yet be seen examples of the costumes of the last century, such as linger still among the people. The < unextinguished wit, too, of the peasantry, with the usual incidents of Irish fun, frolic, dancing, and love-making, enliven the occasion. " I can never forget," says our informant, " a visit from the ' Bush Boys' to the house of a dear relation. Upon making our appearance in the yard, we found such a group! such a clatter!—all seemed to have had but one thought—pure fun and merriment. All, from the crowing cock, the chuckling turkey (whose day had not yet arrived), the squalling pig, the hurraing and unfortunate multitude, up to the dancing squireen with his cracking whip, and the girls and children, created such an uproar as can only be imagined, not described. Meanwhile, the laughter-exciting Drolleen held forth his old stocking to receive the largesse, and sang the following ditty:—• The Wren, the Wren, The King of all birds St. Stephen's day, He was caught in the firs, And, although he is little, His family's great, So arise, landlady, And give us a treat. And if you fill it Of the small, It will not do For our boys at all; But if you fill It of the best, We hope in heaven Your soul may rest! Oh, Mr. is a worthy man, And to his house We have brought Our Wren: Sing holly, sing ivy, Sing ivy, sing holly— And he'll give us a drop, Just to drown melancholy. FOR CHRISTMAS AND THE NEW YEAR. " The recollection of the cordial welcome with which the (Wren boys, ay, and girls too/ were greeted in the farmer's yard or at the landlord's porch, where the ' drop just to drown melancholy' was given by the landlady, or some young damsel of the house, with a kindliness of spirit that drew around them for the coming year the warm affections of their dependants, is still dear to many a heart. Of these the great mass of the crowd was constituted, who then and there sincerely offered up the fervent orison for the health and prosperity of the donors." The office of the Drolleen on these occasions was a post of ambition and required divers qualifications. He must be the wittiest and readiest of the group, quick at repartee, armed at. all points; for by the amount of his fun was regulated that of the largesse. The receipts were, of course, spent in the evening in a seasonable jollification, not omitting dance and song, and the sparkling eye of the merry colleens who had joined in the day's sport, willing to encourage the boys with an opportunity for " a bit of coortin'." This latter is carried on until Shrovetide, when the willing fair ones learn which of them must visit the bleak and dreary cliffs of Skillig on the old maid's penance, and which may seek the cosey little parlour of Father Tom, with its bright and cheerful fire, its book and benediction, and its kindly wishes for the future. Many such a merry Christmas ! many such a happy New Year! ORIGIN OF HUNTING THE WEEN. — THE BIRD AWAKING THE DANES. POEM ON C H R I S T M A S . BY SIR WALTER SCOTT. EAP on more wood !—the wind is chill; But let it whistle as it will, We'll keep our Christmas merry still. Each age has deemed the new-born year The fittest time for festal cheer: Even heathen yet, the savage Dane, At Iol more deep the mead did drain; High on the beach his galleys drew, And feasted all his pirate crew; Then, in his low and pine-built hall, "Where shields and axes decked the wall, They gorged upon the half-dressed steer; Caroused in seas of sable beer; While round, in brutal jest, were thrown The half-gnawed rib, and marrow-bone; Or listened all, in grim delight, While scalds yelled out the joys of fight. 37 Then forth, in frenzy, would they hie, While wildly loose their red locks fly, And, dancing round the blazing pile, They make such barbarous mirth the while, As best might to the mind recal The boisterous joys of Odin's hall. And well our Christian sires of old Loved when the year its course had rolled, And brought blithe Christmas back again, With all his hospitable train. Domestic and religious rite Gave honour to the holy night: On Christmas Eve the bells were rung; On Christmas Eve the mass was sung; That only night, in all the year, Saw the stoled priest the chalice rear. The damsel donned her kirtle sheen; The hall was dressed with holly green; Forth to the wood did merry-men go, To gather in the mistletoe. Then opened wide the Baron's hall To vassal, tenant, serf, and all; Power laid his rod of rule aside, And Ceremony doffed his pride. The heir, with roses in his shoe^, That night might village partner choose; The lord, undelegating, share The vulgar game of "post and pair." All hailed, with uncontrolled delight, And general voice, the happy night That, to the cottage as the crown, Brought tidings of salvation down. The fire, with well-dried logs supplied, Went roaring up the chimney wide; The huge hall-table's oaken face, Scrubbed till it shone, the day to grace, Bore then upon its massive board No mark to part the squire and lord. Then was brought in the lusty brawn, By old blue-coated serving-man; Then the grim boar's head frowned on high, Crested with bays and rosemary. Well can the green-garbecl ranger tell, How, when, and where the monster fell; What dogs before his death he tore, And all the baiting of the boar. The wassail round, in good brown bowls, Garnished with ribbons, blithely trowls. There the huge sirloin reeked; hard by Plum-porridge stood, and Christmas pie ; Nor failed old Scotland to produce, At such high tide, her savoury goose. Then came the merry masquers in, And carols roared with blithesome din; If unmelodious was the song, I t was a hearty note, and strong. Who lists may in their mumming see Traces of ancient mystery; White shirts supplied the masquerade, And smutted cheeks the visors made; But 0 ! what masquers, richly dight, Can boast of bosoms half so light! England was merry England, when Old Christmas brought his sports again. 'Twas Christmas broached the mightiest ale; 'Twas Christmas told the merriest tale; A Christmas gambol oft could cheer The poor man's heart through half the year. %r*si 3& ' A HOLIDAY BOOK. CHRISTMAS. — " THE COMPLIMENTS OF THE SEASON. M — DSAWU BY iDTOCAN. CHRISTMAS PRESENTS. U P to town! up to town! Presents pour from dale and down, Per rail and mail, wain and sail; Haste through winter's foggy frown, Cheese from Chedder, ham from Hants,' From kind uncles, cousins, aunts: Looming through the distance murky, Lo! the noble Norfolk turkey. Oh! never man could lay embargo On a better, braver cargo. Up to town! up to town! Gifts, to honour Christmas' crown, Tumble in from boxes, bins, Baskets, hampers, to our inns. Victor's car, with glory varnished, Never could be better garnished Than with trophies like to these: Capitol, behold thy geese. Up to town! up to town! Pheasant doom'd to be done brown, Hare forewinged by clever cartridge, Snipe and grouse, and plumpest partridge • Venison from thy Forest, Deane. Our Poultry is enriched, I ween— From east to west, from north to south, Such focus as the Bull and Mouth, The Golden Cross, et cetera, A nobler cargo seldom saw. Up to town! up to town! Laud we Nature's winter gown, Which; with us, should ever be The garb of Christian charity. 'Tis not the presents—e'en the best— But the true love, that warms the breast: From absent friends-—the kind, and dear— That doubly can enhance the cheer. Up to town! —up to town! Presents pour from dale and down. Above we have depicted the arrival of a goodly host of Presents at the Hall, wherewith to maintain "the solid pleasures" of the season; for we moderns have kept the substance of the celebrations, though we may have dispensed with their ancient shadows; and the old carol is nearly asapplicable to the provisions of our day as of a century and a half since:— Now thrice welcome, Christmas, Which brings us good cheer, Minc'cl pies and plum-porridge, Good ale, and strong beer; With, pig, goose, and capon, The best that may be, So well doth the weather And our stomachs agree. It is true that we find not the " fat beeves " in the list, and " plumporridge" is but an approach to our national pudding. Meanwhile, improved modes of transit have, doubtless, increased the number of these periodical Presents: a basket of fish, or a barrel?'of oysters, is no longer likely to " waste its sweetness " in a coach-office ; the railway has proved the best preventive of such domestic disappointments Then, the swarm of luxuries is almost incredibly swollen by poultry from the Continent, another contribution of the giant steam;' and we borrow " Christmas Trees" from Germany, and rich fruits from the sunny south of France in almost interminable tasteful variety. Hence there is no lack of maintenance of the good old English custom of "Christmas Presents/' A HOLIDAY BOOK 40 T H E OHEISTMAS PAECELS TEAIN. WITH AN ILLUSTRATION BY DUNCAN. LESS the railways—what a bustle ! Why such faces—wild yet cheerful ? Wherefore do the people tuzzle— Strive the hopeful with the fearful ? Has the Parcels Train arrived? —Have you Michaelmas survived ? See you not it has ? What else The traffic and the strife compels ? What brings these oysters row on row, That marvellous pile, that wondrous show, Those countless scores of ducks and Those pheasants, turkeys—prophecies Of coming hospitalities ? That Train, like a chest, so titanic in size, Is a shrine that holds Gifts for both simple and wise. I t took them, to give them; that greatest and least, The absent and present, might join in the feast. From the top of the train, box, band-box, and hamper Tumble down, toss about; while with scramble and scamper, Here and there, he and she seize on, as they may, This parcel or that, and with haste bear away. O Christmas ! 0 Christmas ! thy votaries here Are jocund, yet anxious,—and curious, I fear. Each daughter of Eve with wonder would guess Each parcel's worth from its heaviness; What it holds, forthwith on the spot she would know, But wait she mast, and home must go— There box and bandbox, and hamper and all, Will be rummaged, I trow, by big and by small— By Peter and Thomas, by Philip and Paul; By Grace of the parlour, and Bet of the hall. And father and mother, grandpa and grandma, Great aunt and kind cousin, et cetera— The donors of all sorts of Christmas cheer— Be named with a blessing, perhaps with a tear, For all the good things these packets contain, To the station now brought by the Parcels Train. On Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, Both after dinner and before; And on, on, on to New Year's Day, And on to Twelfth Night; o'er and o'er, Those sacred names of kindred, friend, And old acquaintance drunk shall be, As those who from afar did send Their offerings to Festivity— The banquets of this happy tide ! Thereat their spirits shall preside; And ever as the cup they drain, The guests shall thank the Parcels Train. THE NORFOLK COACH. H ! coaches once were all the go, With passengers a-top; Now, that would not be safe—-because The nation's let them drop ! They used to roll so very fast, Like suicides, I deem; The horses didn't know the risk Of getting up the steam ! \ -\~=s: But now the steam has got them down. And Science has proved tricky, For that which once was all a coach^ Has now become all dickey ! Nor friends nor folic the Norfolk Coach Could drive from its abode; That may arrive in London, for It's still upon the road! It is a Christmas coach, I vow, And whirls along in pride; For all its outside passengers Are food for the inside. m Turkey and pullet ride and tie, Game, poultry, cheek by jowl; I wonder who was game to pay The fare for so, much fowl! But only think when they're at home, Admired, pluck'd, and spitted, On tables free, how they will be To highest ranks admitted. With bottles broach—"the Norfolk coach," As good a toast as heard is; And long live they who feast to-day Upon its Christmas " birdies /" K 1 " H O M E F O E THE HOLIDAYS." HO does not recollect the joyousness of a Breaking-up—the uproarious mirth of Going Home—and the affectionate Welcome on reaching there? There is nothing in after-life to efface the recollection of these happy hours! The writing of the holiday letter first sets the young spirits dancing; the calendar is watched, and each day anxiously struck put almost ere it expires, thus lessening the interval of schooldom and holiday. At length the Breaking-up day arrives. It is commemorated in various modes. The " Dulce Domum" is sung on the evening preceding the Whitsun Holidays. Westminster has its plays; and at some modern Collegiate Schools there are also dramatic performances. In smaller establishments the festival consists of cake and wine and singing; and everywhere there is some indication of festivity. In that kitchen-drawer of a book, " Brand's Popular Antiquities," we find a ballad describing a Breaking-up custom at a school at Bridge water, in which the boys were wont At breaking-up for Christmas' loved recess, To meet the master, on that happy morn, At early hour. Then followed the blowing of a horn to rouse the schoolmates, &c. At last, " Going Home Day" arrives. The night has been one of restless anticipation. The boys, who have a long journey, in all probability, rise before daylight. The breakfast is soon despatched. The well-appointed coach reaches the door, and is soon freighted with its joyous load. And then commences the fun of the road, with pea-shooters and volleys of peas fired at wonder-struck gazers; the horn twanging through the silent village; and a host of little practical jokes, such as boys alone can play. In the Illustration, the coach with its four steaming horses, has arrived at the lodge-gate, and is depositing some of its young passengers; the first meetings and greetings are also portrayed. What happy moments are these. The boys feel, as it were, "let loose;" their ecstasy knows no bounds; they whoop and halloo most lustily; the avenue will soon resound with their "loud sincerity;" and thus commence the joys of " Home for the Holidays." FOR CHRISTMAS AND THE NEW YEAR. 41 NORFOLK COACH. \twm, HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS. — DRAWN BY WEIR. DULCE DOMUM. T H E SCHOOLBOY'S " H O M E , SWEET H O M E . " [ T H E original of this song is said to have been written about two hundred and fifty years ago, by a poor student of Winchester College, who was kept in college for some offence while all his companions were enjoying their holidays among friends.] S I N G a sweet molodious measure, "VVaft enchanting lays around; H o m e ! a theme replete with pleasure ! H o m e ! a grateful theme, resound Chorus. Home, sweet home ! an ample treasure ! Home ! with every blessing crown'd ! Home ! perpetual source of pleasure ! Home ! a noble strain, resound. Let our men and steeds assemble, Panting for the wide champaign; Let the ground beneath us tremble, While we scour along the plain. Home, &c. Lo ! the joyful hour advances ; H a p p y season of delight! Festal songs, and festal dances, All our tedious toil requite. Home, &c. Oh ! what raptures, oh ! what blisses, W h e n wc gain the lovely gate ! Mother's arms, and mother's kisses, There, our bless'd arrival wait. Home, &c. Leave, my wearied muse, thy learning, Leave thy task, so hard to bear ; Leave thy labour, ease returning, Leave this bosom, O ! mj care. 'Home, &c. Greet our household-gods with singing, Lend, O Lucifer, thy ray ; W h y should light, so slowly springing, All our promis'd joys delay ? Home, &c. E A HOLIDAY BOOK m MY MISTLETOE MEMOEIES; BEING THE OLD BACHELOR'S RECOLLECTIONS OF THE LADIES HE HAS KISSED UNDER THAT PLANT—THOUGH NOTHING EVER CAME OF IT. DON'T know how it is. There never was a man had a greater capacity for getting married. I am notoriously a chimney-corner character. I hate living in chambers. I envy all my married friends, and regularly fall in love with their wives—with the full privity and consent of the husbands, of course. I l l be bound to say there never was a poor fellow threw himself more in the way of the thing. I am well enough off to keep a wife in a pleasant, gentleman-and-Jlady-like style. I am not worse-looking than nine 'fellows out of ten. I am decidedly good-tempered. I am not ridiculously awkward, or spoony, or bearish. And yet, confound it al^ I can't get married. Nobody can say I haven't tried. I've tried in toyn, hard, these ten 'seasons. IVe tried in country-houses; and they say every man has his chance there. IVe done my Florence and Rome. IVe yachted in the Solent, and all about there, and subscribed regularly to the Ryde balls. IVe even gone the length of rigging myself out in a ridiculous green coat, and hat and feather, as one of the suburban toxophilites (though I never even hit the target), because there were a lot of girls in the >club, and one was thrown a good deal together with them through the summer, in pic-nics, and that very provocative sort of thing. But all to no purpose. I can't do it. And yet how near it I have been, to be sure! So any one will say, I think, after reading these mistletoe memories, in which I mean to unburthen myself of some of my failures, which fell out at Christmas times, when people are particularly free-and-easy and sociable;, and when, what with morning-room lounges, and rides, and private theatricals, and charades, and extempore Christmas gambols, there are no end of chances, as one may say. IVe had my share of these chances, I can assure you, and I think I did my best to profit by them (as I imagine my subsequent confessions prove), yet it all came to nothing. There was Fanny Hughes, now. Here's a bit of the mistletoe under which I kissed her, with the date upon it, 184—. Bless me, is it so long ago? Why then she must be some four-and-thirty now; and I—but I'd rather not calculate. It was at the Hugheses' jolly old red-brick Berkshire house that I spent that Christmas, and a jolly party (as fitted the house) we were—the old folks fresh enough in heart to sympathize with us young ones (I say this advisedly, for I hadn't a grey hair in my whiskers then), and we young folks all determined on making a merry-Christmas of it; and Fanny was the merriest of the lot. Dear Fanny Hughes (I beg the Rev. Mrs, Ingulphus Crabbe's pardon for remembering her by her secular name) was in complexion a blon.de; in character the most piquant ^mixture of a blue and a romp that ever crazed a man. She rode like a Penthesilea, and when she rattled her light mare alongside of your steady hunter over the springy old park turf (not broken up for a century), with her bunches of golden ringlets flying back from under the brim of her black wide-awake —for she had adopted that becoming head-gear even at that early date —and her clear face glowing with the rapid motion, and her round bust heaving with the heave of the gallop, and her light laugh ringing through the air till the cows half,a mile off looked up from grazing, and wondered if fairies were in the wind-—I defy the soberest, flattest, most ditch waterblooded of men not to have knocked under. And she was joist as irresistible out of her riding-habit, for she sang charmingly, and every now and then flung into her pathetic songs such a comical twang and dashed her mirthful songs with such an under-music of sadness, and then she talked so wittily, and had read such a great deal, and in so many tongues, and was so wayward and reckless in her judgment of books, and men, an$ things, that even if a man did not go out riding with her, and thus escape the Diana of the park, he was sure to find himself at her chair all the evening, and so fall a victim to the Minerva of the drawing-room, Now, I was both riding man and reading man, and so I was hit on both sides, and I confess I thought Fanny saw it, and had no particular objection. But she was such a romp that it was hard to say. I don't imagine she had a bit of conscious coquetry in her nature, but she couldn't resist the harum-scarum blood that made her light heart dance to all sorts of tunes. The only real spoon of that party (if I may be allowed the expression) was the Rev. Ingulphus Crabbe, a sucking Puseyite divine—an "acolyte" he delighted to call himself—who had just taken orders, after coming out a mild fourth-class at Oxford. Oh, what a bore he was! He was oppressively humble, and wore his hair parted in the middle, with a long black outer garment (which looked like a surtout arrested half-way in its growth towards a great coat), a waistcoat buttoned to the throat, and surmounted by a tight white stock with no visible tie to it, and closeshaven whiskers; presenting altogether a mortified, self-satisfied, and most conceitedly abject appearance. No wonder Fanny laughed at him, and no wonder he was scandalized at her. I used to draw caricatures of him in ridiculous positions, which amused Fanny exceedingly. In fact, as a Cambridge man, I felt it my duty to put Oxford down in the person of the Rev. Ingulphus; and I thought I had succeeded. He used to bring Keble's " Lyra Infantium " into the drawing-room, and Prudentius, and other babarous ecclesiastical poets, and laboriously translate them to Fanny, and ask her to set them to music, which she did, always choosing the most vulgar airs, such as " Jim Crow" and other early Negro melodies then popular, which, being played slowly, quite satisfied the Rev. Ingulphus, who thought them charmingly devotional. He fasted twice a week; never rode, nor skated, nor played hockey with us on the lawn; in short (though he rather imposed on some of the girls in the house), we men all voted him a prig and a spoon, and -none seemed to take a more decided view of him in that light than my charming Fanny. Well, Christmas came, and we had the mummers in from the village, and the yule-log in the great hall fireplace, and a dance afterwards under the mistletoe—under that very mistletoe of which a dried-up sprig is now lying on my table. I had been riding with Fanny in the morning, and I thought I had done everything but pop the question. I danced with her the first country dance, and I kissed her under this very mistletoe, and I determined to settle the matter that night, come what would. Towards the close of the ball—for we kept it up very late that night — I looked in vain for Fanny. Nobody had seen her for the last dance or two. The Rev. Ingulphus was missing too; but as he had strongly denounced the affair altogether, and especially the mistletoe part of the entertainment, which he pronounced a heathenish and Druidic superstition, nobody was surprised at his absence, which was, indeed, rather a relief than otherwise. Where could Fanny be? I felt it would never do to go to bed without settling matters one way or the other. So I went to look for her. The drawing-room communicated with the hall by a billiard-room, and out of the billiard-room was a little morning-room, which Fanny called hers, but which was common property, for there was always sure to be some fun going on there. She wasn't in the billiard-room, and she wasn't in either of the drawing-rooms, and her maid was still dancing, so I knew she hadn't gone to bed. As I passed through the billiard-room, on my way to the hall again, big with my great resolve, and the arteries in my temples throbbing like Jullien's big drums, I saw a light in the morning-room, for the door stood ajar, and heard voices. I listened; indeed, I had only to stop to hear. It was the voice of the Rev. Ingulphus. The tone was as passionate and tender as he could pitch it. In .fact, he was in the very heart of a declaration. " Oh! by Jove," I thought to myself, " how I shall make Fanny laugh with this to-morrow. But let me see the lady," and, stealing to the door, I peeped in. They were sitting on a sofa together, very near each other, before the fire. Her back was towards the door, but there were the golden ringlets, and the head was resting on the black shoulder of the Rev. Ingulphus. * ^ * # # * That day $mr months Fanny Hughes was transformed into the Rev. Mrs. Ingulphus. I have seen her since, accidentally; she as a good deal changed, and I see she will be a,coarse woman. She is passionately devout; it is provable that Ingulphus and she will both go .o^er to Rome. On second thoughts, though, I don't know that .they -will, for he has a good family Iking from the Hugheses; and .as he has an almshouse in the parish with six old men and twelve old women, who don't object to any amount of morning service ("matins," as he calls it), and will go through an incredible quantity of genuflection and other ecclesiological posture-making on consideration of the very liberal doles which Mrs. Ingulphus is accustomed to serve out at the vicarage to those of the right sort, I shouldn't wonder if he stays where he is, as the bulk of the congregation have " suited themselves," some of them in the parish church of the next village and some in the dissenting chapels (of which three have sprung up in the parish of the Rev. Ingulphus); and the bishop is an easy-going sort of a man. And that was what my first mistletoe memory came to. I didn't bear Fanny any malice, but I don't think I danced much the next year, and I certainly didn't feel disposed to make another trial of a romp. One has no security, I felt, with your fly-away style of woman; though how the Rev. Ingulphus contrived to do it I haven't the slightest notion to this day. The Christmas after that I spent in Devonshire, not far from Teignmouth, in the grandest scenery of England, at the house of my old uncle Sparshot, a hard-a-weather half-pay admiral, who had married a Devonshire beauty with a good fortune. FOR CHRISTMAS AND THE NEW YEAR. 43 GATHERING MISTLETOE. — DRAWN BY FOSTEK. Jack Sparshot, my cousin, was a great crony of mine; we were at college together, and I had skulled with him, town and gown rowed with him, been confined to gates with him, tumbled his bed when he slept out of college, and, in short, done all the offices of a Cambridge Orestes to his Pylades. Jack was a good-natured, harum-scarum, black-whiskered, apple-cheeked fellow, with a great deal of the old admiral's sailor-like frankness and kindliness, but with no more sentiment in him than an old special pleader. He was a capital shot, a good rider to hounds, and one of the most knowing cattle-breeders in Devonshire. In short, he was the heau-ideal of a country gentleman, according to western notions, thinking no more than he could help about anything not immediately growing out of the ground of his own county and his own estate. Among our Christmas party that year was the widow of an old shipmaife of the admiral, Mrs. Topsham, who was staying at Torquay for the benefit, she said, of her daughter Emily's health. Emily was with her mother. She was a tall, pale, slight girl, with soft brown hair, and great tender grey eyes, that looked on every human being, from the knifeboy up to my uncle, with the same imploring, appealing expression. By the way, why is it one" always describes a woman by her hair and eyes? Oiie always does somehow as if, these given, everybody could fill up the rest of the picture. Emily was in delicate health, always had been, her mother said, and she looked frail enough certainly. But I must say that I never could see any trace of the wear and tear of pain in her smooth white brow; and I can answer for it that her appetite was capital. However, she was eensee an invalid, and she was such a pretty and interesting invalid, that one couldn't help wishing she might never get quite well; though, at the same time, it was absolutely necessary she should never get any worse. She used to lie a great deal on the sofa, in the prettiest white cashmere peignoirs, with lots of shawls and burnouses about her, draped in the most picturesque way, and two or three times a week she would not appear at dinner, and on these occasions, when we came into the drawingroom, we were sure to find her in the prettiest sort of head-dresses, half veil, half night-cap, all lace and muslin and delicate ribbons, in which she looked a something between odalisque and invalid, that was very bewitching indeed. And then, when you asked after her health, there was such an angelic tone of resignation in her voice, and such a depth of unrevealed suffering in her smile, such a piteous appeal in her great lamp-like grey eyes, with their, black lashes, that you felt inclined to elasp her in your arms then and there, and vow to cherish, watch over and wait upon her to the end of your natural life. She didn't go out much. Indeed, her chest was so delicate, her mother said, that it was even dangerous for her to change from one room to another without precautions; and, accordingly, when she did migrate, as she occasionally did, to be a spectatress of our Christmas gambols, from -the drawing-room to the library, she came hooded and shawled, like an Eastern Sultana, leaning with such a delicious pressure on the arm of the happy fellow who had succeeded in winning that place of honour, and sank always into the warmest and softest seat, which, somehow, everybody (herself included) seemed to consider hers by right. And then the gentle look of thanks with which she rewarded her cavalier! She gave me two of those looks, and I was done for. I can't express the tenderness I felt for this suffering angel. How I longed to take her up in my arms, like a delicate lamb, and carry her gently through the rough places of the world! Jack Sparshot, on the contrary, was brusque and boisterous with her, as with everybody else. Her sufferings seemed to make no impression on his coarse and unsentimental nature. He shocked us all dreadfully once, I remember, by suggesting that a good canter would do her more good than all the nursing in the world, and actually made the groom put a side-saddle on a young thoroughbred of his own, and brought it round for her, after putting it through its paces on the terrace, to show her how gentle it was —a performance in the course of which he knocked a whole row of stone garden-pots into the ha-ha. When Christmas came, dear suffering Emily did her best to join in our sports. Dancing was out of the question; but her couch was brought down into the hall, and she lay wrapped in her shadowy draperies and looked on, like a Brinoes%; while we danced before her. When I say, 44 Ci A HOLIDAY BOOK We," I didn't dance much; I spent the best part of the night leaning over her sofa, drinking in the " light of her eyes/' listening to her soft flute-like voice, and thinking that, if angels ever were invalids, they must, while in that state, be uncommonly like Emily Topsham. There seemed a sort of sacrilege in making love to a creature who appeared always on the point of winging her way to a better and a brighter world. I had never breathed a word of love to Emily, but, if ever a man showed himself over head and ears, by every look of his eyes, every vibration of his voice, and every act of his intercourse with a woman, I was that man. She must have seen it; but she was so sweet, and gentle, and tenderly trustful with everybody, that confound me if I could ever quite satisfy myself that she made any difference with any of the half-dozen young fellows who were in the same predicament with myself. Of course the women hated her. Mary Sparshot, who had a good deal of Jack's coarseness, said, in her slang way, that she was a humbug, that her delicacy was a " do," and called her constitutional tendency to consumption " the interesting dodge." But this was not to be wondered at, for Emily had all the men at her feet; and we were never happy unless when we were trotting about on her errands, or doing slavish offices about her, one shaking up her pillows, another holding her eau de Cologne, a third fanning her, a fourth rearranging the shawls over her feet, and so on, all but Jack Sparshot, who didn't scruple to say to Emily's face much the same style of thing as his sister said behind her back. Among other pieces of brutality that Christmas-night, he insisted on Emily's joining in the last cotillion, and absolutely succeeded in dragging the poor girl up from the sofa for the purpose. And when it came to the mystic ceremony under the mistletoe—(heigh o! there's the sprig, labelled with her name and the date)—I was happy enough to have her hand in mine, and, for the first and the last time, I pressed a kiss upon her lips! That brute, Jack Sparshot, did the same just after me, with a smack like the explosion of a soda-water bottle. She blushed and appeared disgusted at Jack's; she blushed, but did not appear disgusted at mine. Oh, what a night I had after that kiss! I mean mine, not Jack's. It was plain that it was no use resisting. People talk about the wretchedness of marrying an invalid wife, of turning one's house into a hospital, and so forth. I felt those who talked so were selfish brutes, and had never known an Emily Topsham. I determined, come what might, to break it to her the next morning, and to offer my heart and hand, and fortune, such as it was, to promote her happiness. If she wanted a husband to defend her, I was ready. If she required a nurse to wait upon her, I was willing to take the duty. I would live at watering-places on the south coast. I had no objection to go abroad—as far as Madeira. In short, I was ready to be husband, lover, servant, sick-nurse, slave, and family physician, all in one. When I saw her the next day, Jack Sparshot was leaning over the sofa, coarsely joking with her about his performance on the night before under the mistletoe, and obviously wounding the poor girl's feelings. And there he stuck the whole morning, though the hounds met in the neighbourhood, and there was no frost. I couldn't get an opportunity of throwing myself and all I had at her feet. Unluckily a frost set in the day after, and there was no hunting for a week. Jack Sparshot was always hulking about Emily's sofa, and I never could get the dear girl to myself for a quarter of an hour all that blank week, unless when the room was full of people. At last the frost gave, and it was with indescribable satisfaction that I saw Jack in pink at breakfast. I made an excuse for staying at home; and, as soon as breakfast was over and everybody scattered, I flew to dear Emily. She lay in-. a little room, half conservatory, half parlour, which had been christened her boudoir, and I thought I had never seen her looking more irresistible than she did among the great white arums and the camellias, whose glossy leaves and bright cornelian blossoms brought out her ethereal style of beauty with tenfold effect. It was one of her "sick" days, too, and she wore one of those bewitching caps which made her loveliness ten times lovelier. I wasn't master of myself. I did then what I never did before, and what I believe is seldom done by people who make declarations—off the stage: I actually went on my knees, and I poured out my devotion in that slavish attitude. She cast down her lustrous eyes and let me finish, and then in her sweet voice she told me how honoured she felt by my preference, and so forth, but that her hand and heart were promised to another! And whom do you think they were promised to? Jack Sparshot! black-whiskered, apple-cheeked, fox-hunting, cattlebreeding, loud-voiced, blustering, hulking Jack Sparshot! Yes; he had done it when I couldn't. And his success puzzled me just as much as the Rev. Ingulphus's. They were married in due course. Emily is still lovely, and still an invalid. But Jack Sparshot, I am thankful to say, is no longer jolly, and red-cheeked, and boisterous. He is grown a tamed, spiritless, sneaking sort of a fellow, something between a groom of the chambers and an apothecary, and spends his life in paying guinea fees to celebrated doctors, and trotting his interesting wife about from wateringplace to watering-place; though Emily, I will do her the justice to say, always chooses the pleasantest ones; and the best of the joke is, that she leads him a deuce of a life, by all accounts, and has always a set of sympathizers round her, who consider him as a brute, and her as a victim, and don't scruple to tell him so indirectly; and she encourages them in it, though nobody knows better than she does who is the victim in that establishment. So I was well rid of my interesting invalid after all. She was, in fact, a very finished performer of precisely the same line of character, though on a higher stage, as the gentleman with a white nightcap on, who chalks " I am starving" on the flags, and takes sudden fits in the presence of well-known good Samaritans, unless there happens to be a policeman in sight. However, I didn't know all this till a good many years after Emily became Mrs. Sparshot, and I won't pretend to say that I didn't feel an aching void for many a month after that morning in Emily's boudoir. And now, have you still a mind for a third mistletoe memory ? I believe I am an awful warning, in some way or other, though I don't exactly know what; so I don't mind going on in the hope that what I write may be useful to " persons about to marry." Did you ever spend a winter at Boulogne ? If you haven't, you've no notion how dreary that seaport is, when it's too cold for bathing, and too windy for walking on the jetty; when, as a rule, there's nobody staying in the place but those who've made every other place too hot to hold them; and when there is nobody in the steamers whom one may have the fear of seeing on land; and when everybody who does land bears traces of recent sea-sickness; and when the ball-room at that establishment down on the sands is shut up, and you sometimes can't get any fish for a week together; and when, if it's a gale, you see the poor fishermen's wives and sisters in an agony of fear, saying their prayers to notre Dame de Bon Secours; and, in short, when everything about is as much the reverse of jolly as it is possible to conceive. Well, I spent the winter of 184— (you cannot expect me to give the final figure, I am sure) at Boulogne ; not because I couldn't leave it, but on account of the severe illness of a travelling companion with whom I had made a tour in Switzerland and Ttaly, and who knocked up on our road home. I was determined, like Mark Tapley, to be jolly under the severe difficulties of the situation, as the French say; so I went everywhere, made acquaintance with everybody—that is, everybody that was not tabooed by the police and the English Protestant clergyman (two very safe detectors), and made excursions to Portel, and picked up a sort of acquaintance with the fishermen, and made a little quiet old bachelorish love to the pretty matelottes, in an innocent way; and, in short, extracted the utmost enjoyment I could from everything about me. There was a knot of presentable English there still, as I have said, and it was devised amongst us, as Christmas drew on, that we should assemble at the largest and pleasantest house of the set, for a regular John Bull Christmas dinner, and a Chistmas-night's fun after it. I may as well own at once, that I had, as usual, found an attraction, in the shape of a woman, even in this wintry waste of Boulogne. This was a Mrs. Wyndham Effingham, who had been married in India, and was now at Boulogne for the education of her two children, a boy and a girl. She wasn't more than five-a,nd-twenty, and must have been left a widow about four years, as she had been that time in England, she told me. Mrs. Wyndham Effingham ?—the name was suspicious, certainly— but I met her constantly at the English Protestant clergyman's, the very citadel of Boulogne respectability; and, besides, the two children were guarantees in the way. Now, Fanny Hughes had cured me of romps, and Emily Topsham of interesting invalids, but I found in Mrs. Wyndham Effingham a woman who just fitted that miserable niqhe in my heart, never vacant for a time, ever vacant for a permanence. Maria (for she reappears to me under that name) was a pretty, black-eyed, agreeable, energetic, sensible brunette, clearly a woman who had had her difficulties in life, and had pulled through them by dint of a pleasant face, a good heart, and a great deal of common sense. It struck me as odd that she never alluded to her husband. I concluded it was one of the common bases of an Indian marriage consignment, and that she had no particularly tender reminiscences of her purchaser. I made her acquaintance through her boy, a sturdy youngster of some seven years old, whom I one day found in the fish-market defying to the combat four French boys, each bigger than himself, because they had called him a "jeune goddam" The abominable matelottes, instead of taking the poor little hero's part, were egging on their cowardly young compatriots to go in and win, which they seemed no way inclined to do, the French youths having a mysterious dread of even the tiniest pair of English fists. Still, it would have fared ill, I fear, with little Willy Effingham if I hadn't come to the rescue, and cuffed the young rascals who were insulting him. Fearing that the French boys might follow and FOR CHRISTMAS AND THE NEW YEAR. waylay him, I walked home with him to his mamma's (who had a very handsome apartment in the Rue de l'Ecu), and consigned him to Mrs. Effingham, whom I had met before, as I have said, and had, indeed, been introduced to at the English clergyman's. I was struck by her homely and well-bred grace and good sense, and I must confess I saw her afterwards as often as I could decently contrive a pretext for doing so. And Boulogne is a town like Brighton, where one may always make sure of meeting all one's acquaintances in the place so often that it becomes a bore at last to pass them, as one never knows whether to go by with a bow, or a smile, or a word on the weather, or without taking any notice whatever. Mrs. Wyndham Effingham and I accordingly became fast friends. She consulted me a good deal about her children's education, which, I must say, appeared to me to consist chiefly in a continued course of bad French and haricot beans; and I used to ask her advice about my friend's ailment, which was one of a kind (she said) "My husband used to be much subject to in India." "Died of it, probably," I thought to myself; but of course I felt a delicacy of intruding on the subject. I never heard anything of the late Mr. Effingham but in allusion to this complaint. No doubt he had been a horrid, sallow, wizened old Qui-hi, with a cotton shirt and nankeen trousers. I couldn't help drawing a momentary comparison between my idea of the late Effingham and myself, and I felt comfortable. Mrs. Effingham was of our Christmas party—the life and soul of it, indeed; and I believe we were all incomprehensibly John Bullish on the occasion. I remember we sang " God save the Queen" with a fervour of loyalty of which we had never conceived ourselves capable before; and " Rule Britannia" was chorused in a style of blustering defiance that was really unpardonable, considering we were in France. We were all a good deal affected after dinner, and there was an exaggerated amount of Godblessing and shaking hands, among slight acquaintances, which I never could quite account for in a rational way. Our Christmas dance was a great success. We invited some of our French friends to it, and the interest they took in the ceremonial, the frantic way in which they assisted in bringing in the log, and their ecstatic delight at the ponche flamboyant with the snap-dragons, and the desperate efforts they made to drink "waeshael" and " t r i n k h a e l " in the Saxon manner, are things not to be described. Neither can I adequately convey an idea of the dance performed by one of our French visitors, a furious Anglomane, who had once, unluckily for himself, been to Scotland, and had seen the sports of what he called les Montagnards, and who on this occasion gave us a French version of the Highland fling, with variations—due, I may charitably suppose, to the punch. I believe, if a serjent-de-ville had been there, he would have spent the night in the nearest violon, for so the French call their station-houses. But the triumph of the evening with both French and English was certainly the mistletoe. I never saw the oscular privileges of that plant more violently drawn upon than that night in the old town of Boulogne. The way those Frenchmen entered into the spirit of this part of the entertainment with " les jeunes meess" as they persisted in calling every lady in the room under forty, was perfectly startling. I am glad to say, however, that I succeeded in preserving my pretty widow's cherries intact —I mean for my own private use. I was the only man who kissed Mrs. Wyndham Effingham's lips under that mistletoe. I believe I was the first that offered to do so, and she seemed rather taken aback. Before I left the house that night I had determined to turn this preference to account; and, after carefully weighing the pros and cons— under which latter head Master and Miss Effingham cut a large figure— I determined to avow my passion next morning, and ask the widow's " hand. Next day was pleasant and sunshiny. I met her on the jetty, her roses not a bit faded by the late hours of the night before. The Dover steamer was just smoking in between the piers, as in a few hurried words I told her the state of my affections, my family, and fortune (for I felt she was a woman of business), and offered myself and my advantages, personal and contingent, to her acceptance. She blushed— that I expected; and then she laughed—which I did not expect; and then she was apparently about to make an apology for laughing—for I suppose I looked annoyed—when suddenly fixing her eyes on the scanty and sea-sick passengers who were clambering up the ladder on to the jetty, near which we stood, she gave a short scream, ducked under the douane ropes like a diver, and before I had time to close my mouth, which had opened involuntarily in my amazement, she was hysterically hugging a lathy gentleman, with a yellow face and a large cloak, who seemed rather embarrassed at this passionate recognition, at which the grinning douaniers and gaping matelottes "assisted" (as the French say) with much apparent satisfaction. Obeying a sort of mechanical impulse, I had followed her to the ropes; and judge of my feelings when, releasing the tall gentleman, she turned, and introduced to me—Mr. Wyndham Effingham, her husband! She wasn't a widow, after all—only a grass-widow, as the Irish call it —one of those very little married Indian wives who come home with the 45 children, after a few years' marriage, leaving her husband to feather his nest and ruin his constitution in Burhampore, or Hyderabad, or Badgerywollah, as the case may be. It was too bad. She ought to have mentioned him sooner; but she told me afterwards she hadn't the slightest idea—didn't know she had a live husband, and, moreover, had no conception I felt anything for her warmer than friendship. Now, what the deuce is it in me that will not allow women to see when I'm in love "with them? They never do, somehow, and now, I suppose, they never will; and that's the reason why I still continue to subscribe myself " T H E OLD BACHELOR." RIME OF T H E FROST—A SEASONABLE SONG. BY JAMES BllUTON. ^ v ^ ^ ^ — ^ > ^ ^ ^ — r - H E winter of our discontent'" 1^^^^^^^^^^^^^=^ Is now, or I mistake, f ^^BjiipKpI And if a bard did sing of frost, A' ^ ^ ^ ^ M ^ ^ ^ ^ It must be with a " shake ! " 1 I m J r i i ^ ^ ^ f l ; / ^ ^ ^ S i ' J -^ s l° v e n ty must be his strains, liBJiBiirf^Ml^^^^BR With thee he can't lose time ; ^^^^HBIWI^^^HI Eor who, when rime is on the panes, ^ ^ | H | ^ B ^ Takes pains upon the rhyme ? ( J J L ^ ^ ? ^ ^ ^ ^ : ^f\ A " quaker" bard I'm now, but I II frST Would rather be by turns, f jl One of those called ancient " Scalds," mi Or else a modern " Burns !" f\ Ungenial clime, ungenial time, ijj) A change who prays not for ? A'\ And if I were a " scald," indeed, / My prayer should be to—" Thor !" To get the blood to circulate, I jump like Monsieur Gouffe ; Bent double, and near Twining, oft I find I'm getting coughy ! The question seems half quizzical, For small's the difference found, Of " Will you have your berry in whole ? Or have your berry in ground ?" I'm so susceptible of cold, That each breath gives a " crick," And cold I catch if I go out Without my walking stick ! A purple or a crimson hue Some like—it is my dread ; That "leading article" my nose, I do not want it red ! To have a snowball in your ear's A pleasant thing, no doubt; But anything but merrily I ring my old year out! Then urchins pelt one on the ice, 'Till quite as sour one looks At being white-balled on a Pond, As if black-balled at Brooks'! " If frosts is out, then rains is in," And colds, and damps, and fogs,— A sort of penny-pieman's time, When it rains " cats and dogs." The Dickens in the weather is— With cough I bark and bellow ; And though I'm much inclined to wheese (w's} I find I am not Wetter ! May gentle Spring come soon again— The Goddess, I adore her! Come not like Spring the pugilist, Though you come with a Floorer t Already I see many a bush A budding blossom shows : And I can judge that from its stalk It's coming unto " blows !" 46 A HOLIDAY BOOK OLD CHRISTMAS FESTIVITIES AT MANCHESTER OR some years past, Old Christmas has not been celebrated at any other place in England with so many of the old forms as in Manchester. The Directors of the Mechanics' Institution there, hold on Old Christmas Day what they call their Annual Christmas Party, to which members of the Institution and the general public obtain admittance by purchased tickets. The room in which' the party is usually held is the great Free• Trade Hall, a building that can conveniently accommodate about five thousand persons, and which is always crowded on the occasion to which we refer. The chair is at first taken by the President of the Institution for the time being, but his authority is very soon superseded by the Lord of Misrule, under whose direction the subsequent proceedings, so far as masking, mumming, and singing go, are conducted. The programme for each year varies slightly; sometimes there is a procession of the months, sometimes of the seasons, &c, but there never fails to be the procession of the Wassail-Bowl, the presentation and carrying of the Boar's Head, with all the necessary glees and choruses. The parts are usually performed by young men, members of the Institution, who always acquit themselves with great credit. The spectacle is not only popular and pleasing to the people of Manchester, but very profitable to the Institution, whose funds are considerably augmented thereby. At the party held in 1849, after the guests had been assembled and the feasting was over, there was represented on the floor of the Free Trade Hall the very popular and ancient drama of St. George and the Dragon. Of this performance, which was the crowning glory of the night, we give an engraving, representing the last scene in that solemn tragedy, when the brave St. George, England's patron saint, after doing such valorous deeds as are recorded in that veracious book, " The Seven Champions of Christendom/' at last encounters the awful Dragon, who after a terrific combat is slain. This spectacle being concluded to the satisfaction of all parties concerned, the floor was cleared, and general dancing began. Many meetings have been held in that Manchester Free Trade Hall, but never one in which people of all classes, sects, and parties, could join with more hearty unanimity than at these Christmas festivities. OLD CHRISTMAS FESTIVITIES AT MANCHESTER;" FOE CHEISTMAS AND THE NEW YEAR. 17 THE CROW-BOY'S CHRISTMAS LUNCH. — DRAWN BY PHIZ. THE CROW-BOY; OR, THE CHRISTMAS LUNCHEON. ' L L sorts and conditions of life,, in-door and out-door, find their appropriate consolation in the Christmas season. The day of itself, fine or dreary, seems, as if by virtue of its associations, to induce happy feelings. There is an influence in the time which forbids even the wretched to be miserable. The pauper dreams, though wide awake, that he is rich; and the beggar feels as potent as a King. His rags, indeed, are the true robes of royalty; and frequently, in their unexpected combinations, are so picturesque as to excite the admiration of the aesthetic. Even the rude worker in the fields, to whom no Christmas dinner is a probability, has his share in the common enjoyment, though, as it would appear, of a most mysterious sort. But, of all these special idealists, the CROW-BOY on CHRISTMAS DAY, engaged in the open corn-field, strikes us with the most wonder. He is a psychological curiosity, as profound a mystic as Bohme, and a better poet than Bloomfield. Our artist has hit the character in the specific situation to a nicety. The actual about the Boy is as cold and hard as are Nature's dealings in general with her unsophisticated children, who have not acquired the skill to subdue their parent to their own mood. The wintry cloud, the cheerless snow, the chill blast—these are his only companions in his solitary occupation. But there is an Idea, that somehow or other has grown up in his mind: " It is Christmas Day !" By virtue of this idea, he is a metaphysician of the first water—an ideologist—a philosopher as intensely absent as Newton. He feels no more the cloud, the snow, and the wind, than the unparalleled mathematician himself, while wrapt in his sublime speculations, felt the want of the dinner which he habitually neglected. With that needful article, however, our Crow-Boy is supplied. He has had it in his wallet all the morning—an extra store of bread, bacon, and cheese; for this is Christmas Day! And this frugal meal is, to our Crow-Boy's imagination, a feast far exceeding the Lord Mayor's, a banquet equal to a Bishop's, a revel not to be matched by a Lord Cardinal. Observe him while engaged in its mastication. His cheek is stuffed with the wholesome and savoury morsel; while his dog, with his lips overflowing with slaver, looks up expectantly into his face; and his gun lies idly by the hedge. You may note by his sidelong leer that he well enough perceives the crows at their work of depredation. But it is Christmas Day, and festival tide with him. Care may sleep at such a season; therefore let them feast on. His gun, for this day at any rate, shall sound no alarm. The season, too, makes the Boy charitable to the poor crows. Out of the treasury of his happiness he can afford to impart a blessing to them. They shall also have their Christmas Day; for though by convention they are his victims, by Creation they are his fellow-creatures. Nature made the field for them as well as for him and his master. Nay, she gave to them a special privilege in the air. Man can only walk; they can fly. Herein they are more like the angels than their tyrant. The Boy thinks, perhaps, on this—in however rude a guise—and, seized with a poetic wonder, feels the weight of the unintelligible universe, and confesses himself as great a fool as the wisest. But he, thus life-and-food-enjoying in his Christmas solitude (solitude save for those crows, who on this day dine with him, perhaps not uninvited guests),—he himself is, after all, the greatest mystery. 48 A HOLIDAY BOOK CHRISTMAS INTERIORS. BY THE OLD BACHELOR AM sure my title is appropriate, for Christmas is peculiarly the season of Interiors in England. Its charities cluster round bright and crackling hearths; its memories are of families met, often from long separation, round happy household tables; its festivities are all associated with close-drawn curtains, glowing fires, soft carpets, ruddy lights, familiar faces, the prattle and laughter of young voices, the unspoken love of man and wife; the union of the past, the present, and the future in grandparents, parents, and children; with all the sweetest and most satisfying sights, and sounds, and sentiments of home. Festivals change their character with the scene of their celebration. When the holly, and mistletoe, and laurestinus make a green bower of the village church, and the robin nestles under the sheltering layers of the snow-thatched yew, at times that the words of peace upon earth and goodwill towards men are solemnly spoken from an English pulpit, what wonder that few of us recall, in connexion with Christmas, the broad and sun-scorched plains of Eastern Chaldasa, with their sapphire night-sky, unclouded stars, and watching shepherds. Milton, in his " Hymn to the Nativity/' has gone so far as to transfer to the Oriental scene of the Nativity the snow and wintry bleakness of our own northern climate: — It was the winter wild While the Heaven-born child, All meanly wrapt, in the rude manger lies; Nature, in awe, to Him Hath doff'd her gaudy trim, "With her great Master so to sympathize. It was no season then for her To wanton with the sun, her lusty paramour. Only with speeches fair She woos the gentle air, To hide her guilty front with innocent snow, And on her naked shame, Pollute with sinful blame, The saintly veil of maiden white to throw; Confounded, that her Maker's eyes Should look so near upon her foul deformities. Our English Christmas-tide, then, is a season of Interiors—bright and warm often; often, alas! dark and cold: most of them joyous, but many sad with memories. A few of these Interiors are here humbly presented 1 by joint service of pencil and pen, as an offering appropriate to the happy and holy time. Here we are among the Children—where we ought all of us to be at Christmas time. Whatever invitations I decline, whatever invitations I accept, at Christmas, I take care of one thing, that where 1 go, there must be children—children of all ages, from the little fatling, who looks at my hard face out of wondering round eyes, and then, with dimpled, waxen fingers, gravely proceeds, in a roundabout way, to pull off my spectacles—from that little innocent, up through the toddler of three years old, who asks questions you can't answer, and will have a reason for everything—to dawning girlhood of ten, that blushes, and is beginning to feel the womanhood stir strangely in it—and so on, by romping boyhood of twelve, and shy hobbadehoyhood, growing too long for the arms of its jacket and the legs of its trousers, even up to the sweet maidenhood of seventeen (fatal to me, an old bachelor)—and there I stop—for as to the " young men" and "young women/' all accomplishments and conceit, of them I don't care how little I see at Christmas or any other time of year. No; take me to the children, and keep me there—and oh, do let me make the acquaintance, in their company, of Punch in the drawing-room, Mr. Punch, I grieve to say, is ceasing to be a mystery. Faith has failed us here as in other religions. I do not think we believe in Punch as we used to do before we knew as much about him behind the scenes as we know now, thanks to London Correspondents and such discoverers. But I have a great deal of ancient veneration; and when, the other day, I was asked by pleasant Mrs. Eyebright to engage Mr. Punch for her Christmas party, I felt a sort of fluttering—such as I remember to have first experienced, some years ago, when I had a five-act play in MS., and was solemnly introduced to the eminent tragedian of the day. I had the pleasure of introducing Mr. Punch into Mrs. Eyebright's drawing-room, and a most distinguished figure he made. I should hardly have known him from the greengrocer from round the corner, who waits, as he appeared in his black suit and white tie, which looked quite smart and fresh in the lamp-light. He behaved with an easy dignity, which yet seemed in harmony with the humour of his conversation. But he accounted for this by his familiarity with the great. " This 'ere's a nice party," he remarked to me confidentially, " and refreshments werry liberal; but, bless you, I've performed afore 'arf the Dooks and Markisses in England, I 'ave." His " pardner" (as the gentleman is called, who converses with Mr. Punch when that individual is not occupied in murdering his friends and disposing of the bodies of his victims, or suffering from illness or remorse) was a grave man, who appeared to treat Punch with much respect, calling him "Mr." scrupulously, or addressing him, as Boswell addressed Dr. Johnson, with the addition of " Sir." He was much looked up to by the children; but some of them were puzzled at the difference of size between the two interlocutors of the dialogue. And when little Mary Eyebright had been solemnly taken up by funny Mr. Edkins (who seemed to be on almost as free and easy terms with Mr. Punch as the pardner himself), to be introduced to Mr. Punch, and to offer him a piece of cake, which he THEEE IS NO DECEPTION, LADIES."— DEAWN BY LEECH. FOR CHRISTMAS AND THE NEW YEAR. accepted with a profusion of bows over the front of his box (like a dramatic author on a first night), saying, " Th—h—ank you, Miss-^err-r-wee-t," Mary was looked upon as a heroine by her little companions for the rest of the evening, and conducted herself accordingly, with a great increase of dignity. It was very painful to see Mr. Twinge, Q.C. (he is Mrs. Eyebright's uncle, and has thus acquired a right to bore us at all the family parties), labouring to undermine the children's faith by explaining to them that Mr. Punch does not really kill his wife and child and Shallabala, and he is not really carried off by the Devil in the fifth act. Confound him, why couldn't he let them believe it all, as I saw they did, the little darlings, all but Master Clutterbuck, who is a boy of a rationalistic turn of mind, and could not be kept from peeping through the curtain, and declaring contemptuously " they were not alive, and were taken out of a box." They were charmingly perplexed between Mr. Punch's humour and murderous propensities—just as one is in judging of a real man. For that is the great point in Punch, which makes the conception of him a work of genius (as unctuous old Mr. Easy explained with immense relish to jolly old Mrs. Roley during the performance, which they enjoyed as much as any of the children). "That's it, ma'am. You see, he's a confounded rogue and vagabond; but he's so pleasant with it all, one can't help liking him: rogues almost always are pleasant people. And then, as for his murdering his wife and child, and singing while he arranges them in the coffin, it's human nature, Mrs. Roley; we are all made so more or less. "We jolly dogs, very pleasant fellows, are deuced disagreeable to live with; and Mr. Punch is uncommonly popular in society, from which he retires, not unfrequently, to beat poor Judy." Before the last act, I was mysteriously beckoned by the " pardner " to the side of the box. He and Mr. Punch inside (technically called the " swatchel cove," from the swatchel, a little instrument of tin, through which Mr. Punch speaks), were in grave debate. " Will they stand him, d'ye think, sir?" asked Mr. Punch. : "Stand him! Whom?" " Why, the Devil, sir, and the comic earrying-off business arter all! We does it nows and thens, sir, with the nobility, but most times we leaves it out in the droring-room wersion. Ax the lady, sir. Do 'ave it, if you can, sir; I don't feel to do it right without him." I answered for Mrs. Eyebright, who is a woman above vulgar prejudices, and we had the Devil. I talked to Mr. Punch after the performance, on the subject of the omission, and found his reasoning against a Bowdlerised version of his 49 " They don't, consider it's a reg'lar play, sir," he said, " and angs together one part on it with another. 'Ow would they like if Macready or Charles Kean was to tip 'em < 'Amlet,' or ' Richard the Third,' or such like, with never no fifth hact? It aint- likely, sir; and it's enough to pison the children's minds, it is, if they sees Mr. Punch come off easy and quiet after sich conduct, and no moral retribootion, which is the Devil, in course; and so I tells 'em when they says it's low, wich I own it is low, and can't be otherwise; but still it's wot Punch 'as been and arned, and it's wot he ought to get, in my opinion, and I've worked him these five-and-twenty years, and ought to know. I can't abear to leave it out, sir, and that's the fact; but we can't go agin the public taste, you know, sir, as all us performers finds out—me, and the operas and theatres, and Hastley's, and all on us. 'Owsumever, you stood up for the Devil, sir, to-night; and we've 'ad it right out, as I likes it, and I'm obleeged to you, sir, and 'ere's your 'ealth; 'ere's towards you, Jem;" and, with a bow to me, and a nod to his " pardner," he buried his nose in the pewter pot, which the provident kindness of Mrs. Eyebright had set out for him in the back-parlour, where he and his « pardner" had what they called a " riglar blow-out," greatly to the amazement of the children, who clustered round the door, and, peeping fearfully in, saw, with much disappointment, that Mr. Punch was not in the chair, with Shallabala, Judy, and the rest of the dramatis personce seated round the table. I had Bowed Mr. Punch and " pardner" out, and was on my way back to the drawing-room, when I heard a terrific burst, half terror, half laughter, with cries, and rushings to and fro, and gigglings and shouts Opening the door—Oh these children! what miracle will not their happy* presence work on the sourest, and most rational and atrabilious of us old folks!—if there was not grave and iconoclastic Mr. Twinge, Q.C., with all his weight of law, and fifty-six years on his head, performing the " Giant," draped in Mr. Eyebright's dressing-gown, surmounted by a wonderful extempore mask, held in his uplifted hands. Yes, there was the severe Twinge, as great a child as any there, exhibited by funny Mr. Edkins as "the Californian Giant,and no deception, ladies"—mopping and mowing and knocking his hat against the chandelier,, and breaking his shins over the furniture, and becoming enamoured of the young ladies, and delighting the bold children, and terrifying the timid ones into fits. I couldn't exactly understand the expression of his face when it was all over, and he had bowed his way out, and, undraping on the landing, caught my eyo He looked as if he was ashamed, and,.ashamed of his shame, and proud and angry, and pleased arid vexed all at the same time. For my own part, I have never thought him half such a bore since. 50 A HOLIDAY BOOK A LAMENT FOE THE HEROES OF OLD CHRISTMAS TALES—GHOSTS. BY ANGUS B. REACH. CHRISTMAS HAT choppings and changings we're making, 'Tis old fashioned now to drink Toasts; There's no one I know who wears Hessian Boots, And none who're believers in Ghosts. True, you may dream of such rococo things After supping on underdone pork; But a genuine 'Ghost is as hard to be met As a waggon 'twixt London and York! Yet this was the time—the Christmas time— When, around the Christmas fire, Such terrible stories we whispered all Of phantoms shadowy, grim, and tall, Who, instead of a paletot, wore a pall, And death-watches living on tick in the wall; And goblins with eyes which would gleam and flash, And skeletons sitting on chests of cash, And departed ladies, wan and pale, With hoop and brocade and farthingale, Which rustled and waved, as, without ever banging A door, they went out by the tapestry hanging. And dozens of others, some of them lodging In haunted houses grim and lone; And some upon midnight commons trudging, Where murderous deeds were long since done! Where are they now? Pooh, pooh, sir, Where is your last year's tin? Where are they now? Pooh, pooh, ma'am, Where is a last year's pin? Gone—all—gone—though, perhaps, After all, 'tis a great relief That pauper ghosts can manage Neither in-door nor out-door belief! And yet it is not—I grieve to state— That our minds are so much improved of late: Some folks espouse the " legitimist's " part, And a handful will still pin their faith to High Art; But, whatever the whimsey which rules the roast, There's no one will own a belief in a Ghost! Then are we not, in sooth, An irreverent set of dogs, To have never a spectre tale For our burning Christmas logs? To say to our ancient friends, " Come, pass on, Gentlemen, pass— You really can't co-exist With Chloroform, Steam, and Gas!" Just think of a " haunted house " In a newly run-up square— Imagine a spirit of old In a Cemetery taking the air. Or think with what awkward names A credulous man they would dub, Who had solemnly whispered it round, " He had just seen a Ghost at the Club." So let it be—pass from our startled sight, Ye ghastly shadows, into utter night; Cease to afflict the sick man's darkened room, Gibber no longer o'er the moonlit tomb; You cannot give us, and we would not crave, Knowledge of aught beyond the severing grave: Ours be the earth: ours, until crack of doom, The morning sunlight as the midnight gloom ; Yours—a domain, by human eye unseen, Till Death has bridged the gulf which lies between. SPORTS. BY UNCLE TOM. ET me suppose that the Christmas Dinner has been served and eaten— and that the reader has heard so much about Christmas cheer and old English fare as to render unnecessary any further expatiation upon their abundance or their excellence—that the pudding, prime favourite and very symbol, as far as eating is concerned, of the great English festival of the year, has been displayed, steaming and delicious, and has been pronounced by all tasters, whether young or old, to have been super-excellent—that the dessert has been placed upon the table—and that all has been enjoyed that weak human nature can enjoy in the way of edibles and potables: what is next to be done at any comfortable circle, to which the reader is supposed to be invited ? The thought arises in all minds— especially in the young ones—that something more should be done in celebration of the day. Eating and drinking are but vulgar modes of enjoyment (and it is - astonishing how prone people are to come to this sage conclusion after they have feasted sufficiently)—and something else is therefore to be thought of to keep up the genial hilarity of Christmas Night. What shall it be? I suppose a family circle, the members of which, both young and old, are aware of the claims of the poor and unhappy. They have distributed their bounty, according to their means, among all the needy within reach of it; they have not forgotten the servants that are warm in the kitchen, nor the beggar that is cold at the gate; and they have clear consciences, and nothing to trouble them, either done or undone, for the remainder of the day. The question is asked at such a board as this; and a little musical voice of a boy of eight or nine, or of a girl of six or seven years of age, pronounces in favour of " Snap-Dragon." A voice more musical still, from blushing seventeen, of the softer sex, pronounces for a dance, possibly with some lurking visions of the Mistletoe-Bough; while a rough voice from the less interesting sex hints that " Hunt-the-SHpper " is a most delightful sport, the sly speaker having probably a sweetheart in the room, the " seventeen " aforesaid; and being anxious to come into such close proximity with her as " Hunt-the-Slipper" not only allows, but imperatively commands. Another voice, that of a boy from school, entering upon twelve or thirteen, hints that the exhibition of the Magic Lantern would be the best thing to begin with; and it is decided, after some dubiety all round, that the Magic Lantern shall, first of all, display its wonders to the impatient juveniles; that, if they behave themselves, "Snap-Dragon" shall come next; that "Hunt-the-Slipper" will be a pleasant variety after "SnapDragon;" that after "Snap-Dragon" "Forfeits" may be tried; and that the whole festivity may wind up with music and the dance, and kisses under the Mistletoe-Bough, to those who are fond of kisses. This being agreed to, the next thing is to Put out the light, and then— the magic lantern shall display its marvels and its mysteries. The lights are extinguished accordingly; the magic apparatus is mounted and turned to the darkened wall, and little inquisitive boys and girls look on with almost breathless interest, and in pleased yet fearful anticipation of the revelations which are to be made. Behold! a mighty crocodile floats unwieldily over the bright space upon the wall. He is not quite so large as the Sea-Serpent of Captain M'QuhaB, whose existence has been as logically disproved by Professor Owen, as Napoleon Bonaparte's was by the Archbishop of Dublin; but, nevertheless, he looks very large and voracious, and opens his leathern jaws to swallow a remarkable nigger in front of him. The nigger has not the presence of mind of Mr. Waterton, to jump upon its back and ride it. He runs away; the crocodile pursues; but, at the very moment when he is about to be swallowed up, both pursuer and pursued disappear into nothingness. The figure of a clown, merry as Grimaldi, comes next in rotation. He gambols upon the walls, pursued by a personage no less tremendous than grim Death himself. The King of Terrors brandishes his fatal dart, and' grins horribly, in all the FOR CHRISTMAS AND THE NEW YEAR. majesty of bone, jaw, skull, and teeth, with which the popular imagination has invested him. He, too, disappears; but his place is not left vacant. A figure somewhat more graceful and agreeable succeeds. It is Columbine—fresh, agile, and beautiful. At her feet, soliciting her smile, kneels our old friend Bottom, the weaver, his ass's head firmly fixed upon his shoulders. He has followed her from Titania's bower, to sue for the love that has long been promised to that identical Harlequin who comes next, kneeling at the feet of Queen Victoria. Titania follows, and dances a jig with Richard III., while Paganini, fiddling with might and main, ushers in Lady Macbeth and the King of the Cannibal Islands. And last of all, comes a more coherent story, the whole adventures of Jack the Giant-Killer; that hero dear to all boys who have a particle of generosity and imagination in their souls. Does there exist a man who never envied Jack his seven-league boots and his invisible coat, and who never laughed at that inimitable trick by which he made the gluttonous, falsehearted Welsh giant commit suicide? If there do exist such a man, he is like the man who hath no music in his soul, and is most assuredly Pit for treason, stratagems, and spoils. Let no such man be trusted. He may possibly make his way in the world—he may pay his bills when they become due—he may be an alderman or a sheriff; he may die and leave money to endow an hospital; he may do all the fine things that wealthy men can do, but he will not be a kindly man; he will not lead a forlorn hope, or put himself out of his way to be of striking and paramount service to anybody;—he will not set the Thames on fire, put his name to a bill to serve his friend, or do anything very chivalrous, romantic, foolish, or generous. No. The man who did not, when a boy, admire Jack the Giant-Killer, and sympathise, at the same time, with the woes, and rejoice in the good fortune of Jack who climbed the bean-stalk, is a hard, dry man, with no poetry in his composition; and does not deserve to see Jack reproduced even in a magic lantern. But this digression over, turn we to the giant of our lantern, and behold him struggling in the pit which Jack has dug for him, and which; as we all know, the cunning hero has covered over with turfs, rushes, straw, and ]oose earth—a flimsy covering upon which the unsuspecting monster has no sooner set his foot than down he goes—deep—deepdeeper—irretrievably deep—to be decapitated at the leisure of his daring conqueror. Behold how his jaws open, capacious enough to swallow Jack, boots and all! How his hair bristles on his head—each individual hair standing upright, not like the quills on the porcupine, but tall as a pinetree of the forest. See how his eyes glare portentously large, like the broad disc of the orb of day, shining of a bright copper colour, through the dense spoon-meat of a metropolitan fog in the month of November! For the benefit of this particular exhibition of his prowess, Jack has doffed his invisible coat, that he may be seen of all the world; and has donned his seven-league boots, that he may scamper faster than the wind, over hill, over dale, over bog, over brake, over river and lake, and pass over a whole city at one bound ! 0 boots of delightful memory ! How often, in the days ere the beard grows, and ere the young heart learns to think that it belongs to a man, does Fancy, believing in your existence, long to get possession of you. Would we not astonish the good people of the nineteenth century, with our boots and our spurs ! Would we, also, not kill giants and rescue distressed damsels ! I should think we would—or we should not have the stuff in us, which enters largely into the formation of the true gentleman^ Jack's adventures, it may not be known to all readers, are founded upon the old Norse mythology; Jack himself being a personage no less mighty and remarkable than Thor, the godfather of our English Thursday. " Thor, the thunder God," says Mr. Carlyle, " has been changed into Jack the Giant-Killer of our nurseries, with his miraculous shoes of swiftness, coat of darkness, and sword of sharpness/' Mr. Carlyle says truly. " They are one and the same, with this difference in their adventures, that Thor, god as he was, did not always succeed in his undertakings, or in his warfare against the giants; while Jack, the friend of our boyhood, is invariably successful/' And, on closing the magic lantern for the night, having seen the last of Jack and the giants, it may be an agreeable variety in the amusements to hear another story of Jack's, or Thor's failures, recorded from the Norse Mythology, in the quaint language of our good friend, Mr. Carlyle, who, among the other heroes deified in his book on " Hero-worship," speaks with much unction of Jack, under his more grandiloquent name of Thor. "After various adventures," says he, "Thor, accompanied by Thialfi and Loke, his servants, entered upon Giantland, and wandered over plains, wild uncultivated places, among stones and trees. At nightfall they noticed a house; and, as the door, which indeed formed one whole side of the house, was open, they entered. It was a simple habitation— one large hall, altogether empty. They stayed there. Suddenly, in the dead of the night, loud voices alarmed them. Thor grasped his hammer, and stood in the doorway, prepared for fight. His companions within ran hither and thither in their terror, seeking some outlet in that rude hall; 51 they found a little closet at last, and took refuge there. Neither had Thor any battle; for, lo! in the morning it turned out that the noise had been only the snoring of a certain enormous, but peaceable, giant—the giant Skrymir, who lay peaceably sleeping near by; and this that they took for a house was merely his glove thrown aside there: the door was the glove-wrist; the little closet they had fled into was the thumb! Such a glove I I remark, too, that it had not fingers, as ours have; but only a thumb, and the rest undivided—a most ancient, rustic glove! " Skrymir now carried their portmanteau all day; Thor, however, had his suspicions, did not like the ways of Skrymir, and determined at night to put an end to him as he slept. Raising his hammer, he struck down into the giant's face, a right thunderbolt blow, of force to rend rocks. The giant merely awoke, rubbed his cheek, and said, c Did a leaf fall?' Again Thor struck, as soon as Skrymir again slept, a better blow than before; but the giant only murmured, c Was that a grain of sand?' Thor's third stroke was with both his hands (the c knuckles white,' I suppose), and seemed to cut deep into Skrymir's visage; but he merely checked his snore, and remarked, ' There must be sparrows roosting in this tree, I think; what is that they have dropped?" At the gate of TJtgard—a place so high, that you had to strain your neck bending back to see the top of it—Skrymir went his way. Thor and his companions were admitted; invited to take share in the games going on. To Thor, for his part, they handed a drinking-horn; it was a common feat, they told him, to drink this dry at one draught. Long and fiercely, three times over, Thor drank, but made hardly any impression. He was a weak child, they told him; could he lift that cat he saw there? Small as the feat seemed, Thor, with his whole godlike strength, could not: he bent up the creature's back, could not raise its feet off the ground, could at the utmost raise one foot. ' Why, you are no man,' said the Utgard people; ' there is an old woman that will wrestle with you/ Thor, heartily ashamed, seized this haggard old woman, but could not throw her. And now, on their quitting Utgard—the chief Jotun, escorting them politely a little way, said to Thor—' You are beaten, then; yet, be not so much ashamed: there was deception of appearance in it. That horn you tried to drink was the sea; you did make it ebb: but who could drink that, the bottomless? The cat you would have lifted—why, that is the Midgard Snake, the Great World Serpent—which, tail in mouth, girds and keeps up the whole created world. Had you torn that up, the world must have rushed to ruin. As for the old woman, she was Time, Old Age, Duration: with her, what can wrestle? No man, nor no god, with her. Gods or men, she prevails over all! And then, those three strokes you struck— look at these valleys—your three strokes made these/ Thor looked at his attendant Jotun—it was Skrymir. It was, say old critics, the old chaotic rocky earth in person, and that glove house was some earth cavern! But Skrymir had vanished. Utgard, with its sky-high gates, when Thor raised his hammer to smite them, had gone to air, only the giant's voice was heard mocking: c Better come no more to Jotunheim!'" And, with this fine legend, I leave Jack to the better acquaintance of all who desire to know his true history, the more especially as time fails us in consequence of the preparations having commenced for SnapDragon. The large pewter dish, filled with spirit, is placed upon the floor, and attracts the attention of all the party. The light is applied— the flame burns beautifully azure, tipped with amber and scarlet, and whisks and frisks in a manner delightful to the joyous eyes of infancy and childhood to contemplate. All children have a hankering after fire. Its beauty charms and fascinates their sight, but rarely are they allowed to look save at a respectful distance, and never except at Christmas are they permitted to toy with flames. But the dangerous and too-beautiful sport is legalized for this one night, and for this only; and the pleasure, great in proportion to its rarity, causes their eyes to glow with a brilliancy almost equal to that of flame itself. Throw in the plums. The spirit burns, the dish is a lake of fire; and he who can gather the prize from the jaws of peril, is welcome to it. " Fortune favours the bold." " Faint heart never won a plum." These are the maxims upon which those must act who expect to win the honours or the rewards of Snap-Dragon, and of human life also. The prizes, however, are but small in Snap-Dragon—the glory and the excitement are in the circumstances under which they are sought —like fox-hunting, in which there is next to nothing to be gained by the paltry animal pursued; but much to be gained in the lusty jollity and pleasurable exercise of the pursuit itself. But while the youngest members of a Christmas party are at first more enamoured of Snap-Dragon than of any of the other sports of the night, they weary of it after awhile; and on small solicitation consent to join in the somewhat less boisterous, but equally exhilarating game of Hunt-the-Slipper, and share the delight of those who are a few years their seniors. The frolic is of a different kind; and morose and unsocial must those be that never enjoyed it. It is not a little amusing to note the struggle with pride that sometimes assumes a place upon the countenances of middle-aged and old people when they are pressed into the service of Hunt-the-Slipper, and how at last the solemn man of business, and the staid matron, yield to the solicitations and to the example of the lighter-hearted folk around them, and, HOME MYTHOLOGY.-DKAWN BY PHIZ. A HOLIDAY BOOK FOR CHRISTMAS AND THE NEW YEAR. with comic gravity, sit down on the floor and play their part in the game. A grave sergeant-at-law, or the elderly author of an incomparable and incomprehensible treatise upon metaphysics, or a spectacled physician of sixty sitting upon his hams on a carpet, and passing the slipper under them with all the dexterity, if not with all the glee, of a school-boy, is a sight to be enjoyed. Christmas alone affords it; and Christmas is none the worse the day after, in the estimation of these sober and sensible people, for having taken them off their stilts, and given them a new and pleasant lesson in the humanities. Kissing under the Mistletoe-Bough is a sport of a tenderer kind. It is to be delicately done, or to be left undone; and requires a discretion which, almost lifts it out of the rank of sports. Nevertheless, it is excellent sport when the right lips meet; and such as gives Christmas its paramount interest above all popular festivals whatsoever. But who talks of sport when the Punch is made? It casts its pleasant fragrance upon the air; and rum, brandy, schiedam, whiskey, and wine, woo in their various ways the taste of those who love to celebrate Christmas after the old fashion! And hark! the sound of music: the dance begins; and Polka—the universal Polka—summons all hands and feet to another celebration; and to a sport in comparison to which all others are of small account. Eeader, let us go; Uncle Tom has said his say. He cannot resist the Polka! HOME MYTHOLOGY.—CHRISTMAS CAEOLS. BY WILLIAM T. MONCRIEFF. 53 II.—THE STRANGER ON THE BARS. [Many fanciful indications are gathered from the appearance of that airy visitant commonly termed " a stranger on the bars," formed by the action of the fire on the smoke, &c, of the coals. If the flake hangs upon the top bar, it betokens a person of consequence; if on a lower bar, his position in life is proportionably decreased, and the expectation consequently lessened. If theflakeis of an entire form, without any rent or jag about it, it betokens the stranger will be free from any defect or infirmity; and from the fire burning bright or looking gloomy, a fair conclusion, it is supposed, may be drawn as to whether the stranger will bring joy or sorrow. Should the coals suddenly burst into a sulphurous or gaseousflame,it is supposed3 the stranger is military and of an ardent temperament: with a thousand other harmless and fanciful follies. It is usual for young girls, &c, to clap their hands before thefilmyflakes,calculating the time the. stranger may be supposed to arrive from their falling off the bar. Dark, fragile, and -uncertain as they are, it must not be wondered at that these filmy flakes should have been pressed into the service of fireside superstition.] a Stranger on the Bars! which are breathing smoke and fire, So he's coming from the wars. What's his rank? It can't be higher; He's on the topmost bar, lightly dancing to my view, All compact. He has no scar. Ah! my heart is dancing too. Tall in stature; not too thin. How I love a son of Mars! Born for victory, still they win. There's a Stranger on the Bars! Will he bring me joy or sorrow? Will he wake the tear or sigh? Will he come to-day? to-morrow? Let me clap my hands and try. Will you come to-day? 'Tis Sunday. [Claps hands.] Though I kneel, vain I command. Let me try again. On Monday? [Claps again.] Ah! he yields him to my hand. To my breast he makes a dart. Clear the fire! I bless my stars— With love's flame hell cheer my heart. There's a Stranger on the Bars! THERE'S DOMESTIC SUPEKSTITIONS. EING the yule-log—feed high the flame— , Gather around the cheerful fire, And let old superstitions claim A passing thought ere they expire. The fairies were a merry set, Working their spells to aid, to bless, And to the sad heart dearer yet, Ever for mirth and cheerfulness ! A song, a song, ere yet too late; Let youth and mirth this festive time In sportive frolic dedicate. Let others raise the loftier rhyme, Still, Home Mythology, to thee A simple song shall offered be. I.—CAEOL OF THE CAT. PUSHING, purring, purring, with a soothing dreamy sound, And half-closed eyes, thou singest as in ecstasy profound. For joy and rest thy songs seem born, a calm and quiet tune; Like to a gurgling brook, that serenades the listening moon. I love thy soft, thy drowsy song, it ever gives me glee, And, Pussy, in return 111 dedicate a song to thee, And all to which, thy acts are signs from mighty Pharaoh's reign. Then pur, and pur, and pur, and pur, and pur, and pur again; Purring, purring, purring, with a soft and dreamy sound, And half-closed eyes, before the fire, in ecstasy profound. Thou washest o'er thy left ear. Ah ! to-morrow there'll be rain, And I have promised with my love to rove o'er hill and plain. Oh,, naughty Pussy, why that sign? thou'rt in an angry mood. Thou sneezest! that an omen is that never comes to good. A cold throughout the house there'll be—a cold, yes, Puss, a cold. Thou scratchest, too, my table's legs. Well, that should bring me gold. 'Tis better than the miser who some dunghill rakes for pelf, Ah ! thou leap'st upon my lap ! that shows thou lov'st me for myself. Purring, purring, purring, with a soft and dreamy sound, And half-closed eyes, before the fire, in ecstasy profound. Oh, pretty Puss ! oh, gentle Puss ! pur on, pur on, pur on; I'll pat and smooth thy velvet coat if thou, my lovely one (Last eve when out the candle went by chance), wilt not remark Whose lips were kiss'd, for well I know thou canst see in the dark. 'Tis no disloyal thing I ask, though there was no one nigh. I know, though I was sovereign then, I can't thy silence buy. Thou saw'st the kiss he stole, as low he spoke about the ring; Proud as I' was, for, Pussy, thou may'st look upon a King, Purring, purring, purring, with a soft and dreamy sound, And half-closed eyes, before the fire, as if in bliss profound. HI.—FORTUNE IN THE TEA-CUP. 'Tis empty, 'tis empty, I've drain'd the last sup, Let me try now the power of the crucible cup; I have put in the sugar, the type of life's joy— I have pour'd in the cream, peace that never can cloy. I have put in the black and I've put in the green, With refreshment and vigour to gladden the scene, With mystical warmth all their virtues expressing In the dregs reading grounds of misfortune or blessing, Too pleased, should but hope, while the cup I twirl found, As in Pandora's box, at the bottom be found. Turn the cup, turn the cup, it our fate will reveal, Once more, turn again, for thus turns fortune's wheel. Turn the cup, turn the cup. Turn it round, turn it round, it will quickly be seen, By the dregs, if life's aspect looks dark or serene— Is mix'd or unmix'd, is confused or is clear. Ah, those leaves close together! then danger is near. A ring, house, and cradle; young Love should beware. A drop in the cup! Is it comfort or care ? Hold! I see a clear path—it winds through a dark wood; No stalks cross its progress—it promises good. All's unravell'd—smooth, fair, nought betokens annoy; What is this? it is clearly a purse. Oh, what joy! Turn the cup, turn the cup, it your fate will reveal; Once more, turn again, for thus turns fortune's wheel. Turn the cup, turn the cup. IV.—SNUFFING OUT THE CANDLE. [Accidentally to snuff out the candle, is an omen that the party so unluckily extinguishing the flame will not be married during the current year. If a spark should be left in the snuffed-out wick, and the party can re-kindle theflamebyblowing on it, the omen may be averted. The candle as an obvious emblem of mortality has in all ages been a great agent in the hands of superstition; witness the winding-sheet, the Welsh corpse candles, &c] O H dear ! I've the candle snufFd out, And my heart's overpower'd with fear; For I really begin now to doubt Whether I shall be married this year. Love may go out, or cease to burn bright, 'Tis a positive omen, oh dear ! Young Hymen his torch may not light, And I may not be married this year: No, for young Hymen's torch there's no light, And I may not be married this year. 54 A HOLIDAY BOOK B u t the flame in a breath t h a t may die, A breath may again make appear: There's a spark, so my fortune 111 try, F o r I long to be married this year. A rude breath my hope might destroy; Blow softly, blow soft—Oh, what fear!—(blows) I t beams brighter—(blows again)—it lights: oh, what j o y ! Yes, I now shall be married this year. I t beams brighter—it lights—oh, what j o y ! Yes, I now shall be married this year. V.—THE NEW MOON". [Classic lore has delighted in giving the Moon celestial power, assigning it a place in its pantheon under the name of Diana, Luna, &c. Its monthly changes, its influence on the tides, &c, are less mysterious than the power it exercises over the reason of mortals. Within two or three years a magazine was written and printed by the patients of a lunatic asylum in Scotland, and published under the title of the " JN~ew Moon." The writer has seen one of its numbers: it is painfully interesting; so imperceptible appear in it the boundaries between reason and insanity.] GOOD even, New Moon! lovely Moon! bonny Moon! Though I see thee but half, ne'er eclipsed be thy beams; To some thou'rt an evil, to some thou'rt a boon— To some thou'rt the sweet honey month of Love's dreams, Bonny Moon, but I must not look at thee through glass, For there should be nought 'twixt m y gaze and the sky. I f I did, a dark cloud o'er t h y fair face might pass, Though calm and resplendent thou ridest on high. Good e'en, new acquaintance, ne'er change but for good ; I n thy praise hark the brook murmurs forth a glad t u n e : I hail thee, I welcome thee, Moon, as I should; I curtsey, I curtsey, to thee, bonny Moon— Bonny Moon! Bonny Moon ! My money I'll turn, for thou still canst impart A charm, bonny Moon, as in bright days of old, A crucible charm, with alchemical art, That converts lead to silver, turns copper to gold. Lovely Moon, bonny Moon; ah ! so witching thy s w a y ; W e know not if thou'rt sent for good or for bad. Thy rule the fierce tides of the ocean obey, But the charm of thy fair face makes thousands go mad. Good e'en, new acquaintance, ne'er change but for good; I n thy praise hark the brook murmurs forth a glad t u n e ; I trust thee, I welcome thee, Moon, as I should— I curtsey, I curtsey, to thee, bonny Moon 1 Bonny Moon ! Bonny Moon ! Now, New Moon, let me wish, as all should who see t h e e ; But I'll wish not for pleasures too soon that may p a l l ; Shall I wish for renown—love—or what shall it be ? No, for something I'll wish that shall purchase them all— I'll wish-—yes, I'll wish, but m y wish must be seal'd ; F o r as I once heard an old village dame say, N o wish will come true that is ever revealed ! Yet, 'tis something most d e a r : guess it then what you may. Good e'en, new acquaintance, ne'er change but for good; I n thy praise hark the brook murmurs forth a glad tune. I hail thee ! I welcome thee, Moon, as I should. I curtsey, I curtsey, to thee, bonny Moon 1 Bonny Moon ! Bonny Moon ! VI.—CAROL OF THE CRICKET. [If we extend the fanciful Rosicrusian system of Count Gabalis, in peopling the four elements with its peculiar inhabitants, we should in the insect world account the cricket as the salamanders and salamandrines, they being literally creatures that work in the fire. Who has not suddenly heard the song of the cricket, when sitting dreamily in the twilight, and starting as they heard, exclaiming with Shakspeare, " Where should this music be—in the earth or the air?" Leigh Hunt has a very beautiful sonnet on this little insect, whom it not inaptly makes the companion of the grasshopper; and the passage in which Dickens describes the rivalry of the cricket with the louder tea-kettle, must be still fresh in every one's recollection. Before finally parting with the cricket, we should not omit to notice, in reference to the salamandrine qualities of its mate, Dr. Mackay's beautiful poem, "The Salamandrine."] C H I R P ! chirp! chirp! 'tis the cricket on the hearth: T h e herald of sweet comfort, waking thoughts of rest and mirth. Blest note, though harsh and shrill it sounds, it still to us is dear; I t brings back thoughts of days long gone—of all that then were here— Of t h e old familiar faces of our childhood's home once more, Of the cherished social circle time can ne'er again restore; Though its song m a y be monotonous, still sweet variety Lurks in its lively chirp! chirp! chirp!—the fairy horn of glee. O h ! happy, happy cricket, in thy Salamandrine b r i d e — A mate whose voice is never heard, thyself thou well may'st pride. Chirp! chirp! chirp! Chirp! chirp! chirp!—'tis the cricket on the h e a r t h : I t s song is still most welcome of the melodies of earth. W e hail thee, merry cricket, for thou'rt loudest heard at night, W h e n the circle is assembled, and the log is burning bright. As the grasshopper in summer—the ripen'd harvest noon— W h e n the sun is shining brightly, chirrups forth a pleasant tune. Thou tiniest of ventriloquists, whose startling note at night Still caused our youthful wonder, as we listened with delight, Leaping forth from out the centre of the seeming glowing hearth, I n the lapses of the darkness, mingling terror with our mirth. Chirp! chirp! chirp! C h i r p ! chirp! chirp!—'tis the cricket on the h e a r t h : Our own dear Lar—our household god—to peace still giving birth! Thou com'st to us with joy and music on thy sounding wings; Good fortune to the house good housewives know thy coming brings. Thy chirp is not the voice of death; go, ask the watching wife : She'll say thy voice inspires her through lone hours with thoughts of life. I t luckless is to kill thee, thou darling little thing, F o r 'tis but in harmless rivalry thou'dst 'gainst all others sing. W e know thy voice will still be heard till the early morning's light— A watcher through the lonely hours when we have said " Good n i g h t ! " Chirp! chirp! chirp! VII.—WILL IT BE FINE TO-MOEEOW ? OE, THE CAEOL OF THE BAEOMETEK. [The weather-wise have been found in all ages and in all classes, among the acute observers of nature and pretenders to superior sagacity, a very numerous class. This natural augury, this orthodox divination, as it is daily called into practice, i3 not very likely to be easily forgotten. The ingenuity of man has invented weather-glasses, and resorted to science and mechanics for the construction of the barometer, &c; but amongst our very rudest peasantry will be found human barometers quite as infallible, and to be consulted with quite as much confidence, and trusted to with quite as much certainty. The weather has not been fairly treated; in fact, it is in general very foully treated. Who is there that, gravelled for lack of matter, has not found a friend in the weather? and yet how ungratefully do we use it! We are never satisfied with it: it is either too hot or too cold; still this same weather generally " shapes our ends, rough-hew them as we will."] O H , be propitious, gentle skies; be fine, be fine to-morrow I F o r I am going out—with whom, and where, why mention here ? A n d should it chance to be o'ercast,. 'twill fill m y heart with sorrow. Yes, every drop of rain that falls will wring from me a tear. If hollow blows the rising wind, how shall I answering sigh ? If low the glass, how will my heart sink at the sight with sorrow ? B u t no, I saw the sun set red—the bats, too, blithely fly— The stars shine bright—it will be fine, it will be fine to-morrow! If mopes the spaniel on the hearth, my heart will feel as dull— But lightly flew the gossamer—from that I'll promise borrow—The cowslip bells were fill'd with dew, with joy my heart was full— The beetles flew in circling round—it will be fine to-morrow! N o peacocks scream'd, no donkeys bray'd, the moon shines bright and fair, N o gabbling ducks, no stinging gnats, woke thoughts of future sorrow ; Puss by the fire sat dozing, undisturbing her left e a r ; The chairs and tables do not crack! I t will be fine to-morrow! W h e n late, last Lammas-tide, the warning signs we disregarded, N o r heeded how the trembling fane sway'd on the high church spire, Loud broke the storm, our ardent hopes too justly were rewarded, Let's hail then the bright omen's dream of gratified desire. If low the swallows skim the stream—avert it, gracious powers! 'Twill overcloud hope's fairy dream, and fill our hearts with sorrow; But brightly will to-morrow beam, and strew our path with flowers. Love will our sunshine double. Yes, it will be fine to-morrow ! VIII.—LOVE SPELLS. [The great business of life being love, and the ties with which it is bound by marriage, it will excite no surprise that love spells should be among the principal charms by which a knowledge of futurity was sought to be gained. Midsummer Eve, or the Vigil of St. John, in June, and All Hallowe'en, the Vigil of All Saints, at the commencement of November, were the two periods of the year in which these charms were more particularly supposed to be efficacious. The charm of the hempseed is perhaps one of the most generally known of the love spells which have been recorded by the curious. Gay, in one of his rustic pastorals, has enumerated many of these spells; and Burns in his "Hallowe'en" still more.] 'Tis Midsummer-eve, the much-dreaded, desired; 'Tis the mystical eve of the Baptist St, John. The eyes that watch'd o'er us to rest have retired, A n d Midnight draws near—we are now left alone; Such grace hath the hour 'twill the future make known, FOR CHRISTMAS AND THE NEW YEAR. 55 But test we the proof—to the garden let's steal: Try the spell of the hempseed, our fates 'twill reveal. PICTUKES FOR CHEISTMAS. Cross we but the threshold and gain'd is the bower, The watch-dog the steps of his mistress will know. So holy the season all charms now have power, The moon shining brightly above and below, All in turn to some undisclosed influence bow. With the magical fernseed, oh! were we supplied! That no one might see us invisibly glide. Though now they no blessing-fires raise on each hill, Through which to gain passage, or boldly leap o'er; Though no garlands are woven, in sign of good-will, Of the orpine or birch overshading each door, Keeping foul things afar, as in bright days of yore; Yet we'll sow the charmed hempseed, love's secret make known, 'Tis the time, 'tis the time, 'tis the Eve of St. John. Caution! ope the door gently, and forth let us go. All is silent—fear nothing; the garden is gain'd. Now sow we the hemp-seed, now use we the hoe; Draw the mould softly o'er it, and all is attain'd; Pause not, and the wish of our hearts shall be gain'd. Yes, "Hempseed I sow," yes, "Hempseed I hoe;" Oh, thou who'st to wed me come after and mow. Ah! a step! some one follows—oh, dare I look back? Should the omen be adverse, how would my heart writhe. Love, brace up my sinews! Who treads on my track? 'Tis he, 'tis the loved one, he comes with the scythe; He mows what I've sown—bound my heart and be blithe. On Midsummer-eve the glad omen is won, Then hail to thy mystical vigil, St. John! IX.—GOOD NIGHT!—DREAMS. 1 —r^\ y\ A ^ \ H E Engraving upon the following page depicts an olden custom, probably of the age of Chaucer; it is commemorated in one of our earliest printed books, and is retained, yet with many innovations, to this day. Such is BRINGING IN THE BOAR'S HEAD. The origin of the ceremony of bringing in the BOAR'S HEAD with singing to the high table in the Hall of Queen's College, Oxford, on Christmas Day, is unknown; but it may reasonably be inferred that the custom has been observed from the foundation of the College in 1340, since we find that a Boar's Head, Crested with bays and rosemary, was a standing dish in the Baronial Halls in olden time at Christmas, and was ushered to table with great solemnity, trumpeters sounding before it. Indeed, a whole Boar was sometimes brought to table, adorned with rosemary and gilded, with an apple or orange in its mouth. Bringing in the Boar's Head is, as may be supposed, a very attractive scene to the good citizens of Oxford, there being sometimes as many as four or five hundred of them ranged in the Hall and Gallery looking into the Hall, and a most interesting sight it is, recalling the ancient customs, when stood open wide the baron's Hall To vassal, tenant, serf, and all; Power laid his rod of rule aside, And Ceremony doffed his pride. The heir, with roses in his shoes, That night might village partner choose; The lord, underogating, share The vulgar game of " post and pair." All hailed, with uncontrolled delight, And general voice, the happy night That to the cottage as the crown Brought tidings of salvation down. S I R W A L T E R SCOTT. ALL good Angels hover round me, Shield me from the ills of night; In soft chains when sleep has bound me Let no thought of harm affright; But let Dreams my fate unveil me— They will heavenly heralds be Of whatever may befal me— Sorrow or Felicity. Guard me, Angels! Guard me, Angels! From each ill that may affright— Death-watch, nightmare, sheeted phantom: Bless my slumbers. Oh, Good Night! Let me dream of smiling skies, Bright pure streams—they'll omen be Of all in life that most we prize— Pleasure and serenity. Let me dream of pleasant bells— Sweet token of felicity To every heart where passion dwells As fondly as it dwells with me. Guard me, Angels! Guard me, Angels! From each ill that may affright— Death-watch, nightmare, sheeted phantom: Bless my slumbers. Oh, Good Night! If in the depths of night I wake, Salute my senses, Chanticleer, For evil spirits still forsake The spot wherein thy voice they hear. Let me wake but with the morn— Day's twittering call to rouse the hours— The bee's warm hum—the hunter's horn— The opening bud of early flowers. Guard me, Angels! Guard me, Angels! From each ill that may affright— Death-watch, nightmare, sheeted phantom: Bless my slumbers. Oh, Good Night! er^r$> The Boar's Head, highly decorated with bay, holly, rosemary, &c, in a large pewter dish, is slowly borne into the Hall by two strong servants of the College, who hold it up as high as they can, that it may be seen by the visitors ranged on either side of the Hall. The gentleman who sings the ancient Carol, or " Boar's Head Song," (generally one of the members of the College, though, sometimes, one of the Choir of Magdalen College) immediately precedes the Boar's Head, and as he commences the song with " The Boar's Head in hand bear I," touches the dish with his right hand. Two young choristers from Magdalen College follow, to sing, conjointly with many of the junior members of Queen's College, the chorus Ci Caput Apri Defero," &c. The dish is carried, as before stated, to the high table, where sit the Provost, Bursar, Fellows, &c, and about which many visitors are congregated. The Carol, consisting of a bass solo, with chorus, chanted at this old "time-honoured" ceremony, is one altered from " A Caroll bryngyng in the Bore's Heed," in a collection of " Christmasse Carolles newly emprynted at London in the Flete-strete, at the sygne of the Sonne, by Wynkyn de Worde, the yere of our Lord M.D.XX.," and is as follows:— THE BOAR'S HEAD SONG. The Boar's Head in hand bear I, Bedeck'd with bays and rosemary, And I pray you, my masters, be merry, Quot estis in convivio. Caput Apri defero Eeddens laudes Domino. The Boar's Head, as I understand, Is the bravest dish in all the land, When thus bedeck'd with a gay garland, Let us servite cantico. Caput Apri defero Beddens laudes Domino. Our steward hath provided this • In honour of the King of Bliss, "Which on this day to be served is I n Keginensi Atrio. Caput Apri defero Reddens laudes Domino. BEINGING m THE BOAE'S HEAD, AT QUEEN'S COLLEGE, OXFOED. - DEAWN BY J. L. WILLIAMS. FOR CHRISTMAS AND THE NEW YEAR. The quaint original, which, in the third verse at least, we prefer to the version sung at Queen's, runs thus :— Caput Apri defero Reddens laudes Domino. The Bore's Heed in hand bringe I, With garlans gay and rosemary, I pray you all synge merely, Qui estis in convivio. O F F E R I N G , in a short gown, with a porter's staff in his hand, a wyth borne before him, and a bason, by his torch-bearer. BABY-CAKE, drest like a boy, in a fine long coat, biggin-bib, muckender, dagger ; his usher bearing a great cake, with a bean and a pease. TJiey enter The air of the chant is very beautiful, and adds greatly to the effect of the scene, and were the Hall as old as the custom it would indeed be charming; but, unfortunately, the old Hall was consumed by fire about sixty-eight years since, and the present one is in the Doric style of architecture; as it is, however, the custom, being unique, is an especially interesting relic of olden manners. BEN JONSON'S "MASQUE OF CHRISTMAS," singing, Give me leave to ask, for I bring you a masque From little, little, little London; Which say t h e king likes, I have passed the pikes, I f not, old Christmas is undone. [Noise without. Chris. Ha, peace! what's the matter there? Gam. Here's one o' Friday-street would come in. Chris. By no means, nor out of neither of the Fish-streets, admit not a man; they are not, Christmas creatures: fish and fasting days, foh! Son, said I well? look to't. Gam. No body out o' Friday-street, nor the two Fish-streets there, do you hear? Car. Shall John Butter o'Milk-street come in? ask him. Gam. Yes, he may slip in for a torch-bearer, so he melt not too fast, that he will last till the masque be done. Chris. Right, son. Our dance's freight is a matter of eight, And two, the which are wenches: I n all they be ten, four cocks to a hen, And will swim to t h e tune like tenches. AS IT WAS PRESENTED AT COURT, 161 6. Enter CHEISTMAS, tvith two or three of the Guard, attired in round hose, long stockings, a close doublet, a high-crowned hat, with a brooch, a long thin beard, a truncheon, little ruffs, white shoes, Ms scarfs and garters tied cross, and his drum beaten before him. HY, gentlemen, do you know what you do? ha! would you have kept me out? CHRISTMAS, old Christmas, Christmas of London, and captain Christmas? Pray you, let me be brought before my lord chamberlain, 111 not be answered else: 'Tis merry in hall, %vhen beards wag all: I have seen the time you have wish'd for me, for a merry Christmas; and now you have me, they would not let me in: I must come another time! a good jest, as if I could come more than once a year. Why I am no dangerous person, and so I told my friends of the guard. I am ~^-~~ old Gregory Christmas still, and though I come out of Pope's-head alley, as good a Protestant as any in my parish. The truth is, I have brought a Masque here, out o' the city, of my own making, and do present it by a set of my sons, that come out of the lanes of London, good dancing boys all. It was intended, I confess, for CurriersHall ; but because the weather has been open, and the Livery were not at leisure to see it till a frost came, that they cannot work, I thought it convenient, with some little alterations, and the groom of the revels' hand to't, to fit it for a higher place; which I have done, and though I say it, another manner of device than your New-year's-night. Bones o'bread, the king! (seeing James.) Son Rowland! son Clem! be ready there in a trice: quick, boys! Enter his SONS and DAUGHTERS {ten in number), let in, in a string, by C U P I D , who is attired in a flat cap, and a prentice's coat, with ivings at his shoulders. MISRULE, in a velvet cap, with a sprig, a short cloak, great yellotu ruff, like a reveller, his torch-bearer bearing a rope, a cheese, and a basket. CAROL, a long tawny coat, with a red cap, and a flute at his girdle, his torch-bearer carrying a song-book open. her man carrying a pie, dish, and his torch-bearer armd and a little Now God preserve, as you well do deserve, Your majesties all, two t h e r e ; Your highness small, with my good lords all, And ladies, how do you do there ? Be gladde lordes, both more and lasse, For this hath ordeyned our stewarde, To chere you all this Chrismasse The Bore's Heed with mustarde. GAMBOL, like a tumbler, with a hoop and bells; staff, and a binding cloth. suit, with a vizard, his torch-bearer carrying the box, WASSEL, like a neat sempster and songster-, her page bearing a brown bowl, drest with ribands, and rosemary before her. The Bore's Heed I understande Is the chefe servyce in this lande, Loke where ever it be fande. Seruite cum cantico. M I N C E D - P I E , like a fine cook's wife, drest neat; N E W - Y E A R ' S - G I F T , in a blue coat, serving-man like, with an orange, and a sprig of rosemary gilt on his head, his hat full of brooches, with a collar of gingerbread, his torch-bearer carrying a march-pane with a bottle ofioine on either arm. M U M M I N G , in a masquingpied and ringing it. A CAROLL, BRYNGYNG IN THE BORE'S HEED. 57 with a colt- POST AND PAIR, with a pair royal of aces in his hat; his garment all done over with pairs and purs ; his squire carrying a box, cards, and counters. Each hath his knight for to carry his light, Which some would say are torches ; To bring them here, and to lead them there, And home again to their own porches. ISTow their intent— Enter V E N U S , a deaf tire-tvoman. Ven. Now, all the lords bless me! where am I, trow? where is Cupid? "Serve the king!" they may serve the cobbler well enough, some of 'em, for any courtesy they ha^e, I wisse; they have need o' mending: unrude people they are, your courtiers; here was thrust upon thrust indeed! was it ever so hard to get in before, trow ? Chris. How now? what's the matter? Ven. A place, forsooth, I do want a place: I would have a good place, to see my child act in before the king and queen's majesties, God bless 'em! to-night. Chris. Why, here is no place for you. Ven, Right, forsooth, I am Cupid's mother, Cupid's own mother, forsooth ; yes, forsooth: I dwell in Pudding-lane :—ay, forsooth, he is prentice in Love-lane, with a bugle maker, that makes of your bobs, and bird-bolts for ladies. Chris. Good lady Venus of Pudding-lane, you must go out for all this. Ven. Yes, forsooth. I can sit any where, so I may see Cupid act: he is a pretty child, though I say it, that perhaps should not, you will say. I had him by my first husband, he was a smith, forsooth, we dwelt in Do-little-lane then: he came a month before his time, and that may make him somewhat imperfect; but I was a fishmonger's daughter. Chris. No matter for your pedigree, your house: good Venus, will you depart? Ven. Ay, forsooth, he'll say his part, I warrant him, as well as e'er a play-boy of 'em all: I could have had money enough for him, an I would have been tempted, and have let him out by the week to the king's players. Master Burbage has been about and about with me, and so has old master Hemings too, they have need of him: where is he, trow, ha! I would fain see him—pray God they have given him some drink since he came. Chris. Are you ready, boys? Strike up, nothing will drown this noise but a drum: a' peace, yet! I have not done. Sing— N o w their intent is above to present— Car. Why, here be half of the properties forgotten, father. A HOLIDAY BOOK 58 Offer. Post and Pair wants his pur-chops, and his pur dogs. Gar. Have you ne'er a son at the groom porter's, to beg or borrow a pair of car^s quickly? Gamb. It shall not need, here's your son Cheater without, has cards in his pocket. Offer. Ods so! speak to. the guards to let him in, under the name of a property. Gamb. And here's New-year's-gift has an orange and rosemary, but not a clove to stick in't. New-Year. Why let one go to the spicery. Chris. Fy, fy, fy! it's naught, it's naught, boys! Ven. Why, I have cloves, if it be cloves you want, have cloves in my-purse, I never go without one in my mouth. Gar. And Mumming has not his vizard neither. Chris. No matter! his own face shall serve, for a punishment, and 'tis bad enough; has Wassel her bowl, and Minced-pie her spoons? Offer. Ay, ay: but Misrule doth not like his suit: he says, the players have lent him one too little, on purpose to disgrace him. Chris. Let him hold his peace, and his disgrace will be the less: what! shall we proclaim where we were furnish'd? Mum! mum! a' peace! be ready, good boys. JSTow their intent, is above to present, W i t h all the appurtenances, A right Christmas, as of old it was, To be gathered out of the dances. Which they do bring, and afore the king, The queen, and prince, as it were now, Drawn here by love; who over and above, Doth draw himself in the geer to. Here the drum and fife sounds, and they march about once, In the second coming -up, CHEISTMAS proceeds in his SONG. H u m , drum, sauce for a coney; N o more of your martial music; Even for the sake o' the next new stake, , Eor there I do mean to use it. And now to ye, who in place are to see W i t h roll and farthingale hooped : I pray you know, though he want his bow, By the wings, that this is Cupid. H e might go back, for to cry What you lack ? But that were not so w i t t y : His cap and coat are enough to note That he is the Love o' the city. And he leads on, though he now be gone, F o r that was only his-rule; But now comes in, Tom of Bosoms-inn, And he presenteth Mis-rule. Which you may know, by the very show, Albeit you never ask i t : For there you may see what his ensigns be, The rope, the cheese, and the basket. This Carol plays, and has been in his days A chirping-boy, and a kill-pot: X i t cobler it is, I'm a father of his. And he dwells in the lane called Fill-pot. But who is this ? O, my daughter Cis, Minced-pie; with her do not dally On pain o' your life: she's an honest cook's wife, And comes out of Scalding-alley. Next in the trace comes Gambol in place; • And, to .make my tale the shorter, M y son Hercules, ta'en out of Distaff-lane, ; But an active man, and a porter. Now Post and Pair, old Christmas's air, Doth make, and a gingling sally; And wot you who, 'tis one of my two Sons, card-makers in Pur-alley. Next in a trice, with his box and his dice, Mac'-pippin, my son, but younger, Brings Mumming in; and the knave will win, For he is a costermonger. But New-Year's-gift, of himself makes shift, To tell you what his name is : W i t h orange on head, and his ginger-bread, Clem Waspe of Honey-lane 'tis. This, I you tell, is our jolly Wassel, And for Twelfth-night more meet too : She works by the ell, and her name is Nell, And she dwells in Threadneedle-street too. Then Offering, he, with his dish and his tree, That in every great house keepeth, I s by my son, young Little-worth, done, And in Penny-rich street he sleepeth. Last, Baby-cake, that an end doth make Of Christmas' merry, merry vein-a, Is child Howlan, and a straight young man, Though he come out of Crooked-lane-a. There should have been, and a dozen I ween, But I could find but one more Child of Christmas, and a Log it was, W h e n I them all had gone o'er. I prayed him, in a time so trim, That he would make one to prance it : And I myself would have been the twelfth, O' but Log was too heavy to dance it. Now, Cupid, come you on. Cup. You worthy ivights, Icing, lords, and Or queen and ladies bright : Cupid invites you to the sights He shall present to-night. knights, Ven. "Tis a good child, speak out; hold up your head, Love. Cup. And which Cupid—and which Cupid— Ven. Do not shake so, Eobin; if thou be'st a-cold, I have some warm waters for thee here. Chris. Come, you put Eobin Cupid out with your waters, and your fisling; will you be gone? Ven. Ay, forsooth, he's a child, you must conceive, and must be used tenderly; he was never in such an assembly before, forsooth, but once at the WarmoU Quest, forsooth, where he said grace as prettily as any of the sheriff's hinch-boys, forsooth. Chris. Will you peace, forsooth? Cup. And which Cupid—and which Cupid— Ven. Ay, that's a good boy, speak plain, Eobin: how does his majesty like him, I pray? will he give eight-pence a day, think you? Speak out,Eobin. Chris. Nay, he is out enough, you may take him away, and begin your dance: this it is to have speeches. Ven. You wrong the child, you do wrong the infant; I 'peal to his majesty. Here they dance. Chris. Well done, boys, my fine boys, my bully boys ! THE EPILOGUE. Sings. JN~or do you think that their legs is all The commendation of my sons, E o r at the Artillery garden they shall As well forsooth use their guns. And march as fine, as the Muses nine, Along the streets of London: And in their brave tires, to give their false fires, Especially Tom my son. ISTow if the lanes and the alleys afford Such an ac-ativity as this ; A t Christmas next, if they keep their word, Can the children of Cheapside miss ? Though, put the case, when they come in place, They should not dance, but hop : Their very gold lace, with their silk, would 'em grace, Having so many knights o' the shop. But were I so wise, I might seem to advise So great a potentate as yourself: They should, sir, I tell ye, spare't out of their belly, And this way spend some of their pelf. Ay, and come to the court, for to make you some sport, At the least once every year : As Christmas hath done, with his seventh or eighth son, And his couple of daughters dear. AND THUS IT ENDED, FOR CHRISTMAS AND THE NEW YEAR. "59 CAROL SINGING IN THE COUNTRY. —. DRAWN BY DODGSON, ON CHRISTMAS CAROLS. BY E. H. HORNBY N preparing to take a seasonable, and therefore a genial survey of the half festive half religious songs, entitled Christmas Carols, we are stopped at the outset by two considerations, each claiming precedence. Since it is quite clear they cannot both stand first, we must attend to them separately. The two considerations to which we refer are these: the claims of the ancient Carols, such as were sung in the days of the Anglo-Saxon Kings after their conversion to Christianity, and in the festivities of the same season among the Danish and Anglo-Norman Kings, all 'of whom "wore their crowns in public" on the occasion, which, with other less remote dates, take precedence in respect of time; and the claims of the modern Carols, dating from Herrick, or rather from Milton's Hymn to the Nativity, which must certainly take precedence of all others for its poetic grandeur, and, we may add, its divine fervour. Settled, however, this point must be before we can proceed; and it may be as well, therefore, to commence at once with our friends in the olden time. As early as the first and second centuries, we find that the Birth of Christ was celebrated. In the third century, this " holy night" was kept with so many festivities, that Gregory Nazianzen, who died A.D. 389, and other Christian teachers of the time, considered it necessary to caution the people against making the hilarities resemble a heathen rite, by forgetting the heavenly objects in an excess of feasting, singing, and dancing. I t would also appear that these exhortations to sobriety were partly intended as a wise caution and salutary warning; for, in the same age, there is the record of a horrible atrocity, in the shape of a wholesale massacre, committed when an indulgence in these festivities had thrown the people off their guard. A multitude of Christians—men, women, and children, of all ages—had assembled in the tenrple, at Nicomedia, in Bithynia, to commemorate the Nativity. In the height of their happiness, when all the wickedness and cruelties of the world were forgotten, Diocletian the Tyrant surrounded the temple with his soldiers, who set it on fire, and nearly twenty thousand people were burned alive, or otherwise destroyed on the occasion. The Anglo-Saxon kings, having been converted, held the festival of the Nativity with great solemnity and splendour, and displayed the greatest hospitality to all strangers of rank. A similar course was adopted by the Danish and Anglo-Norman kings. Nor were these ceremonies by any means confined to solemn observances; on the contrary, the descendants of those who, in Pagan times, had been used to quaff great bowls of wine in honour of Thor and Odin, now drank them to commemorate the Apostles, the Virgin, and other sacred names. A curious Anglo-Norman Carol, of the date of the thirteenth century, is given by Mr. Brand, in his "Popular Antiquities" (vol. i. p. 371), which is, to all intents and purposes, a jolly bacchanalian song, for a bass voice. The greatest rejoicing and merriment prevailed, particularly as displayed in dancing, and singing carols; and to such an excess had this been carried, that a preposterous legend has grown out of it, carefully handed down by William of Malmesbury, who gravely relates how that fifteen young women and eighteen young men were dancing, and singing Carols (A.D. 1012) in the churchyard of a church dedicated to St. Magnus, on the day before Christmas, whereby they greatly disturbed one Robert, a priest, who was performing mass in the church; how that the said Robert sent to tell them to desist, but they would not listen; how this Robert offered up prayers for a suitable punishment; and how that the whole party were miraculously compelled to continue singing and dancing for a whole year, night and day, without ceasing—feeling neither heat nor cold, hunger nor thirst, weariness nor want of sleep: and though their clothes did not wear out with all this inordinate exercise, yet the earth beneath them did; so that when they left off, the earth had worn away all round them to the depth of several feet, while they danced in the hollow. The earliest Carol is, of course, the Nativity Carol mentioned in Luke (ii. 14), which was sung by the angels. In the twelfth book of "Paradise Lost" this hymn is thus mentioned:-— 60 A HOLIDAY BOOK His place of birth a solemn angel tells To simple shepherds, keeping watch by night: They gladly thither haste, and by a quire Of squadroned angels hear his Carol sung. Other hymns were gradually composed on this subject; and it is stated by Mr. Brand, in his * Popular Antiquities/ on the authority of an ancient Ritualist, that a i n the earlier ages of the church, the bishops were accustomed, on Christmas Day, to sing Carols among the clergy." So say Durand and others. But it is time to give the reader a few specimens of the " Christmas Carols" of our forefathers. Amidst a great mass of very questionable stuff, not to call it rubbishy some of our earliest Carols possess a peculiar beauty—a sort of devout innocence and happy faith, very refreshing in themselves, and more espe^ cially when compared with the modern, as well as the elder rubbish to which we have alluded. The first we shall select is from the Harleian MSS. (No. 5396—time of Henry VI.); printed also in Kitson's "Ancient Songs." Bishop Taylor considers it identical with the earliest one, which the Angels sung to the Shepherds:— CHRYSTO PAREMUS CANTTCAM EXCELSIS GLORIA, When Chryst was born of Mary, free, In Bethlehem, that fayre citee, Angels sang with mirth and glee In excelsis gloria ! Herdsmen beheld these angels bright, To them appearing with great light, And sayd God's Son is born this night, In excelsis gloria! This King is coming to save mankind, Declared in Scripture as we fynde, Therefore this song have we in mind, In excelsis gloria ! Two words, illegible in the MS., we have been obliged to supply, and to modernize several Anglo-Saxon characters and abbreviations. All the rest is verbatim. In one of the Coventry pageants, in the early part of the fifteenth century, several songs are introduced, rude in structure, but, as Sandys thinks, fairly entitled to be regarded as Carols. The one we are about to quote is unquestionably a Carol:— SONG BY THE SHEPHERDS. As I rode out last night, last night, Of three joyous shepherds I saw a sight, And all about their fold a star shone bright— So merrily the shepherds their pipes can blow. Three weekes before the day whereon was born the Lord of Grace, And on the Thursdaye, boys and girls do runne in every place, And bounce and beate at every doore, with blows and lustie snaps, And crie the Advent of the Lord, not born as yet, perhaps, And wishing to the neighbours all, that in the houses dwell, A happy yeare, and everything to spring and prosper welL We must conclude, with one or two more specimens, our account of the ancient Carols, together with the merry songs of the season; and we cannot refrain making our selection once again of a song on the head of the forest lord of yore. It is ushered in, as usual, with trumpets and minstrelsy:— CAROL On'bringingBoar's Head, used before Christmas Prince, at St. John Baptist's College, Oxford, Christmas, 1607. The boare is dead, See, here is his head ; What man could have done more Than his head off to strike, Meleager like, And bringe it as I doe, "before ? He, living, spoyled Where good men toyled, Which made kind Ceres sorrye; But now dead and drawne, Is very good for brawne, And we have brought it for ye. Then set downe the swineyard, The foe to the vineyard, Let Bacchus crowne his fall; Lett this boare's head and mustard Stand for pig, goose, and custard, And so you are welcome all! The other Carols with which we intended to terminate our account of these songs of the olden time, we find, on further consideration, to be too long for extract. As, however, they are of a legendary character, we must content ourselves with telling the story of one of the best. The first is called "The Carnal and the Crane." The Star in the East was so bright that it shone into King Herod's chamber and alarmed him. He questioned the Wise Men about it, who told him that a babe was born this night who should have a power which no King could destroy. Herod pointed to a roasted cock which was on a dish before him, and said, " That bird shall as soon be able to crow three times as this thing be true which ye tell." Whereupon feathers instantly grew over the roasted cock, and he rose high on his legs and crowed three times standing up in the dish ! We pass on to the popular broad-sheet Carols, of a rather more modern date. Though the majority be very wretched stuff, there will sometimes be found verses that appeal directly to the feelings by their homely strength, and coming from the heart of the writers. SONG BY THE WOMEN. Lul-lee, lul-lay, thou little tiny child— Bye-bye, lul-lee, lul-lay. O sisters too, how may we do For to preserve this day, This poor youngling, for whom we do sing Bye-bye, lul-lee, luUay. Herod the King, in his raging, Charged he hath this day His men of might, in his own sight, All young children to slay. Then woe is me, poor child, for thee, And ever we mourn and say, For this journey wild, thou little tiny child, Bye-bye, lul-lee, lul-lay. Carols were much in request during the whole of this century, as we learn from the above and other authorities. Tusser mentions one to " be sung to the tune of ' King Solomon;'" and in the time of Shakspeare Carols were continually sung about the streets at Christmas. A Latin poem by Nadgeorgus, a Bavarian, written in the sixteenth century, and made English, after a fashion, by Barnaby Goodge, alludes to the Carol-singing of the time, with its various customs, which were evidently far more jocund than reverential. Oh, pray teach your children, man, The while that you are here; It will be better for your souls When your corpse lies on its bier. To-day you may be alive, dear man, Worth many a thousand pound; To-morrow may be dead, dear man, And your body laid under ground : With one turf at your head, 0 man, And another at your feet, Thy good deeds and thy bad, 0 man, Will all together meet. In the century preceding the present, the wassail bowl was commonly carried, on Christmas eve, to the houses of the nobles and gentry, with songs, in return for which a small present was expected. As midnight approached, the carol-singers and bell-ringers prepared to usher in the morning of the Nativity with the usual rejoicings, so that all at once bells rang in the middle of the night, singing was heard, and bands of music went playing through the towns and villages and outskirts, and round about to all the principal houses of the country families. In the West of England the Carol-singers often used to repair to the church-porch, or to the porch of some ancient house, to sing-in Christmas morning; and it is a rural scene of this kind which the Artist has portrayed in the Illustration that accompanies the present account. FOR CHRISTMAS AND THE 'NEW YEAR. A similar soene is described by the author of the " Sketch-Book/' on his visit to Yorkshire at this time of the year. He awoke in the night with the sound of music beneath his window, which then floated off to a ^distance. Then there was singing, which sounded in the porch. " In the morning," he says, " as I lay musing on my pillow, I heard the sound of little feet pattering outside of the door, and a whispering consultation. Presently, a choir of small voices chanted forth an old Christmas Carol, the burden of which was— Rejoice! our Saviour, he was born On Christmas-day in the morning. It is extraordinary, considering the beauty and grandeur of the subject—comprising, as it does, in its essence, the whole history of humanity, its errors, its sufferings, its hopes, and final victory—how very few poets have written Carols. We only know of one great poet who has done so •—need we say that this one was Milton ? (Gothe and Coleridge have each written a Carol, but of no very remarkable kind.) It must not, however, be forgotten, that Herrick has written several very beautiful Carols, not displaying any strength of vision or divine ardour, but characterized by a sweet poetical playfulness. Here is a verse from his ODE ON THE BIRTH OF OUR SAVIOUR Instead of neat enclosures Of interwoven osiers; Instead of fragrant posies Of daffodills and roses, Thy cradle, kindly stranger, As Gospell tells, Was nothing else But here a homely manger. Another, by Herrick, is entitled THE STAR-SONG. The flourish of music ; then followed the song. 1st Voice. Tell us, thou cleere and heavenly tongue., Where is the babe but lately sprung ? Lies he the lillie-banks among ? 2nd Voice. Or say, if this new birth of ours Sleeps, laid within some ark of flowers, Spangled with dew-light; thou can'st clear All doubts, and manifest the where ? 3rd Voice. Declare to us, bright Star, if we shall seek Him in the morning's blushing cheek ; Or search the beds of spices through, To find Him out? Star. No, this ye need not do ; But only come and see Him rest A princely babe, in's mother's breast. Chorus. He's seen ! he's seen ! why then around Let's kisse the sweet and holy ground. To Milton's " Hymn on the Nativity " we need only allude once more, as the highest composition that has yet appeared on this subject, beyond all compare. Those who would seek further information on this subject, and read more of these songs of the olden time, will find abundance (in addition to those authors we have already quoted) in the Sloane, Harleian, and other MSS. in the British Museum ; Eitson's " Ancient Songs," &c. A small, but very choice, collection has recently been brought out by Cundall—bound, of course, according to the most perfect models of the ancient art, with carved boards, embossed covers, and illuminated pages. Those who are desirous of obtaining modern Carols, carefully written to scriptural texts, and adapted to the ancient tunes (the music of which is given), may be amply supplied from a little work published by J. W. Parker, entitled " Christmas Carols, with Appropriate Music," and adorned with a frontispiece, engraved from some picture by one of the old masters; of the beauty of which it is not too much to say, that it is worthy of the subject. 61 T H E STREET CAROL. Now, too, is heard The hapless cripple tuning through the streets Her carol. H E celebrations of Christmas are still rife among us. Its stream of joy is not narrowed, but more equally diffused through society; and although much of the custom of profuse hospitality has passed away, Christmas is yet universally recognised as a season when every Christian should show his gratitude to the Almighty for the inestimable benefits procured to us by the Nativity, by an ample display of good-will toward our fellow-men :— What comfort by him doe wee winne, Who made himself the prince of sinne To make us heirs of glory ? To see this babe all innocence, A martyr born in our defence— Can man forget this storie ?—BEN JONSON. It is, however, an error of the day to deplore a falling-off in Christmas commemorations; whereas the enjoyment has but assumed a healthier tone. The past is ever more picturesque than our own age; and 'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view. We delight to sit among Elizabethan tables and seventeenth-century chairs, which carry the mind's eye back to a period far more poetical than the present. We stroll into the Great Hall at Westminster, wherein our Plantagenet Kings feasted at Christmas and Epiphany:— This is the place Whence even now the tumult of loud mirth Was rife, and perfect in my listening ear. But, step into Whitehall, and there you will see the Lord High Almoner distributing the Royal alms, as he was wont to do centuries since; at Windsor the Sovereign is herself superintending the distribution of her seasonable bounty; the Lord Steward fills the hungry prisoner with good things; the good cheer shines upon Ragged Schools and other havens of charity; and civilization carries its luxuries into almost every family throughout the length and breadth of the land. The moderation observable in our times is more conformable to the precept in that homely work, the " Whole Duty of Man/' enjoining us not to make the day " an occasion of intemperance and disorder, as too many do who consider nothing in Christmas and other good times but the good cheer and jollity of them/' It is a sign of this more gracious and hallowed tone that the singing of Carols at the coming of Christmas has increased of late years; and the revival has the effect of bringing before us many an individual instance of wretchedness and privation, which must enlist the wide-spread sympathies of the season. The Carol-singer whom the Artist has portrayed is a type*of this phase of our metropolitan population. The Christmas Carol, though not precisely in its present form, is of very remote origin. Jeremy Taylor figuratively remarks, that the first Christmas Carol was the hymn of the angels to the shepherds on the plains of Bethlehem :—" Glory to God in the highest, on earth peace, and good-will to men/' Milton, also, thus mentions the same anthem :— His place of birth a solemn angel tells, To simple shepherds keeping watch by night ; They gladly thither haste, and by a quire Of squadron'd angels hear his carol sung. The Christmas Carol was not, however, confined to the Church offices in the mediaeval times. " It has been the custom," says a modern writer, " for the common people of England, for many centuries, to go about in bands at an early hour on Christmas morn,- serenading their neighbours with what are called c carols/ These ditties even gladdened the festivals of Royalty; for when Henry VII., in the third year of his reign, kept his Christmas at Greenwich, in the middle of the hall sat the dean and those of the King's chapel, who, immediately after his first course, c sang a carall/" A manuscript in the British Museum, however, carries the practice to the Anglo-Norman times, in the Carol commencing with— JS"ow lordlings listen to our ditty, Strangers coming from afar; Let poor minstrels move your pity, Give us welcome, soothe pur care* m A HOLIDAY BOOK THE STREET CAROL. — DRAWN BY PHIZ. In this mansion, as they tell "lis, Christmas wassell keeps to-day; Andj as king of all good fellows, Heigns with uncontrolled sway. The earliest Collection of Christmas Carols supposed to have been published is only known from the last leaf of a volume printed by Wynkyn de Worde, in 1521. It contains the celebrated " Carol bryngyng in the Bore's Head/' which, with innovations, is sung to this day at Queen's College, Oxford. The majority of these early Carols were, however, religious; and many of them appear to have been even of earlier date than the Keformation. But some of them have been handed down to us in an interpolated state, as in the quaint old ditty beginningJoseph was an old man, an old man Was he. And he married Mary, Queen of Galilee; which Was sung by companies of little children, and which brings fairly before us the paintings of the old masters, where Joseph is always represented as so old a man, and Mary sits in the oxen's stall, with the crown on her head:— As Joseph was a-walking* he heard an angel sing, " This night shall be born our Heavenly King; He neither shall be born in house nor in hall, Nor in the £lace of Paradise^ but in an ox's stall." Very melodious, too, is the rhythm of the Carol beginning with " I saw three ships come sailing on," and containing this verse :— And all the bells on earth shall ring, On Christmas-day, on Christmas-day; And all the bells on earth shall ring On Christmas-day in the morning. The two following verses are varied with— And all the angels in heaven shall sing, And all the souls on earth shall sing. The Anglo-Norman feste-chanson we have already quoted is more an incitement to Christmas revelry than a picture of its holy joy. Another of these secular Carols has been discovered in a MS. of the time of Henry VI., though the song itself is probably of a century earlier. I t relates to dressing the halls and chambers with evergreens at Christmas, from which ivy was discarded, as it was used at funerals ; here are a few lines in modern orthography :— Nay, ivy! nay, it shall not be, I wis; Let holly have the mastery, as the manner is; Let holly stand within the hall, fair to behold; Yet ivy stand without the door-^she is full sore and cold. Nay, ivy, &c. Holl and his merry men deftly dance and sing, Ivy and her maidens are always sorrowing. Nay, ivy, &c. FOR CHRISTMAS AND THE NEW YEAR. The Reformation did not impair the popularity of the Christmas Carol in England. " S u p p o s e / ' says one writing in 1631, " C h r i s t m a s now approaching, the evergreen ivy trimming and adorning the portals and partcloses of so frequented a building; the usual Carols to observe antiquity cheerfully sounding, and that which is the complement of his inferior comforts, his neighbours, whom he tenders as members of his own family, join with him in this consort of mirth and melody/' A t t h e end of a miscellany of epigrams, &c, printed about the same period, is a " Christmas Caroll/' reciting the pastimes of the season :— Harke how the wagges abrode doe call Each other forth to rambling; Anon, you'll see them in the hall For nuts and apples scrambling. The wenches, with their wassell-bowles About the streets are singing; The bbyes are come to catch the owles, The wild mare in is bringing. Other Carols, of a devotional character, were also in use. Warton mentions a licence granted to one Tysdale in 1562 for printing " eertaine goodly Carols to be sung to the glory of God ;" again, " Christmas Carols authorised by m y Lord of London ;" and in t h e Churchwardens' accounts of St. Mary-at-Hill, in the city of London, A.D. 1537, is the following entry:—~" To Sr. Mark for Carolls for Christmas, and for 5 square books, iijs. iiijd/' Bishop Andrewes, in a sermon on the Nativity, preached December 25, 1619, celebrates the day as "glorious in all places; as well at home with Carols, as in the church with a n t h e m s / ' For the last two centuries the practice of singing Christmas Carols has been preserved in England, more or less, over different parts of t h e country. I n Heath's " Account of the Scilly Islands," he says, that it is usual there to sing Carols on Christmas-day at Church. Goldsmith, in his "Vicar of Wakefield/' writing about 1763, and " l a y i n g the scene of his narrative at a small cure in the north of England," relates that, among other customs which they retained, t h e inhabitants " kept u p the Christmas Carol/' Brand, in 1795, states t h a t little troops of boys, and girls, at Newcastle-uponTyne and other places in the north of England, " go from house to house, knocking at the doors, singing their Christmas Carols, and wishing a happy New Year." A writer, in 1811, in the N o r t h Riding of Yorkshire, notes :—" About six o'clock on Christmas-day I was awakened by a sweet singing under my window. Surprised at a visit so early and unexpected, I arose, and, looking out of the window, I beheld six young women and four men welcoming with sweet music the blessed morn." "Carols," wrote our old friend William Hone, in 1825, " begin to be spoken of as not belonging to this century, and few, perhaps, are aware of the number of those now printed." H e adds, t h a t possibly " upwards of 90 are at this time published annually." A learned President of the Eoyal Society (Mr. Davies Gilbert) has published " Ancient Christmas Carols, with the T u n e s : " he writes, till lately, in the west of England, on Christmas-Eve, about seven or eight o'clock in the evening, " cakes were drawn hot from the oven; cider or beer exhilarated the spirits in every house; and the singing of Carols was continued late in the night. On Christmas-day these Carols took the place of psalms in all the churches, especially at afternoon service, the whole congregation j o i n i n g ; and at the end it was usual for t h e parish-clerk to declare, in a loud voice, his wishes for a merry Christmas and a happy New Year to all the parishioners." I n 1838 William Howitt wrote : — " T h e Christmas Carols which were sung about from door to door, for a week at least, not twenty years ago, are rarely heard now in the midland counties. More northward, from the hills of Derbyshire, and the bordering ones of Staffordshire, up through Lancashire, Yorkshire, Northumberland, and Durham, you may frequently meet with them. The custom of Christmas Carolling prevails in Ireland to the present time. I n Scotland it is unknown. I n Wales it is still preserved, perhaps to a greater extent than in England. After the turn of midnight on Christmas-Eve, divine service is celebrated, followed by the singing of Carols to t h e h a r p ; and they are similarly sung in the houses during the continuance of the Christmas holidays." I n the " P e n n y C y c l o p e d i a " {voce Carol), date 1836, the writer states: — " I t is still sung during the festive season in many parts of the country, though now seldom heard in the metropolis." Since this was written, Carol-singing has been cherished by the publication of col- 63 lections of Carols, original and selected ; one of which has been issued by the Society for the Promotion of Christian Knowledge. Dr. Gauntlett has also arranged, composed, and edited " Christmas Carols; or, Lays and Legends of the N a t i v i t y ; " including " W h e r e is the Golden Cradle?" " 0 Wonder of all Wonders," by the Eev ? W. J . B l e w ; a quartet or semi-chorus; " The Legend of Joseph and the Angel," concluding thus :— Then be ye glad, good people, This night of all the year, And light ye up your candles, His Star it shineth near. And all in earth and heaven Our Christmas Carol sing, SocxcUwill, and peae#, and glory, And all the bells shall ring. The collection closes with a very old fayouriti :«— God rest you, merry gentlemen, Let nothing you dismay, Remember Christ our Saviour Was born on Christmag-day; To save poor souls from Satan's fold Which long had gone astray. CHORUS.^Q tidings of great comfort { 0 tidings of great joy I Delightful it is to hear the church bells ringing merrily on Christmaseve, or the Carol echoing through the comparatively vacant street. Such delights have been thus iouchingly sung by a living poet :— Wake me, that I the twelvemonth long May bear the song About me in the world's throng; ' That treasured joys of Christmas-tide • May with mine hour of gloom abide; The Christmas Carol ring Deep in my heart, when I would sing ; Each of the, twelve good days Its earnest yield of duteous love and praise, Ensuring happy months, and hallowing common ways.—KEBLE. W i t h a graceful chanson of our own day we conclude :— Be merry all, be merry all, With holly dress the festive hall; Prepare the song, the feast, the ball, To welcome merry Christmas. And, oh! remember, gentles gay, Eor you wjjo bmk m fortune's ray The year is all a holiday, The poor have only Christmas. When you, with velvets mantled o'er, Defy December's tempests' roar, Oh, spare one garment from your store, To clothe the poor at Christmas. From blazing loads of fuel, while Your homes with in-door summer smile, Oh, spare one faggot from the pile, To warm the poor at Christmas. When you the costly banquet deal To guests who never famine feel, Oh, spare one morsel from your meal, To feed the poor at Christmas. When gen'rous wine your care controls, And gives new joy to happiest souls, Oh, spare one goblet from your bowls, To cheer the poor at Christmas. So shall each note of mirth appear More sweet to Heaven than praise or prayer, And angels in their carols there Shall bless the rich at Christmas. HOK. K. SPENCEK. A HOLIDAY BOOK 04 N/^A^A' BRIGHTON FISHERMEN CAROL SINGING. BRIGHTON FISHERMEN CAROL SINGING. N the coast of Brighton the Fishermen are said to be the descendants of a party of Spanish refugees, who settled there . in the reign of Elizabeth, and were presented by her with certain land, for drying nets and Some of the ==ss other purposes connected with fisheries. S f names most common among them—as Mighell, Gunn, Jaspar—are also said to be written Miguel, Juan, Gaspard, &c. in the older parish records. Be this as it may, it is certain that they possess characteristics in feature and custom not met with amongst other classes in the town, or amid the peasantry in the neighbourhood. Black eyes and hair, and a clear brown complexion, are common amongst them, and seem to favour the idea of their southern origin. About twenty years ago, when the old Steyne (to which they claim a traditional right) was about to be enclosed by iron railings, they drew to the contested ground some of their heaviest mackerel boats, capstans, &c, and armed with oars, spars, axes, and other implements of their trade, placed themselves in battle array to resist the proposed encroachment—pleading the rights granted to them originally by Queen Elizabeth. Nor was it until the authorities had admitted these claims, and promised that the gates should be made wide enough to admit the larger boats, in case of need, that they consented to allow the work to be completed. Although uncouth in manners, they are industrious and inoffensive, holding but little intercourse, except in the way of business, with the townspeople, whom they generally designate "furringers" (Anglice foreigners). Their prevailing weakness is one for beer, and, under its influence, they sometimes become rather uproarious; yet, as they live, make love, marry, and fight amongst themselves, other classes of the community are not much affected by their peculiarities. The^ present festive season has the effect, however, of relaxing for a time their exclusive prejudices; and, forming themselves into groups of carol-singers— or, as they term themselves, " wassailers"—they enter the hotels and private dwelling-houses, and there sing their ancient carols. After the lapse of nearly three centuries, they may be fairly considered to belong to England; and happy are we to make honourable mention of them in our pages. A CHRISTMAS CAROL. JOVIAL Carol for Christmas time, Merrily, merrily sung— Cheering the dwellings of Rich and Poor—• Spiriting Old and Young! Into the well of the world's deep heart Pouring a stream of joy, And bidding it fresh as a fountain start, To bathe the jolly Old Boy. For as sparkling Christmas comes, Robed in his frost so fine; He ehaseth tears from the hurrying years, And ordereth Wassail Wine! A Christmas Carol for good Roast Beef— The Briton's rare old b o a s t On every table in English homes— Plenty for guest and host! Enough to crown the feast With a solid comfort cheer; A foaming flask from the old ale cask, And a tankard brimm'd with beer! For when sparkling Christmas comes, Sharp, with his air of cold, He scattereth grief—like a brave old Chief— And calls for his ale so old! A Christmas Lay to a subject gay, Plum-pudding on the board! Rioting free round circles of glee, With never a stint or hoard! Fast and fragrant steam, To add to the pudding's pride; Steeping the soul in a pleasant dream Of brandy sauce beside. For when hungry Christmas comes, He snorts like a fiery horse; And shouteth come—be quick with plumPudding and brandy sauce. FOR CHRISTMAS AND THE NEW YEAR. 65 THE CHRISTMAS WAITS.—DRAWN BY KENNY MEADOWS. Oh! a festive lay for Christmas Day, And it ought to reach the skies, In thinking sounds that set no bounds To mirth or to mince pies! And when mince pies are cut and gone, Then rouse each well-fed soul, Bring here—bring here—our fluid cheer— Punch, Wine, and Wassail-Bowl! Yes—when Old Christmas comes, He sings without control! D'ye hear?—bring here my jolly cheer— Punch, Wine, and Wassail-Bowl. Punch, Wine, and Wassail-Bowl Our jovial Carol claim, But CHRISTMAS strong, hath other song For singing in his name! Song for the holly green, Unfading still and fair, That weaves his crown of old renown, And decks his palace rare. So when King Christmas comes, His burly hands are seen Stretched forth to claim his Crown of Fame,, His jolly holly-green! Another Carol of Christmas time, Lustily carolFd now, Must trip from tongue of old and young, The bough—the kissing bough. Ho, ho! ho, ho! for the mistletoe That hangeth by the wall, And smileth bliss on every kiss, And tokeneth joy to all. For when dear Christmas comes, He will not hear of woe; " But glad/' cries he, " you all must be 'Neath the merry mistletoe." So this is our Carol of Christmas time—• Merrily, merrily sung— Cheering the dwellings of Rich and Poor— Spiriting Old and Young! Into the well of the world's deep heart Pouring a stream of joy, And bidding fresh as a fountain start, To bathe the brave Old Boy! For as sparkling Christmas comes, Robed in his frost so fine, He dasheth tears from the hurrying years, And ordereth Wassail Wine! THE WAITS. BY THE AUTHOR OF " OBION. I S heavy mist—'tis golden gloom; Strange shapes emerge in grey and white I Am I in bed, or in my tomb ? Dreaming, or waking?—Day, or night? There comes a stir of wings around— A restless darkness and a sound. I hear soft music in the air; It breathes a sweet unearthly strain, Floating about like angels' hair! It ceases—pleasure melts to pain. Yet rapture wakes and thrills afar, And lives in silence, like a star. How thoughts fly back to childhood's hours, When, full of bliss, thus half-awake, We roved enchanted halls and towers, While fairies sang upon the lake; A HOLIDAY BOOK 66 Beneath the faint lamp's frosty rays There leans a figure, hard and spare; A gentleman of " better days/' Who lived too fast, and wore life bare. He dress'd well—kept his horses, hounds— A flower-pot BOW holds all his grounds ! Or distant angels quired a hymn, Of Jesus born in Bethlehem. Again the music—moving near! Thus did it swell in my young heart, And made each loving hope more dear^— For Beauty is of life a part; Once seen, she never leaves your side, Though all the world reject, deride. Forth from his garret to the street He wander with a restless heart, And thinks of youthful moments sweet, While hopes, once strong, like ghosts depart. Perhaps, remorse with sorrow takes Some share in thoughts that music wakes. Beneath my window!—Tis the Waits! Fine strings, and deep melodious horn. The vocal clarionet relates Some tale of true-love left forlorn. .And now it changes to a dance, Merry, yet touched with old romance. CHRISTMAS The darkness of our curtained rest l$;cjt&sed and cheer'd at Christmas time: How $oid the air beyond the nest! Tbs snow-flakes fall, and creep, and climb ! Icicles tshine—the flagstones freeze— I feel it; ,and I Jiear a sneeze ! Reality! before thy face Fiim Poetry—-but yet returns, Unwilling thus to win the race, Ami from thine earth-book largely learns. Let lis look out into the night, And see "the.music" in its plight. This J