IIHOLIDAY SAINTS AND LORDS

"HERE comes old Father Christmas,With sound of fife and drums;With mistletoe about his brows,So merrily he comes!"Rose Terry Cooke

"HERE comes old Father Christmas,

With sound of fife and drums;

With mistletoe about his brows,

So merrily he comes!"

Rose Terry Cooke

My Lord of Misrule

"FIRSTE," says Master Stubs, "all the wilde heades of the parishe conventynge together, chuse them a grand Capitaine (of mischeef) whom they innoble with the title of my Lorde of Misserule, and hym they crown with great solemnitie, and adopt for their kyng. This kyng anoynted, chuseth for the twentie, fourtie, threescore, or a hundred lustie guttes like hymself, to waite uppon his lordely majestie, and to guarde his noble persone. Then every one of these his menne he investeth with his liveries of greene, yellowe or some other light wanton colour. And as though that were not (baudie) gaudy enough I should saie, they bedecke themselves with scarffes, ribons and laces, hanged all over with golde rynges, precious stones and other jewelles: this doen, they tye about either legge twentie or fourtie belles with rich hankercheefes in their handes, and sometymes laied acrosse over their shoulders and neckes, borrowed for the moste parte of their pretie Mopsies and loovyng Bessies, for bussyng them in the darcke. Thus thinges sette in order, they have their hobbie horses, dragons, and other antiques, together with their baudie pipers, and thunderyng drommers, to strike up the Deville's Daunce withall" (meaning the Morris Dance), "then marche these heathen companie towardes the church and churche yarde, their pipers pipyng, drommers thonderyng, their stumppes dauncyng, their belles iynglyng, their handkerchefes swyngyng about their heades like madmen, their hobbie horses and other monstersskyrmishyng amongst the throng: and in this sorte they goe to the churche (though the minister bee at praier or preachyng) dauncyng and swingyng their handkercheefes over their heades, in the churche, like devilles incarnate, with suche a confused noise that no man can heare his owne voice. Then the foolishe people, they looke, they stare, they laugh, they fleere, and mount upon formes and pewes, to see these goodly pageauntes, solemnized in this sort."

Quoted byT. K. Hervey

St. Nicholas

ACCORDING to Hone's "Ancient Mysteries" Saint Nicholas, Bishop of Myra, was a saint of great virtue and piety.... The old legend is that the sons of a rich Asiatic, on their way to Athens for education, were slain by a robber innkeeper, dismembered, and their parts hidden in a brine tub. In the morning came the Saint, whose visions had warned him of the crime, whose authority forced confession, and whose prayers restored the boys to life. The Salisbury Missal of 1534 contains a curious engraving of the scene, in which the bodies of the children are leaping from the brine tub at the Bishop's call even while the innkeeper at the table above their heads is busily cutting a leg and foot into pieces small enough for his purposes.

Ever since, St. Nicholas has been the special saint of the school-boy, and certain of the customs of montem day at Eton College are said to have originated in old festivals in his honor.

St. Nicholas is the grand patron of the children of France,to whom he brings bonbons for the good, but a cane for the naughty child. In Germany he acts as an advance courier examining into the conduct of the children, distributes goodies and promises to those with good records a further reward which the Christ Child brings at Christmas time. But his own peculiar celebration takes place in a tiny seaport of southern Italy where it is curiously interwoven with ancient usages possibly remaining from some worship of Neptune.

On St. Nicholas's Day, the 6th of December, the sailors of the port take the saint's image from the beautiful church of St. Nicholas and with a long procession of boats carry it far out to sea. Returning with it at nightfall they are met by bonfires, torches, all the townspeople, and hundreds of quaintly dressed pilgrims, who welcome the returning saint with songs and carry him to visit one shrine after another, before returning him to the custody of the canons.

W. S. Walsh quotes a writer in Chambers' "Book of Days" as saying: "Through the native rock which formes the tomb of the saint, water constantly exudes, which is collected by the canons on a sponge attached to a reed, squeezed into bottles and sold to pilgrims as a miraculous specific under the name of the "manna of St. Nicholas."

An Old Saint in a New World

WHILE Catholicism prevailed, St. Nicholas was everywhere the children's saint. In Holland, where his personality was modified by memories of Woden, god of the elements and the harvest, he had a peculiar hold on popular affection which persisted into Protestant times. The children of the Dutch still believe that St. Nicholasbrings the gifts that they always get on the eve of his titular day, December 6. In New Amsterdam this day was one of the five chief feastdays of the year. After New Orange became New York the characteristic traits of the Dutch children's festival were transferred to the near-by Christmas festival which was English as well as Dutch. It cannot now be said when the change began or when it was firmly established. It is known, indeed, that by the middle of the eighteenth century St. Nicholas Day had been dropped from the list of official holidays which, religious and patriotic together, then numbered twenty-seven. But, on the other hand, more than one memoir and book of reminiscences says that as late as the middle of the nineteenth century some conservative old Dutch families still celebrated the true St. Nicholas Day in their homes in the true old fashion, then bestowing the children's annual meed of gifts. Nor is any light thrown on the question by certain entries in a local newspaper,Rivington's Gazetteer, dated in December, 1773 and 1774, and referring to celebrations of "the anniversary of St. Nicholas, otherwise called Santa Claus," for they speak of social meetings of the "sons of that ancient saint" in which children can hardly have participated, and they indicate days which were neither Christmas Day nor the true St. Nicholas Day.

It is clear, however, that on Manhattan by a gradual consolidation of the two old festivals Christmas became pre-eminently a children's festival presided over by the children's saint whose modern name, Santa Claus, is a variant of the Dutch St. Niclaes or San Claas. In all European countries Christmas still means simply the day of Christ's nativity; for the "Old Christmas" whom we meet in English ballads of earlier times, the "Father Christmas"of Charles Dickens, and the "Père Noël" of the French are abstractly mythical figures in no way related to St. Nicholas. But anywhere in our America the domestic observance of Christmas centres around Santa Claus with his burden of gifts. The stockings that our children hang on Christmas Eve were once the shoes that the children of Amsterdam and New Amsterdam set in the chimney corners on the eve of December 6; and the reindeer whose hoofs our children hear represent the horse, descended from Woden's horse Sleipner, upon whose back St. Nicholas still makes his rounds in Holland. The Christmas-tree is not Dutch but German; about the middle of the nineteenth century we acquired it from our German immigrants. But even this the American child accepts at the hands of Santa Claus, not of the Christ Child as does the little German. "Kriss Kringle," it may be added, a name now often mistakenly used as though it were a synonym of Santa Claus, is a corruption of the German Christkindlein (Christ Child).

Mrs. Schuyler Van RensselaerFrom theHistory of the City of New York

St. Thomas

ANOTHER of the Saints of the holiday season is doubting Thomas, whose festival appropriately comes on Dec. 21, just when the child mind is almost ready to doubt the efficacy of all those letters to Santa Claus, and has more than doubts whether conduct has been so perfect as to warrant hope for the Christmas stocking.

St. Thomas seems to have remained a doubter to the end, for in the cathedral of Prato is shown the girdle ofthe "Madonnadella Cintola"; her ascension into heaven took place when Thomas was not with his brother apostles, whose account of the miracle he refused to believe; whereon the indignant Madonna threw her girdle back to him from heaven as evidence,—or so the legend reads,—with the girdle to prove it.

His emblem as an apostle is a builder's rule or square; possibly associated with that other legend of the king of the Indies who ordered the saint to build him a magnificent palace. On the return of the king and his discovery that the money for this building had all been given to the poor, the saint was thrown into a dungeon. Before worse befel, the king died and four days later appeared to his heir with an account of the splendid palace of gold and precious stones built for him in heaven by the charities of the saint on earth.

W. P. R.

Kriss Kringle

JUST as the moon was fadingAmid her misty rings,And every stocking was stuffedWith childhood's precious things,Old Kriss Kringle looked round,And saw on the elm-tree bough,High-hung, an oriole's nest,Silent and empty now."Quite like a stocking," he laughed,"Pinned up there on the tree!Little I thought the birdsExpected a present from me!"Then old Kriss Kringle, who lovesA joke as well as the best,Dropped a handful of flakesIn the oriole's empty nest.Thomas Bailey Aldrich

JUST as the moon was fadingAmid her misty rings,And every stocking was stuffedWith childhood's precious things,

JUST as the moon was fading

Amid her misty rings,

And every stocking was stuffed

With childhood's precious things,

Old Kriss Kringle looked round,And saw on the elm-tree bough,High-hung, an oriole's nest,Silent and empty now.

Old Kriss Kringle looked round,

And saw on the elm-tree bough,

High-hung, an oriole's nest,

Silent and empty now.

"Quite like a stocking," he laughed,"Pinned up there on the tree!Little I thought the birdsExpected a present from me!"

"Quite like a stocking," he laughed,

"Pinned up there on the tree!

Little I thought the birds

Expected a present from me!"

Then old Kriss Kringle, who lovesA joke as well as the best,Dropped a handful of flakesIn the oriole's empty nest.Thomas Bailey Aldrich

Then old Kriss Kringle, who loves

A joke as well as the best,

Dropped a handful of flakes

In the oriole's empty nest.

Thomas Bailey Aldrich

By permission of the Houghton Mifflin Company

Il Santissimo Bambino

"IL SANTISSIMO BAMBINO," of theAra Cœliin Rome, smiles placidly with the gravity of a sphinx on all alike. Wee little folk before it clasp dimpled hands and lispingly recite their speeches of praise. Older folk lift up a prayer for the safe return of friends afar; sometimes, as a concession to the faithful—at a price—it is driven out in a bannered coach to bless the sick. If the patient is to live, the image will turn red; if he is to die, it will turn pale. Should its attendant monks by chance forget to return it to the gorgeous manger of the Franciscan church to which it belongs, perchance it will return of its own will, borne by no human hands, while all the bells of churches and convents are set a-swaying by the touch of angel hosts—or so the Roman peasants say.

In England similar images have been used in the service which follows the midnight mass of Christmas Eve; so soon as the Host is safely returned to its receptacle there is disclosed to the view of the reverently adoring monks the tiny waxen doll, elaborately swathed yet so as to leave visible the pink, expressionless face, and half hidden handsand feet. The officiating priest lifts the image and facing the waiting monks holds it reverently while in circling procession, one after another, each bends for a moment to kiss the tiny figure on face or hands, crosses himself and passes on. The ceremony is one to be seen only among the Trappist monks and only at this one service of the Christmas season.

W. P. R.

The Christ Child

ELISE Traut relates the legend that on every Christmas eve the little Christ-child wanders all over the world bearing on its shoulders a bundle of evergreens. Through city streets and country lanes, up and down hill, to proudest castle and lowliest hovel, through cold and storm and sleet and ice, this holy child travels, to be welcomed or rejected at the doors at which he pleads for succor. Those who would invite him and long for his coming set a lighted candle in the window to guide him on his way hither. They also believe that he comes to them in the guise of any alms-craving, wandering person who knocks humbly at their doors for sustenance, thus testing their benevolence. In many places the aid rendered the beggar is looked upon as hospitality shown to Christ.

The April Baby is Thankful

DECEMBER 27th.—It is the fashion, I believe, to regard Christmas as a bore of rather a gross description, and as a time when you are invited to overeat yourself, andpretend to be merry without just cause. As a matter of fact, it is one of the prettiest and most poetic institutions possible, if observed in the proper manner, and after having been more or less unpleasant to everybody for a whole year, it is a blessing to be forced on that one day to be amiable, and it is certainly delightful to be able to give presents without being haunted by the conviction that you are spoiling the recipient, and will suffer for it afterward. Servants are only big children, and are made just as happy as children by little presents and nice things to eat, and, for days beforehand, every time the three babies go into the garden they expect to meet the Christ Child with His arms full of gifts. They firmly believe that it is thus their presents are brought, and it is such a charming idea that Christmas would be worth celebrating for its sake alone.

As great secrecy is observed, the preparations devolve entirely on me, and it is not very easy work, with so many people in our own house and on each of the farms, and all the children, big and little, expecting their share of happiness. The library is uninhabitable for several days before and after, as it is there that we have the trees and presents. All down one side are the trees, and the other three sides are lined with tables, a separate one for each person in the house. When the trees are lighted, and stand in their radiance shining down on the happy faces, I forget all the trouble it has been, and the number of times I have had to run up and down stairs, and the various aches in head and feet, and enjoy myself as much as anybody. First the June baby is ushered in, then the others and ourselves according to age, then the servants, then come the head inspector and his family, and other inspectors from the different farms, the mamsells, the bookkeepers and secretaries, andthen all the children, troops and troops of them—the big ones leading the little ones by the hand and carrying the babies in their arms, and the mothers peeping round the door. As many as can get in stand in front of the trees, and sing two or three carols; then they are given their presents, and go off triumphantly, making room for the next batch. My three babies sang lustily too, whether they happened to know what was being sung or not. They had on white dresses in honour of the occasion, and the June baby was even arrayed in a low-necked and short-sleeved garment, after the manner of Teutonic infants, whatever the state of the thermometer. Her arms are like miniature prize-fighter's arms—I never saw such things; they are the pride and joy of her little nurse, who had tied them up with blue ribbons, and kept on kissing them. I shall certainly not be able to take her to balls when she grows up, if she goes on having arms like that.

When they came to say good-night, they were all very pale and subdued. The April baby had an exhausted-looking Japanese doll with her, which she said she was taking to bed, not because she liked him, but because she was so sorry for him, he seemed so very tired. They kissed me absently, and went away, only the April baby glancing at the trees as she passed and making them a curtesy.

"Good-bye, trees," I heard her say; and then she made the Japanese doll bow to them, which he did, in a very languid and blasé fashion. "You'll never see such trees again," she told him, giving him a vindictive shake, "for you'll be brokened long before next time."

She went out, but came back as though she had forgotten something.

"Thank the Christkind so much, Mummy, won't you, for all the lovely things He brought us. I suppose you're writing to Him now, isn't you?"

FromElizabeth and her German Garden

THE ARRIVAL OF THE SHEPHERDS.Lerolle.

Good King Wenceslas

GOOD King Wenceslas looked out,On the Feast of Stephen,When the snow lay round about,Deep, and crisp, and even:Brightly shone the moon that night,Though the frost was cruel,When a poor man came in sight,Gath'ring winter fuel."Hither, page, and stand by me,If thou know'st it, telling,Yonder peasant, who is he?Where and what his dwelling?""Sire, he lives a good league hence,Underneath the mountain;Right against the forest fence,By St. Agnes' fountain.""Bring me flesh, and bring me wine,Bring me pine logs hither;Thou and I will see him dine,When we bear them thither."Page and monarch forth they went,Forth they went together;Through the rude wind's wild lament,And the bitter weather."Sire, the night is darker now,And the wind blows stronger;Fails my heart, I know not how,I can go no longer.""Mark my footsteps, good my page!Tread thou in them boldly;Thou shalt find the winter's rageFreeze thy blood less coldly."In his master's steps he trod,Where the snow lay dinted;Heat was in the very sodWhich the saint had printed.Therefore, Christian men, be sure,Wealth or rank possessing,Ye who now will bless the poor,Shall yourselves find blessing.Version byJohn Mason Neale

GOOD King Wenceslas looked out,On the Feast of Stephen,When the snow lay round about,Deep, and crisp, and even:

GOOD King Wenceslas looked out,

On the Feast of Stephen,

When the snow lay round about,

Deep, and crisp, and even:

Brightly shone the moon that night,Though the frost was cruel,When a poor man came in sight,Gath'ring winter fuel.

Brightly shone the moon that night,

Though the frost was cruel,

When a poor man came in sight,

Gath'ring winter fuel.

"Hither, page, and stand by me,If thou know'st it, telling,Yonder peasant, who is he?Where and what his dwelling?"

"Hither, page, and stand by me,

If thou know'st it, telling,

Yonder peasant, who is he?

Where and what his dwelling?"

"Sire, he lives a good league hence,Underneath the mountain;Right against the forest fence,By St. Agnes' fountain."

"Sire, he lives a good league hence,

Underneath the mountain;

Right against the forest fence,

By St. Agnes' fountain."

"Bring me flesh, and bring me wine,Bring me pine logs hither;Thou and I will see him dine,When we bear them thither."

"Bring me flesh, and bring me wine,

Bring me pine logs hither;

Thou and I will see him dine,

When we bear them thither."

Page and monarch forth they went,Forth they went together;Through the rude wind's wild lament,And the bitter weather.

Page and monarch forth they went,

Forth they went together;

Through the rude wind's wild lament,

And the bitter weather.

"Sire, the night is darker now,And the wind blows stronger;Fails my heart, I know not how,I can go no longer."

"Sire, the night is darker now,

And the wind blows stronger;

Fails my heart, I know not how,

I can go no longer."

"Mark my footsteps, good my page!Tread thou in them boldly;Thou shalt find the winter's rageFreeze thy blood less coldly."

"Mark my footsteps, good my page!

Tread thou in them boldly;

Thou shalt find the winter's rage

Freeze thy blood less coldly."

In his master's steps he trod,Where the snow lay dinted;Heat was in the very sodWhich the saint had printed.

In his master's steps he trod,

Where the snow lay dinted;

Heat was in the very sod

Which the saint had printed.

Therefore, Christian men, be sure,Wealth or rank possessing,Ye who now will bless the poor,Shall yourselves find blessing.Version byJohn Mason Neale

Therefore, Christian men, be sure,

Wealth or rank possessing,

Ye who now will bless the poor,

Shall yourselves find blessing.

Version byJohn Mason Neale

Jean Valjean plays the Christmas Saint

AS for the traveller, he had deposited his cudgel and his bundle in a corner. The landlord once gone, he threw himself into an arm-chair and remained for some time buried in thought. Then he removed his shoes, took one of the two candles, blew out the other, opened the door, and quitted the room, gazing about him like a person who is in search of something. He traversed a corridorand came upon a staircase. There he heard a very faint and gentle sound like the breathing of a child. He followed this sound, and came to a sort of triangular recess built under the staircase, or rather formed by the staircase itself. This recess was nothing else than the space under the steps. There, in the midst of all sorts of old papers and potsherds, among dust and spiders' webs, was a bed—if one can call by the name of bed a straw pallet so full of holes as to display the straw, and a coverlet so tattered as to show the pallet. No sheets. This was placed on the floor.

In this bed Cosette was sleeping.

The man approached and gazed down upon her.

Cosette was in a profound sleep; she was fully dressed. In the winter she did not undress, in order that she might not be so cold.

Against her breast was pressed the doll, whose large eyes, wide open, glittered in the dark. From time to time she gave vent to a deep sigh as though she were on the point of waking, and she strained the doll almost convulsively in her arms. Beside her bed there was only one of her wooden shoes.

A door which stood open near Cosette's pallet permitted a view of a rather large, dark room. The stranger stepped into it. At the further extremity, through a glass door, he saw two small, very white beds. They belonged to Éponine and Azelma. Behind these beds, and half hidden, stood an uncurtained wicker cradle, in which the little boy who had cried all the evening lay asleep.

The stranger conjectured that this chamber connected with that of the Thénardier pair. He was on the point of retreating when his eye fell upon the fireplace—one of those vast tavern chimneys where there is always solittle fire when there is any fire at all, and which are so cold to look at. There was no fire in this one, there was not even ashes; but there was something which attracted the stranger's gaze, nevertheless. It was two tiny children's shoes, coquettish in shape and unequal in size. The traveller recalled the graceful and immemorial custom in accordance with which children place their shoes in the chimney on Christmas eve, there to await in the darkness some sparkling gift from their good fairy. Éponine and Azelma had taken care not to omit this, and each of them had set one of her shoes on the hearth.

The traveller bent over them.

The fairy, that is to say, their mother, had already paid her visit, and in each he saw a brand-new and shining ten-sou piece.

The man straightened himself up, and was on the point of withdrawing, when far in, in the darkest corner of the hearth, he caught sight of another object. He looked at it, and recognized a wooden shoe, a frightful shoe of the coarsest description, half dilapidated and all covered with ashes and dried mud. It was Cosette's sabot. Cosette, with that touching trust of childhood, which can always be deceived yet never discouraged, had placed her shoe on the hearth-stone also.

Hope in a child who has never known anything but despair is a sweet and touching thing.

There was nothing in this wooden shoe.

The stranger fumbled in his waistcoat, bent over and placed a louis d'or in Cosette's shoe.

Then he regained his own chamber with the stealthy tread of a wolf.

Victor HugoinLes Miserables

Saint Brandan

SAINT BRANDAN sails the northern main;The brotherhoods of saints are glad.He greets them once, he sails again;So late! such storms! The saint is mad!He heard, across the howling seas,Chime convent-bells on wintry nights;He saw, on spray-swept Hebrides,Twinkle the monastery-lights;But north, still north, Saint Brandan steered;And now no bells, no convents more!The hurtling Polar lights are neared,The sea without a human shore.At last (it was the Christmas-night;Stars shone after a day of storm)He sees float past an iceberg white,And on it—Christ!—a living form.That furtive mien, that scowling eye,Of hair that red and tufted fell,It is—oh, where shall Brandan fly?—The traitor Judas, out of hell!Palsied with terror, Brandan sate;The moon was bright, the iceberg near.He hears a voice sigh humbly, "Wait!By high permission I am here."One moment wait, thou holy man!On earth my crime, my death, they knew;My name is under all men's ban:Ah! tell them of my respite too."Tell them, one blessed Christmas-night(It was the first after I came,Breathing self-murder, frenzy, spite,To rue my guilt in endless flame),—"I felt, as I in torment lay'Mid the souls plagued by heavenly power,An angel touch mine arm, and say,—'Go hence, and cool thyself an hour!'"'Ah! whence this mercy, Lord?' I said.'The leper recollect,' said he,'Who asked the passers-by for aid,In Joppa, and thy charity.'"Then I remembered how I went,In Joppa, through the public street,One morn when the sirocco spentIts storms of dust with burning heat;"And in the street a leper sate,Shivering with fever, naked, old;Sand raked his sores from heel to pate,The hot wind fevered him fivefold."He gazed upon me as I passed,And murmured, 'Help me, or I die!'To the poor wretch my cloak I cast,Saw him look eased, and hurried by.****"Once every year, when carols wake,On earth, the Christmas-night's repose,Arising from the sinner's lake,I journey to these healing snows."I stanch with ice my burning breast,With silence balm my whirling brain.O Brandan! to this hour of rest,That Joppan leper's ease was pain."Tears started to Saint Brandan's eyes;He bowed his head, he breathed a prayer,Then looked—and lo, the frosty skies!The iceberg, and no Judas there!Matthew Arnold

SAINT BRANDAN sails the northern main;The brotherhoods of saints are glad.He greets them once, he sails again;So late! such storms! The saint is mad!

SAINT BRANDAN sails the northern main;

The brotherhoods of saints are glad.

He greets them once, he sails again;

So late! such storms! The saint is mad!

He heard, across the howling seas,Chime convent-bells on wintry nights;He saw, on spray-swept Hebrides,Twinkle the monastery-lights;

He heard, across the howling seas,

Chime convent-bells on wintry nights;

He saw, on spray-swept Hebrides,

Twinkle the monastery-lights;

But north, still north, Saint Brandan steered;And now no bells, no convents more!The hurtling Polar lights are neared,The sea without a human shore.

But north, still north, Saint Brandan steered;

And now no bells, no convents more!

The hurtling Polar lights are neared,

The sea without a human shore.

At last (it was the Christmas-night;Stars shone after a day of storm)He sees float past an iceberg white,And on it—Christ!—a living form.

At last (it was the Christmas-night;

Stars shone after a day of storm)

He sees float past an iceberg white,

And on it—Christ!—a living form.

That furtive mien, that scowling eye,Of hair that red and tufted fell,It is—oh, where shall Brandan fly?—The traitor Judas, out of hell!

That furtive mien, that scowling eye,

Of hair that red and tufted fell,

It is—oh, where shall Brandan fly?—

The traitor Judas, out of hell!

Palsied with terror, Brandan sate;The moon was bright, the iceberg near.He hears a voice sigh humbly, "Wait!By high permission I am here.

Palsied with terror, Brandan sate;

The moon was bright, the iceberg near.

He hears a voice sigh humbly, "Wait!

By high permission I am here.

"One moment wait, thou holy man!On earth my crime, my death, they knew;My name is under all men's ban:Ah! tell them of my respite too.

"One moment wait, thou holy man!

On earth my crime, my death, they knew;

My name is under all men's ban:

Ah! tell them of my respite too.

"Tell them, one blessed Christmas-night(It was the first after I came,Breathing self-murder, frenzy, spite,To rue my guilt in endless flame),—

"Tell them, one blessed Christmas-night

(It was the first after I came,

Breathing self-murder, frenzy, spite,

To rue my guilt in endless flame),—

"I felt, as I in torment lay'Mid the souls plagued by heavenly power,An angel touch mine arm, and say,—'Go hence, and cool thyself an hour!'

"I felt, as I in torment lay

'Mid the souls plagued by heavenly power,

An angel touch mine arm, and say,—

'Go hence, and cool thyself an hour!'

"'Ah! whence this mercy, Lord?' I said.'The leper recollect,' said he,'Who asked the passers-by for aid,In Joppa, and thy charity.'

"'Ah! whence this mercy, Lord?' I said.

'The leper recollect,' said he,

'Who asked the passers-by for aid,

In Joppa, and thy charity.'

"Then I remembered how I went,In Joppa, through the public street,One morn when the sirocco spentIts storms of dust with burning heat;

"Then I remembered how I went,

In Joppa, through the public street,

One morn when the sirocco spent

Its storms of dust with burning heat;

"And in the street a leper sate,Shivering with fever, naked, old;Sand raked his sores from heel to pate,The hot wind fevered him fivefold.

"And in the street a leper sate,

Shivering with fever, naked, old;

Sand raked his sores from heel to pate,

The hot wind fevered him fivefold.

"He gazed upon me as I passed,And murmured, 'Help me, or I die!'To the poor wretch my cloak I cast,Saw him look eased, and hurried by.

"He gazed upon me as I passed,

And murmured, 'Help me, or I die!'

To the poor wretch my cloak I cast,

Saw him look eased, and hurried by.

****"Once every year, when carols wake,On earth, the Christmas-night's repose,Arising from the sinner's lake,I journey to these healing snows.

****

"Once every year, when carols wake,

On earth, the Christmas-night's repose,

Arising from the sinner's lake,

I journey to these healing snows.

"I stanch with ice my burning breast,With silence balm my whirling brain.O Brandan! to this hour of rest,That Joppan leper's ease was pain."

"I stanch with ice my burning breast,

With silence balm my whirling brain.

O Brandan! to this hour of rest,

That Joppan leper's ease was pain."

Tears started to Saint Brandan's eyes;He bowed his head, he breathed a prayer,Then looked—and lo, the frosty skies!The iceberg, and no Judas there!Matthew Arnold

Tears started to Saint Brandan's eyes;

He bowed his head, he breathed a prayer,

Then looked—and lo, the frosty skies!

The iceberg, and no Judas there!

Matthew Arnold

St. Stephen's, or Boxing Day

IN old England St. Stephen's Day is chiefly celebrated under the name of Boxing Day,—not for pugilistic reasons, but because on that day it was the custom for persons in the humbler walks of life to go the rounds with a Christmas-box and solicit money from patrons and employers. Hence the phrase Christmas-box came to signify gifts made at this season to children or inferiors, even after the boxes themselves had gone out of use. This custom was of heathen origin and carries us back to the Roman Paganalia when earthen boxes in which moneywas slipped through a hole were hung up to receive contributions at these rural festivals.

Aubrey in his "Wiltshire Collections" describes atrouvailleof Roman relics: "Among the rest was an earthen pot of the color of a crucible, and of the shape of a Prentice's Christmas-box with a slit in it, containing about a quart which was near full of money. This pot I gave to the Repository of the Royal Society at Gresham College."

Of the Prentice's Christmas-box, a recognized institution of the seventeenth century, several specimens are preserved,—small and wide bottles of thin clay from three to four inches in height, surrounded by imitation stoppers covered with a green baize. On one side is a slit for the introduction of money; the box must be broken before the money can be extracted.

W. P. R.

St. Basil in Trikkola

TRIKKOLA is very Turkish, having only been in Greek hands for eight years; but though you see mosques and latticed windows at every turn, there is not a Greek left; when his rule is over the Mussulman packs his luggage; he will not live subject to the infidel. It is very squalid indeed, and down the bazaar ran an open drain; but nevertheless the walk by the river is pretty and towards evening women came down to the stream to wash and fetch home water in quaint round bottles. I think one of the most marked distinctions between Turk and Greek is whitewash. Greeks love whitewash; houses, churches, public buildings are excessively clean outside, and promise whatthe interior fails to fulfill. This is especially remarkable at Trikkola, where the brown mud houses of Turkish days are being rapidly converted into white Greek ones.

St. Basil's Eve—that is to say the Greek New Year's Eve—is a very marked day in the period of the twelve days, and one on which all make merry. The squalid streets of Trikkola even looked bright as bands of gaily dressed children, nay, even grown-up young men, went round singing the Kalends songs—Greek Kalends that is to say, which though it is twelve days later than ours came at last. And on this the eve of the Kalends these bands paraded the streets, each carrying a long pole to the top of which was tied a piece of brushwood, within which was concealed a bell, and to which were tied many scraps of colored ribbon. At each house the singers stopped. The inhabitants came out to greet them and offer them refreshments,—figs, nuts, eggs and other food,—which were stowed away by one of the band who carried a basket. Their songs to our ears were exceedingly ugly, long chanted stories. I asked a priest whose acquaintance I had made to copy down one of them, of which the following is a rough translation:—

From Cæsarea came the holy Basil;Ink and paper in his hands he held.Cried the crowd who saw him coming,"Teach us letters, dear St. Basil."His rod he left them for instruction—His rod which buds with verdant leaves,On which the partridges sit singingAnd the swallows make their nests.

From Cæsarea came the holy Basil;

Ink and paper in his hands he held.

Cried the crowd who saw him coming,

"Teach us letters, dear St. Basil."

His rod he left them for instruction—

His rod which buds with verdant leaves,

On which the partridges sit singing

And the swallows make their nests.

Jangle went the bell in the brushwood—"the thicket" as they call it—and out came the housewife when the singing was over, her hands full of homely gifts, in returnfor which she was presented with one of the silk ribbons from the trophy. This she will keep for the whole of the ensuing year, for it will bring her good luck. And after many good wishes for the coming year the troupe moved on to another house.... It seems that this is the most favorite Greek method of celebrating a festive season. The people in no way resent these constant visitors and claims on their hospitality; nay, rather they would be deeply hurt if the bands of children passed them by.

J. Theodore Bent

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