VIICHRISTMAS REVELS

MAKE me merry both more and less,For now is the time of Christymas!Let no man come into this hall,Groom, page, not yet marshall,But that some sport he bring withal!For now is the time of Christmas!If that he say, he cannot sing,Some other sport then let him bring!That it may please at this feasting!For now is the time of Christmas!If he say he can naught do,Then for my love ask him no mo!But to the stocks then let him go!For now is the time of Christmas!From a Balliol MS. of about 1540

MAKE me merry both more and less,For now is the time of Christymas!

MAKE me merry both more and less,

For now is the time of Christymas!

Let no man come into this hall,Groom, page, not yet marshall,But that some sport he bring withal!For now is the time of Christmas!

Let no man come into this hall,

Groom, page, not yet marshall,

But that some sport he bring withal!

For now is the time of Christmas!

If that he say, he cannot sing,Some other sport then let him bring!That it may please at this feasting!For now is the time of Christmas!

If that he say, he cannot sing,

Some other sport then let him bring!

That it may please at this feasting!

For now is the time of Christmas!

If he say he can naught do,Then for my love ask him no mo!But to the stocks then let him go!For now is the time of Christmas!From a Balliol MS. of about 1540

If he say he can naught do,

Then for my love ask him no mo!

But to the stocks then let him go!

For now is the time of Christmas!

From a Balliol MS. of about 1540

The Feast of Saint Stephen in Venice

THE Doge's banquets especially took the importance of public spectacles, and were always five in number, given at the feasts of Saint Mark, the Ascension, Saint Vitus, Saint Jerome, and Saint Stephen, after the last of which the distribution of the 'oselle' took place, representing the ducks of earlier days, as the reader will remember. At these great dinners there were generally a hundred guests; the Doge's counsellors, the Heads of the Ten, the Avogadors and the heads of all the other magistracies had a right to be invited, but the rest of the guests were chosen among the functionaries at the Doge's pleasure.

In the banquet-hall there were a number of side-boards on which was exhibited the silver, part of which belonged to the Doge and part to the State, and this was shown twenty-four hours before the feast. It was under the keeping of a special official. The glass service used on the table for flowers and for dessert was of the finest made in Murano. Each service, though this is hard to believe, is said to have been used in public only once, and was designed to recall some important event of contemporary history by trophies, victories, emblems, and allegories. I find this stated by Giustina Renier Michiel, who was a contemporary, was noble, and must have often seen these banquets.

The public was admitted to view the magnificent spectacle during the whole of the first course, and the ladies of the aristocracy went in great numbers. It was their customto walk round the tables, talking with those of their friends who sat among the guests, and accepting the fruits and sweetmeats which the Doge and the rest offered them, rising from their seats to do so. The Doge himself rose from his throne to salute those noble ladies whom he wished to distinguish especially. Sovereigns passing through Venice at such times did not disdain to appear as mere spectators at the banquets, which had acquired the importance of national anniversaries.

Between the first and second courses, a majestic chamberlain shook a huge bunch of keys while he walked round the hall, and at this hint all visitors disappeared. The feast sometimes lasted several hours, after which the Doge's squires presented each of the guests with a great basket filled with sweetmeats, fruits, comfits, and the like, and adorned with the ducal arms. Every one rose to thank the Doge for these presents, and he took advantage of the general move to go back to his private apartments. The guests accompanied him to the threshold, where his Serenity bowed to them without speaking, and every one returned his salute in silence. He disappeared within, and all went home.

During this ceremony of leave-taking, the gondoliers of the guests entered the hall of the banquet and each carried the basket received by his master to some lady indicated by the latter. "One may imagine," cries the good Dame Michiel, "what curiosity there was about the destination of the baskets, but the faithful gondoliers regarded mystery as a point of honour, though the basket was of such dimensions that it was impossible to take it anywhere unobserved; happy were they who received these evidences of a regard which at once touched their feelings and flattered theirlegitimate pride! The greatest misfortune was to have to share the prize with another."

F. Marion CrawfordinSalve Venetia!

The Feast of Fools

BELETUS, who lived in 1182, mentions the Feast of Fools, as celebrated in some places on New Year's day, in others on Twelfth Night and in still others the week following. It seems at any rate to have been one of the recognized revels of the Christmas season. In France, at different cathedral churches there was a Bishop or an Archbishop of Fools elected, and in the churches immediately dependent upon the papal see a Pope of Fools.

These mock pontiffs had usually a proper suite of ecclesiastics, and one of their ridiculous ceremonies was to shave the Precentor of Fools upon a stage erected before the church in the presence of the jeering "vulgar populace."

They were mostly attired in the ridiculous dresses of pantomime players and buffoons, and so habited entered the church, and performed the ceremony accompanied by crowds of followers representing monsters or so disguised as to excite fear or laughter. During this mockery of a divine service they sang indecent songs in the choir, ate rich puddings on the corner of the altar, played at dice upon it during the celebration of a mass, incensed it with smoke from old burnt shoes, and ran leaping all over the church. The Bishop or Pope of Fools performed the service and gave benediction, dressed in pontifical robes. When it was concluded he was seated in an open carriage and drawn about the town followed by his train, who inplace of carnival confetti threw filth from a cart upon the people who crowded to see the procession.

These "December liberties," as they were called, were always held at Christmas time or near it, but were not confined to one particular day, and seem to have lasted through the chief part of January. When the ceremony took place upon St. Stephen's Day, they said as part of the mass a burlesque composition, called the Fool's Prose, and upon the festival of St. John the Evangelist, they had another arrangement of ludicrous songs, called the Prose of the Ox.

William HoneinAncient Mysteries

The Feast of the Ass

AS this was anciently celebrated in France, it almost entirely consisted of dramatic show. It was instituted in honor of Balaam's ass, and at one of them the clergy walked on Christmas Day in procession, habited to represent the prophets and others.

Moses appeared in an alb and cope with a long beard and a rod. David had a green vestment. Balaam, with an immense pair of spurs, rode on a wooden ass which enclosed a speaker. There were also six Jews and six Gentiles. Among other characters, the poet Virgil was introduced singing monkish rhymes, as a Gentile prophet, and a translator of the sibylline oracles. They thus moved in a procession through the body of the church chanting versicles, and conversing in character on the nativity and kingdom of Christ till they came into the choir.

This service, as performed in the cathedral at Rouen, commenced with a procession in which the clergy representedthe prophets of the Old Testament who foretold the birth of Christ; then followed Balaam mounted on his ass, Zacharias, Elizabeth, John the Baptist, the sibyl, Erythree, Simeon, Virgil, Nebuchadnezzar, and the three children in the furnace. After the procession entered the cathedral, several groups of persons performed the parts of Jews and Gentiles, to whom the choristers addressed speeches; afterwards they called on the prophets one by one, who came forward successively and delivered a passage relative to the Messiah. The other characters advanced to occupy their proper situations, and reply in certain verses to the questions of the choristers. They performed the miracle of the furnace; Nebuchadnezzar spoke, the sibyl appeared at the last, and then an anthem was sung, which concluded the ceremony.

The Missal of an Archbishop of Sens indicates that during such a service, the animal itself, clad with precious priestly ornaments, was solemnly conducted to the middle of the choir, during which procession a hymn in praise of the ass was sung—ending with—

Amen! bray, most honour'd Ass,Sated now with grain and grass:Amen repeat, Amen reply,And disregard antiquity.Hez va! hez va! hez va! hez!

Amen! bray, most honour'd Ass,

Sated now with grain and grass:

Amen repeat, Amen reply,

And disregard antiquity.

Hez va! hez va! hez va! hez!

The service lasted the whole of a night and part of the next day, and formed altogether the strangest, most ridiculous medley of whatever was usually sung at church festivals. When the choristers were thirsty wine was distributed; in the evening, on a platform before the church, lit by an enormous lantern, the grand chanter of Sens leda jolly band in performing broadly indecorous interludes. At respective divisions of the service the ass was supplied with drink and provender. In the middle of it, at the signal of a certain anthem, the ass being conducted into the nave of the church, the people mixed with the clergy danced around him, imitating his braying.

William HoneinAncient Mysteries

The Revel of Sir Hugonin de Guisay

MEMORABLE as an illustration of the manners of the French Court was a catastrophe that occurred in Paris in 1393. Riot and disorder had run wild all through the Christmas festivities. But the Court was not yet satisfied. Then Sir Hugonin de Guisay, most reckless among all the reckless spirits of the period, suggested that as an excuse for prolonging the merriment a marriage should be arranged between two of the court attendants. This was eagerly agreed upon. Sir Hugonin assumed the leadership, for which he was well fitted. He was loved and admired by the disorderly as much as he was hated and feared by the orderly. Among other pleasant traits, he was fond of exercising his wit upon tradesmen and mechanics, whom he would accost in the street, prick with his spurs, and compel to creep on all fours and bark like curs before he released them. Such traits endeared him to the courtiers of the young Most Gracious Majesty and Christian King of France. The marriage passed off in a blaze of glory and accompaniments of Gargantuan pleasantry. At the height of the ceremonies Sir Hugonin quietly withdrew with the king and four other wild ones,scions of the noblest houses in France. With a pot of tar and a quantity of tow the six conspirators were speedily changed into a very fair imitation of the dancing bears then very common in mountebanks' booths. A mask completed the transformation. Five were then bound together with a silken rope. The sixth, the king himself, led them into the hall.

Their appearance created a general stir. "Who are they?" was the cry. Nobody knew. At this moment entered the wildest of all the wild Dukes of Orleans. "Who are they?" he echoed between hiccoughs. "Well, we'll soon find out." Seizing a brand from one of the torch bearers ranged around the wall, he staggered forward. Some gentlemen essayed to stay him. But he was obstinate and quarrelsome. Main force could not be thought of against a prince of the blood. He was given his way. He thrust his torch under the chin of the nearest of the maskers. The tow caught fire. In a moment the whole group was in flames. The young Duchess of Berri seized the king and enveloped him in her ample quilted robe. Thus he was saved. Another masker, the Lord of Nanthouillet, noted for strength and agility, rent the silken rope with a wrench of his strong teeth, pitched himself like a flaming comet through the first window, and dived into a cistern in the court, whence he emerged black and smoking, but almost unhurt. As for the other four, they whirled hither and thither through the horrified mob, struggling with one another, fighting with the flames, cursing, shrieking with pain. Women fainted by scores. Men who had never faltered in a hundred fights sickened at the hideous spectacle. All Paris was roused by the uproar, and gathered, an excited mob, about the palace.At last the flames burnt out. The four maskers lay in a black and writhing heap upon the floor. One was a mere cinder. A second survived until daybreak. A third died at noon the next day. The fourth—none other than Sir Hugonin himself—survived for three days, while all Paris rejoiced over his agonies. "Bark, dog, bark," was the cry with which the citizens saluted his charred and mangled corpse, when it was at last borne to the grave.

W. S. WalshinCuriosities of Popular Customs

Revels of the Inner Temple—Inns of Court

ON St. Stephen's Day, after the first course was served in, the constable marshal was wont to enter the hall (and we think he had much better have come in, and said all he had to say beforehand) bravely arrayed with "a fair rich compleat harneys, white and bright and gilt, with a nest of fethers, of all colours, upon his crest or helm, and a gilt pole ax in his hand," and, no doubt, thinking himself a prodigiously fine fellow. He was accompanied by the lieutenant of the Tower, "armed with a fair white armour," also wearing "fethers," and "with a pole ax in his hand," and of course also thinking himself a very fine fellow. With them came sixteen trumpeters, preceded by four drums and fifes, and attended by four men clad in white "harneys," from the middle upwards, having halberds in their hands, and bearing on their shoulders a model of the Tower, and each and every one of these latter personages, in his degree, having a consciousness that he, too, was a fine fellow. Then all these fine fellows, with the drums and music, and with all their "fethers" and finery, went three times round the fire, whereas, considering that theboar's head was cooling all the time, we think once might have sufficed. Then the constable marshal, after three courtesies, knelt down before the Lord Chancellor, with the lieutenant doing the same behind him, and then and there deliberately proceeded to deliver himself of an "oration of a quarter of an hour's length," the purport of which was to tender his services to the Lord Chancellor, which, we think, at such a time, he might have contrived to do in fewer words. To this the Chancellor was unwise enough to reply that he would "take farther advice therein," when it would have been much better for him to settle the matter at once, and proceed to eat his dinner. However, this part of the ceremony ended at last by the constable marshal and the lieutenant obtaining seats at the Chancellor's table, upon the former giving up his sword; and then enter, for a similar purpose, the master of the game, apparelled in green velvet, and the ranger of the forest, in a green suit of "satten," bearing in his hand a green bow, and "divers" arrows, "with either of them a hunting-horn about their necks, blowing together three blasts of venery." These worthies, also, thought it necessary to parade their finery three times around the fire; and having then made similar obeisances, and offered up a similar petition in a similar posture, they were finally inducted into a similar privilege.

But though seated at the Chancellor's table, and no doubt sufficiently roused by the steam of its good things, they were far enough as yet from getting anything to eat, as a consequence; and the next ceremony is one which strikingly marks the rudeness of the times. "A huntsman cometh into the hall, with a fox, and a purse-net with a cat, both bound at the end of a staff, and with them nine orten couple of hounds, with the blowing of hunting-horns. And the fox and the cat are set upon by the hounds, and killed beneath the fire." "What this 'merry disport' signified (if practised) before the Reformation," says a writer in Mr. Hone's Year Book, "I know not. In 'Ane compendious boke of godly and spiritual songs, Edinburgh, 1621, printed from an old copy,' are the following lines, seemingly referring to some pageant:—

'The hunter is Christ that hunts in haist,The hunds are Peter and Pawle,The paip is the fox, Rome is the RoxThat rubbis us on the gall.'"

'The hunter is Christ that hunts in haist,

The hunds are Peter and Pawle,

The paip is the fox, Rome is the Rox

That rubbis us on the gall.'"

After these ceremonies, the welcome permission to betake themselves to the far more interesting one of an attack upon the good things of the feast appears to have been at length given; but at the close of the second course the subject of receiving the officers who had tendered their Christmas service was renewed. Whether the gentlemen of the law were burlesquing their own profession intentionally or whether it was an awkward hit, like that which befell their brethren of Gray's Inn, does not appear. However the common serjeant made what is called "a plausible speech," insisting on the necessity of these officers "for the better reputation of the Commonwealth;" and he was followed, to the same effect, by the King's serjeant-at-law till the Lord Chancellor silenced them by desiring a respite of further advice, which it is greatly to be marvelled he had not done sooner.

And thereupon he called upon the "ancientest of the masters of the revels" for a song,—a proceeding to which we give our unqualified approbation.

T. K. Hervey

King Witlaf's Drinking-Horn

WITLAF, a king of the Saxons,Ere yet his last he breathed,To the merry monks of CroylandHis drinking-horn bequeathed,—That, whenever they sat at their revels,And drank from the golden bowl,They might remember the donor,And breathe a prayer for his soul.So sat they once at Christmas,And bade the goblet pass;In their beards the red wine glistenedLike dew-drops in the grass.They drank to the soul of Witlaf,They drank to Christ the Lord,And to each of the Twelve Apostles,Who had preached His holy word.They drank to the Saints and MartyrsOf the dismal days of yore,And as soon as the horn was emptyThey remembered one Saint more.And the reader droned from the pulpit,Like the murmur of many bees,The legend of good Saint Guthlac,And Saint Basil's homilies;Till the great bells of the convent,From their prison in the tower,Guthlac and Bartholomæus,Proclaimed the midnight hour.And the Yule-log cracked in the chimneyAnd the Abbot bowed his head,And the flamelets flapped and flickeredBut the Abbot was stark and dead.Yet still in his pallid fingersHe clutched the golden bowl,In which, like a pearl dissolving,Had sunk and dissolved his soul.But not for this their revelsThe jovial monks forbore,For they cried, "Fill high the goblet!We must drink to one Saint more."Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

WITLAF, a king of the Saxons,Ere yet his last he breathed,To the merry monks of CroylandHis drinking-horn bequeathed,—

WITLAF, a king of the Saxons,

Ere yet his last he breathed,

To the merry monks of Croyland

His drinking-horn bequeathed,—

That, whenever they sat at their revels,And drank from the golden bowl,They might remember the donor,And breathe a prayer for his soul.

That, whenever they sat at their revels,

And drank from the golden bowl,

They might remember the donor,

And breathe a prayer for his soul.

So sat they once at Christmas,And bade the goblet pass;In their beards the red wine glistenedLike dew-drops in the grass.

So sat they once at Christmas,

And bade the goblet pass;

In their beards the red wine glistened

Like dew-drops in the grass.

They drank to the soul of Witlaf,They drank to Christ the Lord,And to each of the Twelve Apostles,Who had preached His holy word.

They drank to the soul of Witlaf,

They drank to Christ the Lord,

And to each of the Twelve Apostles,

Who had preached His holy word.

They drank to the Saints and MartyrsOf the dismal days of yore,And as soon as the horn was emptyThey remembered one Saint more.

They drank to the Saints and Martyrs

Of the dismal days of yore,

And as soon as the horn was empty

They remembered one Saint more.

And the reader droned from the pulpit,Like the murmur of many bees,The legend of good Saint Guthlac,And Saint Basil's homilies;

And the reader droned from the pulpit,

Like the murmur of many bees,

The legend of good Saint Guthlac,

And Saint Basil's homilies;

Till the great bells of the convent,From their prison in the tower,Guthlac and Bartholomæus,Proclaimed the midnight hour.

Till the great bells of the convent,

From their prison in the tower,

Guthlac and Bartholomæus,

Proclaimed the midnight hour.

And the Yule-log cracked in the chimneyAnd the Abbot bowed his head,And the flamelets flapped and flickeredBut the Abbot was stark and dead.

And the Yule-log cracked in the chimney

And the Abbot bowed his head,

And the flamelets flapped and flickered

But the Abbot was stark and dead.

Yet still in his pallid fingersHe clutched the golden bowl,In which, like a pearl dissolving,Had sunk and dissolved his soul.

Yet still in his pallid fingers

He clutched the golden bowl,

In which, like a pearl dissolving,

Had sunk and dissolved his soul.

But not for this their revelsThe jovial monks forbore,For they cried, "Fill high the goblet!We must drink to one Saint more."Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

But not for this their revels

The jovial monks forbore,

For they cried, "Fill high the goblet!

We must drink to one Saint more."

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Old Christmastide

HEAP 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 yearThe fittest time for festal cheer.Even heathen yet, the savage DaneAt Iol more deep the mead did drain;High on the beach his galley 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 thrownThe half-gnawed rib and marrow-bone,Or listened all, in grim delight,While scalds yelled out the joy of fight,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 recallThe boisterous joys of Odin's hall.And well our Christian sires of oldLoved when the year its course had rolled,And brought blithe Christmas back again,With all his hospitable train.Domestic and religious riteGave 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 hallTo 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, shareThe vulgar game of "post and pair."All hailed, with uncontrolled delight,And general voice, the happy nightThat 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 boardNo mark to part the squire and lord.Then was brought in the lusty brawnBy old blue-coated serving man;Then the grim boar's head frowned on high,Crested with bays and rosemary.Well can the green-garbed 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 byPlum-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,It was a hearty note, and strong,Who lists may in their mumming seeTraces of ancient mystery;White shirts supplied the masquerade,And smutted cheeks the vizors made:But, O! what masquers, richly dight,Can boast of bosoms half so light!England was merry England, whenOld Christmas brought his sports again.'Twas Christmas broached the mightiest ale;'Twas Christmas told the merriest tale;A Christmas gambol oft could cheerThe poor man's heart through half the year.Sir Walter Scott

HEAP 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 galley 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 joy of fight,

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 recall

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 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.

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-garbed 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,

It 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 vizors made:

But, O! 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.

Sir Walter Scott

Christmas Games in "Old Wardle's" Kitchen

[According to annual custom, on Christmas eve, observedby old Wardle's forefathers from time immemorial.]

FROM the centre of the ceiling of this kitchen, old Wardle had just suspended with his own hands a huge branch of mistletoe, and this same branch of mistletoe instantaneously gave rise to a scene of general and most delightful struggling of confusion; in the midst of which Mr. Pickwick, with a gallantry which would have done honour to a descendant of Lady Tollimglower herself, took the old lady by the hand, led her beneath the mystic branch, and saluted her in all courtesy and decorum. The old lady submitted to this piece of practical politeness with all the dignity which befitted so important and serious a solemnity, but the younger ladies, not being so thoroughly imbued with a superstitious veneration of the custom, or imagining that the value of a salute is very much enhanced if it cost a little trouble to obtain it, screamed and struggled, and ran into corners, and threatened and remonstrated,and did everything but leave the room, until some of the less adventurous gentlemen were on the point of desisting, when they all at once found it useless to resist any longer, and submitted to be kissed with a good grace. Mr. Winkle kissed the young lady with the black eyes, and Mr. Snodgrass kissed Emily; and Mr. Weller, not being particular about the form of being under the mistletoe, kissed Emma and the other female servants, just as he caught them. As to the poor relations, they kissed everybody, not even excepting the plainer portion of the young-lady visitors, who, in their excessive confusion, ran right under the mistletoe, directly it was hung up, without knowing it! Wardle stood with his back to the fire, surveying the whole scene with the utmost satisfaction; and the fat boy took the opportunity of appropriating to his own use, and summarily devouring, a particularly fine mince-pie, that had been carefully put by for somebody else.

Now the screaming had subsided, and faces were in a glow and curls in a tangle, and Mr. Pickwick, after kissing the old lady as before-mentioned, was standing under the mistletoe, looking with a very pleased countenance on all that was passing around him, when the young lady with the black eyes, after a little whispering with the other young ladies, made a sudden dart forward, and, putting her arm round Mr. Pickwick's neck, saluted him affectionately on the left cheek; and before Mr. Pickwick distinctly knew what was the matter, he was surrounded by the whole body, and kissed by every one of them.

It was a pleasant thing to see Mr. Pickwick in the centre of the group, now pulled this way, and then that, and first kissed on the chin and then on the nose, and then on thespectacles, and to hear the peals of laughter which were raised on every side; but it was a still more pleasant thing to see Mr. Pickwick, blinded shortly afterwards with a silk-handkerchief, falling up against the wall, and scrambling into corners, and going through all the mysteries of blind-man's buff, with the utmost relish for the game, until at last he caught one of the poor relations; and then had to evade the blind-man himself, which he did with a nimbleness and agility that elicited the admiration and applause of all beholders. The poor relations caught just the people whom they thought would like it; and when the game flagged, got caught themselves. When they were all tired of blind-man's buff, there was a great game at snap-dragon, and when fingers enough were burned with that, and all the raisins gone, they sat down by the huge fire of blazing logs to a substantial supper, and a mighty bowl of wassail, something smaller than an ordinary wash-house copper, in which the hot apples were hissing and bubbling with a rich look, and a jolly sound, that were perfectly irresistible.

"This," said Mr. Pickwick, looking round him, "this is, indeed, comfort."

"Our invariable custom," replied Mr. Wardle. "Everybody sits down with us on Christmas eve, as you see them now—servants and all; and here we wait till the clock strikes twelve, to usher Christmas in, and wile away the time with forfeits and old stories. Trundle, my boy, rake up the fire."

Up flew the bright sparks in myriads as the logs were stirred, and the deep red blaze sent forth a rich glow, that penetrated into the furthest corner of the room, and cast its cheerful tint on every face.

"Come," said Wardle, "a song—a Christmas song. I'll give you one, in default of a better."

"Bravo," said Mr. Pickwick.

"Fill up," cried Wardle. "It will be two hours good before you see the bottom of the bowl through the deep rich colour of the wassail; fill up all round, and now for the song."

Thus saying, the merry old gentleman, in a good, round, sturdy voice, commenced without more ado—

A Christmas Carol

I care not for Spring; on his fickle wingLet the blossoms and buds be borne:He woos them amain with his treacherous rain,And he scatters them ere the morn.An inconstant elf, he knows not himself,Or his own changing mind an hour,He'll smile in your face, and with wry grimace,He'll wither your youngest flower.Let the Summer sun to his bright home run,He shall never be sought by me;When he's dimmed by a cloud I can laugh aloud,And care not how sulky he be;For his darling child is the madness wildThat sports in fierce fever's train;And when love is too strong, it don't last long,As many have found to their pain.A mild harvest night, by the tranquil lightOf the modest and gentle moon,Has a far sweeter sheen for me, I ween,Than the broad and unblushing noon.But every leaf awakens my grief,As it lies beneath the tree;So let Autumn air be never so fair,It by no means agrees with me.But my song I troll out, for Christmas stout,The hearty, the true, and the bold;A bumper I drain, and with might and mainGive three cheers for this Christmas old.We'll usher him in with a merry dinThat shall gladden his joyous heart,And we'll keep him up while there's bite or sup,And in fellowship good, we'll part.In his fine honest pride, he scorns to hideOne jot of his hard-weather scars;They're no disgrace, for there's much the same traceOn the cheeks of our bravest tars.Then again I sing 'till the roof doth ring,And it echoes from wall to wall—To the stout old wight, fair welcome to-night,As the King of the Seasons all!

I care not for Spring; on his fickle wing

Let the blossoms and buds be borne:

He woos them amain with his treacherous rain,

And he scatters them ere the morn.

An inconstant elf, he knows not himself,

Or his own changing mind an hour,

He'll smile in your face, and with wry grimace,

He'll wither your youngest flower.

Let the Summer sun to his bright home run,He shall never be sought by me;When he's dimmed by a cloud I can laugh aloud,And care not how sulky he be;For his darling child is the madness wildThat sports in fierce fever's train;And when love is too strong, it don't last long,As many have found to their pain.

Let the Summer sun to his bright home run,

He shall never be sought by me;

When he's dimmed by a cloud I can laugh aloud,

And care not how sulky he be;

For his darling child is the madness wild

That sports in fierce fever's train;

And when love is too strong, it don't last long,

As many have found to their pain.

A mild harvest night, by the tranquil lightOf the modest and gentle moon,Has a far sweeter sheen for me, I ween,Than the broad and unblushing noon.But every leaf awakens my grief,As it lies beneath the tree;So let Autumn air be never so fair,It by no means agrees with me.

A mild harvest night, by the tranquil light

Of the modest and gentle moon,

Has a far sweeter sheen for me, I ween,

Than the broad and unblushing noon.

But every leaf awakens my grief,

As it lies beneath the tree;

So let Autumn air be never so fair,

It by no means agrees with me.

But my song I troll out, for Christmas stout,The hearty, the true, and the bold;A bumper I drain, and with might and mainGive three cheers for this Christmas old.We'll usher him in with a merry dinThat shall gladden his joyous heart,And we'll keep him up while there's bite or sup,And in fellowship good, we'll part.

But my song I troll out, for Christmas stout,

The hearty, the true, and the bold;

A bumper I drain, and with might and main

Give three cheers for this Christmas old.

We'll usher him in with a merry din

That shall gladden his joyous heart,

And we'll keep him up while there's bite or sup,

And in fellowship good, we'll part.

In his fine honest pride, he scorns to hideOne jot of his hard-weather scars;They're no disgrace, for there's much the same traceOn the cheeks of our bravest tars.Then again I sing 'till the roof doth ring,And it echoes from wall to wall—To the stout old wight, fair welcome to-night,As the King of the Seasons all!

In his fine honest pride, he scorns to hide

One jot of his hard-weather scars;

They're no disgrace, for there's much the same trace

On the cheeks of our bravest tars.

Then again I sing 'till the roof doth ring,

And it echoes from wall to wall—

To the stout old wight, fair welcome to-night,

As the King of the Seasons all!

This song was tumultuously applauded, for friends and dependents make a capital audience; and the poor relations especially were in perfect ecstasies of rapture. Again was the fire replenished, and again went the wassail round.

Charles Dickens

A "Mystery" as performed in Mexico

AGAINST the wing-wall of the Hacienda del Mayo, which occupied one end of the plaza, was raised a platform, on which stood a table covered with scarlet cloth. A rude bower of cane-leaves, on one end of the platform, represented the manger of Bethlehem; while a cord, stretched from its top across the plaza to a hole in the front of the church, bore a large tinsel star, suspended by a hole in its centre. There was quite a crowd in the plaza, and very soon a procession appeared,coming up from the lower part of the village. The three kings took the lead; the Virgin, mounted on an ass that gloried in a gilded saddle and rose-besprinkled mane and tail, followed them, led by the angel; and several women, with curious masks of paper, brought up the rear. Two characters, of the harlequin sort—one with a dog's head on his shoulders, and the other a bald-headed friar, with a huge hat hanging on his back—played all sorts of antics for the diversion of the crowd. After making the circuit of the plaza, the Virgin was taken to the platform, and entered the manger. King Herod took his seat at the scarlet table, with an attendant in blue coat and red sash, whom I took to be his Prime Minister. The three kings remained on their horses in front of the church; but between them and the platform, under the string on which the star was to slide, walked two men in long white robes and blue hoods, with parchment folios in their hands. These were the Wise Men of the East, as one might readily know from their solemn air, and the mysterious glances which they cast towards all quarters of the heavens.

In a little while, a company of women on the platform, concealed behind a curtain, sang an angelic chorus to the tune of 'Opescator dell' onda.' At the proper moment, the Magi turned towards the platform, followed by the star, to which a string was conveniently attached, that it might be slid along the line. The three kings followed the star till it reached the manger, when they dismounted, and inquired for the sovereign, whom it had led them to visit. They were invited upon the platform, and introduced to Herod, as the only king; this did not seem to satisfy them, and, after some conversation, they retired. By this time the star had receded to the other end of the line, and commencedmoving forward again, they following. The angel called them into the manger, where, upon their knees, they were shown a small wooden box, supposed to contain the sacred infant; they then retired, and the star brought them back no more. After this departure, King Herod declared himself greatly confused by what he had witnessed, and was very much afraid this newly found king would weaken his power. Upon consultation with his Prime Minister, the Massacre of the Innocents was decided upon, as the only means of security.

THE HOLY NIGHT.Von Uhde.

The angel, on hearing this, gave warning to the Virgin, who quickly got down from the platform, mounted her bespangled donkey, and hurried off. Herod's Prime Minister directed all the children to be handed up for execution. A boy, in a ragged sarape, was caught and thrust forward; the Minister took him by the heels in spite of his kicking, and held his head on the table. The little brother and sister of the boy, thinking he was really to be decapitated, yelled at the top of their voices, in an agony of terror, which threw the crowd into a roar of laughter. King Herod brought down his sword with a whack on the table, and the Prime Minister, dipping his brush into a pot of white paint which stood before him, made a flaring cross on the boy's face. Several other boys were caught and served likewise; and, finally, the two harlequins, whose kicks and struggles nearly shook down the platform. The procession then went off up the hill, followed by the whole population of the village. All the evening there were fandangoes in the méson, bonfires and rockets on the plaza, ringing of bells, and high mass in the church, with the accompaniment of two guitars, tinkling to lively polkas.

Bayard TaylorinEldorado

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