J380 COLD CHRISTMAS TIDINGS. 



On the morrow after the disaster of the cricket, my cousin 

 and I were again the guests of Mrs. Dove, but then in her 

 own, the house-keeper's room, for my uncle spent the day in 

 bed, a custom of no rare occurrence on that which followed his 

 annual academic commemoration. The next morning, however, 

 being that of Christmas-day, we breakfasted, as usual, in the 

 parlour, and received, each of us, a hearty kiss, and a blessing 

 as heart}, appropriate to the season. In the same overflowing 

 spirit he failed not to garnish botli our plates with nicely 

 apportioned slices of the spiced beef which always, at the fes- 

 tive season, reigned paramount over the ham and tongue of 

 ordinary breakfasts. After having himself done ample justice 

 to the ruddy round, he had just equalized its surface by a last 

 shaving, Lucy, lately promoted to the office of tea-maker, was 

 pouring out his third cup, when Caleb entered, and laid two 

 letters on the table by his master. The stable-lad had just 

 brought them from the neighbouring fishing-town, whither he 

 and the fat pony were in the habit of repairing thrice a week 

 to fetch prawns and despatches. Of the two just arrived, one 

 was a Christinas annual from my father, the vicar's brother, a 

 merchant in London, the other a stiff, business-looking letter 

 with a large seal, which my uncle, after he had read aloud the 

 contents of the first, proceeded to open. Though fifty years 

 have passed since that morning, I seem to have now before 

 me the countenance of its reader under the talismanic change 

 wrought by that piece of paper. He seemed to gulp down a 



