THE GHOST OF CHRISTMAS. 13 



you don't go on I'll send for the constable." The dishes of the feast 

 have in them but little of the antiquity of the holyday ; and there 

 is nothing like a wassail bowl ; to be sure there are painted bits of 

 paper flung about, at which some look very demure, and some very 

 savage. Nearly all the holly trees have of course withered, for there 

 are not alive two or three twigs of tooth-pick size in the whole room. 

 Once, too, a young fellow, the merriest of the leaden-looking groupe, 

 looked about him, and ventured inquiringly to speak of " misletoe ?" 

 At this, Christmas called up a black look into his meagre face, and, 

 with an action and voice with which he evidently intended to stop all 

 further remark on the subject, cried " Misletoe ! vulgar!" And 

 can this be Christmas this the fellow with a heart for all the world? 

 Again, we say, believe it not ; wrong not ancient hospitality by har- 

 bouring such a thought Christmas is dead, and the thing that once 

 a-year now visits us is but the shadow THE GHOST OF CHRISTMAS ! 



The Christmas-box is an alleged relic of the olden time ; but, what 

 a mean mendicant affair it has dwindled to a mere thing of trade a 

 mercenary catch-penny. Who claim it ? First, those great practical 

 moralists the dustmen ; then follow in rank and file posfrnen, general 

 and two-penny; boys, butcher and publican; lamplighters, news- 

 men, and little vagabond school urchins ; though, by the way, the 

 most interesting of the whole tribe of claimants, soliciting, with icy 

 fingers and blue noses, permission to exhibit penmanship, done for 

 the peculiar honour of the season ! Well, here is a sturdy band of 

 claimants, the legitimate descendants of the knaves who, hundreds of 

 years ago, were wont to celebrate Christmas as the spring-time of the 

 heart the very season of gifts and good fortune. How is it now ? 

 They see at almost every door a face of flint : and when they are 

 prosperous enough to obtain what they seek, it is paid to them more 

 like a tax than a free offering, directed by ancient custom and the 

 genial spirit of the time. Every thing of Christmas is changed. It 

 is in vain that the stage-coaches, with their thousands of presents of 

 turkey, goose, and wild fowl, pass before us ; their very burden 

 speaks of the meagreness of the holiday. Where a man now sends 

 one turkey, he would have despatched half a modern farm-yard. 

 Where he gives a gallon of wine he would have sent a hogshead. A 

 single goose shall now, in its unaccompanied nakedness, tell a man it 

 is Christmas ; one turkey must suffice to give him an inkling of the 

 mighty season ; a draught of wine must, in these times, make the 

 drinker glorious. Alas ! in the generous age he would have drained 

 whole bowls. 



The Court was wont to open its heart, and declare its common 

 sympathies with the world by bountiful gifts of cheer at Christmas. 

 The Court hath now grown wise and stately, arid Christmas may 

 hunger for it. There are no oxen roasted at Windsor no large 

 collops of meat served to the fasting no flowing ale to thaw the 

 bowels of the poor. No; all doors are locked all curtains drawn. 

 State will not thrust its head abroad for fear of being frost-bitten. 

 The very essence of the English character seems evaporated in the 

 air of modern refinement ; were it possible that some of our an- 

 cestors, of the roaring boys who did due honour to the season, were 



