12 THE GHOST OF CHRISTMAS. 



gentle tune of which it sounds, the Saxon, the Dane, and Norman 

 sung? \vhichthesolemnself-persecutedmonk chaunted in his cell 

 which cheered and softened the rude heart of the swineherd, tending 

 his grunting charge ? Do we hear this genius of antiquity, evoked 

 from the obscurity of time, tell to human hearts of the primitive and 

 eternal sympathies of human nature ? Alas ! no j we have none of 

 this. The carol, the beautiful affecting Christmas carol, the notes in 

 which the rich and powerful forget their pride of wealth and iron 

 sway in which the beggar confronted the noble the carol is dumb. 

 A few fitful notes may, at Christmas time, be heard, shrieked in 

 some pestilential alley, un visited by the guardians of the peace in 

 the foulest, most squalid haunts of city men, the carol may, per- 

 chance, lift it's voice ; but not elsewhere in the broad path of men, 

 under the eaves of the rich, it is shunned as the cry of a leper ; and 

 yet Christmas has it's modern songs, and choruses, and jigs, which tell 

 of his coming the music profane that usurped the antique holy, and, 

 in a love ditty to a lady's eye, a chorus of hunters or fishermen, we 

 are to listen to the signs and things which make and consecrate the 

 purpose of Christmas. The musicians are of apiece with their strains. 

 We are forewarned by them that their harmony is the acknowledged, 

 licensed harmony of the time ; that there are other players on the 

 sackbut, timbrel, and psaltery, coveting their neighbour's wages. 

 We are invoked to have all our eyes and faculties of thrift about us 

 to mark one man's flute another's fiddle to take good cognizance of 

 the viol-di-gamba of a third, in order that, in the overflowing of our 

 Christmas hearts, we may compare the aforesaid flute, fiddle, and 

 bass, with the instruments of divine sound, borne by the expected 

 despoilers. And this, this is merry Christmas ! Why do not, in 

 these days of mercantile exchange, the very robins present their bills 

 for singing too ? 



Where is the beadle, with his sonorous chaunt? In some few happy 

 places his warning may be heard. Some few puddings and mince- 

 pies may be leavened with his benediction ; but yet, how few ? He 

 is no longer a familiar of the time ; a fellow girdled with foolish good- 

 humour. No, he is a mere parish functionary, hardly kept in our 

 remembrance by his verses ; for they too, like the instrumental music 

 denounced above, are of the day present, and not of the day by-gone. 

 The bellman's Apollo should be some reverend straggler from another 

 age a brain festooned with the cobwebs of the last century. 



Well, the way tes have gone their course; the beadle, at least in very 

 fortunate districts, has done his dues. Christmas is come. Was 

 there ever such a sneak-up ? Look in his face it is blank as un- 

 written paper ; grasp his hand a very bunch of icicles. Why, the 

 rascal looks as though he had risen from a church-yard. There is no 

 blood no life in him ; his belly is gone ; and, for his legs, they may 

 be matched by the polished drum-sticks of a turkey. Well, let us 

 steal into his house, and see Christmas at his board. The table is 

 spread decently enough ; there are all the relations, but very few 

 friends, of Christmas. The feast passes off with tolerable quiet, ex- 

 cept that it's tranquillity is twice broken by the angry whistling voice 

 of Christmas, who cried out to a beggar, whining in the snow, " If 



