GHOST OF CHRISTMAS. 11 



Still the phantom came and went, and the board of Christmas be- 

 came more scanty. Selfish thoughts would intrude themselves upon 

 the old man, who with tears and indignation would beat them away. 

 So matters went on, until a certain day of the accustomed festival, 

 when Christmas took his seat at the head of his board, albeit there 

 were few, very few faces to grace it indeed, there were many of his 

 more distant kin uninvited. As usual, the knock was heard, the hor- 

 rid phantom made his appearance, had the customary interview with 

 poor Old Christmas, and retired. The old man had returned to his 

 chair, and a half-suppressed yet audible groan broke from his lips. 

 On the succeeding moment, the voice of a traveller the wind blew, 

 and the sleet came cutting down begged for shelter. There was a 

 general stir among the few guests to the door to admit the petitioner, 

 when Old Christmas sprang to his feet, and bade every one again sit 

 down. " What ! Did he not hear the traveller, the poor traveller?" 

 In sudden wrath, Old Christmas cried, " Let him budge on he had 

 nought for beggars !" 



Had the old man vanished from before them, the guests could not 

 have stared with greater consternation : they gazed at each other 

 then looked at Christmas, who, as he met their eyes, sank with his 

 head on his breast, smitten rather by compunction, than by their 

 wondering glances. They hastened to him all help was vain. The 

 traveller had cried for shelter from the wintry blast, the wilderness 

 of snow, had been denied ; had begged a warm nook, and been told 

 to budge on. The traveller passed the door, and, at that moment 

 old, hospitable, English Christmas rendered up the ghost ! 



Old Christmas was buried. With much natural pomp the sighs, 

 and groans, and tears of the poor was ancient Christmas buried. 

 The phantom, whose persecutions caused his death, hath writ his 

 epitaph. Nor hath Christmas had but one funeral : every year his 

 obsequies are performed every year is his death lamented mourn- 

 ed for by those on whom his ancient hospitality was rained like 

 manna. 



Believe it, old Christmas is dead ! Trust not to the mummeries 

 done, the apparitions which appear in his name; they are, at the best, 

 idle mockeries, shadowy semblances of the great ancient liver in the 

 flesh. Let us calculate the trifles the sordid trifles which, in these 

 earth-stricken days, make up the jovial majesty of Christmas. His 

 coming, it will be said, is duly heralded. But how ? A few venal 

 knaves, with no touch of the music of the time in their souls, congre- 

 gate together to play preluding harmonies to the advent of the great 

 father of hospitality, of household kindness, love to fellow-man, and 

 all the hundred sympathies of a golden time; and when the sleeper 

 is awakened from some happy dream in the night a dream it may 

 be which placed him among those solemn shepherds, watching the 

 star, what doth greet his ears ? The simple air, the touching melody 

 sung by his fathers a thousand years ago ? The same notes, chaunted 

 by young Alfred, taught by his royal mother the notes which, in 

 their simple pathos, their soft sighing congratulations, seem but as 

 the long echoes to the very carols sung by the shepherd of Beth- 

 lehem ? Do we hear such music ? Do we hear that which, in the 



