6 THE GHOST OF CHRISTMAS. 



" With the last yeere's brand 



Light the new block, and 

 For good success in his spending, 



On your psalteries play, 



That sweet luck may 

 Come while the log is a teending. 

 " Drink now the strong beer, 



Cut the white loafe here, 

 The while the meat is a shredding ; 



For the rare mince pie, 



And the plums stand by, 

 To fill the paste, that's a kneading!" (HERRICK.) 



The spirit of Christmas was invoked to propitiate the workings 

 of autumn. The very trees, leafless,, bare, and ice-bound, had their 

 draughts of wassail. 



" Wassail the trees that they may beare 

 You many a plumb and many a peare ; 

 For more or less fruits they will bring, 

 As you do give them wassaling." (HERRICK.) 



The boar's head, stuck with rosemary, an orange in his grim mouth, 

 did homage to the season. The yule log, religiously kept, reddened 

 the huge fireside ; and the chesnuts hissed and bounced into the laps 

 of the maids, who therein saw a happy augury of a sudden wedding. 

 The sweet smelling elder passed from lip to lip the carol was sung 

 the story told and Christmas, with all his thousand genialities, 

 his antique tricks, his legendary lore, sat the father at every hearth, 

 with all its household, like happy children about his knees. Time 

 was forgotten age ran backwards to be gamesome with childhood 

 the whole world was but a round of merry makers. At Christmas, 

 the lord and his serving-man met on the broad genial footing of their 

 common nature ; gifts were exchanged ; trifles, which in themselves 

 told of affection and loyal desire, assurances of mutual love and pro- 

 tection. Hearts that, in the working-days of traffic, had chilled to- 

 wards each other, dilated with the heat and cheer of Christmas, and 

 were again as friends. And many a lip, that for years had fed upon 

 the honey of its wedded fellow, took its first luscious feast from under 

 the silver-bearded misletoe of Christmas. Nay, it was Hymen's tree, 

 and the little loves would cluster in its branches, would look down 

 upon the upturned blushing face of beauty, and cry " a bride !" At 

 Christmas every rich man's door gaped to field and street ; the cha- 

 ritable monk would give treble alms to the poor the mud cottage, 

 a very swallow's nest, glowed like an oven. 



And thus lived old Christmas, thus came he to us once a-year, 

 borne down with happy gifts sweating with the primest stores of the 

 world, tumbling them down in every porch, bearing them to every 

 hearth, filling the bellies of all men with glorious cheer, and calling 

 up the contentment of their hearts into their eyes. He was the most 

 noble spirit of earth, for he was the sire of hospitality, the parent of 

 so worthy a brood. CHristmas, however, the hale, the hearty, he 

 whose very white locks seemed the true Samson's hair Christmas 

 has had his term of life Christmas is dead. Christmas gave a rich 



