1873—74.] CHRISTMASTIDE, 1873. 125 



horses have seemed almost wonders in their powers of galloping 

 and jumping ; and we have forgotten all about the discomforts 

 of rain and mud, and better still, of wind. 



CHRISTMASTIDE, 1873. 



What kind of Christmas does one hunting-man invoke for 

 another, as he grasps his hand and bids him merriment and 

 happiness ? Surely his mind's eye is not fixed upon the hoary 

 icicle-hung figure of conventional Christmastide, vdi\\ its 

 attendant miseries ? He does not mean to wish his friend im- 

 prisonment and inaction ; possible over-indulgence, with its 

 consequent gout or ill-temper ; fretfulness, roused by brooding 

 over the butcher's bill, or pangs of conscience begotten of 

 examination of stable accounts. The lower class may, perhaps, 

 in these days of democracy and high wages, be generally as 

 well able to buy coal as the}' of bluer blood. But still there 

 must be humble homes where cold weather and a fireless grate 

 mean anything but a merry time ; and surely the knowledge of 

 such scenes is not what we wish one another. No, the face of 

 our Father Christmas is an evergreen, warm, and kindly one, 

 that smiles upon'our open air, fosters manhood and sport, and 

 favours the cheery fellowship of the field. Some good folks 

 have been murmuring for what they call " seasonable Christ- 

 mas weather," even though the sun has been shining daily and 

 brightly, a mild, spring-like zephyr breathing softly upon them, 

 and the roads clean as if swept for their convenience. Well, 

 let them! This has been our Merry Christmas, and heartily 

 and thankfully Ave have welcomed it. More perfect and delight- 

 ful weather than we have had it would be impossible to con- 

 ceive, and everything else has conduced to our present happy 

 mode of celebrating the season. We may live and hunt for 

 years (a possibility that naturally takes the form of a prayer) ; 

 but we can scarcely hope to see such a peerless early season 



