
KIDD’S OWN JOURNAL. 305 

A GLANCE AT DAYS OF YORE. 
A CHRISTMAS DISASTER. 
BY THE AUTHOR OF PLUM-PUDDING ISLAND. 

All things are big with jest; that’s plain. 
Nothing but may be witty,—if thou hast the vein. 
HERBERT. 
—_—_— 
% ULL WELL po I REMEMBER IT! 
AYE, AS WELL AS IF IT WERE 
BUT YESTERDAY. I was rolling 
rapidly along in the Stage- 
coach, years before Railways 
and their locomotive salaman- 
ders distributed the best 
London smoke in every direc- 
tion of the country. It was freezing hard ; 
the sharp clicking of the horses’ hoofs rung 
in the clear air; while the wheels revolved 
almost noiselessly. The vehicle was from 
London, and | was the only passenger. All 
the rest of the coach was crowded with 
barrels of oysters, and baskets of fish packed 
in straw; both inside and out. I never sat 
in company with so many natives of Col- 
chester, or of the Dogger-bank, before. 
It was on the afternoon of Christmas eve. 
I enjoyed the careless, blithesome spirit of 
sixteen; and revelled with infinite relish, in 
the anticipation of a pleasurable visit to a 
kind-hearted, opulent, fat old aunt. There 
were to join the party some pretty female 
cousins, who did not form the least acceptable 
part of the felicity I expected. 
Passing a village, the fire in the smith’s 
forge glowed with a cheerful brilliancy. 
The blows on the anvil chimed merrily. 

A string of boys were rapidly following each’ 
other on a long slide on the frozen horse- 
pond, from which the ducks had been ejected. 
These last were loudly quacking in despair 
at the infringement on their manorial rights. 
And now, what is the shrill outcry from at 
least thirty voices? what is the burst of 
merriment? ‘Tom Pigrum is down on the 
ice, and a dozen of smock-frocked urchins 
have tumbled in all directions over him and 
each other. As the coach goes on, the 
shouts gradually cease; and we pass the 
smell sweet and wholesome; as they are 
munching their evening meal from the hay- 
racks and turnip-troughs. The hoarse bark 
of the old watch-dog is heard, as the vehicle 
approaches the farm-house. The guard 
mischievously winds a blast on his bugle, 
which is answered by the mastiff with a 
lengthened doleful howl. This is succeeded 
by an incessant yelping from every canine 
resident on the premises. But stay : here is 
a basket of fish to be left at the gate; 
“ Carriage Paid.” All right! Hang the 
dogs ! 
As the early shades of night steal on, 
every twig becomes encrusted with the 
frozen dew; and the trees and shrubs are 
disguised in white. I confess to owning, on 
beholding them, certain anticipations of 
forthcoming confectionary at the mansion of 
my hospitable aunt. As the light of day 
grew more dim, my spirits sank a little; 
perhaps my appetite, too, required to be 
satisfied. I whistled the last new air; but I 
doubt whether it afforded any amusement to 
my living fellow-passengers, the oysters. 
It became more chilly ; but i found that 
if I pulled both windows up, the effluvium 
from the packed fish was somewhat too 
potent. I felt the time now to hang heavy 
on hand ; particularly when the coach stopped 
at a low cottage, where stood 4 man with a 
jug of hot elder wine; and coachman and 
guard dismounting, occupied a good ten 
minutes in discussing the said comfortable 
beverage. Mem. I was only a passenger ! 
By the glare of the coach-lamps I could 
perceive the four horses smoking, as if a fire 
had been lighted in each of them. For the 
next six miles, the poor dumb nags had to 
make up for the ten minutes’ enjoyment of 
their merciless driver; and at length I and 
my portmanteau were safely deposited at the 
lodge of my aunt’s house. The mansion 
was ancient and of red brick; with lofty 
gothic chimneys, and large casemented bow- 
windows. A sun-dial was conspicuous ; but 
being partially overgrown with ivy, its utility 
was superseded by a shrill-toned clock in 
butcher’s domain glowing in the glory of | front of the out-buildings in the court-yard. 
prize-fed beef and magnificent mutton. The 
jomts already ordered by the resident 
families, left until the last moment on the 
shambles, as the trophies of the purveyor, 
are gaily decked with laurel, the bright berry 
of the holly, and customary inscription, 
“EYES ON, HANDS OFF.” 
We are again on a common, skirted by a 
row of aged and lofty elms. Over the top- 
most boughs of these, a large colony of 
rooks are discordantly vociferating, and dis- 
puting for possession, The sun, a bright 
ball, is gradually sinking to the horizon. 
We rapidly pass a straw-yard. The 
ascending wreaths of vapor from the cattle, 
Von. IN 90: 
I was. introduced to the best parlor, 
| wherein were seated round a ruddy Christmas 
fire my venerable aunt and the pretty 
| cousins. I received a most hearty welcome. 
| After answering a hundred inquiries as to 
| town relatives and news, I glanced around 
the antiquated room. It was empannelled 
with carved oak; and the chimney-piece was 
'a chef d’euvre of Grinling Gibbons,—consist- 
ing of a group of foliage and fruit of the 
exact form and size of nature, most taste- 
fully designed and executed. Portraits of 
our ancestors were hung round the walls ; 
some of the gentlemen being attired in 
armour, with full-bottomed perukes. The 


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