breeches!  What compunction in the face of the gentleman in black (who, I suppose, has been forging), and who clasps his hands, and listens to the chaplain!  Now we haste away to merrier scenes: to Tattersall’s (ah gracious powers! what a funny fellow that actor was who performed Dicky Green in that scene in the play!); and now we are at a private party, at which Corinthian Tom is waltzing (and very gracefully too, as you must confess) with Corinthian Kate, whilst Bob Logic, the Oxonian, is playing on the piano!

“After,” the text says, “the Oxonian had played several pieces of lively music, he requested as a favour that Kate and his friend Tom would perform a waltz.  Kate without any hesitation immediately stood up.  Tom offered his hand to his fascinating partner, and the dance took place.  The plate conveys a correct representation of the ‘gay scene’ at that precise moment.  The anxiety of the Oxonian to witness the attitudes of the elegant pair had nearly put a stop to their movements.  On turning round from the pianoforte and presenting his comical mug, Kate could scarcely suppress a laugh.”

And no wonder; just look at it now (as I have copied it to the best of my humble ability), and compare Master Logic’s countenance and attitude with the splendid elegance of Tom!  Now every London man is weary and blasé.  There is an enjoyment of life in these young bucks of 1823 which contrasts strangely with our feelings of 1860.  Here, for instance, is a specimen of their talk and walk, “If,’ says Logic—‘if enjoyment is your motto, you may make the most of an evening at Vauxhall, more than at any other place in the metropolis.  It is all free and easy.  Stay as long as you like, and depart when you think proper.’—‘Your description is so flattering,’ replied Jerry, ‘that I do not care how soon the time arrives for us to start.’  Logic proposed a ‘bit of a stroll’ in order to get rid of an hour or two, which was immediately accepted by Tom and Jerry.  A turn or two in Bond Street, a stroll through Piccadilly, a look in at Tattersall’s, a ramble through Pall Mall, and a strut on the Corinthian path, fully occupied the time of our heroes until the hour for dinner arrived, when a few glasses of Tom’s rich wines soon put them on the qui vive.  Vauxhall was then the object in view, and the Trio started, bent upon enjoying the pleasures which this place so amply affords.”

How nobly those inverted commas, those italics, those capitals, bring out the writer’s wit and relieve the eye!  They are as good as jokes, though you mayn’t quite preceive the point.  Mark the varieties of lounge in which the young men indulge—now a stroll, then a look in, then a ramble, and presently a strut.  When George, Prince of Wales, was twenty, I have read in an old Magazine, “the Prince’s lounge” was a peculiar manner of walking which the young bucks imitated.  At Windsor George III. had a cat’s path—a sly early walk which the good old king took in the grey morning before his household was astir.  What was the Corinthian path here recorded?  Does any antiquary know?  And what were the rich wines which our friends took, and which enable them to enjoy Vauxhall?  Vauxhall is gone, but the wines which could occasion such a delightful perversion of the intellect as to enable it to enjoy ample pleasures there, what were they?

So the game of life proceeds, until Jerry Hawthorn, the rustic, is fairly knocked up by all this excitement and is forced to go home, and the last picture represents him getting into the coach at the “White Horse Cellar,” he being one of six inside; whilst his friends shake him by the hand; whilst the sailor mounts on the roof; whilst the Jews hang round with oranges, knives, and sealing-wax: whilst the guard is closing the door.  Where are they now, those sealing-wax vendors? where are the guards? where are the jolly teams? where are the coaches? and where the youth that climbed inside and out of them; that heard the merry horn which sounds no more; that saw the sun rise over Stonehenge; that rubbed away the bitter tears at night after parting as the coach sped on the journey to school and London; that looked out with beating heart as the milestones flew by, for the welcome corner where began home and holidays.

It is night now: and here is home.  Gathered under the quiet roof elders and children lie alike at rest.  In the midst of a great peace and calm, the stars look out from the heavens.  The silence is peopled with the past; sorrowful remorses for sins and shortcomings—memories of passionate joys and griefs rise out of their graves, both now alike calm and sad.  Eyes, as I shut mine, look at me, that have long ceased to shine.  The town and the fair landscape sleep under the starlight, wreathed in the autumn mists.  Twinkling among the houses a light keeps watch here and there, in what may be a sick chamber or two.  The clock tolls sweetly in the silent air.  Here is night and rest.  An awful sense of thanks makes the heart swell, and the head bow, as I pass to my room through the sleeping house, and feel as though a hushed blessing were upon it.

ROUND ABOUT THE CHRISTMAS TREE

The kindly Christmas tree, from which I trust every gentle reader has pulled out a bonbon or two, is yet all aflame whilst I am writing, and sparkles with the sweet fruits of its season.  You young ladies, may you have plucked pretty giftlings from it; and out of the cracker sugar-plum which you have split with the captain or the sweet young curate may you have read one of those delicious conundrums which the confectioners introduce into the sweetmeats, and which apply to the cunning passion of love.  Those riddles are to be read at your age, when I daresay they are amusing.  As for Dolly, Merry, and Bell, who are standing at the tree, they don’t care about the love-riddle part, but understand the sweet-almoned portion very well.  They are four, five, six years old.  Patience, little people!  A dozen merry Christmases more, and you will be reading those wonderful love-conundrums, too.  As for us elderly folks, we watch the babies at their sport, and the young people pulling at the branches: and instead of finding bonbons or sweeties in the packets which we pluck off the boughs, we find enclosed Mr Carnifex’s review of the quarter’s meat; Mr Sartor’s compliments, and little statement for self and the young gentlemen; and Madame de Sainte-Crinoline’s respects to the young ladies, who encloses her account, and will sent on Saturday, please; or we stretch our hand out to the educational branch of the Christmas tree, and there find a lively and amusing article from the Rev. Henry Holyshade, containing our dear Tommy’s exceedingly moderate account for the last term’s school expenses.

The tree yet sparkles, I say.  I am writing on the day before Twelfth Day, if you must know; but already ever so many of the fruits have been pulled, and the Christmas lights have gone out.  Bobby Miseltow, who has been staying with us for a week (and who has been sleeping mysteriously in the bath-room), comes to say he is going away to spend the rest of the holidays with his grandmother—and I brush away the manly tear of regret as I part with the dear child.  “Well, Bob, good-bye, since you will go.  Compliments to grandmamma.  Thank her for the turkey.  Here’s —”  (A slight pecuniary transaction takes place at this juncture, and Bob nods and winks, and puts his hand in his waistcoat pocket.)  “You have had a pleasant week?”

Bob.—“Haven’t I!”  (And exit, anxious to