Amongst these ancient customs may be mentioned the practice of "going a gooding," which exists in some parts of Kent, and is performed by women, who present sprigs of evergreens and Christmas flowers, and beg for money in return. We believe the term "going a gooding" scarcely requires illustration. It means, simply, going about to wish "good even,"—as, according to Nares, fully appears from this passage in Romeo and Juliet:—

In this same county, St. Thomas's Day is likewise known by the name of "Doleing Day," on account of the distribution of the bounty of different charitable individuals. This word "dole" is explained by Nares to mean "a share or lot in any thing distributed," and to come from the verb to deal. He quotes Shakspeare for this also:—

The musical procession known in the Isle of Thanet and other parts of the same county by the name of "hodening" (supposed by some, to be an ancient relic of a festival ordained to commemorate the landing of our Saxon ancestors in that island, and which, in its form, is neither more nor less than a modification of the old practice of the "hobby horse"), is to this day another of the customs of this particular period.

A custom analogous to these is still to be traced in Warwickshire; throughout which county it seems to have been the practice of the poor to go from door to door of every house "with a bag to beg corn of the farmers, which they call going a corning." And in Herefordshire a similar custom exists, where this day is called "Mumping Day," that is, begging day.

To the same spirit we owe the Hagmena or Hogmanay practice, still in use in Scotland, as well as that of the Wren Boys in Ireland, both of which will be described hereafter, although their observance belongs to later days of the season, and probably many others which will variously suggest themselves to our various readers as existing in their several neighborhoods.

In the great metropolis of England, where poverty and wretchedness exist in masses upon which private benevolence cannot efficiently act, and where imposture assumes their forms in a degree that baffles the charity of individuals, the bequests of our ancestors have been to a great extent placed for distribution in the hands of the various parish authorities. St. Thomas's Day in London therefore is connected with these charities, by its being that on which some of the most important parochial proceedings take place; and amongst these are the wardmotes, held on this day for the election, by the freemen inhabitant householders, of the members of the Common Council, and other officers of the respective city wards.

The civil government of the City of London is said to bear a general resemblance to the legislative power of the empire; the Lord Mayor exercising the functions of monarchy, the Aldermen those of the peerage, and the Common Council those of the legislature. The principal difference is, that the Lord Mayor himself has no negative. The laws for the internal regulation of the city are wholly framed by these officers acting in common council. A Common-Councilman is, therefore, a personage of no mean importance.

Loving Christmas and its ceremonies with antiquarian veneration, we must profess likewise our profound respect for wards of such high sounding names as Dowgate, and Candlewick, and Cripplegate, and Vintry, and Portsoken; the last of which, be it spoken with due courtesy, has always reminded us of an alderman's nose; and for such distinguished callings as those of Cordwainers, and Lorimers, and Feltmakers, and Fishmongers, and Plasterers, and Vintners, and Barbers; each of whom we behold in perspective transformed into what Theodore Hook calls "a splendid annual," or in less figurative language, Lord Mayor of London! There is a pantomimic magic in the word since the memorable days of Whittington. But to our theme.—

Pepys, the gossipping secretary of the Admiralty, records in his curious diary his having gone on St. Thomas's Day (21st December), 1663, "to Shoe Lane to see a cocke-fighting at the new pit there, a spot," he adds, "I was never at in my life: but, Lord! to see the strange variety of people, from parliament-man (by name Wildes, that was deputy governor of the Tower when Robinson was Lord Mayor) to the poorest 'prentices, bakers, brewers, butchers, draymen, and what not; and all these fellows one with another cursing and betting. I soon had enough of it. It is strange to see how people of this poor rank, that look as if they had not bread to put into their mouths, shall bet three or four pounds at a time and lose it, and yet as much the next battle, so that one of them will lose £10 or £20 at a meeting."

Now the cock-fighting of our times, under the immediate patronage of Saint Thomas, and those of Pepys's differ little except in the character of the combatants. In his (comparatively speaking) barbarous days, it was sufficient to pit two birds, one against the other, to excite the public or amuse the spectators. But a purer taste prevails among the present citizens of London; for our modern "fighting-cocks," as the candidates for civic honors are called, seem on this day to be fully occupied with the morning exhibition of their own foul tongues,—and bets often run as high as parties, on these occasions.

"Saint Thomas's birds"—another name for these civic fighting-cocks—have been trained in various ale-house associations, such as the "Ancient and honorable Lumber Troop," the venerable "Society of Codgers," "the free and easy Johns," the "Councillors under the Cauliflower," and other well-known clubs,—where politics, foreign and domestic, night after night are discussed, and mingle with the smoke of tobacco, inhaled through respectable clay pipes and washed down with nips of amber ale, or quarts of frothy-headed porter. Indeed the qualification for admission into the Lumber Troop is, we have been told, the power of consuming a quart of porter at a draught, without, once pausing to draw a breath,—which feat must be performed before that august assembly. We once visited the head-quarters of this porter-quaffing troop, and found the house, with some difficulty, near Gough Square,—which lies in that intricate region between Holborn Hill and Fleet Street. It was a corner house, and an inscription upon the wall, in letters of gold, informed the passer-by that this was the place of meeting of the Lumber Troop. The room in which they met is small, dark, and ancient in appearance, with an old-fashioned chimney-piece in the centre, and a dais or raised floor at one end, where, we presume, the officers of the troop take their seats. Above their heads, upon a shelf, some small brass cannon were placed as ornaments, and the walls of the room were decorated with the portraits of distinguished troopers,—among whom Mr. Alderman Wood, in a scarlet robe, and Mr. Richard Taylor were pointed out to our notice. Over the fire-place hung the portrait of an old gentleman, in the warlike costume of Cromwell's time, who was, probably,

The obscurity which conceals the origin of many interesting and important institutions hangs over the early history of the Lumber Troop. Tradition asserts that, when Henry VIII. went to the siege of Boulogne, he drained the country of all its soldiers; and the citizens of London who remained behind, inspired with martial ardor, formed themselves into a troop, for the protection of old England. In the grotesque and gouty appearance of these troopers, their name of the Lumber Troop is said to have originated. Their field days, as may be expected, were exhibitions of merriment; and their guards and midnight watches scenes of feasting and revelry. The "Lumber-pye" was formerly a dish in much repute, being composed of high-seasoned meats and savory ingredients, for the preparation of which receipts may be found in the old cookery books. Recently, it has been corrupted into Lombard Pie, on account, as is said, of its Italian origin,—but we profess allegiance to the more ancient name.

Let those who hold lightly the dignity of a Lumber Trooper, and who perhaps have smiled at the details here given, inquire of the representatives of the city of London in the parliament of England, their opinion of the matter. We have been assured that these jolly troopers influence every city election to such an extent that, without an understanding with these worthies, no candidate can have a chance of success. In the same way, the codgers, in Codger's Hall, Bride Lane (said to have been instituted in 1756, by some of the people of the Inner Temple, who imagined their free thoughts and profound cogitations worthy of attention, and charged half-a-crown for the entrÉe), and other ale-house clubs, exert their more limited power. Hone, in his Every-Day Book, observes that "these societies are under currents that set in strong, and often turn the tide of an election in favor of some 'good fellow,' who is good nowhere but in 'sot's-hole.'" And he adds, commenting upon St. Thomas's Day, "Now the 'gentlemen of the inquest,' chosen 'at the church' in the morning, dine together, as the first important duty of their office; and the re-elected ward-beadles are busy with the fresh chosen constables; and the watchmen [this was before the days of the police] are particularly civil to every 'drunken gentleman' who happens to look like one of the new authorities. And now the bellman, who revives the history and poetry of his predecessors, will vociferate—

The illustration of this part of our subject which our artist has given, exhibits the scene of one of these parish elections; and includes, in the distance, a vision of those good things to which all business matters in England—and above all, in its eastern metropolitan city—are but prefaces.

We may observe, here, that St. Thomas's Day is commonly called the shortest of the year, although the difference between its length and that of the twenty-second is not perceptible. The hours of the sun's rising and setting, on each of those days, are marked as the same in our calendars, and the latter is sometimes spoken of as the shortest day.

As the days which intervene between this and the Eve of Christmas are distinguished by no special ceremonial of their own, and as the numerous observances attached to several of the particular days which follow will sufficiently prolong those parts of our subject, we will take this opportunity of alluding to some of the sports and festivities not peculiar to any one day, but extending more or less generally over the entire season.

Burton in his "Anatomy of Melancholy" mentions, as the winter amusements of his day, "Cardes, tables and dice, shovelboard, chesse-play, the philosopher's game, small trunkes, shuttlecocke, billiards, musicke, masks, singing, dancing, ule-games, frolicks, jests, riddles, catches, purposes, questions and commands, merry tales of errant knights, queenes, lovers, lords, ladies, giants, dwarfes, theeves, cheaters, witches, fayries, goblins, friers," &c. Amongst the list of Christmas sports, we elsewhere find mention of "jugglers, and jack-puddings, scrambling for nuts and apples, dancing the hobby-horse, hunting owls and squirrels, the fool-plough, hot-cockles, a stick moving on a pivot with an apple at one end and a candle at the other, so that he who missed his bite burned his nose, blindman's buff, forfeits, interludes and mock plays:" also of "thread my needle, Nan," "he can do little that can't do this," feed the dove, hunt the slipper, shoeing the wild mare, post and pair, snap-dragon, the gathering of omens, and a great variety of others. In this long enumeration, our readers will recognize many which have come down to the present day, and form still the amusement of their winter evenings at the Christmas-tide, or on the merry night of Halloween. For an account of many of those which are no longer to be found in the list of holiday games, we must refer such of our readers as it may interest to Brand's "Popular Antiquities," and Strutt's "English Sports." A description of them would be out of place in this volume; and we have mentioned them only as confirming a remark which we have elsewhere made; viz., that in addition to such recreations as arise out of the season or belong to it in a special sense, whatever other games or amusements have at any time been of popular use, have generally inserted themselves into this lengthened and joyous festival; and that all the forms in which mirth or happiness habitually sought expression congregated from all quarters at the ringing of the Christmas bells.

To the Tregetours, or jugglers, who anciently made mirth at the Christmas fireside, there are several allusions in Chaucer's tales; and Aubrey, in reference thereto, mentions some of the tricks by which they contributed to the entertainments of the season. The exhibitions of such gentry in modern times are generally of a more public kind, and it is rarely that they find their way to our firesides. But we have still the galantee-showman wandering up and down our streets and squares, with his musical prelude and tempting announcement sounding through the sharp evening air, and summoned into our warm rooms to display the shadowy marvels of his mysterious box to the young group, who gaze in great wonder and some awe from their inspiring places by the cheerful hearth.

Not that our firesides are altogether without domestic fortune-tellers or amateur practitioners in the art of sleight-of-hand. But the prophecies of the former are drawn from, and the feats of the other performed with the cards. Indeed we must not omit to particularize cards as furnishing in all their uses one of the great resources at this season of long evenings and in-door amusements, as they appear also to have formed an express feature of the Christmas entertainments of all ranks of people in old times. We are told that the squire of three hundred a-year in Queen Anne's time "never played at cards but at Christmas, when the family pack was produced from the mantel-piece;" and Stevenson, an old writer of Charles the Second's time, in an enumeration of the preparations making for the mirth of the season, tells us that "the country-maid leaves half her market and must be sent again, if she forgets a pack of cards on Christmas Eve." And who of us all has not shared in the uproarious mirth which young and unclouded spirits find, amid the intrigues and speculations of a round game! To the over-scrupulous on religious grounds, who, looking upon cards as the "devil's books," and to the moral alarmist who, considering card-playing to be in itself gaming, would each object to this species of recreation for the young and innocent, it may be interesting to know that the practice has been defended by that bishop of bishops, Jeremy Taylor himself, and that he insists upon no argument against the innocence of a practice being inferred from its abuse.

We have before alluded to the bards and harpers who assembled in ancient days at this time of wassail, making the old halls to echo to the voice of music, and stirring the blood with the legends of chivalry or chilling it with the wizard tale. And the tale and the song are amongst the spirits that wait on Christmas still, and charm the long winter evenings with their yet undiminished spells. Many a Christmas evening has flown over our heads on the wings of music, sweeter, far sweeter, dearer, a thousand times dearer, than ever was played by wandering minstrel or uttered by stipendiary bard; and we have formed a portion of happy groups, when some thrilling story has sent a chain of sympathetic feeling through hearts that shall beat in unison no more, and tales of the grave and its tenants have sent a paleness into cheeks that the grave itself hath since made paler still.

The winter hearth is the very land of gossip-red. There it is that superstition loves to tell her marvels, and curiosity to gather them. The gloom and desolation without, with the wild, unearthly voice of the blast, as it sweeps over a waste of snows and cuts sharp against the leafless branches, or the wan sepulchral light that shows the dreary earth as it were covered with a pall, and the trees like spectres rising from beneath it, alike send men huddling round the blazing fire, and awaken those impressions of the wild and shadowy and unsubstantial, to which tales of marvel or of terror are such welcome food. But other inspirations are born of the blaze itself; and the jest and the laugh and the merry narration are of the spirits that are raised within the magic circles that surround it.

The song and the story, the recitation and the book read aloud are, in town and in village, mansion and farmhouse, amongst the universal resources of the winter nights now, as they or their equivalents have at all times been. The narratives of "old adventures, and valiaunces of noble knights, in times past," the stories of Sir Bevys of Southampton and Sir Guy of Warwick, of Adam Bell, Clymme of the Clough, and William of Cloudesley, with other ancient romances or historical rhymes, which formed the recreation of the common people at their Christmas dinners and bride-ales long ago, may have made way for the wild legend of the sea, or fearful anecdote—

It is apparently by a group of the latter kind that this branch of the Christmas amusements is illustrated in the plate. The youthful members of a family are listening, in all probability, to some tale of their sires, related by the withered crone, who, grown old in that service, links those young beings with a generation gone by, and stands, as it were, prophesying "betwixt the living and the dead." If we may judge from the aspect of the aged sybil herself, and the pale and earnest faces that surround her, the narrative which she is imparting is one of the fearful class, and not to be listened to beyond the cheering inspirations of that bright fire; although the moving shadows which it flings upon the old walls are amongst the terrors which are born of her story. For the scene of these emotions, the artist has chosen, as artists still love to do, the chamber of an ancient mansion, with its huge chimney and oriel-window. And it may be that for picturesque effects which are to address themselves to the eye, artists are right in so doing. No doubt, the high chronicles of chivalry, and the mysterious traditions of the past, comport well with the gloom of the gothic gallery;—and, certainly, the long rambling passages of an old house afford at once room for the wandering of ghosts, and that dim, shadowy light by which imagination sees them best. But the true poetry of life is not confined to ancient dwellings; and every house, in every crowded thoroughfare of every city, has its own tales to tell around the Christmas fire. The most pert-looking dwelling of them all, that may seem as if it were forever staring out of its sash windows into the street, has its own mysteries, and is, if it have been tenanted sufficiently long, as closely haunted by recollections as the baron's castle, or the squire's old manor-house. Like them,—

And—whatever may be said for the ancient ghost stories, which are fast losing ground—fitting it is that, amid the mirth of this pleasant time, such thoughts should be occasionally stirred, and those phantoms of the heart brought back. Not that the joy of the young and hopeful should be thereby darkened, but that they may be duly warned that "youth's a stuff will not endure," and taught in time the tenure upon which hope is held. That was a beautiful custom of the Jews which led them, when they built houses, to leave ever some part unfinished, as a memento of the ruin and desolation of their city. Not that they, therefore, built the less, or the less cheerfully; but that in the very midst of their amplest accommodations they preserved a perpetual and salutary reference to the evil of their condition,—a useful check upon their worldly thoughts. And thus should mirth be welcomed and hopes built up, wherever the materials present themselves; but a mark should, notwithstanding, be placed upon the brightest of them all, remembrances ever let in, which may recall to us the imperfect condition of our nature here, and speak of the certain decay which must attend all hopes erected for mere earthly dwellings.

But thou shouldst speak of this, thou for whom the following lines were written long ago, though they have not yet met thine eye, thou who hast learnt this lesson more sternly than even I, and speakest so well of all things! Many a "Winter's Tale" have we two read together (Shakspeare's among the rest—and how often!), and many a written lay has linked our thoughts in a sympathy of sentiment, on many an evening of Christmas. It may be that on some night of that which is approaching, these lines may meet thy notice, and through them, one more winter's eve may yet be spent by thee and me, in a communion of thought and feeling. No fear that joy should carry it all, with us! No danger that the ghosts of the past should fail to mingle with our Christmas feelings, in that hour! There can be no future hope built up for thee or me, or for most others who have passed the first season of youth, to which something shall not be wanting; which shall not, like the houses of the Jews, be left imperfect in some part; and for the same reason,—even for the memories of the ruined past!

To the out-door sports of this merry time which arise out of the natural phenomena of the season itself, we need do no more than allude here, because every school-boy knows far more about them than we are now able to tell him, though we too reckoned them all amidst the delights of our boyhood. The rapid motions and graceful manoeuvres of the skilful amongst the skaters, the active games connected with this exercise (such as the Golf of our northern neighbors, not very commonly practised in England), the merry accidents of the sliders, and the loud and mischievous laugh of the joyous groups of snowballers,—are all amongst the picturesque features by which the Christmas time is commonly marked in these islands. To be sure, the kind of seasons seems altogether to have abandoned us in which the ice furnished a field for those diversions during a period of six weeks; and the days are gone when fairs were held on the broad Thames, and books were printed and medals struck on the very pathway of his fierce and daily tides. Even now as we write however, in this present year of grace, old Winter stands without the door in something like the garb in which as boys we loved him best, and that old aspect of which we have such pleasant memories, and which Cowper has so well described:

In looking over a description of London we have met with a quotation of a passage from Fitz-Stephen, an old historian of that city, in which he gives a quaint description of these familiar sports, as they were practised in King Henry the Second's day on the large pond or marsh which then occupied the site of what is now Moorfields. The passage is short and we will quote it.

"When that vast lake," he says, "which waters the walls of the city towards the north is hard frozen, the youth in great numbers go and divert themselves on the ice. Some, taking a small run for increment of velocity, place their feet at a proper distance and are carried sliding sideways a great way. Others will make a large cake of ice, and seating one of their companions upon it, they take hold of one another's hands and draw him along; when it happens that, moving so swiftly on so slippery a place, they all fall headlong. Others there are who are still more expert in these amusements on the ice; they place certain bones, the leg bones of animals, under the soles of their feet by tying them round their ankles, and then, taking a pole shod with iron into their hands, they push themselves forward by striking it against the ice, and are carried on with a velocity equal to the flight of a bird or a bolt discharged from a cross-bow."

But amongst all the amusements which in cities contribute to make the Christmas time a period of enchantments for the young and happy, there is another, which must not be passed over without a word of special notice; and that one is the theatre,—a world of enchantment in itself. We verily believe that no man ever forgets the night on which as a boy he first witnessed the representation of a play. All sights and sounds that reached his senses before the withdrawing of the mysterious curtain, all things which preceded his introduction to that land of marvels which lies beyond, are mingled inextricably with the memories of that night, and haunt him through many an after year. The very smell of the lamps and orange-peel, the discordant cries, the ringing of the prompter's bell, and above all the heavy dark green curtain itself, become essential parts of the charm in which his spirit is long after held. It was so with ourselves; and though many a year is gone by since that happy hour of our lives, and most of the spells which were then cast have been long since broken, yet we felt another taken from us when at Drury Lane an attempt was made to substitute a rich curtain of crimson and gold for the plain dark fall of green. And then the overture! the enchanting prelude to all the wonders that await us! the unearthly music leading us into fairy land! the incantation at whose voice, apparently, the mysterious veil on which our eyes have been so long and so earnestly rivetted rises, as if by its own act, and reveals to us the mysteries of an enchanted world! From that moment all things that lie on this side the charmed boundary are lost sight of, and all the wonders that are going on beyond it are looked on with the most undoubting faith. It is not for a moment suspected that the actors therein are beings of natures like ourselves, nor is there any questioning but that we are gazing upon scenes and doings separated from the realities of life. Verily do we believe that never again in this life are so many new and bewildering and bewitching feelings awakened in his breast, as on the first night in which the boy is spectator of a theatrical performance, if he be old enough to enjoy and not quite old enough clearly to understand what is going on.

At this holiday period of the year the boxes of our theatres are filled with the happy faces, and their walls ring with the sweet laughter of children. All things are matters of amazement and subjects of exclamation. But in London above all things,—far, far beyond all other things (though it does not begin for some days later than this) is the pantomime with its gorgeous scenery and incomprehensible transformations and ineffable fun. "Ready to leap out of the box," says Leigh Hunt, "they joy in the mischief of the clown, laugh at the thwacks he gets for his meddling, and feel no small portion of contempt for his ignorance in not knowing that hot water will scald, and gunpowder explode; while with head aside to give fresh energy to the strokes, they ring their little palms against each other in testimony of exuberant delight." The winter pantomimes are introduced on the evening next after Christmas night; and some account of this entertainment seems, as a feature of the season, due to our Christmas readers.

From Italy, then, we appear to have derived our pantomime,—the legitimate drama of Christmas, and to pagan times and deities the origin of our pantomimical characters may be directly referred. The nimble harlequin of our stage is the Mercury of the ancients, and in his magic wand and charmed cap may be recognized that god's caduceus and petasus. Our columbine is Psyche, our clown Momus, and our pantaloon is conjectured to be the modern representative of Charon,—variously habited indeed, according to Venetian fancy and feelings. Even Punch, the friend of our childhood, the great-headed, long-nosed, hump-backed "Mister Ponch," it seems, was known to the Romans, under the name of Maccus.

Our pantomime, however, is an inferior translation, rather than a good copy, from its Italian original. The rich humor, the ready wit, the exquisite raciness of the Italian performance have all evaporated, and with us are burlesqued by the vapid joke, the stale trick, and acts of low buffoonery. We read of the pantomimic actors, Constantini and Cecchini, being ennobled; of Louis XIII. patronizing the merits of Nicholas Barbieri, and raising him to fortune; that Tiberio Fiurilli, the inventor of the character of Scaramouch, was the early companion of Louis XIV., and that the wit of the harlequin Dominic made him a favored guest at the same monarch's table. These instances of distinction are alone sufficient proof of the superior refinement of the actors of Italian pantomime, above our vulgar tribe of tumblers. The Italian artists were fellows "of infinite jest," whose ready wit enabled them to support extempore dialogue, suiting "the action to the word, and the word to the action;" for the Arlequino of Italy was not a mute like his English representative. Many of the Italian harlequins were authors of considerable reputation; Ruzzante, who flourished about 1530, may be regarded as the Shakspeare of pantomime. "Till his time," says D'Israeli, "they had servilely copied the duped fathers, the wild sons, and the tricking valets of Plautus and Terence; and perhaps, not being writers of sufficient skill but of some invention, were satisfied to sketch the plots of dramas, boldly trusting to extempore acting and dialogue. Ruzzante peopled the Italian stage with a fresh, enlivening crowd of pantomimic characters. The insipid dotards of the ancient comedy were transformed into the Venetian Pantaloon, and the Bolognese Doctor; while the hare-brained fellow, the arch knave, and the booby, were furnished from Milan, Bergamo, and Calabria. He gave his newly created beings new language and a new dress. From Plautus, he appears to have taken the hint of introducing all the Italian dialects into one comedy, by making each character use his own,—and even the modern Greek, which, it seems, afforded many an unexpected play on words for the Italian. This new kind of pleasure, like the language of Babel, charmed the national ear; every province would have its dialect introduced on the scene, which often served the purpose both of recreation and a little innocent malice. Their masks and dresses were furnished by the grotesque masqueraders of the Carnival, which, doubtless, often contributed many scenes and humors to the quick and fanciful genius of Ruzzante."

To the interesting essay, by the author of the "Curiosities of Literature," from whence this extract is derived, we beg leave to refer the reader for an anecdotical history of pantomime. Mr. D'Israeli in conclusion observes, that "in gesticulation and humor our Rich appears to have been a complete mime; his genius was entirely confined to pantomime, and he had the glory of introducing Harlequin on the English stage, which he played under the feigned name of Lun. He could describe to the audience by his signs and gestures, as intelligibly as others could express by words. There is a large caricature print of the triumph which Rich had obtained over the severe muses of tragedy and comedy, which lasted too long not to excite jealousy and opposition from the corps dramatique.

"Garrick, who once introduced a speaking Harlequin, has celebrated the silent but powerful language of Rich:—

Foote, it was, we think, who attempted to get a standing for a Harlequin with a wooden leg upon the English stage; and though he was supported by a clown upon crutches, these and other efforts to effect a witty reform in the mechanism of an English pantomime proved unsuccessful. "Why is this burlesque race here," inquires Mr. D'Israeli, "privileged to cost so much, to do so little, and repeat that little so often?" In 1827, according to a statement which we believe to be tolerably correct, the "getting up," as it is termed, of the pantomimes produced on the 26th of December, in London, cost at—

Connected with this golden age of English pantomime, the recollection of Grimaldi, Joey Grimaldi, as the gallery folk delighted to call him, is an obvious association. His acting like that of Liston must have been seen to be understood or appreciated; for no description can convey an adequate idea of the power of expression and gesture. They who have not seen Joey may never hope to look upon his like; and they who have seen him must never expect to see his like again. On the English stage never was clown like Grimaldi! He was far more than a clown, he was a great comic actor. But his constitution soon gave way under the trials to which it was exposed. In the depth of winter, after performing at Sadler's Wells, he was brought down night after night wrapped in blankets to Covent Garden; and there had, for the second time in the course of the same evening, to go through the allotted series of grimaces, leaps, and tumbles. Poor Grimaldi, sunk by these exertions into a premature old age, was finally obliged to retire from the stage on the 27th of June, 1828; and the Literary Gazette thus pleasantly, but feelingly, announced his intention:—

"Our immense favorite, Grimaldi, under the severe pressure of years and infirmities, is enabled through the good feeling and prompt liberality of Mr. Price, to take a benefit at Drury Lane on Friday next; the last of Joseph Grimaldi! Drury's, Covent Garden's, Sadler's, everybody's Joe! The friend of Harlequin and Farley-kin! the town clown! greatest of fools! daintiest of motleys! the true ami des enfans! The tricks and changes of life, sadder, alas! than those of pantomime, have made a dismal difference between the former flapping, filching, laughing, bounding antic and the present Grimaldi. He has no spring in his foot, no mirth in his eye! The corners of his mouth droop mournfully earthward; and he stoops in the back, like the weariest of Time's porters! L'Allegro has done with him, and Il Penseroso claims him for its own! It is said, besides, that his pockets are neither so large nor so well stuffed as they used to be on the stage: and it is hard to suppose fun without funds, or broad grins in narrow circumstances."

The mummers, who still go about at this season of the year in some parts of England, are the last descendants of those maskers, who in former times, as we have shown at length, contributed to the celebrations of the season, at once amongst the highest and lowest classes of the land; as their performances present, also, the last semblances of those ancient Mysteries and Moralities, by which the splendid pageants of the court were preceded. Sir Walter Scott, in a note to "Marmion," seems to intimate that these mummeries are, in fact, the offspring and relics of the old Mysteries themselves. The fact, however, seems rather to be, that these exhibitions existed before the introduction of the Scripture plays; and that the one and the other are separate forms of a practice copied directly from the festival observances of the pagans. Accordingly, Brand speaks of a species of mumming which "consists in changing clothes between men and women who, when dressed in each other's habits go from one neighbor's house to another, partaking of Christmas cheer and making merry with them in disguise;" and which practice he traces directly to the Roman Sigillaria. In various parts of the Continent also, as in France and Germany, certain forms of mumming long existed, which appear to have been originally borrowed from the rites of idolatry: and the Scottish Guisars, or Guisarts, if the very ingenious explanation of their hogmanay cry given by Mr. Repp (and for which we refer our readers to vol. iv., part 1, of the ArchÆologia Scotica) be correct, connect themselves with the superstitions of the northern nations.

Amongst the forms of ancient mumming which have come down to the present or recent times, we may observe that the hobby-horse formed as late as the seventeenth century a prominent character, and that something of this kind seems still to exist. Dr. Plot in his "History of Staffordshire" mentions a performance called the "Hobby-horse Dance," as having taken place at Abbot's Bromley during the Christmas season, within the memory of man; and we have already shown that a modification of the same practice continues to the present day, or did to within a few years back, in the Isle of Thanet. This dance is described by Dr. Plot as being composed of "a person who carried the image of a horse between his legs, made of thin boards, and in his hand a bow and arrow. The latter, passing through a hole in the bow and stopping on a shoulder, made a snapping noise when drawn to and fro, keeping time with the music. With this man danced six others, carrying on their shoulders as many reindeer heads with the arms of the chief families to whom the revenues of the town belonged. They danced the heys, and other country dances. To the above Hobby-horse there belonged a pot, which was kept by turns by the reeves of the town, who provided cakes and ale to put into this pot,—all people who had any kindness for the good intent of the institution of the sport, giving pence a-piece for themselves and families. Foreigners also that came to see it contributed; and the money, after defraying the expense of the cakes and ale, went to repair the church and support the poor." A reason given by some as the origin of this practice, we have already stated in our mention of "hodening;" and our readers will see that its object, like that of the other similar observances of this season, was charity.

In some parts of the north of England, a custom exists to the present time which appears to be composed of the ancient Roman sword-dance, or, perhaps, the sword-dance of the northern nations, and lingering traces of the obsolete "Festival of Fools." This practice, which is called the "Fool Plough," consists in a pageant composed of "a number of sword-dancers dragging a plough, with music, and one, sometimes two, in very strange attire; the Bessy in the grotesque habit of an old woman, and the fool almost covered with skins, a hairy cap on, and the tail of some animal hanging from his back. The office of one of these characters, in which he is very assiduous, is to go about rattling a box amongst the spectators of the dance, in which he receives their little donations." Our readers will probably remember that a set of these mummers are introduced by Washington Irving, in his account of a Christmas spent in Yorkshire.

The old Christmas play of "Saint George and the Dragon" is still amongst the most popular amusements of this season, in many parts of England. Whether this particular kind of performance is to be considered as dating from the return of the Crusaders, or that similar representations had existed previously, the characters of which alone were changed by that event, does not appear from any other remains that have reached us. There is evidence, however, that plays founded upon the legend of Saint George are of a very remote date; and, in all probability, they were introduced not long after the age of the Crusades. From various contributors to Mr. Hone's "Every-Day Book," we learn that versions of these plays are still performed amongst the lower orders at the Christmas tide, in the extreme western counties of England, as also in Cumberland, and some others of the more northern ones; and one of those correspondents, dating from Falkirk, gives an account of a play still performed by the Guisars, in some parts of Scotland, which is of similar construction and evidently borrowed from the same source, but in which one Galgacus is substituted for Saint George, as the hero of the piece; and the drama is made by that substitution to commemorate the successful battle of the Grampians, by the Scots under that leader, against the invader, Agricola. If Mr. Reddock be right in this opinion, Agricola is for the nonce elevated to the title of king of Macedon. The party who carries the bag for these mummers is a very questionable trustee, being no other than Judas Iscariot. Sir Walter Scott, in his notes to "Marmion," speaks of the same play as one in which he and his companions were in the habit of taking parts, when boys; and mentions the characters of the old Scripture-plays having got mixed up with it in the version familiar to him. He enumerates Saint Peter, who carried the keys; Saint Paul, who was armed with a sword; and Judas, who had the bag for contributions; and says that he believes there was also a Saint George. It is not unlikely there might, though he is not mentioned by Mr. Reddock, for the confusion of characters in all these versions is very great. In the Whitehaven edition, Saint George is son to the king of Egypt, and the hero who carries all before him is Alexander. He conquers Saint George and kills the king of Egypt. In fact the legend, as it exists in the old romance of "Sir Bevys of Hampton," has everywhere been mixed up with extraneous matter, and scarcely any two sets of performers render it alike. The plot seems, in all, to be pretty nearly the same; and the doctor, with his marvellous cures and empirical gibberish, seems to be common to them all. "But so little," says Sandys, "do the actors know the history of their own drama, that sometimes General Wolfe is introduced, who first fights Saint George, and then sings a song about his own death. I have also seen the Duke of Wellington represented." Mr. Reddock mentions, that during the war with France one of the characters in his version "was made to say that he had been 'fighting the French,' and that the loon who took leg-bail was no less a personage than" the great Napoleon. Mr. Sandys mentions that occasionally there is a sort of anti-masque, or burlesque (if the burlesque itself can be burlesqued) at the end of the performance; when some comic characters enter, called Hub Bub, Old Squire, etc., and the piece concludes with a dance. At other times, the performances are wound up by a song.

We may mention that we have in our possession an Irish version of the same play, as it is still played by the boys in that country; in which version, as might be expected, the championship is given to Saint Patrick, who asserts that Saint George was nothing more than "Saint Patrick's boy," and fed his horses. Another of the characters in this edition of the story is Oliver Cromwell, who, after certain grandiloquent boastings (amongst others, that he had "conquered many nations with his copper nose"), calls upon no less personage than Beelzebub to step in and confirm his assertions.

The costume and accoutrements of these mummers (of whom we have given a representation at page 65) appear to be pretty generally of the same kind, and, for the most part, to resemble those of morris-dancers. They are thus correctly described by Mr. Sandys. Saint George and the other tragic performers wear "white trousers and waistcoats, showing their shirt-sleeves, and are much decorated with ribbons and handkerchiefs, each carrying a drawn sword in his hand, if they can be procured, otherwise a cudgel. They wear high caps of pasteboard covered with fancy paper, adorned with beads, small pieces of looking-glass, bugles, etc., several long strips of pith generally hanging down from the top, with shreds of different colored cloth strung on them, the whole having a fanciful and smart effect. The Turk sometimes has a turban. Father Christmas is personified as a grotesque old man, wearing a large mask and wig, with a huge club in his hand. The doctor, who is sort of merry-andrew to the piece, is dressed in some ridiculous way, with a three-cornered hat and painted face. The female when there is one, is in the costume of her great-grandmother. The hobby-horse, when introduced, has a sort of representation of a horse's hide; but the dragon and the giant, when there is one, frequently appear with the same style of dress as the knights."

We will present our readers with the version of this old drama given by Mr. Sandys, as still performed in Cornwall. Elsewhere, we have met with some slight variations upon even this Cornwall piece, but will be content to print it as we find it in the collection in question. Our Lancashire readers will at once recognize its close resemblance to the play performed in that county, about the time of Easter, by the Peace-eggers, or Paste-eggers, of whom we shall speak, in their proper place, in a future volume.

And these, with the dance filling up the intervals and enlivening the winter nights, are amongst the sports and amusements which extend themselves over the Christmas season and connect together its more special and characteristic observances.