tion, an arrangement to which he acceded. It was very, very dark, like the middle of the night, and clocks were chiming in all directions. We came to dead walls occasionally, decorated with such flaming posters, so fiery in their vermilion, that they actually lit themselves up like glowworms of preternatural size. I saw they had reference to the pantomimic revels that would set in the night following. I read as I ran, for we were pushing on fast, and thought, with a sort of delight, of these revels. This note of preparation has always a charm, and set the chime of Christmas bells within me a ringing. For with me happily they are not yet cracked.

Here was the terminus of the Great London and Ironstown Railway, huge and towering, but closed. We were too soon. The porter who disregarded festivals went round to the side, and returned presently.

'Wot hotel?' he asked. 'Why-have we to wait so long?' I said.

Ain't none what?' I asked impatiently, adapting myself to his peculiar phraseology.

They're all gone,' he said: 'there'll be no more to-day, until eleven-five to-night.'

I was crushed by this blow, and went round to see somebody in person myself. There was one officer of the watch, as it were, left, the rest were away. 'Christmas Day, you know,' he said.

It was quite true. No more trains until eleven-five at night: Christmas Day, you know.

I did not feel it so acutely at first. 'The Angel Hotel,' I told the porter indifferent as to festivals to lead me to. He did so.

There was a large square lamp hung out over the door like a sign. We had to ring a good deal. The streets were beginning to fill a little, and the gasmen were flying up ladders putting out the lamps. The grey of the morning was taking the place of the pitch darkness of night. The door was opened after the third ring by a chambermaid, who 'car

' her broom much as a soldier 'carries arms.' The apologetic 'Christmas morning, you know. We so rarely have folks.'

The coffee-room fire was just lighted, so I sat there until the day set fairly in-until it got bright and light and fresh. The general furbishing and polishing of that apartment was not completed, but went on in my presence. I was indifferent, being a prey to the lowest and most morbid state of despondency. It was only now I was beginning to realize the situation.

Nine o'clock: I went to the window. The day was now quite fresh and bright and clear; the streets full-a perfect procession of people, hurrying every way and from every way, each person suggesting the idea of yigorous scouring and burnishing over night. The cleanest, robustest, most cheerful company I had seen for a long time. No wonder-they had not come over in a Royal Consort,' with a Captain Cocker, to be cast adrift miserably in a great commercial wilderness, without a friend. I turned away from the window. The dungeon-I called the coffeeroom the dungeon-was of the true pattern; paper, a gloomy diningroom crimson; curtains dingy; half a dozen tables, like islands, all round, where you might dine like Robinson Crusoe in strict solitude. I remarked with a grim complacency the weak idiosyncracy of all coffee-rooms—a lavish development of Worcestershire sauce bottles. That article was displayed with a profuseness that amounted to recklessness. Why Worcestershire? The selection seemed invidious: it was characteristic of the place; but, of course, 'John Dunton' knew best what concerned him most.

John Dunton, I found, kept the Royal Angel. (A Royal Angel! how ludicrous!) J. D., in taking on the establishment, kept for many years by the widow of the late W. Maddocks, hoped for a continuance of the generous patronage hitherto bestowed. J. D. would spare nothing, &c. How loathsome these platitudes, which are the common failing of all hotel-keepers! I read no

more.

On the chimneypiece the programme of the limited Impartial Insurance Company, in a gold frame. There were pictures of the various residences of the Impartial - at London, at Dublin, at Canada; and for the moment a comparison of the various styles of these edifices interested me. Then I read the whole of their officers, the sums they had divided, the advantages they offered, and other particulars-it was a device to banish care.

The waiter was now in the room -a dry perked man with frizzled hair that stuck out, and a curious way of putting each of his sides forward alternately as he walked. He was uneasy on the subject of breakfast, and made disturbance among the cruet-stands to attract me; finally-an unworthy subterfugehe asked the number of my room.

'I have no number,' I said moodily. 'I am-I am not quite come to that.'

Half-past nine: Breakfast-not a creditable specimen of that meal; but, the fact was, 'Christmas, you know, sir,' &c. I did know; I understood him.

Half-past ten: I went out into the streets. The bells ringing furiously; every one was hurrying away to church and chapel-I myself languidly wandered to a church or chapel, according to my own special rite. There was a kind of frosty sun abroad, and it might be called a cheerful day on the whole. For them I have no doubt it was. There was a festive look over the men and women of the congregation (we all know that Christmas morning look-born of the special good-humour of the season), and even the children seemed to say, We have pudding for dinner to-day-orders to an unlimited extent will be taken.

I came back; I read the pantomime posters again on the dead walls: many boys were reading them too, with a sort of unctuous licking oftheir lips, as though it was the dinner list. There were many houses-the Prince of Wales among the rest-who offered two columbines to public notice; and I distinctly recal the name of the leading lady of the ballet, under whose sole direction' that branch of the entertainment had been pro

duced, 'Miss M'Gusty of the Theatres Royal London and Bath.'

I came back. In the bar I saw the landlord, John Dunton-J. D., bright and busy, shining as though he had been well burnished up with plate powder and a polishing brush. Sunbeams of good-humour played over his face. I found comfort in speaking to him.

'We have absolutely nobody dining in the hotel,' he said, 'to-day. A most unfortunate accident: so odd. My son-in-law, Brown, dines with us to-day. We have a noble pudding. Mrs. D. mixed the suet and currants two months ago.'

I found a relief in telling him my story. He said it was unlucky: I said it was wretched. He agreed with me. He was a plain man; but no-it was no matter. He must speak to Mrs. D. for a moment.

Two P.M. I went up to the coffee-room (odious chamber). The horrid monotony of its objects began to affect me. The Worcestershire sauce, so stolid and imperturbable, irritated me. I went over to the chimneypiece and read the Royal Impartial Insurance Co.'s programme again. I began to be familiar with the directors: the name of the Chairman amused me grimly, "The Lord Leightonbuzzard.'

I discovered, too, an unworthy ruse. In the sketch of the office at Quebec or Montreal a public building next door was brought in prominently, misleading the spectator or possible insurer. The 'Ironstown Albion,' five days old, was on the table; and I thought of addressing a letter of exposure to the editor.

Four o'clock: Darkness was beginning: a calm, gloomy, cosy-like Christmas darkness. The lamps were being lighted again. I began to think of Plusher and his merry house. What festival was just setting in! what high jinks! He always had a bursting house: young girls, young boys, young ladies, young children-young everybody. Plusher's Christmas was known to all — so warm, so genial, so jovial! By dwelling on the details of the picture I reduced myself to the very verge of despair. There was a large carver lying on the sideboard!

Four-twenty: Scarcely secure from the horrid suggestions presented by the carver. I went down again to the bar. An unusual bustle pervaded that department. An unusual savour proceeded from some indistinct direction within. I had just a glimpse of something with gorgeous ribbons, and timidly asked, was that Mrs. Dunton.

'You are going to be very happy, Dunton,' I said. 'You will have a pleasant, warm, social meeting: holly, redberries, pudding, and all

the rest of it.'

I turned away sadly, and went up to the gaol coffee-room. It had grown dusky, and the sauce-bottle stood out indistinctly. I began to feel towards them as the late Mr. Poe did to his raven. I discovered another in a corner. 'Bottle,' said

I, 'thing of evil, bottle, be thou bird or devil-.' Thus adapting that powerful lyric to the situation; but I was fast breaking down. It was a ghastly attempt: I felt horribly dispirited and gloomy; and the human imagination began to rest with equanimity on the large

carver.

لا

Suddenly the perked waiter entered. Please, sir, a note. I took it from him calmly. It ran to this effect:

Royal Angel Hotel, 'Christmas Day. 'Mr. and Mrs. J. W. Dunton request the pleasure of Mr. H. Guest's company to dinner at half-past five. They expect Mr. Brown, J. W. D.'s son-in-law, and a few friends.

'An answer will oblige.'

I wrote an answer with enthusiasm. Mr. H. Guest would have the honour. Three quarters of the load seemed taken from my heart. I went to my room, unpacked, and dressed as I would for a ball, to do as much honour as I could to these good, considerate people. I found myself getting a little cheerful as I dressed. I went down at half-past five, and was announced in all form by the perked waiter.

The good nature, the kindness, the heartiness of these honest folk I shall never forget. The first view,

as it might be called, was even inspiriting. J. D. himself, in a white waistcoat, warmed you better than his own fire. There were J. D.'s children-five in number-graduated ages, J. D.'s grandfather, J. D.'s wife's grandmother; J. D.'s wife's cousin; and J. D.'s own sonin-law, Brown, an honest, cheerful soul, with a turn for jokes, and who came with his wife.

I took in Mrs. J. W. Duntonthis compliment being due to my quality as guest. As we arranged ourselves at table we got 'clubbed,' and there was a roar-a compound roar made up of many keys, bass and treble. We tried to deploy: and Mrs. J. W. and I, moving towards the same seat, mutually sat down upon one another. A roar again-rather a shriek. These little incidents I merely mention to give an idea of the tone of mind of the company.

I spent a very happy evening. We had roast beef, a noble pudding (that long putting-by of the materials was indeed judicious), and a turkey which really rivalled the Irish bird in its capacity of being 'fit to draw a gig.' The strength of limb in this remarkable creature would have rendered it not disproportionate to a good-sized brougham. We had songs and merriment, and a stream of laughter, as J. D. himself put it happily 'always on tap.' The children were charming, and everybody was agreeable.

At half-past twelve we shook hands all round; and J. D. himself took me up-stairs to the best room in his house, and left me sitting at a cheerful fire, in a very cheerful and grateful mood.

I often think that when I come to making my will-a disagreeable operation, which I put off as long as I can-that I will put in the following bequest: And I do further give and bequeath to John Dunton, of the Royal Angel Hotel, Ironstown, the sum of fifty pounds as a trifling token of my sense of his good nature on a certain Christmas Day.'

P. F.

SNOW

NOWED up in a lonely inn amongst Irish mountains, the writer of this little record paid a dreamy heed to the loose scraps of romantic retrospect which floated about from the lips of those who came and went about the hearth-place. They leaped and fell in fitful snatches, just as did the blaze in the shadows; and amongst the rest the following little history glimmered forth from the smoke, and wrought itself for the listener into a lasting shape in the embers. Referring to the fearful fall of 18-, which is remembered with horror in the district, they called it the story of the Snowy Christmas. Knowing what the words mean, it seems hard to turn one's eyes from the blank of the end, and dash warmly into the beginning: for the beginning was

VOL. V.-NO. XXVI.

warm and bright, and this page should open, as a small door opens, into a garden of sunshine.

It was August, the glorious golden month. Hills were flushed with crimson ether, and glens were dim with purple mystery. Valley rivers ran red at sunset, and rainbows hung about the waterfalls. The bronzed corn-fields palpitated faint for joy when a stray breeze crept over a hedge and fanned their hot hearts, and in the cabin doorways the women joined their brown hands above their eyes whilst looking for the reapers coming home.

It was a sultry afternoon. The curlews on the burning beach below had not energy to scream as the flowing tide flashed like fire to their feet, where they perched luxuriously on the wet stones, and the fisher

F