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Merrie Christmas, indeed, in spite of hail and rain, and sleet, and snow, the blustering of old Boreas, and the frigid embrace of
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Jack Frost, has passed into a proverb. The mass of the British people, notwithstanding their characteristic constitutional phlegm, contrive to become conspicuously social at Christmas tide. They appear to have been too closely occupied with business affairs during the greater portion of the year to indulge much in the hearty humour and frank good-will which unquestionably form important elements in the national idiosyncrasy. Their habitual taciturnity, however, influenced by some law whose action is diametrically opposed to that which determines the elemental routine, generally _thaws_ on the approach of Christmas. It is not too much to say that, at this period of the year, the manly generous side of the English character is seen to most advantage. Under the genial influence of Christmas associations, even stern, plodding
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leave their well-worn official stools and well-thumbed ledgers, and enjoy heartily the Christmas meal of roast beef and plum pudding in company with their relatives and friends. Nay, at this festive season, we have seen the veriest old
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of the city, the most cool and calculating of the _habitués_ of the stock-exchange, dance and frolic, and aid the juveniles of their social circles in the perpetration of practical Christmas jokes, the compounding of
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the fashioning of mistletoe bushes, etc., to the infinite delight of the youngsters and their own evident personal gratification. There is, undoubtedly, a time and a season for all things; and the British public especially appear for ages to have resolved that
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Christmas time is the season for the exercise of grateful memories, for the interchange of social loudness, the propagation of the great principle of progressive civilisation,
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Christmas one? I am certain I would not myself,--and I feel certain the most boisterous of the young imps who giggle themselves into a frightful condition of side-ache and cheek-ache when witnessing the tricks and jokes, stale or otherwise, of clown and pantaloon, and the perpetually unfortunate policeman, would endorse the sentiment,--I would not walk two streets' length, no, not two yards, to witness the best pantomime in the world on Midsummer's eve! One would as soon think of asking the cook, as a special mark of her personal regard, to give us a turn or two on the spit, accompanied by a copious basting with rancid butter! But it is quite a different affair on Christmas Eve, or
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The pantomime is, in every sense, unquestionably the property of