Yuletide In An Old English City

thunder, come from the immense foundries which have nearly doubled the population of Lincoln in twenty years. There is the High Street, running right down the heart of the city, with the guild-hall containing the ancient regalia of the public officials, which is now brought out on all state occasions, the mayor wearing a massive gold chain around his neck, preceded by the town crier with gold hatband and mace. To the left is Broad Street, suggesting immemorial horse fairs and crowded with all manner of quaint, incongruous houses. There is the river Witham flowing from west to east, just wide enough for the barges to pass each other two abreast, with huge corn and seed mills on either bank, constantly unloading and reloading freight, — winding its way serpent-like towards the Wash. Grim and disconsolate in the valley to the east stand the ruins of the Monks' Abbey, sadly out of place in their proximity to the dingy workshops. To the west is the race-course, resort of fashion and beauty, four-in-hands and blacklegs, within sound of the cathedral bells.

As we pass down the hill, a snowstorm sets in in real earnest. The lowing of cows, the grunting of hogs, and the cackling of geese are heard on all sides; men and women laden with Christmas provisions, cheek by jowl in the thorough-fares. The public inns are crowded with jolly farmers, quaffing spiced ale and toddy to the dismal scraping of an old fiddle, bargaining for the beasts they have been punching in the market a few moments before. The town crier comes along, ringing his bell and shouting at the top of his voice some public proclamation, followed up the street by a crowd of small boys in evident admiration of his goldlaced hat and splendid buttons. the shop windows, brightly decked for the occasion, are monopolized by anxious sightseers. There is a profuse display everywhere of mistletoe and holly. Here are tempting ball dresses hung on models presenting the compliments of the season on their busts; whole dressed hogs, with oranges stuck in their mouths and sprigs of holly fastened around their necks, and oxen, decorated with tickets and rosettes, innumerable toys and Father Christmases temptingly displayed beneath Japanese lanterns already glimmering in broad daylight; nutmegs and other spices bidding us a happy Christmas on a dark background of raisins; cakes and sweetmeats, suggestive of frost and snow; and a hundred other attractions in honor of the season. Ladies engaged in labors of love are busily passing to and fro with evergreens and choice flowers, completing the decorations of the churches and chapels. Visitors are pouring into the city from afar to spend Christmas with their friends, and taste the family plum pudding, such as is made nowhere else on earth.

As the day wears on apace, the farmers, with faces red and jolly, jog homewards, calling, of course, at the Coach and Horses, on their way. If they overstep the mark this day, no matter; so long as they manage to scramble into their gigs and carts, their horses usually find the way home without being driven.

In the evening the cathedral looks like one huge lantern, it being lighted up for special service, at which the first part of