Yuletide In An Old English City

the fiddler ceases playing, and the cards are put away. The solemnity of the occasion is everywhere apparent. The lady bells in the cathedral tower ring out a muffled peal in token that the old year "lies a-dying," which is quickly carried up by the chimes in a score of belfries around until the city is noisy with solemn melody. The effect is one to make the most worldly-minded feel the vanity of earthly things. A grave look is worn on every face, as the united family sits around the fireside, reflecting on the trials and sorrows of the dying year. Tennyson had these self-same bells in mind when he wrote "The Old Year lies a-dying," and those stanzas from "In Memoriam": —

"Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light;
The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die."

Unlike the poet's "wild sky" of "flying cloud," our New-Year's eve is one of brilliant moonlight: the stars have that cold, crisp glitter betokening frost; scarcely a cloud hangs on the canopy of heaven to mar the grandeur of the scene. As we look down on the city from the brow of the hill, nothing is visible but countless lamps, dotting at intervals the long and narrow streets, becoming more and more indistinct as the eye wanders towards the horizon. Nothing is heard but the muffled peal of the cathedral bells, the confused jingle below the hill, and the barking of dogs frightened by the noise.

Soon we see crowds of people flocking into the churches and chapels, to repent of their shortcomings, desirous of beginning the new year in a holier frame of mind. Suddenly the bells stop ringing, save the slight tinkling for a moment of distant chimes behind the rest. It is five minutes to twelve, - five minutes allotted for silent meditation, - just time enough for the ringers to climb into the belfries and remove the leathern girdles from the clappers. There must be no more moaning. We must no longer deplore the past, but think of the future. Old Tom o' Lincoln, the giant bell in the great tower of the cathedral, strikes midnight. In an instant the bells are ringing again, louder, faster, more deafening than before. The infant year is being ushered in. The sacrament is served in all the churches, of which united families make a point of partaking. Those who have remained by the fireside rise to their feet, shake hands and embrace. The old squire, standing with watch in hand, cracks his last bottle that evening, and calls upon his son and heir to propose a toast. The bells soon cease, and, except for a few noisy ones who keep up the festivities all through the night, nothing is heard but the policeman's tramp as he saunters on his beat.

All is not quite ended yet. There is Twelfth Night, on which the tradesmen's ball is given. It is called the Cake ball; a huge cake, weighing at least a ton, being cut up for the children, who are allowed to attend during the early part of the evening, play charades, engage each other in fairy dances, and display their fancy costumes. Afterwards the elderly people take their turn, the ball being opened by the member of Parliament for the city, leading in the mayoress, who is always the Lady Patroness on this occasion. Of course there is much feasting and drinking, for it is the last of the season proper; after which there is no allowance made in the courts for drunkenness, and the citizens pursue their vocations with a satisfied air, glad, perhaps, of a more wholesome diet and regular hours. The holly and the mistletoe disappear from the churches, shop windows, and private houses; visitors have taken leave of their friends; and there remains the remembrance of the happy days just passed, which furnish food for gossip for many a day to follow.