about the town with his bride to show himself
off; he is proud of making a purchase at a shop,
of riding in a railway carriage, of being a prime
minister, or of being a chiffonnier. Of all
these things he is proud, and not too proud
to show it.

There was one person who occupied the place
next to my own at the table, in whom I could
not help feeling much interested. Soberly and
plainly dressed, and possessed neither of youth
nor beauty, there was nothing in the lady
that would at first sight be likely to attract
attention, and yet in my survey of the table
I found myself more occupied with my neighbour
than with any of the other guests. When
first I observed her she was occupied, as the
dinner had not commenced at that time, in
reading a letter, and when the meal began
she placed it by the side of her plate, seeming
to abandon it with some regret. I could not
help speculating a little about this lady. I
could just see that the prefix to her name on
the envelope of the letter was Mademoiselle; so
I was justified in concluding that she was not
married, and I had gained, from something I
heard her say, information as to the ultimate
destination towards which she was journeying.
She had for a neighbour on the other side
the strong-minded lady in the flaming hood, and
she could hardly have been seated next a more
inquisitive, not to say a more impertinently
curious, personage. Question followed question
in the most rapid succession, and, as my neighbour
was wanting either in the will or the power
to defend herself, this "curious impertinent"
soon learnt the leading particulars of her journey.
She had come from a village which
she named in the neighbourhood of Hereford
—Eaton-Bishop it was called, if I remember
rightly—and she was travelling across Germany
on her way to Pesth, to which place she was
bound, not with any pleasure-seeking object, but
to fill the post of governess in a native family
there, who wanted an English lady to teach
their children. At this stage of the inquiry, the
worthy lady in the hood abandoned her victim
as unworthy of further notice, while I for my
part could not help in my imagination dwelling
on the narrative the rough outline of which I
had just overheard. What a bleak and dismal
tale it suggested! To be making a long journey
in such weather and alone was bad enough; but
to have no cheerful prospect at the end of it—
a reception by strangers, people of a different
nation, of different habits, whom she knew
nothing about, who might be coarse, rough, or
even treacherous—what a prospect this was
with the memory of the home she had left to
make it worse! I felt sure that of all the trials
connected with her heroic act, this Christmas
abroad was the worst, and I even fancied that
this poor lady had placed the home letter by her
plate with a purpose, to be a friend at the
Christmas feast.

But surely to all us English this public meal
was at such a time a severe ordeal enough. It
was very well to try and brave it out; but it
would not do. The English gentleman with the
contracted skull, and the half-pay officer, ordered
expensive wines against each other in silent
defiance, and the waiters brought them in bottles
of Macon ordinaire placed in wicker cradles to
keep them horizontal, and carried with elaborate
caution. These expenses were indulged in
vainly, as far as any happy result on the animal
spirits was concerned. The gentleman from
the Emerald Isle, determined not to be outdone,
ordered a bottle of champagne, and glanced
proudly around him as the cork flew up to the
ceiling; but the only effect of this reckless
behaviour was an increased depression on the part
of him who had thus exceeded his means, and a
tendency to sit moodily thinking of the bill
during the intervals between the courses. Even
an attempt on the part of the landlord to
consult the prejudices of those English who were
present by introducing roast beef and plum-
pudding into his bill of fare, was not attended
with success. The roast beef was tough and
suggestive of cow, and the plum-pudding—
concerning which the waiter whispered in every
English ear that it was "like in England"—was
a vague and squashy dish.

But, to rise from table and pay in ready money
for a Christmas dinner—this was the culminating
point of all. Having left the hotel the
day before, and returning to take this one meal
only, it actually happened that I was obliged to
call a waiter aside to put into his hand, with an
unhallowed chink, the money which this Christmas
dinner had cost. What a sensation, at the
moment when in so many households the guests
were drawing round the fire to take their
wine, with a host exhorting them not to spare
the freely given cheer, to be rising from a
table full of strangers, to be paying in hard cash
for the dinner I had just swallowed, and to turn
out into the dark and cold streets of Schnowenberg
on my way to my lodging!

I have long had my doubts about the existence
of what is commonly called a merry Christmas.
Is there such a thing?

There may be, but I can only say that in my
humble experience a merry Christmas is a
phenomenon with which I am unacquainted. The
fact is, that mirth is an ephemeral and wayward
commodity, altogether irregular and unpunctual
in its habits. It will come when it is not
invited, when no one is courting it, when even it
is not wanted; but it will not keep appointments
that are made without its consent, and,
like a conceited genius, it will refuse the invitations
of its friends, and will drop in upon them
when wholly unexpected, and when nobody is
asked to meet it.

There are other reasons why Christmas is not
generally a merry season.

How often are those assembled together at
that time persons who seldom meet from choice,
who, bearing each other no ill will, are yet not
quite congenial spirits, nor even habitual
associates. Nor is this all. How often must it
happen when the same circle meets you year
after year that there are unsightly gaps in it,