abundance, and tritons and garlands, and a great
shield in the centre, on which were inscribed
the names of Shakespeare, Sheridan, Colman,
and Morton, in gold letters—a selection which
seems to me a little arbitrary, and scarcely to
represent the British Drama. But we had a
marvellous wardrobe, and we had a perfect
armoury of guns, swords, and pistols. The most
delightful of offices was considered that of
"green-room deputy." There were two such
officers, who worked under the direction of one
of the masters. The mechanical duties which
this situation opened up—the lighting of fires,
the hammering, tinkering, furbishing, with, it
must be added, the avoidance of lessons, made
it eagerly sought. The harder and dirtier the
work, the more welcome it was. But Christmas
had other attractions besides the Drama. The
most ennobling part was THE BOXES.

One snowy night, a few days before Christmas
Day, I was in the great court, and through
the open door saw a huge whitened country
waggon and a whitened waggoner. They had
made a long journey from the railway station,
and carried the first instalment of "the boxes."
Every right-minded parent sent a substantial
token of his or her—most usually her—
affection, in the shape of a good-sized deal
box, heavy, substantial, and taking two strong
men to move it. As the great festival drew
on, minute directions were written home,
couched in strains of painful anxiety; and after
the customary "I hope you are quite well,
/ am very well," the letter invariably burst
into Fortnum and Mason details. "Please let
the meat pie be very large. Jack Hodder is
being sent one too. I hope Lizzy is quite well
also. Please not to forget the drum of figs.
Also the sovereign in the middle of the plum-
cake—far in, or, Mr. Wilkins will take it."*

* The Reverend Mr. Wilkins was the officer who
"passed" the boxes at the customs, and it need
hardly be said that his only object in intercepting
the supplies of money was to ensure its not being
squandered inconsiderately.

The public post carried innumerable letters
of this pattern, and the great waggon of the
snowy night had brought some forty of these
chests. From "the customs"—as I may call
the great schoolroom, where the great chests
were brought in and examined—came telegrams
from Mr. Wilkins and his brother officers.
Had Gibbs's box arrived? Gibbs wanted to
know. Had Smith's? Smith had asked in agony.
The prevailing terror was always—nor was it
unreasonable—that by some casualty the
precious chest might go astray, or be detained
on the road until the festival was over, and then
be recovered with all its contents in a mouldy
condition.

Some of us used between whiles to get peeps
into this precious storehouse, the savour of
which, compounded of all delicious edible odours,
seemed to us the most exquisite of perfumes.
The extraordinary variety of these articles!
There were enormous pies, veal, ham, game,
running over with rich jelly. Every box
contained a frosted plum-cake—parents' ideas might
differ as to the size of this delicacy—but a plum-
cake of some sort and size was de rigueur. Every
one had his drum of figs; the very name had a
kind of musical and satisfactory sound, and it
was known that by some mysterious law
application could be made again and again to the
"drum," under circumstances of repletion, without
inconvenience or satiety. Boxes of raisins,
delicious French confitures, almonds (oranges
were a local specialité, and could be always
purchased in the House), cream, tarts, and Heaven
knows what. Roast ducks and fowls were not
encouraged, but they came nevertheless. Do
you remember, dear Tom—for your name helps
me with these reminiscences—that huge pie,
like a pie out of a pantomime—which arrived
with other enormous delicacies, was it from
Yorkshire? And which seemed to hold all the
birds of the air, according to their kind, their
individuality all but lost in the strongest jelly
ever made?

On the great festival-day itself, the season
might be said to commence; on that morning
dropped in, generally, some half-dozen "old
fellows," who had travelled long distances to
come. All that day there would be meetings
in the long galleries, half-doubtful recognitions,
with a joyful "Halloo, Jack—this you! How
are you?" The stress on the "are" being laid
by abundant hand-shaking. The presence of these
fellows, in their gay mundane dresses, who were
going about enjoying everything, added to the
general pleasure.

In the evening of the day the festival began,
as just mentioned, with the CHRISTMAS CONCERT.
This was the time when OUR BAND would go
in and "take their innings," and cover
themselves with glory on the stage of our Theatre.
The whole crowd of the rest of us poured up in
uproarious spirits, and filled pit and galleries in
a moment. According to immemorial custom,
the first part was selected from the Messiah—
especially its Christmas portions; and even
unmusical creatures, who would have held the
great Handel himself very cheap as compared
with a good game of football, always felt the
sweetness and appropriateness of "There were
shepherds in the field keeping watch," &c., which
led on to the grand chorus, "For unto us a child
is born." Our choir, very strong in the cathedral
treble of boys, would cover itself with glory in
this effort. A sweet and round boy's voice gave
out the traditional song of the night—never
omitted—an old Christmas carol, which ran to
this effect:

Listen to the caroll'd ditty,
Listen to the village chime,
Dear to friendship, joy, and pity,
Comes the merry Christmas time.
  The merry, merry time,
  The merry, merry time,
  Comes the merry Christmas time.

The music of this, ineffably sweet when swelling
into the chorus where the whole House