through the house, that had to me a
solemn and highly unpleasant sound, though
it could not have differed from the preceding
knocks. I listened to the opening of the door,
and heard my landlady, in a sympathetic tone
of voice, declare, that " it was only the first-
floor's steak;—poor fellow! " My loneliness,
then, was a theme of pitiful consideration with
the people below! I was very angry, and
paced my room with rapid strides. I thought
I would wear cotton-wool for the next four-
and-twenty hours, to shut out the din of
general enjoyment. I tried, after a short
time, to compose myself to my book; but,
just as I was about to take it down from the
shelf, the servant, having occasion to enter
my room, informed me, in a high state of
chuckling excitement, that "missis's friends
was a going to light up a snap-dragon!"
—and the shouts that burst upon me a
few minutes afterwards confirmed the girl's
report. I was now fairly savage, and, having
called for my candle, in a loud determined
voice, went to bed, with the firm conviction
that the revellers below were my sworn
enemies, and with the resolution of giving
warning on the following morning—yes, on
Christmas Day.

Brooding over the revenge I promised myself
for the following morning, I went to sleep, and
dreamed of the Arctic solitudes and the
Sahara Desert. I was standing at a dry
well, surrounded, on all sides, by endless sand,
when a loud rumbling noise broke upon my
dream. I awoke, and heard a heavy footstep
passing my chamber. I started from my bed,
flung open my door, and shouted, " Who's
there?"

"It's only me, Sir, a going for to put the
puddin' in the copper," said an uncommonly
cheerful voice.

Here was a delightful opening scena of my
Christmas Day. I believe I muttered a wish,
that my landlady's pudding had been in a
locality where it might boil at any time without
disturbing any lodger.

That morning I rang four times for my hot
water, three times for my boots, and was
asked to eat cold ham instead of my usual
eggs, because no room could be spared at the
fire to boil them. I occupied my landlady's
back parlour, and was intruded upon,
every minute, because a thousand things
wanted " for up-stairs " were left in odd nooks
and corners of the room. I had no easy-chair.
My books were all " put away," save a copy
of " Jean Racine," which I had taken down by
mistake for a volume of the " Racine." My
breakfast-table could not be cleared for three
hours after I had finished my meal. I was
asked to allow a saucepan to be placed upon
my fire. It was suggested to me that I might
dine at two o'clock, in order to have my
repast over and cleared away before the feast
up-stairs began. I assented to this proposition
with ill-feigned carelessness—although
my blood boiled (like the pudding) at the
impertinence of the request. But I was too
proud to allow my landlady the least insight
into the real state of my feelings. Poor soul!
it was not her fault that I had no circle within
my reach; yet I remember that throughout
the day I regarded her as the impersonation
of fiendish malice.

After I had dined she came to ask me if there
was anything she could do for me? I regarded
her intrusion only as one prompted by a
vulgar wish to show me her fine ribbons and
jaunty cap, and curtly told her that I did not
require her services. To relieve myself of
the load of vexation which oppressed me, I
strolled into the streets; but I was soon driven
back to my landlady's little parlour—the
gaiety that resounded from every house, and
the deserted streets without, were even more
annoying than her marked attention. I sat
down once more, and doggedly read the
heavy verse of Jean. I called for my
tea; and, in reply, I was informed that I
should have it directly the dinner was over
up-stairs. My patience was giving way
rapidly. My tea was produced, however,
after a considerable delay; and I then thought
I would make a desperate attempt to forget
the jovial scenes that were going forward in
every nook and corner of the country—save
in my desolate, sombre, close back parlour.
I swung my feet upon the fender, leisurely
filled the bowl of my meerschaum, and was
about to mix my first fragrant cup, when that
horrible servant again made her appearance,
holding a dark steaming lump of something,
on a plate.

"Please, Sir, missis's compliments, and
p'raps you'd accept this bit of Christmas
puddin'?"

I could have hurled it, plate and all, into
the yard below. I saw myself at once an
object of profound pity and charity to the
company above. Although I am extremely
fond of that marvellous compound of good
things eaten with brandy-sauce on Christmas
Day, I could not have touched my landlady's
proffered plateful for any consideration. I
gave a medical reason for declining the dainty,
and once more turned to my pipe and my tea.
As the white smoke curled from my mouth a
waking dream stole over me. I fancied that
I was Robinson Crusoe: my parrot dead, and
my dog run away. I cursed fate that had
consigned me to a solitude. I recited a few
verses from Keats aloud, and the sound of my
voice seemed strange and harsh. I poked the
fire, and whistled, and hummed—to restore
myself to the full enjoyment, or rather to the
misery, of my senses. The tea on that
evening only was green tea. I felt its effects.
I grew nervous and irritable.

The servant once more invaded my seclusion
—what could she want now?

"Please, Sir, have you done with the tea-
things? I 'm a going to wash 'em for upstairs."

"Take them;" I replied, not very gracefully.