enormous Jack in the Green. Legs of mutton
and ribs of beef have run up the butcher's
house to the third floor window. The
poulterer's abode has put on a warm fur
garment. The grocer's is besieged. The six
supernumerary young men, behind his counter
(in spite of all their dexterity in making
up a packet, and snapping the twine with a
jerk of their finger) cannot serve fast enough.

The busy street is at its busiest. The row
of hucksters along the pavement, who sell
onions and cabbage-nets, penny meat-jacks,
carpet-stools, and toasting-forks, and all kinds
of tin-ware, shout loudly against each other.

At last, the busy stream of purchasers and
gazers, chafing against sellers of all kinds,
begins to slacken, slackens more and more,
and gradually leaves its channel almost dry.
Midnight, and the bakers' shelves are empty;
nothing remaining but the great loaf, which
must be getting rather stale by this time. Most
of the other shops are bare, as to the exterior,
at least. Only the cheesemonger's streams of
gas continue to smoke pieces of bacon, and
to turn the edge of half a double Gloucester
(I don't mean a single Gloucester) into Welsh
rabbit. All the tumult is hushed, and so we
come into Christmas Day.

It is good to take a walk almost anywhere,
after church on Christmas Day; for it shall
go hard but some wholesome thoughts are to
be got from it. There are worse places to
walk in hopefully (among others) than
cemeteries, on Christmas morning; for it is the
happiest morning in the year on which
to remember those whom we have laid
there. Then, in the streets of towns, the
humbler people going out, and the dinners
coming home from the bakers' shops, and the
children, and the old people, and the
universal recognition of one great holiday, are all
delightful to consider—none the less so, for
being all steeped in a prevailing fragrance of
pudding! So, in up and down-hill little
villages, and on bleak bare highway roads
where there are solitary wayside houses, you
shall still find expressive signs of Christmas
Day; and even at the lonely turnpike you
shall see the Christmas fire gleam bright and
cheerful, and find the very tollman sticking
up, in unusual acknowledgment of his kindred
with humanity, a red little sprig of holly, in
the little window from which he looks athwart
the looming flat of mud and mire, prepared
to pounce out on the mounted traveller like a
spider on a fly.

Still trudging on, it gets later; and. as we
peep down the areas into the kitchens, people
begin to pass us, all with Christmas and dinner
written in their faces as legibly as may be.
There are smooth smug gentlemen, with
new-mown chins, unwrinkled neckcloths, and
polished boots, who walk with a confident
strut and a satisfied smirk, and who twirl
their canes or pull on their gloves. These
men are invited out to dinner. They are
happy bachelors, contented widowers. Their
hats are on—  their houses are covered. They
are sure of a skinful of the best. They
have their latch-keys in their pockets, and
sufficient loose silver to pay a home-
returning cab, should Bacchus wrestle with
them somewhat too roughly this Christmas
night, and essay to trip them up. Bless the
men! how they smile and giggle, and act little
off-hand bits of wriggling pantomime to themselves.
They are conning, no doubt, the smart
things they will say about the weather,
looking up their most dine-out-able old jokes,
rehearsing soft nothings for the young ladies,
politic feelers for papas, mollifying and soothing
anecdotes for testy grandmammas who
have a balance at the banker's. Other men
pass—  worthies of portly mien and jovial
presence, who rattle seals and loose coins in
their pockets, sway their heads with a humorous
gravity, and ever and anon execute a
quiet pirouette on their boot-heels. These
are fathers of families who are going to give
dinners. They are happy but thoughtful:
happy—for there is as great, if not greater
pleasure, in giving as in receiving;
thoughtful—for a dinner on Christmas Day is not a
thing to be trifled with; and should the
yellow seal not come up to the mark, should
the turbot fail, the pudding crumble—horrifying
thought! Forbid it, Yule; for Thomas
Thompson of Barge Yard, Bucklersbury, is
bidden to the feast, and Thomas is a hundred
thousand pound man, and hath looked lately
with no eyes of disfavour on that fair-haired
daughter of ours, who will wear the black
velvet collar round her neck, like the dame
au collier de velours in Hoffman's horrible
story.

I look down into all the kitchens I pass today
with insatiable curiosity, and am dreadfully
disappointed when I see a kitchen with
a little black fire in it, until I console myself
with the reflection that the people of that
house have all gone out to some other house,
where the kitchen fire is bright and high.
I have seen the kitchen fire of Royalty
at Christmas time. My recollection of it
is very dim, and is in some manner
connected with an organ, a large chandelier,
and a Lancer in full uniform; but I am certain
that once, as a very small child, I did pass
through the kitchen of the Pavilion at
Brighton, towards the end of December.
I believe, being a wall-eyed boy, I had been
to see the King's oculist, who dwelt in a
little turret like a pencil-case; and that,
coming down, I was shown as a great sight
and wonder, the royal kitchen. There were a
great many cooks all of a row, in white jackets
and aprons, and there were a great many joints
roasting at once. The tables, too, were very
white, and the saucepans and stewpans very
numerous; but I was not struck with awe or
astonishment or delight. I think I was
disappointed; I had expected that a King's
kitchen would be like the one in Peau d'Ane,
into which the King himself was not ashamed