course, be too long.

Well, we partook of yet other Christmas delights besides pantomime,
pudding, and pie. One glorious, one delightful, one most unlucky and
pleasant day, we drove in a brougham, with a famous horse, which carried
us more quickly and briskly than any of your vulgar railways, over
Battersea Bridge, on which the horse's hoofs rung as if it had been
iron; through suburban villages, plum-caked with snow; under a leaden
sky, in which the sun hung like a red-hot warming-pan; by pond after
pond, where not only men and boys, but scores after scores of women and
girls, were sliding, and roaring, and clapping their lean old sides with
laughter, as they tumbled down, and their hobnailed shoes flew up in
the air; the air frosty with a lilac haze, through which villas, and
commons, and churches, and plantations glimmered. We drive up the hill,
Bob and I; we make the last two miles in eleven minutes; we pass that
poor, armless man who sits there in the cold, following you with his
eyes. I don't give anything, and Bob looks disappointed. We are set down
neatly at the gate, and a horse-holder opens the brougham door. I don't
give anything; again disappointment on Bob's part. I pay a shilling
apiece, and we enter into the glorious building, which is decorated for
Christmas, and straight-way forgetfulness on Bob's part of everything
but that magnificent scene. The enormous edifice is all decorated for
Bob and Christmas. The stalls, the columns, the fountains, courts,
statues, splendors, are all crowned for Christmas. The delicious negro
is singing his Alabama choruses for Christmas and Bob. He has scarcely
done, when, Tootarootatoo! Mr. Punch is performing his surprising
actions, and hanging the beadle. The stalls are decorated. The
refreshment-tables are piled with good things; at many fountains "MULLED
CLARET" is written up in appetizing capitals. "Mulled Claret--oh, jolly!
How cold it is!" says Bob; I pass on. "It's only three o'clock," says
Bob. "No, only three," I say, meekly. "We dine at seven," sighs Bob,
"and it's so-o-o coo-old." I still would take no hints. No claret,
no refreshment, no sandwiches, no sausage-rolls for Bob. At last I am
obliged to tell him all. Just before we left home, a little Christmas
bill popped in at the door and emptied my purse at the threshold. I
forgot all about the transaction, and had to borrow half a crown from
John Coachman to pay for our entrance into the palace of delight. NOW