ome-made helmet; a French officer, with a cocked hat
and sword; a Doctor, who wears a pig-tail; Jack Vinny, a jester;
Happy Jack, a humorous character dressed in tattered garments, and
Old Beelzebub, who appears as Father Christmas. In some parts of the
royal county the part of King George is taken by an "Africky king,"
and a Turkish knight instead of the French officer. Very curious are
the words of the old play, and very ludicrous the representation
when the parts are acted by competent players.

There was also in the baron's hall a great person dressed in a very
fantastic garb, who was here, there, and everywhere, directing the
mummers, making jokes to amuse the company, and looking after
everybody. He was called the "Lord of Misrule." Sometimes his rule
was harmless enough, and did good service in directing the revels;
but often he was more worthy of his name, and was guilty of all
kinds of absurd and mischievous pranks, which did great harm, and
were very profane. But these were not part of the Christmas feast,
where all was happiness and mirth. Sir Walter Scott says, in his
description of the festival--

"England was merry England when
Old Christmas brought his sports again;
A Christmas gambol oft would cheer
A poor man's heart through all the year."

All the old poets sing in praise of the great day which, as Herrick
says, "sees December turned to May," and which makes the "chilling
winter's morn smile like a field beset with corn." Old carols chant
in reverent strains their homage to the infant Saviour: some reflect
time-honoured customs and social joys when old age casts aside its
solemnity and mingles once more in the light-hearted gaiety of
youth, and all unite in chanting the praises of this happy festival.
The poet Withers sings--

"Lo! now is come our joyful'st feast!
Let every man be jolly;
Each room with ivy leaves is drest,
And every post with holly.

"Now all our neighbours' chimneys smoke,
And Christmas blocks are burning;
Their ovens they with baked meats choke,
And all their spits are turning.

"Without the door let sorrow lie,
And if, for cold, it has to die,
We'll bury it in Christmas pie,
And evermore be merry."

Thus the happy night was spent; and if, like grave elders, we look
down upon these frolics of a younger age, and think ourselves so
much wiser and better than our forefathers, we should no