Methinks I know the realities of which these things are but the shadows; have met with them in business, have sat with them at dinner.  But to-night no such notions as these intrude; and when the torrent of fun, and transformation, and practical joking which rushed out of the beautiful fairy world gathered up again, the high-heaped happiness of the theatre will disperse itself, and the Christmas pantomime will be a pleasant memory the whole year through.  Thousands on thousands of people are having their midriffs tickled at this moment; in fancy I see their lighted faces, in memory I hear their mirth.

By this time I should think every Christmas dinner at Dreamthorp or elsewhere has come to an end.  Even now in the great cities the theatres will be dispersing.  The clown has wiped the paint off his face.  Harlequin has laid aside his wand, and divested himself of his glittering raiment; Pantaloon, after refreshing himself with a pint of porter, is rubbing his aching joints; and Columbine, wrapped up in a shawl, and with sleepy eyelids, has gone home in a cab.  Soon, in the great theatre, the lights will be put out, and the empty stage will be left to ghosts.  Hark! midnight from the church tower vibrates through the frosty air.  I look out on the brilliant heaven, and see a milky way of powdery splendour wandering through it, and clusters and knots of stars and planets shining serenely in the blue frosty spaces; and the armed apparition of Orion, his spear pointing away into immeasurable space, gleaming overhead; and the familiar constellation of the Plough dipping down into the west; and I think when I go in again that there is one Christmas the less between me and my grave.

MEN OF LETTERS

Mr. Hazlitt has written many essays, but none pleasanter than that entitled “My First Acquaintance with Poets,” which, in the edition edited by his son, opens the Wintersloe series.  It relates almost entirely to Coleridge; containing sketches of his personal appearance, fragments of his conversation, and is filled with a young man’s generous enthusiasm, belief, admiration, as with sunrise.  He had met Coleridge, walked with him, talked with him, and the high intellectual experience not only made him better acquainted with his own spirit and its folded powers, but—­as is ever the case with such spiritual encounters—­it touched and illuminated the dead outer world.  The road between Wem and Shrewsbury was familiar enough to Hazlitt, but as the twain passed along it on that winter day, it became etherealised, poetic—­wonderful, as if leading across the Delectable Mountains to the Golden City, whose gleam is discernible on the horizon.  The milestones were mute with attention, the pines upon the hill had ears for the stranger as he passed.  Eloquence made the red leaves rustle on the oak; made the depth of heaven seem as if swept by a breath of spring; and when the evening star appeared, Hazlitt saw it