country in which version, as might be expected, the Championship is given to St. Patrick, who asserts that St. George was nothing more than "St. Patrick's boy," and fed his horses. Another of the characters in this edition of the story is Oliver Cromwell,—who, after certain grandiloquent boastings (amongst others, that he had "conquered many notions with his copper nose”), calls upon no less a personage than Beelzebub, to step in, and confirm his assertions.

The costume and accoutrements of these mummers appear to be pretty generally of the same kind,—and, for the most part, to resemble those of morris-dancers. They are thus correctly described by Mr. Sandys. St. George, and the other tragic performers, wear "white trowsers and waistcoats, showing their shirt-sleeves, and are much decorated with ribbons and handkerchiefs,—each carrying a drawn sword in his hand, if they can be procured, otherwise a cudgel. They wear high caps of pasteboard, covered with fancy paper, adorned with beads, small pieces of looking-glass, bugles, &c.,—several long strips of pith generally hanging down from the top, with shreds of different colored cloth strung on them, the whole having a fanciful and smart effect. The Turk, sometimes, has a turban. Father Christmas is personified as a grotesque old man, wearing a large mask and wig, with a huge club in his hand. The doctor,-who is a sort of merry-andrew to the piece,-is dressed in some ridiculous way, with a three-cornered hat and painted face. The female, when there is one, is in the costume of her great-grandmother. The hobby-horse, when introduced, has a sort of representation of a horse's hide; but the dragon and the giant, when there is one, frequently appear with the same style of dress as the knights."

We will present our readers with the version of this old drama given by Mr. Sandys, as still performed in Cornwall. Elsewhere, we have met with some slight variations upon even this Cornwall piece; but will be content to print it, as we find it in the collection in question. Our Lancashire readers will at once recognize its close resemblance to the play performed in that county, about the time of Easter, by the Peace-eggers, or Paste-eggers-of whom we shall speak, in their proper place, in a future volume.—

"Enter the Turkish Knight.

Open your doors, and let me in,
I hope your favors I shall win;
Whether I rise or whether I fall,
I'll do my best to please you all.

St. George is here, and swears he will come in,
And if he does, I know he'll pierce my skin.
If you will not believe what I do say,

Let Father Christmas come in-clear the way!

[Retires.

Enter Father Christmas.

Here come I, old Father Christmas,
Welcome, or welcome not,

I hope old Father Christmas
Will never be forgot.

I am not come here to laugh or to jeer,

But for a pocketful of money, and a skinful of beer.
If you will not believe what I do say,
Come in the King of Egypt-clear the way!

Enter the King of Egypt.

Here I, the King of Egypt, boldly do appear,

St. George! St. George! walk in, my only son and heir!
Walk in, my son, St. George, and boldly act thy part,
That all the people here may see thy wond'rous art.

Enter St. George.

Here come I, St. George,-from Britain did I spring,
I'll fight the Dragon bold, my wonders to begin.
I'll clip his wings, he shall not fly;

I'll cut him down, or else I die.

Enter the Dragon.

Who's he that seeks the Dragon's blood,

And calls so angry, and so loud?

That English dog, will he before me stand?

I'll cut him down with my courageous hand.

With my long teeth and scurvy jaw,

Of such I'd break up half a score,

And stay my stomach, till I'd more.

[St. George and the Dragon fight,—the latter is killed.

Father Christmas.

Is there a doctor to be found

All ready, near at hand,

Saint George.

Here am I, St. George,

That worthy champion bold!

And with my sword and spear

I won three crowns of gold!

I fought the fiery dragon,

And brought him to the slaughter;

By that I won fair Sabra,

The King of Egypt's daughter.

Where is the man, that now me will defy?

I'll cut his giblets full of holes, and make his buttons fly.

The Turkish Knight advances.

Here come I, the Turkish Knight,
Here come the Turkish land to fight!
I'll fight Saint George, who is my foe,
I'll make him yield, before I go;

He brags to such a high degree,

He thinks there's none can do the like of he.

Saint George.

Where is the Turk, that will before me stand?
I'll cut him down with my courageous hand.

[They fight, the Knight is overcome, and
falls on one knee.

Turkish Knight.

Oh! pardon me, St. George! pardon of thee I crave,
Oh! pardon me, this night, and I will be thy slave

Saint George.

No pardon shalt thou have, while I have foot to stand,
So rise thee up again, and fight out sword in hand.

[They fight again, and the Knight is killed; Father

Christmas calls for the Doctor, with whom the same dialogue occurs as before, and the cure is performed.

Enter the Giant Turpin.

Here come I, the Giant! bold Turpin is my name,
And all the nations round do tremble at my fame.
Where'er I go, they tremble at my sight,
No lord or champion long with me would fight.

Saint George.

Here's one that dares to look thee in the face,
And soon will send thee to another place.

[They fight, and the Giant is killed; medical aid is
called in, as before, and the cure performed by the
Doctor-who then, according to the stage direction,
is given a basin of girdy grout, and a kick, and
driven out.

Father Christmas.

Now, ladies and gentlemen, your sport is most ended.
So prepare for the hat, which is highly commended.
The hat it would speak, if it had but a tongue.

Come throw in your money, and think it no wrong."

And these, with the dance filling up the intervals, and enli vening the winter nights,-are amongst the sports and amusements which extend themselves over the Christmas season, and connect together its more special and characteristic observances.

CHRISTMAS EVE.

24TH DECEMBER.

Some say, that ever 'gainst that season comes
Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated,
This bird of dawning singeth all night long :
And then, they say, no spirit dares stir abroad;
The nights are wholesome; then no planets strike,
No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm,

So hallow'd and so gracious is the time."

HAMLET.

THE progress of the Christmas celebrations has, at length, brought us up to the immediate threshold of that high day, in honor of which they are all instituted; and, amid the crowd of festivities by which it is, on all sides, surrounded, the Christian heart makes a pause, to-night. Not that the Eve of Christmas is marked by an entire abstinence from that spirit of festival by which the rest of this season is distinguished,—nor that the joyous character of the event, on whose immediate verge it stands, requires that it should. No part of that season is more generally dedicated to the assembling of friends, than are the great day, itself, and the eve which ushers it in. Still, however, the feelings of rejoicing, which properly belong to the blessed occasion, are chastened by the immediate presence of the occasion itself; and touching traditions and beautiful superstitions have given an air of solemnity to the night, beneath whose influence the spirit of commemoration assumes a religious character, and takes a softened tone.

Before, however, touching upon the customs and ceremonies of the night, or upon those natural superstitions which have hung themselves around its sacred watches, we must take a glimpse at an out-of-door scene, which forms a curious-enough feature of