Subdue Your Appetites, My Dears,

But I Am Sure That I Have Always Thought Of Christmas Time, When It Has Come Round...as A Good Time; A Kind, Forgiving, Charitable, Pleasant Time; The Only Time I Know Of, In The Long Calendar Of The Year, When Men And Women Seem By One Consent To Open Their Shut-up Hearts Freely.

Be Guided, Only By The Healer Of The Sick, The Raiser Of The Dead, The Friend Of All Who Were Afflicted And Forlorn, The Patient Master Who Shed Tears Of Compassion For Our Infirmities. We Cannot But Be Right If We Put All The Rest Away, And Do Everything In Remembrance Of Him. There Is No Vengeance And No Infliction Of Suffering In His Life, I Am Sure. There Can Be No Confusion In Following Him, And Seeking For No Other Footsteps, I Am Certain!

As I Said Just Now, The World Has Gone Past Me. I Don't Blame It; But I No Longer Understand It. Tradesmen Are Not The Same As They Used To Be, Apprentices Are Not The Same, Business Is Not The Same, Business Commodities Are Not The Same. Seven-eighths Of My Stock Is Old-fashioned. I Am An Old-fashioned Man In An Old-fashioned Shop, In A Street That Is Not The Same As I Remember It. I Have Fallen Behind The Time, And Am Too Old To Catch It Again.

What Connexion Can There Be, Between The Place In Lincolnshire, The House In Town, The Mercury In Powder, And The Whereabout Of Jo The Outlaw With The Broom, Who Had That Distant Ray Of Light Upon Him When He Swept The Churchyard-step? What Connexion Can There Have Been Between Many People In The Innumerable Histories Of This World, Who, From Opposite Sides Of Great Gulfs, Have, Nevertheless, Been Very Curiously Brought Together!

All Is Going On As It Was Wont. The Waves Are Hoarse With Repetition Of Their Mystery; The Dust Lies Piled Upon The Shore; The Sea-birds Soar And Hover; The Winds And Clouds Go Forth Upon Their Trackless Flight; The White Arms Beckon, In The Moonlight, To The Invisible Country Far Away.