The last act of the mystery dates from the sixteenth century. It used to be played under the pulpit, near the baptismal fonts, which represented summarily the palace of Herod. The king was seated on a raised throne, between his two ministers, and three lawyers stood about a table covered with books. Suddenly the Eastern star glided on a string from the sanctuary to the pulpit. Three knocks sounded on the church door, and the beadle went to open for the Magi, dressed in full, Oriental trousers, with shawls rolled up into belts and turbans. They made known the object of their journey to the greatly astonished king; they consulted the lawyers, who, after discussing at length and looking through many books, ended by quoting the prophets. Whereupon Herod sent the Magi to Bethlehem, and they crowded before him, making salaams, and then walked toward the sanctuary, where the shepherdesses were already awaiting them. While they were all prostrating themselves, the priest concluded the mass which had been interrupted, giving communion to the actors and to all the others at the same time. Then an angel came to warn the Magi that they should return to their country without visiting Herod

again. The star reappeared as guide. The wicked king rose noisily, and gave orders for the slaughter of the innocents.

It is centuries since these rustic scenes, handed down from the middle ages, have been played in church, but they must have inspired Richepin and Maurice Bouchor in their sacred marionette shows. The "Marche à l'Étoile," so often given in the ungodly surroundings of the Chat Noir, also suggests them. All Paris, even the most blasé, took pleasure in this primitive performance. It was while seeing the "Mystère de la Nativité," in the little theater of the Rue St. Lazare, that I first understood the reverent admiration of the Greeks for puppets, and the great inspiration Haydn and Goethe have taken from these simple wooden actors. Their faces were carved with a care as to the expression which made them marvels of art. No living comedians could ever have attained the naïve charm they diffused about them.

But this brings us back to the Parisian Christmas, with its studied effects, its refinements, its splendors borrowed from all

countries; for if they make the Christmas marionettes sing minuets and gavots revived from the days of Louis XIV, they have also acclimated St. Nicholas, the American Santa Claus. He is on show in the candy-shop windows, with a long beard and a pointed hood, sprinkled with frost and laden with bonbons. Mistletoe was introduced at the same time that he was, although we have not attained to the luxury of wreaths and garlands that appear at the windows and doors in New York. As for the Christmas tree, brought from Northern regions and transplanted in France, or at least in the fashionable and official world, it is the center of popular fêtes given to school-children at the Palais de l'Industrie, and the pretext for all sorts of society parties which have nothing in common with simple family reunions. The little folk, who used to be satisfied with a modest present slipped into their shoe, now expect a pinetree lighted with many-colored candles, bedecked with ribbons, glistening with golden fruits, and bearing on every branch a costly toy or some goody. Cosmopolitanism has crept into the Parisian Christmas as it has into everything else.

Of course there is a religious fête in Paris, a midnight mass solemnly celebrated. The beautiful music, the magnificence of the ceremony, attract an enormous and often not very serious crowd. There is also the réveillon, which is not always preceded by mass, the big restaurants of Paris remaining open all night. But the real French Christmas is celebrated only in the retirement of provincial life. It is not at all like the great popular holiday which in London, from the top to the bottom of the social ladder, sets people to a merrymaking that is manifested by an abundant display of eatables, by pantomimes and dazzling fairy pieces, and amusements of all sorts.

Our Christmas, although it was formerly named the Cri de Joie, is more especially a church festival, a religious celebration almost like Easter, a family reunion also, as it is the beginning of the vacation of the Jour de l'An, which, in a secular way, means to us what Christmas does in Northern countries. It is on New Year's day that we exchange cards, compliments, and visits. The étrennes, of a distinctly Latin origin, are given on the 1st of January, not on the 25th of December. We do not wish a Merry Christmas, but a Happy New Year. The cry of the Gauls, "Au gui l'an neuf!"-slightly distorted into aiguillonné-is yet used by the Languedoc peasants. At the exact moment when the December moon is full, the beginning of the druidical year, they go from door to door, a pack on their backs, a stick in their hands, telling off the fifty verses of an old-time song, whereby they procure donations of flour, eggs, and other articles of food. There is a sequence of traditions, completed by the Twelfth-cake (gâteau des rois), served in every household on Twelfth Night, the 6th of January, Epiphany. In the cake is concealed a bean, and this bean determines, by the laws of chance, the last royalty which France still preserves. The one who finds it in his piece of cake is king, and must choose himself a queen. Shouts of "Le roi boit! La reine boit!" are sent up around the table as soon as their Majesties touch the glasses placed before them and carefully kept replenished.

In the country the poor have always had their share of Twelfth-cake. It was called "the good God's share."

Unfortunately, all that was pious and poetic in these old customs has an ever-increasing tendency to disappear. Soon, it is to be feared, nothing will remain but unfeeling routine.

1 The Magi are commonly referred to as kings.