There is the glimmer of a lantern over by the Seven Sisters on the green, and a sound of people talking quietly together. I think I can distinguish George Artlett’s deep tones, and his brother Tom’s—the Singing Plowman’s—higher, clearer speech, and an admonitory word or two that might be Weaverly’s. The clock is striking now. Before its last droning note dies on the frosty air, the darkness beneath me fills with a living, joyous music: ‘Hark! the herald angels sing Glory to the new-born King, Peace on earth, and mercy mild, God and sinners reconciled. Joyful all ye nations, rise, Join the triumph of the skies; With the angelic host proclaim, “Christ is born in Bethlehem.” Hark! the herald angels sing Glory to the new-born King!’ * * * * * * * * * * Printed by T. and A. CONSTABLE, Printers to His Majesty at the Edinburgh University Press