# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 3/Volume 7/Seasonable Festivities

This work was published before January 1, 1929 and is anonymous or pseudonymous due to unknown authorship. It is in the public domain in the United States as well as countries and areas where the copyright terms of anonymous or pseudonymous works are 95 years or less since publication.
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From the series: SOCIAL GRIEVANCES.
SEASONABLE FESTIVITIES
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REALLY is a great mistake, passing Christmas in the country; and I certainly will not do so any more. Why I should be supposed to wish to leave my comfortable fireside, in this severe weather, I can't imagine. Dinners and balls for a month, to which the shortest distance is ten miles. The Duke of Donkeyton’s is five and twenty miles, at least;—of course, we must go there. I have my house full of people; and, as I have chosen my own guests, we are a pleasant party enough. I have sent all the men out shooting. I don’t go myself, for I don’t see the fun of standing at the corner of a covert, with my nose frozen, and my hands and feet insensible, on the chance of shooting one of the many hundred pheasants I had down from town yesterday, because I won't be troubled with much preserving. So I have come into my den to have a quiet pipe, and a dip into a book, and a chat with my readers.
What a smell of mince pies and plum pudding all over the house! These are what are called reasonable festivities; with double numbers of illustrated papers, and robin redbreasts, and icicles, and Old Father Christmas, and punch, and snapdragon, and New Year's Day, and holly and mistletoe, and “A Merry Christmas to you”—which is frequently a horrible mockery to those to whom it is addressed: as, for instance, people who can't pay their bills, or who have death and sickness in the house. Depend upon it, there are a good many unreformed Scrooges in the world. Not that I am one. One hundred of the poor in my parish will dine to-morrow at my expense. The school children will be feasted, and all the old people will have a blanket given them, and a sackful of coals. Any wayfarer passing my lodge gates will be invited to partake of a hunch of bread and a mug of good October ale. This idea I have borrowed from the Hospital of St. Cross, near Winchester, and is, I flatter myself, a remarkably neat and effective plagiarism. Still, the whole thing is a bore. I have outlived all the gushing over it; and loathingly anticipate the lovely articles there’ll be, no doubt, in the Daily Telegraph —starting with the Wise Men of the East, and ending up, apropos of pantomimes, with some remarks about the ballet dancers' legs, and how they are necessary to draw the foolish men of the West.
Then, what is there seasonable about
ghosts? What connection is there between them and mince pies and plum pudding? Why shouldn’t they be equally seasonable at Midsummer or Michaelmas? I never saw one, and don’t wish to; but it would not be an agreeable companion at table, even if it were a festive ghost. Yet every body insists on hundreds of ghosts at Christmas—if we may judge from the volumes of literature devoted to their interests at that time.
Christmas and New Year seasonable festivities are only suitable to the very young or very old. The former delight in all the old “shop” of the period—the yule log, the wassail bowl, the carols, mummers, and the rest. The liberty accorded to their gastronomic powers is the more appreciable, as it is accorded but once a year; and they are loaded with presents, more or less valuable, from friends and relatives, as their parents happen to be more or less wealthy. To them it is a poem: to many of us middle-aged people it is a disagreeable reality. The old people naturally like it. Their fading faculties are renewed by the good cheer and gaiety; and they can recall reminiscences of their early days which had been forgotten for a year. They look with pride on their children and grandchildren; and predict the Woolsack for Tommy, and—who knows?—a Prince of Royal blood for Sukey. They have done with the sternness of life, and can afford to indulge in those innocent dreams and speculations. But the melancholy of the subject is leading me on to drivel and to dote. We will leave it, if you please. Mr. Editor shall not have this paper. I will light my pipe with it, and compose myself in my warm armchair by the fire.
Believe in ghosts indeed! Benighted people. I suppose they will soon be back from shooting, as it’s beginning to get dark. The fire makes me quite drowsy. Ghosts, indeed!
I wonder what has brought this back to me? A little child is looking out of the window, across a London square, where the snow is lying deep. There is a lurid glare in the sky, which is reflected on the snow beneath. The frightened child inquires of a lady standing by what it is. It is St. Peter’s Church, in Eaton-square, which is burning fiercely; and the nursery-maid comes in at that moment, and says that they have succeeded in saving the altar-piece. He wants to be taken out to see it; but the lady reminds him that it is time to be dressed, as there is a Christmas party that night, and that he has to entertain his little friends. Surely, I know that tall, graceful figure, though the face is turned away from me; and the child who is looking towards me—I do not recognize him. Yet it reminds me of a face I see sometimes: a face now grizzled and wrinkled, with lines upon it like the prints of little birds’ feet in the snow—a face I see when I look in the glass. The lady is my mother, and the child myself. I am arrayed in all my glory, and am taken downstairs to be admired and worshipped by uncles, aunts, and cousins, who all load me with praises, and kisses, and presents. For am I not the eldest, the hope and the pride of the family?—destined to win fame, either in “the court, camp, church, the vessel, or the mart,” and achieve immortality. There is cousin Bob, who is a thousand years old, and who is alive to this day. He has two wonderful stories—one about a bull, who met him in a path and bowed gracefully to him, without proceeding to further extremities; and another about the varied and excellent properties of a certain well in Hyde Park. He dines with us every Sunday, and performs—for my benefit, when I come down to dessert—an admirable feat with an orange, which, cunningly fashioned into the counterfeit presentment of an old gentleman, he takes on board an imaginary ship, in an imaginary storm; and depicts, by means of squeezing him into a wine glass, the agonies which immediately ensue when, in real life, the steward and basin are summoned.
See the sports that are provided for us! What is that dangling from the ceiling? That is an inverted balloon, filled with bonbons. You will see the children blindfolded in turn, with a stick put into their hands, and taken into the middle of the room to be walked about in a maze, and left to grope about till each one fancies he is underneath the cherished object, when up is raised the stick to hit the balloon, and the air alone is struck. The bandage is withdrawn, and the patient looks very foolish as he finds himself in a totally different part of the room to that he expected. When the balloon is destroyed, all the bon-bons fall over the floor, and a general scramble ensues. A brave game, my masters! a brave game! What have we here? A large dish, full of flour, into which are dropped shillings and half-crowns. We have to dip our faces into this, and pick out the money. What shouts as we emerge, looking like Mr. Clown in the pantomime, barring the rich paint! Now is the time—when a dozen of us are so ornamented—for snapdragon.
“Bring it in, Thomas.”
“I will, sir,” as he always replied, with great emphasis.
There he is! the brandy-legged footman in livery, who is always at loggerheads with Growler the butler. Put out the lights!
Now, then! “Don’t throw them about, Uncle Dick, it is dangerous.” See how ghastly we all look with our white faces. Ha! what is that? Aunt Rachel’s dress has caught fire. Such a pretty girl she is. You wouldn’t believe it now, would you? Never mind.
It is all right. No harm done. The Reverend Snorter Hunks has squeezed it out, and looks as if he didn’t object to the performance. Now, one glass of punch, and we little ones must be off to bed. I see my mother bending over my little bed, and kissing me, and hear her whisper—
“I hope you won’t be tired, love.”
The vision fades; but another yet succeeds. I see myself again, as a boy—home from Harchester for the holidays. I left that seminary for sound and religious learning, near this place—as they say in the bidding prayer in the Cathedral—at the earliest moment after the “journey money” had been distributed by the head master, which was about seven in the morning. I therefore arrive home in time for breakfast. Early as it is, there are the dear arms open to receive me, and the welcome smiles on that beautiful face. She, dear soul, is for providing nothing but amusements for the boys; but the “ governor” is firm. Holiday tasks must be allotted: from ten till twelve, Mr. Homfray; from four till six, Mr. Locke. Mr. Homfray is engaged for writing, drawing, and arithmetic. Poor old Homfray! There he is—the very image of Tom Pinch, long before Tom Pinch was born: so patient, hard-working, simple, and so poor. See the old gray trousers, with straps more like stirrups than what they are meant to be! When We crept underneath the table and succeeded in cutting them, his trousers flew up his legs as if they had been cast out of one of those modern slings of India-rubber. The dreadful practical jokes he has to submit to! “ Harthur, Harthur! mind what you are doing,” he says to my brother, who has taken the opportunity, while he is stooping over one of our works of art, to drop a large door-key down his neck, which perambulates his back till it emerges at his feet, after the strap has been undone. Judge of his elegant phraseology. Those two young scamps, my brothers, have been eating lollipops all the morning, against Mr. Homfray’s express wishes. My father requires the results of the morning’s work put into a tabulated form for his satisfaction—which is, in this instance, as follows.
“Masters Tom and Harry: Application — Far from what could be wished. Progress — In the retrograde direction. Conduct —Insubordinate and rude; personal inconvenience incurred through introduction of a foreign body down the spinal region. General remarks —Both, during studies, partaking freely of confectionery.”
Mr. Locke was a sucking barrister, who received a certain stipend for keeping my memory green as to the merits of the Greek particle “an,” and the vicissitudes of that confounded woman and her family, Alcestis, who killed her father—a deed appreciable, no doubt, by many heirs of the present day, but perfectly unintelligible if they knew, according to Lempriėre, that it was done to restore him to vigour and youth. Why do those dreary speeches of that pump, Admetus, recur to me now, when I vow I haven’t opened my Euripides for thirty years? We never read, in my class at Harchester, but one play. And what is this confusion in my mind about Apollo and poor Frank Talfourd, whom I didn’t know till twenty years afterwards? There is Mr. Locke, as plain as a pikestaff, with his seedy tail-coat and Scotch plaid inexpressibles, his spectacles, and long nose whiffing up the choice odour of raw onions, stolen from the larder, with which I used to perfume my breath, hoping to keep him off the scent and text. Where is he now, and what was his career, I ask myself, as he fades away into dreamland?
Again the boy returns—now a young man—for the Christmas holidays, to the paternal roof. He is clad in black. The loving eyes are closed; the fond arms lie stiff by her side in her shroud; the voice that hereafter might have warned him from many a temptation and folly is hushed for ever! He returns to find Growler looking blacker than ever in his epaulettes; and the maids, in their neat mourning dresses, dropping sympathetic curtseys. He is the young lord for the nonce. The affairs of the nation— which can’t halt (or couldn’t in those days) for births, marriages, or deaths—had summoned the father to his post; and the now dreary and desolate room—every knick-nack of which recalls some reminiscence of that tender and beautiful love which watched over his childhood—is tenanted by those purveyors of condolence whose sympathy is like the moaning of the waves as they dash on the unhappy wreck stranded on the bar.
What is that? The pipe has fallen out of my mouth, and smashed on the floor. Pooh! This chair is very snug, but I’ll try the other arm.
A mist succeeds. The youth awakes one morning, to be told he has recovered from a serious illness. The faces around him are familiar; but he misses one, and asks for it.
“ My dear Gorham, you are weak, you know.”
“ Yes, I remember now,” and he turns his face back into his pillow.
Somehow, at the same time, I see a little child, with a wan face and pale hand, put up a feverish little mouth to be kissed, and say, “ Mamma, I’ll be very good.”
But young Gorham gets down at last, and is greeted by his temporary guardian, the Reverend Mr. Gunch. Gunch first taught him to smoke, by puffing into his face when he was of tender years. Gunch was the greatest consumer of tobacco in England: in all shapes it was acceptable. Cigars, pipes, snuff boxes, he possessed in countless numbers. He never had a pipe or cigar out of his mouth; and the housemaid used to say that he took snuff to bed with him loose, and stowed it under the pillow for nocturnal enjoyment. Where art thou now, O Gunch! with all thy smoking apparatus?
Gunch evaporates; and I see a large party assembled at breakfast in a country house. The snow lies lightly on the ground; the river, which runs through the park, sparkles and dances in the sunbeams. Everything is cheerful and glad under the influence of Christmas and the genial weather. There is the boy—now arrived at his early manhood. He is in the house of an Oxford friend, whose father, the dear old Squire, is presiding over an enormous round of beef; while his good mother, who has the most marvellous instinct for inventing new dishes expressly for breakfast, is busy amongst the cups and saucers. This is a shooting morning, and the Squire is chaffing Gorham about the number of pheasants he is not going to hit. Gorham is not a celebrated shot; but he can fire off his gun with tolerable safety to himself and others. The good old gentleman delights in rallying him on his sporting propensities, and is particularly anxious to see him after the hounds. All the horses in the stable would have been placed at his disposal for that purpose; but Gorham declines. Later in the morning, the Squire, who has come out on purpose to see him shoot, sees him aim at a tremendous rocketer, which, to the Squire’s amazement, comes crashing to his feet, through the branches of the firs.
“ Bravo, bravo!” says the Squire. “ Never saw anything better done before. We shall make something of you yet. There’s the keeper’s cottage. I’ll trot on, and see that all is ready for you.”
Fortunately, it was luncheon time; and the Squire had no opportunity of seeing what he missed afterwards. Then there was the return home by five o’clock, and the glass of good old home-brewed; for we were tired, and had to work for our sport in those days. Then the pipe, Nature’s great restorer—the bath, and the dinner. There were the bright eyes reassembled we had not seen since breakfast; and, with rare ability, we used always to find ourselves seated next to those we affected most. Then the songs, the dances, and the music; and always, on Christmas Eve, the quaint mummers, whose patois, fortunately for delicate ears, rendered what they said unintelligible. Then, more smoking, and to bed, just as the bells from the church in the park proclaim the advent of another Christmas Morn. Oh, happy, blessed time—warming all hearts with love and happiness! Thy memories never fade; and he who cannot enjoy the spirit of the season, and reviles its conventionalities, is a cynic and a fool.
Where am I now? In the Folkestone boat, crossing the Channel. I am the only passenger. The snow is falling so thickly that we can hardly see before us. I am sitting in the little cabin by the stem, calmly awaiting a collision. I am about to spend my Christmas with my ladye love, and obtain fresh and sea air. I am a bit of a cripple now—for it is absurd to confess that I have just recovered from a severe fit of gout. And to be laid up with that disease in the Temple for six weeks, with no one but a hideous old laundress to nurse you, naturally induces a young man’s fancies to strongly turn to love. The ship cleaves merrily through the wintry sea; the snow has ceased; and the white dome of the Cathedral looms in the view, and the familiar lighthouses, and the Hotel Imp—what is it now, National, Republican, Royal? Here we are, moored alongside. There she is, with her dear little face all muffled up, to keep it warm for something she will shortly receive there. Look at the pretty foot, just peeping out from the red petticoat; and—if, I were to let you, you rascal!—by moving a step forward, you would see the loveliest, ankle in Europe. Now I will leave my keys if with Hannen, the commissionaire of the Hôtel des Bains, where I descend; and a few seconds after I have her round arm locked in mine; and, as I limp along, she pretends to support me—little goose!—and looks at me wonderingly with her great brown eyes, which are like a love song of Gounod’s—so soft, so true, so beautiful. Here we are at Lucy’s mamma’s house; and I fear mamma doesn't look so pleased to see me as I could wish. I shall take her daughter away from her in a few months; and who could like the ruthless invader who robs her of such a pearl? Now I am being unwrapped, which is a process of some time, as it is impossible to avoid performing a certain operation upon those pretty hands when they approach the patient too nearly; and a chair is brought me to rest my foot upon; and a glass of warm brandy and water is insisted on, as I must be so cold; and, in short, she is bent on woman’s best mission —when they don’t wear big teeth and goggle spectacles—nursing the sick.
It is Christmas Day, and we go to church together; and, in the afternoon, walk out on the ramparts to enjoy the keen, frosty air. The ravishing little coquette tries all her arts upon me—as if she could make me love her one whit the more; and the staid young barrister, just called to the bar, has to deprecate, with an assumption of dignity, such levity of conduct. In the evening, we dine at the house of a friend; and Lucy is radiant in a white dress, with sprigs of holly about it, and a wreath of holly in her thick brown hair. She looks like a daughter of Father Christmas himself. There are several old French fathers of families there, who nod and smile approvingly at us sitting together and whispering our nonsense into each other’s ears. One old gentleman leans over to me, and says, “You have some chance, monsieur! truly, you have of chance.” The real père de famille is not at all like what MM. Sardou, Dumas, and Co. represent him. He is generally a simple, warm-hearted old fellow; not particularly troubled with good sense, perhaps, but not deficient in love of his family and care of his offspring.
And all the merry season we have balls,and routs, and dinner parties, and theatricals,and quarrels—one only, I think, because Lucy would dance a waltz with a young French officer, whom I thought far too good-looking; besides, I couldn’t bear her away from my side a minute, which she knew, and acted upon accordingly, of course. And the cruel days flew by so quick; and that horrible date was approaching, marked in the calendar with black chalk, “ Hil. Term begins;” and Westminster Hall was to resound with my eloquence; and attorneys were waiting with bags of enormous briefs, and I was to be a great barrister; and then we could buy a nice house, and be married so soon, couldn’t we? and the delightful vision changes, to what a different scene!
A woman is seated in a poorly furnished room; but a scanty fire in the grate; the wind beating the sleet against the window panes. Sounds of merriment and revel come up from the street—for it is Christmas Eve—towards which the woman looks with anxiety, as she has a sick child on her lap. Her eyes are still red from crying over the sufferings of her little one. A footstep is heard on the stairs, and something like a smile lights up her wan face. A man enters.
“ The doctor will come, Lucy dear; but he has a party to-night. Is he better, poor little fellow?”
“ Hardly, I fear, darling. His cough is so very troublesome. You will send my dinner up to me, won’t you, dear? for I don’t like to leave him.”
“Oh, Lucy, what a Christmas! What a contrast to the happy ones of years gone by! And all my fault, too! Curse those scoundrels and swindlers! And no chance, that I see, of getting any back. And what we are to do, I don’t know. I think the only chance is to go away from here, and hunt for some employment.”
“Oh, no, darling; anything but that.”
“Well, there is Flesher pressing for his bill; and all the rest of them will speedily follow. I suppose I shall pass next Christmas in gaol. There’s some one coming to the door now. Who can it be, I wonder?”
“ Oh, Gorham, darling—it can’t be those horrid men, surely. Oh, hide yourself— quick! Hark! they’re knocking.”
“ Beg your parding, sir, for disturbing of you; but Mr. Lackington’s compliments, and he have just returned from shooting, very tired, and can he ’ave a pint of champagne afore dinner?"
“ A pint! Good gracious, yes—a dozen, if he likes. It was that infernal beef, I suppose, at lunch. Here, wait! Bring a bottle here directly; and—and—tell Mrs. Gadabout I wish to speak to her."