AN UNCONVENTIONAL CHRISTMAS EVE. BY JOVEN. Two of the greatest delusions with which I am acquainted are the May-day of the Poets and the Christmas of the illustrated papers. The former is a graceful falsehood, and nothing more. Who ever saw a troop of maidens plucking ye may? Who ever sang, in a clear tenor voice, under the windows of the beloved one, "Awake, awake, it is the May morning?" I speak without any meteorological tables, but my private impression is that the first of May is usually both cold and sloppy. Indeed, to the month of May I have a kind of personal dislike. It is a deceptive-a pretentious month. We have gleams of windy sunshine in March, and green grows the grass under the soft April rain: in comes May, the flowery May, with seductive smile, with wheedling promises, with artful nods and becks, so that we shout " Welcome!" in the full belief that "summer is a-coming in, beigh ho, sing cuckoo !" Miserable mistake! May does but hide her watering-pot with flowers: and, even as you are welcoming her, behold her gutta-percha tubing is in full play. Under these circumstances, the best thing one can do is to stay in doors, and read Chaucer, with the charitable belief that in his time May was somewhat different from what she is now-else was Chaucer sadly given to fibs! The Christmas of the illustrated newspapers is equally unreal, but less poetical. It is a phantasmagoria of puddings-a ghostly galaxy of turkeys, mince-pies, snap-dragon, and hollybushes. Every body is eating, as though eating were the crown of life-its crown? say rather, its one object: eating with an avidity, a determination, and a haste that would create a sensation even amid the Court of Aldermen. Moreover, whilst every one is eating, every one is also talking sentiment. Gormandizing and sermonizing go together. The human heart expands the human purse scorns its strings. How well we all know the true Christmas tale! Its hero is a merchant. In illustrated papers, merchants always have dingy dirty dusty offices, with a precarious fire and one thin clerk. The merchant's name is Googe, or Boodge-anything that recalls Mr. Dickens' Scrooge. He has left his offices. 'Tis Christmas Eve. He has dinedalone at his Chop-house. And has not given an extra penny to the waiter! Alas, his heart is untouched by the genial impulses of the blessed Christmas-tide. Pity him, my human brother! As he issues from his chop-house, a boy runs violently against him. When Googe (or Boodge) has recovered from the shock, he finds that his watch and chain are gone. He hurries to a policeman, and states the case. The policeman looks him full in the face, firmly but kindly, and says, "Old man, you were once young! For you, too, a mother's heart has yearned. Old man, the street-boy hath more need of watch and chain than you! He is human, though poor. Perhaps he has a mother. At any rate, he had one at an earlier period of his career. Forgive him, then. It is the joyous Christmas-tide!" Googe (or Boodge) suddenly repents of all his past life, and gives the policeman a sovereign: then, hastening to the market, buys a gigantic turkey for his one thin clerk, and lives happy ever after. For it is the joyous Christmas-tide! And where art thou, the Christmas of Dingley Dell? Didst thou, save in Pickwick the Undying, ever exist? Are men ever, I wonder, so overflowingly happy, so unboundedly genial, in real life? And Mr. Wardell, does any body know his address? Will anybody forward it to the present writer? Be all this as it may-and apart from the grotesque exaggerations perpetrated in illustrated newspapers and elsewhere by tenth-rate imitators of Mr. Dickens- one's feelings cluster very fondly about Christmas. I leave on one side the more sacred associations of the time, for this is not the place in which to speak of them; I look only to the genialities, the broad healthy sympathies which Christmas, more than any other period, has power to evoke. I was never at a Dingley Dell kind of Christmas; and it may be that a life which, till of late, has been somewhat solitary, has unfitted me for that thorough appreciation of rollicking Christmas fun which (so to speak) bubbles over, rejoicingly, in many others. At any rate, instead of rhapsodizing upon a Christmas which I never saw, I will simply sketch one Christmas Eve of my own, which has at least the merit of having been passed in an eccentric-some may say, an absurd-fashion. I cannot to this day clearly ascertain what induced me to pass my Christmas Eve in journeying, and my Christmas Day alone. I suppose I was glad enough to get away from town for a day or two, on any terms: and I must confess, not for the first time, that I am by nature a vagabond and a tramp. Let me explain. I never stole a silver spoon in my life, and I would scorn the action. I never sat in a ditch, with a fictitious broken-leg, imploring charity; I should catch cold if I did so. When I don my dress-coat, and tie my tie, and endue my gloves, I am as mournfully quiet as any other gentleman within ten miles. I smile, with due vacancy, as I remark that the weather is rather unseasonable, but that the new moon will probably change it for the better. I observe that the Colleen Bawn is a melo-drama of thrilling interest. I state that Lord Dundonald was a warrior alike illustrious and unfortunate. protest that I like Mauve and adore Magenta; and when a lady has terrified and tortured a piano into shrieks of complaint which are termed "variations," I join in the general verdict of "sweet indeed." But when the fated hour arrives-when the guests depart-when I am again alone-a craving and a desire seize upon me. I wish to dance a wild pas seul upon the moonlit streets. I go into corners, and moan: I lean against lampposts, and chuckle: and when I get in sight of my own domestic gas, it is with difficulty that I repress my inclination to shout. O! joyous life of the vagabond! O! freedom of the high roads! How, after "society," one longs again for the mile-stones and the fingerposts-for the noonday rest under the shade of the branching beeches; for the evening stroll through the village, all a-hush after the day's labour, and with only the incessant murmur of the brook, or perchance the dull distant moaning of the sea upon the shore, to break the silence that is so solemn and so deep! How one longs for the ready "hail fellow, well met:" even for the rough and rather rude questionings of the road, even for the " chaff," (persiflage is the drawing-room term, I believe!)-yea, even for the dust and the weariness, which you know will be followed in an hour or two-say five miles more-bỷ cleanliness and rest! There, I am a tramp. I cannot help it. I know it's wrong; but a vagabond I am, a vagabond I have been, and a vagabond I ever shall remain. The courteous reader will of course remember the etymology of vagabond, else shall I be misjudged. L'homme propose: Dieu dispose. The following is an outline of my programme (I may be allowed to remark, here, on the very threshold of my journey, that it turned out to be a failure): : I will go to Rochester. I will go to Faversham, and sleep there. I will rise early, and walk over Boughton Hill into Canterbury, in time for morning service at the Cathedral. After which, I will act according to circumstances. All went well as far as Rochester, except that I began to feel ashamed of being alone. Every one else was speaking to somebody. Never mind my phraseology, or its confusion. What I mean to say is that people were shaking hands and chatting-that at every station pecple were waiting for people-and that I began to think I was guilty of a reprehensible action in going away from home, without any necessity for doing so, on Christmas Eve. So, when the train stopped at Strood, I left the station stealthily, feeling rather as if I had been guilty of sacrilege and had the church plate in the pockets of my over-coat. Rochester has been a pet place of mine, ever since I knew it. I think Mr. Dickens made me go there first, as he has made hundreds of others go. As for its attractions, who knows them not?-Castle, Cathedral, Bridge (gone now), and Watts' Charity. Then, the grand, the gigantic old hotels, in which it is not fit nor decorous that parties of less than eighty should dine, so vast their rooms, so old and Sphynxlike their waiters. As for the walks in the neighbourhood, if there exist one lady or one gentleman who has not journeyed through Cobham Woods, or down the Medway, let such One of my fits, then, having seized upon person, on reading these lines, set forth-never me, I am en route on the afternoon of Christ-mind the cold-and return me her, or his, sinmas Eve. Is that the right description? At cere thanks through the medium of a letter adany rate, on the afternoon of December 24th, dressed to the Editor. year blank. I leave behind me the London markets-which really are a grand sight-and I sally forth to see how Christmas keeps itself in railway-carriages, on the tops of omnibuses and coaches, and on the Queen's highway. As an adieu to civilization, I send the following unbusiness-like note to a friend: I am going to pass my Christmas day Part of it under an old Cathedral, Part of the time, too, I hope to be Wistfully gazing through gaps in the hedges I shall see the villagers pass, all dressed And wheresoever my steps may stray, Maugre all this, I did not feel comfortable at Rochester. This is partly to be accounted for by the fact that the weather (which had for some time borne a doubtful character) now took to drizzling. "Then," said I, "I will try to get a bed at Watts his Charity; and to-morrow I will go home." But I could not undergo the necessary ordeal. It was easy enough for me to say that I was not a Proctor. Nobody ever said I was a Proctor-not even Barry Cornwall himself! But, the "rogue"? How could I, with my then-existent feelings, which, with the drizzle, had deepened as it were into the consciousness of some mysterious guilt, committed in some previous state of existence-how could I honestly aver that I was not a "rogue"? By this time, it had grown dark. I looked at the Castle-I looked at the Cathedral: both seemed tacitly to disapprove of my presence in their neighbourhood on Christmas Eve. I wandered into side-streets, and wandered out of them again-not a happier, not a wiser, only a muddier man; and then, loitering on the bridge, I looked vaguely at the poor old river, which has been coming down from Tunbridge, or there abouts, for ever so many centuries past, and which seemed now, to me, to have grown thoroughly tired of the task! The police? Bless you, the police never interfere with me! One member of that force did so once. It was on a lovely starry night, and I asked him if he could tell me which was Cassiopeia's Chair? Being ignorant of that constellation, he was abashed; and I have never been interfered with since. I am a privileged Tramp. Looking at my watch, I found that, if I still intended to pursue my expedition, the time had come for decided action. The down-train was due. With a sensation of cold wet, I re-entered the station, and sat down to wait. Looking at the matter calmly, I can now perceive that the down-train was quite justified in being late. Why, 'twas Christmas Eve. The train had hampers in it, which would even make the iron mouths of a steam-engine water! Then, at every station, was there not the bustling, and the hand-shaking, and the kissing (feminine), and the looking after parcels, and the farewells at the carriage-door? Was not every station alive, and kissing? Had not Sue come down from service to see Job? Was not Captain Shako running down to a little place in Kent, where there was a little parsonage, and a little parson, and a little parson's daughter, and a little flirtation too, good my masters all? Was not the whole of Kent going to enjoy itself, and doing so violently all along the line? The telegraphic wires themselves had given up carrying business-messages, and confined themselves entirely to transmitting invitations! At length the down-train came, and the platform became flooded with an inundation of baskets. I crept into a carriage, and felt more ashamed of myself than ever. A military man (it was before the Volunteer movement, and you could tell a military man when you saw one) came into my carriage, with his little daughter. Guard, let me out! I will go home! I can't stand it any longer. one, a platform whose boards absolutely groaned with joy as they felt the tread of so many bustling feet on Christmas Eve-all this would be feeble. Alas! every one who alighted there had an object, and a friend! And I? Was I to sleep at Faversham or not? I tried to take a cheerful view of things. Faversham, said I, is an ancient town: its population is 7,000 (including Ospringe and Davington); amongst 7,000, there must be many inn-keepers, who, for coin, will give me entertainment. Besides, Faversham has interesting associations. Athelston was entertained here, with his "witan." This speaks volumes. Suddenly I remembered me of the association connected with Faversham, Arden of Faversham! How Arden was "playing a game at the tables" with Mosbye, whilst Green "stood at his maister's back, holding a candell in his hand, to shaddowe Black Will when he should come forth"; how Black Will, incited thereunto by Arden's wife, "stept forth, and cast a towell round Arden's neck, nearly strangling him"; how, when the deed was done, Mistress Alice sent for "certain Londoners" who chanced to be in the town, and after supper they "danced, and played on the virginals, and were merry"vide" Murray's Handbook for Kent." Remembering this, how was I to sleep at Faversham? As I placidly consume my supper, may not some one "step forth" and "put a towell round my neck"! I know how very disagreeable it is, sometimes, to have a towel round the neck; for, in Sussex, I was once shaved by a village-barber who had delirium tremens! Then, when I am dead and gone, imagine the landlady sending for "certain Londoners" to play upon musical instruments and be merry!! The heartless Cockneys! I cannot sleep at Faversham. I must on. And if ever anybody felt cold outside an omAt that instant the whistle sounded. nibus, I did. The omnibus to Canterbury was Really, I felt very gloomy. Was this enjoy-gone-thronged inside and out with Christmas ment? Why couldn't I feel philosophically about the matter, and be indifferent to all this Christmas gadding about? Ah! why? I was still arguing the matter with myselfand, as is usual in such arguments, we were quarrelling fiercely-when the train reached Faversham. 'Tis a tale, gentles all, of long ago. In those primeval ages, when the train reached Faversham, the train, however reluctantly, was in the habit of stopping-because the rails were not laid down any further; so, at Faversham the train stopped. Here, then, according to my programme, was I to pass the night-not through any stern necessity, but of my own mere free-will. Nobody (except the Christmas painter, of Dingley Dell, of The Poor Travellers, of a hundred other delightful sketches)- nobody, I repeat, could describe that Faversham platform. To say that it was a jolly platform, a crowded people, who all seemed to know each other, and to have bowls of punch waiting for them at Canterbury; but some travellers still remainedquorum pars parva fui-and an extra 'bus was started. To say that the driver of that extra 'buswho resided at Faversham, and thought his day's work over-was happy, would be erroneous and absurd. To me, and to all the other passengers, he conceived a dislike which I can understand and forgive. What I blame him for is this: he took it out of the horses! His gloom, his disappointment, his disgust, found an outlet in the "brutal lash." Cold? Well, it had ceased raining-that was feeble comfort; but the air was as damp as air can be, without becoming water, and the night was sharp and nipping. By making remarks about horses, and by offering the extra 'busma na quantity of tobacco, I succeeded in somewhat mitigating his dislike for me; and, before the journey was over, we were almost on not unfriendly terms. But, as our conversation was entirely horsy my power of continuing it was limited, and it dropped. On the road from Faversham to Canterbury is one of the grandest views in Kent. I may be allowed to remark (not with any feelings of vexation, but simply as the statement of a fact) that the night was so dark, that of this "view" I had not a glimpse. It is written in the chronicle of "Tom Brown," how Tom Brown found a journey, outside a coach, in cold weather, exciting and delightful. I can only state that my feelings were not of an exhilarating or a joyous nature, and that my feet seemed to have abandoned their connexion with any other part of my frame. to the wicket even as a king amongst men? Have I not seen Kent defeat the whole of England, and not think the exploit so very difficult either? Ah, there were giants in those days! Then will I celebrate Edgar Willsher, our present tower of strength, our matchless left-hander, bowler, and bat; and troublesome crafty Bennett, with his teazing, provoking slows-and many another worthy. Yes, we will have a merry evening yet! The extra 'busman knows not cricket. Horses alone hath he made acquaintance with, and specially doth he tell me stories about "that 'ere little grey"; but I cannot see the point of them; nor (I believe) can he. Nevertheless, he is thawing; and when I leave him, at Canterbury, he is thawed. Here should I have told you what my sensations were on catching sight of the Cathedral from Harbledown Hill; but, as the driver truly observed, "It be getting a dark night, sir !” and therefore the Cathedral I did not see. Shall I then indulge in fictitious raptures? Shall I drop a tear to the memory of Thomas à Beckett? I am sure I would do so very willingly if I thought it could do him any good, poor fellow! Let me to mine hostel, and pass my Christmas Eve merrily yet. my career as a wanderer, was when, in a roadside inn, during a storm, a very dirty tramp, who had sprained his ankle, sang, "The Fine Old English Gentleman," with a cold in his head. A blaze of light flickering in front, a wonderful noise as of many instruments disputing, and we are in a village. And now, for the first time, a faint gleam of pleasure irradiates my path. It is caused by my exercising the virtue of hospitality on entering the village-inn, and regaling the extra 'busman. The extra 'busman has a contempt for me, on seeing me drink beer; but his countenance relaxes when I suggest, in his case, spirits. He closes with the The strongest example of jollity under diffisuggestion in the friendliest manner, and it evi-culties, which I ever witnessed in the course of dently refreshed when it has been reduced to practice. One human being now takes an interest in me-for may we not stop elsewhere? Meanwhile, the instruments, which are of a travelling band, quarrel more fiercely than ever. The German who plays the trombone is thinking of Christmas-trees, and (let us say) Hohenzollern-Sigmaringen: what wonder if he disregards the time, and stridently bellows forth a kind of wail over things in general? The villagers are not too critical: the band is a success. Bellow, thou thunderous trombone! Cornet, complain of thy lot! O, my brothers of the great Teutonic family, go in and win! Little children, up late on Christmas Eve, are out in the road, dancing and jumping. The time for supper and high jinks is drawing near. Off we drive again; but as I look back and listen, the lights are still flaring, and the trombone (who has just remembered that he has a brother living in Anhault-Dessau) is shrieking in his home-sickness, "terrible to hear!" At any rate, they will have a supper to-night, poor fellows! Feeling that the driver has now some regard for me, I get more cheerful. I begin to think I shall have a merry Christmas Eve after all. At Canterbury I will fraternize, if possible, with everybody in the hostel. I will exert those powers of passionate eloquence with which I am liberally endowed, in proposing the health of the landlord himself. I will make, in my speech, allusions to the White Horse of Kent, to the Garden of England, and to Hops. I will touch upon the former cricketing celebrities of the county-for have I not seen Felix and Fuller Pilch bat? have I not seen everglorious Alfred Mynn, Titan of bowlers, march up Thus is it possible for man to rise superior to circumstances. Let us now contemplate the other side of the picture. The strongest example of dulness, under circumstances directly enjoining and encouraging jollity, was at Canterbury on Christmas Eve, when there was a splendid fire, and the rain, which had now recommenced, could be just sufficiently heard to remind every one in-doors how lucky they were to be in a warm room. When I first saw the folks assembled in the hostel, I knew that the game was up, that my expedition was a failure, and my Christmas Eve a catastrophe. George Eliot speaks of the country face, with its "slow bovine gaze." There it was. Many of us know the Cathedral-city faceprim, precise, decorous. There it was. Bovine slowness and Cathedral-city primness, set them down to play whist in silence, and there you have the Christmas Eve which I had come so far to seek! It is not good for man to be alone. It is not good for man to go away from home, on a speculative expedition, on Christmas Eve. My dreams that night were but the just punishment of my error. Alfred Mynn, Titan of bowlers, bowled at my legs and broke them. As I lay on the turf, writhing in agony, the Trombone (bethinking himself of a cousin at Dusseldorf) struck me on the head; the White Horse of Kent, transformed into "that 'ere little LINES FOR A GIFT-BOOK. BY G. F. PARDON. On Christmas Day the shepherds knelt They brought their precious gifts, and laid Them one by one before the ChildMyrrh, and frankincense, gold and pearls, In rich profusion careless piled. So ever since that time have men, Made gifts to those they loved, as if UNTENANTED. BY ADA TREVANION. I see behind its poplar-trees I stand beneath the spreading broom There are no pictures on the walls; There is no light upon the hearth: The gilding from the cornice falls; The bare floor smells of damp and earth. Hard by's the porch-how cold and drear The maidens talked, and children played? O yellow leaves, so dry and dead! In distant lands beyond the sea, A more abiding home some seek: O dewy orbs, like stars which shone! Poor empty house! poor lonely hearts! |