Omne bene
Sine poena
Tempus est ludendi;
Venit hora,
Absque mora
Libros deponendi.
--Old Holiday School Song.
In the preceding paper I have made some general observations on the
Christmas festivities of England, and am tempted to illustrate them
by some anecdotes of a Christmas passed in the country; in perusing
which, I would most courteously invite my reader to lay aside the
austerity of wisdom, and to put on that genuine holiday spirit
which is tolerant of folly, and anxious only for amusement.
In the course of a December tour in Yorkshire, I rode for a long
distance in one of the public coaches, on the day preceding
Christmas. The coach was crowded, both inside and out, with
passengers, who, by their talk, seemed principally bound to the
mansions of relations or friends to eat the Christmas dinner. It
was loaded also with hampers of game, and baskets and boxes of
delicacies; and hares hung dangling their long ears about the
coachman's box,--presents from distant friends for the impending
feast. I had three fine rosy-cheeked schoolboys for my fellow
passengers inside, full of the buxom health and manly spirit which
I have observed in the children of this country. They were
returning home for the holidays in high glee, and promising
themselves a world of enjoyment. It was delightful to hear the
gigantic plans of pleasure of the little rogues, and the
impracticable feats they were to perform during their six weeks'
emancipation from the abhorred thraldom of book, birch, and
pedagogue. They were full of anticipations of the meeting with the
family and household, down to the very cat and dog; and of the joy
they were to give their little sisters by the presents with which
their pockets were crammed; but the meeting to which they seemed to
look forward with the greatest impatience was with Bantam, which I
found to be a pony, and, according to their talk, possessed of more
virtues than any steed since the days of Bucephalus. How he could
trot! how he could run! and then such leaps as he would take--there
was not a hedge in the whole country that he could not clear.
They were under the particular guardianship of the coachman, to
whom, whenever an opportunity presented, they addressed a host of
questions, and pronounced him one of the best fellows in the whole
world. Indeed, I could not but notice the more than ordinary air
of bustle and importance of the coachman, who wore his hat a little
on one side, and had a large bunch of Christmas greens stuck in the
button-hole of his coat. He is always a personage full of mighty
care and business, but he is particularly so during this season,
having so many commissions to execute in consequence of the great
interchange of presents.
And here, perhaps, it may not be unacceptable to my untravelled
readers to have a sketch that may serve as a general representation
of this very numerous and important class of functionaries who have
a dress, a manner, a language, an air, peculiar to themselves, and
prevalent throughout the fraternity; so that, wherever an English
stage-coachman may be seen, he cannot be mistaken for one of any
other craft or mystery.
He has commonly a broad, full face, curiously mottled with red, as
if the blood had been forced by hard feeding into every vessel of
the skin; he is swelled into jolly dimensions by frequent potations
of malt liquors, and his bulk is still further increased by a
multiplicity of coats, in which he is buried like a cauliflower,
the upper one reaching to his heels. He wears a broad-brimmed,
low-crowned hat; a huge roll of coloured handkerchief about his
neck, knowingly knotted and tucked in at the bosom; and has in
summer-time a large bouquet of flowers in his buttonhole; the
present, most probably, of some enamoured country lass. His
waistcoat is commonly of some bright colour, striped; and his
small-clothes extend far below the knees, to meet a pair of jockey
boots which reach about half-way up his legs.
All this costume is maintained with much precision; he has a pride
in having his clothes of excellent materials; and, notwithstanding
the seeming grossness of his appearance, there is still discernible
that neatness and propriety of person which is almost inherent in
an Englishman. He enjoys great consequence and consideration along
the road; has frequent conferences with the village housewives, who
look upon him as a man of great trust and dependence; and he seems
to have a good understanding with every bright-eyed country lass.
The moment he arrives where the horses are to be changed, he throws
down the reins with something of an air, and abandons the cattle to
the care of the hostler; his duty being merely to drive from one
stage to another.
When off the box, his hands are thrust in the pockets of his
greatcoat, and he rolls about the inn-yard with an air of the most
absolute lordliness. Here he is generally surrounded by an
admiring throng of hostlers, stable-boys, shoe-blacks, and those
nameless hangers-on that infest inns and taverns, and run errands,
and do all kinds of odd jobs, for the privilege of battening on the
drippings of the kitchen and the leakage of the tap-room. These
all look up to him as to an oracle; treasure up his cant phrases;
echo his opinions about horses and other topics of jockey lore;
and, above all, endeavour to imitate his air and carriage. Every
ragamuffin that has a coat to his back thrusts his hands in the
pockets, rolls in his gait, talks slang, and is an embryo Coachey.
Perhaps it might be owing to the pleasing serenity that reigned in
my own mind, that I fancied I saw cheerfulness in every countenance
throughout the journey. A stage-coach, however, carries animation
always with it, and puts the world in motion as it whirls along.
The horn, sounded at the entrance of a village, produces a general
bustle. Some hasten forth to meet friends; some with bundles and
bandboxes to secure places, and in the hurry of the moment can
hardly take leave of the group that accompanies them. In the
meantime, the coachman has a world of small commissions to execute.
Sometimes he delivers a hare or pheasant; sometimes jerks a small
parcel or newspaper to the door of a public-house; and sometimes,
with knowing leer and words of sly import, hands to some half-
blushing, half-laughing housemaid an odd-shaped billet-doux from
some rustic admirer. As the coach rattles through the village,
every one runs to the window, and you have glances on every side of
fresh country faces, and blooming, giggling girls. At the corners
are assembled juntas of village idlers and wise men, who take their
stations there for the important purpose of seeing company pass;
but the sagest knot is generally at the blacksmith's, to whom the
passing of the coach is an event fruitful of much speculation. The
smith, with the horse's heel in his lap, pauses as the vehicle
whirls by; the Cyclops round the anvil suspend their ringing
hammers, and suffer the iron to grow cool; and the sooty spectre in
brown paper cap, labouring at the bellows, leans on the handle for
a moment, and permits the asthmatic engine to heave a long-drawn
sigh, while he glares through the murky smoke and sulphureous
gleams of the smithy.
Perhaps the impending holiday might have given a more than usual
animation to the country, for it seemed to me as if everybody was
in good looks and good spirits. Game, poultry, and other luxuries
of the table, were in brisk circulation in the villages; the
grocers', butchers', and fruiterers' shops were thronged with
customers. The housewives were stirring briskly about, putting
their dwellings in order; and the glossy branches of holly, with
their bright red berries, began to appear at the windows. The
scene brought to mind an old writer's account of Christmas
preparations:--"Now capons and hens, besides turkeys, geese, and
ducks, with beef and mutton--must all die; for in twelve days a
multitude of people will not be fed with a little. Now plums and
spice, sugar and honey, square it among pies and broth. Now or
never must music be in tune, for the youth must dance and sing to
get them a heat, while the aged sit by the fire. The country maid
leaves half her market, and must be sent again, if she forgets a
pack of cards on Christmas eve. Great is the contention of Holly
and Ivy, whether master or dame wears the breeches. Dice and cards
benefit the butler; and if the cook do not lack wit, he will
sweetly lick his fingers."
I was roused from this fit of luxurious meditation by a shout from
my little travelling companions. They had been looking out of the
coach-windows for the last few miles, recognising every tree and
cottage as they approached home, and now there was a general burst
of joy--"There's John! and there's old Carlo! and there's Bantam!"
cried the happy little rogues, clapping their hands.
At the end of a lane there was an old sober-looking servant in
livery waiting for them: he was accompanied by a superannuated
pointer, and by the redoubtable Bantam, a little old rat of a pony,
with a shaggy mane and long, rusty tail, who stood dozing quietly
by the roadside, little dreaming of the bustling times that awaited
him.
I was pleased to see the fondness with which the little fellows
leaped about the steady old footman, and hugged the pointer, who
wriggled his whole body for joy. But Bantam was the great object
of interest; all wanted to mount at once; and it was with some
difficulty that John arranged that they should ride by turns, and
the eldest should ride first.
Off they set at last; one on the pony, with the dog bounding and
barking before him, and the others holding John's hands; both
talking at once, and overpowering him by questions about home, and
with school anecdotes. I looked after them with a feeling in which
I do not know whether pleasure or melancholy predominated: for I
was reminded of those days when, like them, I had neither known
care nor sorrow, and a holiday was the summit of earthly felicity.
We stopped a few moments afterward to water the horses, and on
resuming our route, a turn of the road brought us in sight of a
neat country seat. I could just distinguish the forms of a lady
and two young girls in the portico, and I saw my little comrades,
with Bantam, Carlo, and old John, trooping along the carriage road.
I leaned out of the coach-window, in hopes of witnessing the happy
meeting, but a grove of trees shut it from my sight.
In the evening we reached a village where I had determined to pass
the night. As we drove into the great gateway of the inn, I saw on
one side the light of a rousing kitchen fire beaming through a
window. I entered, and admired, for the hundredth time, that
picture of convenience, neatness, and broad, honest enjoyment, the
kitchen of an English inn. It was of spacious dimensions, hung
round with copper and tin vessels, highly polished, and decorated
here and there with a Christmas green. Hams, tongues, and flitches
of bacon were suspended from the ceiling; a smoke-jack made its
ceaseless clanking beside the fireplace, and a clock ticked in one
corner. A well scoured deal table extended along one side of the
kitchen, with a cold round of beef and other hearty viands upon it,
over which two foaming tankards of ale seemed mounting guard.
Travellers of inferior order were preparing to attack this stout
repast, while others sat smoking and gossiping over their ale on
two high-backed oaken seats beside the fire. Trim house-maids were
hurrying backwards and forwards under the directions of a fresh,
bustling landlady; but still seizing an occasional moment to
exchange a flippant word, and have a rallying laugh, with the group
round the fire. The scene completely realised Poor Robin's humble
idea of the comforts of midwinter.
"Now trees their leafy hats do bare,
To reverence Winter's silver hair;
A handsome hostess, merry host,
A pot of ale now and a toast,
Tobacco and a good coal fire,
Are things this season doth require."*
* Poor Robin's Almanack, 1684.
I had not been long at the inn when a postchaise drove up to the
door. A young gentleman stepped out, and by the light of the lamps
I caught a glimpse of a countenance which I thought I knew. I
moved forward to get a nearer view, when his eye caught mine. I
was not mistaken; it was Frank Bracebridge, a sprightly, good-
humoured young fellow, with whom I had once travelled on the
Continent. Our meeting was extremely cordial; for the countenance
of an old fellow traveller always brings up the recollection of a
thousand pleasant scenes, odd adventures, and excellent jokes. To
discuss all these in a transient interview at an inn was
impossible; and finding that I was not pressed for time, and was
merely making a tour of observation, he insisted that I should give
him a day or two at his father's country-seat, to which he was
going to pass the holidays, and which lay at a few miles' distance.
"It is better than eating a solitary Christmas dinner at an inn,"
said he; "and I can assure you of a hearty welcome in something of
the old-fashion style." His reasoning was cogent; and I must
confess the preparation I had seen for universal festivity and
social enjoyment had made me feel a little impatient of my
loneliness. I closed, therefore, at once with his invitation: the
chaise drove up to the door; and in a few moments I was on my way
to the family mansion of the Bracebridges.
Special Feature: Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol :
Marley was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. Scrooge signed it. And Scrooge's name was good upon 'Change, for anything he chose to put his hand to.
