University of Virginia Library

17. CHAPTER XVII.
CHRISTMAS—HOW GOLDEN.

Christmas Dawn! The day opened with bursting of bombs
from the laboratory of Major Bulmer. He was up and at work,
bright and early, having summoned me to his assistance. In fact
neither of us had done much sleeping that night. We had employed
more than an hour of the interval, after the termination of
the dance, in arranging the gifts among the branches of the cedar,
and in other matters. Then we had adjourned to an out-house,
where the Major kept his fire-works, and had gotten the explosive
pieces in readiness. They did famous execution when discharged,
routing every body out of his sleep, though it should be as sound
as that of the Famous Seven! The children were all alive in an
instant.

“Had old Father Chrystmasse really come.”

There was a rush to the chimney places in every quarter, where,
the night before, the stockings and satchels had been suspended
from the cedar branches. Dear aunt Janet had taken good care
that the “Old Father” should make his appearance; and there was
a general shout, as each took down his well-stuffed stocking. Ah!
how easy to make children happy—how unexacting the little
urchins—how moderate in their desires—how innocent their expectations—how
pure, if fervent, their little hopes! Treat them lovingly—give
them gifts such as love may wisely give—and you impress
the plastic and hospitable nature with a true moral for the
seventy years of vicissitude that may follow! Ah! shouts of
blessed children! as if there lay a sweet bird in the soul, all wing
and voice, soaring together in sweetness, earth not yet having
stained the one, or made discord in the accents of the other! The
dear little creatures! on what sly steps they stole to the several
chambers, lingering at the door, waiting to `catch' the parties as

they issued forth. How they crouched at the entrances of hall
and library; in the porches, behind the doors, beneath the stairs,
under the eaves—wherever their little bodies could find snug harbourage—till
they could spring out upon the victim. Three of them,
at the same moment, had aunt Janet about the neck. They pulled
off her curls,—they disordered her lace,—they deranged her
handkerchief,—almost entirely demolished her toilet,—and pulled
her down upon the carpet, with their wild-colt displays of affection;
and the dear old maid took it all so sweetly, and smiled
through it all, and only begged where she might have scolded, and
promised good things to escape, when she might have threatened
birch and brimstone! And the fierce old Baron, the Major himself,
even he, Turk as he is in some respects, he, too, was as
meek under the infliction as if he shared fully the spirit of his sister.
The boys and girls, half a dozen in number, seized upon him
as he entered the hall from the court. The girls tugged at arms
and skirts, the boys had him by the neck, arms and shoulders, at
the same moment.

“Merry Christmas, Major”;—“Merry Christmas, uncle;”—
“Merry Christmas, grandpa.” Merry Christmas saluted him, under
all sorts of affectionate titles, from their wild, gay, innocent little
voices. And how graciously the old Sultan submitted to be tugged at
and hugged. How he laughed and tossed them up, and suffered them
to sway him to and fro, until they all came down upon the carpet
in a heap together! There was no growling, or grunting, or complaining;
no rebukes and wry faces; but, giving himself up to the
humour of the children, he became for the moment a child himself.
And measurably he was. He had kept his heart young,
and could thus still identify himself with the child humours of the
little throng about him. He knew what he had to expect, and had
prepared for them. His pockets were a sort of fairy wallet, such
as we read of in the Oriental and German fables, which is always
giving forth, yet always full. Balls, knives, thimbles, dolls in
boxes, pretty books with gold edges and gay pictures, very soon

unfolded themselves from his several pockets, and each of the happy
children took what he pleased. They went off laden with treasures,
and making the house ring with cries of exultation.

At sunrise that morning, the egg-noggin passed from chamber
to chamber. Why eggs at Christmas as well as Easter? There
is a significance in their use, at these periods, which we leave to the
theelogical antiquarian. They are doubtless typical. Enough that,
in the Bulmer Barony, the old custom was religiously kept up.
Every guest was required to taste, at all events. The ladies mostly,
the dear, delicate young things in particular, were each content
with a wine-glass. Some of the matrons could relish a full cup or
tumbler, and there were some of these who would occasionally find
their way into the contents of a second, and—without getting in
their cups! We are to graduate the beverage, be it remembered,
according to the capacity of the individual; and he alone is the
intemperate—we may add the fool also—who takes a power into
the citadel which he cannot keep in due subjection.

The bell rings for breakfast. The hour is late. All are assembled.
There is joy in all eyes; merriment in all voices; what a
singular conventionalism, established by habits so prolonged, for so
many hundred years, by which, whatever the secret care, it is
overmastered on this occasion, and the sufferer asserts his freedom
for a brief day in the progress of the oppressive time! Breakfast
at the `Barony', is, of course, a breakfast for a Prince. Take that
for granted, gentle reader, and spare us the necessity to describe.
The event over, we group together and disperse. The horses are
saddled below. The young gallant lifts his fair one to the saddle.
The carriages are ready; and there are parties preparing for a
drive. Some of the young men have gone to the woods, pistol
and rifle shooting. Others are in the library, companioned by the
other sex, at chess and backgammon. We are among these, Ned
Bulmer and myself. We have duties at home. We know not
what moment will bring to the door our respective favourites. And

so, variously engaged and employed, all more or less gratefully,
the hours pass until meridian. A little after, the rolling of wheels
is heard below. We are at once at the entrance. Major Bulmer
is already there. The carriage brings Mrs. Mazyck and her fair
daughter. The old lady is not exactly thawed, but the ice is of a
thin crust only. The Major tenders her his arm; mine is at the
service of Beatrice. Scarcely have we ascended when other vehicles
are heard below. It is now Ned's turn, and while the Major
is bowing and supporting Madame Agnes-Theresa, Ned brings in
the dear little witch, Paula, hanging on his sound limb, and turning
an inquiring and tender glance of interest upon that which
pleads for pity from the sling. The Major and his sister divide
themselves between the matrons; while Ned and myself share the
damsels between us. We slip out, unobserved, for a walk, leaving
the ancient quartette in full chase of parish antiquities, recalling
old times and making the passing as pleasant by reflection as possible.
Shall I tell you how we strayed, whither we went, what
we said together? Not a word of it. If you have heart, you
may conceive for yourself; if fancy only, you may trust to conjecture.
What is said by young persons, with hearts in full agreement,
will seldom bear reporting. It is so singularly the faculty
of the heart, under such circumstances, to endow the simplest
matters with a rare significance, that ordinary reason becomes utterly
unnecessary, and the affections find a speech and a philosophy
of far more value, more grateful to the ear, and more profound
to the sense, than any that belongs to simple intellect. We were
gone fully two hours from the house, yet, so well had the Major
and aunt Janet done their parts, we had not been missed by
mamma and grandmamma, and neither frowns nor reproaches
waited our return. It was evidently fast proving itself a Golden
Christmas. The golden period had come round again as so long
promised. The lion and the lamb were about to lie down together.
That is,—Major Bulmer, seated in the centre of the sofa,
with Madame Agnes-Theresa on one hand, and Mrs. Mazyck on
the other, had them both in hand as a dextrous driver two fiery
and intractable steeds, whom he has subdued; and the free smile
playing upon all three countenances, as we entered, was conclusive
of such a conjunction of the planets, as held forth the happiest
auguries for the future, in respect to the “currents of true love!”

Company continued to arrive. The groups which had ridden
forth returned. The house was thronged. The respectable body-servant
looked in at the library. The Major rose, went to the
door, looked at his watch, came back, said a few words, by way of
apology, to the ladies with whom he had been doing the amiable,
and then disappeared. The dinner hour was approaching. It was
soon signalled. The Major returned. His arm was tendered to
Mrs. Mazyck; Madame Agnes-Theresa was served with that of
another ancient Major, quite as conspicuous in the parish as he of
Bulmer; and then, each to his mates, we followed all in long procession.
Need I say, that, while Ned Bulmer, by singular good
fortune, was enabled to escort Paula, by the merest accident, I
happened to be nigh enough at the moment to yield my arm to Beatrice.
Really, the thing was thoroughly providential in both cases.

Such a dinner! The parish, famous for its dinners, had never
seen one like it. It is beyond description. Two enormous tables, occupying
the whole length of the spacious dining room, were loaded
with every possible form and variety of edible. But the turkey was
not allowed, as is usually the case in our country, to usurp the place
of honour on this occasion. There was a couple of these birds
to each table; but they stood not before the master of the feast.
At our entrance, the space on the cloth was vacant at his end of
the table. He stood erect, knife in hand, evidently in expectation.
He had one of his famous old English cards to play. One of the
turkies was at one of the tables where I was required to preside,
the fair Beatrice on my right. The others were interspersed along
the two boards. Presently, we heard solemn music without. Then
the door was rëopened, and the steward, napkin under chin, made
his appearance with an enormous dish.

“My friends,” quoth the Major, in a speech that was evidently
prepared, and which we abridge to our dimensions, “I am about
to restore a custom common in all the good old English establishments,
even within the last hundred years. The turkey has been
raised to quite unmerited honour among us. I am willing to assign
him his place upon our table; but I shall depose him from
the first place hereafter. That properly belongs to the Boar's
Head! The Boar's Head was the famous dish at Christmas, in
old England; not the turkey. The turkey is an innovation. He
is purely an American fowl, and was utterly unknown in Europe
until after the Spaniards found this continent. He is a respectable
bird, particularly in size; but in flavour, cannot rank with the
duck, or even a well-dressed young goose. There is no reason
why he should supersede the Boar's Head. I am willing to give
him the first place on New Year's day, as representing a new era
and a new country; but on Christmas, as a good Christian, I am
bound to stick to the text of the Fathers. Their creed I give you
in their own language, as it was chaunted five hundred years ago.
The steward who placed the Boar's Head on the table, brought it
in with the sound of music, and chaunted, as he advanced, the
following Christmas carol, which, by the way, I have, with the assistance
of my young friend, Richard Cooper here, somewhat ventured
to modernize to correspond with the vernacular.”

The Major then proceeded to repeat, in the formal, sonorous
manner of a schoolboy, whose voice is in the transition state, a
cross between squeak and croak, the following ditty:

But the Major was not allowed to finish his recitation. We had
prepared a surprise for the strategist. Ned and myself, having
copies of the carol, had secretly adapted it to appropriate music,
and, suffering the Major only to make a fair entrance upon the verse,
we broke in with a loud chorus. At first, he stopped and looked
at us with a face of doubt. Was it an offence to be resented?
We had taken the words out of his mouth. We had converted
the recitation into a chant, the chant into a song. Ought he to
be angry? A moment decided the question. Certainly, a carol
ought to be sung. We had only carried out his purpose more effectually
than he was able to do it himself. We had surprised him,
but it was a tribute to his objects and tastes that we had prepared
in this surprise. The cloud disappeared; he laughed; he clapt
his hands; he joined with stentorian lungs in the chorus, and other
voices chimed in. We obtained a magnificent triumph.

Meanwhile, the Boar's Head, with a mammoth lemon in his
huge jaws, and enveloped in bay leaves and rosemary, was set
down in state before us. It was the head of one of the largest of
the wild boars that we had slain in our hunt. It was well dressed—
it was delicious. Our old English fathers knew what was good;
but I am not sure that any of the ladies partook of the savage
dish. “Milk for babes, meat for men!” muttered the Major, in a
tone between scorn and pity. The feast proceeded, the Baron expatiating
occasionally on Boar Heads and Boar Hunts, insisting
that, as on every large plantation in the swamp country, wild hogs

were numerous, the proper taste required that we should always
have the dish for Christmas. I shall not report his several speeches
on this and incidental topics. The champagne made its own frequent
reports about this time, and left it rather difficult to follow
any orator. The Major now drank with Madame Agnes-Theresa;
then with the widow Mazyck, and almost made the circuit of the
table, in doing grace with the matrons. The younger part of the
company were not slow to follow the example. What sweet and
significant things were whispered to the several parties beside us—
over the wine, but under the rose. The meats disappeared,
the comfits took their place, and disappeared in turn. The best of
pleasures find their finale at last. Up rose the ladies, and, with a
bumper, well drained in their honour, we followed them to the parlour
and the library. A brief pause, and a new summons brought
us into the hall. The curtain was raised; the Christmas Tree was
there in all its glory. The doors being closed and the dusk prevailing,
the little coloured glass lamps had been lighted among the
branches; and, behind the tree, peering over it, raised upon a scaffolding,
stood a gigantic figure—a venerable man, fit to be emblematic
of the ancient Jupiter, with a fair, full face, large, mild blue
eyes, features bold and expressive, yet gentle; but, instead of hair,
his head was covered with flowing gray moss, and, from his chin,
streaming down upon his breast, the gray moss fell in voluminous
breadth and burden. He realized the picture of the British Druid.
In one hand he bore a branch of the mistletoe, in the other a long
black wand, with a silver crook at the extremity. The children
clapped their hands as soon as they saw the figure, and cried
out,—“Oh! look at Father Christmas! Father Christmas! Father
Christmas!” And they were right. Our saint is an English, not
a Dutch saint, be it remembered; and Father Christmas, or the
“Lord of Chrystmasse,” as he used to be styled, is a much more
respectable person, in our imagination, than the dapper little Manhattan
goblin whom they call Santa Claus.

With the clamours of the children, the good father was fully

awakened to deeds of benevolence. His crook was in instant exercise.
The crook with a gift hanging to it, was immediately
stretched out to one after the other—a sweet female voice from the
back-ground, naming the little favourite as he or she was required to
come forward. When the juveniles were all endowed, they disappeared,
to weigh and value their possessions; and the interest
began for the more mature. The former voice was silent, and that
of a man was heard. He named a lady, then another, and another;
and as each was called and presented herself at the foot of the tree,
the ancient Druid extended his crook towards her, bearing upon it
a box, a bag, or bundle, carefully enveloping the gift, her name being
written upon it. Soon the voices from the back ground alternated.
Now it was a male, now a female voice, each calling for
one or other of the opposite sex, until all the tokens of love and
friendship were distributed.

“See,” said Beatrice Mazyck to me,—“see what the Father has
bestowed upon me”; and she showed me a lovely pair of bracelets
and a breast pin, in uniform style. She did not see, until I showed
her, a plain gold ring at the bottom of the box. She looked at it
dubiously, and at me dubiously, tried it on every finger but the
one, then put it quietly back in the case, and had no more to say
on the subject.

But who played the venerable Father, and who played the sweet
voices! What matter? Better that the juveniles should suppose
that there is an unfamiliar Being, always walking beside them, in
whose hands are fairy gifts and favours, as well as birch and bitterness!