 | HIGHDAYS AND HOLIDAYS.
A CHRISTMAS FANCY, AND A NEW-YEAR'S THOUGHT. Peter Ploddy, and other oddities |  |
4. HIGHDAYS AND HOLIDAYS.
A CHRISTMAS FANCY, AND A NEW-YEAR'S THOUGHT.
Undoubtedly—we never meant to deny it—anniversaries
are pleasant enough, in their way. It is true, perhaps,
that if our wishes could have an effect in the matter,
we might rather desire them not to come quite so
rapidly as they do of late, thus huddling on each other as
if the space between had undergone abridgment, and as
if years, like ourselves, as they grow older, are liable to
shrinkage. There is no audible call for despatch in this
particular, and thus to mount the months upon a locomotive,
to sweep by in such undignified haste that they
are gone almost before we are able to avail ourselves of
their services,—which every one must have observed to
be peculiarly the case since steam became the fashion and
hurry the order of the day,—is annoying to people of
leisurely habits, who like to deliberate before they act,
and to consider consequences in advance of the deed,
instead of afterwards, according to modern usages. To
our fancy, the slow year—the year in hoop, powder and
buckles—in full decorum and expansion—was a much
more respectable personage than such years as we have
now; years which have changed the minuet measure of
their ancestors for a hop, step and jump, not to be set
down as otherwise than an abomination. We hate to be
jostled and pushed from our propriety, and though it is
admitted to be true that “here to-day and gone to-morrow”
is symbolical of human existence, this incessant
bustle of preparation causes an absorption of the day in
the morrow. There is no “to-day”—scarcely the fragment
of an afternoon; nothing but beginnings and endings,
without an intervening pause for thought.
Still, however, as you say—as all the world says—
these anniversaries are pleasant things; not emphatically
pleasant, but pleasant, with no particular stress upon the
word. They will intrude into our company, you know,
without ceremonious observances. It is not easy to shut
the door in the face of old time, nor is it of avail to reply
“not at home,” to the New Year; and, in emergencies
of this kind, when there is no help, we cannot probably
do better than to insist upon it, downright—to ourselves
and to other people of less importance, that the inevitable
visitant is under our patronage, and has agreeable points
about him. Marvels are to be accomplished in regard
to such convictions, by dint of perseverance. Resolve
upon it that you shall think so, and you will think so,—
sooner or later. Only want to think so, and the object is
more than half achieved. We are very docile to ourselves,
and in an internal dispute, inclination is so fertile
in argument that it becomes “useless to talk.” The fair
lady at last confessed that John Wilkes had a squint—the
aberration from the true line was too evident to be
denied—but then, she had prevailed on herself to admire
even his defects, and she qualified her unwilling admission
by declaring that, to her view, “Mr. Wilkes did not
squint more than a gentleman should.” And so, these
anniversaries are pleasant things. There is a little of a
sinister expression in their aspect, no doubt—father Saturn
is charged with a disposition to devour his children—
but we will set it down as a peculiarity which is rather attractive
than otherwise—romantic interest, such as that
which envelopes gentlemen of the “suspicious look,” who
combine the bully and the beau in so just an equipoise,
that they command success and enforce admiration.
No one pretends to assert, at least, that it is not a
source of pleasure to meet with friends, on a festive occasion—provided
always that we have friends and possess
of love and amity, affords refreshment to the spirit. The
heart is cheered by smiling faces and the voice of joy,
and it is not to be disputed that dining well is a circumstance
by no means repugnant to the ordinary constitution
of human nature—not repugnant at the moment, though
sometimes apt to entail remorseful reminiscences. There
is a period also, in our terrestrial career, when the dance
comes not amiss, even if we should chance to feel a little
dull upon it, when the next day's sun peeps in at us; and,
indeed, it may be conceded that all the incidents of the
holiday season and anniversary return—very nearly all—
are decidedly pleasant—bright to anticipate, happy in
fruition, and well enough in the retrospect. Let us, then,
look gayly on the approach of the “happy New Year,”
when we rejoice by tradition, and take up the echo of
old time, that it may reverberate to posterity. Our merry-makings
now, are the connecting link between the past
and the future.
We are told, moreover, that it is not the part of true
wisdom to be strict in the analysis of our pleasures, and
that he is more of a simpleton than a philosopher, who
stops in the midst of his mirth to ascertain, by critical inquiry,
whether, after all, there be any thing to laugh at.
And, in fact, if it is our purpose to extract from life as
many agreeable sensations as it is capable of affording,
we must content ourselves with being entertained, and
not insist too strenuously that the cause shall be in strict
proportion to the effect. Nor can it be regarded as altogether
a matter of sagacity to, pass much time in endeavouring
to discover what we have to be unhappy about
to-day. There are annoyances enough, of the unavoidable
and intrusive sort—vexations which will, of their own
impulse, be in attendance, independent of a call—without
a recourse to the muster-roll of grievance, to select a
a discomfort, merely to bring it in action as a means of
self-disturbance, may be courageous, but it is, for the
most part, an unprofitable exhibition of valour. There is
abundant room for the exercise of the passive virtues,
without this continued practice upon our fortitude.—
Nevertheless, there are occasions when fevers of this peculiar
type have their advantages; and when, from unknown
causes, be they moral or physical, a diffused
irascibility pervades the individual—when we go to rest
in gloom and arise in sulkiness—it is a wholesome operation
that the disorder should be localized, and that some
particular point should be presented, no matter what, on
which the pent-up fury may have vent. For example,
if a gentleman, in the morning, should chance to be overheard
in addressing harsh and uncivil words to his slippers,
and in speaking with unkindness and disrespect to
his boots, those with whom he is likely to come in contact
at subsequent hours, have reason to rejoice that the
superfluous electricity with which he was troubled, has
wreaked itself upon inanimate objects. A living creature
has, in all likelihood, had a fortunate escape. The slipper
anticipates a contention—a boot may have frustrated
a duel, and deprived surgery of a subject. Should my
lady apostrophize the unlucky broom, which careless
hands have left upon the stair, or should she, in sparkling
monologue, comment on other oversights in housewifery,
which meet her early eye, do not repine at wasted energy,
or at eloquence scattered to the unheeding air. It is a
mercy, though you think it not, and power remains for
all needful purposes. Occurrences of this description are.
however, but exceptions to the comprehensive rule, and
are not to be elevated to the station of a general example.
They are not to be pleaded, certainly, as a justification of
to seek for faults and to spy out defects.
But yet, as concerns holidays in general—as involves
the merits of New Year's days and birth-days in particular—we
are little disposed to be captious and hypercritical—but
still it must be acknowledged, with all due
deference to sounder judgment and more enlarged experience,
that when they are regarded apart from their
fineries, and the sophistication is dispensed with—when
they lay aside hat, cloak and feathers—the comeliness, as
in other instances not lying under present notice, measurably
disappears, and as they sit down with us quietly
by the fireside, it would be difficult perhaps conscientiously
to assert, that the sensation is that of unmixed
delight, or that the satisfaction would have been much
less had their coming been delayed somewhat—not from
a dearth of hospitality—not that we are altogether averse
to this stranger presence; but from a vague impression
that we are not fully prepared for such distinguished company,
and would like to be a little more economical in
joys of this description—not quite so many birth-days,
and a thought less, if we may so express it, of the New
Year. Let children be impatient—we can wait well
enough; and though it be an axiom that time is money,
we care not thus to exercise our arithmetic in its computation—like
Hamlet, we are “ill at these numbers.”—
The observant eye may have noted, too, that with its increase
of chronological wealth, the world grows miserly
in the accumulation of its anniversary amounts—that it
hides them, as it were, in unnoticed crannies and disregarded
chinks, and that, as the sum grows larger, it
shrinks from every allusion to its doubtful riches, as if
there were robbers here, to “steal our years away.”
Nor can it have escaped intelligent remark, that there are
those among us—respectable people, not incompetent to
horses—persons not to be suspected, under ordinary circumstances,
of a bias towards larceny, who do not scruple
to plunder themselves or their historical position, and who,
since it would be a work beyond their powers to suppress
the First of January outright, nathless do contrive to wink
strangely when the day that gave them birth rolls by, as
if they had forgotten its distinctive features, and felt no
gratitude for the favour it conferred, in the far distant
past.
Since such facts are facts, not to be controverted, how
happens it that at these moments, a really reluctant people
are called upon to rejoice, in assumed jollity and
forced smiles? Is it done to drive away care, or is it,
after all, a joke—an invocation to merriment and convivialities—we
address the question to the common sense
of everybody—is it a joke—we mean, a very good joke—
a joke to make us frisk, and give us a spasmodic twinge
in the side—to peep into the mirror, and to count upon
the cheek and brow, the additional flourishes of Time's
villanously crampt penmanship? We speak not in regard
to connoisseurship or dilletanteism; but are you, in
your heart, fond of the study of these ungraceful hieroglyphics?
Would you not prefer engrossments on other
parchment? A majestic brow is admirable in a statue,—
a fine phrenology may be a letter of recommendation; but
it is yet to be made manifest that musings upon a wig,
or meditations about the approaching necessity for a
“scratch,” ever provoked a smile in him who was compelled
to entertain them. Lear thought it flattery—but
he was singular in his opinion—to be told that his beard
was white; and it would perhaps move surprise, if there
were an issue of invitations to celebrate the arrival of
gray hairs. There are methods to create hunger when
the appetite is disposed to sleep; but why it should render
round has been completed—because, though the jubilant
be a year older, he is scarce a minute wiser—nearer the
end of his career, yet not a penny richer—as full of sin
and folly as before, but with much less time for repentance
and amendment,—would puzzle Abernethy himself
to explain.—There is, besides, a sad waste of gunpowder,
and the loud rattle of fire-arms, hereabouts, and it may be
appropriate to let off a blunderbuss as the old year expires.
There are instances, no doubt, in which that
weapon would be characteristic.
Look ye, too, where comes the forgotten tailor, the
neglected hatter, the unsought shoemaker, with a long
line of others who have administered to your convenience—see
them approach, not perhaps having “fire in
each eye,” but certainly with “paper in each hand,” to
bring you to a settlement—a winding up of old affairs,
preliminary to a new onset. Do you find that funny,
friend—heedless, thoughtless, perhaps cashless, friend?—
Now, you perceive the moral of the matter—now, you
obtain a glimpse of the special mission of this holiday;
and the pecuniary settlement to which the time is subject,
is but a type of the more impressive settlement which the
recurrence of the day should impose upon us. If that be
well performed, then, indeed, have we reason to rejoice.
It has struck you often, in moments of calmness and
reflection—after disappointments and in grief—in those
minutes when the flush of enjoyment had faded to a
sombre hue, and self-estimation had proportionably subsided—that
there were changes in your own character and
disposition which might be made to advantage. It would
have been resented, if another had said as much; for you
then thought, and still think, it may be mistakenly, that
these defects are only apparent in full to their owner.
Still, however, the amelioration was resolved upon. At
pleasures; a little postponement was granted, and this
great work, if we are not in error, lies in the dusty
corners of your determination, quite unfinished. Could
you not take it up to-day?—A more fitting time is not
likely to present itself.
Somebody has frequently promised—but, after the
cautious fashion of Sir Giles Overreach, “we name no
parties”—has promised very distinctly to himself—and
there is no one with whom it would be more to his advantage
to keep faith—that the New Year shall find him,
in many respects, a new man. Do you know such a
person—a friend, a brother, a lover or a husband, who
has done this, in the view of evil habit, of indolence, of
ill temper, of any of the thousands of temptations and of
faults which beset the human family? Strengthen his
will; give encouragement to his weakness. He may
chance to need it.
And then, it may not be too much to assume that, perfect
as we are, there is no want of certain pestilent imps, who
find places in our train, and are ever on the alert for mischief,—saucy
companions, of whom we would gladly be
rid, but that they take us by surprise, and await not the
chastisements of our regret—little petulances, which at
times prompt us to wound those who love us best—small
discontents, which seek expression in embittered words
—unrecognised envies, which lacerate the heart and disturb
repose, leading to uncharitable thoughts, and unkindly
judgments—petty jealousies, have we not, rendering
us unreasonable, querulous, and ill at ease? Such
restless spirits swarm the air, causing endless complications
of annoyance. Let them, this day, be summoned
to your footstool, to meet discharge, and, above all things,
let us impress it on your mind to scan their faces closely.
They are adroit at a disguise, and often elude the most
effects, and by the sorrows they are apt to leave behind.
If such be our policy, as the substratum of our merriment,
and the undercurrent to our mirth, and if we can
find nerve enough to accomplish but a part of what is
deemed desirable,—if each New Year is thus assured of
meeting with us so much wiser, and therefore happier—
for wisdom is but happiness, after all,—than any of its
predecessors, we shall “better brook the loss of brittle
youth,” and meet the onward tide of time with buoyant
hearts and an unshrinking hope—satisfied with the present,
and with no terrors for the future.
| HIGHDAYS AND HOLIDAYS.
A CHRISTMAS FANCY, AND A NEW-YEAR'S THOUGHT. Peter Ploddy, and other oddities | |