CHRISTMAS

By

G.S.  STR**T

One likes it or not.  This said, there is plaguey little else to say of Christmas, and I (though I doubt my sentiments touch you not at all) would rather leave that little unsaid.  Did I confess a distaste for Christmas, I should incur your enmity.  But if I find it, as I protest I do, rather agreeable than otherwise, why should I spoil my pleasure by stringing vain words about it?  Swift and the broomstick—­yes.  But that essay was done at the behest of a clever woman, and to annoy the admirers of Robert Boyle.  Besides, it was hardly—­or do you think it was?—­worth the trouble of doing it.  There was no trouble involved?  Possibly.  But I am not the Dean.  And anyhow the fact that he never did anything of the kind again may be taken to imply that he would not be bothered.  So would not I, if I had a deanery.

That is an hypothesis I am tempted to pursue.  I should like to fill my allotted space before reaching the tiresome theme I have set myself ...  A deanery, the cawing of rooks, their effect on the nervous system, Trollope’s delineations of deans, the advantages of the Mid-Victorian novel ...  But your discursive essayist is a nuisance.  Best come to the point.  The bore is in finding a point to come to.  Besides, the chances are that any such point will have long ago been worn blunt by a score of more active seekers.  Alas!

Since I wrote the foregoing words, I have been out for a long walk, in search of inspiration, through the streets of what is called the West End.  Snobbishly so called.  Why draw these crude distinctions?  We all know that Mayfair happens to lie a few miles further west than Whitechapel.  It argues a lack of breeding to go on calling attention to the fact.  If the people of Whitechapel were less beautiful or less well-mannered or more ignorant than we, there might be some excuse.  But they are not so.  True, themselves talk about the East End, but this only makes the matter worse.  To a sensitive ear their phrase has a ring of ironic humility that jars not less than our own coarse boastfulness.  Heaven knows they have a right to be ironic, and who shall blame them for exercising it?  All the same, this sort of thing worries me horribly.

I said that I found Christmas rather agreeable than otherwise.  But I was speaking as one accustomed to live mostly in the past.  The walk I have just taken, refreshing in itself, has painfully reminded me that I cannot hit it off with the present.  My life is in the later days of the eighteenth and the earlier days of the nineteenth century.  This twentieth affair is as a vision, dimly foreseen at odd moments, and put from me with a slight shudder.  My actual Christmases are spent (say) in Holland House, which has but recently been built.  Little Charles Fox is allowed by his father to join us for the earlier