Our Christmas party

The clock was yet warm with its vigorous efforts to strike the eventful hour of six on merry Christmas Eve, when a carriage containing the first arrivals came rattling down the street. There was no mistaking the energetic rat-tat-tat at the door; or, if there had been, the buzz of voices was sufficient to inform those inside that Charlie Stanley and his party were there. As soon as the door was open there was a rush and a scramble, for those mad young people had made many rash stakes as to who should be the first to wish Old Merry the compliments of the season. All stakes, however, were drawn, for the object of their search was discovered simultaneously by all the party; discovered, too, in the act of coming down the stairs, with his frill shirt, bald head, and pumps, glistening in the light of the hall lamps, and a chorus of voices rang out the welcome old salutation—“A merry Christmas and a happy New Year!”

Charlie and Walter Stanley, and Alec Boyce—the lads who went one summer with Old Merry to Switzerland—had been entrusted with the preparation of part of the evening’s amusement. They were constituted masters of the ceremonies, and had been charged to bottle up all their fun for at least two days before the party, in order that it might explode and scintillate for the benefit of the company. So, as a host of packages were put down in the hall, Charlie said—

“Here are our properties, Mr. Merry—wigs, crinolines, whiskers, royal robes, banners from the camp of King John, feathers from the chief of the Mohawks, diamonds lent privately by the secretary of Sinbad the Sailor, the shield of Achilles, kindly contributed by Mr. Barnum; and here—”

But here he stopped, for the rattle of horses’ feet outside, and a sharp rap at the door, announced fresh arrivals. Charlie was in a dramatic humour, so, striking an attitude, he cried—

And, guards, what ho! bear hence our treasures to some secret place.”

“Such a getting up-stairs you never did see,” as in a twinkling the impromptu guards obeyed the mandate of their chief.

Tom and Ada Martin, and the fiddle, were the next to arrive. The fiddle was Tom’s; his special hobby. No party was complete without it, for if it were not there neither was Tom. His motto was, “Love me, love my fiddle.” A merry fellow was Tom; he could sing and play, and the proudest moments in Ada’s life were when she accompanied him in a solo on his violin. Moreover, he wrote poetry (?), rattling, merry ditties, that broke out into exuberant choruses of

Ada Martin was Tom Martin in the feminine; she had all the boy’s humour, with the girl’s grace and refinement. Everybody who knew her knew that she could tell them the last new game, or ask the last new riddle; and if at a party the fun came to a standstill, and somebody asked “What shall we do next?” the reply would be sure to come in the shape of a question, “Where’s Ada Martin?” Ada rejoiced in long curls, treacherous curls, that had made many a lad fall in love with her; in fact, Frank Edwards was once heard to say that he should like to win her heart by gallantly rescuing her from the power of some grim tyrant; or, “Better still,” said he, “if she would fall into the sea off the pier at Margate, and I could jump in and save her by catching hold of her beautiful curls, it would be so jolly!”

Frank Edwards! The next rat-tat announced him and his sister, “Little Flo,” as he called her at home, though in company she was Florence. Frank was very fond of his sister; he had a weakness for hair, as we have seen, and hers descended like a cataract, or, as Frank said, like a Great Flow, over her neck and shoulders. A bright, merry little fairy was Florence Edwards, and a very popular young lady. Alec Boyce was nearly on the point of fighting a duel with Walter Stanley one snowy night, when it was proposed at a party that she should be carried to the carriage, and it became a question as to who should do it. Fortunately, however, no blood was spilt, for the boys clasped hands, and carried her sedan-fashion; and as she had to put an arm over each shoulder, in order to steady herself, what could be fairer?

Elasticity runs in some families, as gout does in others, and the Edwards’ were elastic people. Frank could turn himself into a catherine wheel, imitate Donato on one leg, dance a hornpipe, or stand on his head and fire off sham pistols with both hands at once; and as his talent was quite distinct from that of the musical Tom Martin, or the dramatic Charlie Stanley, he enjoyed a popularity as great in its way as theirs.

Rat-tat-tat!

The Misses Clara and Alice Stanley, with their music.

Mr. Stanley, with his microscopes.

Miss Marianne Layton, with her doll—white tulle, looped up with spangles.

Mr. Oswald Layton (his first appearance in stand-up collars.)

The Misses Emily and Nelly Cathcart (with their bran new dolls—blue tarleton, looped with snowdrops).

Master Willie Cathcart, with his dog Leo, who barks for lumps of sugar.

Mr. Cathcart, with a prodigious white vest and a black bâton, “as leader of the choir.”

Rat-tat-tat!

Misses and Masters, Misters and Mistresses, ad lib., ad infin.

Tea and coffee at six o’clock—and why that should mean from half-past six to seven, custom must reply—is much better than tea at six o’clock. A sit-down tea is a mistake; it tries the temperament, terrifies the timid, and taxes the talkers, whereas tea and coffee implies wandering about with a cup in your hand, and spilling it as occasion requires; it makes work for the lads and pleasure for the lassies, and it breaks the ice between strangers. Little groups form and chat, and when a joke has taken with effect, it is passed on to a neighbouring group, and so all the company gets jocular. For instance, Tom Martin was surrounded by his favourites, and was replying to their questions as to how his violin had stood the cold journey.

“Delightfully. But she is now reclining on the couch up-stairs, in order to get up her strength for the evening.”

“That’s all fiddle de dee, said one.” (Applause.)

“Why do you call the violin she?” asked another.

“Because I have named her Pysche; she has so much life in her,” answered Tom.

“You are her sycophant, then!” said another. (Renewed applause.)

“It seems to me your violin always has a very guttural sound with it,” remarked Alec Boyce. (Laughter.)

“Yes,” replied Tom Martin; “and no doubt the poet detected the same thing in other instruments, when he composed those time-honoured lines—

Then the applause reached its climax, and of course the little jokes were retailed to other groups.

By degrees the company in the tea-room began to decrease. In the cold months, however temperate the atmosphere may be kept, there is always a chilliness in passing from one room to another, and especially at parties. When, therefore, the drawing-room began to fill, Charlie started a proposition—“Had we not better have a dance to warm us?” and he added, “It used to be the fashion to terminate a concert with God save the Queen; and now the National Anthem comes first, and it used to be the fashion to wind up a party with Sir Roger de Coverley, but why should we not begin with it?” Of course nobody knew of any just cause or impediment, and so the proposition was carried without a dissentient voice.

Who can describe a party from beginning to end? It would fill a large book to criticise all the songs and other performances, to chronicle all the jokes, and to tell again all the tales. And how tame on paper are the little stories which are told during a quadrille, when the introduction is given in La Pantelon, and the plot commences at L’Ete, and the incidents increase in interest till Trenise, and the dénouement is galloped over in the Finale. Well, suffice it to say the fun kept up unflaggingly, and as the evening advanced, and everybody was in high spirits, Charlie Stanley collected his “troupe,” and began to make preparations for a charade. While the folding doors were closed for the scenery to be placed in one room, and while the seats were being adjusted in the other, the actors in the charade were in the great excitement of dressing for their parts. The boys had prepared the performances for the evening beforehand, and supplied copies to all who were to appear in the scenes; and, as Charlie was good enough to present Old Merry with complete copies, we will give them for the benefit of our readers, with the condition on which they were given to us, namely, that they should not be too severely criticised from a literary point of view.

A brief overture on the piano, and then Charlie came to the front of the folding doors, and said:—

“Ladies and Gentlemen, I beg to announce that we are about to act a burlesque charade, and you will be good enough to try and find out our word. It is in three syllables; the first act will give two syllables used as one word, the second act will give the remaining syllable, and the third act will bring in the whole word. The charade is entitled—

A burst of applause followed the announcement, and was renewed when the doors were thrown open and Berlinda was discovered leaning out of a window overlooking the room, with a candle burning by her side to assist her in viewing the stars, on which she was supposed to be gazing.

ACT II.

Scene—a wood. Berlinda and Roderigo seated on the ground.

ACT III.

Before the doors are open a servant in livery enters the room, in which the company are seated, and puts up a placard with the following notice:—

Prior to the opening of the doors Berlinda takes her seat among the audience.

The door opens. A row of figures, covered over with sheets, stand on rout seats round the room. One or two reclining figures in the foreground. Overture on the violin, “How doth the little busy bee,” by Roderigo Pipkins, the meandering musician.

A servant in livery then enters, and uncovers the wax-work figures, revealing—

Enter Alonzo Napoleon Smith, as Lecturer.

Ladies and Gentlemen, at the request of the Universe, seconded by the United States of America, I have brought my caravan from the Boundless Prairie, in order to raise the tone of the fine arts in your country, and to devote the proceeds of the entertainment to the liquidation of your national debt. No, no! not a word of thanks, I beg. Such an audience as this before me fills me with awe, and I speak with authority when I say that had I not a dash of Minerva’s wisdom my nervous system would hardly stand the ordeal.

I will not trouble you with an account of how I collected the information which will be contained in my brief lecture. Suffice it to say that a friend having presented me with a copy of the Bodleian Library, and having taken apartments in the British Museum for some time past, not to mention the fact of a visit to the Alexandrian Library prior to the late disastrous fire, has posted me up in the points which will be brought under your notice. But as Homer very beautifully says in his last little work, we have—

Let our business be to show the product of the busy bee, namely, these “neatly spread” wax figures.

And first let me call your attention to Joan of Arc.

(Joan of Arc moves her head, and raises her hand mechanically).

Much mystery attaches to the young person now before us. It is supposed that she was called Joan d’Arc, because we are in the dark as to her birthplace, unless we accept the idea that she came from Arcadia. She suffered much from nightmare, and fancied she was riding over France as its victoress. Consequently she adopted men’s clothes. It is well to observe too that she cut off her hair before she arrived at Chinon. She headed an army, so the tale goes, of 7,000 men; and with the strength of her arms the foe was defeated. After which she came to ruin (Rouen), that is to say she was burnt there.

Virtue and manliness always succeed in the long run, however, and her successes have been immortalized in Paris by a gorgeous tombstone, entitled the Arc de Triomphe!

The next figure I shall introduce is one of a paragorical nature. The Queen of Night, represented by a daughter of Eve. Unseen she spreads her mantle over the earth, and thus acts the part of an itinerant angel. The umbrella in her hand is also an emblematic figure, representing the pernicious influences which attend upon her, and is called the deadly nightshade. In the absence of any further proofs of the authenticity of this character there will be an interval of a minute, during which the band will play.—Exit.

Roderigo Pipkins immediately strikes up, but suddenly leaves off, takes out the ringlet from his pocket, and waves it before the audience. Berlinda hides her face in her pocket handkerchief.

Berlinda stands on a pedestal beside the wax figures, and Roderigo covers her with a sheet.

Enter Alonzo Napoleon Smith.

I shall now briefly introduce another well-known character—Field Marshal the late Duke of Wellington—he will be easily recognized from the fact of his nasal probus being the most prominent feature of his face. I will not go all over his history. You remember all about Magna Charta, and the formation of a body called the Chartists. You know how the Spanish Armada was defeated in Trafalgar Bay, and how Wellington cheered on his men, saying, “I’ll be your leader.” You remember that little affair with the Duchess of Salisbury at the ball at Brussels, and how the Duke was made a knight of the Garter. Having brought the history thus far up to the eve of Waterloo, let us confine our attention to that event. And first, I notice it was not a bootless expedition, for ever since that event Wellington and Blucher boots have become an institution of your free and enlightened country. Second, it is a popular fallacy to suppose that His Grace was in any way connected with the trade of a hatter. When he said “Up boys and (h)at ’em,” he merely wished his men to give the foe a bonneting! Moral from the life. He earned a glorious reputation as the Iron Duke, and his monument overlooking Hyde Park is the finest bit of irony extant.

Let us now turn to the figure of Richard III. A bad figure, as you will see; and we learn on the very face of our subject that though deformities may be put behind one’s back they are not therefore altogether out of sight. Richard was Duke of Gloster, and it is generally admitted that it was not the cheese for him to seize the crown in such mighty haste. As you are aware, one of the main features of his reign was the introduction of the pillo(w)ry, by which he smothered the two little princes in the Tower.

And now, ladies and gentlemen, I must draw my entertainment to a close—

The applause was deafening; never did the drawing-room echo back such clapping of hands and hearty bravos as it did that Christmas Eve; the doors were closed, but long and loud shouts for Alonzo Napoleon Smith were raised, and they had again to be opened, for the performers to come in and make their bows to the audience. Roderigo led in Berlinda, Richard the Third came arm in arm with Joan of Arc, the Duke of Wellington chaperoned the Queen of Night, and the livery servant brought in the meandering musician’s fiddle!

And then came the puzzling part of the affair, to try and find out the word. One guessed “Audience,” awe-die-hence; another “Entertainment,” enter-tàen-ment; a third “Overlooking;” and others the most absurd and improbable words possible, and words which were never introduced into the charade at all. At last one sharp boy, who had been taking notes between the acts, stumbled upon the right word, and it was —.[2]

A question now arose as to whether there should be any more charades, or whether the rooms should be cleared again for more general fun. The set entertainments carried the day, however, and after an interval for refreshment, and a little variety in the way of some songs by some of the young ladies, the loud bell of the town crier was heard in the hall, and Master Willie Cathcart, who represented that institution, announced—“O yes! O yes! O yes! a great Reform Debate and Demonstration will take place in this place on Christmas Eve, of which all persons interested in the great questions of the day will be pleased to take notice. God save the Queen.” In double-quick time the company fell into position, and then came

THE GREAT REFORM DEBATE AND DEMONSTRATION.

The demonstration came first, and consisted of a procession all round the drawing-room. “See, the Conquering Hero comes,” was struck up on the piano, and Tom Martin accompanied it on the violin, but having forgotten to get his instrument in tune with the piano beforehand, played excruciatingly as he headed the procession. Then came Edward Barnes—

A motley crew of reformers followed, some with flags, and some with rosettes; one boy had some pieces of paper, and was chanting a parody on Tennyson’s lines, “Sweet and low.” The first verse ran thus:—

Last of all, arm in arm, came the reform agitators. The cheering that greeted them was loud and long, and when they had elbowed their way through the crowd, which was purposely arranged so as to make it difficult, they ascended the platform, which had been reared on the spot lately occupied by the wax figures. And then, by one of those transformations which are so easy in fiction and on the stage, the scene was changed from Hyde Park to the House of Commons, represented by the platform. Charlie Stanley took the chair as Speaker of the House, and to the right and left of the table, in places marked “ministerial” and “opposition,” the members arranged themselves. This arrangement was not on the ground of political opinion, but it was deemed desirable that, when any cries of “oh!” or “order!” were to be introduced, it would be better for those on one side of the speaker to cry down those on the other side. It was not a full house; only four honourable gentlemen appeared on the platform beside the Speaker, and they were Messrs. Walter Stanley, Alec Boyce, Arthur Mortram, and Oswald Layton. Edward Barnes having carefully arranged his banner so that the motto should appear above the head of the Speaker, acted as Usher, or Master of the Ceremonies, and not being very familiar with the proceedings in the House of Commons, commenced by crying “Silence in the Court,” which immediately produced an uproar. However, this was soon put down, and then the Speaker rose and said—

The Government and the Opposition, everybody in the room, and the servants who were crowding round the door, held up their hands immediately, and the Bill was carried amid such enthusiasm as is rarely seen even in the House. And as the speakers came down from the platform, headed by Tom Martin, who played “We won’t go home till morning,” (no doubt under the impression that that best expressed the habits of Members of Parliament,) they were cheered all the way to the refreshment room, where they amicably settled their political differences over lemonade and sherry.

How fast time flies when the evening is being merrily spent! Who would have thought it was supper-time already? But so it was, and the lads and lasses were fast pairing off for that event, when a loud rat-tat was heard at the door.

“What, fresh arrivals at this time of night!” said one or two. “I wonder who it can be!”

“It is a surprise of some sort or other,” said Ada Martin; “I am quite sure it is. I can tell it by the twinkle in Mr. Merry’s eye.”

Rat-tat, again and again, at the door.

“I can’t bear this suspense any longer,” said Emily Cathcart; “I must peep.” But the door was closed, and a firm hand on the outside kept it fast.

“I say it’s a Punch and Judy,” said one.

“No; I say it’s Christy’s Minstrels,” said another.

“I believe it’s fireworks, to go off on the lawn,” said Arthur Mortram.

And in the midst of the speculations the doors were thrown open, and the visitors were announced:

• Mr. W. H. G. Kingston.
• Mr. R. M. Ballantyne.
• Mr. Edwin Hodder.
• Mrs. Mona Bickerstaffe.
• Mr. Sidney Daryl.
• Mr. R. Hope Moncrieff.
• Cousin Cyntha.

As each name was announced a buzz of welcome was heard, for every name was associated with bright and happy recollections, and every one in the room felt (as every child in the land feels) that the authors of the tales which had been their delight for years could not be other than their friends. So there was a great deal of hand-shaking, and many a kind and cheery word given to the youngsters, and then Old Merry said:

“Let us give one good hearty cheer of welcome to our friends, and then off to supper. And when that is over we will have our chairs brought round the fire, and I may promise you, on behalf of my good friends here, that each in turn will spin you a Christmas yarn. Now, hip! hip!”—and if the visitors had not been thoroughly accustomed to youngsters they would have been stunned and staggered at the “hurrah!” which burst from every lip.

The fund of conversation which the new arrivals furnished for the supper table was unlimited; but anxiety was so great to be back again in the drawing-room, that the time usually allowed on such occasions for refreshment was very much curtailed.

The chandeliers glistened and the fires burnt as they only do on Christmas Eve. A large ring, with double rows of seats, was made all round the room, and then the stories commenced. We will give them in the order in which they came, and omit the occasional interruptions which attended, and the questions and criticisms which followed, every story.