by Joseph Hatton.
Originally published in Belgravia (John Maxwell) vol.1 #3 (Jan 1867).
Christmas is especially at home in manor-houses and granges and country halls. Young Marston, who shot the deer at Park-hall on the First of September, says Christmas is only "Merry Christmas" in the country; and it must be confessed he has had some experience of rural jollity. But the festal season comes upon us this year too soon after the great commercial storm to warrant a repetition of sundry and several feasts at which Earl Veringo's son was present last December. The holly and the mistletoe will bring too many memories of a year ago, to prompt any thing like a genuine revival of the fun and frolic which that gentleman enjoys so boisterously.
With December the Twenty-Fifth the drop-scene falls upon an important part of the great play, and gives scope for memory and criticism and green-room gossip enough to make the time both thoughtful and unhappy. The great drama stands still; the bustle and excitement of the play have rest; and then come up thoughts of actors who are gone, and the remembrance of personal sufferings.
That first Christmas of the Crimean war,—what ghosts of dead actors seemed to flit about in the firelight of country halls and mansions; and what sad eloquence there was in the vacant chairs, at cottage firesides, where Christmas usually comes in a romping, rollicking spirit! And after the Indian mutiny,—how the sight of the green holly-branches thrilled the hearts of thousands, with pangs of bitter sorrow! This year, Christmas bells, which rung so joyfully a year ago, will jangle strangely out of tune to the same ears. The genius of Limited Liability, like the Veiled Prophet of Khorassan, has disclosed himself to his crowd of followers, and Speculative Finance has drunk of the poisoned cup.
"There, ye wise saints, behold your light, your star;
Ye would be dupes, and ye are."
But unhappily many who only sought a reasonable investment for their money have fallen amidst the wide-spread ruin; and this will limit Christmas rejoicings in country homes as well as in London houses. There are some establishments, in fashionable cities, where Christmas this year will put up no holly and burn no yule log; the leading actors have been superseded by Senior Fortune, the manager, and are gone to seek for third or fourth-rate positions on other stages.
Halting at Christmas-time, and looking back, how many men we see still plodding on in the same part, and still unsuccessful! I wish we heard a little less of those who have made their marks, and a trifle more of those who have striven and worked in vain. Ten Christmases ago there was an old actor in life's great play, who sat under my mahogany tree at Christmas-tide, beneath the shadow of a great cathedral. He was contemporary with Wordsworth and Southey, and the friend of Mulready and Sheridan Knowles. A poet, and a man of letters, he ventured to write a play; and for years he has been trying to procure its representation. It is a standing dish, this romantic drama; over my Christmas fire years ago he recited one of its principal scenes. Year after year the disappointed old man and his unrepresented play come together to celebrate Christmas with me; and so it will be to the end of the chapter, like the man who was never destined to catch that particular perch for which he was everlastingly fishing. Some day the Christmas bells will ring, and the playwright, heeding them not, will sleep quietly on in the shadow of the old church; and then, ladies and gentlemen, his drama shall be unearthed and his merits made known: and so he plays his part.
There is Thurston, the curate of All Saints, whom I meet once a year at the Grange, with his well-brushed threadbare coat, waiting for the living that will never come. The Christmas bells only remind him how long he has played his one unthankful part to an unappreciative audience. The manager of the district bank, who does a bill occasionally for his clerical friend, he says, "Another Christmas, and I am here still, frittering away the best years of my life." And Sumter his master thinks, "Another year, and still I am out of the House; I must certainly make a successful fight at the next election."
All the time little Tom Crawford thinks of nothing but Lucy Marsden and her bright blue eyes. He vows in his heart that he certainly will be manly enough to avail himself of the privileges of the mistletoe this year; whilst Lucy wonders who her partners will be at the county ball; and mamma, with feminine adroitness, edges her way amongst society above her position, and in which she only succeeds in being very unhappy. And when Arthur Wentworth appears on the scene, Lucy will give up all thoughts of poor Tom Crawford; and a score of mammas, who would have thought Arthur beneath contempt a few years ago, will smile sweetly upon him now, and introduce him to their daughters. For Arthur Wentworth's is one of the most perfect instances of successful speculation of which I know; and in the midst of so much ruin it is quite cheering to come across a happy case of good fortune.
Arthur was educated for the bar; but after a brief career of briefless boredom he bade adieu to the Temple, and entered a commercial house in Manchester. When the American war broke out he left Cottonopolis and went to Liverpool, where he entered into partnership with a broker. A fellow of an impulsive and passionate nature, he soon quarrelled with his Liverpool partner, and cotton speculations excited his ambition in a new line of life altogether. He borrowed a thousand pounds from his Manchester friends; and this, with a thousand pounds of his own (all the money he had in the world), he invested in cotton. In a month he paid back the thousand pounds, and had a large balance at his bankers' besides.
Then he took a share in freighting a ship to run the blockade. Here he was successful again. His next venture was a ship "all to himself;" and this added another golden triumph to the former. In the course of two years he had made sixty thousand pounds.
One morning he received information that the last ship in which he was interested had been taken by the North. This was his first loss: it amounted to fifteen thousand pounds. Now, although it is difficult to understand when that tide has come which "taken at the flood leads on to fortune," it is all the more difficult to know when it is going out. The speculator too often mistakes the first ebb as merely the precursor of a spring-flood; and on he goes again, launching more gold-freighted ships on fortune's treacherous sea. But my friend Arthur was a shrewd thoughtful fellow, despite his impulsive character, and he saw that the tide had begun to turn. He went down to his office near the Exchange, and rung his bell as usual. Jones, his head clerk, entered to learn his principal's orders.
"Good morning, Jones," said Arthur; "call Brown in."
"Yes, sir—Mr. Brown, please to step this way," said Jones, going to the door of the front office.
"And call in Tom," said the broker, as he went on filling up some cheques.
Tom the errand-boy entered; and the three officers of the establishment stood anxiously waiting for an explanation of the master's singular behaviour.
"Mr. Jones," said Arthur at last, "you have served me well, and I thank you. Here is a cheque for two hundred pounds. I shall not require your services any longer."
Jones took the cheque with an expression of great amazement, but did not attempt to interrupt the broker as he handed another cheque to the under-clerk.
"Here is a cheque for a hundred pounds, Mr. Brown. I am going to retire from business, and you are at liberty to obtain fresh employment.—And Tom, here are ten sovereigns for you. Put up the shutters, and stick a paper on them, "To Let."
Thus Arthur Wentworth shrewdly played his part in the world's great play; and the young ladies at the manor-house ball, where Arthur is to be a Christmas guest, will play their parts accordingly, no doubt. So,
"Let us be merry and make good cheer;
For Christmas comes but once a year."