by Edwin F. Roberts.
Originally published in Reynolds's Miscellany of Romance, General Literature, Science, and Art (John Dicks) vol.7 #183 (10 Jan 1852).
The First Christmas Tree.
The wind blew keenly from the north-east. It brought with it darkness and a riotous storm. Men hurried to their homes by every possible conveyance that they could obtain; for the fierce blast, as it raged at the street corners, and met them full in the face, seized and bit them to the very marrow. Visions of sea-coal fires, blazing ruddily up large chimneys, haunted all who were out. They thought, as they hastened on, of the laughter, and the mirth, and the snap-dragons, these being the prelude, as it were, to the great festival of the morrow—for this was the blessed Christmas Eve: and even penury tried that night to wear a smile upon its haggard countenance.
It turned out to be a night, above all others in the year, one would wish to be snug at home. The snow fell thickly in the streets, and in a short time, nothing but a gleaming white reflected against the inky sky, where every star was muffled. The blast shouted out a warning for pedestrians to get out of its way. It screamed up aloft, among the chimneys, just as the driver of an engine does when he gives notice—with his dreadful whistle—that he is going to run right bang into you, and you feel that you are too late to move, and smashed you must be. The gaslights were wildly flaring, the streets were gradually getting emptier, the shops—except grocers and confectioners—were closing up, and about ten o'clock, one might say, that while the wind and the snow, and the frost, and the scuffling weathercocks and loose shutters were all going mad with glee, and having it all to themselves,—by the light streaming through curtained first-floor windows, in fact, from basement to roof, that Christmas Eve was about to be kept up in such a manner as would prove that, if at any time the festival should cease to be a religion, it would be retained for its genial influences alone, and for the large charities and kindly sympathies that it suggests.
In the very heart of the city, turning out of some of those narrow streets which are formed by stacks of warehouses, numberless offices, and crowded places of business, and up a huge iron gateway of the old style, full of flourishes and heraldic devices, such as allusions to the trading sources of a present prosperity: up this great gateway, passing under a vast floor, and within an immense quadrangle, where one would never suppose for a moment such space to exist—yea, and even boasting of two or three stately elms that towered up through the relentless and sooty air of the City, with laurel-bushes and grandifloras vegetating in great tubs,—in this place was a noble house with a stately and imposing frontage, and bearing upon it the impress of Sir Christopher Wren's skill. It was big enough for a Lord Mayor to live in; and out of every window blazed candle, and lamp, and taper, which lighted up the dark snow-covered courtyard, giving to any one who chanced to look in upon it the most cheerfully suggestive train of thought it is possible to imagine.
This sumptuous house, in fact, belonged to a Mr. Richard Colville, the principal of the firm of Colville, Howard, and Ramsbottom, the "great" silk merchants, so well known far and wide, and the name of Mr. Colville was synonymous with something considerably more than "half a plum." The cause of this grand illumination was their keeping up Christmas Eve, according to the custom of his forefathers, time out of mind. This was essentially a family party. On the morrow, his partners, a few of his poor relatives, and several friends, were to dine with him in state. With a lesser state, also, the domestics and their friends, with other members of the establishment, were to dine in the servants' hall. But of this anon.
We will go up the stairs, which leads towards the great drawing-room. As you cross a corridor which leads to other rooms, an odour of the most delectable kind assails the sense, which emanates from enormous quantities of mince-pies, puddings, cakes, &c., and from rich wines in process of decanting, which smell like a nosegay. The fact is, that just now the house-keeper and the fat butler are both vastly busy with their assistants; for they have to make up packages of cake, and pies, and wines, and cordials, which active servants are carrying away to be put into hampers, with which the floor of the great kitchen is now filled; and the stout, ruddy-faced cook is stowing in these hampers great pieces of cold roast beef, geese, cooked and uncooked, fowls, turkeys, and a variety of small pots, covered with skin, which suggest a series of puddings for an immense number of people for at least a fortnight to come. There are clothes, too, and blankets, and tickets for coals, and a large bowl full of money, all for distribution; and these things Mr. Colville, the liberal master of the house, has intended for his workmen, porters and domestics, and a number of poor, that his kind but stately wife, and his sweet eldest daughter (for the family is large) have discovered in the neighbourhood where most work is done for them, and where, in the very heart of artizan industry, want and sorrow have taken up their abode.
For one evening, and for one day to follow, at least, there will be a merry Christmas spent by many more than one poor family; for the rich silk-merchant belonged to that rare class who did not sacrifice human beings to Mammon, and after having eaten up the body, fling the soul after it as valueless. He had long found out, that one great secret of his prosperity consisted in the making of interests, as it were, beneficial; the result was, that, unless from some unavoidable and unseen causes, his men were well employed, well paid, and among the happiest members of any manufacturing community in the City, or elsewhere, still there were claims and necessities which he looked upon as matters of justice; but if it were from nothing else than old custom, and out of respect to the dead, Mr. Colville (who was hard as well as just, and who could be stern as well as genial) would not have omitted his Christmas gift for the world.
But there comes out of that large and sumptuous drawing-room such shrieks of merry laughter, such jovial, deep sounding "Ha! ha's!" such noisy jests, such a flow of glad contention, that we can resist no longer. The door opens, and we are within. There were at least some twenty people of all ages present; some were around the table where brimming bowls of punch smoked; some of a younger age, (fine boys and fair-haired girls) presided over by the sweet-faced Emma Colville. Around a vast bowl, all in a blaze upon the hearth, the lads were diving for "snap-dragons," and the girls were clapping their hands, and there were great cakes and puddings continually being cut up, and the eating and drinking even then, on the early Christmas Eve, was such as would have sufficed for the whole of the next day.
At this moment, when the bowl with the snap-dragons was out—when a clink of glasses, filled with wine and punch, went round the table—when the portly host nodded to his wife at the fireside and passed on a cordial glance to his friends higher up, and to his clerks, some half-dozen at least, lower down, and to his sturdy porters who stood behind, five "professional" gentlemen, who stood by a small organ at the end of the room, cleared their voices, while in front of them was Mr. Colville's head clerk, with white and rosy pate, and pleasant, smirking face—Mr. Septimus Milend, to wit, whose amateur propensities for music were most powerfully developed—he, Mr. Septimus Milend, stood, baton in hand, ready to lead off the Christmas Carol, for which these gentlemen had been expressly engaged, at five minutes' notice, at a crown a-head, and as much beef and lordly ale—real October, too—as they could, in their own vernacular, "tuck in."
At this moment, too, with her dear grey eyes bent down and blushing as she gracefully swept by, Emma went up to the little organ, while "Uncle" Sampson, a rich old banker, gallantly extended the tips of his fingers to escort her. She sat down, a dead pause fell, and presently the sweet and solemn prelude to the harmonious carol began. After the last note had died into silence, down went the baton; for Mr. Septimus grew excited, the four gentlemen began, struck in, and the angelic voice of Emma took up the theme; and in waves of delicious melody that sank into every heart, the glorious carol filled the sounding room and made the rejoicing air all vocal.
It rose and fell—it wailed and sobbed—it grew triumphant; and it caught upon the soul, and every eye grew bright. The last cadence died away. The pause was not broken for a moment, and then Mr. Colville slowly rose. His eyes were moistened, his lips quivered, and his heart for the moment was too full for him to give utterance to the weight of an emotion that was full of a delightful pain.
He thanked them for the carol. "It was," he said, "the outpourings of grateful hearts made happy under God's blessing." He rejoiced to see them all around him. Before they began to enter into the real rejoicing of the evening (one would marvel what on earth they had been doing since tea-time), he would continue the old customs that had been in use with him and his family for so long a period (the porters looked very grave, as if they were at a meeting of "protectionists," and there was a very "hard nut" to crack); "and if Robert, the butler, would fetch in the bowl, he would—"
But Robert had already left the room, and now re-entered with it in his hand. It was full of gold and silver pieces.
The master of the house drank a health to all, then rose, and going down among his men, his domestics, and some poor friends and relations who had always on these occasions sat at his table, he distributed his gifts among those he intended with a kind word here, a cordial clasp of the hand there; and it was pretty evident that many of them received presents of far greater importance than would seem at the first glance: for while some had a bright guinea each, others had a little roll of paper, a purse, a pocket-book, &c.—in fact, all received substantial tokens of regard.
Then the porters had wine, or spirits, or punch handed to them, just as the fancy of each dictated; and after one of them, with considerable difficulty, had managed to "thank their kind master for this 'ere treat, and them 'ere presents, and a happy Christmas to all," they drained their glasses in concert and stood more at ease.
An excited junior-clerk now called upon him the wrathful glances and angry menaces of Mr. Septimus Milend by advancing forward with wild hair, aberrated shirt- collar, and with an extraordinary affection of the speech, he begged to propose the "jolly good 'elth (hic) of the guv'nor, who was a bwick; he would venture to (hic) add that he was a cart-load!" and then falling back into his chair, he threw frantic looks of love on the dazzling face of Emma, and defiant ones upon Mr. Milend himself, who was in fact horrified at his conduct; but Mr. Colville only smiled, and took all in good part.
"There is but one thing wanting to make my joy complete," he said, after acknowledging the toast which the gruff porter's spokesman had proposed, "and that is, that my son, Valentine, should be among us."
Just then, the sound of carriage-wheels sounded in the courtyard. The steps were heard to fall suddenly down. Mrs. Colville rose, and turned pale. Emma came to her mother's side, and kissed her cheek; but her eyes sparkled with gladness, and as for Mr. Colville himself, pleasure and pride flashed in his keen eyes, for he guessed whose arrival this announced.
Robert, the butler, did worse even than the excited junior clerk, for he burst violently into the room, and in a voice that sounded like that of a boatswain's mate, bellowed out—
"Hooray! here's Master Valentine come, sir—he's here, sir—flesh and blood—here he is—" But he was suddenly cut short, for a tall, ruddy, handsome, and elegantly-dressed young man of twenty, impetuously rushing in, sent the butler spinning among the burley porters, who caught him from falling, and then confused, sobbing, affectionate sounds rose.
"Valentine, my son! my child!—Brother Valentine!"
"Father! dear mother! my sweet sister Emma! my darlings!" (to the little ones) followed in succession.
We need not now enter into the particulars of the joyous revelry that followed after. We leave the questions, the replies, the broken, sparkling, restless, intermittent conversation usual on such occasions as this, to be imagined. We do not count the bowls emptied, the cake eaten, the songs sung, the quadrilles attempted to be danced, and in which, to Mr. Milend's great dismay, the junior clerk played a prominent and embarrassing part:—we now come to the dinner on Christmas Day, and to the events connected with the first Christmas tree.
Christmas morn dawned out, amidst a dry, sparkling frost, and the snow lay all encrusted on the ground, flashing like a sea of glass. The wind was dry, keen, and bracing; and when the morning meal was ended, people in their holiday clothes began to pour into the streets, some to throng the chapels and churches, and others to fill the parks.
The steeple-bells rang out, the sun shone with a glad and mellow light, and among those who went to offer thanks in the solemn temples, was Mr. Colville and his numerous family. When this was over, once more the streets filled—once more they emptied themselves; and by four o'clock you would not have met a single individual abroad, except a few whom business compelled, or those poor human souls (God pity them all this Christmas!) whom necessity forced, though a great and extensive provision had been made for the shelterless and penniless of the metropolis on this occasion.
To make short work of it, at five o'clock Mr. Colville and his party sat down to their dinner, and tapers, chandeliers, and two great fires threw light and warmth into every corner. The porters were not there; they were at their own homes. The Junior clerk was not—he lay with throbbing head the whole day in bed. Mr. Septimus Milend alone represented the employed of the establishment. Mr. Colville's two partners, Mr. Deputy Howard, Mr. Ramsbottom, and their large and stately families, were there. The most striking of whom, after Emma Colville, was a superb girl of about eighteen, tall, womanly, and a heiress, Miss Julia Howard, the daughter of the deputy, and one who had, without persuasion, fallen in love, long ago, with Valentine Colville. In fact, it was not made a secret of, that the two were intended for each other.
There was "Uncle" Sampson, too, the banker; and there were the poor relations, and a few dowager-looking ladies, who ought to have been mentioned first, and for the omission of which I crave pardon; and there was Valentine himself, elegant and joyous, seated beside Miss Julia, with his proud mother on his left. To the glory of Mr. Milend, and amid much laughter, he had claimed Miss Emma to sit beside him, to take wine with him, to dance with him after dinner, and to do numerous other things, all of which she immediately and good-humouredly assented to. Of the "poor" relations there was a careless, harum-scarum, good-for-nothing, "Cousin Joe," whom all liked and assisted, till his ill luck made them give it up in despair; and there was a grim and stately maiden aunt, known as Mistress Meek, very proud, very poor, and Cousin Joe's horror. These Mrs. Colville herself, sitting close beside, paid every attention to, laughing heartily at Joe's tremendous jokes, and appreciating the stately satire of Mistress Meek.
Then the baron of beef, the lordly sirloin, turkeys, geese, fowls, boiled and roast, pies, puddings, ad infinitum, began to disappear. Decanters of wine grew empty with astonishing quickness, and were as soon replenished. Jokes went round, because as much of etiquette as could possibly be spared had been left outside. We must not omit to add that a formidable ditto to the great feasting in the drawing-room was also going on below in the cook's, house-keeper's, and butler's department.
Mr. Deputy Howard, who sat beside Mr. Colville, was now and then so tickled by something he saw, that he would occasionally nudge Mr. Colville and point with his thumb to where the really splendid Julia was seated, devouring every word which Valentine was uttering. Mr. Colville glanced as directed, and looked pleased.
"It seems to go on smoothly enough there, eh, Colville?" the deputy observed. "He's really a remarkably handsome fellow, this Valentine of your's—he's talented and intellectual."
"He is all you say," replied Mr. Colville, proudly. "As you remark, they seem to suit each other—Julia is very beautiful."
"Umph! well!" said the gratified parent. "Yes, she's a tolerably handsome girl. I say, Colville, I'm puzzled to think why the lad had not proposed to Julia before going last time to college."
"He was a year younger," said Mr. Colville, "and he had his honours to gain. Now that he is older, and has gained them, he looks like one that can fall in love on short notice."
"Well," said the deputy, laughing, "I wish he would hurry—that is to say, the proposal might come off bandsomely at once; but—mum—let's see what fruit your Christmas tree bears."
The most marvellous thing we have omitted to notice on this occasion, was an enormous Christmas tree, green and red with holly and the glowing berries. A whole treasury of toys, crackers, confectionary, elegant presents, gilded books, baskets with unknown contents, and tempting devices of all sort, hung pendant from its lighted branches. With an almost incredible despatch the tables were cleared, the tree left open for the approach of the young people.
Amid a storm of laughter the younger branches of the several families quickly despoiled the glorious tree. Mr. Milend, all in a glow, shared a box of bon-bons with Emma. Mrs. Meek cut a heart in twain with her old lover, Cousin Joe: for once on a time, there had been such a tremendous flirtation between them, arising from an occasion of the kind years ago, that everybody prophesied it would end in marriage. This was one of those prophesies that never come true, however.
Then Mrs. Deputy Howard, as full as her husband was of a design against Valentine's peace of mind, watching her opportunity, said—
"Come, Valentine-and you, Julia ; will you notsee whatthere is left in that solitary little box still on the branch?"
"Pooh!" said Valentine, laughing. "I have given up eating sweetmeats—and besides, Miss Julia will think it childish."
Miss Julia pouted. She had not yet come to such a conclusion, and very much desired to open the box; but she said, with a toss of her Minerva head, and scarcely knowing why, "Indeed, I think with Valentine, that it is too childish for a great Cambridge scholar like him—"
"Nay," said Valentine, "in that case—"
But Mrs. Deputy Howard, who looked blank at first, saw that there was hope; and with an eye that spoke of conviction on pre-supposed good grounds, she took one of the great crackers off the tree, and calling out, said—
"Here, Uncle Sampson, stand between them, and let them draw. We'll have no exceptions—come—come!" she impatiently said; and Uncle Sampson, with a jovial laugh, arose, and taking the cracker in his great hand, stood between and said, "Now, I am waiting—we are all waiting—somebody conjure while they pull—a pretty satire this, on marriage, after all—ha, ha!—pulling against each other and creating explosions. Ho, ho! Come on!—"
Valentine, thus challenged, could not resist any longer. Indeed it would have been ungracious to do so; for the lovely, yet somewhat haughty Julia, though chafed, generously attributed all to a foolish bashfulness (to be got rid of in time under her tutelage) on his part. Valentine advanced. They met. Uncle Sampson, jovial, radiant with smiles, stood between, holding in his hand the mystic cracker. It looked quite fearful, with its gold and scarlet outside, and its terrible inside none knew.
The young ones clapped their hands with glee; the "poor relations" had ventured a joke upon the subject; the old maids suspended their acidity, and became statuesque, gazing on this moral lesson so easily improveable by the Reverend Silas Howisloud, of the "Real New Jerusalem Independents," when he came to discourse on vanity.
Julia's large floating eyes were fixed upon Valentine. A sweet, serene, hopeful smile was on her lips; her heart beat, and her face was suffused with blushes. Valentine looked paler. He was cold and disturbed in mien.
"Now, then, young people!" said Uncle Sampson.
Their hands stretched and met.
Valentine, in fact, looked so grave, that Julia pitied his modesty. "Poor, shy fellow," thought Julia. "He looks wondrous handsome, too, with his dark hair shading his white temples."
"Have you hold?" asked Uncle Sampson.
Julia replied "Yes," boldly, and with a laugh. Valentine said "Yes," also, but he did not laugh.
You might have heard a pin drop. Every eye was bent upon them. Eager heads were stretched out, and Mr. Septimus Milend, quite excited, rubbed his hands, winked with the audacity of the junior clerk himself, around the circle, and then became grave.
"Pull!" said Uncle Sampson, jovially, as he let the cracker loose from his hold, each holding one end.
Julia looked quite confident; Valentine seemed to tremble. "He is devouring her face, the young dog!" said Mr. Deputy Howard, in an audible whisper.
The cracker burst! People winked, and rubbed their smarted faces. There was a general exclamation; for a plain gold ring fell on the ground out of the cracker, and rolled to Valentine's feet. He was so pale and agitated, that Cousin Joe ventured to remark to Mistress Meek that it was "probable Valentine might have eaten too much," and the "Virgin Martyr" threw in reply upon him a look that ought, but did not, turn him into stone.
That ridiculous old butler, Robert, broke the silence. "Hooray!" said he, loudly, clapping his hands, "it's all up now--nothing but the indissolvable knot is wanted—"
"I thought Mrs. Howard would nail him," said the deputy, now very red in the face, and whispering in Mr. Colville's ear.
That gentleman, however, had become grave too. Julia laughed, but it sounded forced; and Valentine laughed too, and that sounded still more so. He already stooped down--picked up the ring--paused, and then--put it into his pocket, and did not, as was expected, offer it with a compliment to Julia.
The visible embarrassment of all was agreeably diversified by the butler's putting on the table an enormous bowl of punch, which made the place smell, as if Jamaica, Nantz, Holland, and the East Indies were all floating together within it, having been amalgamated in the pantry.
While Valentine was leading Julia, very visibly annoyed, to her chair, Mr. Ramsbottom thought that he was called upon to make a speech, and he was proceeding with great pomposity to make playful allusions to the "young couple," when a glance from Valentine's scowling eyes sent his fine metaphor to the winds. He took speedy shelter under a "merry Christmas," and then to precipitate matters, Mr. Milend became anxious about the holly bush: but Miss Julia had left the room.
In fact, the fun now grew fast and furious; but there was that about the incident of the ring which made Mr. Colville grave now and then during the evening; but Valentine laughed and joked, and finally brought Julia back, and the dancing began, at which we must leave them. It might be about a fortnight after this that Mr. Colville, when closetted alone with Valentine in his library, referred to Julia Howard; but finding, to his annoyance, that Valentine could not or would not comprehend him, he in plain terms came to the point. He desired him (Valentine) to propose for Julia, and to wed her, though not at present. They were young and could wait, but for many reasons he wished that Valentine should look upon Julia as his future bride.
Valentine said he knew she was "fair, accomplished, and in every way charming--but--"
"But what, sir?" demanded his father, a stern scintillation gleaming out of his stern eye.
"But--I--I love another!" said Valentine.
"You love another!" echoed Mr Colville.
"And," added Valentine, casting himself at his knees, "I am married, father. Nay, but hear me--"
That night Valentine slept not at his father's house. His mother and sister, and the servants were forbidden to speak, to help, to notice him. He pronounced Valentine an alien to him and to his house for ever. The hard, unbending nature of the man came over him with a force that was as unbending as iron, as unyielding as adamant. Thus his house was made lonely.
This was the fruit the first Christmas helped to bear, and the withered branches were flung into the fire and were consumed like the hopes of man, and the year rolled on towards a second Christmas.