Our Christmas party

by Edwin Hodder

THE 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—

“By the pricking of my thumbs,

Something wicked this way comes;

Open, locks, whoever knocks.

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

And it’s heigh, ho, hum,

With a tum, tum, tum,

Fal lal de riddle ho, tum, tum, tum!

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—

“Hey diddle diddle,

The cat and the fiddle.”

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—

THE MEANDERING MUSICIAN;
or,
The Vitch!! The Vow!! and the Voucher!!

And will be supported by the following powerful cast:—

Berlinda	The “star” of the evening	Miss Ada Martin.
Roderigo Pipkins	The meandering musician, in love with Berlinda	Master Tom Martin.
Banquo Belvidere	A Rival	Master Frank Edwards.
Theophilus Balderdash	Another Rival	Master Alec Boyce.
Mrs. Thompson	The Witch	Miss Florence Edwards.
Berlinda’s Pa	The Stern Parient	Master Walter Stanley.
Alonzo Napoleon Smith	An American Showman	Master Charlie Stanley.
Police, peasants, wax figures, perambulators, &c. &c.

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.

Berlinda (in a rhapsody addressing the stars).

O! beaming beauties of the broad and boundless abyss,

Whose whirling worlds seem wondrously whiter than is this.

O! vision! vast and various to my view,

Ye stars, which shine “because you’ve nothing else to do.”

I gaze upon your splendours, so superbly spacious—

Good gracious!

A minstrel wanders forth. I’ll quench the light

And hear his music on the airs of night.

(Puts out the candle.)

Enter Roderigo.

I see her! I see her! I see her at the winder,

It is! my beating heart! it is Berlinda!

Come forth, my lute! ye muses, up above,

Smile while it thus amuses her I love!

(Cats are heard on the tiles in chorus.)

O, rapture! ’tis Berlinda’s voice I hear,

Those strains are hers—alas! I feel so queer—

Courage, faint heart! thy mistress thou must please,

Pour forth thy lays upon the lazy breeze.

(Tunes his violin and sings to the air of “Beautiful Star.”)

Loverly girl, on yonder height,

Sweeter than the (h)owls of night,

Hear thy fond one’s voice to you

Genteely asking, How do you do?

How do you do-oo!

Chanticleer in the distance. Cock-a-doodle-do-oo!

Chorus of Rivals. How do you do-oo?

Lovely Berlinda, how do you do?

Roder. Ha! there are rivals—such arrivals much I fear—

Hist! they are coming, my idea is to hide here.

(Hides.)

Enter Banquo Belvidere. (Anxiously gazes round and then
addresses the window.)

Berlinda! art thou there, my own Berlinda?

My heart is hot with love—a very cinder—

Alas! she’s gone to bed, she cannot hear,

And I shall go to Bedlam soon I fear.

I place these flowers on the sill within thy reach,

They’re better, p’raps, than silly flowers of speech.

(Exit.)

Roderigo (comes forth and takes the flowers).

A sweet expression of my love, but not a dear one.

What, another rival? Yes, I think I hear one.

(Hides.)

Enter Theophilus Balderdash (with a cold in the
head—sneezes violently during his speech).

This is a scene indeed to foster love,

Brick walls around and chimney-pots above;

Yon chanticleer the guardian bird is,

To join his voice with distant hurdy-gurdies.

All speaks of love, and shall my voice be still?

Nay, perish! Balderdash, an if you will,

But speak!

Addressing the window— Berlinda, dearest;

If walls have ears, surely thou hearest;

Hearest thy lover, though his tones be hoarse,

Hearest by means of love’s detective force,

Warm at the heart, though with a cold i’ the head—

(Sneezes.)

(Aside.) (By Jove, I really ought to be in bed.)

Accept my love, resist it not, be not so cruel—

(Sneezes again.)

(Aside.) (I really must go in for something strong, and gruel.)

I leave this billet-do. Read, loved one, its contents;

(Aside.) (And I’ll go home and seek my night habillements.)

(Exit.)

Enter Roderigo.

A notability, as I’d ability to note. But see,

A witch! a fortune-teller comes! O, criminy!

I’ll bribe the hag to gain Berlinda’s bower,

And then I’ll carry off my love within the hour.

Enter Witch. What ho! midnight marauder.

Roderigo (in a whisper, taking her aside).

Order!

Let’s have no rows that may arouse my bride;

Go you and coax the fair one to my side;

Bid her to fly with me, her lover and her lord,

And you shall have this note[1] as your reward.

Witch (raps at window and Berlinda appears).

Listen, Berlinda. The stars declare thy destiny is set,

Act now, ’tis well, forbear and you’ll regret.

Thy lover waits to bear thee hence—Away!

Berlinda. Good woman, I have many lovers; say,

Is it Roderigo Pipkins who is near?

Roderigo. I am here!

Berlinda. Bless you, dear! Now help me down and fly!

The sun will soon be mounting up the sky.

Farewell, my home! farewell, my pa and ma!

Accept my last adieu. Ta, ta!

(Roderigo carries her off the stage.)

[1] T. Balderdash’s.