Adela Cathcart, vol 1 | Page 3

year, as Christmas approaches, I begin to grow
young again. At least I judge so from the fact that a strange, mysterious
pleasure, well known to me by this time, though little understood and
very varied, begins to glow in my mind with the first hint, come from
what quarter it may, whether from the church service, or a bookseller's
window, that the day of all the year is at hand--is climbing up from the
under-world. I enjoy it like a child. I buy the Christmas number of
every periodical I can lay my hands on, especially those that have
pictures in them; and although I am not very fond of plum-pudding, I
anticipate with satisfaction the roast beef and the old port that ought
always to accompany it. And above all things, I delight in listening to
stories, and sometimes in telling them.
It amuses me to find what a welcome nobody I am amongst young
people; for they think I take no heed of them, and don't know what they

are doing; when, all the time, I even know what they are thinking. They
would wonder to know how often I feel exactly as they do; only I think
the feeling is a more earnest and beautiful thing to me than it can be to
them yet. If I see a child crowing in his mother's arms, I seem to myself
to remember making precisely the same noise in my mother's arms. If I
see a youth and a maiden looking into each other's eyes, I know what it
means perhaps better than they do. But I say nothing. I do not even
smile; for my face is puckered, and I have a weakness about the eyes.
But all this will be proof enough that I have not grown very old, in any
bad and to-be-avoided sense, at least.
And now all the glow of the Christmas time was at its height in my
heart. For I was going to spend the Day, and a few weeks besides, with
a very old friend of mine, who lived near the town at which we were
about to arrive like a postscript.--Where could my companion be going?
I wanted to know, because I hoped to meet him again somehow or
other.
I ought to have told you, kind reader, that my name is Smith--actually
John Smith; but I'm none the worse for that; and as I do not want to be
distinguished much from other people, I do not feel it a hardship.
But where was my companion going? It could not be to my friend's;
else I should have known something about him. It could hardly be to
the clergyman's, because the vicarage was small, and there was a new
curate coming with his wife, whom it would probably have to
accommodate until their own house was ready. It could not be to the
lawyer's on the hill, because there all were from home on a visit to their
relations. It might be to Squire Vernon's, but he was the last man likely
to ask a clergyman to visit him; nor would a clergyman be likely to find
himself comfortable with the swearing old fox- hunter. The question
must, then, for the present, remain unsettled.--So I left it, and, looking
out of the window once more, buried myself in Christmas fancies.
It was now dark. We were the under half of the world. The sun was
scorching and glowing on the other side, leaving us to night and frost.
But the night and the frost wake the sunshine of a higher world in our
hearts; and who cares for winter weather at Christmas?--I believe in the

proximate correctness of the date of our Saviour's birth. I believe he
always comes in winter. And then let Winter reign without: Love is
king within; and Love is lord of the Winter.
How the happy fires were glowing everywhere! We shot past many a
lighted cottage, and now and then a brilliant mansion. Inside both were
hearts like our own, and faces like ours, with the red coming out on
them, the red of joy, because it was Christmas. And most of them had
some little feast toward. Is it vulgar, this feasting at Christmas? No. It
is the Christmas feast that justifies all feasts, as the bread and wine of
the Communion are the essence of all bread and wine, of all strength
and rejoicing. If the Christianity of eating is lost--I will not say
forgotten--the true type of eating is to be found at the dinner-hour in the
Zoological Gardens. Certain I am, that but for the love which, ever
revealing itself, came out brightest at that first Christmas time, there
would be no feasting--nay no smiling; no world to go careering