Christmas Comes but Once A Year | Page 8

just commenced a song, a parody upon Fra
Diavolo,--a something very, very low, supposed to be sung by a dealer
in hearth-stones; who, at the end of each verse, vociferates "who'll
buy," heightening the illusion by trundling a chair, on its back, round
the family circle, to represent a barrow.
No one knows where the barbarous atrocities would have ended, and all
before the refined strangers, too, had not the olive-branches--disposed
for rest by their several mammas in the room above--all awoke at once,
tumbled out of bed, and joined in a combined cry; this breaks the
family circle--mothers fly to pack their turbulent innocents for travel;
the candles flare, and carriages clatter, grinding the flints in the lane.
John, the footman, finds he has a dozen half-crowns, and Mary seven.
The last fly has departed with the little Bricks; lights appear and
disappear in the bed-chambers; and the Christmas-day--that comes but
once a year--has vanished, like a dream!
Mr. Brown has jotted the events, in his Diary, in a hand scarcely legible.
It must have been penned in a somnambulistic fit--thinking he was at a
meeting of St. Stiff's vestry, in the union board-room,--for, after a list
of member's present (the names of his guests), Captain de Camp in the

chair, follow these minutes of proceedings:--Firstly, that one Spohf be
dismissed as organist of St. Stiff's, confined in the idiot-ward, fed on
water gruel, and handed over to his own parish (Vienna); proposed by
Latimer, and seconded by Wellesley de Camp. The second proposition
appears to be to the effect that a vagrant named Brick, dealer in
hearth-stones, be confined in the refractory-ward, and fed upon bread
and water.
The morning after the festivities London oversleeps itself:--and,
awaking, finds it boxing-day. Variegated dips are being disseminated
among delighted, dirty, juveniles; whilst the boys seem chagrined at
notices for "the extinction of abuses," or "suppression of
Christmas-boxes;" which seems only to make them the more
pertinacious at Victoria Villa: for an irregular dustman has chalked the
post, and the Postman vowed to mark Mr. Brown; the Turncock is
turned off; the Waits have to "wait a little longer;" and the Beadle, who
declared Mr. Brown no generous churchwarden, has, withal, found
enough alcohol to make him stupid before night--causing that dignitary
to cry a lost boy instead of a girl, and to see twice as many posts round
St. Stiff's as usual; taking half of them to be boys about to vault over
the other half, he rushes on to disperse them, soundly chastising the
granite.
[Illustration]
All the little boys secure their mites before mid-day; taking their posts
at the gallery-door of a popular theatre, five hours before opening, to
practise that rare virtue, patience, at the shrine of "Hot Codlings," and
"George Barnwell."
[Illustration: BOXING DAY. AN OFFENDED DIGNITARY OF THE
CHURCH. 'BOLISH THE BOXES, INDEED: 'SPECT NEXT THEY'L
'BOLISH THE BISHOPS.-- WHAT'S A SEASON WITHOUT
COMPLIMENTS?]
Master Ichabod Strap, in his richest yellow breeches, and burnished
badge of St. Stiff the Martyr, is perambulating the parish with his gay
phylactery, or Christmas-piece--"The History of Joseph," painted, like

the coat, in many colours:--he shows it to Mrs. Brown, who approves
the performance; "stroking the head of modest and ingenuous worth
that blushed at its own praise;" measuring the boy at a glance, and
proffering him promotion in the shape of an uniform, of buttons, just
vacated by a youth--called by his peers "Nobby Jones," but by his
mistress "Alphonso;"--who, having grown to the great risk of buttons
and stitches, was dispossessed of his regimentals, being sent home one
dark night in his bed-gown. "Ichabod" promises to resign that title and
all connection with the dirty boys, to reign as Alphonso the second
page; being missed by Mr. Spohf, for whom he used to blow the organ,
in the little second floor--a bereavement Mrs. B. enjoyed, saying, she
wondered how the unworthy little animal would raise the wind now.
There is an universal adage about risking sprats to capture herrings--a
sport not unknown to our cosmopolite Captain, for he had fished in
troubled waters, and hunted for a dinner many a time;--he knew the
traps and snares to secure game, the days and seasons; so, on
Boxing-day, he baits the servants with crowns; Tommy with a
sovereign; Angelina with "The Keepsake;" Jemima with a
modern-ancient missal, or portion of Scripture made dear and difficult
to read; presenting Mrs. B. with the last new art manufacture--"The
Knowing Blade, a brazen-faced sharper, to remove blunt;" and
procuring for Mr. B. the skin of the identical Bengal tiger he killed, as
may be seen from a legend running up the back bone--though an
inscription on the tip of the tail states it to be sold by Fitch of Regent
Street. The bait secures its