I
In the most peaceful spot known to American life--a railroad train--we
had several hours of that pleasure which offices are devised to
prevent, viz., meditation; or even (if we may dare so high) thought.
Our thoughts, or whatever they are that go round inside you when you
are sitting passively in a train, were tinged by the approach of
Christmas.
There was evidently something in the bright air and pre-Christmas
feeling of that December afternoon that even softened the heart of
the news butcher, for we noticed as the train hastened along the
Connecticut shore his manner became more and more fond. He began, at
Grand Central, in a mood of formality, even austerity. “Lots of nice
reading matter here, gentlemen,” he cried. “Get a nice short story
book” (by “book” he meant, of course, magazine) “to kill time for
a coupla hours.” We thought, perhaps a little sadly, of the irony
of begging men to annul Time when they had happily reached almost
the only place in America where it can be enjoyed, examined, taken
apart, and looked at. But, perhaps due to a niggardly spirit among his
congregation in the smoker, the agent gradually became more fraternal.
His manner was almost bedside by the time we had got to New Rochelle.
“Choclut pepmints, figs, and lemon drops, fellas!” And at Stamford he
was beginning to despair. “Peanuts: they’re delicious, boys.” We made
up our mind, by the way, as to the correct answer to our old question,
Where does New England begin? The frontier is at South Norwalk, for
there we saw a sign _The New England Cereal Company_. And just about
there, also, begin the billboards urging Codfish, surely the authentic
image and superscription of New England.
Of course there is a great deal to think about in the signs you see
along the track. There is that notice:
+------------+
| DANGEROUS |
| LIVE WIRES |
| KEEP AWAY |
+------------+
which is a good advice socially as well as electrically. But we thought
that these warnings were a bit unfair to New England, where there are
fewer human Live Wires than there are south of the Harlem Strait. We
remembered a certain club in Philadelphia of which the bitter-minded
used to say it was the only organization in the world whose membership
was 100 per cent. Live Wires, Regular Fellows, and Go-Getters.
As we went through Greenwich, Riverside, Westport, we admired the blue
shore of Long Island lying so placidly across the Sound. And it struck
us almost with a sense of shock that there are a great many people
to whom Long Island is only a dim, unreal haze on the horizon. Yes,
foreign travel is a brisk aperient to the mind. We remembered, as we
always do when travelling on the New Haven, Robert Louis Stevenson’s
delight when he first went that way. In one of his letters he speaks of
the succession of beautiful rocky coves that saluted his eye. “Why,” he
wrote, “have Americans been so unfair to their own country?”
It would be impossible to tell you all the things we thought about:
they have already faded. We did not forget our duty, as a travelling
mandarin, to be a little magisterial when occasion seemed to require
it. In the station at New Haven, for instance, there is a young woman,
most remarkably coifed, who presides at the tobacco counter. She
seemed of a notably cheerful and lenient disposition, and we ventured
a remark upon the weather. She said she wished it would snow, so that
she could have some real fun, by which she meant, we dare say, a little
bobsledding with the youths of Yale College. We thought that this
showed a dangerous inappreciation of her general opulent good fortune
in being young, comely, and attached to a tobacco traffic. We looked at
her quite sternly and said, “Young women can always have a good time,
no matter what the weather.” To our regret, as we hastened on toward
the Springfield train, we heard her squeaking with mirth.
But the starting point of our meditation was an attempt to describe and
dissect this curious pre-Christmas feeling, which is one of the most
subtle and genuine adventures of the whole year. When we try to examine
it in its components we see that the whole thing is too delicate and
pervasive for analysis. What are its ingredients? we said to ourself.
We thought of the little shrill tingling bells of the Salvation Army;
we thought of the warm juicy smell of roasting chicken that out-gushes
from a certain rotisserie in Jamaica, Long Island. We thought of the
bright colours and toys in the windows of that glorious main street in
Jamaica, which is where we do our Christmas shopping. We thought of all
the sparkle, the chill, clear air, the general bustle of the streets,
that one associates with the Christmas season; and of the undercurrent
of dumb and troubled realization of human misery and stupidity and
frustration that comes to some more clearly now than at any other time.
And we thought also of the mockers and the cheerful skeptics, to whom
any candid expression of a simple human emotion is cause for nipping
laughter. Never mind, we said to ourself, there is at least one time of
year when they can all afford to put away their shining paradoxes and
their gingerbread cynicisms--like the gilded circus wagons we saw shut
up in winter quarters at Bridgeport.
Probably the most sensitive and complex of human sensations is
the pre-Christmas feeling: because it is not merely personal but
communal; not merely communal but national; not merely national but
even international. We know then that for a few weeks a great part of
the world is busily thinking of the same things: how it can surprise
its friends, how it can encourage the miserable, how it can amuse the
harmless. Even the dingiest street has its pathetic badges of colour.
It is a great thing to have such a widespread community of sentiment,
which, however varying in expression, is identical in essence. One may
be amused when he sees the Christmas Annuals published by Australian
magazines and finds under the title _A Happy Christmas in New South
Wales_ a photograph of girls in muslin enjoying themselves by
picnicking along shady streams with canoes and mosquito nettings. That
kind of Christmas, we think, would seem very grotesque for us, but our
friends the New South Welsh evidently find it exhilarating.
But it is that mysterious and agreeable pre-Christmas feeling which
is the best of the whole matter. Christmas Day itself is sometimes
almost too feverish a business of picking up blizzards of wrapping
paper, convincing the Urchin that his own toys are just as interesting
as the Urchiness’s, and treading on tiptoe for fear of walking on
the clockwork train or the lurking doll. At Christmas time we always
think--probably we are the only person who does--of the late admirable
William Stubbs, once Bishop of Oxford and Regius Professor of
history, the author of those three fat mulberry coloured volumes _The
Constitutional History of England_, a work far from easy to read, and
which, when we were compelled to study it, seemed of an intolerable
dullness. Bishop Stubbs, in the dreadful words of the _Dictionary of
National Biography_, “never forgot that he was a clergyman.” It is also
said that “his lectures never attracted a large audience.” But what
we are getting at is this, that on Christmas Day, 1873, the excellent
Bishop retired from the gambols and gayeties of his five sons and one
daughter and wrote the preface to his History. We love to think of him,
worthy man, shutting himself up from the Yuletide riot in roomy old
Kettel Hall (now a part of Trinity College, Oxford) and sitting down to
write those words, “The History of Institutions cannot be mastered--can
scarcely be approached--without an effort.” Now that we are somewhat
matured, we think that we could probably reread his _Constitutional
History_ with much profit. In that Christmas Day preface, written while
the young Stubbses were (we suppose) filling the house with juvenile
clamour, there is one phrase that catches our eye as we take the book
down for its annual dusting:
“Constitutional History reads the exploits and characters of men by a
different light from that shed by the false glare of arms. The world’s
heroes are no heroes to it.”