Ned.
Mr. Gollop here raised an objection.
"I don't think the man ought to tell about cutting anybody's giblets
full of holes," he said; "no, nor yet making their buttons fly. 'Tis
very coarse, and the gentlefolks wouldn't like it."
"Nonsense, Tom," answered the vicar, "it's all in keeping with the
play. There's no harm in it at all."
"Evil be to them as evil think," said Jack Head. "Now comes the song,
reverend Masterman, and I was going to propose that the Bear, though
he's dead as a nit, rises up on his front paws and sings with the rest,
then drops down again--eh, souls?"
"They'll die of laughing if you do that, Jack," declared Vivian. "I
vote for it."
But Dennis firmly refused permission and addressed his chorus.
"Now, girls, the song--everybody joins. The other songs are not written
yet, so we need not bother about them till next time."
The girls, glad of something to do, sang vigorously, and the song went
well. Then the Turkish Knight was duly slain, restored and slain again.
"We can't finish to-night," declared Dennis, looking at his watch, "so
I'm sorry to have troubled you to come, Mrs. Hacker, and you, Voysey."
"They haven't wasted their time, however, because Head and I have
showed them what acting means," said Nathan. "And when you do come on,
Susan Hacker, you've got to quarrel and pull my beard, remember; then
we make it up afterwards."
"We'll finish for to-night with the Giant," decreed Dennis. "Now speak
your long speech, St. George, and then Mr. Baskerville can do the
Giant."
Ned, who declared that he had as yet learned no more, read his next
speech, and Vivian began behind the scenes--
"Fee--fi--fo--fum!
I smell the blood of an Englishman.
Let him be living, or let him be dead,
I'll grind his bones to make my bread."
"You ought to throw a bit more roughness in your voice, farmer,"
suggested Mr. Gollop. "If you could bring it up from the innards,
'twould sound more awful, wouldn't it, reverend Masterman?"
"And when you come on, farmer, you might pass me by where I lie dead,"
said Jack, "and I'll up and give you a nip in the calf of the leg, and
you'll jump round, and the people will roar again."
"No," declared the vicar. "No more of you, Head, till the end. Then you
come to life and dance with the French Eagle--that's Voysey. But you
mustn't act any more till then."
"A pity," answered Jack. "I was full of contrivances; however, if you
say so----"
"Be I to dance?" asked Mr. Voysey. "This is the first I've heard tell
o' that. How can I dance, and the rheumatism eating into my knees for
the last twenty year?"
"I'll dance," said Head. "You can just turn round and round slowly."
"Now, Mr. Baskerville!"
Vivian strode on to the stage.
"Make your voice big, my dear," pleaded Gollop.
"Here come I, the Giant; bold Turpin is my name,
And all the nations round do tremble at my fame,
Where'er I go, they tremble at my sight:
No lord or champion long with me will dare to fight."
"People will cheer you like thunder, Vivian," said his brother,
"because they know that the nations really did tremble at your fame
when you was champion wrestler of the west."
"But you mustn't stand like that, farmer," said Jack Head. "You'm too
spraddlesome. For the Lord's sake, man, try and keep your feet in the
same parish!"
Mr. Baskerville bellowed with laughter and slapped his immense thigh.
"Dammy! that's funnier than anything in the play," he said. "'Keep my
feet in the same parish!' Was ever a better joke heard?"
"Now, St. George, kill the Giant," commanded Dennis. "The Giant will
have a club, and he'll try to smash you; then run him through the body."
"Take care you don't hit Ned in real earnest, however, else you'd
settle him and spoil the play," said Mr. Voysey. "'Twould be a terrible
tantarra for certain if the Giant went and whipped St. George."
"'Twouldn't be the first time, however," said Mr. Baskerville. "Would
it, Ned?"
Nathan and Ned's sisters appreciated this family joke. Then Mr. Gollop
advanced a sentimental objection.
"I may be wrong," he admitted, "but I can't help thinking it might be a
bit ondecent for Ned Baskerville here to kill his father, even in play.
You see, though everybody will know 'tis Ned and his parent, and that
they'm only pretending, yet it might shock a serious-minded person here
and there to see the son kill the father. I don't say I mind, as 'tis
all make-believe and the frolic of a night; but--well, there 'tis."
"You'm a silly old grandmother, and never no King of Egypt was such a
fool afore," said Jack. "Pay no heed to him, reverend Masterman."
Gollop snarled at Head, and they began to wrangle fiercely.
Then Dennis closed the rehearsal.
"That'll do for the present," he announced. "We've made a splendid
start, and the thing to remember is that we meet here again this day
week, at seven o'clock. And mind you know your part, Ned. Another of
the songs will be ready by then; and the new harmonium will have come
that my sister is going to play. And do look about, all of you, to find
somebody who will take the Doctor."
"We shall have the nation's eyes on us--not for the first time,"
declared Mr. Gollop as he tied a white wool muffler round his throat;
"and I'm sure I hope one and all will do the best that's in 'em."
The actors departed; the oil lamps were extinguished, and the vicar and
his sister returned home. She said little by the way, and her severe
silence made him rather nervous.
"Well," he broke out at length, "jolly good, I think, for a first
attempt--eh, Alice?"
"I'm glad you were satisfied, dear. Everything depends upon us--that
seems quite clear, at any rate. They'll all get terribly self-conscious
and silly, I'm afraid, long before the time comes. However, we must
hope for the best. But I shouldn't be in a hurry to ask anybody who
really matters."
EDEN PHILLPOTTS in _The Three Brothers_
X
NEW YEAR
[Illustration: NEW YEAR]
New Year
Midnight Mass for the Dying Year
The Death of the Old Year
A New Year's Carol
New Year's Resolutions
Love and Joy come to You
Ring Out, Wild Bells
New Year's Eve, 1850
Rejoicings upon the New Year's Coming of Age
New Year's Rites in the Highlands
The Chinese New Year
New Year's Gifts in Thessaly
"Smashing" in the New Year
New Year Calls in Old New York
Sylvester Abend in Davos
[Illustration: -_New Year_-]
New Year
Each New Year is a leaf of our love's rose;
It falls, but quick another rose-leaf grows.
So is the flower from year to year the same,
But richer, for the dead leaves feed its flame.
RICHARD WATSON GILDER
_By permission of Houghton Mifflin Company_
Midnight Mass for the Dying Year
Yes, the Year is growing old,
And his eye is pale and bleared!
Death, with frosty hand and cold,
Plucks the old man by the beard,
Sorely, sorely!
The leaves are falling, falling,
Solemnly and slow;
Caw! caw! the rooks are calling,
It is a sound of woe,
A sound of woe!
Through woods and mountain passes
The winds, like anthems, roll;
They are chanting solemn masses,
Singing, "Pray for this poor soul,
Pray, pray!"
And the hooded clouds, like friars,
Tell their beads in drops of rain,
And patter their doleful prayers;
But their prayers are all in vain,
All in vain!
There he stands in the foul weather,
The foolish, fond Old Year,
Crowned with wild-flowers and with heather,
Like weak, despised Lear,
A king, a king!
Then comes the summer-like day,
Bids the old man rejoice!
His joy, his last! O, the old man gray
Loveth that ever-soft voice,
Gentle and low.
To the crimson woods he saith,
To the voice gentle and low
Of the soft air, like a daughter's breath,
"Pray do not mock me so!
Do not laugh at me!"
And now the sweet day is dead;
Cold in his arms it lies;
No stain from its breath is spread
Over the glassy skies,
No mist or stain!
Then, too, the Old Year dieth,
And the forests utter a moan,
Like the voice of one who crieth
In the wilderness alone,
"Vex not his ghost!"
Then comes, with an awful roar,
Gathering and sounding on,
The storm-wind from Labrador,
The wind Euroclydon,
The storm-wind!
Howl! howl! and from the forest
Sweep the red leaves away!
Would, the sins that thou abhorrest,
O Soul! could thus decay,
And be swept away!
For there shall come a mightier blast,
There shall be a darker day;
And the stars, from heaven down-cast,
Like red leaves be swept away!
Kyrie, eleyson!
Christe, eleyson!
HENRY W. LONGFELLOW
The Death of the Old Year
Full knee-deep lies the winter snow,
And the winter winds are wearily sighing:
Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow,
And tread softly and speak low,
For the old year lies a-dying.
Old year, you must not die;
You came to us so readily,
You lived with us so steadily,
Old year, you shall not die.
He lieth still: he doth not move:
He will not see the dawn of day.
He hath no other life above.
He gave me a friend, and a true true-love,
And the New Year will take 'em away.
Old year, you must not go;
So long as you have been with us,
Such joy as you have seen with us,
Old year, you shall not go.
He froth'd his bumpers to the brim;
A jollier year we shall not see.
But tho' his eyes are waxing dim,
And tho' his foes speak ill of him,
He was a friend to me.
Old year, you shall not die;
We did so laugh and cry with you,
I've half a mind to die with you,
Old year, if you must die.
He was full of joke and jest,
But all his merry quips are o'er.
To see him die, across the waste
His son and heir doth ride post-haste,
But he'll be dead before.
Every one for his own.
The night is starry and cold, my friend,
And the New-year blithe and bold, my friend,
Comes up to take his own.
How hard he breathes! over the snow
I heard just now the crowing cock.
The shadows flicker to and fro:
The cricket chirps: the light burns low:
'Tis nearly twelve o'clock.
Shake hands, before you die.
Old year, we'll dearly rue for you:
What is it we can do for you?
Speak out before you die.
His face is growing sharp and thin.
Alack! our friend is gone.
Close up his eyes: tie up his chin:
Step from the corpse, and let him in
That standeth there alone,
And awaiteth at the door.
There's a new foot on the floor, my friend,
And a new face at the door, my friend,
A new face at the door.
ALFRED TENNYSON
A New Year's Carol
Ah! dearest Jesus, Holy Child,
Make Thee a bed, soft, undefil'd,
Within my heart, that it may be
A quiet chamber kept for Thee.
My heart for very joy doth leap,
My lips no more can silence keep,
I too must sing, with joyful tongue,
That sweetest ancient cradle song,
"Glory to God in highest Heaven,
Who unto man His Son hath given."
While angels sing, with pious mirth,
A glad New Year to all the earth.
MARTIN LUTHER
New Year's Resolutions
January 1st.--The service on New Year's Eve is the only one in the
whole year that in the least impresses me in our little church, and
then the very bareness and ugliness of the place and the ceremonial
produce an effect that a snug service in a well-lit church never would.
Last night we took Irais and Minora, and drove the three lonely miles
in a sleigh. It was pitch-dark, and blowing great guns. We sat wrapped
up to our eyes in furs, and as mute as a funeral procession.
"We are going to the burial of our last year's sins," said Irais, as
we started; and there certainly was a funereal sort of feeling in the
air. Up in our gallery pew we tried to decipher our chorales by the
light of the spluttering tallow candles stuck in holes in the woodwork,
the flames wildly blown about by the draughts. The wind banged against
the windows in great gusts, screaming louder than the organ, and
threatening to blow out the agitated lights together. The parson in
his gloomy pulpit, surrounded by a framework of dusty carved angels,
took on an awful appearance of menacing Authority as he raised his
voice to make himself heard above the clatter. Sitting there in the
dark, I felt very small, and solitary, and defenceless, alone in a
great, big, black world. The church was as cold as a tomb; some of the
candles guttered and went out; the parson in his black robe spoke of
death and judgment; I thought I heard a child's voice screaming, and
could hardly believe it was only the wind, and felt uneasy and full
of forebodings; all my faith and philosophy deserted me, and I had a
horrid feeling that I should probably be well punished, though for what
I had no precise idea. If it had not been so dark, and if the wind had
not howled so despairingly, I should have paid little attention to the
threats issuing from the pulpit; but, as it was, I fell to making good
resolutions. This is always a bad sign,--only those who break them make
them; and if you simply do as a matter of course that which is right
as it comes, any preparatory resolving to do so becomes completely
superfluous. I have for some years past left off making them on New
Year's Eve, and only the gale happening as it did reduced me to
doing so last night; for I have long since discovered that, though the
year and the resolutions may be new, I myself am not, and it is worse
than useless putting new wine into old bottles.
[Illustration: THE ADORATION OF THE MAGI. _Paolo Veronese._]
"But I am not an old bottle," said Irais indignantly, when I held
forth to her to the above effect a few hours later in the library,
restored to all my philosophy by the warmth and light, "and I find my
resolutions carry me very nicely into the spring. I revise them at the
end of each month, and strike out the unnecessary ones. By the end of
April they have been so severely revised that there are none left."
"There, you see I am right; if you were not an old bottle your new
contents would gradually arrange themselves amiably as a part of you,
and the practice of your resolutions would lose its bitterness by
becoming a habit."
She shook her head. "Such things never lose their bitterness," she
said, "and that is why I don't let them cling to me right into the
summer. When May comes, I give myself up to jollity with all the rest
of the world, and am too busy being happy to bother about anything I
may have resolved when the days were cold and dark."
"And that is just why I love you," I thought. She often says what I
feel.
From _Elizabeth and her German Garden_
Love and Joy come to You
Here we come a-wassailing
Among the leaves so green,
Here we come a-wandering,
So fair to be seen.
_Love and joy come to you,
And to you your wassail too,
And God bless you, and send you
A happy New Year._
We are not daily beggars
That beg from door to door,
But we are neighbours' children
Whom you have seen before.
_Love and joy, &c._
Good Master and good Mistress,
As you sit by the fire,
Pray think of us poor children
Who are wandering in the mire.
_Love and joy, &c._
We have a little purse
Made of ratching leather skin;
We want some of your small change
To line it well within.
_Love and joy, &c._
Call up the butler of this house,
Put on his golden ring;
Let him bring us a glass of beer,
And the better we shall sing.
_Love and joy, &c._
Bring us out a table,
And spread it with a cloth;
Bring us out a mouldy cheese
And some of your Christmas loaf.
_Love and joy, &c._
God bless the Master of this house,
Likewise the Mistress too,
And all the little children
That round the table go.
_Love and joy come to you,
And to you your wassail too,
And God bless you, and send you
A happy New Year._
_Old English_
Ring Out, Wild Bells
Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light:
The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.
Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow;
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.
Ring out the grief that saps the mind,
For those that here we see no more;
Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.
* * * * *
Ring out old shapes of foul disease,
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.
Ring in the valiant man and free,
The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.
ALFRED TENNYSON
New Year's Eve, 1850
This is the midnight of the century,--hark!
Through aisle and arch of Godminster have gone
Twelve throbs that tolled the zenith of the dark,
And mornward now the starry hands move on;
"Mornward!" the angelic watchers say,
"Passed is the sorest trial;
No plot of man can stay
The hand upon the dial;
Night is the dark stem of the lily Day."
If we, who watched in valleys here below,
Toward streaks, misdeemed of morn, our faces turned
When Vulcan glares set all the east aglow,--
We are not poorer that we wept and yearned;
Though earth swing wide from God's intent,
And though no man nor nation
Will move with full consent
In heavenly gravitation,
Yet by one Sun is every orbit bent.
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL
Rejoicings upon the New Year's Coming of Age
The Old Year being dead, and the New Year coming of age, which he does,
by Calendar Law, as soon as the breath is out of the old gentleman's
body, nothing would serve the young spark but he must give a dinner
upon the occasion, to which all the Days in the year were invited.
The Festivals, whom he deputed as his stewards, were mightily taken
with the notion. They had been engaged time out of mind, they said, in
providing mirth and good cheer for mortals below; and it was time they
should have a taste of their own bounty. It was stiffly debated among
them whether the Fasts should be admitted. Some said the appearance of
such lean, starved guests, with their mortified faces, would pervert
the ends of the meeting. But the objection was overruled by Christmas
Day, who had a design upon Ash Wednesday (as you shall hear), and a
mighty desire to see how the old Domine would behave himself in his
cups. Only the Vigils were requested to come with their lanterns, to
light the gentlefolks home at night.
All the Days came to their day. Covers were provided for three hundred
and sixty-five guests at the principal table; with an occasional knife
and fork at the side-board for the Twenty-Ninth of February.
I should have told you, that cards of invitation had been issued. The
carriers were the Hours; twelve little, merry, whirligig foot-pages,
as you should desire to see, that went all round, and found out the
persons invited well enough, with the exception of Easter Day, Shrove
Tuesday, and a few such Moveables, who had lately shifted their
quarters.
Well, they all met at last--foul Days, fine Days, all sorts of Days,
and a rare din they made of it. There was nothing but, Hail! fellow
Day, well met--brother Day--sister Day,--only Lady Day kept a little on
the aloof, and seemed somewhat scornful. Yet some said Twelfth Day cut
her out and out, for she came in a tiffany suit, white and gold, like
a queen on a frost-cake, all royal, glittering, and Epiphanous. The
rest came, some in green, some in white--but old Lent and his family
were not yet out of mourning. Rainy Days came in dripping; and sunshiny
Days helped them to change their stockings. Wedding Day was there in
his marriage finery, a little worse for wear. Pay Day came late, as he
always does; and Doomsday sent word--he might be expected.
April Fool (as my young lord's jester) took upon himself to marshal
the guests, and wild work he made with it. It would have posed old
Erra Pater to have found out any given Day in the year to erect a
scheme upon--good Days, bad Days, were so shuffled together, to the
confounding of all sober horoscopy.
He had stuck the Twenty-First of June next to the Twenty-Second of
December, and the former looked like a Maypole siding a marrow-bone.
Ash Wednesday got wedged in (as was concerted) betwixt Christmas and
Lord Mayor's Days. Lord! how he laid about him! Nothing but barons of
beef and turkeys would go down with him--to the great greasing and
detriment of his new sackcloth bib and tucker. And still Christmas Day
was at his elbow, plying him with the wassail-bowl, till he roared,
and hiccupp'd, and protested there was no faith in dried ling, but
commended it to the devil for a sour, windy, acrimonious, censorious,
hy-po-crit-crit-critical mess, and no dish for a gentleman. Then he
dipt his fist into the middle of the great custard that stood before
his left-hand neighbour, and daubed his hungry beard all over with it,
till you would have taken him for the Last Day in December, it so hung
in icicles.
At another part of the table, Shrove Tuesday was helping the Second
of September to some cock broth,--which courtesy the latter returned
with the delicate thigh of a hen pheasant--so that there was no love
lost for that matter. The Last of Lent was spunging upon Shrove-tide's
pancakes; which April Fool perceiving, told him that he did well, for
pancakes were proper to a good fry-day.
In another part, a hubbub arose about the Thirtieth of January, who,
it seems, being a sour, puritanic character, that thought nobody's
meat good or sanctified enough for him, had smuggled into the room a
calf's head, which he had had cooked at home for that purpose, thinking
to feast thereon incontinently; but as it lay in the dish, March
Manyweathers, who is a very fine lady, and subject to the meagrims,
screamed out there was a "human head in the platter," and raved about
Herodias' daughter to that degree, that the obnoxious viand was obliged
to be removed; nor did she recover her stomach till she had gulped down
a Restorative, confected of Oak Apple, which the merry Twenty-Ninth of
May always carries about with him for that purpose.
The King's health being called for after this, a notable dispute arose
between the Twelfth of August (a zealous old Whig gentlewoman) and the
Twenty-Third of April (a new-fangled lady of the Tory stamp) as to
which of them should have the honour to propose it. August grew hot
upon the matter, affirming time out of mind the prescriptive right to
have lain with her, till her rival had basely supplanted her; whom she
represented as little better than a kept mistress, who went about in
fine clothes, while she (the legitimate Birthday) had scarcely a rag,
etc.
April Fool, being made mediator, confirmed the right, in the strongest
form of words, to the appellant, but decided for peace' sake, that the
exercise of it should remain with the present possessor. At the time,
he slily rounded the first lady in the ear, that an action might lie
against the Crown for bi-geny.
It beginning to grow a little duskish, Candlemas lustily bawled out
for lights, which was opposed by all the Days, who protested against
burning daylight. Then fair water was handed round in silver ewers, and
the same lady was observed to take an unusual time in Washing herself.
May Day, with that sweetness which is peculiar to her, in a neat speech
proposing the health of the founder, crowned her goblet (and by her
example the rest of the company) with garlands. This being done, the
lordly New Year, from the upper end of the table, in a cordial but
somewhat lofty tone, returned thanks. He felt proud on an occasion
of meeting so many of his worthy father's late tenants, promised to
improve their farms, and at the same time to abate (if anything was
found unreasonable) in their rents.
At the mention of this, the four Quarter Days involuntarily looked at
each other, and smiled; April Fool whistled to an old tune of "New
Brooms"; and a surly old rebel at the farther end of the table (who
was discovered to be no other than the Fifth of November) muttered
out, distinctly enough to be heard by the whole company, words to this
effect--that "when the old one is gone, he is a fool that looks for
a better." Which rudeness of his, the guests resenting, unanimously
voted his expulsion; and the malcontent was thrust out neck and heels
into the cellar, as the properest place for such a _boutefeu_ and
firebrand as he had shown himself to be.