THE IDLER'S CLUB.

DO I ASSOCIATE CHRISTMAS WITH MERRIMENT?

BY JUSTIN MCCARTHY, M.P., ARTHUR LAWRENCE, AND G. B. BURGIN.

Justin McCarthy, M.P. affirms reservedly.

Do I associate Christmas with merriment? Such is the question which THE IDLER propounds to me after the fashion of his peculiar idlesse. Well, I must answer the question with certain reservations. We are told, on the best authority, that the husband of Juliet's nurse was a merry man, but I doubt whether even he, merry although he was, could, had he lived to my time of life, have associated Christmas merely with merriment. For, unless his luck was very different from that of most other mortals, he must, at the later returns of his Christmas, have come to associate the season with memories of some who were no longer there to join in his December revelries, to consume with him the porridge of plums, and to kiss, or to be kissed, under his mistletoe. Therefore, I think Mr. Nurse-if I may call him so must have felt his manly eyes dimmed by an unbidden tear as he endeavoured to rouse himself into the proper spirit for the high jinks of the festival.

Yet I may hope that the merry man would find himself equal to the occasion, and would recognise the fact that, although he was elderly, there were still cakes and ale, and that ginger was hot in mouth, too. One must be of melancholic temperament indeed who does not find his heart swell with some feelings of seasonable gladness when the dear old Christmas brings its immemorial rejoicing to the boys and girls and its bright and sacred thoughts to the minds of the elders. Then surely the most doleful and pessimistic of us must have a memory of Christmas seasons that were all brightness to him, and may allow his heart-for once in the year at all events—to grow young again, even though his looking-glass assures him that he is now a grizzled, grim old fogey. The man who cannot blow up that spark among the smouldering ashes of his life is not fit to be admitted into any goodly Christmas company, and, Mr. IDLER, I am proud to say I am not that man.

Veritably, from the early days of my blameless youth even unto Arthur Lawrence the present time of my ripened young middle-age, I have been says "No!" taught that Christmas is indeed the chosen time for that jollification and rapturous abandonment to the delight of the moment which is so characteristic of British-born subjects. It is the time chosen when no one need fear reproof for a disposition to evince the unrestrained gaiety of the English character, or the inoffensive

frivolity of its holiday manners. Such a one, indeed, am I, and if any of my two friends and three acquaintances shall observe me dragging myself along as if with the care of our foreign policy on my shoulders, with contracted brows and scowling visage, methinks that the pleasant and seasonable benediction which shall fall from my lips will be evidence that I am in a merry mood. No one will have any doubt about that.

I have heard mere triflers with life speak of unpaid bills as being a possible sorrow at this festive season; but while I have no wish to offend any patient creditor by an assurance that I have no unpaid bills, or expect anyone else to believe it, I don't think these can trouble any human creature who has mastered the elements o. practical philosophy. If you are able to settle 'em, well and good; if not, I have never heard that a perturbed expression will be accepted in lieu of a cheque, and so, in either event, such matters need not disturb one's natural placidity. What does trouble one at Christmas time is the strenuous attempt made by those around oneno doubt a reflection of one's own elephantine gambols-to attain merriment at all costs. It is a hazardous experiment and no doubt incurs a physical strain which is dangerous to many. There is certainly some reason why one should associate Christmas with merriment by force of contrast. When the snow lies thick on the ground or is pounded into awful slush by interminable traffic, and the air is bitingly keen with (preferably) a weird, soughing wind that whistles and shrieks in a sin-striken manner around the four walls of one's house, then does human nature hug itself for very joy at the thought of how merry it is to be shut in from the elements; and human nature not only tries to be gay and festive, but makes a special effort to be a little more expensively gay and festive than the neighbour next door.

But, after all, one must play the game, and perhaps it is not a bad game to play. Nor is it reasonable to expect any special expertness on the part of the players when it is recollected that the game is only played once a year. It is, moreover, the brilliantly sad, thoughtful man like myself, with the conglomerated weariness of centuries within him, who succeeds in seeming a joyful if witless jester, and at these times even the fool is blessed for his folly. So, ladies and gentlemen, the beef, and the turkey, and the plum pudding are before you. Eat, drink, and be merry. Let not the fact that the season and social law insist upon your being merry depress you. All honour, indeed, to the man, or woman, who is found generous in kindly looks, word, and thought, whose merriment is real, benevolent, strong, and infectious; nor will we enquire too closely if, imperceptible to the rest, there may seem to him or to her to be one vacant chair, or that holly or mistletoe bring memories that sting because they can be no more than memories. If it be necessary

that we shall have aggressive landmarks for our merriment, let us, at all events, hope, as we lift our glasses to one another, that we shall not be merely merry in the shape of one spasm per annum, but that we retain our generosity of sentiment all the year round.

Do I associate Christmas with merriment? Rather! I have had a Burgin says chat with the ghost of the late Charles Dickens on the subject of the "Rather.' Ibsenitish and Maeterlinkish Christmasses we have endured of late years, and we both came to the conclusion that it is about time someone put an end to them. Just ask yourself in all seriousness what are you going to look forward to after a year of continuous troubles and worries if you can't anticipate a little merriment at Christmas. Of course the bills come in-so does the maiden aunt from the country-and refuse to go out again without "a little something on account." But then, when you ordered things, you knew, not being a swindler, that you would have to pay for them some day. It isn't the fault of Christmas.

I used to feel rather annoyed at Christmas because a certain religious body, to which I have the honour to belong, sends me a neat little printed circular at this time of the year and wants to know (1) “Have you made your will? (2) Have you

paid your debts? (3) Have you wronged any of your neighbours?" Of course, one has to sit down then and think out things. Did I wrong Jones when he sneaked my tennis balls and I ran over his old brown hen with the garden roller by way of retaliation? To parody the words of an ancient poem,

The hen recovered from the roll,

The roller smashed and died.

So I did not wrong Jones. Making a will is, of course, an idle formality with an author nowadays; the Income Tax man always gets all his little savings. I had a dividend for five shillings come in the other day, and the Income Tax man, with incredible meanness, deducted twopence. I might have lunched on that twopence. And as to paying one's bills, who ever gave tick to a "literary gent"?

My ancient gardener (next to the Income Tax man, he is the most exacting person I know) came in this morning and hinted that he wanted his "Christmas box." He also intimated his willingness to forgive what he called my "blamed stubbornness about them 'olly'ocks last summer.' "Are you looking forward to being merry?" was my unfortunate question. "As merry as a lord," was his prompt reply, "if it runs to it." I gave him two shillings, and he seemed so dissatisfied that I had to tell him about the two North-countrymen who were discussing the cheapest way of getting drunk. "Eh, Geordie," said one, "I've been trying and trying and I canna get drunk under eighteenpence." "Why, mon!" said the other, in grieved surprise, "I'll tak thee to a place where thee can burn tha liver out for ninepence." My gardener said that they managed those things better up North.

But I'm going to be "merry" in another sense. I shall play with the children, eat all I can, dance till I haven't a leg lett, do my utmost to remember the poor, greet with heartfelt merriment the few dear friends who refrain from criticising my books-the race of heroes is not yet extinct-buy the cat a new neck-ribbon, and just sit down for a sober five minutes to take the bearings of life and see whether my navigation is all right. If I'm drifting on to a lee shore, there's always a Pilot to take me over the bar. What's that?"God bless you, merry gentlemen, may nothing you dismay." "God bless us all," said Tiny Tim. So shall we be exceeding merry and enjoy our Christmas!