Mr Bluffs Experiences Of Holidays



I hate holidays, said Bachelor Bluff to me, with some little

irritation, on a Christmas a few years ago. Then he paused an instant,

after which he resumed: I don't mean to say that I hate to see people

enjoying themselves. But I hate holidays, nevertheless, because to me

they are always the dreariest and saddest days of the year. I shudder at

the name of holiday. I dread the approach of
ne, and thank Heaven when

it is over. I pass through, on a holiday, the most horrible sensations,

the bitterest feelings, the most oppressive melancholy; in fact, I am

not myself at holiday-times.

Very strange, I ventured to interpose.

A plague on it! said he, almost with violence. I'm not inhuman. I

don't wish anybody harm. I'm glad people can enjoy themselves. But I

hate holidays all the same. You see, this is the reason: I am a

bachelor; I am without kin; I am in a place that did not know me at

birth. And so, when holidays come around, there is no place anywhere for

me. I have friends, of course; I don't think I've been a very sulky,

shut-in, reticent fellow; and there is many a board that has a place for

me--but not at Christmas-time. At Christmas, the dinner is a family

gathering; and I've no family. There is such a gathering of kindred on

this occasion, such a reunion of family folk, that there is no place for

a friend, even if the friend be liked. Christmas, with all its

kindliness and charity and good-will, is, after all, deuced selfish.

Each little set gathers within its own circle; and people like me, with

no particular circle, are left in the lurch. So you see, on the day of

all the days in the year that my heart pines for good cheer, I'm without

an invitation.

Oh, it's because I pine for good cheer, said the bachelor, sharply,

interrupting my attempt to speak, that I hate holidays. If I were an

infernally selfish fellow, I wouldn't hate holidays. I'd go off and have

some fun all to myself, somewhere or somehow. But, you see, I hate to be

in the dark when all the rest of the world is in light. I hate holidays,

because I ought to be merry and happy on holidays, and can't.

Don't tell me, he cried, stopping the word that was on my lips; I

tell you, I hate holidays. The shops look merry, do they, with their

bright toys and their green branches? The pantomime is crowded with

merry hearts, is it? The circus and the show are brimful of fun and

laughter, are they? Well, they all make me miserable. I haven't any

pretty-faced girls or bright-eyed boys to take to the circus or the

show, and all the nice girls and fine boys of my acquaintance have their

uncles or their grand-dads or their cousins to take them to those

places; so, if I go, I must go alone. But I don't go. I can't bear the

chill of seeing everybody happy, and knowing myself so lonely and

desolate. Confound it, sir, I've too much heart to be happy under such

circumstances! I'm too humane, sir! And the result is, I hate holidays.

It's miserable to be out, and yet I can't stay at home, for I get

thinking of Christmases past. I can't read--the shadow of my heart makes

it impossible. I can't walk--for I see nothing but pictures through the

bright windows, and happy groups of pleasure-seekers. The fact is, I've

nothing to do but to hate holidays.--But will you not dine with me?

Of course, I had to plead engagement with my own family circle, and I

couldn't quite invite Mr. Bluff home _that_ day, when Cousin Charles and

his wife, and Sister Susan and her daughter and three of my wife's kin,

had come in from the country, all to make a merry Christmas with us. I

felt sorry, but it was quite impossible, so I wished Mr. Bluff a merry

Christmas, and hurried homeward through the cold and nipping air.

I did not meet Bachelor Bluff again until a week after Christmas of the

next year, when I learned some strange particulars of what occurred to

him after our parting on the occasion just described. I will let

Bachelor Bluff tell his adventure for himself:

I went to church, said he, and was as sad there as everywhere else.

Of course, the evergreens were pretty, and the music fine; but all

around me were happy groups of people, who could scarcely keep down

_merry_ Christmas long enough to do reverence to _sacred_ Christmas. And

nobody was alone but me. Every happy paterfamilias in his pew tantalized

me, and the whole atmosphere of the place seemed so much better suited

to every one else than me that I came away hating holidays worse than

ever. Then I went to the play, and sat down in a box all alone by

myself. Everybody seemed on the best of terms with everybody else, and

jokes and banter passed from one to another with the most good-natured

freedom. Everybody but me was in a little group of friends. I was the

only person in the whole theater that was alone. And then there was such

clapping of hands, and roars of laughter, and shouts of delight at all

the fun going on upon the stage, all of which was rendered doubly

enjoyable by everybody having somebody with whom to share and

interchange the pleasure, that my loneliness got simply unbearable, and

I hated holidays infinitely worse than ever.

By five o'clock the holiday became so intolerable that I said I'd go

and get a dinner. The best dinner the town could provide. A sumptuous

dinner. A sumptuous dinner for one. A dinner with many courses, with

wines of the finest brands, with bright lights, with a cheerful fire,

with every condition of comfort--and I'd see if I couldn't for once

extract a little pleasure out of a holiday!

The handsome dining-room at the club looked bright, but it was empty.

Who dines at this club on Christmas but lonely bachelors? There was a

flutter of surprise when I ordered a dinner, and the few attendants

were, no doubt, glad of something to break the monotony of the hours.

My dinner was well served. The spacious room looked lonely; but the

white, snowy cloths, the rich window-hangings, the warm tints of the

walls, the sparkle of the fire in the steel grate, gave the room an air

of elegance and cheerfulness; and then the table at which I dined was

close to the window, and through the partly-drawn curtains were visible

centers of lonely, cold streets, with bright lights from many a window,

it is true, but there was a storm, and snow began whirling through the

street. I let my imagination paint the streets as cold and dreary as it

would, just to extract a little pleasure by way of contrast from the

brilliant room of which I was apparently sole master.

I dined well, and recalled in fancy old, youthful Christmases, and

pledged mentally many an old friend, and my melancholy was mellowing

into a low, sad undertone, when, just as I was raising a glass of wine

to my lips, I was startled by a picture at the window-pane. It was a

pale, wild, haggard face, in a great cloud of black hair, pressed

against the glass. As I looked, it vanished. With a strange thrill at my

heart, which my lips mocked with a derisive sneer, I finished the wine

and set down the glass. It was, of course, only a beggar-girl that had

crept up to the window and stole a glance at the bright scene within;

but still the pale face troubled me a little, and threw a fresh shadow

on my heart. I filled my glass once more with wine, and was again about

to drink, when the face reappeared at the window. It was so white, so

thin, with eyes so large, wild, and hungry-looking, and the black,

unkempt hair, into which the snow had drifted, formed so strange and

weird a frame to the picture, that I was fairly startled. Replacing,

untasted, the liquor on the table, I rose and went close to the pane.

The face had vanished, and I could see no object within many feet of the

window. The storm had increased, and the snow was driving in wild gusts

through the streets, which were empty, save here and there a hurrying

wayfarer. The whole scene was cold, wild, and desolate, and I could not

repress a keen thrill of sympathy for the child, whoever it was, whose

only Christmas was to watch, in cold and storm, the rich banquet

ungratefully enjoyed by the lonely bachelor. I resumed my place at the

table; but the dinner was finished, and the wine had no further relish.

I was haunted by the vision at the window, and began, with an

unreasonable irritation at the interruption, to repeat with fresh warmth

my detestation of holidays. One couldn't even dine alone on a holiday

with any sort of comfort, I declared. On holidays one was tormented by

too much pleasure on one side, and too much misery on the other. And

then, I said, hunting for justification of my dislike of the day, 'How

many other people are, like me, made miserable by seeing the fullness of

enjoyment others possessed!

Oh, yes, I know, sarcastically replied the bachelor to a comment of

mine; of course, all magnanimous, generous, and noble-souled people

delight in seeing other people made happy, and are quite content to

accept this vicarious felicity. But I, you see, and this dear little


Dear little girl!

Oh, I forgot, said Bachelor Bluff, blushing a little, in spite of a

desperate effort not to do so, I didn't tell you. Well, it was so

absurd! I kept thinking, thinking of the pale, haggard, lonely little

girl on the cold and desolate side of the window-pane, and the over-fed,

discontented, lonely old bachelor on the splendid side of the

window-pane; and I didn't get much happier thinking about it, I can

assure you. I drank glass after glass of the wine--not that I enjoyed

its flavor any more, but mechanically, as it were, and with a sort of

hope thereby to drown unpleasant reminders. I tried to attribute my

annoyance in the matter to holidays, and so denounced them more

vehemently than ever. I rose once in a while and went to the window, but

could see no one to whom the pale face could have belonged.

At last, in no very amiable mood, I got up, put on my wrappers, and

went out; and the first thing I did was to run against a small figure

crouching in the doorway. A face looked up quickly at the rough

encounter, and I saw the pale features of the window-pane. I was very

irritated and angry, and spoke harshly; and then, all at once, I am sure

I don't know how it happened, but it flashed upon me that I, of all men,

had no right to utter a harsh word to one oppressed with so wretched a

Christmas as this poor creature was. I couldn't say another word, but

began feeling in my pocket for some money, and then I asked a question

or two, and then I don't quite know how it came about--isn't it very

warm here? exclaimed Bachelor Bluff, rising and walking about, and

wiping the perspiration from his brow.

Well, you see, he resumed nervously, it was very absurd, but I did

believe the girl's story--the old story, you know, of privation and

suffering, and all that--and just thought I'd go home with the brat and

see if what she said was all true. And then I remembered that all the

shops were closed, and not a purchase could be made. I went back and

persuaded the steward to put up for me a hamper of provisions, which the

half-wild little youngster helped me carry through the snow, dancing

with delight all the way.--And isn't this enough?

Not a bit, Mr. Bluff. I must have the whole story.

I declare, said Bachelor Bluff, there's no whole story to tell. A

widow with children in great need, that was what I found; and they had a

feast that night, and a little money to buy them a load of wood and a

garment or two the next day; and they were all so bright, and so merry,

and so thankful, and so good, that, when I got home that night, I was

mightily amazed that, instead of going to bed sour at holidays, I was in

a state of great contentment in regard to holidays. In fact, I was

really merry. I whistled. I sang. I do believe I cut a caper. The poor

wretches I had left had been so merry over their unlooked-for Christmas

banquet that their spirits infected mine.

And then I got thinking again. Of course, holidays had been miserable

to me, I said. What right had a well-to-do, lonely old bachelor hovering

wistfully in the vicinity of happy circles, when all about there were so

many people as lonely as he, and yet oppressed with want? 'Good

gracious!' I exclaimed, 'to think of a man complaining of loneliness

with thousands of wretches yearning for his help and comfort, with

endless opportunities for work and company, with hundreds of pleasant

and delightful things to do! Just to think of it!' It put me in a great

fury at myself to think of it. I tried pretty hard to escape from myself

and began inventing excuses and all that sort of thing, but I rigidly

forced myself to look squarely at my own conduct. And then I reconciled

my conscience by declaring that, if ever after that day I hated a

holiday again, might my holidays end at once and forever!

Did I go and see my _proteges_ again? What a question! Why--well, no

matter. If the widow is comfortable now, it is because she has found a

way to earn without difficulty enough for her few wants. That's no fault

of mine. I would have done more for her, but she wouldn't let me. But

just let me tell you about New Year's--the New-Year's-day that followed

the Christmas I've been describing. It was lucky for me there was

another holiday only a week off. Bless you! I had so much to do that day

that I was completely bewildered, and the hours weren't half long

enough. I did make a few social calls, but then I hurried them over; and

then hastened to my little girl, whose face had already caught a touch

of color; and she, looking quite handsome in her new frock and her

ribbons, took me to other poor folk, and--well, that's about the whole


Oh, as to the next Christmas. Well, I didn't dine alone, as you may

guess. It was up three stairs, that's true, and there was none of that

elegance that marked the dinner of the year before; but it was merry,

and happy, and bright; it was a generous, honest, hearty, Christmas

dinner, that it was, although I do wish the widow hadn't talked so much

about the mysterious way a turkey had been left at her door the night

before. And Molly--that's the little girl--and I had a rousing appetite.

We went to church early; then we had been down to the Five Points to

carry the poor outcasts there something for their Christmas dinner; in

fact, we had done wonders of work, and Molly was in high spirits, and so

the Christmas dinner was a great success.

Dear me, sir, no! Just as you say. Holidays are not in the least

wearisome any more. Plague on it! When a man tells me now that he hates

holidays, I find myself getting very wroth. I pin him by the button-hole

at once, and tell him my experience. The fact is, if I were at dinner on

a holiday, and anybody should ask me for a sentiment, I should say, God

bless all holidays!