is ourselves. Who does not remember the first inkling of a suspicion
that Christmas Day was after all a day rather like any other day? In the
house of my memories, it was the immemorial duty of my brother on
Christmas morning, before anything else whatever happened, to sit down
to the organ and perform "Christians Awake" with all possible stops
drawn. He had to do it. Tradition, and the will that emanated from the
best bedroom, combined to force him to do it. One Christmas morning, as
he was preparing the stops, he glanced aside at me with a supercilious
curl of the lips, and the curl of my lips silently answered. It was as
if he had said: "I condescend to this," and as if I had said: "So do I."

Such a moment comes to most of us of this generation. And thenceforward
the change in us is extraordinarily rapid. The next thing we know is
that the institution of waits is a rather annoying survival which at
once deprives us of sleep and takes money out of our pockets. And then
Christmas is gluttony and indigestion and expensiveness and quarter-day,
and Christmas cards are a tax and a nuisance, and present-giving is a
heavier tax and a nuisance. And we feel self-conscious and foolish as we
sing "Auld Lang Syne." And what a blessing it will be when the
"festivities" (as they are misleadingly called) are over, and we can
settle down into commonsense again!

* * * * *

I do not mean that our hearts are black with despair on Christmas Day.
I do not mean that we do not enjoy ourselves on Christmas Day. There is
no doubt that, with the inspiriting help of the mysterious race, and by
the force of tradition, and by our own gift of pretending, we do still
very much enjoy ourselves on Christmas Day. What I mean to insinuate,
and to assert, is that beneath this enjoyment is the disconcerting and