The Recollections of an Eighteenth-Century Gentleman of the Craft DATE: December 6th 1783 Feast of Saint Nicholas WEATHER: Mild OUTLOOK: Bitter And there shall come a great profit throughout the land...

Saint Nicholas was a Turkish Bishop. He is reputed to have saved three orphaned sisters from prostitution by filling their stockings, hung out to dry, with gold coins. This pleasant practice is recalled in the tradition of children hanging their stockings up on Christmas Eve in the hope of similar reward. He is, understandably, the patron saint of unmarried girls. He is also the patron of pawnbrokers, apothecaries, perfumers, sailors and schoolboys. Some contend that the three gold balls hung up outside pawnbrokers’ shops allude to his generosity to the three sisters but I suspect that they are a reference to the coat of arms of the Medici. As far as the perfumers go, it is reputed that his tomb, at Bare, issued forth sweetness in the form of myrrh. The link between schoolboys – in particular choirboys – and sailors, other than a fondness for foul language, is that he resurrected parties of both from untimely and unjust death. An all-round good fellow then, whom one would be happy to welcome into one’s lodge.
    The goodly bishop is known to most folk through his association with the Christmas Season and the giving of presents. As with so many practices, we have made this imperfect. As I look about me at this time of year I fear that the saint must be spinning in his scented sepulchre. Do none but I understand the difference between a present and a gift, between charity and indulgence? Gifts are given by God: the gift of beauty, the gift of music, the gift of good health! Presents are given by us, to each other, when they ought to be given to the poor! It makes me cross…
    Just yesterday I was walking down Jermyn Street, thinking to buy Mrs. Lightfoote some perfume, when my ears were assaulted by what I at first took to be the cries of persons in panic and in pain. I hurried forward, ready to give what aid I could, assuming that a carriage must have overturned or some such similar catastrophe occurred –but it was carol singers! It was impossible to tell what carol they were singing, even assuming that they were all singing the same one, but whatever it was it came to a ragged conclusion as I came up. A young ruffian in a ruff rattled a box at me and demanded that I spare him a copper. ‘What for?’ I enquired. ‘Christmas, of course,’ the filthy urchin replied, bold as brass. I clarified my question. ‘For whom are you collecting, boy? Widows? Orphans? The poor and distressed?’ ‘No!’ he barked, ‘It’s for us, innit.’ The only thing this chubby little extortioner appeared to me to be in need of was a good hiding, but thrashing choristers in public, esp. during the Festive Season, might easily be interpreted as anti-social behaviour and one has to be so careful about that kind of thing nowadays.
    I advanced, pursued by a torrent of obscenities that would have made a naval surgeon blush, to the doors of my grocer’s shop. The place was heaving with humanity of every hue and it was only after some delay that I managed to collar a clerk and confirm the contents of the Lightfoote hamper: a ripe Stilton cheese, ditto Cheshire, a side of Hereford beef, three York hams, pork pies, rabbit pies, pigeon pies, game pies; hen’s eggs, quail’s eggs, duck’s eggs, plover’s eggs; French brandy, Scotch whisky, Plymouth gin and halfa- dozen cases of Yardy’s Wolfshead port to give away – I’m not wasting the ’59 on trades people! Five geese, four colley birds, three French hens – the usual stuff. It suddenly occurred to me that there were people in this world – in this city – who would not have enough to eat on Christmas Day or indeed on any other day and I suddenly felt quite guilty. I thought of cancelling my order but the thought soon passed; instead, I ordered that it should be doubled so that half may be given to those in need.

Everything that I have this Christmas, someone else will have too and my resolution for the new year is to place in the alms dish what I pay for my dinner. Buoyed up with feelings of comfort and joy I sallied forth, back into Jermyn Street in search of scent. The Carollers were still at it but I could now discern the words that they were singing. Ye who now shall bless the poor, Shall yourselves find blessing! And a merry Christmas to you all, brethren!