Part 1

Transcriber’s Notes

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. Variations in hyphenation and accents have been standardised but all other spelling and punctuation remains unchanged.

Italics are represented thus _italic_.

A Christmas Greeting

By MARIE CORELLI

NEW YORK DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 1901

_Copyright, 1901_

DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY

_All rights reserved_

UNIVERSITY PRESS · JOHN WILSON AND SON · CAMBRIDGE, U. S. A.

“A MERRY CHRISTMAS!”

_A Christmas Greeting_

“A MERRY CHRISTMAS!”

IT is an old, very old, timeworn greeting, this of the friendly “Merry Christmas to you!” and there are some folks among us in these days who profess to hate the very sound of it. It came into use when England was known as “Merrie England,” an appellation which seems more than singular to us who have to endure the inane dullness and melancholy stupidity of “society” as it exists in this present gloriously-progressive Motor-Era. Looking round on the tired, worn, nervous, querulous faces in the crowds that fill the streets and shops at Christmas-time,--hearing the endless complaints, the new diseases, the troubles, real and fancied, of each person who can manage to detain a friend for five minutes’ hurried and morbid conversation,--reading the delectable details of suicide, murder, mania and misadventure preciously garnered up as gems of literature for the million by the halfpenny press--one may reasonably wonder whether England was ever in truth really “merrie,” as recorded. Her ancient sweet songs and ballads, her old-fashioned “Yule games” and picturesque “country dances” would appear to prove her so,--reports of the “open doors” and generous hospitality of her jolly yeomen and hunting squires in bygone days are still extant,--and it may be reasonably asked why, if she was so “merrie” once, she cannot be equally “merrie” again.

“It is a farce to wish _me_ ‘A Merry Christmas,’” says the pessimist--“_I_ have no cause to be merry!”

Quite so! But then, my excellent friend, you must remember that all the world does not wag in your particular way! Strange, isn’t it? You may possibly have thought now and then, as a self-concentrated unit, that because you are not merry (and you never will be, I fear)--therefore no one else has any right to be so. This is your little mistake! However, as it is Christmas-time we will not be hard on you! You shall enjoy yourself in your own approved fashion of being miserable! No one shall interfere with you, provided you do not interfere with anyone else. Grumble away all by yourself! Sneer at “A Merry Christmas”--only do it alone! Curse the frost, the wind, the rain, the robins, the Christmas cards, the puddings, the mince-pies, the holly, the mistletoe (and the kisses under it!), and announce to blank space your detestation of the whole Festival! No one shall come near you, believe me, so long as you keep on your own ground and do not attempt to trespass on your neighbour’s little plot of harmless enjoyment. For there are still a few of us remaining on the planet who are not absolutely and incurably selfish,--who can find their pleasure in making others happy,--who can put aside their own private griefs for the sake of cheering those who are still more grieved,--who can take delight in the laughter and merriment of children, and for whom the anniversary of Christ’s birth is still a sacred day, consecrated to joy and thanksgiving. True it is that every such recurring anniversary must have its sorrowful thought or memory associated with those who are no longer here with us; true it is in very saddest earnest that the cruel grip of War has robbed many a home of its nearest and dearest, who will be missed and mourned when families gather round the Christmas fire and talk of the past in low voices, with tears in their eyes--nevertheless, it is also true, thank God, that those who are gone are neither “lost” nor really “parted” from us. Possibly they are nearer to us in our lonely evenings than we know,--possibly they hear our voices, and see us as they saw us in life. We cannot tell; and as our ignorance of the Divine mysteries leaves us in doubt, let us be even as we would if our beloved ones were here,--cheerful among ourselves, and kind to all those with whom we are brought in contact.

“Ye who have scorned each other Or injured friend or brother, In this fast-fading year; Ye who by word or deed Have made a kind heart bleed, Come, gather here! Let sinn’d against and sinning Forget their strife’s beginning And join in friendship now; Be links no longer broken, Be sweet forgiveness spoken Under the Holly Bough!

“Ye who have nourished sadness, Estranged from hope and gladness In this fast-fading year; Ye with o’er-burdened mind Made aliens from your kind, Come, gather here! Let not your useless sorrow Pursue you night and morrow, If e’er you hoped, hope now! Take heart!--Uncloud your faces. And join in our embraces Under the Holly Bough!”

There is no use in grieving:--there is no sense in quarrelling:--there is no advantage in grumbling. People sacrifice both good health and good looks by constant querulousness. Suppose it _is_ a “cold” Christmas, or a “damp” Christmas, or a “green” Christmas, or an “east-windy” Christmas, or an altogether meteorologically disagreeable Christmas. Well, what then? All the peevishness in the world will not alter it. Some of you who don’t like it will make for Egypt or the Riviera. Much good may it do you! An Arab smell, and the “fleecing” of Cairene hotel proprietors are doubtful additions to Christmas pleasure--and the raucous cry of the _croupier_ at Monte Carlo--“Faites vos jeux, Messieurs et Mesdames!” is scarcely worth crossing the Channel to hear. Perhaps, however, it may be a satisfaction to some folks to spend their surplus cash in “furrin parts” rather than at home? If this should be the case, it will be an equal satisfaction to me to politely intimate that I consider such persons unworthy of their own matchless country. The much abused “English climate” is good enough for anybody. Every sort of “temperature” can be obtained in these favoured British Isles. If warmth, and freedom from east winds be required, it can be obtained at Penzance, Newquay, or Tenby--or better still on the lovely Irish coast at Parknasilla, where palms and tropical trees grow to perfection all winter in the open. Certainly there is no “gambling-hell” there;--there are only warm Irish hearts waiting for sympathy and comprehension, and I venture to think they merit as much good cash spent among them for their benefit as is wasted on the French, who, given the opportunity, abuse their English patrons more outrageously than any wild-headed, big-hearted Irish “agitator” that ever lived. I must confess I have no sympathy with the restless, nervous swarms of semi-lunatics ever “on the go” in search of “change,” who turn their backs on Imperial Britain at the first breath of its winter, which, taken on the whole, is a much more healthy winter than other countries are blessed with. And an “old English Yule” kept in the old English manner is not to be despised. Try it, all you who are not going abroad--you who are not only content, but glad and proud to remain in this

“Earth of Majesty, this seat of Mars, This other Eden, demi-paradise, This fortress built by Nature for herself; ... This little world, This precious stone set in the silver sea!”

Try to keep a happy and “merrie” Christmas in England--try to make it a blessed and unforgettable festival of pleasure for more than yourselves. Do some little special kindness, each one of you, unobtrusively in your own immediate neighbourhood, and never bother about the “inconvenience,” or the “trouble,” or the “cold.”

“Cold Christmas? No! Our Christmas is not cold; Although the north winds blow And pile the drifting snow, And the beech-trees on the freezing wold Rock sadly to and fro. Our Christmas bears a warm, true heart, His face is red with glee, And he jests and laughs And sings and quaffs-- He was never unkind to me, my love, May he never be cold to thee!

“Old Christmas? No! Though states and kingdoms wear, And change and ruin grow From ages as they flow, He’s as light of tread, as young and fair As a thousand years ago. The morning beams are always new And scatter blessings free, And the Christmas Day Is as new as they, He was never old to me, my love; May he never grow old to thee!”

So runs a sweet old song, sung by a true English poet in days long ago gone by, and the clear, clean, glad and wholesome spirit of it is surely worth cherishing. Let none of us say we “hate” Christmas. Whatever our memories, bitter or sweet, they do not belong to the festival, but only to ourselves. Suppose therefore we lose sight of ourselves--our precious selves--just for once in our lives, and consider others a little? If we do this, we shall find it easy to be “merry,” easy to smile, easy to say a kind word, easy to do a kind action, easy to “bring home the holly,” and very easy to hang up the mistletoe and waft a kiss from under it to any cross old boy who declines to be as happy as we would like to make him!

ENGLAND

1901-1902

Lift up thine eyes, Queen-Warrior of the world! Stand, fearless-footed on Time’s shifting verge, And watch the New Year’s doubtful Dawn emerge From parting clouds thick-roll’d in thunderous War! Lo, how thy broad East reddens to the West, The while thy thousand-victoried flag, unfurl’d, Waves to thy North and South in one royal fold Of tent-like shelter for an Empire’s rest; O Queen, sword-girded, helmeted in gold, Strong Conqueror of all thy many foes, Look from thy rocky heights and see afar The coming Future menacing the Past, With clamour and wild change of present things, Kingdoms down-shaken with the fall of kings, But fear not Thou! Thou’rt still the first and last Imperial wearer of the deathless Rose,-- Crown’d with the sunlight, girdled with the sea, Mother of mightiest Nations yet to be!

THE KING’S CROWN

A DREAM OF THE PRESENT AND THE FUTURE

THE late rays of the sinking sun shot rosy lines of light through the high, painted glass casement of a quaint oriel-chamber, where, on a cushion of crimson velvet, shone the Crown of a great King and Emperor. It was set there in readiness for the morrow,--when, at a stately pageant of national rejoicing, all the people would see it raised high above them as a symbol of the Throne and the glory of the land. Deft jewellers had been at work for days, burnishing its golden setting and polishing its priceless jewels,--and now,--their work completed,--they had brought it here for the night, and, to ensure perfect safety, had left it in this special place because it was more difficult of access than any other corner of the Royal palace. It was a small recess apart;--and the only door leading to it was through the “strong room,” where all the gold and silver plate was kept, and where two armed men paced up and down both day and night, keeping close watch and guard. Flashing sparkles of light twinkled every now and again from the precious stones in the Crown, as the sunset hues caught their finely-cut points and touched them into flame; and an atmosphere of silent majesty surrounded the historical emblem of earth’s proudest empire,--lifeless in itself, yet having the strange power of outlasting the life of all its kings! The sun sank; its rays grew paler and dimmer, till by-and-by they faded altogether. Long shadows came, then the twilight, then the dark, and deep silence. Now and again a trumpet-call from the soldiers’ quarters hard by, a bell slowly chiming the hour, or the clash of muskets outside on the courtyard, betokening a change of sentry, broke the solemn hush of night, but beyond this no human sound disturbed the solitude and obscurity of the secret nook which enshrined the Imperial Crown of a still more splendid and imperial Realm.

All suddenly, about an hour before the moon rose, a thick, almost palpable Darkness, darker than the night itself, gathered in the room and began to circle like a threatening storm around the Crown. Gradually this blackness took upon itself shape and stature, and, rising full height, displayed the gigantic form of an Angel with sable wings, and a countenance distorted with cruelty and avarice.

“Mine is the Crown!” he said. “Mine are the People! Mine is the Land, and mine is the King!”

And as he spoke he stretched forth a hand to snatch the Royal diadem, when, like a flame breaking through the walls and floor of the oriel-chamber, a great light shone on every side, and another Angel, stately and majestic, whose snowy wings were like the early rays of the morning sun shining through white and azure, confronted that fierce Spirit of the Darkness.

“Not so!” said a voice clear as a silver clarion. “Mine is the Crown! Mine are the People! Mine is the Kingdom, and mine is the King!”

For one second of time they stood thus opposed one to the other--the country’s Crown between them. Then came the flashing of a great Sword, and the Angel of darkness struck with it fiercely at his god-like rival.

“War!” he cried. “Eternal war! For all the evils of the land there shall be vengeance!”

And like a shaft of lightning through a cloud another fiery Sword parried the savage blow.

“Peace!” said the silver-sounding voice of the Angel of Light. “Glory and peace! For all the evils of the land there shall be justice!”

Then they closed and fought--those mighty, supernatural Warriors,--and in their fearful contest the air around them both grew dense and lurid, and the Crown, glittering with great gems on its crimson velvet cushion, appeared to float in a pool of blood. Closer and more terrible grew the fight,--and the evil angel, with such ferocity as only hate and cruelty can give, twice thrust his dazzling foe to the ground;--twice smote the heavenly-fair head with the great Sword that bore the words “everlasting death” upon its blade. And while they yet battled on, the moon rose, round and full, peering in upon them like a wondering white face of sad and wistful inquiry. For a moment they paused in their conflict,--and the jewels in the Crown suddenly ceased to sparkle. Five aerial forms of exquisite beauty arose from its golden circlet, lifting themselves above it like drifting wreaths of sea-mist in the radiance of the moonlight, and their voices, small and soft, yet clear as the notes of a sweet song, made music in the silence.

“I am the Spirit of the Pearl!” said one. “Through centuries of history I have seen ‘Right’ forever conquer ‘Might,’ and so shall it be again!”

“I am the Spirit of the Ruby!” said another. “I mark both War and Victory! From the bitter agony and labour of strong battle I have seen the birth of Love and Peace! All things, whether gentle or fierce, kind or cruel, have worked together for the good and the glory of the land;--so has it ever been, and so shall it be again!”

“I am the Spirit of the Sapphire!” said the third; “I know the movements of justice--I watch the performing of God’s Will. Through light, through darkness, through gladness and sorrow, God holds His perfect way with kings and kingdoms. Strife is sharp and strong, but Truth is stronger;--so it has ever been, and so it shall be again!”

“I am the Spirit of the Emerald!” said a fourth. “Through all the history of the realm I have counted the tears of the poor, the sufferings of the weak, the griefs of the lonely, and when I set my light on the great king’s brow I move him to deeds of pity and loving-kindness! I watch the world progressing in good,--I know that there is more tenderness than wrath in humanity,--more love than hate! The Empire’s glory is in deeds of mercy! So it has been before--so it shall be again!”

“I am the Spirit of the Diamond!” said the fifth,--“And wherever I shine, there, too, shines the Star of Freedom! No slave can breathe when my light sparkles in the air! Progress and Love and Wisdom spring up at my command, and naught can lessen the Crown’s glory while I remain its central gem! Liberty and honour! These are the watchwords of our mighty Empire! So they have been for ages; so shall they ever be!”

Their voices ceased, and joining their delicate hands they melted into a shining circle about the Crown,--a circle of pure and penetrating light like the early sunbeams of a clear spring morning.

But the Angel of Darkness, resting on his sword, heard them and smiled--a smile darker and more implacable than any frown.

“Oh, foolish, evanescent Shapes! Oh, vain gods of perishable gems!” he cried; “How shall ye combat Me, who hold the mystic Opal!--the stone of sorrow and of death? What is your strength against mine? Less than the strength of reeds in a swift tide,--for I am the Spirit of Mammon, and Time’s great pendulum swings the hour to me! Lo, here shines the Crown’s mischief!--sparkling with a thousand fires of world’s wealth, world’s lust, world’s treachery, world’s vanity!--hues of the rainbow, as fleeting as they are fair! Emblem of ruin and disaster, take Thou thy place in the Crown, and shed My light upon the great King’s brow! Indestructible and terrible!--Jewel of devils and cursing, I set thee there to work My will!”

He raised on high the Opal, glittering like a foam-bell on a treacherous sea,--and then, bending his dark form above the Crown, strove to set it within that golden band. But the magic circle of fire around it grew brighter, and deeper, and wider, till it was like a flame of glory,--springing higher and ever higher, it surrounded the Angel of Light with countless arrowy beams.

“Fight on, God’s Angel of the Kingdom!” said a distant Voice that echoed like thunder far away. “Fight on! Unto thee shall be given the victory!”

Then the Angel raised his sword of Light and struck the Opal from his enemy’s hand. It fell to the ground, shattered to atoms, and a rushing sound as of many waters filled the air.

“New and Old are as one!” said the Voice; “Past and Future are as Present! Fight on, God’s Angel of the Kingdom,--for Now is the acceptable time!”

And once again those mighty Spirits fought,--and, as they crossed their mystic Swords, there came a wailing noise as of the weeping of a great multitude. Cries of passionate grief echoed up from some dismal unseen abyss of suffering, and the anguish of a great People was borne on the double rhythmic beat of a Funeral march and a Battle song. Strange gleaming visions came and went in the darkness:--women’s pale faces worn with toil and sorrow;--dead soldiers slain in their youth, and lying unburied;--grim countenances of foul and lustful men, who occupied their time in digging gold out of newly-made graves, wherein the bodies had scarcely rested long enough to crumble into dust;--bold eyes of false women shining wickedly through skulls that were crowned with gems;--wide seas on which the great ships tossed, bearing the seeds of new nations;--flashing networks of light, on which the quick news travelled in dancing letters of flame! And over all--a Cloud,--and under all--the Crown! The night hours wore away, and still the combat raged,--and still the Angel of the Darkness fought fiercely with the Angel of the Light. And the visions came and went like shadows in a magic mirror--some beautiful, some terrible,--some that were like great storms raging over the land,--some floating by in the halcyon fairness of long summer days. Now and again while that mystic flashing of Swords made luminance in the air, there came a sound of young voices singing in the distance, and the words that broke through the music were like these--

“Sheathed be the sword for ever!--let the drum Be school-boys’ pastime,--let your battles cease;-- And be the cannon’s voice for ever dumb Except to celebrate the joys of peace! Are ye not brothers? God, whom we revere, Is He not the Father of all climes and lands? Form an alliance, holy and sincere, And join, join hands!”

The song died away in a tremulous wave of melody, and a pearly light began to suffuse the atmosphere like the first suggestion of the opening morn. Weary and pale, but still dauntless and unconquered, the Angel of the Light dealt stroke for stroke, blow for blow against his Enemy, when all at once, with a sudden and savage onslaught, the Angel of the Darkness caught his opponent by the arm which held the sword, and almost wrenched the dazzling weapon from his hand. And then the Angel of the Light gave a great cry of supplication.

“O God of Justice and of Love!” petitioned the silver-sounding voice; “Suffer not Thy Christian kingdom to be torn from Thy gracious protection! Clear Thou this Cloud of evil days, and take away the heavy weight of fear and of sorrow from the hearts of Thy stricken and suffering people, who do not forget Thy mercies in the past! Give Me the Crown, O God of Empires!--Give Me the King!”

And as the prayer was spoken, the Angel of the Darkness fell back, weakened and dismayed, for the heavenly Warrior, grasping his sword with redoubled force and purpose, dealt with it one mighty stroke which brought his foe to the ground.

“Yield thou, mine Enemy!” cried the triumphant Angel; “Claim no more that which was never thine! Seek no more that which shall never belong to thee! Mine is the Crown!--mine is the Kingdom!--and mine, by the grace of God, is the King!”

The widening dawn lightened the painted windows with a silver mist, flecked through with palest rose, and the darkness, gathering together, rolled itself up like a curtain and fled away. All shapes of evil and visions of terror vanished;--and as the morning broke, the Angel of the Light, alone and victorious, with snowy wings widespread, and fair face bright with God’s own eternal splendour, lifted the King’s Crown in both radiant hands towards Heaven, to meet the rays of the rising sun and the full golden glory of the Day!

HYMN FOR THE CORONATION

RULER of Empires, God of Perfect Love, That wert, and art, and ever-more shalt be,-- Maker and Master of the worlds above, Saviour of all who fix their hope on Thee,-- Hear us, great Lord of nations new and old, Giver of blessings countless and untold,-- To-day before Thy Throne we pledge anew Our England’s trust in all things high and true, And with united hearts to Thee we bring Him unto whom our loyal faith is due,-- God of our fathers! Guard and bless the King!

The country’s crown we set upon his brow, With prayer, thanksgiving, and the sound of song; Eternal King of kings, receive him now, And fill his soul with power divine and strong; Nerve Thou his hand unto the sceptre’s sway, Guide Thou his steps in every noble way, And let the grace of all things sweet and fair Descend on Her whose spirit pure and rare For happy years the nation’s pride hath been, And now the nation’s crown and throne doth share; God of our fathers! Guard and bless the Queen!

Lord of the Past and Future, let Thy light Shine on this double crowning of our Land! In Peace or War, O God defend the Right And let our shield be still Thy sheltering Hand! Hear and accept Thy grateful people’s praise For all Thy mercies in the former days,-- For present joys, for blessings yet to be, We humbly give the glory unto Thee, And to Thy service we do consecrate The Sovereigns of our Empire of the Sea! God of our fathers! Guard and bless the State!