Part 5

In England, the same veneration seems to have been bestowed, time out of mind, upon the holly. Its glossy, pointed leaves symbolize the crown of thorns, and the berries the crimson blood-drops that gathered upon the Saviour’s brow. Like the fir, it is ever green and full of life--as the love of Christ to mankind. Indeed this almost instinctive association of green boughs and all bright, growing things with the joy and beauty of religious life, extends throughout written history. The Israelites in the desert were taught (if they had not already adopted a custom which was thus merely confirmed and sanctified) to “take the boughs of goodly trees, branches of palm trees, and the boughs of thick trees, and willows of the brook; and ye shall rejoice before the Lord your God seven days” (Leviticus 23: 40).

So, too, the wreaths of green leaves attributed to the Greek and Roman deities, and awarded to those who seemed most godlike, in peace or war. When Christ entered Jerusalem, the fittest expressions of the joy, the thanksgiving and the reverent worship of the multitude were the palm branches, strewn in the path of him who was victorious over Evil, and who--not conquered death, but showed him to be only the angel of Life, with the shadowy side of his face turned towards us, as he comes between us and the Everlasting Light.

In the early days of England the Druids were accustomed to go forth at Christmas and gather the sacred mistletoe; while even the poor and humbler folk brought evergreen and hung it up in their cottages, that the gentle spirits of the forest might dwell there in safety till the sun should shine again. In these modern days it has become the fashion to use evergreens more and more generously. The two largest of the Boston markets are surrounded, for a week preceding Christmas day, with a spicy forest of spruce and fir-trees, while the sidewalks are half hidden beneath great fragrant heaps of “princess pine” and “creeping Jenny,” in the form of wreaths, crosses and trimming. Holly, too, is used in larger quantities every year, and altogether the times seem to be returning, which dear old Sir Walter longed for when he sung:

Heap on more wood!--the wind is chill But let it whistle as it will, We’ll keep our Christmas merry still. Each age has deemed the new-born year The fittest time for festal cheer. And well our Christian sires of old Loved when the year its course had rolled, And brought blithe Christmas back again, With all its hospitable train. Domestic and religious rite Gave honor to the holy night; On Christmas eve the bells were rung; On Christmas eve the mass was sung; That only night in all the year, Saw the stoled priest the chalice rear.

The damsel donned her kirtle sheen; The hall was dressed with holly green; Forth to the wood did merry men go, To gather in the mistletoe. Then opened wide the baron’s hall To vassal, tenant, serf, and all; Power laid his rod of rule aside, And ceremony doffed his pride; All hailed with uncontrolled delight And general voice the happy night That to the cottage, as the crown, Brought tidings of salvation down.

England was merry England, when Old Christmas brought his sports again. ’Twas Christmas broached the mightiest ale; ’Twas Christmas told the merriest tale; A Christmas gambol oft could cheer The poor man’s heart through half the year.

Of all the supernatural visitors who roused old Scrooge from his slumbers in Dickens’ immortal “Carol,” by far the most interesting was the Ghost of Christmas Present. The Past is a memory; the Future a dream; the Present is ours. With its ghost--or its spirit, to free ourselves from uncanny associations with the name--we are intimately associated: it is the key-note, or rather the theme, which determines the harmony or discord of the year.

What, then, is the spirit of our own Christmas Present? what the underlying motive and thought, the impulse that turns our population out of their comfortable homes in the snowy streets during the most inclement month of our New England year, and then as universally gathers each family circle within doors on that one supreme Day of days? which decks counter, wall, window, and altar with evergreen, type of Eternal Life; which loosens the purse-strings of rich and poor; which brings the name of Christ tenderly to the lips of young and old? With all this we have much to do. Here it is, the spirit of Christmas, analyzable or not, for good or for evil.

There is much outcry nowadays against the extravagant mysticism which pervades the observance of the day. Christmas cards have run wild with grotesque fancies. Christmas games, legends, stories, plays,--even the columns of the daily press are full of them. At this season, the compositor may keep standing the words “Christmas,” “Bethlehem,” “Christ,” so often are they called into service.

There is the mysticism, the revival of the ancient myth and folk-belief; and there is the rush of “the trade” for the pecuniary advantages of the public tender-heartedness. One man gazes at the Star until he stumbles in the highway: his neighbor stands at the gates of Bethlehem on Christmas morning and takes toll. These are the extremes, never more marked, more obtrusive, than in this year of our Lord 1898.

But between the two, hurrying over the fields toward the city by the light of the Star, and thronging through the gates toward the little manger throne, are the vast numbers of honest, earnest, sincere men and women who find at Christmastide their perplexed lives made clear, their hopes brightened, their burdens lightened, their strength renewed for the twelvemonth to come.

To the mysticism, the love for glorified myth and legend, that characterizes the Spirit of Christmas Present, they find an answering chord in their own hearts, which will not be satisfied with shallow interpretations of the day; which demands something deeper, and cannot rest content with the broken clause, “On earth peace, good will toward men,” but must echo the wonderful song that rang out over the dark hill-slopes of Judæa, “Glory to God in the highest.”

As we gather about the cradle of every wee human child, born by such wondrous miracle, so on each Christmas Eve the world gathers at the rude manger where its Baby is laid, gazing into the gentle, radiant face, and whispering, “There is born this day a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord!”

“Mysticism,”--life is clothed in mystery! The birth of the poorest, meanest child, in the shabbiest attic of your street of ill repute, is a mystery far too sacred for man to divine. How shall we smile at those who find in Christmas the consummate Mystery, the holiest miracle that the weary, wondering earth has known?

The holiest, the deepest, and yet the simplest! For Christmas Day is pre-eminently a day for entering the kingdom as a child. The door of the stable is low; and we must stoop as we enter hand in hand with little folk,--so sweet, so humble, so dear to everyday, plain home-living is this Christian season of merrymaking.

The august features of the wise astrologers of the East relax, as they turn from the Star to the face of the Child. The tax-gatherer forgets his calling, and at last joins the throng of Christmas joy-makers and joy-receivers, who find kindly impersonation in “Santa Claus.”

Let the card-dealers, then, and the writers of pretty fancies--the students of folk-lore, the devotees of mystic rite--have their way; let the tradesman prosper in the time of gift-giving; and every toiler in the wide business field reap his golden harvest or glean his few sheaves, as he may. We will not cast out from the Spirit of Christmas Present its solemnity, its prosperity, its simple and innocent gayety. There is no danger at present that Christmas shall be too much observed in America: there is only the danger that its good cheer and deeper thought, its impulse of benevolence and good will toward men, shall be confined to a few days or weeks of the year.

Extremes of enthusiasm will ripen into earnest living. It is narrowness and coldness, the mere humanitarian spirit of good morals, the sneer at Christmas sentiment, that are to be dreaded. It is the spirit of “Christmas all the year round” that is to be prayed for.

VII

MRS. BROWNLOW’S CHRISTMAS PARTY

It was fine Christmas weather. Several light snow-storms in the early part of December had left the earth fair and white, and the sparkling, cold days that followed were enough to make the most crabbed and morose of mankind cheerful, as with a foretaste of the joyous season at hand. Down town the sidewalks were crowded with mothers and sisters, buying gifts for their sons, brothers, and husbands, who found it impossible to get anywhere by taking the ordinary course of foot-travel, and were obliged to stalk along the snowy streets beside the curbstone, in a sober but not ill-humored row.

Among those who were looking forward to the holidays with keen anticipations of pleasure, were Mr. and Mrs. Brownlow, of Elm Street, Boston. They had quietly talked the matter over together, and decided that, as there were three children in the family (not counting themselves, as they might well have done), it would be a delightful and not too expensive luxury to give a little Christmas party.

“You see, John,” said Mrs. Brownlow, “we’ve been asked, ourselves, to half a dozen candy-pulls and parties since we’ve lived here, and it seems nothin’ but fair that we should do it once ourselves.”

“That’s so, Clarissy,” replied her husband slowly; “but then--there’s so many of us, and my salary’s--well, it would cost considerable, little woman, wouldn’t it?”

“I’ll tell you what!” she exclaimed. “We needn’t have a regular grown-up party, but just one for children. We can get a small tree, and a bit of a present for each of the boys and girls, with ice-cream and cake, and let it go at that. The whole thing sha’n’t cost ten dollars.”

“Good!” said Mr. Brownlow heartily. “I knew you’d get some way out of it. Let’s tell Bob and Sue and Polly, so they can have the fun of looking forward to it.”

So it was settled and all hands entered into the plan with such a degree of earnestness that one would have thought these people were going to have some grand gift themselves, instead of giving to others, and pinching for a month afterwards, in their own comforts, as they knew they would have to do.

The first real difficulty they met was in deciding whom to invite. John was for asking only the children of their immediate neighbors; but Mrs. Brownlow said it would be a kindness, as well as polite, to include those who were better off than themselves.

“I allus think, John,” she explained, laying her hand on his shoulder, “that it’s just’s much despisin’ to look down on your rich neighbors--as if all they’d got was money--as on your poor ones. Let’s ask ’em all: Deacon Holsum’s, the Brights, and the Nortons.” The Brights were Mr. Brownlow’s employers.

“Anybody else?” queried her husband, with his funny twinkle. “P’raps you’d like to have me ask the governor’s family, or Jordan & Marsh!”

“Now, John, don’t you be saucy,” she laughed, relieved at having carried her point. “Let’s put our heads together, and see who to set down. Susie will write the notes in her nice hand, and Bob can deliver them, to save postage.”

“Well, you’ve said three,” counted Mr. Brownlow on his fingers. “Then there’s Mrs. Sampson’s little girl, and the four Williamses, and”--he enumerated one family after another, till nearly thirty names were on the list.

Once Susie broke in, “O Pa, _don’t_ invite that Mary Spenfield; she’s awfully stuck-up and cross!”

“Good!” said her father again. “This will be just the thing for her. Let her be coffee and you be sugar, and see how much you can sweeten her that evening.”

In the few days that intervened before the twenty-fifth, the whole family were busy enough, Mrs. Brownlow shopping, Susie writing the notes, and the others helping wherever they got a chance. Every evening they spread out upon the sitting-room floor such presents as had been bought during the day. These were not costly, but they were chosen lovingly, and seemed very nice indeed to Mr. Brownlow and the children, who united in praising the discriminating taste of Mrs. B., as with justifiable pride she sat in the center of the room, bringing forth her purchases from the depths of a capacious carpetbag.

The grand final expenditure was left until the day before Christmas. Mr. Brownlow got off from his work early, with his month’s salary in his pocket, and a few kind words from his employers tucked away even more securely in his warm heart. He had taken special pains to include their children for his party, and he was quietly enjoying the thought of making them happy on the morrow.

By a preconcerted plan he met Mrs. Brownlow under the great golden eagle at the corner of Summer and Washington streets; and, having thus joined forces, the two proceeded in company toward a certain wholesale toy-shop where Mr. Brownlow was acquainted, and where they expected to secure such small articles as they desired, at dozen rates.

And now Mr. Brownlow realized what must have been his wife’s exertions during the last fortnight. For having gallantly relieved her of her carpetbag, and offered his unoccupied arm for her support, he was constantly engaged in a struggle to maintain his hold upon either one or the other of his charges, and rescuing them with extreme difficulty from the crowd. At one time he was simultaneously attacked at both vulnerable points, a very stout woman persisting in thrusting herself between him and his already bulging carpetbag, on the one hand, and an equally persistent old gentleman engaged in separating Mrs. Brownlow from him, on the other. With flushed but determined face he held on to both with all his might, when a sudden stampede, to avoid a passing team, brought such a violent pressure upon him that he found both Clarissa and bag dragged from him, while he himself was borne at least a rod away before he could stem the tide. Fortunately, the stout woman immediately fell over the bag, and Mr. Brownlow, having by this means identified the spot where it lay, hewed his way, figuratively speaking, to his wife and bore her off triumphantly. At last, to the relief of both, they reached the entrance of the toy-dealer’s huge store. Mr. Brownlow at once hunted up his friend, and all three set about a tour of the premises.

It was beyond doubt a wonderful place. A little retail shop, in the Christmas holidays, is of itself a marvel; but this immense establishment, at the back doors of which stood wagons constantly receiving cases on cases of goods directed to all parts of the country, was quite another thing. Such long passageways there were, walled in from floor to ceiling with boxes of picture-blocks, labeled in German; such mysterious, gloomy alcoves, by the sides of which lurked innumerable wild animals with glaring eyes and rigid tails; such fleets of Noah’s arks, wherein were bestowed the patriarch’s whole family (in tight-fitting garments of yellow and red) and specimens of all creation, so promiscuously packed together that it must have been extremely depressing to all concerned; such a delicious smell of sawdust and paint and wax; in short such presentation of Toy in the abstract, and Toy in particular, and Toy overhead, and underfoot, and in the very air,--could never have existed outside of Cottlow & Co.’s, Manufacturers, Dealers, and Importers of Toys.

Mrs. Brownlow was fairly at her wits’ end to choose. When she meekly inquired for tin soldiers, solid regiments of them sprang up, like Jason’s armed men, at her bidding. At the suggestion of a doll, the world seemed suddenly and solely peopled with these little creatures, and winking, crying, walking and talking dolls crowded about the bewildered customers,--dolls with flaxen hair, and dolls with no hair at all; dolls of imposing proportions when viewed in front, but of no thickness to speak of, when held sideways; dolls as rigid as mummies, and dolls who exhibited an alarming tendency to double their arms and legs up backward. To add to the confusion, the air was filled with the noise of trumpets, drums, musical boxes and other instruments, which were being tested in various parts of the building, until poor Mrs. Brownlow declared she should go distracted. At length, however, she and her husband, with the assistance of their polite friend, succeeded in selecting two or three dozen small gifts, and, when the last purchase was concluded, started for home.

After a walk of ten minutes, they reached Boylston Market, where they were at once beset by venders of evergreen and holly wreaths, crosses and stars of every description. Mr. Brownlow bought half a dozen of the cheaper sort of wreaths, which the owner kindly threaded upon his arm, as if they were a sort of huge, fragrant beads. Then he selected a tree, and, after a short consultation with Mrs. Brownlow, decided to carry it home himself, to save a quarter. A horse-car opportunely passing, they boarded it, Mrs. Brownlow and her bag being with some difficulty squeezed in through the rear door, and Mr. Brownlow taking his stand upon the front platform, from which the tree, which had been tightly tied up, projected like a bowsprit, until they reached home.

Great was the bustle at 17 Elm Street that night. Parcels were unwrapped; the whole house was pleasantly redolent of boiling molasses; and from the kitchen there came at the same time a scratchy and poppy sound, denoting the preparation of mounds of feathery corn. Bob and his father took upon themselves the uprearing of the tree. On being carried to the parlor it was found to be at least three feet too long, and Mr. Brownlow, in his shirt-sleeves, accomplished wonders with a saw, smearing himself in the process with pitch, from head to foot.

The tree seemed at first inclined to be sulky, perhaps at having been decapitated and curtailed; for it obstinately leaned backward, kicked over the soapbox in which it was set, bumped against Mr. Brownlow, tumbled forward, and in short, behaved itself like a tree which was determined to lie on its precious back all the next day, or perish in the attempt. At length, just as they were beginning to despair of ever getting it firm and straight, it gave a little quiver of its limbs, yielded gracefully to a final push by Bob, and stood upright, as fair and comely a Christmas tree as one would wish to see. Mr. Brownlow crept out backward from under the lower branches, (thereby throwing his hair into the wildest confusion and adding more pitch to himself), and regarded it with a sigh of content. Such presents as were to be disposed of in this way were now hung upon the branches; then strings of pop-corn, bits of wool, and glistening paper, a few red apples, and lastly the candles. When all was finished, which was not before midnight, the family withdrew to their beds, with weary limbs and brains, but with light-hearted anticipation of to-morrow.

“Do you s’pose Mrs. Bright will come with her children, John?” asked Mrs. Brownlow, as she turned out the gas.

“Shouldn’t--wonder”--sleepily from the four-poster.

“Did Mr. Bright say anything about the invitation we sent, when he paid you off?”

Silence. More silence. Good Mr. Brownlow was asleep, and Clarissa soon followed him.

Meanwhile the snow, which had been falling fast during the early part of the evening, had ceased, leaving the earth as fair to look upon as the fleece-drifted sky above it. Slowly the heavy banks of cloud rolled away, disclosing star after star, until the moon itself looked down, and sent a soft “Merry Christmas” to mankind. At last came the dawn, with a glorious burst of sunlight and church-bells and glad voices, ushering in the gladdest and dearest day of all the year.

The Brownlows were early astir, full of the joyous spirit of the day. There was a clamor of Christmas greetings, and a delighted medley of shouts from the children over the few simple gifts that had been secretly laid aside for them. But the ruling thought in every heart was the party. It was to come off at five o’clock in the afternoon, when it would be just dark enough to light the candles on the tree.

In spite of all the hard work of the preceding days, there was not a moment to spare that forenoon. The house, as the head of the family facetiously remarked, was a perfect hive of B’s.

As the appointed hour drew near, their nervousness increased. The children had been scrubbed from top to toe, and dressed in their very best clothes; Mrs. Brownlow wore a cap with lavender ribbons, which she had a misgiving were too gaudy for a person of her sedate years. Nor was the excitement confined to the interior of the house. The tree was placed in the front parlor, close to the window, and by half-past four a dozen ragged children were gathered about the iron fence of the little front yard, gazing open-mouthed and open-eyed at the spectacular wonders within. At a quarter before five Mrs. Brownlow’s heart beat hard every time she heard a strange footstep in their quiet street. It was a little odd that none of the guests had arrived; but then, it was fashionable to be late!

Ten minutes more passed. Still no arrivals. It was evident that each was planning not to be the first to get there, and that they would all descend on the house and assault the door-bell at once. Mrs. Brownlow repeatedly smoothed the wrinkles out of her tidy apron, and Mr. Brownlow began to perspire with responsibility.

Meanwhile the crowd outside, recognizing no rigid bonds of etiquette, rapidly increased in numbers. Mr. Brownlow, to pass the time and please the poor little homeless creatures, lighted two of the candles.

The response from the front-yard fence was immediate. A low murmur of delight ran along the line, and several dull-eyed babies were hoisted, in the arms of babies scarcely older than themselves, to behold the rare vision of candles in a tree, just illumining the further splendors glistening here and there among the branches.

The kind man’s heart warmed towards them, and he lighted two more candles. The delight of the audience could now hardly be restrained, and the babies, having been temporarily lowered by the aching little arms of their respective nurses, were shot up once more to view the redoubled grandeur.

The whole family had become so much interested in these small outcasts that they had not noticed the flight of time. Now some one glanced suddenly at the clock, and exclaimed, “It’s nearly half-past five!”

The Brownlows looked at one another blankly. Poor Mrs. Brownlow’s smart ribbons drooped in conscious abasement, while mortification and pride struggled in their wearer’s kindly face, over which, after a moment’s silence, one large tear slowly rolled, and dropped off.

Mr. Brownlow gave himself a little shake and sat down, as was his wont upon critical occasions. As his absent gaze wandered about the room, so prettily decked for the guests who didn’t come, it fell upon a little worn, gilt-edged volume on the table. At that sight, a new thought occurred to him. “Clarissy,” he said softly, going over to his wife and putting his arm around her, “Clarissy, seein’s the well-off folks haven’t accepted, don’t you think we’d better invite some of the others in?” And he pointed significantly toward the window.

Mrs. Brownlow, despatching another tear after the first, nodded. She was not quite equal to words yet. Being a woman, the neglect of her little party cut her even more deeply than it did her husband.

Mr. Brownlow stepped to the front door. Nay more, he walked down the short flight of steps, took one little girl by the hand, and said in his pleasant, fatherly way,