Chapter 10
Vain images! and therefore chosen by fancy not too plainly to touch the heart. For some hearts grew cold and forbidding with selfish cares--some, warm as ever in their own generous glow, were touched by the chill of Fortune's frowns, ever worst to bear when suddenly succeeding her smiles--some, to rid themselves of painful regrets, took refuge in forgetfulness, and closed their eyes to the past--duty banished some abroad, and duty imprisoned others at home--estrangements there were, at first unconscious and unintended, yet erelong, though causeless, complete--changes were wrought insensibly, invisibly, even in the innermost nature of those who being friends knew no guile, yet came thereby at last to be friends no more--unrequited love broke some bonds--requited love relaxed others--the death of one altered the conditions of many--and so--year after year--the Christmas Meeting was interrupted--deferred--till finally it ceased with one accord, unrenewed and unrenewable. For when Some Things cease for a time--that time turns out to be forever.
Survivors of those happy circles! wherever ye be--should these imperfect remembrances of days of old chance, in some thoughtful pause of life's busy turmoil, for a moment to meet your eyes, let there be towards the inditer a few throbs of revived affection in your hearts--for his, though "absent long and distant far," has never been utterly forgetful of the loves and friendships that charmed his youth. To be parted in body is not to be estranged in spirit--and many a dream and many a vision, sacred to nature's best affections, may pass before the mind of one whose lips are silent. "Out of sight out of mind" is rather the expression of a doubt--of a fear--than a belief or a conviction. The soul surely has eyes that can see the objects it loves, through all intervening darkness--and of those more especially dear it keeps within itself almost undimmed images, on which, when they know it not, think it not, believe it not, it often loves to gaze, as on relics imperishable as they are hallowed.
All hail! rising beautiful and magnificent through the mists of morning--ye Woods, Groves, Towers, and Temples, overshadowing that famous Stream beloved by all the Muses! Through this midnight hush--methinks we hear faint and far-off sacred music--
"Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault, The pealing anthem swells the note of praise!"
How steeped now in the stillness of moonlight are all those pale, pillared Churches, Courts and Cloisters, Shrines and Altars, with here and there a Statue standing in the shade, or Monument sacred to the memory of the pious--the immortal dead. Some great clock is striking from one of many domes--from the majestic Tower of St. Mary Magdalen--and in the deepened hush that follows the solemn sound, the mingling waters of the Cherwell and the Isis soften the severe silence of the holy night.
Remote from kindred, and from all the friendships that were the native growth of the fair fields where our boyhood and our youth had roamed and meditated and dreamed, those were indeed years of high and lofty mood which held us in converse with the shades of great Poets and ages of old in Rhedicyna's hallowed groves, still, serene, and solemn, as that Attic Academe where divine Plato, with all Hybla on his lips, discoursed such excellent music that his life seemed to the imagination spiritualized--a dim reminiscence of some former state of being. How sank then the Christmas Service of that beautiful Liturgy into our hearts! Not faithless we to the simple worship that our forefathers had loved; but Conscience told us there was no apostasy in the feelings that rose within us when that deep organ began to blow, that choir of youthful voices so sweetly to join the diapason,--our eyes fixed all the while on that divine Picture over the Altar, of our Saviour
"Bearing his cross up rueful Calvary."
The City of Palaces disappears--and in the setting sunlight we behold mountains of soft crimson snow! The sun hath set, and even more beautiful are the bright-starred nights of winter, than summer in all its glories beneath the broad moons of June. Through the woods of Windermere, from cottage to cottage, by coppice-pathways winding up to dwellings among the hill-rocks where the birch-trees cease to grow--
"Nodding their heads, before us go, The merry minstrelsy."
They sing a salutation at every door, familiarly naming old and young by their Christian names; and the eyes that look upward from the vales to the hanging huts among the plats and cliffs, see the shadows of the dancers ever and anon crossing the light of the star-like window, and the merry music is heard like an echo dwelling in the sky. Across those humble thresholds often did we on Christmas-week nights of yore--wandering through our solitary silvan haunts, under the branches of trees within whose hollow trunks the squirrel slept--venture in, unasked perhaps, but not unwelcome, and, in the kindly spirit of the season, did our best to merrify the Festival by tale or song. And now that we behold them not, are all those woods, and cliffs, and rivers, and tarns, and lakes, as beautiful as when they softened and brightened beneath our living eyes, half-creating, as they gazed, the very world they worshipped! And are all those hearths as bright as of yore, without the shadow of our figure! And the roofs, do they ring as mirthfully, though our voice be forgotten. We hang over Westmoreland, an unobserved--but observant star. Mountains, hills, rocks, knolls, vales, woods, groves, single trees, dwelling--all asleep! O Lakes! but we are indeed, by far too beautiful! O fortunate Isles! too fair for human habitation, fit abode for the Blest! It will not hide itself--it will not sink into the earth--it will rise; and risen, it will stand steady with its shadow in the overpowering moonlight, that ONE TREE! that ONE HOUSE!--and well might the sight of ye two together--were it harder--break our heart. But hard at all it is not--therefore it is but crushed.
Can it be that there we are utterly forgotten! No star hanging higher than the Andes in heaven--but sole-sitting at midnight in a small chamber--a melancholy man are we--and there seems a smile of consolation, O Wordsworth! on thy sacred Bust.
Alas! how many heavenly days, "seeming immortal in their depth of rest," have died and been forgotten! Treacherous and ungrateful is our memory even of bliss that overflowed our being as light our habitation. Our spirit's deepest intercommunion with nature has no place in her records--blanks are there that ought to have been painted with imperishable imagery, and steeped in sentiment fresh as the morning on life's golden hills. Yet there is mercy in this dispensation--for who can bear to behold the light of bliss re-arising from the past on the ghastlier gloom of present misery? The phantoms that will not come when we call on them to comfort us, are too often at our side when in our anguish we could almost pray that they might be reburied in oblivion. Such hauntings as these are not as if they were visionary--they come and go like forms and shapes still imbued with life. Shall we vainly stretch out our arms to embrace and hold them fast, or as vainly seek to intrench ourselves by thought of this world against their visitation? The soul in its sickness knows not whether it be the duty of love to resign itself to indifference or to despair. Shall it enjoy life, they being dead? Shall we, the survivors, for yet a little while, walk in other companionship out into the day, and let the sunbeams settle on their heads as they used to do, or cover them with dust and ashes, and show to those in heaven that love for them is now best expressed by remorse and penitence?
Sometimes we have fears about our memory--that it is decaying; for, lately, many ordinary yet interesting occurrences and events, which we regarded at the time with pain or pleasure, have been slipping away almost into oblivion, and have often alarmed us of a sudden by their return, not to any act of recollection, but of themselves, sometimes wretchedly out of place and season, the mournful obtruding upon the merry, and worse, the merry upon the mournful--confusion, by no fault of ours, of piteous and gladsome faces--tears where smiles were a duty as well as a delight, and smiles where nature demanded, and religion hallowed, a sacrifice of tears.
For a good many years we have been tied to town in winter by fetters as fine as frost-work filigree, which we could not break without destroying a whole world of endearment. That seems an obscure image; but it means what the Germans would call in English--our winter environment. We are imprisoned in a net; yet we can see it when we choose--just as a bird can see, when he chooses, the wires of his cage, that are invisible in his happiness, as he keeps hopping and fluttering about all day long, or haply dreaming on his perch with his poll under his plumes--as free in confinement as if let loose into the boundless sky. That seems an obscure image too; but we mean, in truth, the prison unto which we doom ourselves no prison is; and we have improved on that idea, for we have built our own--and are prisoner, turnkey, and jailer all in one, and 'tis noiseless as the house of sleep. Or what if we declare that Christopher North is a king in his palace, with no subjects but his own thoughts--his rule peaceful over those lights and shadows--and undisputed to reign over them his right divine.
The opening year in a town, now answers in all things to our heart's desire. How beautiful the smoky air! The clouds have a homely look as they hang over the happy families of houses, and seem as if they loved their birthplace;--all unlike those heartless clouds that keep _stravaiging_ over mountain-tops, and have no domicile in the sky! Poets speak of living rocks, but what is their life to that of houses? Who ever saw a rock with eyes--that is, with windows? Stone-blind all, and stone-deaf, and with hearts of stone; whereas who ever saw a house without eyes--that is, windows? Our own is an Argus; yet the good old Conservative grudges not the assessed taxes--his optics are as cheerful as the day that lends them light, and they love to salute the setting sun, as if a hundred beacons, level above level, were kindled along a mountain side. He might safely be pronounced a madman who preferred an avenue of trees to a street. Why, trees have no chimneys; and, were you to kindle a fire in the hollow of an oak, you would soon be as dead as a Druid. It won't do to talk to us of sap, and the circulation of sap. A grove in winter, hole and branch--leaves it has none--is as dry as a volume of sermons. But a street, or a square, is full of "vital sparks of heavenly flame" as a volume of poetry, and the heart's blood circulates through the system like rosy wine.
But a truce to comparisons; for we are beginning to feel contrition for our crime against the country, and, with humbled head and heart, we beseech you to pardon us--ye rocks of Pavey-Ark, the pillared palaces of the storms--ye clouds, now wreathing a diadem for the forehead of Helvellyn--ye trees, that hang the shadows of your undying beauty over the "one perfect chrysolite," of blessed Windermere!
Our meaning is transparent now as the hand of an apparition waving peace and good-will to all dwellers in the land of dreams. In plainer but not simpler words (for words are like flowers, often rich in their simplicity--witness the Lily, and Solomon's Song)--Christian people all, we wish you a Merry Christmas and Happy New-Year, in town or in country--or in ships at sea.
* * * * *
KEEPING CHRISTMAS
Romans, xiv, 6: _He that regardeth the day, regardeth it unto the Lord,_
HENRY VAN DYKE
[From "The Spirit of Christmas."]
It is a good thing to observe Christmas day. The mere marking of times and seasons, when men agree to stop work and make merry together, is a wise and wholesome custom. It helps one to feel the supremacy of the common life over the individual life. It reminds a man to set his own little watch, now and then, by the great clock of humanity which runs on sun time.
But there is a better thing than the observance of Christmas day, and that is, keeping Christmas.
Are you willing to forget what you have done for other people, and to remember what other people have done for you; to ignore what the world owes you, and to think what you owe the world; to put your rights in the background, and your duties in the middle distance, and your chances to do a little more than your duty in the foreground; to see that your fellowmen are just as real as you are, and try to look behind their faces to their hearts, hungry for joy; to own that probably the only good reason for your existence is not what you are going to get out of life, but what you are going to give to life; to close your book of complaints against the management of the universe, and look around you for a place where you can sow a few seeds of happiness--are you willing to do these things even for a day? Then you can keep Christmas.
Are you willing to stoop down and consider the needs and the desires of little children; to remember the weakness and loneliness of people who are growing old; to stop asking how much your friends love you, and ask yourself whether you love them enough; to bear in mind the things that other people have to bear in their hearts; to try to understand what those who live in the same house with you really want, without waiting for them to tell you; to trim your lamp so that it will give more light and less smoke, and to carry it in front so that your shadow will fall behind you; to make a grave for your ugly thoughts and a garden for your kindly feelings, with the gate open--are you willing to do these things even for a day? Then you can keep Christmas.
Are you willing to believe that love is the strongest thing in the world--stronger than hate, stronger than evil, stronger than death--and that the blessed life which began in Bethlehem nineteen hundred years ago is the image and brightness of the Eternal Love? Then you can keep Christmas.
And if you keep it for a day, why not always?
But you can never keep it alone.
* * * * *
MARK WELL MY HEAVY DOLEFUL TALE
ANONYMOUS
Mark well my heavy doleful tale, For Twelfth-day now is come, And now I must no longer sing, And say no words but mum; For I perforce must take my leave Of all my dainty cheer, Plum-porridge, roast beef, and minced pies, My strong ale and my beer.
Kind-hearted Christmas, now adieu, For I with thee must part, And for to take my leave of thee Doth grieve me at the heart; Thou wert an ancient housekeeper, And mirth with meat didst keep, But thou art going out of town, Which makes me for to weep.
God knoweth whether I again Thy merry face shall see, Which to good-fellows and the poor That was so frank and free. Thou lovedst pastime with thy heart, And eke good company; Pray hold me up for fear I swoon, For I am like to die.
Come, butler, fill a brimmer up To cheer my fainting heart, That to old Christmas I may drink Before he doth depart; And let each one that's in this room With me likewise condole, And for to cheer their spirits sad Let each one drink a bowl.
And when the same it hath gone round Then fall unto your cheer, For you do know that Christmas time It comes but once a year. But this good draught which I have drunk Hath comforted my heart, For I was very fearful that My stomach would depart.
Thanks to my master and my dame That doth such cheer afford; God bless them, that each Christmas they May furnish thus their board. My stomach having come to me, I mean to have a bout, Intending to eat most heartily; Good friends, I do not flout.
* * * * *
A CHRISTMAS CAROL
CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI
In the bleak mid-winter Frosty wind made moan, Earth stood hard as iron, Water like a stone; Snow had fallen, snow on snow, Snow on snow, In the bleak mid-winter Long ago.
Our God, Heaven cannot hold him Nor earth sustain; Heaven and earth shall flee away, When he comes to reign. In the bleak mid-winter A stable-place sufficed The Lord God Almighty, Jesus Christ.
Angels and archangels May have gathered there; Cherubim and seraphim Thronged the air. But only His Mother, In her maiden bliss, Worshipped her Beloved With a kiss.
What can I give Him, Poor as I am? If I were a shepherd I would bring a lamb; If I were a wise man, I would do my part,-- Yet what I can I give Him, Give my heart.
* * * * *
THE GLORIOUS SONG OF OLD
EDMUND H. SEARS
It came upon the midnight clear, That glorious song of old, From angels bending near the earth To touch their harps of gold, "Peace on the earth, good-will to men, From heaven's all-gracious King"-- The world in solemn stillness lay To hear the angels sing.
Still through the cloven skies they come With peaceful wings unfurled, And still their heavenly music floats O'er all the weary world; Above its sad and lowly plains They bend on hovering wing, And ever o'er its Babel-sounds The blessed angels sing.
But with the woes of sin and strife The world has suffered long; Beneath the angel-strain have rolled Two thousand years of wrong. And man at war with man hears not The love-song which they bring; Oh, hush the noise, ye men of strife, And hear the angels sing!
And ye beneath life's crushing load, Whose forms are bending low, Who toil along the climbing way With painful steps and slow, Look now! for glad and golden hours Come swiftly on the wing:-- Oh, rest beside the weary road And hear the angels sing!
For lo! the days the hastening on By prophet-bards foretold, When with the ever-circling years Comes round the age of gold; When peace shall over all the earth Its ancient splendors fling, And the whole world give back the song Which now the angels sing.
* * * * *
A CHRISTMAS CAROL FOR CHILDREN
MARTIN LUTHER
Good news from heaven the angels bring, Glad tidings to the earth they sing: To us this day a child is given, To crown us with the joy of heaven.
This is the Christ, our God and Lord, Who in all need shall aid afford: He will Himself our Saviour be, From sin and sorrow set us free.
To us that blessedness He brings, Which from the Father's bounty springs: That in the heavenly realm we may With Him enjoy eternal day.
All hail, Thou noble Guest, this morn, Whose love did not the sinner scorn! In my distress Thou cam'st to me: What thanks shall I return to Thee?
Were earth a thousand times as fair, Beset with gold and jewels rare, She yet were far too poor to be A narrow cradle, Lord, for Thee.
Ah, dearest Jesus, Holy Child! Make Thee a bed, soft, undefiled, Within my heart, that it may be A quiet chamber kept for Thee.
Praise God upon His heavenly throne, Who gave to us His only Son: For this His hosts, on joyful wing, A blest New Year of mercy sing.
* * * * *
ON SANTA CLAUS
GEORGE A. BAKER, JR.
Brave old times those were. In the first half of the seventeenth century, we mean; before there was any such place as New York and Manhattan Island was occupied mostly by woods, and had a funny little Dutch town, known as New Amsterdam, sprouting out of the southern end of it. Those were the days of solid comfort, of mighty pipes, and unctuous doughnuts. Winter had not yet been so much affected by artificiality as he is now-a-days, and was contented to be what he is, not trying to pass himself off for Spring; and Christmas--well, it was Christmas. Do you know why? Because in those times Santa Claus used to live in a great old house in the midst of an evergreen forest, just back of the Hudson, and about half-way between New Amsterdam and Albany. A house built out of funny little Dutch bricks, with gables whose sides looked like stair-cases, and a roof of red tiles with more weathercocks and chimneys sticking out of it than you could count. Phew, how cold it was there! The wind roared and shouted around the house, and the snow fell steadily half the year, so that the summers never melted it away till winter came again. And Santa Claus thought that was the greatest pleasure in life: for he loved to have enormous fires in the great fire-places, and the colder it was, the bigger fires he would have, and the louder the winds roared around his chimney. There he sat and worked away all the year round, making dolls, and soldiers, and Noah's arks, and witches, and every other sort of toy you can think of. When Christmas Eve came he'd harness up his reindeers, Dasher, and Prancer, and Vixen, and the rest of them, and wrap himself up in furs, and light his big pipe, and cram his sled full of the doll-babies and Noah's arks, and all the other toys he'd been making, and off he'd go with a great shout and tremendous ringing of sleigh-bells. Before morning he'd be up and down every chimney in New Amsterdam, filling the stout grey yarn stockings with toys, and apples, and ginger-bread, laughing and chuckling so all the while, that the laughs and chuckles didn't get out of the air for a week afterwards.
But the old house has gone to ruin, and Santa Claus doesn't live there any longer. You see he married about forty years ago; his wife was a Grundy, daughter of old Mrs. Grundy, of Fifth Avenue, of whom you've all heard. She married him for his money, and couldn't put up with his plain way of living and his careless jollity. He is such an easy-going, good natured old soul, that she manages him without any trouble. So the first thing she did was to make him change his name to St. Nicholas; then she made him give up his old house, and move into town; then she sent away the reindeers, for she didn't know what Ma _would_ say to such an outlandish turn-out; then she threw away his pipe because it was vulgar, and the first Christmas Eve that he went off and stayed out all night she had hysterics, and declared she'd go home to her Ma, and get a divorce if he ever did such a thing again. She'd have put a stop to his giving away toys every year, too, only she thought it looked well, and as it was, she wouldn't let him make them himself any more, but compelled him to spend enormous sums in bringing them from Paris, and Vienna, and Nuremberg.