Chapter 5
When the fire has reached a degree of intensity and magnitude which Rosalind thinks adequate to the occasion, I take down a well-worn volume which opens of itself at a well-worn page. It is a book which I have read and re-read many times, and always with a kindling sympathy and affection for the man who wrote it; in whatever mood I take it up there is something in it which touches me with a sense of kinship. It is not a great book, but it is a book of the heart, and books of the heart have passed beyond the outer court of criticism before we bestow upon them that phrase of supreme regard. There are other books of the heart around me, but on Christmas Eve it is Alexander Smith's "Dreamthorp" which always seems to lie at my hand, and when I take it up the well-worn volume falls open at the essay on "Christmas." It is a good many years since Rosalind and I began to read together on Christmas Eve this beautiful meditation on the season, and now it has gathered about itself such a host of memories that it has become part of our common past. It is, indeed, a veritable palimpsest, overlaid with tender and gracious recollections out of which the original thought gains a new and subtle sweetness. As I read it aloud I know that she sees once more the familiar landscape about Dreamthorp, with the low, dark hill in the background, and over it "the tender radiance that precedes the moon"; the village windows are all lighted, and the "whole place shines like a congregation of glowworms." There are the skaters still "leaning against the frosty wind"; there is the "gray church tower amid the leafless elms," around which the echoes of the morning peal of Christmas bells still hover; the village folk have gathered, "in their best dresses and their best faces"; the beautiful service of the church has been read and answered with heartfelt responses, the familiar story has been told again simply and urgently, with applications for every thankful soul, and then the congregation has gone to its homes and its festivities.
All these things, I am sure, lie within Rosalind's vision, although she seems to see nothing but the ruddy blaze of the fire; all these things I see, as I have seen them these many Christmas Eves agone; but with this familiar landscape there are mingled all the sweet and sorrowful memories of our common life, recalled at this hour that the light of the highest truth may interpret them anew in the divine language of hope. I read on until I come to the quotation from the "Hymn to the Nativity," and then I close the book, and take up a copy of Milton close at hand. We have had our commemoration service of love, and now there comes into our thought, with the organ roll of this sublime hymn, the universal truth which lies at the heart of the season. I am hardly conscious that it is my voice which makes these words audible: I am conscious only of this mighty-voiced anthem, fit for the choral song of the morning stars:
"Ring out, ye crystal spheres, And bless our human ears, If ye have power to touch our senses so; And let your silver chime Move in melodious time; And let the bass of heaven's deep organ blow; And, with your ninefold harmony, Make up full concert to the angelic symphony.
"For, if such holy song Enwrap our fancy long, Time will run back and fetch the age of gold; And speckled vanity Will sicken soon and die, And leprous sin will melt from earthly mold; And hell itself will pass away, And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day.
- - - - -
"The oracles are dumb, No voice or hideous hum Runs through the archéd roof in words deceiving; Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving, No nightly trance or breathed spell Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.
"The lonely mountains o'er, And the resounding shore, A voice of weeping heard and loud lament; From haunted spring, and dale Edgéd with poplars pale, The parting genius is with sighing sent; With flower-enwoven tresses torn, The nymphs in twilight shades of tangled thickets mourn."
- - - - -
Like a psalm the great Hymn fills the air, and like a psalm it remains in the memory. The fire has burned low, and a soft and solemn light fills the room. Neither of us speaks while the clock strikes twelve. I look out of the window. The heavens are ablaze with light, and somewhere amid those circling constellations I know that a new star has found its place, and is shining with such a ray as never before fell from heaven to earth.
* * * * *
CHRISTMAS IN THE OLDEN TIME
WALTER SCOTT
On Christmas-eve the bells were rung; 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. Thus opened wide the baron's hall To vassal, tenant, serf and all; Power laid his rod of rule aside And ceremony doffed his pride. The heir, with roses in his shoes, That night might village partner choose; The lord, underogating, share The vulgar game of "Post and Pair." All hailed, with uncontrolled delight, And general voice, the happy night That to the cottage, as the crown, Brought tidings of salvation down.
The fire, with well-dried logs supplied, Went roaring up the chimney wide; The huge hall-table's oaken face, Scrubbed till it shone, the day to grace, Bore then upon its massive board No mark to part the squire and lord. Then was brought in the lusty brawn By old blue-coated serving man; Then the grim boar's head frowned on high, Crested with bays and rosemary. Well can the green-garbed ranger tell How, when and where the monster fell; What dogs before his death he tore, And all the baitings of the boar. The wassal round, in good brown bowls, Garnished with ribbons, blithely trowls. There the huge sirloin reeked: hard by Plum-porridge stood, and Christmas pye; Nor failed old Scotland to produce, At such high-tide, her savory goose.
Then came the merry maskers in, And carols roared with blithesome din. If unmelodious was the song, It was a hearty note, and strong; Who lists may in their murmuring see Traces of ancient mystery; White shirts supplied the masquerade, And smutted cheeks the visors made; But O, what maskers richly dight, Can boast of bosoms half so light! 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 would cheer The poor man's heart through half the year.
* * * * *
SLY SANTA CLAUS
MRS. C.S. STONE
All the house was asleep, And the fire burning low, When, from far up the chimney, Came down a "Ho! ho!" And a little, round man, With a terrible scratching, Dropped into the room With a wink that was catching. Yes, down he came, bumping, And thumping, and jumping, And picking himself up without sign of a bruise!
"Ho! ho!" he kept on, As if bursting with cheer. "Good children, gay children, Glad children, see here! I have brought you fine dolls, And gay trumpets, and rings, Noah's arks, and bright skates, And a host of good things! I have brought a whole sackful, A packful, a hackful! Come hither, come hither, come hither and choose!
"Ho! ho! What is this? Why, they all are asleep! But their stockings are up, And my presents will keep! So, in with the candies, The books, and the toys; All the goodies I have For the good girls and boys. I'll ram them, and jam them, And slam them, and cram them; All the stockings will hold while the tired youngsters snooze."
All the while his round shoulders Kept ducking and ducking; And his little, fat fingers Kept tucking and tucking; Until every stocking Bulged out, on the wall, As if it were bursting, And ready to fall.
And then, all at once, With a whisk and a whistle, And twisting himself Like a tough bit of gristle, He bounced up again, Like the down of a thistle, And nothing was left but the prints of his shoes.
* * * * *
THE WAITS
MARGARET DELAND
At the break of Christmas Day, Through the frosty starlight ringing, Faint and sweet and far away, Comes the sound of children, singing, Chanting, singing, _"Cease to mourn, For Christ is born, Peace and joy to all men bringing!"_
Careless that the chill winds blow, Growing stronger, sweeter, clearer, Noiseless footfalls in the snow Bring the happy voices nearer; Hear them singing, _"Winter's drear, But Christ is here, Mirth and gladness with Him bringing!"_
"Merry Christmas!" hear them say, As the East is growing lighter; "May the joy of Christmas Day Make your whole year gladder, brighter!" Join their singing, _"To each home Our Christ has come, All Love's treasures with Him bringing!"_
* * * * *
THE KNIGHTING OF THE SIRLOIN OF BEEF BY CHARLES THE SECOND
ANON
The Second Charles of England Rode forth one Christmas tide, To hunt a gallant stag of ten, Of Chingford woods the pride.
The winds blew keen, the snow fell fast, And made for earth a pall, As tired steeds and wearied men Returned to Friday Hall.
The blazing logs, piled on the dogs, Were pleasant to behold! And grateful was the steaming feast To hungry men and cold.
With right good-will all took their fill, And soon each found relief; Whilst Charles his royal trencher piled From one huge loin of beef.
Quoth Charles, "Odd's fish! a noble dish! Ay, noble made by me! By kingly right, I dub thee knight-- Sir Loin henceforward be!"
And never was a royal jest Received with such acclaim: And never knight than good Sir Loin More worthy of the name.
* * * * *
THE CHRISTMAS GOOSE AT THE CRATCHITS'
CHARLES DICKENS
You might have thought a goose the rarest of all birds; a feathered phenomenon, to which a black swan was a matter of course; and in truth, it was something like it in that house. Mrs. Cratchit made the gravy (ready before-hand in a little saucepan) hissing hot; Master Peter mashed the potatoes with incredible vigor; Miss Belinda sweetened up the apple-sauce; Martha dusted the hot plates; Bob took Tiny Tim beside him in a tiny corner, at the table; the two young Cratchits set chairs for everybody, not forgetting themselves, and mounting guard upon their posts, crammed spoons into their mouths, lest they should shriek for goose before their turn came to be helped. At last the dishes were set on, and grace was said. It was succeeded by a breathless pause, as Mrs. Cratchit, looking slowly all along the carving knife, prepared to plunge it in the breast; but when she did, and when the long-expected gush of stuffing issued forth, one murmur of delight arose all around the board, and even Tiny Tim, excited by the two young Cratchits, beat on the table with the handle of his knife, and feebly cried hurrah!
There never was such a goose. Bob said he didn't believe there ever was such a goose cooked. Its tenderness and flavor, size and cheapness, were the themes of universal admiration. Eked out by the apple-sauce and mashed potatoes, it was a sufficient dinner for the whole family; indeed, as Mrs. Cratchit said with great delight (surveying one small atom of a bone on the dish), they hadn't ate it all at last! Yet every one had had enough, and the youngest Cratchits in particular were steeped in sage and onion to the eye-brows! But now, the plates being changed by Miss Belinda, Mrs. Cratchit left the room alone--too nervous to bear witnesses--to take the pudding up, and bring it in.
Suppose it should not be done enough! Suppose it should break in turning out! Suppose somebody should have got over the wall of the backyard, and stolen it, while they were merry with the goose; a supposition at which the two young Cratchits became livid! All sorts of horrors were supposed.
Hallo! A great deal of steam! The pudding was out of the copper. A smell like a washing-day! That was the cloth. A smell like an eating-house and a pastry cook's next door to each other, with a laundress next door to that! That was the pudding. In half a minute Mrs. Cratchit entered, flushed, but smiling proudly, with the pudding like a speckled cannon-ball, so hard and firm, blazing in half of half-a-quartern of ignited brandy, and bedight with Christmas holly stuck into the top.
Oh, a wonderful pudding! Bob Cratchit said, and calmly too, that he regarded it as the greatest success achieved by Mrs. Cratchit since their marriage. Mrs. Cratchit said that now the weight was off her mind, she would confess she had had her doubts about the quantity of flour. Everybody had something to say about it, but nobody said or thought it was at all a small pudding for so large a family. It would have been flat heresy to do so. Any Cratchit would have blushed to hint at such a thing.
At last the dinner was all done, the cloth was cleared, the hearth swept, and the fire made up. The compound in the jug being tasted and considered perfect, apples and oranges were put upon the table, and a shovelful of chestnuts on the fire. Then all the Cratchit family drew round the hearth, in what Bob Cratchit called a circle, meaning half a one; and at Bob Cratchit's elbow stood the family display of glass--two tumblers, and a custard-cup without a handle.
These held the hot stuff from the jug, however, as well as golden goblets would have done; and Bob served it out with beaming looks, while the chestnuts on the fire sputtered and cracked noisily. Then Bob proposed:
"A merry Christmas to us all, my dears. God bless us!"
Which all the family re-echoed.
"God bless us every one!" said Tiny Tim, the last of all.
* * * * *
GOD BLESS US EVERY ONE
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY
[From "Sketches in Prose."]
"God bless us every one!" prayed Tiny Tim, Crippled, and dwarfed of body, yet so tall Of soul, we tiptoe earth to look on him, High towering over all.
He loved the loveless world, nor dreamed, indeed, That it, at best, could give to him, the while, But pitying glances, when his only need Was but a cheery smile.
And thus he prayed, "God bless us every one!" Enfolding all the creeds within the span Of his child-heart; and so, despising none, Was nearer saint than man.
I like to fancy God, in Paradise, Lifting a finger o'er the rhythmic swing Of chiming harp and song, with eager eyes Turned earthward, listening--
The Anthem stilled--the angels leaning there Above the golden walls--the morning sun Of Christmas bursting flower-like with the prayer, "God bless us Every One!"
* * * * *
BELLS ACROSS THE SNOWS
FRANCES RIDLEY HAVERGAL
O Christmas, merry Christmas! Is it really come again, With its memories and greetings, With its joy and with its pain? There's a minor in the carol, And a shadow in the light, And a spray of cypress twining With the holly wreath to-night. And the hush is never broken By laughter light and low, As we listen in the starlight To the "bells across the snow."
O Christmas, merry Christmas! 'Tis not so very long Since other voices blended With the carol and the song! If we could but hear them singing As they are singing now, If we could but see the radiance Of the crown on each dear brow; There would be no sigh to smother, No hidden tear to flow, As we listen in the starlight To the "bells across the snow."
O Christmas, merry Christmas! This never more can be; We cannot bring again the days Of our unshadowed glee. But Christmas, happy Christmas, Sweet herald of good-will, With holy songs of glory Brings holy gladness still. For peace and hope may brighten, And patient love may glow, As we listen in the starlight To the "bells across the snow."
* * * * *
CHRISTMAS BELLS
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
I heard the bells on Christmas Day Their old, familiar carols play, And wild and sweet The words repeat Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
And thought how, as the day had come, The belfries of all Christendom Had rolled along The unbroken song Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
Till, ringing, swinging on its way, The world revolved from night to day A voice, a chime, A chant sublime Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
Then from each black, accursèd mouth The cannon thundered in the South And with the sound The carols drowned Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
It was as if an earthquake rent The hearth-stones of a continent, And made forlorn The households born Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
And in despair I bowed my head; "There is no peace on earth," I said; "For hate is strong And mocks the song Of peace on earth, good-will to men!"
Then pealed the bells more loud and deep. "God is not dead; nor doth He sleep! The Wrong shall fail, The Right prevail, With peace on earth, good-will to men!"
* * * * *
MINSTRELS AND MAIDS
WILLIAM MORRIS
Outlanders, whence come ye last? _The snow in the street and the wind on the door._ Through what green seas and great have ye past? _Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor._
From far away, O masters mine, _The snow in the street and the wind on the door._ We come to bear you goodly wine, _Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor._
From far away we come to you, _The snow in the street and the wind on the door._ To tell of great tidings strange and true, _Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor._
News, news of the Trinity, _The snow in the street and the wind on the door._ And Mary and Joseph from over the sea! _Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor._
For as we wandered far and wide, _The snow in the street and the wind on the door._ What hap do you deem there should us betide! _Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor._
Under a bent when the night was deep, _The snow in the street and the wind on the door._ There lay three shepherds tending their sheep. _Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor._
"O ye shepherds, what have ye seen, _The snow in the street and the wind on the door._ To slay your sorrow, and heal your teen?" _Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor._
"In an ox-stall this night we saw, _The snow in the street and the wind on the door._ A babe and a maid without a flaw. _Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor._
"There was an old man there beside, _The snow in the street and the wind on the door._ His hair was white and his hood was wide. _Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor._
"And as we gazed this thing upon, _The snow in the street and the wind on the door._ Those twain knelt down to the Little One, _Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor._
"And a marvellous song we straight did hear, _The snow in the street and the wind on the door._ That slew our sorrow and healed our care." _Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor._
News of a fair and marvellous thing, _The snow in the street and the wind on the door._ Nowell, nowell, nowell, we sing! _Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor._
* * * * *
INEXHAUSTIBILITY OF THE SUBJECT OF CHRISTMAS
LEIGH HUNT
So many things have been said of late years about Christmas, that it is supposed by some there is no saying more. O they of little faith! What! do they suppose that every thing has been said that _can_ be said about any one Christmas thing?
About beef, for instance? About plum-pudding? About mince-pie? About holly? About ivy? About rosemary? About mistletoe? (Good Heavens! what an immense number of things remain to be said about mistletoe!) About Christmas Eve? About hunt-the-slipper? About hot cockles? About blind-man's-buff? About shoeing the wild-mare? About thread-the-needle? About he-can-do-little-that-can't-do-this? About puss-in-the-corner? About snap-dragon? About forfeits? About Miss Smith? About the bell-man? About the waits? About chilblains? About carols? About the fire? About the block on it? About school-boys? About their mothers? About Christmas-boxes? About turkeys? About Hogmany? About goose-pie? About mumming? About saluting the apple-trees? About brawn? About plum-porridge? About hobby-horse? About hoppings? About wakes? About "feed-the-dove"? About hackins? About yule-doughs? About going-a-gooding? About loaf-stealing? About _Julklaps_? (Who has exhausted that subject, we should like to know?) About wad-shooting? About elder-wine? About pantomimes? About cards? About New-Year's Day? About gifts? About wassail? About Twelfth-cake? About king and queen? About characters? About eating too much? About aldermen? About the doctor? About all being in the wrong? About charity? About all being in the right? About faith, hope, and endeavor? About the greatest plum-pudding for the greatest number?
_Esto perpetua_,--that is, faith, hope and charity, and endeavor; and plum-pudding enough by and by, all the year round, for everybody that likes it. Why that should not be the case, we cannot see,--seeing that the earth is big, and human kind teachable, and God very good, and inciting us to do it. Meantime, gravity apart, we ask anybody whether any of the above subjects are exhausted; and we inform everybody, that all the above customs still exist in some parts of our beloved country, however unintelligible they may have become in others. But to give a specimen of the non-exhaustion of any one of their topics.
Beef, for example. Now, we should like to know who has exhausted the subject of the fine old roast Christmas piece of beef, from its original appearance in the meadows as part of the noble sultan of the herd, glorious old Taurus,--the lord of the sturdy brow and ponderous agility, a sort of thunderbolt of a beast, well chosen by Jove to disguise in, one of Nature's most striking compounds of apparent heaviness and unencumbered activity,--up to its contribution to the noble Christmas-dinner, smoking from the spit, and flanked by the outposts of Bacchus. John Bull (cannibalism apart) hails it like a sort of relation. He makes it part of his flesh and blood; glories in it; was named after it; has it served up, on solemn occasions, with music and a hymn, as it was the other day at the royal city dinner:--
"Oh the roast beef of old England! And oh the old English roast beef!"