From one faulty member to another they wandered, forgetting, as they jogged along the familiar path side by side, the banks of goldenrod beside them, the blue sky and fleecy clouds above, the blue hills in the distance, and all the glory and brightness of the blessed summer day.
The next morning, North Penfield experienced a shock. The white-haired pastor, overcome by extra labor, increasing cares, the feebleness of age, or a combination of all these causes, had sunk down upon his bed helplessly, on his return from the little white meeting-house the afternoon before, never to rise again until he should leave behind him the weary earth-garments that now but hindered his slow and painful steps.
The townspeople were greatly concerned, for the old man was dearly loved by young and old. Those who of late had criticised now remembered Dr. Manson’s palmy days, when teams came driving in from Penfield Center, “The Hollow,” and two or three other adjoining settlements, to listen to the impassioned discourses of the young clergyman.
A meeting of the committee was called at once, to consider the affairs of the bereft church—for bereft they felt it to be—and take steps for an immediate supply during the vacancy of the pulpit. Two months later Dr. Manson passed peacefully away, and there was one more mound in the little churchyard.
The snows of early December already lay deep on road and field before the North Penfield Parish,in a regularly-called and organized meeting, was given to understand that a new minister was settled. Half a dozen candidates had preached to the people but only one had met with favor.
Harold Olsen was a Norwegian by parentage, though born in America. Tall and straight as the pines of the Norseland, with clear, flashing blue eyes and honest, winning smile, the congregation began to love him before he was half through his first sermon. His sweet-faced little wife made friends with a dozen people between services; by nightfall the question was practically settled, and so was the Rev. Harold Olsen, “the new minister,” as he was called for years afterward.
At the beginning of the second week in December, Harold ascended the pulpit stairs of the North Penfield meeting-house, feeling very humble and very thankful in the face of his new duties. He loved his work, his people, his wife and his God; and here he was, with them all four at once.
Sleigh-bells jingled merrily outside the door; one family after another came trooping in, muffled to the ears, and moved demurely up the central or side aisles to their high-backed pews.
The sunlight found its way in under the old-fashioned fan-shaped blinds at the tops of the high windows, and rested upon gray hair and brown, on figures bowed with grief and age, on restless, eager children, on the pulpit itself, and finally upon the golden-edged leaves of the old Bible.
Still the people came in. A hymn was given outand sung. While Harold was lifting his soul to heaven on the wings of his prayer, he could not help hearing the noise of heavy boots in the meeting-house entry, stamping off the snow. His fervent “Amen” was the signal for a draft of cold air from the doors, followed by a dozen late comers.
After the sermon, which was so simple and straightforward that it went directly to the hearts of the people, he hastened to confer with his deacons.
“The bell didn’t ring this morning, Brother Fairweather. What was the matter?” he asked, after a warm hand-grasp all round.
“Why, the fact is, sir, there ain’t no bell.”
“That is, none to speak of,” put in Deacon Stimpson apologetically. “There’s a bell up there, but it got so cracked an’ out o’ tune that nobody could stan’ it, sick or well.”
The Rev. Harold Olsen’s eyes twinkled. “How long have you gone without this unfortunate bell?”
“Oh! a matter o’ two or three years, I guess.”
“Weddings, funerals, and all?”
“Well, yes,” reluctantly, “I b’lieve so. I did feel bad when we follered the minister to his grave without any tollin’—he was master fond o’ hearing that bell, fust along—but there, it couldn’t be helped! Public opinion was against that ’ere particular bell, and we jes’ got laughed at, ringin’ it. So we stopped, and here we be, without it.”
Mr. Olsen’s blue eyes sparkled again as he caught his little wife’s glance, half amused, half pained. He changed the subject, and went among his parishioners,inquiring kindly for the absent ones, and making new friends.
At a quarter before three (the hour for afternoon service) he entered the meeting-house again. The sexton was asleep in one of the pews. He was roused by a summons so startling that a repetition was necessary before he could comprehend its import.
“R-ring the bell!” he gasped incredulously. “W-why, sir, it hasn’t been rung for”—
“Never mind, Mr. Bedlow,” interrupted Harold, with his pleasant smile. “Let’s try it to-day, just for a change.”
Harold had attended one or two prayer-meetings, as well as Sunday services, and—had an idea.
On reaching the entry, the sexton shivered in the cold air, and pointed helplessly to a hole in the ceiling, through which the bell rope was intended to play.
“I put it up inside out of the way, so’s the boys couldn’t get it,” he chattered. “D-don’t you think, sir, we’d better wait till”—
But it was no use to talk to empty air. The new minister had gone, and presently returned with a long heavy bench, which he handled as easily as if it were a lady’s work-basket.
“Just steady it a bit,” he asked; and Mr. Bedlow, with conscientious misgivings as to the propriety of his assisting at a gymnastic performance on Sunday, did as he was bid.
Up went the minister like a cat; and presently down came the knotted end of the rope. “Now, let’s have a good, hearty pull, Mr. Bedlow.”
The sexton grasped the rope and pulled. There was one frightened, discordant outcry from the astonished bell; and there stood poor Mr. Bedlow with about three yards of detached rope in his hands. It had broken just above the point where it passed through the flooring over his head.
“Now, sir,” expostulated the sexton.
“Here, Dick!” called Mr. Olsen, to a bright-faced little fellow who had put his head in at the door and was regarding these unwonted proceedings with round-eyed astonishment; “won’t you run over to my house and ask my wife for that long piece of clothes-line that hangs up in the kitchen closet?”
Dick was gone like a flash, his curiosity excited to the highest pitch.
“What does he want it for?” asked pretty Olga Olsen, hurrying to produce the required article.
“Don’t know,” panted Dick. “He’s got Mr. Bedlow—in the entry—an’ he sent for a rope, double quick!”
With which bewildering statement he tore out of the house and back to the church.
Five minutes later the population of North Penfield were astounded by hearing a long-silent, but only too familiar voice.
“It’s that old cracked bell!” exclaimed half a hundred voices at once, in as many families. “Do let’s go to meetin’ an’ see what’s the matter.”
The afternoon’s congregation was, in fact, even larger than the morning’s. Harold noted it with quiet satisfaction, and gave out as his text the first verse of the sixty-sixth Psalm.
At the close of his brief sermon he paused a moment, then referred to the subject in all their thoughts, speaking in no flippant or jesting tone, but in a manner that showed how sacredly important he considered the matter.
“I have been pained to notice,” he said gravely, “the tardiness with which we begin our meetings. It is perfectly natural that we should be late, when there is no general call, such as we have been accustomed to hear from childhood. I do not blame anybody in the least. I do believe that we have all grown into a certain sluggishness, both physical and spiritual, in our assembling together, as a direct consequence of the omission of those tones which to us and our fathers have always spoken but one blessed word—‘Come!’ I believe,” he continued, looking about over the kindly faces before him, “I believe you agree with me that something should be done. Don’t think me too hasty or presuming in my new pastorate, if I add that it seems to me vitally important to take action at once. Our bell is not musical, it is true, but its tones, cracked and unmelodious as they are, will serve to remind us of our church home, its duties and its pleasures. On Tuesday evening we will hold a special meeting in this house to consider the question of purchasing a new bell, to take the place of the old. ThePrudential Committee, and all who are interested in the subject are urged to be present. Let us pray.”
It was a wonderful “season,” that Tuesday evening conference. The cracked bell did its quavering best for a full twenty minutes before the hour appointed, to call the people together; and no appeal could have been more irresistible.
Two-thirds of the sum required was raised that night. For ten days more the old bell rang on every possible occasion, until it became an accusing voice of conscience to the parish. Prayer-meetings once more began sharp on the hour, and proceeded with old-time vigor. The interest spread until a real revival was in progress before the North Penfield Society were fairly aware of the change. Still the “bell fund” lacked fifty dollars of completion.
On the evening of the twentieth of December, in the midst of a furious storm, a knock was heard at the parsonage, and lo, at the hastily opened door stood Squire Radbourne, powdered with snowflakes, and beaming like a veritable Santa Claus.
“I couldn’t feel easy,” he announced, after he had been relieved of coat and furs, and seated before the blazing fire, “to have next Sunday go by without a new bell on the meeting-house. We must have some good hearty ringing on that morning, sure; it’s the twenty-fifth, you know. So here’s a little Christmas present to the parish—or the Lord, either way you want to put it.”
The crisp fifty-dollar note he laid down before the delighted couple was all that was needed.
Harold made a quick calculation—he had already selected a bell at a foundry a hundred miles away—and sitting down at his desk wrote rapidly.
“I’ll mail your letter,” said the squire. “It’s right on my way—or near enough. Let’s get it off to-night, to save time.”
And away he trudged again, through the deepening drifts and the blur of the white storm.
On Saturday evening, after all the village people were supposed to be abed and asleep, two dark figures might have been seen moving to and fro in the old meeting-house, with a lantern. After some irregular movements in the entry, the light appeared in the belfry, and a little later, one queer, flat, brassy note, uncommonly like the voice of the cracked bell, rang out on the night air. Then there was absolute silence; and before long the meeting-house was locked up and left to itself again on Christmas Eve—alone, with the wonder-secret of a new song in its faithful heart, waiting to break forth in praise of God at dawn of day.
How the people started that fair Christmas morning, as the sweet, silvery notes fell on their ears! They hastened to the church; they pointed to the belfry where the bell swung to and fro in a joyous call of “Come! Come! Come! Come!”
They listened in rapt silence, and some could not restrain their sobs, while others with grateful tears in their eyes looked upon the old, rusty, cracked bellthat rested, silent, on the church floor; and as they looked, and even passed their hands lovingly over its worn sides, they thanked God for its faithful service and the good work it had wrought—and for the glad hopes that filled that blessed Christmas Day.
“At Christmas play, and make good cheer,For Christmas comes but once a year.”
“At Christmas play, and make good cheer,For Christmas comes but once a year.”
“At Christmas play, and make good cheer,
For Christmas comes but once a year.”
So said good Thomas Tusser, many generations ago, and his words have echoed in the hearts of old and young, rich and poor, from his day up to this blessed Year of Our Lord, 1898. Let us thank God and take courage when we remember that the Power of Evil has no one Book to set off against the Bible, and no one day to match Christmas. It is one of the gladdest and fairest signs of the times that this merry holiday, so full of good-will to men, is drawing closer and closer to the heart of the nation. For this one season in the year, everybody is thinking of everybody else, instead of himself, and we join the wise men in their march across the desert, following the Star, until we, too, find ourselves upon our knees before the manger in which the young Child was.
It is among the nations of the North, the Germans,the Swedes, the Norwegians and the English, that the finest and deepest significance has been attached to this holy day. Among the German peasantry, especially, are found numerous home legends, beliefs and superstitions which even the nineteenth century, with its growth of science and liberal thought, has been unable to reach. Many of these customs and beliefs have never been told in any language save that of the country in which they took their rise; the folk-lore of the Teutonic nations is still a rich storehouse of treasures for the antiquarian, and for those who love Christmas for its own truest meaning, the day when Christ was born.
The concurrence of the winter solstice with Christmas gave rise in the earliest times to many of the tales of Norse mythology. In the summer the good gods, Woden and Freia, with thousands of friendly elves, brought flowers and fruits to cheer the heart of man. But as winter came on, and the days grew ever shorter and the dark nights longer, the evil spirits held the good gods, enchanted by their power, far up among the snowy mountains, and prevented the passage of pious souls to their rest. Then came storms, and awful things upon the earth. A many-headed monster roamed the village, seizing the children, throwing them into a sack, and devouring them at its leisure. Giants descended from the hills and robbed the lonely traveler. In Denmark a frightful creature covered with a hairy robe was wont to creep into houses after dark to steal the products of the harvest, and, if it found nothing,would utter maledictions and threats, showing at the same time from beneath its covering a black face and mouth full of fire.
As Christmas time draws near, and the sun turns northward once more, Woden issues forth upon a white horse, and, followed by howling packs of dogs, drives the evil spirits to their hiding-places in the mountains. Sometimes in his wild hunt he sweeps through a house and leaves behind him a dog, who crouches upon the hearth and stays there for one year, whining, moaning, feeding on ashes, and snapping at all who approach. On the next Christmas, Woden comes for him again, and the dog leaps through the chimney to rejoin the howling pack in the tree-tops.
To this day the Germans associate the coming of Christ with the return of the sun, and the approach of spring. One of their poets sings:
“The sun in winter is God in grief,Is Christ who cometh to bring relief.Beneath its blessed radiance, manForgets that his life is but a span.“The sun in winter is Christmastide,Which scatters its blessings far and wide,And sheds, through faith, o’er time’s dark sea,The morning rays of eternity.”
“The sun in winter is God in grief,Is Christ who cometh to bring relief.Beneath its blessed radiance, manForgets that his life is but a span.
“The sun in winter is God in grief,
Is Christ who cometh to bring relief.
Beneath its blessed radiance, man
Forgets that his life is but a span.
“The sun in winter is Christmastide,Which scatters its blessings far and wide,And sheds, through faith, o’er time’s dark sea,The morning rays of eternity.”
“The sun in winter is Christmastide,
Which scatters its blessings far and wide,
And sheds, through faith, o’er time’s dark sea,
The morning rays of eternity.”
“That Christmas is a holiday of light and victory,” begins Cassel, in his account of the day,[1]“everyone who has lived within its influence knows full well. This victory is more sure than the return of spring, to which we look forward in December with such cheerful hope. The Spirit of Truth dwells upon loftier heights than does the creature, and its brightness chases away the shadows of many a gloomy hour, darker than the longest night of midwinter.”
[1]Weihnachten: Ursprunge, Brauche und Aberglauben.—Cassel, Leipzig.
[1]Weihnachten: Ursprunge, Brauche und Aberglauben.—Cassel, Leipzig.
And now the wonderful hour draws nigh. It is Christmas Eve. All nature is hushed. As the shepherds once sat around their fire upon the plains of Bethlehem, discussing, perchance, the strange portents attending the birth of the son of Zacharias, so to-night the peasants in their huts along the shores of the Baltic, or in the shadows of the Black Forest, sit before the Yule log, and talk of the birth of the Son of man. Suddenly the village bells toll for midnight. The sun appears upon the horizon and leaps three times for joy; the birds throughout the forest break forth into singing; every fir-tree blossoms into fairest flower and fruitage, and is clothed once more in soft leaves, in place of the sharp, spearpointed needles into which they were condemned to shrink when a fir-tree was used for the Saviour’s cross. All the good people of the village are praying; and hark! the cattle, upon their knees in the stable, are talking together in low tones. “A child is bo-or-rn!” lows the cow. “True-e-e,” returns the ass. “Where, where, where?” calls the shrill voice of the cock—and the lambs answer, “In Be-e-t-t-’lem!” The horses alone have nothing to say, andare upright on their feet; for when Christ was born, so the story goes, the horses who happened to be near the manger stamped and were rude, while the great, sweet-breathed oxen gazed upon the wee Baby with their mild eyes, and, with the asses and lambs, knelt in worship. For this hardness of heart horses are condemned to never have their fill of grass, and to this day they feed eagerly in the fields, but are never satisfied.
While these strange things are happening in the stables of the little German village, the gnomes are busy in the mountains, throwing out gold and precious treasures of the earth where men shall find them the coming year.
When Christmas morning dawns, which in the northern countries is not before nine or ten in the forenoon, the first loaves that come smoking from the housewife’s oven are given to the cattle. In Sweden it is the custom to tie a sheaf of grain to a pole and set it up where the birds may alight and take part in the joy and good cheer of the day. Before long the village beggars are knocking at the door, and the humblest peasant, remembering that it is the day on which God gave his only-begotten Son to the world, dispenses with a free hand his gifts to all that come.
Evergreen, and, in particular, the fir-tree, has been from the earliest times associated with Christmas, and countless tales and legends are perfumed with its spicy odors. Many are the German songs that are full of its praises.
“O northern fir, O northern fir,In thee my heart delighteth,How oft thy boughs at ChristmastideHave shed their blessings far and wide;—In thee my heart delighteth.”
“O northern fir, O northern fir,In thee my heart delighteth,How oft thy boughs at ChristmastideHave shed their blessings far and wide;—In thee my heart delighteth.”
“O northern fir, O northern fir,
In thee my heart delighteth,
How oft thy boughs at Christmastide
Have shed their blessings far and wide;—
In thee my heart delighteth.”
Hans Christian Andersen, whose happiest hours were those spent in writing pure and sweet fairytales for children, has told the story of the fir-tree in his own gentle way. Here is one more child-song, freely translated from Cassel’s notes:
Within the wood a fir-tree stands,So stately to be seen;In summer, spring and winter, too,Its cloak is ever green.Its tiny needles, fine and sharp—Some pointing up, some down—The thistle-finch doth take, to sewHer pretty yellow gown.Through snow and ice the Christ-child sendsThe good old Santa Klaus,Who straightway hews the fir-tree downAnd bears it to the house.With loving hand, the Christ-child hangsThe nuts and apples there;A taper small upon each twig,And cakes and dainties rare.Then comes the blessed Christmas night,The bell is rung—and lo!There stands the fir-tree, green and still,Its branches all aglow.Thou fir-tree in the forest dark,Soon shalt thou hence be borne.Rejoice! for then thy branches, too,The Christ-child shall adorn.
Within the wood a fir-tree stands,So stately to be seen;In summer, spring and winter, too,Its cloak is ever green.
Within the wood a fir-tree stands,
So stately to be seen;
In summer, spring and winter, too,
Its cloak is ever green.
Its tiny needles, fine and sharp—Some pointing up, some down—The thistle-finch doth take, to sewHer pretty yellow gown.
Its tiny needles, fine and sharp—
Some pointing up, some down—
The thistle-finch doth take, to sew
Her pretty yellow gown.
Through snow and ice the Christ-child sendsThe good old Santa Klaus,Who straightway hews the fir-tree downAnd bears it to the house.
Through snow and ice the Christ-child sends
The good old Santa Klaus,
Who straightway hews the fir-tree down
And bears it to the house.
With loving hand, the Christ-child hangsThe nuts and apples there;A taper small upon each twig,And cakes and dainties rare.
With loving hand, the Christ-child hangs
The nuts and apples there;
A taper small upon each twig,
And cakes and dainties rare.
Then comes the blessed Christmas night,The bell is rung—and lo!There stands the fir-tree, green and still,Its branches all aglow.
Then comes the blessed Christmas night,
The bell is rung—and lo!
There stands the fir-tree, green and still,
Its branches all aglow.
Thou fir-tree in the forest dark,Soon shalt thou hence be borne.Rejoice! for then thy branches, too,The Christ-child shall adorn.
Thou fir-tree in the forest dark,
Soon shalt thou hence be borne.
Rejoice! for then thy branches, too,
The Christ-child shall adorn.
In Scandinavia two fir boughs are nailed crosswise before the door on Christmas day. Children go about the village, knocking at the windows with fir twigs, and receiving gifts of sugar plums. The Alsatian peasantry relate that the apostle to the people on the Rhine and Moselle was the son of the widow of Nain. Long after his miraculous resurrection he was sent westward by Saint Peter. One day he came to the steep banks of the Rhine, and, stopping to rest, fell asleep from weariness, in the shade of a fir-tree. On awaking, he found that his pilgrim’s staff had grown into the trunk of the fir, and thus plainly indicated that he had reached the appointed end of his journey.
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 seemto be returning, which dear old Sir Walter longed for when he sung:
Heap on more wood!—the wind is chillBut let it whistle as it will,We’ll keep our Christmas merry still.Each age has deemed the new-born yearThe fittest time for festal cheer.And well our Christian sires of oldLoved when the year its course had rolled,And brought blithe Christmas back again,With all its hospitable train.Domestic and religious riteGave 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 hallTo vassal, tenant, serf, and all;Power laid his rod of rule aside,And ceremony doffed his pride;All hailed with uncontrolled delightAnd general voice the happy nightThat to the cottage, as the crown,Brought tidings of salvation down.England was merry England, whenOld Christmas brought his sports again.’Twas Christmas broached the mightiest ale;’Twas Christmas told the merriest tale;A Christmas gambol oft could cheerThe poor man’s heart through half the year.
Heap on more wood!—the wind is chillBut let it whistle as it will,We’ll keep our Christmas merry still.Each age has deemed the new-born yearThe fittest time for festal cheer.And well our Christian sires of oldLoved when the year its course had rolled,And brought blithe Christmas back again,With all its hospitable train.Domestic and religious riteGave 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.
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 hallTo vassal, tenant, serf, and all;Power laid his rod of rule aside,And ceremony doffed his pride;All hailed with uncontrolled delightAnd general voice the happy nightThat to the cottage, as the crown,Brought tidings of salvation down.
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, whenOld Christmas brought his sports again.’Twas Christmas broached the mightiest ale;’Twas Christmas told the merriest tale;A Christmas gambol oft could cheerThe poor man’s heart through half the year.
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, radiantface, 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 Christmasshall 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.
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 nottoo 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. Brownlowsaid 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’tinvite 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 maintainhis 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 ofwhich 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 politefriend, succeeded in selecting two or three dozen small gifts, and, when the last purchase was concluded, started for home.