{559}
It was two days before the holy Christmas of the old year, and a very hard season when Martin (a farmer, to whom heaven had granted a rich harvest, to reward him for the faithful tillage of his land) entered the house. He had taken his grain to the market-town, and, thanks to the brisk demand, had parted with it at an unusually high price. And now, returning home with a full purse, he called his wife, and pouring out the money before her on the table, said laughingly: "Look, Agnes, that will give us a rare treat! what thinkest thou, mother? What most rejoices the heart of man? I want something that shall make me right joyful."
"O Martin!" replied the wife, "it must be found, then. But this whole day has my heart been very heavy; and even if I made something very nice indeed, I don't think it would go to the right spot;" and when Martin asked why, she continued: "Thou hadst not been gone long yesterday morning when in came our neighbor's Clara, weeping and mourning, and said her father was like to die, and would I for God's sake come to their assistance and give him something nourishing. I could understand, then, how matters still it, and taking with me just whatever there was in the house, I ran down to the hut. O dear God! what misery was there! The man lay on a little straw, so white and feeble; the poor wife knelt beside him, crying and sobbing; and their children hung round them, half naked, and living pictures of hunger, and not a bit of bread in the whole house. And indeed, Martin, that is not the only home where such want is! I don't know, but it seems as if I ought not to enjoy one cheerful hour while so much wretchedness surrounds us."
While Martin let his wife speak out her thoughts, his eyes were musingly bent before him. Then he rose, and grasping Agnes's hand, exclaimed: "Now I know what to do, mother! A joyful heart will I have, for doing good to others gladdens the heart more than wine and good cheer. Let us see, then, what the dear God has given us." And now he counted out from the money first the rent due to his landlord, then enough to pay all that he owed, and lastily all that must go toward preparing for the next year s crop. Still there remained a pretty little sum, so he said: "Now, mother, count up the poor of our village, and heat the oven, and bake for every grown person two big loaves, and for every child a smaller one; and then send the bread round, adding to each loaf a jug of wine and two florins. Then when the people have a Merry Christmas, and can say grace without tears, our hearts will be light, I am thinking, even if we set nothing on the table besides our usual fare."
Now when Agnes heard her husband speak thus, her heart grew very happy, and she said yes to everything, and shook flour into the bread-trough, and baked all day and all night. So on that day when the church sings "Gloria in excelsis Deo!" there was not one in that whole parish who had not enough to eat; and many a one who for a long time had not tasted wine refreshed himself on that day, thanking with heart and lips the farmer and his wife. These two had merely their usual homely fare upon the table, but within their breasts were joyful hearts and the consciousness of a good deed.
{560}
So far, so good; but something else happened afterward; for as, according to the proverb, a pleasure never comes alone, so have good works an especial power of multiplying themselves. And of that we are now going to hear something.
When it came to the landlord's ears that his farmer, who was no capitalist, had made a Merry Christmas for himself in the love of the holy Christ-child, he was well pleased, and thought to himself that he too might try something of the same sort. Therefore he appointed a day (the octave of the blessed Christmas, New-Year's day) when all the poor in his parish should be invited to the castle. In the hall was a long table covered with a fine white cloth for the poor people, and a smaller one for himself and his family. At this small table he placed Farmer Martin and his wife Agnes, and near the head too, which has no small significance among knights and noblemen. But he said that he honored such excellent people as his own friends and relations, believing that the heart makes better nobility than a long pedigree.
When now the table was filled with the sons and daughters of poverty, grace was said by the chaplain, while all remained standing and joined devotedly in his prayer. Then were bread-cakes set on the board, and huge pieces if roast beef, and for each person a bumper of good old wine; but if any one was ill and could not come to the feast, then was his share despatched to his home, with a beautiful gold piece and a friendly greeting from his gracious lord. So all the parish poor had a second time plenty to eat and drink, and more than one enjoyed himself better on that day than ever before in his life.
When the people had had a good dinner, they thought the feast was at an end, and wished to express their thanks courteously to the host, but he begged them to wait a little quarter of an hour longer, for something else was coming. Then four lottery vases were placed on the table, one for the men, another for the women, a third for boys, and a fourth for girls; and when all the guests had been arranged ranged according to age and family, one after another put his hand into a vase and drew forth a number, one fifteen, another twenty-one, a third two, and so on until each person had a number. Then they looked at their numbers and thought, What does this all mean? and they waited full of expectation.
Suddenly a side door opened, and the servants brought in a wooden frame, on the four sides of which hung all sorts of garments, one side for men, another for women, and then for boys and girls, as at a fair; and everything was new and neat and strong, such as peasant-folks like to wear, and a number was fastened on each piece. Some one called out, "Now look for the numbers that you have in your hands." The men looked shyly at each each other, as if to say, "Can he really mean it?" but the women were more clever, and had soon found white and colored skirts, aprons, stockings, neckerchiefs, and handkerchiefs to match their numbers, and were helping their husbands and children in their search. Before long not one single thread hung on the frame, and every one possessed his appointed prize, and was rejoicing over it, for it really seemed as if to each person had fallen the very thing he most needed. Of course many were there who were in need of everything.
When now the time for leave-taking came, and the happy people thanked their gracious lord in their best manner, he shook hands with each one like a good old friend or father, at the same moment slipping into the palm of every man a thaler. Then were there fresh rejoicings and renewed thanks, and the worthy folk would not soon have made an end of it, if their benefactor had not quickly broken{561}a path through the crowd who blessed him, and so eluded their acknowledgments.
But then their hearts being full to overflowing, they longed to have some outlet to their gratitude; so they seated farmer and his wife in two chairs, placed them in a pretty wagon, to which they harnessed themselves; and the worthy couple, in spite of expostulation, were borne home in triumph. Such rejoicings had not been seen for many a long day, and even now do the people of B—— talk of brave Martin and his excellent wife Agnes; of the feast and the lottery and the dollars of their kind and gracious lord in the castle yonder.
The Val d'Andorra lies on the southern side of the central Pyrenees, between two of the highest mountains, the Maladetta and the Moncal. It is bounded on the north by the department of Ariège; on the south by the district of Barrida, the territory of Urgel, and part of the viscounty of Castelbo; on the east by the valley of Carol and part of the Cerdana; on the west at by the viscounty of Castelbo, the valleys of San Juan and Terrem, the Conca de Buch, and the communes of Os and Tor. The principal mountain-passes into France are those of Valira, Soldeu, Fontargente, Siguer, Anzat, Arbella, and Rat; those communicating with Spain are Port Negre, Perefita, and Portella. Some of these are only passable during part of the year. The greatest length of the territory is about forty miles; the greatest breadth about twenty-four miles. The country is mountainous, but includes some excellent pasturage. The highest summits visible are Las Mineras, Casamanya, Saturria, Montclar, San Julian, and Juglár. The principle rivers are the Valira, the Ordino, and the Os, none of which are navigable. At the greatest elevation the snow remains upward of six months. In summer the rains are very frequent. The purity of both air and water renders the climate very healthy, and the inhabitants are remarkable for their longevity, many living to the age of one hundred. Devonian beds lie unconformably on upper silurian, which latter forms a valley of depression, having the town of Andorra in its synclinal axis. There are many mines producing iron of the best quality; one of lead, several of alum, quartz, slate, some quarries of jaspers, and several kinds of marble. Besides the trees common to Europe, the flora includes the cacao or chocolate. There are, likewise, many medicinal roots and plants. Wheat, barley, rye, and hemp are cultivated; and grapes, figs, dates, and olives are also seen. In the low parts of the south tobacco is much grown. Indian corn is only occasionally to be met with. The fauna include the bear, wild boar, wolf, boquetin (Capra Pyrenaica?), chamois, mule, fox, blackcock, orgallina de monte, squirrel, hare, partridge, pheasant, and several species of eagles; there are also a great many blackbirds and nightingales. The population of the whole republic has been estimated as low as 5,000, and even higher than 15,000, but it probably does not exceed 10,000; that of the capital has been reckoned as high as 2,800, but this probably refers to the whole parish,{562}and is, even then, greatly over-estimated. The name Andorra has been derived from the Arabic, but it is, without doubt, considerably older than the time of the Moors. It is probably from the Gaelican-dobhar, an-dour, which will variously translate, "the water," "the territory," "the border of a country." In the Roman period the Val d'Andorra formed part of the country of the Ceretani, who gave their name to the Cerdana; and, at the time of the Goths, of the district called Marea de Espana. It was the last tract of country of which Moors obtained possession in Catalonia, and the first which they abandoned. There are traditions of the republic even prior to the time of Charlemagne. Catalonia, being invaded by the Moors, the Andorrans, in 778, asked aid of the emperor, who thereupon crossed the Pyrenees, and having united his forces with those of Catalonia, which consisted principally of the mountaineers of Andorra, after a brilliant campaign drove the Moors to the left bank of the Ebro. Having established a military organization for the defence of the territory, Charlemagne recognized certain rights in favor of the Andorrans; but, at the same time, gave to the see of Urgel the tithes of the six parishes into which the valley of Andorra was divided. The Moors having again invaded the territory, the emperor despatched his son, Louis le Debonnaire, who drove out the Moors, and ceded the sovereignty of the valley to Sisebertus, first bishop of Urgel. The charter bears the date of 803, and the signature of Ludovicus Pius, the name by which Louis has always been known to the republic. Charles the Bold having illegally granted to the Counts of Urgel the sovereignty over the lands of the republic, another dispute arose between the bishop and the counts, and the independence of the valley was again disturbed. Upon this the bishop asked assistance of Raymond of Foix, and an alliance was entered into by which the independence of the valley wad vested jointly in the house of Foix and the see of Urgel, and Raymond forthwith expelled the Counts of Urgel from Andorra. This took place in the twelfth century. The bishop failing to surrender the moiety of the republican lands, Bernard of Foix, in 1241, laid siege to the city of Urgel, and the Bishop was not only compelled to yield to the demands of the count, but also, within a certain time, to procurers of papal ratification of the investiture of the house of Foix in the joint sovereignty of the republic. The convention having been again violated by the see of Urgel, it was finally settled, in 1278, that the right of suzerainté should be possessed jointly by the Bishop of Urgel and the Counts of Foix. This tree is the act of independence Of the republic, and is known to the people of Andorra by the name of "Parialge." It stipulated that the republic should pay annually a tribute of 960 francs to the Counts of Foix, and half that amount to the see of Urgel, and that each should have the privilege of nominating one of the two officers called viguiers. The house of Foix being united, first with that of Béarn, and then to that of Moncada and Castellvel Rosanes, was finally absorbed in the house of Bourbon, and the joint protectorate became at the end of the sixteenth century, merged in the government of France, and the see of Urgel. On 25th March following a treaty was concluded by which the republic should pay the annual tribute to the receiver-general of the department of Ariège, in return for which it was to receive some commercial privileges as to the free export of certain goods. It was further stipulated that one of the viguiers of the republic should be chosen from the department of Ariège, and that three deputies of the Valley should nearly take an oath to the prefect of the same department. Napoleon is said to have affixed his name to the original charter of Charlemagne.{563}The privileges of the Andorrans have been several times acknowledged by France and Spain. Even the war with Spain did not injure the neutrality of the republic. In 1794, a French column having penetrated into the centre of Andorra, for the purpose of laying siege to the city of Urgel, the Andorrans sent a deputation to assert the neutrality and independence of the valley, and General Charlet gave immediate orders to withdraw. The Andorrans have never taken part in the wars of their neighbors. The rich pasturages between Hospitalet, in France, and Soldeu, in Andorra, in former times attracted the cupidity of the people of Hospitalet, who have several times endeavored to take forcible possession of them: the Andorrans having appealed to the law, judgment was given in their favor in 1835 by the Court Royal of Toulouse. There is no form of sovereignty in Europe exactly similar to that of Andorra. The republic is governed by a syndic, a council of twenty-four, together with two viguiers or magistrates, and two judges. The French government and the see or Urgel possess a co-ordinate right of confirmation over the appointment of the syndic. The twenty-four members of the council consist of the twelve consuls who represent the six parishes or communes, and the twelve consuls who held office during the preceding year. These latter are called councillors. One of the viguiers is appointed by the French government, the other Bishop of Urgel. The former is chosen for life, and is generally a magistrate of the department of Ariège; the latter holds office for three years only, and is chosen from among the subjects of the republic. He is not required to be an educated man. The viguiers alone exercise the criminal authority. Civil justice is rendered by two other judges, one of whom is appointed by each viguier from a list of six members, drawn up and presented by the syndic. In both criminal and civil cases the judges are guided by equity, common sense, and custom only, and yet no complaints are heard of. Parties to suits, both criminal and civil, have the right of appearing by counsel, who is styledrahonador, or speaker. The decision of the criminal courts is communicated to the council, who reassemble to receive it. The sentence of the court, once proclaimed by the council, is irrevocable, and is put in execution within twenty-four hours. The criminal court is rarely convoked. There are few crimes committed in the republic. One man was executed for murder about six years since. The expenses of justice are paid partly by the delinquents, partly by the council. The armed forces consist of six companies, one for each parish, and scarcely amount to 600, but in case of need all the inhabitants are soldiers. There is no enlistment; one individual between the age of sixteen and sixty is chosen from each family. There is no national flag, and no drums are used. The service is unpaid. Public instruction is in the worst state. The priest of each parish is obliged to provide a school in his own house, but no one is compelled to send his children. Those who desire a better education for their children send them either to France or Catalonia. The only form of religion is the Roman Catholic. Political refugees from Spain and France are always hospitably received. Foreigners resident in the republic pay yearly five Catalan sous, and enjoy all the privileges of the natives, except that of holding any public office. If a foreigner marries an heiress, he is accounted a citizen, but he must first obtain an authorization from the council-general. The Andorrans are somewhat above the ordinary size of Spaniards. In stature they are thin and wiry. In character they are active, proud, industrious, independent, religious, faithful to their ancient customs, and very jealous of their liberties. They are inquisitive, great talkers, but suddenly dumb and ignorant when they imagine their interest at stake. Those engaged in public affairs are generally{564}hospitable, but most of the people are rather suspicious of strangers. They speak the Catalan dialect, which is a compound of Castilian and the ancient languages of the south of France. They also use many modern French words, which they pronounce after their own fashion. The people are poor, and glory in their poverty, as they thereby preserve their independence. Should they grow rich, they would be sure to be absorbed either by France or Spain. A large portion of the wealth of the republic consists in its flocks of sheep. Each landowner is possessed of a considerable flock. The price of a sheep ranges from twelve to twenty francs. The fleeces suffice to clothe the whole of the male population. The exports into Spain consist of iron, in large quantities, sheep, mules, and other cattle; cloths, blankets, cheese, butter, and excellent hams. Those into France include untanned skins, sheep, mules, calves and wool. The number of sheep and mules sent annually into Spain and France amounts to 1,000. Considering the size of the republic, the imports from Spain are considerable: they include some of the necessaries of life, as corn and salt. The only imports from France are fish and compound liquors. There is a good deal of contraband between the republic and Spain and France. It consists principally in wines, vinegar, salt, and a small quantity of silk. The contrabandistas between the valley and Spain are generally Spaniards. There are no land conveyances, and the transport of goods and merchandise is carried on with horses and mules. There are no restrictions on commerce, and no stamps; and no passports are required. The republic contains six parishes or communes, namely, Andorra la Vieja, San Juliá de Loria, Canillo, Ordino, En Camp, and La Massana. There are also thirty-four villages and hamlets, the chief of which are Escaldas, Santa Caloma, and Soldeu. There are but few ancient remains in the republic. The capital, Andorra la Vieja, or "The Old" is so called to distinguish it from Andorra in Spain, Province Teruel. There is a good weekly market, and considerable business is transacted in imported corn. It is a miserable place, with houses built of thedébrisof schist and granite, and generally without stucco. During the civil wars it suffered greatly from hostile attacks, and the suspension of commerce. The palace, called Casa del Valle, is an ancient building, constructed of rough pieces of granite. Thefaçadeis heavy and massive, and has only three windows, of unequal dimensions, with some louvers; in its left angle is a turret pierced with loopholes, and surmounted with a cross. Above the portal, which resembles aporte cochère, is the inscriptionDomusconsilii,sedes justitiae, under which is and escutcheon of white marble, with the arms of the republic. The interior of the palace is in a state of complete ruin. On the ground floor is the national prison and the stables, where the members of the council have the privilege of putting up their horses during the sessions. The kitchen is on a grand scale, with immense hearts and cauldrons. A staircase, which savors of antiquity, leads to the chamber on the first floor, where the council meets. It is a vast hall of an imposing aspect. At one end is a chair for the syndic, who sits as president of the assembly; along either wall are benches of oak for the twenty-four councillors; and between the corridors is a picture of Jesus Christ. In another part of the hall are preserved in the archives of the government, which include the grant of Charlemagne and his son. They are kept in an armory or cupboard in the wall, closed by two wooden shutters, where they have remained intact since the expulsion of the Moors. The cabinet has six different locks and keys, which are kept by the executive officers of the six communes whose documents have been separately deposited. This cabinet has no outer door, and can only be opened in the presence of the six heads of the departments, who are bound to be present at the deliberations{565}of the council. There are five sessions of the council annually, but when necessary, extraordinary sessions are also held. When the general council is unable to assemble, the syndic general, or, in his absence, the sub-syndic, represent it, and act in its name; sometimes, also, a junta general is convoked, at which assist a consul, or a consul and a councillor, for each parish. In the juntas, matters of minor interest are discussed, and the consuls and councillors who take part in them are entrusted with the powers of their colleagues. To the general council pertains everything relating to police, and all disputes in commercial matters. The chapel is dedicated to San Heremengol, formerly Bishop of Urgel and Prince of Andorra, and will repay a visit.
The evening of the last day of the church's advent arrives. She gathers her ministers around her, and, singing hymns of glad expectation, they remain in her temples, even until midnight. Let us listen to the grand harmony!
Divided into two vast bodies, they peal forth the verses of the royal prophet in alternate chorus; and who could tire hearkening? Well does Durendus say, that "the two choirs typify the angels and the spirits of just men, while they cheerfully and mutually excite each other in this holy exercise." We fancy ourselves among the choirs of heaven, as St. Ignatius once was in spirit, when he learned the method of alternate chanting.
Oh! whose heart does not yearn toward the church in these her days of longing! She has laid away from her all that is dazzling and joyous; yet is she most charming. Anxious love, like a sun, burns over her, altering her color; yet is she all beauty—bright and rich and warm—her aspect teeming with purity and love and inspiration. "I am black, but beautiful." (Cant. i. 4)
It is midnight. Long since men ceased from their labors. The din of traffic has been hushed for hours. Yet there is a sound through all the world. From every city and town and village, from spire-crowned hill and from holy valley, from numberless sweet nooks and by-ways, it swells forth, the sound of a grand harmony, the voices of myriads chanting. Now the tones speak of longing; now they tremble with expectation; then there is a burst of rapture following the mellow warbling of desire. It is the voice of the church longing for her Beloved! She shall be gratified, for even now there is a knocking at her temple gates. The chant is hushed, and a voice, gentle as the lisping of a child, breathes the sweet entreaty, "Open to me, my sister, my love, my dove, my undefiled; for my head is full of dew and my locks of the drops of the night." (Cant. v. 2.) Yes, lovely Babe, gladly will the temple-doors open to thee; for many a long and weary mile did thy mother journey with thee beneath her heart!
Winter ruled the earth. Chill blew the breezes, and coldness was over all nature. Shivering had the aged saint and Mary asked for shelter, but the inns were filled, and none in Bethlehem would trouble to receive them. Riches were not theirs, and all saw that the{566}unknown mother's time was near; hence, fearing they might have to look to the child, they shut her from their dwellings. The only place of refuge her holy spouse could find for his charge was a cheerless stable, hollowed from a rough, cold rock. The ox and the ass were their only earthly companions; hay and straw formed the rude couch upon which the mother brought forth her child at midnight. Jesus! Saviour! she wraps thee scantily in swaddling-clothes, and lays thee shivering in a manger. Well then may the dew and the drops of the night hang heavy upon thy locks!
But, though in Bethlehem these unknown travellers were outcasts, God did not desert them. The glimmerings of adoring angels' wings fell upon the mother's eyes to comfort her heart, for there were angels near in numbers. They hovered over and within the hut, making it ring with the most blessed hymn that mortal or angelic ears had ever heard: "Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace to men of good-will."
Instantly upon this knocking the church rises to open to her Beloved, and now begins her joy. Now she will celebrate his birthday, and her heart leaps high in bidding him welcome. Her torches, her sanctuary lamps, the countless candles on her altars, all are lighted with the speed of love; their shining shows her spouse that she was so full of expectation, so confident of his coming, that she has already cast away her weeds of mourning and desire, and has arrayed her charms in her most precious robes. Evergreens and tapestry are twining and glowing all about her—in her niches, upon her piers, her arcades, her parapets, her cloister-galleries, her massive stalls, her carved and fretted ceilings. Her altars and her sanctuaries have festoons and garlands, and crowns of sweetest design, and veils and hangings of choicest embroidery. She peals her bells and sweeps her fingers over her organ-keys, and tunes her many instruments, to fill her temples with the rapturous canticle of the day, "Gloria in excelsis Deo."
But let us circumscribe our views. As we may behold the joy of the universal church in even her smallest division, let us see how, in the good old Catholic times, the simplest villagers celebrated the first day of the Incarnate Eternal!
The few rich men among them have sent stores of flowers and fruits from their conservatories to deck the green branches gathered in the forest. Pious ladies have brought in the various ornaments, which they have been preparing for weeks, as an offering for their new-born Saviour. The happy pastor and many of his spiritual flock have been busy in the church four days, disposing the decorations with untiring ingenuity and taste.
Now it is almost midnight. The skies are clear and studded with twinkling stars. Ice is over all the streams, snow is over all the streets and fields, and weighs down the trees. Stillness is upon the the village, yet not the stillness of slumber. You can see that something is transpiring which takes not place at other midnights; for lights are glimmer through the cottage-windows, and, now and then, cheerful forms are seen passing to and fro. They are all expecting, and they shall not be delayed; for hark! suddenly a merry peal of bells bursts over them; joyously it rings forth—now in soft, sweet cadence, and now in swelling harmony. It pours along the streets and fills the village dwellings. It echoes through the cloudless vault, over the snowy fields and the glassy streams, reaching even the scattered hamlets in the distance. Suddenly and joyously the music bursts upon all:
"Adeste fideles, laeti, triumphantesVenite, venite in Bethlehem."
And the cottage-doors are thrown open, and groups of merry children sally forth gladly shouting, "Christmas, Christmas!"
{567}
Then the tapers are extinguished, and the villagers all hasten forth with holy eagerness to see their Jesus cradled in the manger; and, as they direct their steps toward the old church, they awaken the midnight echoes with that sweet old carol:
"Now the circling year have givenThe joyful season, when from heavenLife descended to the earthIn the Babe who took his birthFrom our sweet Lady!"Behold him in the manger laid,Owned by the cattle of the shed,Who know their God meanest bandsEnswathed by the tender handsOf our sweet Lady!"Now he smiles on Joseph blessed;Now he seeks his mother's breast;Now he sobs, and now he cries,All beneath the guardian eyesOf our sweet Lady!"Run, run, ye shepherds, haste and bringYour simple homage to our King!Ye heaven-called watchers, taste and seeOur God, meek-seated on the kneeOf our sweet Lady!"
Thus they stream along from every cottage, along every pathway toward the church, men, women, and little children, singing and chatting happily. Far off in the moonlit distance you see small parties hastening over the white plains from their scattered homes to mingle in the festival. How beautifully do they remind us of those happy shepherds who left their flocks near the "Tower of Ader," and went over to Bethlehem, to see the word that had come to pass!
The bells continue pealing out their music to the midnight, and the church continues filling. Listen to the half-suppressed ejaculation of joyous surprise as each new group enters the holy place and beholds its charming decorations! Over every window's curve, and hanging down by its sides, is a mighty wreath of evergreens. In front of every hallowed niche lights are burning, and wreaths of foliage hang over it. The pillars are all twined round and round, up to the very ceiling, with ivy, holly, laurel, intermingled with those berries that grow red in winter. But who shall describe the glories of the sanctuary! The arch that rises over it flows with the fullest folds of tapestry, white as snow, save where they are here and there interwrought with flowers of rose-hued silk and thread of gold, and intertwined with holly and laurel, and boughs of the orange-tree with its golden clusters. On the altar-steps are vases filled with evergreens, slender strings of ivy twisting around tall branches and bending gracefully between them down even to the floor. The altar is crowded with lighted candles, and along the intervals of the candlesticks flow festoons of slender branches, leaves, and flowers. A stole of flowers decorates the very crucifix; the tabernacle sparkles in its richest veil.
Oh! in olden times even a village church was grand beyond description; for then men took a pride in their religion. They loved to see God's Bride in bridal splendor; they loved to see the Queen in regal vesture; they loved to see the Sister of the Church in heaven with something like heavenly glory around her. The rich man gave of his abundance, the poor man gave of his labor, ladies wrought embroidery—all in holy unison strained every nerve to make her temples beautiful.
Now the church has filled with kneeling forms. The rich and the poor, the lady and the servant, the laborers and they for whom they labor, here kneel side by side, they are all equal here, for they are all alike, are God's own children, the brethren of the Babe of Bethlehem.
The steeple-bells have ceased to peal, for not a single thought must now wander outside. Eyes and ears and heart and soul and every feeling are intent upon the grand occurrences within.
Presently blue clouds of sweet incense are seen floating toward the sanctuary, and modestly there comes a youth swinging a silver censer; a long procession of little acolytes, clad in snow-white surplices and bearing lighted tapers, follow him slowly; a saintly looking priest, in precious vestments, closes the holy array. His{568}youthful attendants are chosen boys of blameless life and pleading aspect: and, indeed, they look pure and innocent and cherub-like, as they dispose themselves around the holy place, and kneel toward the altar.
Then amid half-suppressed, repentant cries for "mercy on us," swelling forth from the choir, the psalm is said—the psalm of preparation, of praise, of hope, of humble confidence: the confession is made; prayers for pardon, lights and gracious hearing are repeated. Then the priest ascends "unto the altar of God," and whispers prayers, speaking rapturously of the "Child that is born to us, the Son that is given to us." But look at hie countenance as he returns slowly to the middle of the altar; you can see that he is full of some grand event—his soul, his heart, his feelings, all hold jubilee. One more entreaty for mercy repeated again and again with passionate earnestness, and he raises his eyes and his arms as though about to ascend in ecstasy, and, like one inspired, he breaks forth in the angelic hymn, "Gloria in excelsis Deo." It is the signal of jubilee. Suddenly there is a burst of many little bells, shaken by the hands of the surpliced children, ringing out their silver music until the hymn is ended by the priest; the organ's richest and fullest chords are struck, swelling forth in harmony like that which the rivers made in Paradise when they sang their first hymn of praise to him who set them flowing, and the full choir of trained voices burst forth: "Et in terra pax hominibus."
Truly you think yourself at Bethlehem. It seems as though the Child were just born—as though you heard the heavenly hosts singing their grand anthem—saw the shepherds wondering and adoring—beheld the Infant lying in the manger, a fair, radiant, smiling little Babe, with an old saint beside it, leaning on his staff, and a comely virgin, in a trance of motherly affection, kissing its bright forehead. So these villagers seem to feel it all. A start of joy runs through the whole assembly, a radiance lights up every feature; friends kiss each other, fathers kiss their children, mothers kiss their little ones; a whisper runs from soul to soul through all the church—"Pax hominibus."
Then follow collect, the epistle, the gradual, a gospel, all full of the grand event. And then the choir's jubilee begins again, as the anointed one at the altar intones "Credo in unum Deum." Who shall tell the stirless reverence of each prostrate form, as all bow yet lower at the words that still the mystery of the night! Softly the organ warbles in its mellowest keys; from the richest voice in all the choir sweetly flow the words "Et Homo factus est." Every mind reflects, and every heart is melted.
Then comes the offertory; and all present, according to their various means, make their offerings for those "who serve the altar," and for the poor. While the priest raises in offering the paten with the Post and the chalice with wine, the villagers also, kneeling, make an offering of their homage to their new-born Redeemer; and mothers lift their little ones to heaven in spirit, praying that they may advance "in wisdom and age and grace with God and men," as did the Child of Mary. Then follows the washing of the heads, with its appropriate prayers; then, the secretas, the preface, the whispered prayers for God's church, for friends and benefactors, for all the living faithful.
The moment of consecration draws nigh. Books are laid aside, hands are clasped upon the breast, every head is bent. The sweet voices in the choir have been hushed; the organ's silvery tones, murmuring more and more softly, have at length died away, awe-stricken by the silence that fills God's house. Yes! silence fills it, for silence now seems a something—a breathless, pulseless, but mighty spirit feeling all this temple, as the cloud of God's glory once filled the tabernacle. You think you could almost{569}most hear a spirit move, you feel as though you were among the angels when they waited breathless to behold the effect of the sublime utterance, "Let there be light." Bending low in reverend humility, the priest in a whisper of awe speaks the almighty words, "This is my body," "This is the chalice of my blood;" the light breathing of that whisper is heard even in the bosom of the Eternal Father, the golden gates of Paradise are thrown open, and God "bows the heavens and comes down." He is here, this church is now the hut of Bethlehem, this altar is the manger; for the Child is born upon it as really as the Virgin-mother there brought him forth.
As when of old light was made, there was a music of the spheres, of the sun and moon and all the stars and planets, singing their morning hymn of gratitude, so is the stillness now also broken, so does the choir, warbling in swelling glee, burst forth in grand climax, "Hosanna in excelsis." And in the mean time priest and people united utter to their new-born Saviour many rich and beautiful prayers for the living, for the faithful departed, for themselves.
The villagers are absorbed in prayer; it seems as though their fervor kept redoubling, as though the flames of holy love burned higher and higher every instant. Well they may, for the moment is approaching in which each heart will be a manger in which Jesus will be laid, each breast a tabernacle in which love itself shall dwell. Already there is a move among them; with modest gait, with clasped hands and downcast eyes, they advance to the sanctuary, the mystic bread is given to them line after line, and, bearing their God with them, they all return in reverence to give thanks, to petition for good things. Serenity is in their eyes and on their features, joy is in their hearts, rapture in their souls, peace among their feelings, and Jesus within their bosoms harmonizing all. O truly happy Christmas! O the bliss that now is theirs, the comfort of this moment! Well may the chanters hymn: "O Jesus, God! Great God! Good Pastor! Sweet Lamb! O Jesus,myJesus! O Bread! O Manna! O Power! what dost thou not grant to man!"
Then praises and thanks are sung joyously by the priest, and his hand is stretched in blessing from the altar. The Mass is over, and the procession moves from the sanctuary, while the choir chants aloud, "Praise the Lord all ye nations, praise him all ye people. Because his mercy is confirmed upon us, and the truth of the Lord remaineth for ever." (Ps. cxvi.)
The chant dies away, and for awhile not a sound is heard through all the sacred building. No one stirs as yet; all remain some time to return thanks, to allow the impression of the festival to sink deep into their souls. At length they rise, and bowing lowly toward the altar, they go forth. At the church-door hands are shaken, kisses given, warm embraces are exchanged, and joy and happiness and all the blessings of the Child's nativity are wished and wished again.
But follow them home from their midnight celebration. For a long time the village slumbers not; lights glimmer through the cottage-windows, and within groups are kneeling around a little home-made oratory, with a little crib in the middle, and candles around it. This is of greater importance than the gathering around the yule-fire or the decked tree. Moreover, all did not go home when Mass was over. Go back to the church, and behold those silent figures praying in every posture that feeling can suggest. There, before that tabernacle, a mother prays the divine Child for her own babe; a virgin prays for purity like to that of the Virgin-mother; the child of misery seeks consolation from him who was born in a stable; many repeat over and over again the canticle of the angels, and all beg the blessings of him over whom the angels sang it. At length these also are gone; the lights{570}are quenched about the altar, all, save the silver lamp which is never extinguished; all is still as was the stable when the shepherds had adored and gone back to their flocks.
But the festival of our Saviour's birth is not over yet. "As the day comes round in music and in light;" you again see the villagers wending their way to the church; and a third time, when the sun is in the mid-arch of heaven. Each time is witnessed the same sublime celebration that we beheld at midnight; for three births of Christ are celebrated. His birth from the Father before lime began; his birth from the immaculate Virgin as a wailing babe at Bethlehem; his mystic birth, by faith and by the sacrament of love, in the heart of each humble adorer.
Such was Christmas in the happy olden times. Alas! that a blight should ever have come upon it. Truly they have not done well to despoil that village church of all its charming features. Well may the church exclaim, weeping: "The keepers that go about the city found me; they struck me, and wounded me: the keepers of the walls took my vail from me." (Cant, v. 7.) Fondly do we trust she will soon again be clothed in splendor. The pope that reigned when England fell away grieved sadly for her fall. In his distress he put away the triple crown; and even now his statue sits uncrowned, with downcast eyes, as though his grief had hardened him to stone. But soon, we trust, he will again lift up his eyes. Soon, we trust, will his successors rejoiced to find the crown replaced, not by mortal, but by angel hands. Shall we not hope and pray that our own dear land, also, will form not the least brilliant jewel in that crown? One day this church will again deck herself with the flowers she once wore, but which rebellious hands toward to pieces, scattering the leaves around her. Then shall we once again celebrate the good old Catholic Christmas times, and celebrate them with the increased joy which is born of the wanderer's returned. God granted it speedily!
.
Spots on the Sun.—Science Review.—We would draw the attention of our scientific readers to a remarkable opinion and theory of Sir John Herschel's with regard to the nature of those curious objects discovered by Mr. Nasmyth on the surface of the sun, and generally called, from their peculiar shape, "willow leaves." We believe Sir John first propounded this theory in an article on the sun, published in Good Words, but it does not seem to have been noticed by many astronomers. However wild the hypothesis may appear, it has just received a further sanction from its eminent author, by its republication in his new book of Familiar Lectures, which we notice elsewhere. Sir John says: "Nothing remains but to consider them (the so-called willow leaves) as separate and independent sheets, flakes, or scales, having some sort of solidity. And these flakes, be they what they may, and whatever may be said about the dashing of meteoric stones into the sun's atmosphere, etc., are evidently the immediate sources of the solar light and heat by whatever mechanism for whatever processes they may be enabled to develop, and, as it were, elaborate these elements from the bosom of the non-luminous fluid in which they appear to float. Looked at in this point of view, we cannot refuse to regard them as organisms of some peculiar and amazing kind; and though it would be too daring to speak of such organization as partaking of the nature of life, yet we do know that vital action is competent to develop both heat, light, and electricity." Strange and startling as is such an explanation, yet scientific men will remember that when we{571}knew as little about the cause of the black lines seen in the spectrum of the sun as we now know about these appearances on the sun itself, Sir John Herschel suggested, in 1833, that very explanation which was the foundation of the memorable law announced by the German philosopher, Kirchhoff, in 1859—a law now universally accepted as affording a perfect solution to the long-standing puzzle of Fraunhofer's lines.
Simple Net for the Capture of Oceanic Animals,—Science Review.—In a paper read before the Microscopical Society of London on the fauna of mid-ocean, Major S. R. Owen gives the following directions for the preparation of a simple form of net for the above purpose, and which maybe rigged out at a few hours' notice. A grommet should be made for the mouth, to which three cords may be attached to connect it with the towing-line; that line should be a good stout piece of stuff and capable of bearing a great strain. To the grommet should be attached, first, a bag, the upper part of which may be made of a thin canvas, the lower part of strong jean, ending in a piece of close calico or linen; the bottom must be left open, and tied round with a tape when used; this will be found convenient for taking out the contents, and by leaving it open and towing it so for a short time it can be thoroughly washed. Over the whole an outer covering of the strongest sail-cloth should be put, the upper part, in like manner, attached to the grommet, the lower part left open, and a portion for a foot or eighteen inches of the seam left to be coarsely laced up with a piece of cord, the same being done for the bottom itself. If necessary, a third covering may be put between these of any strong but rather porous material; but this in its turn should be left open at the bottom, and only tied when required for use. Its length should be so adjusted when tied that the inner lining of calico may rest against it, and be relieved from the strain. The outer sail-cloth should, in like manner, be laced up to receive and support the whole.