What Christmas is as We Grow Older
Time was, with most of us, when Christmas Day encircling all our limited world like
a magic ring, left nothing out for us to miss or seek; bound together all our home
enjoyments, affections, and hopes; grouped everything and everyone around
the Christmas fire; and made the little picture shine in our bright young eyes,
complete.
The time came, perhaps, all so soon, when our thoughts over-leaped that narrow
boundary; when there was someone (very dear, we thought then, very beautiful,
and absolutely perfect) wanting to the fulness of our happiness; when we were
wanting to (or we thought so, which did just as well) at the Christmas hearth by which
that someone sat, and when we intertwined with every wreath and garland of our life,
that someone’s name.
That was the time for the bright visionary Christmases which have long arisen from us
to show faintly, after a summer rain, in the palest edges of the rainbow!
That was the time for the beatified enjoyment of the things that were to be and never
were, and yet the things that were so real in our resolute hope that it would be hard
to say, now, what realities achieved since have been stronger!
What! Did that Christmas never really come when we and the priceless pearl who was
our young choice was received, after the happiest of totally impossible marriages,
by the two united families previously at daggers—drawn on our account?
When brothers and sisters-in-law, who had always been rather cool to us before
our relationship was affected, perfectly doted on us, and when fathers and mothers
overwhelmed us with unlimited incomes? Was that Christmas dinner never really
eaten, after which we arose and generously and eloquently rendered honor to our late
rival, present in the company, then and there exchanging friendship and forgiveness,
and founding an attachment, not to be surpassed in Greek or Roman story,
which subsisted until death? Has that same rival long ceased to care for that same
priceless pearl, married for money, and become usurious? Above all, do we really
know, now, that we should probably have been miserable if we had won and worn
the pearl and that we are better without her?
That Christmas, when we had recently achieved so much fame; when we had been
carried in triumph somewhere for doing something great and good; when we had won
an honored and ennobled name and arrived and were received at home in a shower
of tears of joy; is it possible that Christmas has not come yet?
And is our life here, at the best, so constituted that pausing as we advance at such
a noticeable milestone in the track as this great birthday, we look back on the things
that never was, as naturally and full as gravely as on the things that have been
and are gone, or have been and still are? If it is so, and so it seems to be, must
we come to the conclusion that life is little better than a dream and little worth
the loves and strivings that we crowd into it?
No! Far be such miscalled philosophy from us, dear Reader, on Christmas Day!
Nearer and closer to our hearts be the Christmas spirit, which is the spirit of active
usefulness, perseverance, cheerful discharge of duty, kindness, and forbearance!
It is in the last virtues especially that we are, or should be, strengthened
by the unaccomplished visions of our youth; for, who shall say that they are not
our teachers to deal gently even with the impalpable nothings of the earth!
Therefore, as we grow older, let us be more thankful that the circle of our Christmas
associations and of the lessons that they bring expands! Let us welcome every
one of them and summon them to take their places by the Christmas hearth.
Welcome, old aspirations, glittering creatures of an ardent fancy, to your shelter
underneath the holly! We know you and have not outlived you yet. Welcome,
old projects and old loves, however fleeting, to your nooks among the steadier lights
that burn around us. Welcome, all that was ever real to our hearts,
and for the earnestness that made you real, thanks to Heaven!
Do we build no Christmas castles in the clouds now? Let our thoughts, fluttering like
butterflies among these flowers of children, bear witness! Before this boy,
there stretches out a Future, brighter than we ever looked on in our old romantic time,
but bright with honor and with the truth. Around this little head on which the sunny
curls lie heaped, the graces sport, as prettily, as airily, as when there was no scythe
within the reach of Time to shear away the curls of our first love. Upon another girl’s
face near it—more placid but smiling bright—a quiet and contented little face,
we see Home fairly written. Shining from the word, as rays shine from a star,
we see how, when our graves are old, other hopes than ours are young, other hearts
than ours are moved; how other ways are smoothed; how other happiness blooms,
ripens, and decays—no, not decays, for other homes and other bands of children,
not yet in being nor for ages yet to be, arise, and bloom and ripen to the end of all!
Welcome, everything! Welcome, alike what has been, and what never was, and what
we hope may be, to your shelter underneath the holly, to your places around
the Christmas fire, where what is sitting open-hearted! In yonder shadow, do we see
obtruding furtively upon the blaze, an enemy’s face? By Christmas Day, we do forgive
him! If the injury he has done us may admit of such companionship, let him come here
and take his place. If otherwise, unhappily, let him go; hence, assured that we will never
injure nor accuse him.
On this day, we shut out Nothing!
“Pause,” says a low voice. “Nothing? Think!”
“On Christmas Day, we will shut out from our fireside, Nothing.”
“Not the shadow of a vast City where the withered leaves are lying deep?” the voice replies. “Not the shadow that darkens the whole globe? Not the shadow of the City
of the Dead?”
Not even that. Of all days in the year, we will turn our faces toward that City upon
Christmas Day, and from its silent hosts, bring those we loved among us.
The city of the Dead, in the blessed name wherein we are gathered together at this
time, and in the Presence that is here among us according to the promise, we will
receive, and not dismiss, thy people who are dear to us!
Yes. We can look upon these children angels that alight, so solemnly, so beautifully
among the living children by the fire and can bear to think how they departed from us.
Entertaining angels unawares, as the Patriarchs did, the playful children
are unconscious of their guests, but we can see them—can see a radiant arm around
one favorite neck, as if there were a tempting of that child away. Among the celestial
figures, there is one, a poor misshapen boy on earth, of a glorious beauty now,
of whom his dying mother said it grieved her much to leave him here, alone,
for so many years as it was likely would elapse before he came to her—being such
a little child. But he went quickly and was laid upon her breast, and in her hand,
she led him.
There was a gallant boy who fell, far away, upon a burning sand beneath a burning sun
and said,
“Tell them at home, with my last love, how much I could have wished to kiss them once but that I died contented and had done my duty!”
Or there was another, over whom they read the words,
“Therefore, we commit his body to the deep,”
and so consigned him to the lonely ocean and sailed on. Or there was another,
who lay down to his rest in the dark shadow of great forests and, on earth, awoke
no more. O shall they not, from sand and sea and forest, be brought home at such
a time!
There was a dear girl—almost a woman—never to be one—who made a mourning
Christmas in a house of joy and went her trackless way to the silent City.
Do we recollect her, worn out, faintly whispering what could not be heard, and falling
into that last sleep for weariness? O look upon her now! O look upon her beauty,
her serenity, her changeless youth, her happiness! The daughter of Jairus was recalled
to life, to die, but she, more blest, has heard the same voice, saying unto her,
“Arise forever!”
We had a friend who was our friend from our early days, with whom we often pictured
the changes that were to come upon our lives and merrily imagined how we would
speak, walk, think, and talk when we came to be old. His destined habitation in the City
of the Dead received him in his prime. Shall he be shut out from our Christmas
remembrance? Would his love have so excluded us? Lost friend, lost child, lost parent,
sister, brother, husband, wife, we will not so discard you! You shall hold your
cherished places in our Christmas hearts and by our Christmas fires,
and in the season of immortal hope, and on the birthday of immortal mercy,
we will shut out Nothing!
The winter sun goes down over town and village; on the sea, it makes a rosy path
as if the Sacred tread were fresh upon the water. A few more moments, and it sinks,
and night comes on, and lights begin to sparkle in the prospect. On the hill-side beyond
the shapelessly-diffused town and in the quiet keeping of the trees that gird
the village steeple, remembrances are cut in stone, planted in common flowers,
growing in grass, entwined with lowly brambles around many a mound of earth.
In town and village, there are doors and windows closed against the weather;
there are flaming logs heaped high; there are joyful faces; there is healthy music
of voices.
Be all ungentleness and harm excluded from the temples of the Household Gods,
but be those remembrances admitted with tender encouragement! They are of the time
and all its comforting and peaceful reassurances, and of the history that re-united even
upon earth the living and the dead, and of the broad beneficence and goodness
that too many men have tried to tear to narrow shreds.
The End