Homepage
Login
Profile
BookClubs
dmBox
Read Ebook: Under the Holly: Christmas-Tide in Song and Story by Randolph Henry F Henry Fitz Compiler
Font size:
Background color:
Text color:
Add to tbrJar First Page Next Page
Ebook has 182 lines and 16288 words, and 4 pages
PAGE
CHRISTMAS 9
CHRISTMAS MINSTRELSY 17
A CHRISTMAS LULLABY 21
THE OLD OAK-TREE'S LAST DREAM 23
LITTLE GOTTLIEB 31
TINY TIM'S CHRISTMAS DINNER 36
CHRISTMAS CAROL 46
LAST NIGHT, AS I LAY SLEEPING 47
CHRISTMAS DAY IN LONDON 49
UNDER THE HOLLY-BOUGH 53
THE LITTLE MATCH-GIRL 55
A ROCKING HYMN 60
IN MEMORIAM 66
Now that the time is come wherein Our Saviour Christ was born, The larders full of beef and pork, The garners filled with corn; As God hath plenty to thee sent, Take comfort of thy labors, And let it never thee repent To feast thy needy neighbors.
CHRISTMAS.
Of all the old festivals, that of Christmas awakens the strongest and most heartfelt associations. There is a tone of solemn and sacred feeling that blends with our conviviality, and lifts the spirit to a state of hallowed and elevated enjoyment. The services of the church about this season are extremely tender and inspiring. They dwell on the beautiful story of the origin of our faith, and the pastoral scenes that accompanied its announcement. They gradually increase in fervor and pathos during the season of Advent, until they break forth in full jubilee on the morning that brought peace and good-will to men. I do not know a grander effect of music on the moral feelings than to hear the full choir and the pealing organ performing a Christmas anthem in a cathedral, and filling every part of the vast pile with triumphant harmony.
It is a beautiful arrangement, also, derived from days of yore, that this festival, which commemorates the announcement of the religion of peace and love, has been made the season for gathering together of family connections, and drawing closer again those bands of kindred hearts which the cares and pleasures and sorrows of the world are continually operating to cast loose; of calling back the children of a family who have launched forth in life, and wandered widely asunder, once more to assemble about the paternal hearth, that rallying-place of the affections, there to grow young and loving again among the endearing mementos of childhood.
There is something in the very season of the year that gives a charm to the festivity of Christmas. At other times we derive a great portion of our pleasures from the mere beauties of Nature. Our feelings sally forth and dissipate themselves over the sunny landscape, and we "live abroad and everywhere." The song of the bird, the murmur of the stream, the breathing fragrance of spring, the soft voluptuousness of summer, the golden pomp of autumn; earth with its mantle of refreshing green, and heaven with its deep delicious blue and its cloudy magnificence,--all fill us with mute but exquisite delight, and we revel in the luxury of mere sensation. But in the depth of winter, when Nature lies despoiled of every charm, and wrapped in her shroud of sheeted snow, we turn for our gratifications to moral sources. The dreariness and desolation of the landscape, the short gloomy days and darksome nights, while they circumscribe our wanderings, shut in our feelings also from rambling abroad, and make us more keenly disposed for the pleasures of the social circle. Our thoughts are more concentrated; our friendly sympathies more aroused. We feel more sensibly the charm of each other's society, and are brought more closely together by dependence on each other for enjoyment. Heart calleth unto heart; and we draw our pleasures from the deep wells of living kindness, which lie in the quiet recesses of our bosoms, and which, when resorted to, furnish forth the pure element of domestic felicity.
The pitchy gloom without makes the heart dilate on entering the room filled with the glow and warmth of the evening fire. The ruddy blaze diffuses an artificial summer and sunshine through the room, and lights up each countenance into a kindlier welcome. Where does the honest face of hospitality expand into a broader and more cordial smile, where is the shy glance of love more sweetly eloquent, than by the winter fireside? and as the hollow blast of wintry wind rushes through the hall, claps the distant door, whistles about the casement, and rumbles down the chimney, what can be more grateful than that feeling of sober and sheltered security with which we look round upon the comfortable chamber and the scene of domestic hilarity?
The English, from the great prevalence of rural habits throughout every class of society, have always been fond of those festivals and holidays which agreeably interrupt the stillness of country life; and they were, in former days, particularly observant of the religious and social rites of Christmas. It is inspiring to read even the dry details which some antiquarians have given of the quaint humors, the burlesque pageants, the complete abandonment to mirth and good-fellowship, with which this festival was celebrated. It seemed to throw open every door, and unlock every heart. It brought the peasant and the peer together, and blended all ranks in one warm, generous flow of joy and kindness. The old halls of castles and manor-houses resounded with the harp and the Christmas carol, and their ample boards groaned under the weight of hospitality. Even the poorest cottage welcomed the festive season with green decorations of bay and holly; the cheerful fire glanced its rays through the lattice, inviting the passenger to raise the latch, and join the gossip knot huddled round the hearth, beguiling the long evening with legendary jokes and oft-told Christmas tales.
One of the least pleasing effects of modern refinement is the havoc it has made among the hearty old holiday customs. It has completely taken off the sharp touchings and spirited reliefs of these embellishments of life, and has worn down society into a more smooth and polished, but certainly a less characteristic surface. Many of the games and ceremonials of Christmas have entirely disappeared, and like the sherris-sack of old Falstaff, are become matters of speculation and dispute among commentators. They flourished in times full of spirit and lustihood, when men enjoyed life roughly, but heartily and vigorously,--times wild and picturesque, which have furnished poetry with its richest materials, and the drama with its most attractive variety of characters and manners. The world has become more worldly. There is more of dissipation and less of enjoyment. Pleasure has expanded into a broader but a shallower stream, and has forsaken many of those deep and quiet channels where it flowed sweetly through the calm bosom of domestic life. Society has acquired a more enlightened and elegant tone; but it has lost many of its strong local peculiarities, its home-bred feelings, its honest fireside delights. The traditionary customs of golden-hearted antiquity, its feudal hospitalities and lordly wassailings, have passed away with the baronial castles and stately manor-houses in which they were celebrated. They comported with the shadowy hall, the great oaken gallery, and the tapestried parlor, but are unfitted to the light showy saloons and gay drawing-rooms of the modern villa.
Shorn, however, as it is, of its ancient and festive honors, Christmas is still a period of delightful excitement in England. It is gratifying to see that home feeling completely aroused which seems to hold so powerful a place in every English bosom. The preparations making on every side for the social board that is again to unite friends and kindred; the presents of good cheer passing and repassing, those tokens of regard and quickeners of kind feelings; the evergreens distributed about houses and churches, emblems of peace and gladness,--all these have the most pleasing effect in producing fond associations, and kindling benevolent sympathies. Even the sound of the waits, rude as may be their minstrelsy, breaks upon the mid-watches of a winter night with the effect of perfect harmony. As I have been awakened by them in that still and solemn hour, "when deep sleep falleth upon man," I have listened with a hushed delight, and, connecting them with the sacred and joyous occasion, have almost fancied them into another celestial choir, announcing peace and good-will to mankind.
Amidst the general call to happiness, the bustle of the spirits, and stir of the affections, which prevail at this period, what bosom can remain insensible? It is, indeed, the season of regenerated feeling,--the season for kindling, not merely the fire of hospitality in the hall, but the genial flame of charity in the heart.
The scene of early love again rises green to memory beyond the sterile waste of years; and the idea of home, fraught with the fragrance of home-dwelling joys, re-animates the drooping spirit,--as the Arabian breeze will sometimes waft the freshness of the distant fields to the weary pilgrim of the desert.
He who can turn churlishly away from contemplating the felicity of his fellow-beings, and sit down darkling and repining in his loneliness when all around is joyful, may have his moments of strong excitement and selfish gratification, but he wants the genial and social sympathies which constitute the charm of a merry Christmas.
CHRISTMAS MINSTRELSY.
The minstrels played their Christmas tune To-night beneath my cottage eaves; While smitten by a lofty moon, The encircling laurels, thick with leaves, Gave back a rich and dazzling sheen, That overpowered their natural green.
Through hill and valley every breeze Had sunk to rest with folded wings: Keen was the air, but could not freeze Nor check the music of the strings; So stout and hardy were the band That scraped the chords with strenuous hand.
And who but listened?--till was paid Respect to every inmate's claim: The greeting given, the music played, In honor of each household name, Duly pronounced with lusty call, And a merry Christmas wished to all.
O Brother! I revere the choice That took thee from thy native hills; And it is given thee to rejoice: Though public care full often tills A barren and ungrateful soil.
Yet would that thou, with me and mine, Hadst heard this never-failing rite; And seen on other faces shine A true revival of the light Which Nature and these rustic powers, In simple childhood, spread through ours!
For pleasure hath not ceased to wait On these expected annual rounds, Whether the rich man's sumptuous gate Call forth the unelaborate sounds, Or they are offered at the door That guards the lowliest of the poor.
The mutual nod,--the grave disguise Of hearts with gladness brimming o'er, And some unbidden tears that rise For names once heard, and heard no more; Tears brightened by the serenade For infant in the cradle laid!
Ah! not for emerald fields alone, With ambient streams more pure and bright Than fabled Cytherea's zone Glittering before the Thunderer's sight, Is to my heart of hearts endeared The ground where we were born and reared!
Hail ancient manners! sure defence, Where they survive, of wholesome laws; Remnants of love whose modest sense Thus into narrow room withdraws: Hail usages of pristine mould, And ye that guard them, mountains old!
Bear with me, Brother! quench the thought That slights this passion or condemns; If thee fond fancy ever brought From the proud margin of the Thames, And Lambeth's venerable towers, To humbler streams and greener bowers.
Yes, they can make, who fail to find, Short leisure even in busiest days; Moments to cast a look behind, And profit by those kindly rays That through the clouds do sometimes steal, And all the far-off past reveal.
Hence, while the imperial city's din Beats frequent on thy satiate ear, A pleased attention I may win To agitations less severe, That neither overwhelm nor cloy, But fill the hollow vale with joy!
A CHRISTMAS LULLABY.
Sleep, baby, sleep! the Mother sings: Heaven's angels kneel and fold their wings: Sleep, baby, sleep!
At midnight came the shepherds, they Whom seraphs wakened by the way. Sleep, baby, sleep!
And three kings from the East afar Ere dawn came guided by thy star. Sleep, baby, sleep!
They brought thee gifts of gold and gems, Pure orient pearls, rich diadems. Sleep, baby, sleep!
But thou who liest slumbering there, Art King of kings, earth, ocean, air. Sleep, baby, sleep!
Sleep, baby, sleep! The shepherds sing; Through heaven, through earth, hosannas ring. Sleep, baby, sleep!
THE OLD OAK-TREE'S LAST DREAM.
The Oak-tree stood stripped of all his foliage, ready to go to rest for the whole winter, and in it to dream many dreams,--to dream of the past, just as men dream.
The tree had once been a little one, and had had a field for its cradle. Now, according to human reckoning, he was in his fourth century. He was the tallest and mightiest tree in the woods; his crown towered high above all the other trees, and was seen far out on the sea, serving as a beacon to ships; but the old Oak-tree had never thought how many eyes sought him out from afar.
High up in his green crown wood-doves had built their nests, and the cuckoo perched to announce spring; and in the autumn, when his leaves looked like copper-plates hammered out thin, birds of passage came and rested awhile among the boughs, before they flew across the seas. But now it was winter; the tree stood leafless, and the bowed and crooked branches displayed their dark outlines; crows and jackdaws came alternately, gossiping together about the hard times that were beginning, and the difficulty of getting food during the winter.
It was just at the holy Christmas-tide that the Oak-tree dreamt his most beautiful dream: this dream we will hear.
Add to tbrJar First Page Next Page