It seems almost like having been in two places at once to be able to
tell from observation a Christmas Tale of Two Cities. First there was
Stuttgart, where the sun was pouring down warm and summerish on the
hills around the city, and where we were borne away on the glad tide
that went sweeping along towards Christmas under the fairest skies that
ever smiled on saint or sinner in mid-winter, until it grew so near the
time we almost heard the Christmas bells. And then there was Hamburg, to
which place--having consigned ourselves to the tender mercies of a
sleeping coupe--we went rushing off through the night, and found the
dear, glad Christmas just going to happen there, too, and the great
Northern city seemed very noisy and bold and out-in-the-world after
Stuttgart, nestled so snugly among its hills.
Hamburg has, however, its quiet spots, if you seek them under the great
elms in the suburbs, or among the quaint streets in the oldest portions
of the city. One of the very stillest places is a paved court by St.
George's Church, where the little, old houses of one story all look
towards three great crosses in an octagonal enclosure, on which Christ
and the two thieves hang, and Mary and John stand weeping below. It has
always been still there when we have passed through, though close to the
busy streets. It is a place with a history, I am sure. Indeed, what
place is not? But it is reticent and knows how to keep its secrets.
Perhaps Dickens might have made something out of the grave, small houses
that have been staring at the crosses so many long years.
A very good place for moralizing, too, is down by the Elbe, where the
great ships from all quarters of the earth lie, and you hear Dutch and
Danish sailors talking, and don't understand a word. There commerce
seems a mighty thing, and the world grows appallingly great, and you
feel of as much importance in it as the small cat who sits meditatively
licking her paws down on the tug-boat just below you.
But this was to be more or less about Christmas. Christmas in general is
something about which there is nothing to say, because it sings its own
songs without words in all our hearts; but a story of one particular
Christmas may not be amiss here, since it tells of a pretty and graceful
welcome which Germans knew how to give to a wanderer,--a welcome in
which tones of tenderness were underlying the merriment, and delicate
consideration shaped the whole plan.
In a room radiant, not with one Christmas-tree, but with five,--a whole
one for each person being the generous allowance,--stood a lordly fir,
glistening with long icicles of glass, resplendent with ornaments of
scarlet and gold and white. The stars and stripes floated proudly from
its top; unmistakable cherries of that delectable substance, Marzipan,
hung in profusion from its branches; and at its base stood the Father of
his Country. George, on this occasion, was a doll of inexpressibly
fascinating mien, arrayed in a violet velvet coat, white satin waistcoat
and knee-breeches, lace ruffles, silver buckles, white wig, and
three-cornered hat, and wearing that dignified, imperturbable
Washingtonian expression of countenance which one would not have
believed could be produced on a foreign shore. He held no hatchet in his
hand, but graciously extended a document heavily sealed and tied with
red, white, and blue ribbons.
This document was written in elegant and impressive English. A very big
and fierce-looking American eagle hovered over the page, which was also
adorned by the arms of the German Empire and of Hamburg. The purport of
the document was that George Washington, first President of the United
States, did herewith present his compliments to a certain wandering
daughter of America, wishing her, on the part of her country, family,
and friends,
"A merry Christmas and happy New Year,"
and "all foreign authorities, corporations, and private individuals were
enjoined to promote, by all legal means of hospitality and good-will,
the loyal execution of the above-mentioned wishes." It displayed the
names of several highly honorable witnesses, and concluded:--
"Given under my hand and seal at my permanent White House
residence, Elysium, 24th December, 1876.
---- "_George Washington._"
And the seal bore the initials of the mighty man.
The tree yielded gifts many and charming, but the sweetest gift was the
kindly thought that prompted the pretty device. Though one had to smile
where all were smiling, yet was it not, all in all, quite enough to make
one a little "teary roun' the lashes," especially when one is very much
"grown up," and so has not the remotest claim upon the happy things
that, "by the grace of God," belong to the children? Such scenes make
one feel the world is surely not so black as it is painted.
There was during the festivities, later, a bit of mistletoe over the
door, which, in an indirect, roundabout way, through our ancestral
England, was also meant as a tribute to America, and which caused much
merriment during the holidays in a family unusually blessed with cousins
in assorted sizes. When certain flaxen-haired maidens felt that their
age and dignity did not permit them to indulge in such sports, and so
resisted all allurements to stand an instant under the mistletoe-bough,
what did the bold young student cousins? Each seized a twig of green and
stood it up suggestively in a cousin's fair braided locks, when she was
at last "under the mistletoe," and
"I wad na hae thought a lassie
Wad sae o' a kiss complain!"
None but the brave deserve the fair, and then--lest any one should be
shocked--they were positively all cousins, and when they were more than
five times removed I can solemnly affirm I _think_ it was the hand only
that was gallantly lifted to the lips of Cousin Hugo, or Cousin Rudolph,
or Cousin Siegfried; and, if I am mistaken after all, Christmas comes
but once a year, and youth but once in a lifetime.
At the theatre, Christmas pieces were given especially for the children.
The Stadt Theatre one evening was crowded with pretty little heads, the
private boxes full to overflowing; and across the body of the house a
great, solid row of orphan girls in a uniform of black, with short
sleeves and a large white kerchief pinned soberly across the shoulders.
They wear no hats in winter, nor do common housemaids here. A friend in
Stuttgart remarked innocently to a servant who was walking with her to
the theatre one bitter cold night, "Why, Luise, you'll freeze; you ought
to wear a hat or hood." "No, indeed!" said the girl, quite repudiating
the idea, "I am no _frauelein_." They do not seem to suffer any evil
consequences, never having known anything different, and perhaps the
little orphans, too, are not so cold as they look. It may be they are
made to go bareheaded, to teach them their station and humility, but it
seems a miracle that it does not teach them influenza. The little things
were in the seventh heaven of delight, and the play a bit of pure,
delicious nonsense,--a fairy-tale with an old, familiar theme,--the
three golden apples and the three princesses who pluck them, and in
consequence are plunged into the depths of the earth, where a
fire-breathing dragon is their keeper; the despair of their royal
father, who is a portly old gentleman with a very big crown, and his
proclamation that whoever, high or low, shall rescue them may wed them;
then the procession that sets out in search of the missing maidens, with
the tailor, the gardener, and the hunter in advance, and the adventures
of the three, until the hunter, who is the beautiful, good young man who
always succeeds,--in fairy-tales,--finally rescues the princesses, and
marries the youngest and loveliest, while the tailor and gardener, who
have conducted themselves in a treacherous and unseemly manner, are
punished according to the swift retribution that always overtakes
offenders--in fairy-tales.
The action was extremely rapid, the scenery very effective; there were
perfect armies of children on the stage, some of whom danced a kind of
Chinese mandarin ballet, and some of whom represented apes, and also
danced in the suite of the Prince of Monkeyland, one of the rejected
suitors of the princesses. In actual life the Prince of Monkeyland is,
unfortunately, not always rejected. There was a pretty scene when the
sunlight streamed through the Gothic windows of an old castle, and
red-capped dwarfs hopped about the stone floor, and played all sorts of
pranks by the old well. And then there was the man in the moon, with his
lantern; and all the women in the moon, who were blue, filmy, misty
creatures, bowing and swaying in a way that made the children through
the house scream with laughter; and these moony maidens were so very
ethereal they could only speak in a whisper, and almost fainted when the
hunter, who happened to be up that way, addressed them.
"Speak softly, softly, noble stranger," they implored, in a whispering
chorus, shrinking from him in affright, with their hands on their ears.
"Thy voice is like a thunder-clap."
It was certainly one of the prettiest spectacular dramas imaginable,
with its innocent, droll plot; and to see a good old-fashioned
fairy-tale put on the stage so well, and to see it with hundreds of
blissful, ecstatic children, was thoroughly enjoyable.
Through the holidays social life here seems to resolve itself chiefly
into great family gatherings, and the custom of watching the old year
out is very general. One party of between thirty and forty persons,
being only brothers and sisters with their children, was a charming
affair. The dignified played whist, and the frivolous sang and were
merry in other rooms. Tea and light cakes were served frequently during
the evening, from the arrival of the guests until the supper at eleven,
when the long table was brilliant with choice glass and silver and
flowers; and fresh young faces and sweet, benign elderly ones were
gathered around. A family party can be a dismal, dreary assembling of
incongruous elements that make one soul-sick and weary of the world, or
it can be a tender, cheery, blessed thing. There are, indeed, many
varieties of family parties. Most of the large ones are perhaps no
better than they ought to be; but _this_ gathering of a clan happened to
possess the intangible something that cheers and charms.
There were jests and toasts and laughter and blushes, and there was a
wonderful punch, brewed by the eldest son of the house in an enormous
crimson glass punch-bowl,--which, like the "Luck of Edenhall," "made a
purple light shine over all,"--and dipped out with a gold ladle; and its
remarkably intoxicating ingredients, particularly the number of bottles
of champagne poured in at the last, I shall never divulge.
The host rose just before midnight, and alluded briefly to certain
losses, and causes for sadness experienced by the family during the
year; yet they were still, he said very simply, united, loving, and
hopeful; he then gave the toast to the New Year, and they all drank it
heartily, standing, as the clock was striking twelve, after which was a
general movement through the room, warm greetings, hand-pressures and
kisses, and suspicious moisture about many eyes, though lips were
smiling bravely.
Then came a walk home through the great city, whose streets were crowded
full at two o'clock in the morning. "Prosit Neujahr! Prosit Neujahr!"
sounded everywhere, far and near. A band of workmen, arm in arm, tramp
along in great jollity, pushing their way and greeting the whole world.
"Prosit Neujahr!" they cry to the young aristocrat; "Prosit Neujahr!" is
the hearty response. For an hour all men are brothers, and everybody
turns away from the sad old year, and gives an eager welcome to the new
young thing, whom we trust, though we know him not. Above the surging
multitude, and the hoarse, loud voices and impetuous hearts, and wild
welcoming of the unknown, the starlit night seems strangely still, and
the quiet moon shines down on the great frozen Alster basin, around
which reaches the twinkling line of city lights. Beyond are the city
spires. "Round our restlessness His rest," says some one softly; and so
_Prosit Neujahr_!
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