lighted by the great multitude of the stars, whose glittering ranks
have in that atmosphere a distinctness and a glory unseen with us.
Perhaps no scene of beauty in the visible creation has proved a more
hackneyed theme for the poet and the philosopher than a starry night.
But not all the superabundance of simile and moral illustration with
which the subject has been loaded can rob the beholder of the freshness
of its grandeur or the force of its teaching; that noblest and most
majestic vision of the handiwork of GOD on which the eye of man is here
permitted to rest.
As the parson gazed he became conscious that he was not alone. Other
eyes besides his were watching the skies to-night. Dark, profound,
patient, Eastern eyes, used from the cradle to the grave to watch and
wait. The eyes of star-gazers and dream-interpreters; men who believed
the fate of empires to be written in shining characters on the face of
heaven, as the "Mene, Mene," was written in fire on the walls of the
Babylonian palace. The old parson was one of the many men of real
learning and wide reading who pursue their studies in the quiet country
parishes of England, and it was with the keen interest of intelligence
that he watched the group of figures that lay near him.
"Is this a vision of the past?" he asked himself. "There can be no
doubt as to these men. They are star-gazers, magi, and, from their
dress and bearing, men of high rank; perhaps 'teachers of a higher
wisdom' in one of the purest philosophies of the old heathen world.
When one thinks," he pursued, "of the intense interest, the eager
excitement which the student of history finds in the narrative of the
past as unfolded in dusty records written by the hand of man, one may
realize how absorbing must have been that science which professed to
unveil the future, and to display to the eyes of the wise the fate of
dynasties written with the finger of GOD amid the stars."
The dark-robed figures were so still that they might almost have been
carved in stone. The air seemed to grow purer and purer; the stars
shone brighter and brighter; suspended in ether the planets seemed to
hang like lamps. Now a shooting meteor passed athwart the sky, and
vanished behind the hill. But not for this did the watchers move; in
silence they watched on--till, on a sudden, how and whence the parson
knew not, across the shining ranks of that immeasurable host, whose
names and number are known to GOD alone, there passed in slow but
obvious motion one brilliant solitary star--a star of such surpassing
brightness that he involuntarily joined in the wild cry of joy and
greeting with which the Men of the East now prostrated themselves with
their faces to the earth. He could not understand the language in which,
with noisy clamour and gesticulation, they broke their former profound
and patient silence, and greeted the portent for which they had watched.
But he knew now that these were the Wise Men of the Epiphany, and that
this was the Star of Bethlehem. In his ears rang the energetic simplicity
of the Gospel narrative, "When they saw the Star, they rejoiced with
exceeding great joy."
With exceeding great joy! Ah! happy magi, who (more blest than Balaam
the son of Beor) were faithful to the dim light vouchsafed to you; the
Gentile Church may well be proud of your memory. Ye travelled long and
far to bring royal offerings to the King of the Jews, with a faith not
found in Israel. Ye saw Him whom prophets and kings had desired to see,
and were glad. Wise men indeed, and wise with the highest wisdom, in
that ye suffered yourselves to be taught of GOD.
Then the parson prayed that if this were indeed a dream he might dream
on; might pass, if only in a vision, over the hill, following the
footsteps of the magi, whilst the Star went before them, till he should
see it rest above that city, which, little indeed among the thousands
of Judah, was yet the birthplace of the Lord's Christ.
"Ah!" he almost sobbed, "let me follow! On my knees let me follow into
the house and see the Holy Child. In the eyes of how many babies I have
seen mind and thought far beyond their powers of communication, every
mother knows. But if at times, with a sort of awe, one sees the
immortal soul shining through the prison-bars of helpless infancy,
what, oh! what must it be to behold the GOD-head veiled in flesh through
the face of a little child!"
The parson stretched out his arms, but even with the passion of his
words the vision began to break. He dared not move for fear it should
utterly fade, and as he lay still and silent, the wise men roused their
followers, and, led by the Star, the train passed solemnly over the
distant hills.
Then the clear night became clouded with fragrant vapour, and with a
sigh the parson awoke.
* * * * *
When the cracker snapped and the white end was left in the grandmother's
hand, she was astonished to perceive (as she thought) that the white
lace veil which she had worn over her wedding bonnet was still in her
possession, and that she was turning it over in her fingers. "I fancied
I gave it to Jemima when her first baby was born," she muttered
dreamily. It was darned and yellow, but it carried her back all the same,
and recalled happy hours with wonderful vividness. She remembered the
post-chaise and the postillion. "He was such a pert little fellow, and
how we laughed at him! He must be either dead or a very shaky old man
by now," said the old lady. She seemed to smell the scent of meadow-sweet
that was so powerful in a lane through which they drove; and how clearly
she could see the clean little country inn where they spent the
honeymoon! She seemed to be there now, taking off her bonnet and shawl,
in the quaint clean chamber, with the heavy oak rafters, and the jasmine
coming in at the window, and glancing with pardonable pride at the fair
face reflected in the mirror. But as she laid her things on the
patchwork coverlet, it seemed to her that the lace veil became fine white
linen, and was folded about a figure that lay in the bed; and when she
looked round the room again everything was draped in white--white blinds
hung before the windows, and even the old oak chest and the press were
covered with clean white cloths, after the decent custom of the country;
whilst from the church tower without the passing bell tolled slowly. She
had not seen the face of the corpse, and a strange anxiety came over her
to count the strokes of the bell, which tell if it is a man, woman, or
child who has passed away. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven! No
more. It was a woman, and when she looked on the face of the dead she
saw her own. But even as she looked the fair linen of the grave-clothes
became the buoyant drapery of another figure, in whose face she found a
strange recognition of the lineaments of the dead with all the
loveliness of the bride. But ah! more, much more! On that face there was
a beauty not doomed to wither, before those happy eyes lay a future
unshadowed by the imperfections of earthly prospects, and the folds of
that robe were white as no fuller on earth can white them. The window
curtain parted, the jasmine flowers bowed their heads, the spirit passed
from the chamber of death, and the old lady's dream was ended.
* * * * *
Miss Letitia had shared a cracker with the widow. The widow squeaked
when the cracker went off, and then insisted upon giving up the smart
paper and everything to Miss Letitia. She had always given up
everything to Mr. Jones, she did so now to Master MacGreedy, and was
quite unaccustomed to keep anything for her own share. She did not give
this explanation herself, but so it was.
The cracker that thus fell into the hands of Miss Letitia was one of
those new-fashioned ones that have a paper pattern of some article of
dress wrapped up in them instead of a bonbon. This one was a paper
bonnet made in the latest _mode_--of green tissue-paper; and Miss Letitia
stuck it on the top of her chignon, with an air that the widow envied
from the bottom of her heart. She had not the gift of "carrying off"
her clothes. But to the tutor, on the contrary, it seemed to afford
the most extreme amusement; and as Miss Letitia bowed gracefully hither
and thither in the energy of her conversation with the widow, the green
paper fluttering with each emphasis, he fairly shook with delight, his
shadow dancing like a maniac beside him. He had scattered some more
powder on the coals, and it may have been that the smoke got into her
eyes, and confused her ideas of colour, but Miss Letitia was struck
with a fervid and otherwise unaccountable admiration for the paper ends
of the cracker, which were most unusually ugly. One was of a sallowish
salmon-colour, and transparent, the other was of brick-red paper with a
fringe. As Miss Letitia turned them over, she saw, to her unspeakable
delight, that there were several yards of each material, and her
peculiar genius instantly seized upon the fact that in the present
rage for double skirts there might be enough of the two kinds to
combine into a fashionable dress.
It had never struck her before that a dirty salmon went well with
brick-red. "They blend so becomingly, my dear," she murmured; "and I
think the under-skirt will sit well, it is so stiff."
The widow did not reply. The fumes of the tutor's compound made her
sleepy, and though she nodded to Miss Letitia's observations, it was
less from appreciation of their force, than from inability to hold up
her head. She was dreaming uneasy, horrible dreams, like nightmares; in
which from time to time there mingled expressions of doubt and
dissatisfaction which fell from Miss Letitia's lips. "Just half-a-yard
short--no gores--false hem," (and the melancholy reflection that)
"flounces take so much stuff." Then the tutor's face kept appearing and
vanishing with horrible grimaces through the mist. At last the widow
fell fairly asleep, and dreamed that she was married to the Blue Beard
of nursery annals, and that on his return from his memorable journey he
had caught her in the act of displaying the mysterious cupboard to Miss
Letitia. As he waved his scimitar over her head, he seemed
unaccountably to assume the form and features of the tutor. In her
agitation the poor woman could think of no plea against his severity,
except that the cupboard was already crammed with the corpses of his
previous wives, and there was no room for her. She was pleading this
argument when Miss Letitia's voice broke in upon her dream with
decisive accent:
"There's enough for two bodies."
The widow shrieked and awoke.
"High and low," explained Miss Letitia. "My dear, what _are_ you
screaming about?"
"I am very sorry indeed," said the widow; "I beg your pardon, I'm sure,
a thousand times. But since Mr. Jones's death I have been so nervous,
and I had such a horrible dream. And, oh dear! oh dear!" she added,
"what is the matter with my precious child? Macready, love, come to
your mamma, my pretty lamb."
Ugh! ugh! There were groans from the corner where Master MacGreedy sat
on his crackers as if they were eggs, and he hatching them. He had only
touched one, as yet, of the stock he had secured. He had picked it to
pieces, had avoided the snap, and had found a large comfit like an egg
with a rough shell inside. Every one knows that the goodies in crackers
are not of a very superior quality. There is a large amount of white
lead in the outside thinly disguised by a shabby flavour of sugar. But
that outside once disposed of, there lies an almond at the core. Now an
almond is a very delicious thing in itself, and doubly nice when it
takes the taste of white paint and chalk out of one's mouth. But in
spite of all the white lead and sugar and chalk through which he had
sucked his way, MacGreedy could not come to the almond. A dozen times
had he been on the point of spitting out the delusive sweetmeat; but
just as he thought of it he was sure to feel a bit of hard rough edge,
and thinking he had gained the kernel at last, he held valiantly on. It
only proved to be a rough bit of sugar, however, and still the
interminable coating melted copiously in his mouth; and still the
clean, fragrant almond evaded his hopes. At last with a groan he spat
the seemingly undiminished bonbon on to the floor, and turned as white
and trembling as an arrowroot blanc-mange.
In obedience to the widow's entreaties the tutor opened a window, and
tried to carry MacGreedy to the air; but that young gentleman utterly
refused to allow the tutor to approach him, and was borne howling to
bed by his mamma.
With the fresh air the fumes of the fragrant smoke dispersed, and the
company roused themselves.
"Rather oppressive, eh?" said the master of the house, who had had his
dream too, with which we have no concern.
The dogs had had theirs also, and had testified to the same in their
sleep by low growls and whines. Now they shook themselves, and rubbed
against each other, growling in a warlike manner through their teeth,
and wagging peaceably with their little stumpy tails.
The twins shook themselves, and fell to squabbling as to whether they
had been to sleep or no; and, if either, which of them had given way to
that weakness.
Miss Letitia took the paper bonnet from her head with a nervous laugh,
and after looking regretfully at the cracker papers put them in her
pocket.
The parson went home through the frosty night. In the village street he
heard a boy's voice singing two lines of the Christian hymn--
"Trace we the Babe Who hath redeemed our loss
From the poor Manger to the bitter Cross;"
and his eyes filled with tears.
The old lady went to bed and slept in peace.
"In all the thirty-five years we have been privileged to hear you,
sir," she told the rector next day after service, "I never heard such a
Christmas sermon before."
The visitor carefully preserved the blue paper and the cracker motto.
He came down early next morning to find the white half to put with
them. He did not find it, for the young lady had taken it the night
before.
The tutor had been in the room before him, wandering round the scene of
the evening's festivities.
The yule log lay black and cold upon the hearth, and the tutor nodded
to it. "I told you how it would be," he said; "but never mind, you
have had your day, and a merry one too." In the corner lay the heap of
crackers which Master MacGreedy had been too ill to remember when he
retired. The tutor pocketed them with a grim smile.
As to the comfit, it was eaten by one of the dogs, who had come down
earliest of all. He swallowed it whole, so whether it contained an
almond or not, remains a mystery to the present time.
* * * * *
AMELIA AND THE DWARFS.
My godmother's grandmother knew a good deal about the fairies.
_Her_ grandmother had seen a fairy rade on a Roodmas Eve, and she
herself could remember a copper vessel of a queer shape which had been
left by the elves on some occasion at an old farm-house among the
hills, The following story came from her, and where she got it I do not
know. She used to say it was a pleasant tale, with a good moral in the
inside of it. My godmother often observed that a tale without a moral
was like a nut without a kernel; not worth the cracking. (We called
fire-side stories "cracks" in our part of the country.) This is the
tale.
AMELIA.
A couple of gentlefolk once lived in a certain part of England. (My
godmother never would tell the name either of the place or the people,
even if she knew it. She said one ought not to expose one's neighbours'
failings more than there was due occasion for.) They had an only child,
a daughter, whose name was Amelia. They were an easy-going,
good-humoured couple; "rather soft," my godmother said, but she was apt
to think anybody "soft" who came from the southern shires, as these
people did. Amelia, who had been born farther north, was by no means
so. She had a strong resolute will, and a clever head of her own,
though she was but a child. She had a way of her own too, and had it
very completely. Perhaps because she was an only child, or perhaps
because they were so easy-going, her parents spoiled her. She was,
beyond question, the most tiresome little girl in that or any other
neighbourhood. From her baby days her father and mother had taken every
opportunity of showing her to their friends, and there was not a friend
who did not dread the infliction. When the good lady visited her
acquaintances, she always took Amelia with her, and if the
acquaintances were fortunate enough to see from the windows who was
coming, they used to snatch up any delicate knick-knacks, or brittle
ornaments lying about, and put them away, crying, "What is to be done?
Here comes Amelia!"
When Amelia came in, she would stand and survey the room, whilst her
mother saluted her acquaintance; and if anything struck her fancy, she
would interrupt the greetings to draw her mother's attention to it,
with a twitch of her shawl, "Oh, look, Mamma, at that funny bird in the
glass case!" or perhaps, "Mamma, Mamma! There's a new carpet since we
were here last;" for, as her mother said, she was "a very observing
child."
Then she would wander round the room, examining and fingering
everything, and occasionally coming back with something in her hand to
tread on her mother's dress, and break in upon the ladies' conversation
with--"Mamma! Mamma! What's the good of keeping this old basin? It's
been broken and mended, and some of the pieces are quite loose now. I
can feel them:" or--addressing the lady of the house--"That's not a
real ottoman in the corner. It's a box covered with chintz. I know, for
I've looked."
Then her mamma would say, reprovingly, "My _dear_ Amelia!"
And perhaps the lady of the house would beg, "Don't play with that old
china, my love; for though it is mended, it is very valuable;" and her
mother would add, "My dear Amelia, you must not."
Sometimes the good lady said, "You _must_ not." Sometimes she
tried--"You must _not_" When both these failed, and Amelia was balancing
the china bowl on her finger-ends, her mamma would get flurried, and when
Amelia flurried her, she always rolled her r's, and emphasized her words,
so that it sounded thus:
"My dear-r-r-r-Ramelia! You must not."
At which Amelia would not so much as look round, till perhaps the bowl
slipped from her fingers, and was smashed into unmendable fragments.
Then her mamma would exclaim, "Oh, dear-r-r-r, oh, dear-r-Ramelia" and
the lady of the house would try to look as if it did not matter, and
when Amelia and her mother departed, would pick up the bits, and pour
out her complaints to her lady friends, most of whom had suffered many
such damages at the hands of this "very observing child."
When the good couple received their friends at home, there was no
escaping from Amelia. If it was a dinner-party, she came in with the
dessert, or perhaps sooner. She would take up her position near some
one, generally the person most deeply engaged in conversation, and
either lean heavily against him or her, or climb on to his or her knee,
without being invited. She would break in upon the most interesting
discussion with her own little childish affairs, in the following
style--"I've been out to-day. I walked to the town. I jumped across
three brooks. Can you jump? Papa gave me sixpence to-day. I am saving
up my money to be rich. You may cut me an orange; no, I'll take it to
Mr. Brown, he peels it with a spoon and turns the skin back. Mr. Brown!
Mr. Brown! Don't talk to Mamma, but peel me an orange, please. Mr.
Brown! I'm playing with your finger-glass."
And when the finger-glass full of cold water had been upset on to Mr.
Brown's shirt-front, Amelia's mamma would cry--"Oh dear, oh
dear-r-Ramelia!" and carry her off with the ladies to the drawing-room.
Here she would scramble on to the ladies' knees, or trample out the
gathers of their dresses, and fidget with their ornaments, startling
some luckless lady by the announcement, "I've got your bracelet undone
at last!" who would find one of the divisions broken open by force,
Amelia not understanding the working of a clasp.
Or perhaps two young lady friends would get into a quiet corner for a
chat. The observing child would sure to spy them, and run on to them,
crushing their flowers and ribbons, and crying--"You two want to talk
secrets, I know. I can hear what you say. I'm going to listen, I am.
And I shall tell, too;" when perhaps a knock at the door announced the
Nurse to take Miss Amelia to bed, and spread a general rapture of
relief.
Then Amelia would run to trample and worry her mother, and after much
teasing, and clinging, and complaining, the Nurse would be dismissed,
and the fond mamma would turn to the lady next to her, and say with a
smile--"I suppose I must let her stay up a little. It is such a treat
to her, poor child!"
But it was no treat to the visitors.
Besides tormenting her fellow-creatures, Amelia had a trick of teasing
animals. She was really fond of dogs, but she was still fonder of doing
what she was wanted not to do, and of worrying everything and everybody
about her. So she used to tread on the tips of their tails, and pretend
to give them biscuit, and then hit them on the nose, besides pulling at
those few, long, sensitive hairs which thin-skinned dogs wear on the
upper lip.
Now Amelia's mother's acquaintances were so very well-bred and amiable,
that they never spoke their minds to either the mother or the daughter
about what they endured from the latter's rudeness, wilfulness, and
powers of destruction. But this was not the case with the dogs, and
they expressed their sentiments by many a growl and snap. At last one
day Amelia was tormenting a snow-white bulldog (who was certainly as
well-bred and as amiable as any living creature in the kingdom), and
she did not see that even his patience was becoming worn out. His pink
nose became crimson with increased irritation, his upper lip twitched
over his teeth, behind which he was rolling as many warning R's as
Amelia's mother herself. She finally held out a bun towards him, and
just as he was about to take it, she snatched it away and kicked him
instead. This fairly exasperated the bulldog, and as Amelia would not
let him bite the bun, he bit Amelia's leg.
Her mamma was so distressed that she fell into hysterics, and hardly
knew what she was saying. She said the bulldog must be shot for fear he
should go mad, and Amelia's wound must be done with a red-hot poker for
fear _she_ should go mad (with hydrophobia). And as of course she
couldn't bear the pain of this, she must have chloroform, and she would
most probably die of that; for as one in several thousands dies
annually under chloroform, it was evident that her chance of life was
very small indeed. So, as the poor lady said, "Whether we shoot Amelia
and burn the bulldog--at least I mean shoot the bulldog and burn Amelia
with a red-hot poker--or leave it alone; and whether Amelia or the
bulldog has chloroform or bears it without--it seems to be death or
madness every way!"
And as the doctor did not come fast enough, she ran out without her
bonnet to meet him, and Amelia's papa, who was very much distressed
too, ran after her with her bonnet. Meanwhile the doctor came in by
another way, and found Amelia sitting on the dining-room floor with the
bulldog, and crying bitterly. She was telling him that they wanted to
shoot him, but that they should not, for it was all her fault and not
his. But she did not tell him that she was to be burnt with a red-hot
poker, for she thought it might hurt his feelings. And then she wept
afresh, and kissed the bulldog, and the bulldog kissed her with his red
tongue, and rubbed his pink nose against her, and beat his own tail
much harder on the floor than Amelia had ever hit it. She said the same
things to the doctor, but she told him also that she was willing to be
burnt without chloroform if it must be done, and if they would spare
the bulldog. And though she looked very white, she meant what she said.
But the doctor looked at her leg, and found that it was only a snap,
and not a deep wound; and then he looked at the bulldog, and saw that
so far from looking mad, he looked a great deal more sensible than
anybody in the house. So he only washed Amelia's leg and bound it up,
and she was not burnt with the poker, neither did she get hydrophobia;
but she had got a good lesson on manners, and thenceforward she always
behaved with the utmost propriety to animals, though she tormented her
mother's friends as much as ever.