MY CHRISTMAS PARTY.
As Christmas Day drew nearer and nearer, my heart glowed with the more
gladness; and the question came more and more pressingly—Could I not do
something to make it more really a holiday of the Church for my
parishioners? That most of them would have a little more enjoyment on
it than they had had all the year through, I had ground to hope; but I
wanted to connect this gladness—in their minds, I mean, for who could
dissever them in fact?—with its source, the love of God, that love
manifested unto men in the birth of the Human Babe, the Son of Man. But
I would not interfere with the Christmas Day at home. I resolved to
invite as many of my parishioners as would come, to spend Christmas Eve
at the Vicarage.
I therefore had a notice to that purport affixed to the church door;
and resolved to send out no personal invitations whatever, so that I
might not give offence by accidental omission. The only person thrown
into perplexity by this mode of proceeding was Mrs. Pearson.
“How many am I to provide for, sir?” she said, with an injured air.
“For as many as you ever saw in church at one time,” I said. “And if
there should be too much, why so much the better. It can go to make
Christmas Day the merrier at some of the poorer houses.”
She looked discomposed, for she was not of an easy temper. But she
never ACTED from her temper; she only LOOKED or SPOKE from it.
“I shall want help,” she said, at length.
“As much as you like, Mrs. Pearson. I can trust you entirely.”
Her face brightened; and the end showed that I had not trusted her
amiss.
I was a little anxious about the result of the invitation—partly as
indicating the amount of confidence my people placed in me. But
although no one said a word to me about it beforehand except Old
Rogers, as soon as the hour arrived, the people began to come. And the
first I welcomed was Mr. Brownrigg.
I had had all the rooms on the ground-floor prepared for their
reception. Tables of provision were set out in every one of them. My
visitors had tea or coffee, with plenty of bread and butter, when they
arrived; and the more solid supplies were reserved for a later part of
the evening. I soon found myself with enough to do. But before long, I
had a very efficient staff. For after having had occasion, once or
twice, to mention something of my plans for the evening, I found my
labours gradually diminish, and yet everything seemed to go right; the
fact being that good Mr Boulderstone, in one part, had cast himself
into the middle of the flood, and stood there immovable both in face
and person, turning its waters into the right channel, namely, towards
the barn, which I had fitted up for their reception in a body; while in
another quarter, namely, in the barn, Dr Duncan was doing his best, and
that was simply something first-rate, to entertain the people till all
should be ready. From a kind of instinct these gentlemen had taken upon
them to be my staff, almost without knowing it, and very grateful I
was. I found, too, that they soon gathered some of the young and more
active spirits about them, whom they employed in various ways for the
good of the community.
When I came in and saw the goodly assemblage, for I had been busy
receiving them in the house, I could not help rejoicing that my
predecessor had been so fond of farming that he had rented land in the
neighbourhood of the vicarage, and built this large barn, of which I
could make a hall to entertain my friends. The night was frosty—the
stars shining brilliantly overhead—so that, especially for country
people, there was little danger in the short passage to be made to it
from the house. But, if necessary, I resolved to have a covered-way
built before next time. For how can a man be THE PERSON of a parish, if
he never entertains his parishioners? And really, though it was lighted
only with candles round the walls, and I had not been able to do much
for the decoration of the place, I thought it looked very well, and my
heart was glad that Christmas Eve—just as if the Babe had been coming
again to us that same night. And is He not always coming to us afresh
in every childlike feeling that awakes in the hearts of His people?
I walked about amongst them, greeting them, and greeted everywhere in
turn with kind smiles and hearty shakes of the hand. As often as I
paused in my communications for a moment, it was amusing to watch Mr.
Boulderstone’s honest, though awkward endeavours to be at ease with his
inferiors; but Dr Duncan was just a sight worth seeing. Very tall and
very stately, he was talking now to this old man, now to that young
woman, and every face glistened towards which he turned. There was no
condescension about him. He was as polite and courteous to one as to
another, and the smile that every now and then lighted up his old face,
was genuine and sympathetic. No one could have known by his behaviour
that he was not at court. And I thought—Surely even the contact with
such a man will do something to refine the taste of my people. I felt
more certain than ever that a free mingling of all classes would do
more than anything else towards binding us all into a wise patriotic
nation; would tend to keep down that foolish emulation which makes one
class ape another from afar, like Ben Jonson’s Fungoso, “still lighting
short a suit;” would refine the roughness of the rude, and enable the
polished to see with what safety his just share in public matters might
be committed into the hands of the honest workman. If we could once
leave it to each other to give what honour is due; knowing that honour
demanded is as worthless as insult undeserved is hurtless! What has one
to do to honour himself? That is and can be no honour. When one has
learned to seek the honour that cometh from God only, he will take the
withholding of the honour that comes from men very quietly indeed.
The only thing that disappointed me was, that there was no one there to
represent Oldcastle Hall. But how could I have everything a success at
once!—And Catherine Weir was likewise absent.
After we had spent a while in pleasant talk, and when I thought nearly
all were with us, I got up on a chair at the end of the barn, and
said:—
“Kind friends,—I am very grateful to you for honouring my invitation as
you have done. Permit me to hope that this meeting will be the first of
many, and that from it may grow the yearly custom in this parish of
gathering in love and friendship upon Christmas Eve. When God comes to
man, man looks round for his neighbour. When man departed from God in
the Garden of Eden, the only man in the world ceased to be the friend
of the only woman in the world; and, instead of seeking to bear her
burden, became her accuser to God, in whom he saw only the Judge,
unable to perceive that the Infinite love of the Father had come to
punish him in tenderness and grace. But when God in Jesus comes back to
men, brothers and sisters spread forth their arms to embrace each
other, and so to embrace Him. This is, when He is born again in our
souls. For, dear friends, what we all need is just to become little
children like Him; to cease to be careful about many things, and trust
in Him, seeking only that He should rule, and that we should be made
good like Him. What else is meant by ‘Seek ye first the kingdom of God
and his righteousness, and all these things shall be added unto you?’
Instead of doing so, we seek the things God has promised to look after
for us, and refuse to seek the thing He wants us to seek—a thing that
cannot be given us, except we seek it. We profess to think Jesus the
grandest and most glorious of men, and yet hardly care to be like Him;
and so when we are offered His Spirit, that is, His very nature within
us, for the asking, we will hardly take the trouble to ask for it. But
to-night, at least, let all unkind thoughts, all hard judgments of one
another, all selfish desires after our own way, be put from us, that we
may welcome the Babe into our very bosoms; that when He comes amongst
us—for is He not like a child still, meek and lowly of heart?—He may
not be troubled to find that we are quarrelsome, and selfish, and
unjust.”
I came down from the chair, and Mr Brownrigg being the nearest of my
guests, and wide awake, for he had been standing, and had indeed been
listening to every word according to his ability, I shook hands with
him. And positively there was some meaning in the grasp with which he
returned mine.
I am not going to record all the proceedings of the evening; but I
think it may be interesting to my readers to know something of how we
spent it. First of all, we sang a hymn about the Nativity. And then I
read an extract from a book of travels, describing the interior of an
Eastern cottage, probably much resembling the inn in which our Lord was
born, the stable being scarcely divided fron the rest of the house. For
I felt that to open the inner eyes even of the brain, enabling people
to SEE in some measure the reality of the old lovely story, to help
them to have what the Scotch philosophers call a true CONCEPTION of the
external conditions and circumstances of the events, might help to open
the yet deeper spiritual eyes which alone can see the meaning and truth
dwelling in and giving shape to the outward facts. And the extract was
listened to with all the attention I could wish, except, at first, from
some youngsters at the further end of the barn, who became, however,
perfectly still as I proceeded.
After this followed conversation, during which I talked a good deal to
Jane Rogers, paying her particular attention indeed, with the hope of a
chance of bringing old Mr Brownrigg and her together in some way.
“How is your mistress, Jane?” I said.
“Quite well, sir, thank you. I only wish she was here.”
“I wish she were. But perhaps she will come next year.”
“I think she will. I am almost sure she would have liked to come
to-night; for I heard her say”——
“I beg your pardon, Jane, for interrupting you; but I would rather not
be told anything you may have happened to overhear,” I said, in a low
voice.
“Oh, sir!” returned Jane, blushing a dark crimson; “it wasn’t anything
particular.”
“Still, if it was anything on which a wrong conjecture might be
built”—I wanted to soften it to her—“it is better that one should not
be told it. Thank you for your kind intention, though. And now, Jane,”
I said, “will you do me a favour?”
“That I will, sir, if I can.”
“Sing that Christmas carol I heard you sing last night to your mother.”
“I didn’t know any one was listening, sir.”
“I know you did not. I came to the door with your father, and we stood
and listened.”
She looked very frightened. But I would not have asked her had I not
known that she could sing like a bird.
“I am afraid I shall make a fool of myself,” she said.
“We should all be willing to run that risk for the sake of others,” I
answered.
“I will try then, sir.”
So she sang, and her clear voice soon silenced the speech all round.
“Babe Jesus lay on Mary’s lap;
The sun shone in His hair:
And so it was she saw, mayhap,
The crown already there.
“For she sang: ‘Sleep on, my little King!
Bad Herod dares not come;
Before Thee, sleeping, holy thing,
Wild winds would soon be dumb.
“‘I kiss Thy hands, I kiss Thy feet,
My King, so long desired;
Thy hands shall never be soil’d, my sweet,
Thy feet shall never be tired.
“‘For Thou art the King of men, my son;
Thy crown I see it plain;
And men shall worship Thee, every one,
And cry, Glory! Amen.”
“Babe Jesus open’d His eyes so wide!
At Mary look’d her Lord.
And Mary stinted her song and sigh’d.
Babe Jesus said never a word.”
When Jane had done singing, I asked her where she had learned the
carol; and she answered,—
“My mistress gave it me. There was a picture to it of the Baby on his
mother’s knee.”
“I never saw it,” I said. “Where did you get the tune?”
“I thought it would go with a tune I knew; and I tried it, and it did.
But I was not fit to sing to you, sir.”
“You must have quite a gift of song, Jane!” I said.
“My father and mother can both sing.”
Mr Brownrigg was seated on the other side of me, and had apparently
listened with some interest. His face was ten degrees less stupid than
it usually was. I fancied I saw even a glimmer of some satisfaction in
it. I turned to Old Rogers.
“Sing us a song, Old Rogers,” I said.
“I’m no canary at that, sir; and besides, my singing days be over. I
advise you to ask Dr. Duncan there. He CAN sing.”
I rose and said to the assembly:
“My friends, if I did not think God was pleased to see us enjoying
ourselves, I should have no heart for it myself. I am going to ask our
dear friend Dr. Duncan to give us a song.—If you please, Dr. Duncan.”
“I am very nearly too old,” said the doctor; “but I will try.”
His voice was certainly a little feeble; but the song was not much the
worse for it. And a more suitable one for all the company he could
hardly have pitched upon.
“There is a plough that has no share,
But a coulter that parteth keen and fair.
But the furrows they rise
To a terrible size,
Or ever the plough hath touch’d them there.
’Gainst horses and plough in wrath they shake:
The horses are fierce; but the plough will break.
“And the seed that is dropt in those furrows of fear,
Will lift to the sun neither blade nor ear.
Down it drops plumb,
Where no spring times come;
And here there needeth no harrowing gear:
Wheat nor poppy nor any leaf
Will cover this naked ground of grief.
“But a harvest-day will come at last
When the watery winter all is past;
The waves so gray
Will be shorn away
By the angels’ sickles keen and fast;
And the buried harvest of the sea
Stored in the barns of eternity.”
Genuine applause followed the good doctor’s song. I turned to Miss
Boulderstone, from whom I had borrowed a piano, and asked her to play a
country dance for us. But first I said—not getting up on a chair this
time:—
“Some people think it is not proper for a clergyman to dance. I mean to
assert my freedom from any such law. If our Lord chose to represent, in
His parable of the Prodigal Son, the joy in Heaven over a repentant
sinner by the figure of ‘music and dancing,’ I will hearken to Him
rather than to men, be they as good as they may.”
For I had long thought that the way to make indifferent things bad, was
for good people not to do them.
And so saying, I stepped up to Jane Rogers, and asked her to dance with
me. She blushed so dreadfully that, for a moment, I was almost sorry I
had asked her. But she put her hand in mine at once; and if she was a
little clumsy, she yet danced very naturally, and I had the
satisfaction of feeling that I had an honest girl near me, who I knew
was friendly to me in her heart.
But to see the faces of the people! While I had been talking, Old
Rogers had been drinking in every word. To him it was milk and strong
meat in one. But now his face shone with a father’s gratification
besides. And Richard’s face was glowing too. Even old Brownrigg looked
with a curious interest upon us, I thought.
Meantime Dr Duncan was dancing with one of his own patients, old Mrs
Trotter, to whose wants he ministered far more from his table than his
surgery. I have known that man, hearing of a case of want from his
servant, send the fowl he was about to dine upon, untouched, to those
whose necessity was greater than his.
And Mr Boulderstone had taken out old Mrs Rogers; and young Brownrigg
had taken Mary Weir. Thomas Weir did not dance at all, but looked on
kindly.
“Why don’t you dance, Old Rogers?” I said, as I placed his daughter in
a seat beside him.
“Did your honour ever see an elephant go up the futtock-shrouds?”
“No. I never did.”
“I thought you must, sir, to ask me why I don’t dance. You won’t take
my fun ill, sir? I’m an old man-o’-war’s man, you know, sir.”
“I should have thought, Rogers, that you would have known better by
this time, than make such an apology to ME.”
“God bless you, sir. An old man’s safe with you—or a young lass,
either, sir,” he added, turning with a smile to his daughter.
I turned, and addressed Mr Boulderstone.
“I am greatly obliged to you, Mr Boulderstone, for the help you have
given me this evening. I’ve seen you talking to everybody, just as if
you had to entertain them all.”
“I hope I haven’t taken too much upon me. But the fact is, somehow or
other, I don’t know how, I got into the spirit of it.”
“You got into the spirit of it because you wanted to help me, and I
thank you heartily.”
“Well, I thought it wasn’t a time to mind one’s peas and cues exactly.
And really it’s wonderful how one gets on without them. I hate
formality myself.”
The dear fellow was the most formal man I had ever met.
“Why don’t you dance, Mr Brownrigg?”
“Who’d care to dance with me, sir? I don’t care to dance with an old
woman; and a young woman won’t care to dance with me.”
“I’ll find you a partner, if you will put yourself in my hands.”
“I don’t mind trusting myself to you, sir.”
So I led him to Jane Rogers. She stood up in respectful awe before the
master of her destiny. There were signs of calcitration in the
churchwarden, when he perceived whither I was leading him. But when he
saw the girl stand trembling before him, whether it was that he was
flattered by the signs of his own power, accepting them as homage, or
that his hard heart actually softened a little, I cannot tell, but,
after just a perceptible hesitation, he said:
“Come along, my lass, and let’s have a hop together.”
She obeyed very sweetly.
“Don’t be too shy,” I whispered to her as she passed me.
And the churchwarden danced very heartily with the lady’s-maid.
I then asked him to take her into the house, and give her something to
eat in return for her song. He yielded somewhat awkwardly, and what
passed between them I do not know. But when they returned, she seemed
less frightened at him than when she heard me make the proposal. And
when the company was parting, I heard him take leave of her with the
words—
“Give us a kiss, my girl, and let bygones be bygones.”
Which kiss I heard with delight. For had I not been a peacemaker in
this matter? And had I not then a right to feel blessed?—But the
understanding was brought about simply by making the people
meet—compelling them, as it were, to know something of each other
really. Hitherto this girl had been a mere name, or phantom at best, to
her lover’s father; and it was easy for him to treat her as such, that
is, as a mere fancy of his son’s. The idea of her had passed through
his mind; but with what vividness any idea, notion, or conception could
be present to him, my readers must judge from my description of him. So
that obstinacy was a ridiculously easy accomplishment to him. For he
never had any notion of the matter to which he was opposed—only of that
which he favoured. It is very easy indeed for such people to stick to
their point.
But I took care that we should have dancing in moderation. It would not
do for people either to get weary with recreation, or excited with what
was not worthy of producing such an effect. Indeed we had only six
country dances during the evening. That was all. And between the dances
I read two or three of Wordsworth’s ballads to them, and they listened
even with more interest than I had been able to hope for. The fact was,
that the happy and free hearted mood they were in “enabled the
judgment.” I wish one knew always by what musical spell to produce the
right mood for receiving and reflecting a matter as it really is. Every
true poem carries this spell with it in its own music, which it sends
out before it as a harbinger, or properly a HERBERGER, to prepare a
harbour or lodging for it. But then it needs a quiet mood first of all,
to let this music be listened to.
For I thought with myself, if I could get them to like poetry and
beautiful things in words, it would not only do them good, but help
them to see what is in the Bible, and therefore to love it more. For I
never could believe that a man who did not find God in other places as
well as in the Bible ever found Him there at all. And I always thought,
that to find God in other books enabled us to see clearly that he was
MORE in the Bible than in any other book, or all other books put
together.
After supper we had a little more singing. And to my satisfaction
nothing came to my eyes or ears, during the whole evening, that was
undignified or ill-bred. Of course, I knew that many of them must have
two behaviours, and that now they were on their good behaviour. But I
thought the oftener such were put on their good behaviour, giving them
the opportunity of finding out how nice it was, the better. It might
make them ashamed of the other at last.
There were many little bits of conversation I overheard, which I should
like to give my readers; but I cannot dwell longer upon this part of my
Annals. Especially I should have enjoyed recording one piece of talk,
in which Old Rogers was evidently trying to move a more directly
religious feeling in the mind of Dr Duncan. I thought I could see that
THE difficulty with the noble old gentleman was one of expression. But
after all the old foremast-man was a seer of the Kingdom; and the
other, with all his refinement, and education, and goodness too, was
but a child in it.
Before we parted, I gave to each of my guests a sheet of Christmas
Carols, gathered from the older portions of our literature. For most of
the modern hymns are to my mind neither milk nor meat—mere wretched
imitations. There were a few curious words and idioms in these, but I
thought it better to leave them as they were; for they might set them
inquiring, and give me an opportunity of interesting them further, some
time or other, in the history of a word; for, in their ups and downs of
fortune, words fare very much like human beings.
And here is my sheet of Carols:—
AN HYMNE OF HEAVENLY LOVE.
O blessed Well of Love! O Floure of Grace!
O glorious Morning-Starre! O Lampe of Light!
Most lively image of thy Father’s face,
Eternal King of Glorie, Lord of Might,
Meeke Lambe of God, before all worlds behight,
How can we Thee requite for all this good?
Or what can prize that Thy most precious blood?
Yet nought Thou ask’st in lieu of all this love,
But love of us, for guerdon of Thy paine:
Ay me! what can us lesse than that behove?
Had He required life of us againe,
Had it beene wrong to ask His owne with gaine?
He gave us life, He it restored lost;
Then life were least, that us so little cost.
But He our life hath left unto us free,
Free that was thrall, and blessed that was bann’d;
Ne ought demaunds but that we loving bee,
As He himselfe hath lov’d us afore-hand,
And bound therto with an eternall band,
Him first to love that us so dearely bought,
And next our brethren, to His image wrought.
Him first to love great right and reason is,
Who first to us our life and being gave,
And after, when we fared had amisse,
Us wretches from the second death did save;
And last, the food of life, which now we have,
Even He Himselfe, in His dear sacrament,
To feede our hungry soules, unto us lent.
Then next, to love our brethren, that were made
Of that selfe mould, and that self Maker’s hand,
That we, and to the same againe shall fade,
Where they shall have like heritage of land,
However here on higher steps we stand,
Which also were with self-same price redeemed
That we, however of us light esteemed.
Then rouze thy selfe, O Earth! out of thy soyle,
In which thou wallowest like to filthy swyne,
And doest thy mynd in durty pleasures moyle,
Unmindfull of that dearest Lord of thyne;
Lift up to Him thy heavie clouded eyne,
That thou this soveraine bountie mayst behold,
And read, through love, His mercies manifold.
Beginne from first, where He encradled was
In simple cratch, wrapt in a wad of hay,
Betweene the toylfull oxe and humble asse,
And in what rags, and in how base array,
The glory of our heavenly riches lay,
When Him the silly shepheards came to see,
Whom greatest princes sought on lowest knee.
From thence reade on the storie of His life,
His humble carriage, His unfaulty wayes,
His cancred foes, His fights, His toyle, His strife,
His paines, His povertie, His sharpe assayes,
Through which He past His miserable dayes,
Offending none, and doing good to all,
Yet being malist both by great and small.
With all thy hart, with all thy soule and mind,
Thou must Him love, and His beheasts embrace;
All other loves, with which the world doth blind
Weake fancies, and stirre up affections base,
Thou must renounce and utterly displace,
And give thy selfe unto Him full and free,
That full and freely gave Himselfe to thee.
Then shall thy ravisht soul inspired bee
With heavenly thoughts farre above humane skil,
And thy bright radiant eyes shall plainly see
Th’ idee of His pure glorie present still
Before thy face, that all thy spirits shall fill
With sweet enragement of celestial love,
Kindled through sight of those faire things above.
Spencer
NEW PRINCE, NEW POMP.
Behold a silly tender Babe,
In freezing winter night,
In homely manger trembling lies;
Alas! a piteous sight.
The inns are full, no man will yield
This little Pilgrim bed;
But forced He is with silly beasts
In crib to shroud His head.
Despise Him not for lying there,
First what He is inquire;
An orient pearl is often found
In depth of dirty mire.
Weigh not His crib, His wooden dish,
Nor beast that by Him feed;
Weigh not his mother’s poor attire,
Nor Joseph’s simple weed.
This stable is a Prince’s court,
The crib His chair of state;
The beasts are parcel of His pomp,
The wooden dish His plate.
The persons in that poor attire
His royal liveries wear;
The Prince himself is come from heaven—
This pomp is praised there.
With joy approach, O Christian wight!
Do homage to thy King;
And highly praise this humble pomp
Which He from heaven doth bring.
SOUTHWELL.
A DIALOGUE BETWEEN THREE SHEPHERDS.
1. Where is this blessed Babe
That hath made
All the world so full of joy
And expectation;
That glorious Boy
That crowns each nation
With a triumphant wreath of blessedness?
2. Where should He be but in the throng,
And among
His angel-ministers, that sing
And take wing
Just as may echo to His voice,
And rejoice,
When wing and tongue and all
May so procure their happiness?
3. But He hath other waiters now.
A poor cow,
An ox and mule stand and behold,
And wonder
That a stable should enfold
Him that can thunder.
Chorus. O what a gracious God have we!
How good! How great! Even as our misery.
Jeremy Taylor.
A SONG OF PRAISE FOR THE BIRTH OF CHRIST.
Away, dark thoughts; awake, my joy;
Awake, my glory; sing;
Sing songs to celebrate the birth
Of Jacob’s God and King.
O happy night, that brought forth light,
Which makes the blind to see!
The day spring from on high came down
To cheer and visit thee.
The wakeful shepherds, near their flocks,
Were watchful for the morn;
But better news from heaven was brought,
Your Saviour Christ is born.
In Bethlem-town the infant lies,
Within a place obscure,
O little Bethlem, poor in walls,
But rich in furniture!
Since heaven is now come down to earth,
Hither the angels fly!
Hark, how the heavenly choir doth sing
Glory to God on High!
The news is spread, the church is glad,
SIMEON, o’ercome with joy,
Sings with the infant in his arms,
NOW LET THY SERVANT DIE.
Wise men from far beheld the star,
Which was their faithful guide,
Until it pointed forth the Babe,
And Him they glorified.
Do heaven and earth rejoice and sing—
Shall we our Christ deny?
He’s born for us, and we for Him:
GLORY TO GOD ON HIGH.
JOHN MASON.