CHRISTMAS EVE.
Christmas Eve! What memories revive at those two almost hallowed words!
We think upon the _first_ Christmas Eve,--of the manger at Bethlehem,
the Redeemer's humble cradle-bed; the star, guiding His first
worshippers to His poor abode,--and we recall in imagination that
glorious anthem sung by the heavenly host to those simple awe-struck
shepherds whilst guarding their flocks by night! Yes; those words,
"Christmas Eve," carry our thoughts, for a time at least, far from the
cares of this transient world; and strangely cold must be the heart that
does not echo the glad tidings, "On earth, peace, goodwill toward men."
But on the Christmas Eve of which we speak the holy stars were shining
above a far different scene than those peaceful plains of Bethlehem--on
London, that wilderness to the poor and sad, that golden city for the
rich and gay, and in a district of which (Drury Lane) little star-light
could be discerned through the murky air of its crowded streets.
Drury Lane was now at the height of its business: flaring gas-jets
flamed at the open shop-fronts, whilst tradesmen and costermongers
seemed to vie with each other as to which could shout the loudest to
attract customers. There were butchers urging passers-by to purchase
joints of animals hanging up in the shops, decked with rosettes and bows
of coloured ribbon in honour of Christmas; greengrocers, gay with holly
and mistletoe, interspersed with mottoes wishing every one the
"Compliments of the season." Bakers, too, were doing a thriving trade
in cakes of all sizes; whilst down the centre of the street, lining each
side of the roadway, were vendors of all sorts of things, whose stalls
were brightened either by oil-lamps or else the more humble candle stuck
in a paper lantern.
I care not to speak of gin-palaces, filled by poor wretches buying
poison for soul and body. Would to God our loved country could be free
from its curse of drunkenness!
And yet the poor denizens of this pent-up neighbourhood appeared more
cheerful and better-tempered than they usually seem to be. Jokes were
bandied freely between tradesmen and customers, and kindly greetings
exchanged in honour of Christmas. Occasionally, it is true, a shivering
creature would be seen shuffling along through the busy crowd, glancing
with furtive hungry eyes at the food exposed for sale, but unable to buy
even a loaf of bread. The generality, however, had anticipated the
coming festive season, and had saved the wherewith to keep Christmas.
It was a relief to turn from the noisy din of Drury Lane up Russell
Court, and thence to the quiet of Mrs. Turner's room. Yes; there they
were all to be seen, a happy family party, preparing, too, to keep
Christmas.
At the one end of the table, close to the candle (they could only afford
one), sat Mrs. Turner and Lizzie, busily stitching away, anxious to do
as much work as they possibly could, as it was intended to celebrate the
next day as an entire rest and holiday. On the floor was Sally Grimes
stoning some raisins into a basin for the plum-pudding, and by her side,
at Nora's feet, sat Pollie, helping her trusty friend in her important
work.
Mrs. Flanagan was standing at the other end of the table, busily mixing
the various ingredients requisite for this crowning dish of the unwonted
feast, and there also was Mrs. Grimes (Sally's mother) chopping up the
seasoning for a goose, which Mrs. Flanagan's employers had given her as
a Christmas gift, and on which they were all to dine.
Mrs. Smith had also contributed something to this festival in the shape
of oranges and nuts, and had also given Pollie a few sprigs of holly
with which to deck their room.
Seated on a low chair, her lap filled with holly leaves and bright
berries, sat Nora, and her slender fingers were busy twining them into
little garlands to brighten up their poor abode. Very pale and fragile
looked the girl, almost too fragile to struggle with the world, but her
sweet face was happier than when last we saw her kneeling at her
mother's feet. It was as though the storm of life had buffeted her until
almost crushed, and having vented its utmost fury, had passed away,
leaving her at rest at last, but oh! so worn and weary with the strife.
Poor old Mrs. Flanagan! Every thought of her heart turned to Nora. When
her daughter was sometimes gay with a touch of the light-heartedness of
other days, the gaiety would find an echo with her, and she would strive
to be merry for that dear one's sake. And if, as was more frequently the
case, the girl was sad, the shadow rested on the mother also. She seemed
now but to live in the reflection of her daughter's life.
Even now, whilst busy with the morrow's good cheer, she would ever and
anon pause to glance at her child; and if the girl chanced to look up,
and met the mother's eyes with a smile, what intense joy spread over
that mother's careworn face, lighting it up with the sunshine of love.
Ah me! we can never fathom the depth of a mother's tenderness. Who in
the whole world cares for us as she does? Pitiful to our faults,
sorrowing with our griefs, rejoicing in our joys. Who so unselfish? who
so true? Happy the child who can _truthfully_ say, "Never has sin of
mine furrowed thy brow, or silvered thy hair, my darling."
But to return to our story.
Pollie, seated as before mentioned at Nora's feet, was intently watching
her (making very little progress, I fear, with stoning the raisins) as
she daintily threaded some berries to form a word, and many a merry
laugh was caused by the two children trying to guess what the word was
to be.
P was the letter first fixed on to the slip of cardboard, and which she
held up to them, smiling brightly.
"I know what it's to be!" cried Sally, who was becoming quite a scholar
now; "it's plum-pudding."
But Nora shook her head, saying--
"No, that is not the word I am going to make. Can you guess, Pollie?"
"I don't think I can," was the reply. "Is it"----
"P stands for Pollie," cried out impetuous Sally, in her eagerness
almost upsetting her basin of raisins upon the floor. "Perhaps it's
that."
There was much merriment over Sally's guessing, and much amazement too
on the part of Mrs Grimes, who was utterly astonished at her "gal's
larning;" but still Nora shook her head. No, that was not the word
intended.
Many were the conjectures hazarded, till at last Pollie resolved to try
no more, but wait until the entire word or phrase was finished, both
children promising not to look until at a given signal from Nora they
should know it was completed. Then they resumed their employment,
waiting very patiently for the time. At last it came.
"Now," said Nora, and she held it up so that all could see, then she
gave it into Pollie's hand.
The puzzle was solved.
"Peace on earth," read the child aloud.
There was a silence, each one occupied with thoughts those words
suggested. Tears filled the eyes of the two widows, for they clearly
understood what was in the girl's heart when tracing those letters.
_Her_ head was bowed; they could not see her face, but her hands were
very trembling as she clasped them together as if in silent prayer.
Pollie broke the silence.
"Nora, dearie," she half whispered, "I wish we could get in the other
beautiful words, 'Glory to God in the highest,' because it is He who
gives us this sweet peace, and I should so like to thank Him."