Time was, with most of us, when Christmas Day encircling all ourlimited world like a magic ring, left nothing out for us to miss orseek; bound together all our home enjoyments, affections, and hopes;grouped everything and every one around the Christmas fire; and madethe little picture shining in our bright young eyes, complete.Time came, perhaps, all so soon, when our thoughts over-leaped thatnarrow boundary; when there was some one (very dear, we thoughtthen, very beautiful, and absolutely perfect) wanting to the fulnessof our happiness; when we were wanting too (or we thought so, whichdid just as well) at the Christmas hearth by which that some onesat; and when we intertwined with every wreath and garland of ourlife that some one's name.That was the time for the bright visionary Christmases which havelong arisen from us to show faintly, after summer rain, in thepalest edges of the rainbow! That was the time for the beatifiedenjoyment of the things that were to be, and never were, and yet thethings that were so real in our resolute hope that it would be hardto say, now, what realities achieved since, have been stronger!What! Did that Christmas never really come when we and thepriceless pearl who was our young choice were received, after thehappiest of totally impossible marriages, by the two united familiespreviously at daggers--drawn on our account? When brothers andsisters-in-law who had always been rather cool to us before ourrelationship was effected, perfectly doted on us, and when fathersand mothers overwhelmed us with unlimited incomes? Was thatChristmas dinner never really eaten, after which we arose, andgenerously and eloquently rendered honour to our late rival, presentin the company, then and there exchanging friendship andforgiveness, and founding an attachment, not to be surpassed inGreek or Roman story, which subsisted until death? Has that samerival long ceased to care for that same priceless pearl, and marriedfor money, and become usurious? Above all, do we really know, now,that we should probably have been miserable if we had won and wornthe pearl, and that we are better without her?That Christmas when we had recently achieved so much fame; when wehad been carried in triumph somewhere, for doing something great andgood; when we had won an honoured and ennobled name, and arrived andwere received at home in a shower of tears of joy; is it possiblethat THAT Christmas has not come yet?And is our life here, at the best, so constituted that, pausing aswe advance at such a noticeable mile-stone in the track as thisgreat birthday, we look back on the things that never were, asnaturally and full as gravely as on the things that have been andare gone, or have been and still are? If it be so, and so it seemsto be, must we come to the conclusion that life is little betterthan a dream, and little worth the loves and strivings that we crowdinto it?No! Far be such miscalled philosophy from us, dear Reader, onChristmas Day! Nearer and closer to our hearts be the Christmasspirit, which is the spirit of active usefulness, perseverance,cheerful discharge of duty, kindness and forbearance! It is in thelast virtues especially, that we are, or should be, strengthened bythe unaccomplished visions of our youth; for, who shall say thatthey are not our teachers to deal gently even with the impalpablenothings of the earth!Therefore, as we grow older, let us be more thankful that the circleof our Christmas associations and of the lessons that they bring,expands! Let us welcome every one of them, and summon them to taketheir places by the Christmas hearth.Welcome, old aspirations, glittering creatures of an ardent fancy,to your shelter underneath the holly! We know you, and have notoutlived you yet. Welcome, old projects and old loves, howeverfleeting, to your nooks among the steadier lights that burn aroundus. Welcome, all that was ever real to our hearts; and for theearnestness that made you real, thanks to Heaven! Do we build noChristmas castles in the clouds now? Let our thoughts, flutteringlike butterflies among these flowers of children, bear witness!Before this boy, there stretches out a Future, brighter than we everlooked on in our old romantic time, but bright with honour and withtruth. Around this little head on which the sunny curls lie heaped,the graces sport, as prettily, as airily, as when there was noscythe within the reach of Time to shear away the curls of ourfirst-love. Upon another girl's face near it--placider but smilingbright--a quiet and contented little face, we see Home fairlywritten. Shining from the word, as rays shine from a star, we seehow, when our graves are old, other hopes than ours are young, otherhearts than ours are moved; how other ways are smoothed; how otherhappiness blooms, ripens, and decays--no, not decays, for otherhomes and other bands of children, not yet in being nor for ages yetto be, arise, and bloom and ripen to the end of all!Welcome, everything! Welcome, alike what has been, and what neverwas, and what we hope may be, to your shelter underneath the holly,to your places round the Christmas fire, where what is sits open-hearted! In yonder shadow, do we see obtruding furtively upon theblaze, an enemy's face? By Christmas Day we do forgive him! If theinjury he has done us may admit of such companionship, let him comehere and take his place. If otherwise, unhappily, let him go hence,assured that we will never injure nor accuse him.On this day we shut out Nothing!"Pause," says a low voice. "Nothing? Think!""On Christmas Day, we will shut out from our fireside, Nothing.""Not the shadow of a vast City where the withered leaves are lyingdeep?" the voice replies. "Not the shadow that darkens the wholeglobe? Not the shadow of the City of the Dead?"Not even that. Of all days in the year, we will turn our facestowards that City upon Christmas Day, and from its silent hostsbring those we loved, among us. City of the Dead, in the blessedname wherein we are gathered together at this time, and in thePresence that is here among us according to the promise, we willreceive, and not dismiss, thy people who are dear to us!Yes. We can look upon these children angels that alight, sosolemnly, so beautifully among the living children by the fire, andcan bear to think how they departed from us. Entertaining angelsunawares, as the Patriarchs did, the playful children areunconscious of their guests; but we can see them--can see a radiantarm around one favourite neck, as if there were a tempting of thatchild away. Among the celestial figures there is one, a poormisshapen boy on earth, of a glorious beauty now, of whom his dyingmother said it grieved her much to leave him here, alone, for somany years as it was likely would elapse before he came to her--being such a little child. But he went quickly, and was laid uponher breast, and in her hand she leads him.There was a gallant boy, who fell, far away, upon a burning sandbeneath a burning sun, and said, "Tell them at home, with my lastlove, how much I could have wished to kiss them once, but that Idied contented and had done my duty!" Or there was another, overwhom they read the words, "Therefore we commit his body to thedeep," and so consigned him to the lonely ocean and sailed on. Orthere was another, who lay down to his rest in the dark shadow ofgreat forests, and, on earth, awoke no more. O shall they not, fromsand and sea and forest, be brought home at such a time!There was a dear girl--almost a woman--never to be one--who made amourning Christmas in a house of joy, and went her trackless way tothe silent City. Do we recollect her, worn out, faintly whisperingwhat could not be heard, and falling into that last sleep forweariness? O look upon her now! O look upon her beauty, herserenity, her changeless youth, her happiness! The daughter ofJairus was recalled to life, to die; but she, more blest, has heardthe same voice, saying unto her, "Arise for ever!"We had a friend who was our friend from early days, with whom weoften pictured the changes that were to come upon our lives, andmerrily imagined how we would speak, and walk, and think, and talk,when we came to be old. His destined habitation in the City of theDead received him in his prime. Shall he be shut out from ourChristmas remembrance? Would his love have so excluded us? Lostfriend, lost child, lost parent, sister, brother, husband, wife, wewill not so discard you! You shall hold your cherished places inour Christmas hearts, and by our Christmas fires; and in the seasonof immortal hope, and on the birthday of immortal mercy, we willshut out Nothing!The winter sun goes down over town and village; on the sea it makesa rosy path, as if the Sacred tread were fresh upon the water. Afew more moments, and it sinks, and night comes on, and lights beginto sparkle in the prospect. On the hill-side beyond theshapelessly-diffused town, and in the quiet keeping of the treesthat gird the village-steeple, remembrances are cut in stone,planted in common flowers, growing in grass, entwined with lowlybrambles around many a mound of earth. In town and village, thereare doors and windows closed against the weather, there are flaminglogs heaped high, there are joyful faces, there is healthy music ofvoices. Be all ungentleness and harm excluded from the temples ofthe Household Gods, but be those remembrances admitted with tenderencouragement! They are of the time and all its comforting andpeaceful reassurances; and of the history that re-united even uponearth the living and the dead; and of the broad beneficence andgoodness that too many men have tried to tear to narrow shreds.
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