And this, although "As in the Winters left behind Again our ancient game and place, The mimic picture's pleasing grace, And dance and song and hood-man blind." But let us not leave off with a theme which, however its sadness be tempered, is still a sad one. Let Hood supply us with a Christmas quotation which will touch the spring of a thoroughly Christmas joy in many a young heart: ah, and in a deeper, joyfuller sense, in many an expectant older heart too: "The omne bene, Christmas come, The prize of merit won for home- But now I write for days and days For fame-a deal of empty praise, Without the silver pen! "Then Home, sweet Home! the crowded coach, The joyous shout, the loud approach, The winding horns like rams' ! The meeting sweet that made me thrill, The sweetmeats almost sweeter still, No 'satis' to the 'jams'!" And so we end, wishing all a happy Christmas, a merry Christmastide. And what need of any poets but our own full hearts, as again, yes once again, after so many times, we listen to the Christmas bells, telling of peace and goodwill-well, at best these can be but occasional visitants here and now; and we recognise and would retain the angel-guest, only when the dove-wing is spread for flight. Peace within-the legacy of Jesus-this is the most we can look for now and here that peace which is wrought in the soul by the Holy Spirit. But one day, peace absolute, peace internal and external too. For we shall see Him as He is, and shall abide with Him. And no foe can menace, and no alarm disturb. Absolute security perfect peace: yea, "When He giveth quietness, who then can make trouble?" By the Author of " The Harvest of a Quiet Eye." HRISTMAS time and Christmas-day. There are no other holidays, no other day like this in the year, for the child. The sweet mysterious joy of Christmas time, do you remember that? Nay, you must be indeed soured, and old, and childless, if the light of memory even has died off from the clouds, however long ago that old sun set. That magic glow which lights up Christmas for the child leaves us soon after the teens are well entered, and a sort of blank period has to be passed before you are revisited with something of that old, as it were, fairy-land enjoyment. You cannot grasp it again ever in your own heart, which is now sobered and shaded, less easily pleased and surprised, less ecstatic even when it is happy. Yourself have changed, and life is not now a glittering Fair-the gilt all gold, the swings and roundabouts an untasted enjoyment, the booth shrines of unearthly mysteries and glories. You are rather a pacer upon the despoiled ground some days after. The gingerbread has lost its charm, the swings have made you sick, the wild-beast shows would seem now a sorry caravan, the slatternly girls that went off in the wheeled house were far other than the lovely forms that charmed you in white muslin last night outside the booth. You have spent your new half-crown, and survey coldly, a rueful bankrupt, the orange-peel, nutshell-littered waste. The glamour of life has gone; I mean the easy surprise, and quick pleasure, and ready belief, the zest of newness, of inexperience, which made trifling things marvels. Christmas and your tenth birthday are no longer (as they loom, or rather brighten, out of the infinite vista of the last year) full of a strange and inexpressibly mysterious sweetness. Life's mysteries have been caught up and passed, one by one; the first going to church, leaving off pinafores, school, college life, leaving off lessons, divers love-dreams, courtship in good earnest, beginning life in your profession, marriage, fatherhood-only death remains, an unopened mystery, a problem unsolved, an experience untasted. Not all these disappointed, surely, but the wonder, the surprise, the incredulous |
