Page images
PDF
EPUB

of it, dashed off a tear, and away, with a bounding heart, in the midst of a cloud of playmates, breaking into fragments on the hill-side, and hurrying round the shores of those wild moorland lochs, in vain hope to surprise the heron, that slowly uplifted his blue bulk, and floated away, regardless of our shouts, to the old castle woods! It is all like a reminiscence of some other state of existence! Then, after all the joys and sorrows of those few years, which we now call transitory, but which our Boyhood felt as if they would be endless-as if they would endure for ever-arose upon us the glorious dawning of another new life -Youth! With its insupportable sunshine, and its magnificent storms ! Transitory, too, we now know, and well deserving the name of dream! But while it lasted, long, various, and agonizing, while, unable to sustain " the beauty still more beauteous" of the eyes that first revealed to us the light of love, we hurried away from the parting hour, and, looking up to the moon and stars, hugged the very heavens to our heart. Yet life had not yet nearly reached its meridian, journeying up the sunbright firmament. How long hung it there exulting, when "it flamed on the forehead of the noontide sky!" Let not the Time be computed by the lights and shadows of the years, but by the innumerable array of visionary thoughts, that kept deploying, as if from one eternity into another-now in dark sullen masses, now in long array, brightened as if with spear-points and standards, and moving along through chasm, abyss, and forest, and over the summits of the highest mountains, to the sound of ethereal music, now warlike and tempestuous-now, as "from flutes and soft recorders," accompanying, not pæans of victory, but hymns of peace. That Life, too, seems, now that it is gone, to have been of a thousand years. Is it gone? Its skirts are yet hovering on the horizon-and is there yet another Life destined for us? That Life which we fear to face,-Age, Old Age! Four dreams within a dream, and then we may awake in Heaven!

At dead of night-and it is now the dead of night-how the heart often quakes on a sudden at the silent resurrection of buried thoughts! "Thoughts that like phantoms trackless come and go!"

Perhaps the sunshine of some one single Sabbath of more exceeding holiness comes first glimmering, and then brightening upon us, with the very same religious sancity that filled all the air at the tolling of the kirk-bell, when all the parish was hushed, and the voice of streams heard more distinctly among the banks and braes,and then, all at once, a thunder-storm that many years before, or many years after, drove us, when walking alone over the mountains, into a shieling, will seem to succeed, and we behold the same threatening aspect of the heavens that then quailed our beating hearts, and frowned down our eye-lids before the lightning began to flash, and the black rain to deluge all the glens. No need now for any effort of thought. The images rise of themselves-independently of our volition-as if another being, studying the working of our minds, conjured up the phantasmagoria before us, who are beholding it with love, with wonder, or with fear. Darkness and silence have a power of sorcery over the past; and the soul has then, too, often restored to it feelings and thoughts that it had lost-and made to know that nothing which it once experiences ever perishes, but that all things spiritual possess a principle of immortal life.

Why linger on the shadowy wall some of those phantasmagoria-returning after they have disappearedand reluctant to pass away into their former oblivion? Why shoot others athwart the gloom, quick as spectral figures seen hurrying among mountains during a great storm? Why do some glare and threaten-why others fade away with a melancholy smilewhy that one-look! look! a figure all in white, and with white roses in its hair, comes forward through the haze, beautifying into distincter form and face, till its pale beseeching hands almost touch my bosom-and then, in a moment it is as nothing!

But now the room is disenchanted --and feebly my lamp is glimmering, about to leave me to the light of the moon and stars. There is it trimmed again and the sudden increase of lustre cheers the heart within me like a festal strain-and To-Morrow-ToMorrow is Merry Christmas, and when its night descends, there will be mirth and music, and the light sound of the merry-twinkling feet within these now

so melancholy walls, and sleep, now reigning over all the house-save this one room-will be banished far over the sea-and Morning will be reluctant to allow her light to break up the innocent orgies.

Were every Christmas of which we have been present at the celebration, painted according to nature-what a Gallery of pictures! True, that a sameness would pervade them all--but only that kind of sameness that pervades the nocturnal heavens, one clear night being always, to common eyes, so like another, for what hath any night to be proud of but one moon and some thousand stars a vault, “darkly, deeply, beautifully blue," here a few braided, and there a few castellated clouds? Yet no two nights ever bore more than a family resemblance to each other before the studious and instructed eye of him who has long communed with nature, and is familiar with every smile and frown on her changeful, but not capricious countenance. Even so with the Annual Festivals of the heart. Then our thoughts are the stars that illumine those skies-on ourselves it depends whether they shall be black as Erebus, or brighter than any Au

rora.

My Father's House! How it is ringing, like a grove in spring, with the din of creatures happier, a thousand times happier, than all the birds in the world! It is the Christmas Holidays -Christmas Day itself-Christmas Night and Joy intensifies Love in every bosom. Never before were we brothers and sisters so dear to one another-never before had our hearts so yearned towards the authors of our being our blissful being! There they sit silent in all that outcry-composed in all that disarray-still in all that tumult—yet, as one or other flying imp sweeps round the chair, a father's hand will playfully try to catch a prisoner, a mother's gentler touch on some sylph's disordered eymar be felt almost as a reproof, and, for a moment, slacken the fairy-flight. One old game treads on the heels of another-twenty within the hour,-and many a new game never heard of before nor since, struck out by the collision of kindred spirits in their glee, the transitory fancies of genius inventive through very delight. Then, all at once, there is a hush, profound as ever falls on some little plat within a

Forest, when the moon drops behind the mountain, and the small greenrobed People of Peace at once cease their pastime, and evanish. For She

the Silver-Tongued-is about to sing an old ballad, words and air both hundreds of years old,-and sing she doth, while tears begin to fall, with a voice too mournfully beautiful long to breathe below, and, ere another Christmas shall come with the falling snows, doomed to be mute on earthbut to be hymning in Heaven!

Of that House-to our eyes the fairest of earthly dwellings-with its old ivied turrets, and orchard-garden, bright alike with fruit and with flowers, not one stone remains! The very brook that washed its foundations has vanished along with them, and a crowd of other buildings, wholly without character, has long stood, where here a single tree, and there a grove, did once render so lovely that small demesne! Which, how could we, who thought it the very heart of Paradise, even for one moment have believed was soon to be blotted out from being, and we ourselves, then so linked in love that the band which bound us all together was, in its gentle pressure, felt not nor understood, to be scattered far and abroad, like so many leaves, that after one wild parting rustle are separated by roaring wind eddies, and brought together no more! The old Abbey,-it still survives,-and there, in that corner of the burial-ground, below that part of the wall which was least in ruins, and which we often climb to reach the starlings' and martins' nests-there, in hopes of a joyful resurrection, lie the loved and venerated, for whom, even now that so many long, long, grief-deadening years have fled, I feel, in this hushed and holy hour, as if it were impiety so utterly to have ceased to weep-so seldom to remember!--and then, with a powerlessness of sympathy to keep pace with youth's frantic grief-the floods we all wept together-at no long interval-on those pale and smiling faces, as they lay in their coffins, most beautiful and most dreadful to behold!

"Childish! childish!" methinks I hear some world-wise thinker cry. But has not one of the wisest of spirits said, "The child is father of the man ?" And if so, ought the man ever to lose sight of any single one of

those dear, dim, delightful remembrances, far off and remote, of objects whether alive or dead,-whether instinct with love and intelligence, or but of the insensate sod, that once were to him all his being,-so blended was that being then, with all it saw and heard on this musical and lustrous earth, that, as it bounded along in bliss, it was but as the same creation with the grass, the flowers, the streams, the trees, the clouds, the sky and its days and nights,-all of them bound together by one invisible chain,-a green, bright, murmuring, shadowy, floating, sunny and starry world, of which the enraptured creature that enjoyed it was felt to be the very centre, and the very soul !

Then came a New Series of Christmasses, celebrated, one year in this family, another year in that-none present but those whom the delightful Elia, alias Charles Lamb, calleth the "old familiar faces ;" something in all features and all tones of voice, and all manners betokening origin from one root-relations all, happy, and with no reason either to be ashamed or proud of their neither high nor humble birth -their lot being cast within that pleasant realm, "the golden mean," where the dwellings are connecting links between the hut and hall, fair edifices resembling manse or mansion-house, according as the atmosphere expands or contracts their dimensions, in which Competence is next-door neighbour to Wealth, and both of them within the daily walk of Contentment.

Merry Christmasses they were indeed-one Lady always presiding, with a figure that once had been the stateliest among the stately, but then somewhat bent, without being bowed down, beneath an easy weight of most venerable years. Sweet was her tremulous voice to all her grandchildren's ears! Nor did those solemn eyes, bedimmed into a pathetic beauty, in any degree restrain the glee that sparkled in orbs that had as yet shed not many tears, but tears of pity or of joy. Dearly she loved all those mortal creatures whom she was soon about to leave; but she sat in sunshine even within the shadow of death; and the "voice that called her home" had so long been whispering in her ear, that its accents had become dear to her, and consolatory every word that was heard in the silence, as from another world.

Whether we were indeed all so witty as we thought ourselves-uncles, aunts, nephews, cousins, and "the rest," it might be presumptuous in us, who were considered by ourselves and some few others the most amusing of the whole set, at this distance of time to decide-especially in the affirmative; but how the roof did ring with sally, pun, retort, and repartee! Ay, with pun-a species of impertinence for which we have therefore a kindness even to this day. Had incomparable Thomas Hood had the good fortune to have been born a cousin of ours, how with that fine fancy of his would he have shown at those Christmas festivals, eclipsing us all! Our family through all its different branches has ever been famous for bad voices, but good ears; and we think we hear ourselves-all those uncles and aunts, nephews, and nieces, and cousins-singing now! Easy is it to "warble melody" as to breathe air. But, oh! we hope harmony is the most difficult of all things to people in general, for to us it was impossible; and what attempts ours used to be at Seconds! Yet the most woful failures were rapturously encored; and ere the night was done we spoke with most extraordinary voices indeed, every one hoarser than another, till at last, walking home with a fair cousin, there was nothing left for it but a tender glance of the eye-a tender pressure of the hand-for cousins are not altogether sisters, and although partaking of that dearest character, possessing, it may be, some peculiar and appropriate charms of their own ; as didst thou, Emily the "Wild-cap!”—That soubriquet all forgotten now-for now thou art a matron, gentle as a dove, and smiling on an only daughter, almost woman-grown-fair and frolicsome in her innocence as thou thyself wert of yore, when the gravest and wisest withstood not the witchery of thy dancings, thy singings, and thy showering smiles!

On rolled Suns and Seasons--the old died-the elder became old-and the young, one after another, were wafted joyously away or the wings of hope, like birds, almost as soon as they can fly, ungratefully forsaking their nests, and the groves in whose safe shadow they first essayed their pinions; or like pinnaces that, after having, for a few days, trimmed their snow-white sails

in the land-locked bay, close to whose shores of silvery sand had grown the trees that furnished timber both for hull and mast, slip their tiny cables on some summer day, and gathering every breeze that blows, go dancing over the waves in sunshine, and melt far off into the main ! Or, haply, some were like fair young trees, transplanted during no favourable season, and never to take root in another soil, but soon leaf and branch to wither beneath the tropic sun, and die almost unheeded by those who knew not how beautiful they were beneath the dews and mists of their own native clime. Vain images! and therefore chosen by fancy not too painfully to touch the heart! For some hearts grew cold and forbidding in selfish cares-some, warm as ever in their own generous glow, were touched by the chill of Fortune's frowns, that are ever worst to bear when suddenly succeeding her smiles -some, to rid themselves of painful regrets, took refuge in forgetfulness, and closed their eyes to the past-duty banished some abroad, and duty imprisoned others at home estrangements there were, at first unconscious and unintended, yet ere long, though causeless, complete, changes were wrought insensibly, invisibly, even in the innermost nature of those, who being friends knew no guile, yet came thereby at last to be friends no more -unrequited love broke some bonds -requited love relaxed others-the death of one altered the conditions of many-and so-year after yearthe Christmas Meeting was interrupted-deferred-till finally it ceased, with one accord, unrenewed and unrenewable. For when some things cease --for a time-that time turns out to be for ever. Survivors of those happy circles! wherever ye be-should these imperfect remembrances of days of old chance, in some thoughtful pause of life's busy turmoil, for a moment to meet your eyes, let there be towards the inditer a few throbs of revived affection in your hearts-for his, though "absent long and distant far," has never been utterly forgetful of the loves and friendships that charmed his youth. To be parted in body is not to be estranged in soul— and many a dream-and many a vision, sacred to nature's best affections, may pass before the mind of one whose

lips are silent. "Out of sight out of

mind," is rather the expression of a doubt-of a fear-than of a belief or conviction. The soul surely has eyes that can see the objects it loves, through all intervening darkness—and of those more especially dear it keeps within itself almost undimmed images, on which, when they know it not, think it not, believe it not, it often loves to gaze, as on a relic imperishable as it is hallowed.

Hail! rising beautiful, and magnificent, through the mists of morninghail! hail! ye Woods, Groves, Towers, and Temples, overshadowing that famous Stream beloved by all the Muses! Through this midnight hush-methinks I hear faint and far off a sacred music,

"Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault,

The pealing anthem swells the note of praise !"

How steeped in the beauty of moonlight are all those pale, pillared churches, courts and cloisters, shrines and altars, with here and there a Statue standing in the shade, or Monument sacred to the memory of the piousthe immortal dead! Some great clock is striking from one of many domes

from the majestic tower of St. Mary Magdalen--and in the deepened hush that follows the solemn sound, hark how the mingling waters of the Cherwell and the Isis soften the severe silence of the holy night!

Remote from kindred, and from all the friendships that were the native growth of the fair fields where our boyhood and our youth had roamed, and meditated, and dreamed, those were yet years of high and lofty mood, which held us in converse with the shades of great poets and sages of old in Rhedicyna's hallowed groves, still, serene, and solemn, as that Grecian Academe where divine Plato, with all Hybla on his lips, discoursed such excellent music, that this Life seemed to the imagination spiritualized-a dim reminiscence of some former state of being. How sank then the Christmas Service of that beautiful Liturgy into our hearts! Not faithless we to the simple worship that our forefathers had loved; but Conscience told us there was no apostacy in the feelings that rose within us when that deep organ 'gan to blow, that choir of youthful voices so sweetly to join the diapason, -our eyes fixed all the while on that

divine Picture over the Altar, of our Saviour

Bearing his cross up rueful Calvary."

But "a change comes o'er the spirit of my dream." How beautiful in the setting sunlight are these mountains of soft crimson snow! The sun hath set, and even more beautiful are the bright-starred nights of winter, than summer in all its glories beneath the broad moons of June! Through the woods of Windermere, from cottage to cottage, by coppice-pathways winding up to dwellings among the hill-rocks, where the birch-trees cease to grow,— "Nodding their heads, before us go, The merry Minstrelsy."

They sing a salutation at every door, familiarly naming old and young by their Christian names; and the eyes that look upward from the vales to the hanging huts among the plats and cliffs, see the shadows of the dancers ever and anon crossing the light of the star-like window; and the merry music is heard like an echo dwelling in the sky! across those humble thresholds often did we on Christmas nights of yore-wandering through our solitary sylvan haunts, under the branches of trees within whose hollow trunk the squirrel slept-venture in, unasked, perhaps, but not unwelcome; and in the kindly spirit of the season, did our best to merrify the Festival by tale or song. And now that we behold them not, are all those woods, and cliffs, and rivers, and tarns, and lakes, as beautiful as when they softened and brightened beneath our living eyes, half-creating, as they gazed, the very Paradise that they worshipped? And are all those hearths as bright as of yore, without the shadow of our figure? And the roofs, do they ring as mirthfully, though our voice be forgotten?

But little cause have we to lament that that Paradise is now to us but as remembered poetry-poetry got by heart-deeply engraven there-and to be read at any thoughtful hour we choose charged deeper and deeper still with old memories and new inspirations. The soul's best happiness is independent of time and place. Such accidents touch it not they

For

"offer not even any show of violence, it being a thing so majestical." And lo another New Series of Christmas Festivals has to us been born! there are our own Living Flowers in our family garland! And as long as He, who gave them their bloom and their balm, averts not from them or us the sunshine of his countenance, content-oh! far beyond contentwould we be with this, the most sacred of all Religious Festivals, were it even to be holden by us far apart from them in some dungeon's depth!

Ay-well may we say-in gratitude, not in pride-though, at such a sight, pride might be thought but a venial sin within a father's heart,"There is our Christmas rose"-while a blush brightens the beauty of a face that we will call "fair, not pale,” and brighter and softer than the leaves of any rose, the ringlets dance over her forehead to the breeze of joy, and bliss and innocence give themselves vent in one of our own Scotia's pleasant but pathetic songs!

But the heart hugs such treasures as these in secret,-and if revealed at all to other eyes it must be by but a fleeting and a partial light. Few words are needed to awaken, before parental eyes, the visions now stealing before mine, and, broken and all imperfect though these effusions be, yet may they touch with pensive pleasure some simple hearts, that recognise the expression of some of their own emotions,-similar, or the same,—although life and its circumstances may have been different, for in every single sentence, if it be but sincere, a word or two may be found, that shall awaken some complete reminiscence of joy, as the striking but of two notes at once fills ear and heart with a wellknown tune, and gives it the full power of all the melody.

The lamp glimmers as it would expire, the few embers are red and low,

and those are the shadows of moonlight on the walls. How deep a hush! Let me go and hear them breathing in their sleep, and whisper-for it will not disturb them-a prayer by the bedTo-morrow is side of my children. Christmas Day-and thankful am I indeed to Providence!

« PreviousContinue »