Adlin, Christmas Buskers, 1908
Of all the old festivals, however, that of Christmas awakens
the strongest and most heartfelt associations. There is a tone of solemn and
sacred feeling that blends with our conviviality, and lifts the spirit to a
state of hallowed and elevated enjoyment. The services of the church about this
season are extremely tender and inspiring. They dwell on the beautiful story of
the origin of our faith, and the pastoral scenes that accompanied its
announcement. They gradually increase in fervour and pathos during the season
of Advent, until they break forth in full jubilee on the morning that brought
peace and good-will to men. I do not know a grander effect of music on the
moral feelings than to hear the full choir and the pealing organ performing a
Christmas anthem in a cathedral, and filling every part of the vast pile with
triumphant harmony.
It is a beautiful arrangement, also derived from days of
yore, that this festival, which commemorates the announcement of the religion
of peace and love, has been made the season for gathering together of family
connections, and drawing closer again those bands of kindred hearts which the
cares and pleasures and sorrows of the world are continually operating to cast
loose; of calling back the children of a family who have launched forth in
life, and wandered widely asunder, once more to assemble about the paternal
hearth, that rallying-place of the affections, there to grow young and loving
again among the endearing mementoes of childhood.
There is something in the very season of the year that gives
a charm to the festivity of Christmas. At other times we derive a great portion
of our pleasures from the mere beauties of nature. Our feelings sally forth and
dissipate themselves over the sunny landscape, and we "live abroad and everywhere."
The song of the bird, the murmur of the stream, the breathing fragrance of
spring, the soft voluptuousness of summer, the golden pomp of autumn; earth
with its mantle of refreshing green, and heaven with its deep delicious blue
and its cloudy magnificence, all fill us with mute but exquisite delight, and
we revel in the luxury of mere sensation. But in the depth of winter, when
nature lies despoiled of every charm, and wrapped in her shroud of sheeted
snow, we turn for our gratifications to moral sources. The dreariness and
desolation of the landscape, the short gloomy days and darksome nights, while
they circumscribe our wanderings, shut in our feelings also from rambling
abroad, and make us more keenly disposed for the pleasures of the social circle.
Our thoughts are more concentrated; our friendly sympathies more aroused, we
feel more sensibly the charm of each other's society, and are brought more
closely together by dependence on each other for enjoyment. Heart calleth unto
heart; and we draw our pleasures from the deep wells of living kindness, which
lie in the quiet recesses of our bosoms: and which when resorted to, furnish
forth the pure element of domestic felicity.
The pitchy gloom without makes the heart dilate on entering
the room filled with the glow and warmth of the evening fire. The ruddy blaze
diffuses an artificial summer and sunshine through the room, and lights up each
countenance into a kindlier welcome. Where does the honest face of hospitality
expand into a broader and more cordial smile—where is the shy glance of love
more sweetly eloquent—than by the winter fireside? and as the hollow blast of
wintry wind rushes through the hall, claps the distant door, whistles about the
casement, and rumbles down the chimney, what can be more grateful than that
feeling of sober and sheltered security with which we look around upon the
comfortable chamber and the scene of domestic hilarity?
Washington Irving, from "Christmas"
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