THE STAR IN THE EAST

Otago Witness, Issue 3016, 3 January 1912, Page 81

THE STAR IN THE EAST

CHRISTMAS CURIOUSLY CONSIDERED.

By Constant Headed..

In that little read' romance “ Gryll Grange,” Thomas Love Peacock says : “ I myself think much of Christmas and ail its associations. I always dine at home on Christmas Day, and measure the steps on my children’s heads on the wall; and see how much higher each of them has risen since the same time last year.” Here in a sentence we have a reflection of the old-fashioned English Christmas, as Washington Irving so faithfully pictured it, albeit “ Geoffrey Crayon ” himself was wont to deplore the changing spirit of' Christmas-tide. In one place he exclaims : “ Shorn, however, as it is of its ancient and festive honours, Christmas is still a period of delightful excitement in England. It is gratifying to see that home feeling completely aroused which seems to hold so powerful a place in every English bosom.” This home festival is vividly described in Christopher North's never-to-be-forgotten words ;

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 brides on earth. It is the Christmas holidays—Christmas Day itself—Christmas Night—and Joy in every bosom intensifies Love. 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 sat —silent in all that outcry—composed in all that dis-array-still in all that tumult; yet as one or other flying imp sweeps round the chair, a father’s hand will playfully strive to catch a prisoner—a mother’s gentler touch on some sylph’s disordered symar 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 small green-robed People of Peace at once cease their pastime and vanish. For she—the Silver Tongued—is about to sing an old ballad, words and air alike hundreds of years old — and sing she doth, while tears begin to fall, with a voice mournfully beautiful, long to breathe below —and ere another Christmas shall have come with the fall, ing snows, doomed to be music on earth —but to be hymning in Heaven. . . Then came a New Series of Christmases celebrated one year in this family another year in that—none present but those whom Charles Lamb the Delightful, 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 dwell-

am connecting links between the hut and the 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 Christmases they were indeed—one lady always presiding, with a figure 'that once liad been the stateliest among the stalely, but then somewhat bent without being bowed down, beneath an easy weight of most venerable years.

Completing the picture, Christopher North tolls how as the Suns and the Seasons rolled “some hearts grew cold and forbidding with selfish cares—some warm as ever in their own generous glow were touched by the chill of Fortune’s frown, 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 unconscicous 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 Vie friends no more—unrequited love broke some bonds—requited love relaxed othex-s —the death of one altered the conditions of many—and so—year after year—the Christmas meeting was interrupted; deferred —till finally it ceased with one accord unrenewed and unrencwable. For when Some Things cease for a time—that time turns out to be forever.” The decline in the pi’oper keeping of Christmas, as a Home Festival, to which Christopher North so sorrowfully alludes as commencing years back in the Old Land, has seen its full fruition in this Dominion. To the many to-day Christmas in New Zealand is a holiday and nothing more. Joined to the New Year it becomes the longest holiday of the year, and consequently the most enjoyable, since ordinarily speaking, the weather is fine enough to induce a trip to the seaside or into the bush. From being the time when families gathered together under one roof-tree, Christmas has rather become an opportunity for separation, an escape from the monotony or the everyday routine of home life, and from the boredom of being barely polite, which constitutes much Qt what standp for modern family life. This gvolution from the old-fashioned Christmas. based on the Christian ideal of the birthday of the Christ, has cei'talnly been

accelerated by climatic conditions; but at heart it has been helped by the virtual practice of paganism, which practice is thus alluded to by Francis Thompson, in his essay on “ Paganism—Old and New ” : That men who find Christianity too hard of belief should come to believe in Paganism sounds, I know, like an absurdity. But nothing is so incalculable as the credulity of incredulity. Nevertheless it is not Paganism pure and simple which these men would restore. Rather it is the habit of mind, the sentiment, the ethics of Paganism. If my view be correct, they would use the old “ properties ” of Paganism to deck out their own material nature-worship. Venus would thus become what Tennyson has so eloquently described Lucretius as holding her to be. Ceres and Bacchus would become representative of the bounty and lustihood of Nature. Thp staid and severe would have their Pallas, and render homage to natural wisdom and self-control. Meanwhile all this would be in nowise novel, but indeed a revival of Paganism—of a phase and a late phase of Paganism. There are cycles in thought as in the heavens, and old view’s in time become new views. Here is a natural religion, obviously capable of accommodating itself to widely different natures by reason of its entire flexibility. But though in this way. mischievously catholic as atheism, it can unlike atheism surround itself with the prestige of a great past —though a dead past; of a poetry—though a dead poetry; of a sculpture—- - t hough a dead sculpture; of an art — which is not dead. And it can proclaim that with the revival of dead Paganism these other dead things too shall live. The more I read and study the writings of the two men the more I am impressed with the similarity of thought and method of Francis Thompson and Gilbert Keith Chesterton. This essay on “ Paganism Old and New” carries the same idea as Chesterton’s “ Ballad of the White Horse ” —a ballad concerning which I hope to have something more to say ere the New Year is far advanced. Thompson in his essay declares that one of the chief re commendations of Paganism to intellectual minds is its oft-eulogised beauty. “The old gods, say its advocates, were w’arm with human life and akin to human sympathy—beautiful gods, whose names were poetry.” And the advocates of Paganism forcibly contrast “ the daily gracefulness of nagan life and religion ’ with the conditions existing to-day—‘‘the cold formalities of an outw’orn w’orship ... the dryadless woods regarded chiefly as potential timber; the grimy street, the grimy air, the disfiguring statues, the Stygian crowd .... last and worst the fatal degradation of popular perception which has gazed so lonjg on ugliness that it takes her to its bosom.” All which leads Francis Thompson to exclaim : And those who, like the present writer, tread as on thorns amidst the sordidneea and ugliness—the ugly sordidnees and the sordid ugliness—the dull materiality and weariness of this unhonoured old age of the world, cannot but sympathise with these feelings—nay, even look back with a certain passionate regret to the beauty which invested at least the outward life of those days. But, in truth, with this outward life the vesture of beauty ceases. The rest is a day-dream, lovely, it is true, but none the less a dream. Paganism is lovely because it is dead. To read Keats is to grow in love with Paganism ;' but it is the Paganism of Keats. Pagan Paganism was not poetical. Literally this assertion is untenable. Almost every religion becomes a centre of poetry ; but if not absolutely true, it is at least true with relation to Christianity. The poetry of Paganism is chiefly a modern creation. In the hands of the pagans themselves it was not even developed to its full capabilities. The gods of Homer are braggarts and gluttons; and the gods of Virgil are cold and unreal. The kiss of Dian was a frigid kiss till it glowed in the fancy of the barbarian Fletcher. There was little halo around Latinos’ tops till it was thrown around it by the modern Keats. No pagan eye ever visioned the nymphs of Shelley. In truth, there was around the Olympian heaven no such halo and native air of poetry, as for Christian singers clothed the Christian heavens. To the heathen mind its divinities were graceful, handsome, noble gods, powerful, and therefore to be propitiated with worship; cold in their sublime selfishness and therefore unlovable. No pagan ever loved his god. Love he might, perhaps, some humble rustic or domestic deity, but no Olympian. Whereas in the Christian religion the Madonna and a greater than the Madonna, were at once high enough for worship and low enough for love. Now without love no poetry can ever be beautiful; for all beautiful poetry comes from the heart. With love it was that Wordsworth and Shelley purchased the right to sing sweetly of Nature. Keats wrote lovingly of his pagan hierarchy because what ho wrote about he loved ; hence for no antique poet was it possible to make or even conceive a pagan Paradise. We who love the gods do not worship them. Tho ancients who worshipped the gods did not love them.

Every student of Chesterton’s writings knows fnJl well that one of his favourite themes, iterated and reiterated, is the sadness and sorrow of Paganism, and the Joy and laughter of Christianity. Enlarging on this idea in “Orthodoxy,” he writest “Joy, which was the small publicity of the Pagan, is the secret of the -a^istian. ,, We eaten the reflection of this identical thought in one fine passage in “The Ballad of the White Horse: —

The Northrpih came about our land, A Christless chivalry : Who knew not of the arch or pen. Great, beautiful, half-witted men. From the sunrise and the sea. Misshapen ships stood on the deep. Full of strange gold and fire, And hairy men as huge as sin. With horned heads came wading in Through the long, low sea-mire. Their souls were drifting on the sea. And all the good towns and lauds They only saw with heavy eyes. And broke with heavy hands. Their gods were sadder than the sea, Gods of a wandering will, Who cried for blood like beasts at night, Sadly, from hill to hill. Or again, picturing King Alfred with the Woman in the Forest—the incident based on the disputed tradition of the King and the Cakes—he makes the monarch declaim after this fashion : Wherefore wag God in Gorgotha, Slain as a serfisslain; And hate Ho had of prince and peer, And love He had and made good cheer Of that that like this womanhere. Go powerfully in pain. But in this grey morn of man’s life Cometh sometime to the mind, A little light that leaps and flies, Like a star blown on the wind. A star of nowhere, a nameless star, A light that spins and swirls And cries, that even in hedge and hill. Even on earth, it may go ill At last with the evil carls. A dancing sparkle, a doubtful star, Oh the waste wind whirled and driven; But it seems to sing of a wilder worth, A time discrowned of doom and birth. And the kingdom of the poor on earth Como as it is in heaven. According to Mr Chesterton, laughter ia the accompaniment of Christianity, and the special privilege of Heaven. He says in one place: “So we sit perhaps in a starry chamber of silence, while the laughter of the Heavens is too loud fox us to hear.” And the relation of Christian laughter to the Christian Christmas is thus finely told in the ballad : Then Alfred laughed out suddenly, Like thunder in the spring, Till shook aloud the lintel beams, And the squirrels stirred in dusty dreams. And the startled birds went up in streams For the laughter of the King. / And the beasts of the earth and the birds looked down In a wild solemnity, On a stranger eight than a sylph or elf. On one man laughing at himself Under the greenwood tree. The giant laughter of Christian men, That roars through a thousand tales, Whore greed is an ape and pride is an a«s. And Jack’s aw r ay with his master’s lass. And the miser is banged with all his brass. The farmer with all his flails. Tales that tumble and tales that trick. Yet end not all in scorning— Of kings and clowns in a merry plight. And the clock gone wrong and the world gone right, That the Mummers sing upon Christmas night And Christmas Day in the morning. There is one other passage that I fain must quote from “ The Ballad of the White Horse.” It strikes me as by far the finest Christmas carol of modern times, for it sings the ultimate triumph of Christianity over Paganism, and the final redemption of the Christmas festival from the modern Pagan influences under which it has unhappily fallen. At present men for the most part are following ‘‘a dancing, sparkle, a doubtful star,” but in the stirring metre of this ringing ballad we are all urged to “ follow the Star that lives and leaps,” and surely this is the “Star in the East.” But to the ballad— King Alfred is speaking; he has just been slapped in the face by the woman for allowing the cakes to burn : “ This blow that I return not Ten times will I return On kings and earls of all degree, And armies wido as empires bo Shall slide like landslips to the sea If the rod star burn. “ One man shall drive a hundred, And the de’d jdngs drave; Before me rocking hosts be riven. And battering cohorts backwards driven. For I am the first King know of heaven That has been struck like a slave. “Up on the old white road, brothers, Up on the Roman walls! For this is the night of the drawing of swords, And the painted tower of the heathen hordes Leans to our hammers, fires, and cords Loans a little and falls. “ Follow the star that lives and haps, Follow the sword that sings, For wo go gathering heathen men, A terrible harvest, ten by ton, As the wrath of the Inst rod autumn —then When Christ reaps down the kings. “ Follow a light that leaps and spine, Follow the fire unfurled, For risoth up against realm and rod A thing forgotten, a thing downtrod, The last lost giant, even God, Is risen against the world.” Roaring they went o’er the "Roman wall. And roaring up the lane; Their torches tossed, a ladder of fire. Higher their hymn was heard, and higher, More sweet for hate and for heart’s desire. And up in the northern scrub and brief They fell upon the Dane.”

It is tho consciousness of the conflict ever proceeding between the power o( Paganism and tho influences of Chria tianity so stirringly depicted by Chesters ton in hia “ Ballad,” and so elegantly phrased by Thompson In his essay, which gives significance, especially at Christmastide, to t*>e movement known as “The Star in the East.” The motive for such a movement is thus alluded to by ifrs Besant in one of her addresses, and it receives confirmation in books like “The

tr/nce of Destiny” and “ The Wliite Prophet” : An expectation is spreading everywhere of the coining of some mighty Teacher, and here and there on earth the expectation has taken voice, nay, has even had a human messenger and herald to proclaim it. In Persia euch a messenger came in the one who was called the Bab, who declared the coming of a mighty one, followed by another said to be yet greater than himself, and yet a third, the Abbas Effendi of the present time, certainly a great spiritual teacher, but one who still declares that the mightiest is yet to come, who is to bind together the ©astern and the western worlds. Not only along that line has this expectation shown itself, but among the people of Islam in a strange combative form, natural to their fighting races, showing itself, therefore, as leader in battle to be ruler in the future ; and through Africa you see it in this expectation of the Mahdi, which has given so much trouble during our own time. I only mention these to show you that the thought is spreading and the expectation growing; for ever the world grows expectant before the mighty One returns to reveal Himself on earth. Such a coming: of the Christ the occult world is looking for—for the same great Being who appeared in Palestine, for he is still the Supreme Teacher, the same individual. Who may say what name He will bear? As preparation for the coming of this great Teacher, Mrs Besant exhorts everyone to “ Learn compafision, learn tenderness, learn good thoughts of others rather than evil, learn to be tender with the weak, learn to be reverent to the great.” And such sentiments naturally chord with the Christmas spirit; this spirit finds a suitable exponent in Charles Mackay’s popular ballad “Under the Holly Bough, and the ballad fitly concludes these Christmas “Browsings”; Yo who have scorned each other. Or injured friend or brother In this fast fading year; Ye who, by word or deed, Have made a kind heart bleed. Come, gather here. Lot sinned against and sinning. Forget their life’s beginning. And join in friendship now; Be hearts no longer broken, Bo sweet forgiveness spoken Under the Holly Bough. Ye who have loved each other, Sister, and friend, and brother, In this fast fading year; Mother and sire and ohi!d. Young man and maiden mild. Come, gather here. And let your hearts grow fonder. As memory shall ponder. Each past, unbroken vow; _ Old loves, and younger wooing Are sweet in the memory Under the Holly Bough Yo who have nourished sadness Estranged from hope and gladness, In th : s fast-fading year; Ye, with o’or-burdoned mind. Made aliens from your kind, Come, gather here. Lot not the useless sorrow Pursue you night and morrow, If e’er you hoped, hope now— Take heart, uncloud your faces, And join in our embraces Under the Holly Bough