SEVEN HISTORIC CHRISTMASES.

Southern Cross, Volume 15, Issue 35, 21 December 1907, Page 1 (Supplement)

SEVEN HISTORIC CHRISTMASES.

BY JAMES BURNLEY.

I. - BETHLEHEM. One thousand nine hundred and eleven years ago—four years before the date counted as the commencement of the Christian Era—the picturesque little village of Bethlehem in Judea, five miles south of Jerusalem, was the scene of one of the most momentous events in the history of the world. Here, remote from trade, traffic, and affairs ; here, in this little spot, with its primitive setting of a few rude

Louse* rising in irregular terraces, one over another ; here, all those years' ago, was born the Child Christ. The story of that event, as narrated in the New Testament, is impressed with an almost sanctified clearness upon the mind of every man and woman, in Christendom. No other record of that First Christmas Night is vouchsafed to us ; hut to the faithful this in itself is all-sufficing. It was not until some years later that the story of the First Christmas Night made its way into, and began to illuminate, the records of religion, and history, and it now stands forth in greater prominence for untold millions of people than any ether incident in the annals of the world. Contemporary ’writing* may have little to say regarding the occurrence of the Birth, but no subject in the whole realm of intellectual activity has attracted to itself more of the world’s genius. In art, in literature, in oratoiy it has been the greatest of inspiring influences. It typifies so much, and is the starting-point of such a simple, forceful, Divine system of humanity that its celebration must always constitute the chief festival of the Christian year. Nineteen hundred and eleven years ago the time was ripe for a new Birth ; but none expected great events to take place in that little village. In Rome, where Augustus was emperor and Apollo, Pallas, Jove, and Mars Held undisturbed their ancient reign, a world-impressing happening might_have seemed in the proper fitness of things; even in Jerusalem, with its long and hallowed associations with Biblical tradition*, it might have appeared unstrange; but Bethlehem was practically out of the world, and the last place in which history would be supposed to be moulding one of its most gigantic forces. There was little in the native surroundings that harmonised with the Message of which the Babe was the harbinger. Herod held despotic sway over Judea, as vassal of Augustus, but was hated by the Jews. Not even his great work of restoring Temple could atone for his cruelties. The spirit of revolt was abroad. At the earns time Europe was given over : to a luxurious paganism that had little sympathy with the- better aspirations of mankind ; and Asia and Africa, with here and there an oasis of refining influences, ! was mainly in the throes of a semi-bar-barism. P'hilosophy was losing its ancient hold, and the world was full of antago- : nisms. Rome, the mistress of the world, was lost in pomp and splendor, and cared little for higher thoughts or humane conditions.

There was a strange blending of Jewish, Oriental, and Hellenic thought exktent in Palestine that confused the religious outlook ; and it was into this atmosphere that the founder of the Christian religion was horn, “in that solemn midnight centuries ago ” ; and to the members of the Christian faith, as each Christmas comes round, the beatific vision of the First Christmas Night arises, with its Holy Family, the lowly manger, the keen calm

stars shining out of the deep blue sky, the adoring Magi, and the startled shepherds : and from that one point they see the bursting forth of the first beams of “ The Light of the World.”

11. A CRUSADER’S CHRISTMAS IN THE HOLY LAND. The conquest of Jerusalem had been accomplished and the aim of the 'First Crusade attained. After three years of desperate marchings across Europe and far into Asia—after enduring cruel hardships and privations —after fighting many battles and seeing large numbers of their i companions massacred—after suffering ‘ from famines, epidemics, and harassings of all kinds, the comparatively small i surviving remnant of Crusaders had been rewarded by the sight of the Holy Sepulchre. After a thousand years of ; “ infidel ” possession, the Sacred Tomb was at last under Christian protection and ownership. But at what a terrible sacrifice the dream of centuries had been realised ! When the crusading legions had first gathered their forces into one mighty host they had numbered 600,000 souls; but only 40,000 survived to join in the victorious entry into Jerusalem. This was on July 15, 1099, and now it was Christmas. In the intervening live months many things had happened. Of the gallant knights of chivalry who had led the Crusade, only one now remained — i the famous Godfrey of Bouillon, the principal figure in the movement that the : preaching of Peter the Hermit had wrought \ into torrentuous force. Godfrey had been |

proclaimed ruler of Jerusalem. He refused to bear the title of king in the city where Christ had worn the crown of thorns. Robert, Duke of Normandy, had set out on the homeward journey ; so had Count Robert of Flanders, the heroic Tancred, and the rest of the champions. Still, the Holy City was able to make a brave showing of soldiers and ecclesiastics on this Christmas Day of 1099 ; and in the procession which wound, its rvay from the royal palace towards the hill of the Holy Sepulchre, the spears and helmets of the military, the chain body-armor of the knights, the steel trappings of the horses, and the flapping of many banners made an impressive display of armed protection. The chief features of the Christmas procession, indeed, were the same as had characterised the Crusading march in the days of its long journeying. There were the priests in their robes, headed by one who carried aloft a large crucifix; there were long files of monks ; and thousands of men, women, and children followed, all singing a hymn and rejoicing. And in the rear of the procession, walking barefooted, with bent head and hands folded across his breast, came Godfrey of Bouillon, a number of church dignitaries on either side of him. But his brow was troubled as the solemn chanting continued. Slowly the procession wended its way. Nearly the whole population had joined in it, for, alas ! there was scarce any population left except the conquering hosts. The Christian victory had been sullied by wholesale butcheries ; neither man, woman, nor child had been spared. Fanaticism and religious frenzy had done their worst, and Godfrey of Bouillon, the brave chevalier and pious knight, had given the word that had set the furies of religious madness loose. And now. he was stricken with remorse and would fain make expiation. Here and there a few natives looked on in amazed trepidation, unable to repress a scowl ; and the sky took on a sullen look, angry black clouds gathering and threatening. It was unusually hot for the winter season. At length the procession reached the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, halted, and

divided into two long lines, Godfrey of Bouillon and his retinue passing into the sacred building, with its mysterious arches, its weird lamps, and its unutterable awe and gloom. Then the walls

echoed and re-echoed with a loud fanfare of trumpets. This was followed by a death-like silence, during Avhich Count Godfrey arose and passed to the foot of the Holy Shrine, where, with an anguished cry, he prostrated himself and murmured words of piteous, appealing prayer, the whole assembly kneling. Then, as the voices were slowly hushed, a great crash of thunder boomed and reverberated. Women and children shrieked. Godfrey stood up and faced the multitude. “ It is the voice of God !” he cried. Another thunder crash, louder than before, smote the air, and the terror of the people increased. “ Hear me!” cried Godfrey, stretching forth an appealing hand. “ God demands expiation. I have had a vision. An angel appeared to me, saying: ‘ There shall be no peace for you until you have cleansed yourself of the blood of your innocent victims. What you have won shall be lost, and victory shall come not to you again until this is done.’ ” The people now began to sob and murmur. Then there was a sound without that was a thousand times more dreadful than the thunder. The Saracen foe was upon them. They were surrounded —caged —■ carrght in the very moment of their most cherished devotions. Godfrey stood for a moment as if transfixed, then the warrior spirit within him asserted itself. He threw off his pilgrim cloak, called for his horse and sword, and in almost as short a time as it takes to relate it, he and his processionists were once more an army of Crusaders ready for battle. “ Here at the tomb of our Lord we resume the sword for His sake, and here also we take the vow of expiation, and pledge ourselves to never again stain our Christianity with the blood of the innocent ! That is our Christmas-day vow !” Loud cries of assent followed, and then the crowd of worshippers rushed from the building. Soon the Saracens were flying in dismay. The pursuit was continued until it was seen that a far larger force of Saracens was lying out beyond the Avails. The Fatimite Caliph of Egypt Avas there Avith an immense force ready to do battle Avith Godfrey. The meeting between the tAA'o forces took place at Ascalon, and resulted in the complete defeat of the Egyptians. 111. - CHRISTMAS WITH THE PILGRIM FATHERS. Again it is Christmas Day. The year is 1620, the scene Plymouth Rock, a Avild part of the eastern coast of North America. The snow is falling, and the Avind that comes tearing across the headland from the sea beats the white flakes hither and thither in furious gusts. Snow-drifts lie deep upon the ground, the branches of the trees are fringed with icy whiteness, and as the seagulls Avheel Avith impetuous SAveep above the swirling waters, piping unearthly notes, there slowly rises on the cold air the sound of voices singing. Never before had such singing been heard on that lonely shore, Avhere only Red Indians had been accustomed to come occasionally in less boisterous Aveather to fish or hunt. But these Avere no barbaric strains. They were strains of fervent, jubi-

lant salutation to the Christmas morn, and came from the band of English Pilgrims who but four days before had landed on Plymouth Rock—refugees from religious persecution, seeking not adventure or worldly goods, prompted by no selfish desires or ambitions, but asking only the privilege of worshipping God according to the conviction of their hearts. England, which they loved so much, was no longer a home to them; she had driven them forth ; and here, in a new country, they bravely sought to create a new home of freedom. This little band of heroic souls, some hundred and thirty in number, including twenty-eight women, were the very personification of human courage, as they gathered in this bleak spot and poured forth their grand old Christmas Noel across the snow-tossed scene. Already they had erected a few rough tents, and some trees had been felled ; but this day they desisted from labor and gave themselves up heart and soul to the celebration of the divine anniversary. Several of the younger men had been picketed at certain watch-points to give the signal in the event of the approach of Indians, and every man Avas armed with sword and musket ready for instftnt defence. The Avomen, Avrapped in thick hooded cloaks of sombre hue, cast anxious looks from time to time towards the seemingly impenetrable forest that stretched beyond in a AA'esterly direction, but still they all sang on. They Avere indeed creatures of circumstance, and had need of all their zeal to fortify their spirits. But they never quailed, no murmur eA T er escaped them; they were in the hands of God, and His protection Avas all-sufficing. For months they had been upon the Avaters in the MayfloAA r er, insufficiently provisioned and equipped, and Avhen at last they had sighted the coast of America they found themselves a great distance from the point at Avhich they had aimed, and had been compelled by stress' of weather to land on this remote rock. Their singing concluded, first one and then another addressed the assembly, mingling Avoids of praise and gratitude to God with wise counsel for their own immediate guidance. Winslow spoke, and Standish, and Roger Williams, and young Harry Vane, and Bradford, and Cotton; and every word breathed determination and confidence.

They were just about to return to their rough snow-mantled tents when one of the outpost men ran in to announce that Indians were advancing upon them. The women were quickly huddled into the tents, and the gaunt, stern men turned to face the enemy with a courage strengthened by the Christmas Day service they had just performed; they saw to their guns and swords, and, putting themselves under the leadership of Miles Standish, prepared for the worst. On the redskins came, uttering their wild war-whoop, threading in and out among the snow-clad trees in cunning, sinuous way, and then all of a sudden letting forth “ a flight of feathery arrows ” upon the white men drawn up in battle array. Three or four were wounded, but not seriously. Then the Indians, thinking they had an easy task before them, brandishing their tomahawks, rushed out of their ambush and sped like lightning towards the English. They had not gone many steps, however, before Standish gave the command to “ Eire,” and in another instant near a hundred muskets had been discharged, and at least a score of Indians lay prostrate in the snow. The rest of the band fled shrieking into the dense woodland, the Puritans in hot pursuit. When some hours later they returned, the womenfolk received them with welcome acclaim, and again the whole community assembled for yet another Christmas service—of thanksgiving. But ere that first winter was over, half of the devoted band of Mayflower pilgrims '■ad found their rest in the little primitive ing-ground there, of Cole’s Hill. IV.—CHRISTMAS AT THE COURT OF CHARLES 11. The old Whitehall Palace was gay indeed on the Christmas night of the year 1684. Great stirrings were afoot. The spacious quadrangle Wc.3 crowded with coaches, sedans, guards, lacqueys, and pages; and lords and ladies were arriving in large numbers, some coming by water, but the main portion of -mem alighting at the principal gateway. His Ma’>my Charles 11. had been growing more than usually languorous of late ; his brisk, early morning walks in St.

James’s Park had been discontinued; he no longer sought diversion in tennis ; the bons mots of the wits and gallants now roused only the faintest of smiles. The members of a gay Court like that of the Restoration could not afford to let their monarch become indifferent to pleasure. Therefore a desperate effort was being made to bring the “ Merry Monarch ” back to his old merriness of spirit. Dryden had composed a special Christmas Masque, which was to be presented before the King and his courtiers in the Presence Chamber of Whitehall, the grand old apartment that still reflected the pomp of its founder, Cardinal Wolsey. ' That part of the room in which the King sat was somewhat raised from the rest, and hung with crimson velvet, and in a large

bronze-gilt grate burned an immense fire of cedarwood. Arras draperies hung here and there; the hall was ablaze with thousands of lights ; and at the lower end of the room a row of Yeoman of the Guard, with their spears a-glitter, formed a picturesque border line to the scene. It was open house to-night at Whitehall. Rochester was there, and the Duke of York, and Barillon, and De Gramont, and all the customary crowd of revellers, gamblers, libertines, and intriguantes. But the Queen came not to the revels, nor was she missed. With the Duchess of Cleveland, the Duchess of Portsmouth, and the Duchess Mazarin there, the monarch had surely more than enough of female companionship to engage him. Their allurements, however, fell flat for once, each attributing her failure to the presence of her rivals; yet, with this hatred of each other in their hearts, they knew better than to risk TPs Majesty’s displeasure by an open quarrel before him. There was one thing, however, that comforted all three of the duchesses —Mistress Eleanor Gwynn was not there. In fact, the former orange-girl and actress had been somewhat out of favor of late. She had insisted upon a dukedom for her son, and though her demands in the way of recognition and supplies had been far less than those of the other ladies, the King had shown her some resentment. And Nell Gwynn was thirsting for revenge upon the duchesses who had poisoned the King’s mind against her. Presently there was the sound of music heard outside —blaring brass, piping reeds, thundering drums, and a great chorus of voices. The doors were thrown open, and in marched a wondrous procession of Christmas revellers, singing a rousing song of Christinas acclaim. The Lord of Misrule, fantastically attired and bearing in his hand a golden goblet, walked first, attended by a dozen jesters decked with caps and bells; then came a troop of dancing girls attired in costumes representing flowers and bearing garlands; then four

river “ goddesses ” personifying the Thames, Humber, Severn, and Tweed, in diaphonous draperies; and, lastly, in a nautilus-shaped chariot drawn by children disguised as swans, the Queen of Christmas entered, wondrously arrayed but masked, followed by a bevy of lovely girls in clinging, classic robes. As the doors closed behind this procession of masquers, the music ceased, and the vast audience rose to their feet and cheered again and again. “Who is this Queen of Christmas?” His Majesty asked. “ I do not know, sire,"’ said Rochester; “ she is masked.” “ Bring her to me when the masque is over,” said the King. Then the masque began. There were verses for the Lord of Misrule, for the river “ goddesses,” and the jesters,” and song and dance frequently relieved the recitals. All the time the Queen of Christmas sat in her chariot like a real queen on a throne, and spoke not a word. “ Has your queen no message for us. Master Hryden?” demanded the King of the poet. “ She is silent.” “ I offered her a goodly speech, your Majesty,” answered Hryden, “ but she would have none of it.” “Who is she? Unmask her. I insist.” What the poet would have done had not a suddent diversion occurred at this juncture it is impossible to say. _ “ The Queen of Christmas!” shouted a hundred voices. The King turned to listen, eager and bewildered. Then these words resounded through the hall: “ Our English King at Christmas time Has need of wisdom couched in rhyme; Has need to know that English friends Will best assist his kingly ends; That parasites of foreign breed Are not our King’s or country’s need; That ”

Here there' was a great hubbub. A hundred voices of indignant protest were raised, and, taking advantage of the confusion, the bold imjDersonator made her escape. “It is Nell! It is Nell!” sighed the King, and, turning from his “ duchesses,” ho signalled Rochester to his side, and quietly left the room with him. Dryden vowed that he had been duped, but the King asked no further explanation of him; and when, a few weeks later, Charles 11. lay on his death-bed, almost his last words to his brother and successor were : “Do not let poor Nelly starve!”

V.-A CHRISTMAS DURING THE REIGN OF TERROR. It is the year 1793. Christinas is approaching, but Paris is far from being in Christmas vein. Only a few weeks before, the populace had let itself loose upon a new form of worship. The Goddess of Reason (personified by an actress) had been proclaimed France’s New Divinity. The Reign of Terror is in full swing. What a year of slaughter it has been! What men and women of name and fame have passed into the unknown through the scaffold portals of the Place de Greve. The number of victims of the guillotine now amounts to thousands—nine hundred of them women-—and this most sanguinary of the year, 1793, has w'itnessed the execution of tine King, of Marie Antoinette, of Madame Roland, of Philip Egalite, of the Girondists, and of bow many more! It has also -witnessed the killing of Marat by Charlotte Corclay ; and now, with the prisons overflowing and the churches silent, what room is there for Christmas sentiment or Christmas observances? And yet there are a few brave, hopeful souls —some in prison, some in the highest ranks of the Convention itself—ready to stake their lives in one great effort to stem the torrent of blood. One is Tallien, the president of the Convention; another is Terezia Cabarue, the woman love has changed him from blood-thirstiness and ways of mercy and humanity. She lies in the prison of La Force, sent thither by the secret orders of Robespierre, who would fain be rid of Tallien now that he is showing signs of revulsion at the guillotine’s horrible work. It is Christmas Eve, and in the prison of La Force, Terezia Cabarus sits weeping in her cell. The gaoler has brought the neivs that she is to go before the tribunal the next day, and her Avitchery has so prevailed Avith him that he has consented to get a letter from her into Tallien’s hands. The letter says : “ The gaoler has just informed me that to-morrow I go to the tribunal—that is to say, to the scaffold. How different is this from the dream I had last night, Avhen I dreamed that Robespierre was no more, and the prisons- Avere open. But, thanks to your coAvardice, no one in France Avill soon be found to realise that dream.” This letter has not long been despatched Avhen St. Just visits the prison, and has an intervierv Aidth Terezia. At the instigation of Robespierre he has come to offer her her liberty on condition that she Avail sign an accusation against Tallien as an enemy of liberty, I am but tAventy years old,” she replies, “ but I had rather die a thousand times than sign it.” “ Tallien no longer love-s you,” he says. “ You baA-e my answer,” 'is her reply. Later in day Terezia receive® the message- from Tallien: ‘‘Be thou as calm as I shall be bold, and thy dream may yet come true.” When night comes- and Terezia. is thinking of the Christmases of the- past, and shuddering a-t the thought of the present one, her mind in Avhirling conflict betAveen hope and despair, a visitor arrives. It is Tallien. A rapturous embrace sets- all doubts of love- at rest. In (.he- hurried interAaew of a feAv moments he tells her that the Convention is secretly aiming itself against Robespierre, and sAvears that his oaaui aAmnging hand shall strike the tyrant dowm ere one fair hair of her head shall be hurt, “My life is my Christmas pledge of yours! ” he Avhispers. “My brava hero!” she whispers back. Then pulling a small dagger fiom her bosom and offering it to him, she adds: “ I had kept this for my own heart if sentenced to the guillotine, but iioav that I see thee again, and feel thy arms around me a© of old, I need no dagger. I know I am safe.” “My love,” he said, “it is a brave Christmas gift, and it shall be used if other methods fail.” Christmas Day passed, and many other days. Terezia avhs not summoned to the tribunal. The daily processions of the tumbrils continued, however, and time Avent oloAvly by until summer came amiin. Secret messages passed, but there Aver© no further visits from Tallien. Then came that fateful day of 1794, when Robespierre, being impeached by Tallien,

retorted with denunciations of Tallien as a traitor and as the lover of the daughter of Oaharus, “ the aristocrat and enemy of France.” Robespierre claimed to be heard. “ He has been heard too long,” cried Tallien ; “the name of a woman has been mentioned in this assembly. Long have I borne calumnies and injustice at his hands in respect of her, and I here declare, in the face of the world, that this woman is my wife. She now lies in La Force under his orders, her only crime that she loves me.” “ Brigands triumph!” shouted Robespierre. “No,” exclaimed Tallien, “the Republic triumphs! When I came here to-day T armed myself with this dagger ” —and he held up the weapon which had been Terezia’s Christmas gift to him —“ resolved to bury it in ihe breast of our country’s assassin if the Convention refused to do their duty.” The rest : s the closing scene of the Reign of Terror—Robespierre’s double death, by pistol shot in the Convention and by the guillotine. And at last there was not only freedom for Terezia, but for France itself. VI. ONE OF NAPOLEON’S CHRISTMASES. Napoleon Bonaparte, the “ Child of Destiny,” as he called himself, bad yet a good deal of his destiny uncompleted when, on Christmas Eve, in the year 1800, he sent messengers forth to announce his intention of paying a visit to the Paris Opera that night. He was now First Consul, to which position he had been elected in November, 1799. “My reign began from the day I was made Consul.” he declared years afterwards, and in that phrase he accurately described his power. Installed already at the Tuileries with ids beloved Josephine, he lived in regal state, and exercised little less than despotic sway. Seven years before he was an unknown artillery officer. Now he was the most prominent man in Europe, proclaimed the saviour of his country, and practically dictator. What events be had crowded into those seven years ! The English had been driven from Toulon in 1793 ; he had suppressed the Paris insurrection of 1795 ; he had gone through his first Afictorious campaign in Italy, in 1796-97; he made his vigorous attempt to conquer Egypt, in 1797-98; and now was back again in France. It was Christmas Eve, however, the time when pleasures are expected to be indulged in, and Napoleon liked to show himself to the people in public places, for popularity was ever dear to him. So he Avould go to the opera. He sat in an apartment overlooking the Tuileries Gardens awaiting the arrival of Eouche, the Minister of Police, who had been sent for to take his instructions. Josephine, to whom he had been married since 1796, had just left him, and he was alone when Eouche was announced. “You have nothing further to report?” said Napoleon, his keen gaze fixed on the Minister. “ Nothing.” “No new conspiracies?” “ None.” “And the old ones?” “Well under surveillance. I am ready to strike at the necessary moment.” “ Ah, M. le Ministre, your waiting gives them the opportunity of striking the first blow. This is not a soldier’s way. You are only clever in watching plots. I want a man who can crush them at their inception. Eouche, you must strike now. Every suspect must go to prison. My death is desired by all the fanatical Eoyalists, Yen-deans, and Chouans in Paris, and Eouche has to stamp these conspiracies out. If Eouche does not, Napoleon will.” “First Consul, you are safe,” was all that Eouche replied. “ Safe or not,” said Napoleon impatiently, “I look to you to guard my life, and with that life the destinies of France. I shall visit the opera within an hour. You know your duty.” “ Consider it done,” and with that the famous police functionary departed. Napoleon, who had been working hard all day and Av-as tired, now fell asleep. When Josephine came in, dressed for the opera, she had the greatest difficulty in rousing him. “Come, tho carriage is Availing,” she said.

“Let it be sent back,” he said, drowsily. “I have changed my mind. I bad rather not go to the opera to-night.” But in the end Josephine prevailed, and they went to the carriage, accompanied by Lannes and Bessieres. In the carriage Napoleon fell asleep again, and, a.s he afterwards related, began to dream of the danger he had run years before in crossing the Tagliomento during a flood by torchlight. No attempt was made to awaken him, but just a.s they reached the comer of the Rue Nicaise a loud explosion was heard, and the First Consul awoke with a sudden start. “We are blown up!” he cried. But death by assassination was not to be his destiny. An infernal machine of a most destructive character, prepared by

St. Hegent, had exploded, just a second too late to effect its deadly purpose. Although Napoleon escaped, twenty persons were killed and fifty-three wounded. He ordered the coachman to drive on, and a few minutes later he and Josephine entered the opera and proceeded to thenbox. The house cheered again and again, Napoleon bowing in apparent calm. But he did not remain in the theatre long. After an anxious look around at the audience he turned to reassure Josephine, who was almost fainting with terror, and they returned to the Tuileries. Here he was met by Fouche, upon whom he turned with a fierce and contemptuous anger. •‘I will see to this business myself,” he cried, with bitterness. “ France shall be purged of these ruffians. It is not a ques tion of my life, but of social order and public morality. ” Within a few weeks all the leading conspirators were executed, and one hundred and thirty-three other persons were seized and, without trial, transported to French Guiana. At St. Helena he was once heard to acknowledge that it would have been better for himself and the world had that infernal machine of the 24th December, 1800. achieved its purpose. And who shall say “Nay” to that confession?

VII. —A CHARLES DICKENS CHRISTMAS. Forty odd years ago—in the “’sixties” of the last century—a little boy sat in a large public ball of a northern manufacturing toAvn, along Avith some three thousand other people, to hear Charles Dickens read. It AA-as by a sort of accident that the little boy Avas there. Not long before he had discovered Charles Dickens for himself by means of a stray copy of 1 Mrs Lirriper ’ that he had picked up, and had been so fascinated by it, and had laughed and cried over it to such an extent, that he did not alloAV the local libraries to have

a rest until he had read everything by Dickens that was then available. He had been bis own Columbus in discovering this new literary world, and when Christmas was approaching, and he saw it announced that Charles Dickens would read the ‘ Christmas Carol ’ in the local St. George’s Hall, it was as if Heaven were about to open. It wanted but a few days to Christmas. The hall was packed, the audience eager. The little boy eat, silent and absorbed, looking at rhe orchestra, the back of which was shut from view by a green baize screen, in front of which was a small reading desk. Presently the signal was given, a sudden hush fell over the assembly, and Charles Dickens came out and took his place at the reading desk. The great audience clapped and cheered to the echo. Then the silence was more profound than before. People held their breath to listen to the never-to-be-forgotten opening sentence —“Marley was dead.” The full, clear voice of the speaker, his fine, clear-out face, bright eyes, and mobile mouth impressed everyone. And soon the Reader’s magnetic power gripped everyone, and as scene after scene of the ‘ Carol ’ was enacted—not simply read —everything was forgotten but this marvellous impersonation of a rich and varied set of characters, moving through the animated scenes of a delightful Christmas play. Now the Reader had his audience in tears, now holding their sides with laughter ; and Scrooge, and Bob Or at chit, and Tiny Tim, and all the other characters lived before them. The inspiration of histrionic genius was there, as well as the novelist’s supreme art. And when at last the end came, and the magic of the wonderful voice and the thrilling presence was being withdrawn, the hearts of the vast audience went out to the man who had so powerfully stirred them to generous emotions.

The little boy thanked God that his dreams of Charles Dickens had been more than realised ; that the living presence had proved even a more potent power than his literary spirit. Christmas in the northern manufacturingtown was a Charles Dickens Christmas in reality that year. Of the three thousand people who had listened to that reading of the ‘ Christmas Carol.’ there would be few who would not apply its message of kindness, benevolence, mercy, and forbearance in their homes and in their contact with their fellow-men. and by so much would the worl dbe better and happied for that Charles Dickens Christmas. And now, after the lapse of many years, when the little boy of the northern manu factoring town is getting into years amidst the lights and shadows of London, the memory of that Charles Dickens Christmas is still a hallowed remembrance. —Pears’ Christmas Annual.