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 Passionate Sisterhood
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.
The Project Gutenberg eBook of Under the
Holly: Christmas-Tide in Song and Story
 This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United
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eBook.

Title: Under the Holly: Christmas-Tide in Song and Story

Compiler: Henry F. Randolph

Release date: April 10, 2016 [eBook #51719]

Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Judith Wirawan and The Online Distributed

Proofreading Team at [Link] (This file
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK UNDER THE

HOLLY: CHRISTMAS-TIDE IN SONG AND STORY ***
 UNDER THE HOLLY.
The few Illustrations in this volume are copied from the elegant
edition of Irving's "Sketch Book," published by Macmillan & Co.,
with more than one hundred engravings after designs by
Randolph Caldecott.

THE MANSION.
UNDER THE HOLLY.
Christmas-Tide
IN

SONG AND STORY.

**
NEW YORK:
ANSON D. F. RANDOLPH AND COMPANY,
38 West Twenty-Third Street.

Copyright, 1887,
By Anson D. F. Randolph and Company.

University Press:
John Wilson and Son, Cambridge.
 CONTENTS.
Page
Christmas 9
Christmas Minstrelsy 17
A Christmas Lullaby 21
The Old Oak-tree's Last Dream 23
Little Gottlieb 31
Tiny Tim's Christmas Dinner 36
Christmas Carol 46
Last Night, as I lay Sleeping 47
Christmas Day in London 49
Under the Holly-bough 53
The Little Match-girl 55
A Rocking Hymn 60
In Memoriam 66

Now that the time is come wherein

Our Saviour Christ was born,
The larders full of beef and pork,
The garners filled with corn;
As God hath plenty to thee sent,
Take comfort of thy labors,
And let it never thee repent
To feast thy needy neighbors.
 The winter thorn
Blossoms at Christmas, mindful of our Lord.

Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes

Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated,
This bird of dawning singeth all night long:
And then, they say, no spirit dares stir abroad;
The nights are wholesome,—then no planets strike,
No fairy takes, no witch hath power to charm,
So hallowed and so gracious is the time.

It was always said of him, that he knew how to keep Christmas

well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge. May that be
truly said of us, and all of us! And so, as Tiny Tim observed,
God bless Us, Every One!

At Christmas play and make good cheer

For Christmas comes but once a year.

Extract from "The Sketch Book"

of Washington Irving.
 CHRISTMAS.
Of all the old festivals, 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
fervor 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 mementos 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 round upon the comfortable chamber and the scene of
domestic hilarity?
The English, from the great prevalence of rural habits throughout
every class of society, have always been fond of those festivals and
holidays which agreeably interrupt the stillness of country life; and
they were, in former days, particularly observant of the religious and
social rites of Christmas. It is inspiring to read even the dry details
which some antiquarians have given of the quaint humors, the
burlesque pageants, the complete abandonment to mirth and good-
fellowship, with which this festival was celebrated. It seemed to
throw open every door, and unlock every heart. It brought the
peasant and the peer together, and blended all ranks in one warm,
generous flow of joy and kindness. The old halls of castles and
manor-houses resounded with the harp and the Christmas carol, and
their ample boards groaned under the weight of hospitality. Even the
poorest cottage welcomed the festive season with green decorations
of bay and holly; the cheerful fire glanced its rays through the
lattice, inviting the passenger to raise the latch, and join the gossip
knot huddled round the hearth, beguiling the long evening with
legendary jokes and oft-told Christmas tales.
One of the least pleasing effects of modern refinement is the havoc
it has made among the hearty old holiday customs. It has
completely taken off the sharp touchings and spirited reliefs of these
embellishments of life, and has worn down society into a more
smooth and polished, but certainly a less characteristic surface.
Many of the games and ceremonials of Christmas have entirely
disappeared, and like the sherris-sack of old Falstaff, are become
matters of speculation and dispute among commentators. They
flourished in times full of spirit and lustihood, when men enjoyed life
roughly, but heartily and vigorously,—times wild and picturesque,
which have furnished poetry with its richest materials, and the
drama with its most attractive variety of characters and manners.
The world has become more worldly. There is more of dissipation
and less of enjoyment. Pleasure has expanded into a broader but a
shallower stream, and has forsaken many of those deep and quiet
channels where it flowed sweetly through the calm bosom of
domestic life. Society has acquired a more enlightened and elegant
tone; but it has lost many of its strong local peculiarities, its home-
bred feelings, its honest fireside delights. The traditionary customs
of golden-hearted antiquity, its feudal hospitalities and lordly
wassailings, have passed away with the baronial castles and stately
manor-houses in which they were celebrated. They comported with
the shadowy hall, the great oaken gallery, and the tapestried parlor,
but are unfitted to the light showy saloons and gay drawing-rooms
of the modern villa.
Shorn, however, as it is, of its ancient and festive honors, 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. The preparations making
on every side for the social board that is again to unite friends and
kindred; the presents of good cheer passing and repassing, those
tokens of regard and quickeners of kind feelings; the evergreens
distributed about houses and churches, emblems of peace and
gladness,—all these have the most pleasing effect in producing fond
associations, and kindling benevolent sympathies. Even the sound of
the waits, rude as may be their minstrelsy, breaks upon the mid-
watches of a winter night with the effect of perfect harmony. As I
have been awakened by them in that still and solemn hour, "when
deep sleep falleth upon man," I have listened with a hushed delight,
and, connecting them with the sacred and joyous occasion, have
almost fancied them into another celestial choir, announcing peace
and good-will to mankind.

Amidst the general call to happiness, the bustle of the spirits, and
stir of the affections, which prevail at this period, what bosom can
remain insensible? It is, indeed, the season of regenerated feeling,—
the season for kindling, not merely the fire of hospitality in the hall,
but the genial flame of charity in the heart.
The scene of early love again rises green to memory beyond the
sterile waste of years; and the idea of home, fraught with the
fragrance of home-dwelling joys, re-animates the drooping spirit,—
as the Arabian breeze will sometimes waft the freshness of the
distant fields to the weary pilgrim of the desert.
He who can turn churlishly away from contemplating the felicity of
his fellow-beings, and sit down darkling and repining in his loneliness
when all around is joyful, may have his moments of strong
excitement and selfish gratification, but he wants the genial and
social sympathies which constitute the charm of a merry Christmas.
Dedication of Wordsworth's River Duddon Sonnets,
to his brother Dr. Wordsworth.
CHRISTMAS MINSTRELSY.
The minstrels played their Christmas tune
To-night beneath my cottage eaves;
While smitten by a lofty moon,
The encircling laurels, thick with leaves,
Gave back a rich and dazzling sheen,
That overpowered their natural green.

Through hill and valley every breeze

Had sunk to rest with folded wings:
Keen was the air, but could not freeze
Nor check the music of the strings;
So stout and hardy were the band
That scraped the chords with strenuous hand.

And who but listened?—till was paid

Respect to every inmate's claim:
The greeting given, the music played,
In honor of each household name,
Duly pronounced with lusty call,
And a merry Christmas wished to all.

O Brother! I revere the choice

That took thee from thy native hills;
And it is given thee to rejoice:
Though public care full often tills
(Heaven only witness of the toil)
A barren and ungrateful soil.

Yet would that thou, with me and mine,

Hadst heard this never-failing rite;
And seen on other faces shine
A true revival of the light
Which Nature and these rustic powers,
In simple childhood, spread through ours!

For pleasure hath not ceased to wait

 On these expected annual rounds,
Whether the rich man's sumptuous gate
Call forth the unelaborate sounds,
Or they are offered at the door
That guards the lowliest of the poor.

How touching, when at midnight sweep

Snow-muffled winds, and all is dark,
To hear—and sink again to sleep!
Or at an earlier call, to mark,
By blazing fire, the still suspense
Of self-complacent innocence;

The mutual nod,—the grave disguise

Of hearts with gladness brimming o'er,
And some unbidden tears that rise
For names once heard, and heard no more;
Tears brightened by the serenade
For infant in the cradle laid!

Ah! not for emerald fields alone,

With ambient streams more pure and bright
Than fabled Cytherea's zone
Glittering before the Thunderer's sight,
Is to my heart of hearts endeared
The ground where we were born and reared!

Hail ancient manners! sure defence,

Where they survive, of wholesome laws;
Remnants of love whose modest sense
Thus into narrow room withdraws:
Hail usages of pristine mould,
And ye that guard them, mountains old!

Bear with me, Brother! quench the thought

That slights this passion or condemns;
If thee fond fancy ever brought
 t ee o d a cy e e b oug t
From the proud margin of the Thames,
And Lambeth's venerable towers,
To humbler streams and greener bowers.

Yes, they can make, who fail to find,

Short leisure even in busiest days;
Moments to cast a look behind,
And profit by those kindly rays
That through the clouds do sometimes steal,
And all the far-off past reveal.

Hence, while the imperial city's din

Beats frequent on thy satiate ear,
A pleased attention I may win
To agitations less severe,
That neither overwhelm nor cloy,
But fill the hollow vale with joy!

By John Addington Symonds.

A CHRISTMAS LULLABY.

Sleep, baby, sleep! the Mother sings:

Heaven's angels kneel and fold their wings:
Sleep, baby, sleep!

With swathes of scented hay thy bed

By Mary's hand at eve was spread.
Sleep, baby, sleep!

At midnight came the shepherds, they

Whom seraphs wakened by the way.
Sleep, baby, sleep!

And three kings from the East afar

Ere dawn came guided by thy star.
Sleep, baby, sleep!

They brought thee gifts of gold and gems,

Pure orient pearls, rich diadems.
Sleep, baby, sleep!

But thou who liest slumbering there,

Art King of kings, earth, ocean, air.
Sleep, baby, sleep!

Sleep, baby, sleep! The shepherds sing;

Through heaven, through earth, hosannas ring.
Sleep, baby, sleep!
By Hans Christian Andersen.
THE OLD OAK-TREE'S LAST DREAM.
The Oak-tree stood stripped of all his foliage, ready to go to rest for
the whole winter, and in it to dream many dreams,—to dream of the
past, just as men dream.
The tree had once been a little one, and had had a field for its
cradle. Now, according to human reckoning, he was in his fourth
century. He was the tallest and mightiest tree in the woods; his
crown towered high above all the other trees, and was seen far out
on the sea, serving as a beacon to ships; but the old Oak-tree had
never thought how many eyes sought him out from afar.
High up in his green crown wood-doves had built their nests, and
the cuckoo perched to announce spring; and in the autumn, when
his leaves looked like copper-plates hammered out thin, birds of
passage came and rested awhile among the boughs, before they
flew across the seas. But now it was winter; the tree stood leafless,
and the bowed and crooked branches displayed their dark outlines;
crows and jackdaws came alternately, gossiping together about the
hard times that were beginning, and the difficulty of getting food
during the winter.
It was just at the holy Christmas-tide that the Oak-tree dreamt his
most beautiful dream: this dream we will hear.
The tree had a foreboding that a festive season was nigh; he
seemed to hear the church-bells ringing all round, and to feel as
though it were a mild, warm summer day. Fresh and green, he
reared his mighty crown on high; the sunbeams played among his
leaves and boughs; the air was filled with fragrance; bright-colored
butterflies gambolled, and gnats danced,—which was all they could
do to show their joy. And all that the tree had beheld during his life
passed by as in a festive procession. Knights and ladies, with
feathers in their caps, and hawks perching on their wrists, rode
gayly through the wood; dogs barked, and the huntsman sounded
his bugle. Then came foreign soldiers in bright armor and gay
vestments, bearing spears and halberds, setting up their tents, and
presently taking them down again; then watch-fires blazed up, and
bands of wild outlaws sang, revelled, and slept under the tree's
outstretched boughs, or happy lovers met in the quiet moonlight,
and carved their initials on the grayish bark. At one time a guitar, at
another an Æolian harp, had been hung up amid the old oak's
boughs, by merry travelling apprentices; now they hung there again,
and the wind played so sweetly with the strings. The wood-doves
cooed, as though they would do their best to express the tree's
happy feelings, and the cuckoo talked about himself as usual,
proclaiming how many summer days he had to live.
And now it seemed a new and stronger current of life flowed
through him, down to his lowest roots, up to his highest twigs, even
to the very leaves! The tree felt in his roots that a warm life stirred
in the earth,—felt his strength increase, and that he was growing
taller and taller. His trunk shot up more and more; his crown grew
fuller; he spread, he towered; and still, as the tree grew, he felt that
his power grew with it, and that his ardent longing to advance
higher and higher up to the bright warm sun increased also.
Already had he towered above the clouds, which drifted below him,
now like a troop of dark-plumaged birds of passage, now like flocks
of large white swans.
And every leaf could see, as though it had eyes; the stars became
visible by daylight, so large and bright, each one sparkling like a
mild, clear eye: they reminded him of dear kind eyes that had
sought each other under his shade,—lovers' eyes, children's eyes.
It was a blessed moment; and yet, in the height of his joy, the Oak-
tree felt a desire and longing that all the other trees, bushes, herbs,
and flowers of the wood might be lifted up with him, might share in
this glory and gladness. The mighty Oak-tree, amid his dream of
splendor, could not be fully blessed unless he might have all, little
and great, to share it with him; and this feeling thrilled through
boughs and leaves as strongly, as fervently as though his were the
heart of a man.
The tree's crown bowed itself, as though it missed and sought
something, looked backward. Then he felt the fragrance of
honeysuckles and violets, and fancied he could hear the cuckoo
answering himself.
Yes, so it was! for now peeped forth, through the clouds, the green
summits of the wood; the other trees below had grown and lifted
themselves up likewise; bushes and herbs shot high into the air,
some tearing themselves loose from their roots, and mounting all
the faster. The birch had grown most rapidly; like a flash of white
lightning, its slender stem shot upward, its boughs waving like pale-
green banners. Even the feathery brown reed had pierced its way
through the clouds; and the birds followed, and sang and sang; and
on the grass that fluttered to and fro like a long streaming green
ribbon perched the grasshopper, and drummed with his wings on his
lean body; the cockchafers hummed, and the bees buzzed; every
bird sang with all his might, and all was music and gladness.
"But the little blue flower near the water,—I want that too," said the
Oak-tree; "and the bell-flower, and the dear little daisy!" The tree
wanted all these.
"We are here! we are here!" chanted sweet low voices on all sides.
"But the pretty anemones of last spring, and the bed of lilies-of-the-
valley that blossomed the year before that! and the wild crab-apple
tree! and all the beautiful trees and flowers that have adorned the
wood through so many seasons—oh, would that they had lived till
now!"
"We are here! we are here!" was the answer; and this time it
seemed to come from the air above, as though they had fled upward
first.
"Oh, this is too great happiness,—it is almost incredible!" exclaimed
the Oak-tree. "I have them all, small and great; not one of them is
forgotten! How can such blessedness be possible?"
"In the kingdom of God all things are possible," was the answer.
And the tree now felt that his roots were loosening themselves from
the earth. "This is best of all," he said; "now no bonds shall detain
me, I can soar up to the height of light and glory; and my dear ones
are with me, small and great,—I have them all!"

Such was the old Oak-tree's dream; and all the while, on that holy
Christmas Eve, a mighty storm swept over sea and land: the ocean
rolled its heavy billows on the shore; the tree cracked, was rent and
torn up by the roots, at the very moment when he dreamt that his
roots were disengaging themselves from the earth. He fell. His three
hundred and sixty-five years were now as a day is to the May-fly.
On Christmas morning, when the sun burst forth, the storm was laid.
All the church-bells were ringing joyously; and from every chimney,
even the poorest, the blue smoke curled upward, as from the Druids'
altar of old uprose the sacrificial steam. The sea was calm again;
and a large vessel that had weathered the storm the night before,
now hoisted all its flags, in token of Yule festivity. "The tree is gone,
—the old Oak-tree, our beacon," said the crew; "it has fallen during
last night's storm. How can its place ever be supplied?"
This was the tree's funeral eulogium, brief but well-meant. There he
lay, outstretched upon the snowy carpet near the shore; whilst over
it re-echoed the hymn sung on shipboard,—the hymn sung in
thanksgiving for the joy of Christmas, for the bliss of the human
soul's salvation, through Christ, and the gift of eternal life:—
 "Sing loud, and raise your voices high,
For your redemption draweth nigh;
Lift up your heads, and have no fear!
The promised kingdom, it is here!
Oh, take the gift, in joy receive;
All things are his who will believe:
O little flock, what words can tell
The bliss of souls Christ loved so well?
Hallelujah! Hallelujah!"

Thus resounded the old hymn; and every soul lifted up heart and
desire heavenward, even as the old tree had lifted himself on his
last, best dream,—his Christmas Eve dream.

By Phœbe Cary.
LITTLE GOTTLIEB.