“A MERRY CHRISTMAS!”
It is an old, very old, timeworn greeting, this of the friendly “Merry Christmas to you!” and there are some folks among us in these days who profess to hate the very sound of it. It came into use when England was known as “Merrie England,” an appellation which seems more than singular to us who have to endure the inane dullness and melancholy stupidity of “society” as it exists in this present gloriously-progressive Motor-Era. Looking round on the tired, worn, nervous, querulous faces in the crowds that fill the streets and shops at Christmas-time,—hearing the endless complaints, the new diseases, the troubles, real and fancied, of each person who can manage to detain a friend for five minutes’ hurried and morbid conversation,—reading the delectable details of suicide, murder, mania and misadventure preciously garnered up as gems of literature for the million by the halfpenny press—one may reasonably wonder whether England was ever in truth really “merrie,” as recorded. Her ancient sweet songs and ballads, her old-fashioned “Yule games” and picturesque “country dances” would appear to prove her so,—reports of the “open doors” and generous hospitality of her jolly yeomen and hunting squires in bygone days are still extant,—and it may be reasonably asked why, if she was so “merrie” once, she cannot be equally “merrie” again.
“It is a farce to wish me ‘A Merry Christmas,’” says the pessimist—“I have no cause to be merry!”
Quite so! But then, my excellent friend, you must remember that all the world does not wag in your particular way! Strange, isn’t it? You may possibly have thought now and then, as a self-concentrated unit, that because you are not merry (and you never will be, I fear)—therefore no one else has any right to be so. This is your little mistake! However, as it is Christmas-time we will not be hard on you! You shall enjoy yourself in your own approved fashion of being miserable! No one shall interfere with you, provided you do not interfere with anyone else. Grumble away all by yourself! Sneer at “A Merry Christmas”—only do it alone! Curse the frost, the wind, the rain, the robins, the Christmas cards, the puddings, the mince-pies, the holly, the mistletoe (and the kisses under it!), and announce to blank space your detestation of the whole Festival! No one shall come near you, believe me, so long as you keep on your own ground and do not attempt to trespass on your neighbour’s little plot of harmless enjoyment. For there are still a few of us remaining on the planet who are not absolutely and incurably selfish,—who can find their pleasure in making others happy,—who can put aside their own private griefs for the sake of cheering those who are still more grieved,—who can take delight in the laughter and merriment of children, and for whom the anniversary of Christ’s birth is still a sacred day, consecrated to joy and thanksgiving. True it is that every such recurring anniversary must have its sorrowful thought or memory associated with those who are no longer here with us; true it is in very saddest earnest that the cruel grip of War has robbed many a home of its nearest and dearest, who will be missed and mourned when families gather round the Christmas fire and talk of the past in low voices, with tears in their eyes—nevertheless, it is also true, thank God, that those who are gone are neither “lost” nor really “parted” from us. Possibly they are nearer to us in our lonely evenings than we know,—possibly they hear our voices, and see us as they saw us in life. We cannot tell; and as our ignorance of the Divine mysteries leaves us in doubt, let us be even as we would if our beloved ones were here,—cheerful among ourselves, and kind to all those with whom we are brought in contact.
“Ye 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!
Let sinn’d against and sinning
Forget their strife’s beginning
And join in friendship now;
Be links no longer broken,
Be sweet forgiveness spoken
Under the Holly Bough!
“Ye who have nourished sadness,
Estranged from hope and gladness
In this fast-fading year;
Ye with o’er-burdened mind
Made aliens from your kind,
Come, gather here!
Let not your 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!”
There is no use in grieving:—there is no sense in quarrelling:—there is no advantage in grumbling. People sacrifice both good health and good looks by constant querulousness. Suppose it is a “cold” Christmas, or a “damp” Christmas, or a “green” Christmas, or an “east-windy” Christmas, or an altogether meteorologically disagreeable Christmas. Well, what then? All the peevishness in the world will not alter it. Some of you who don’t like it will make for Egypt or the Riviera. Much good may it do you! An Arab smell, and the “fleecing” of Cairene hotel proprietors are doubtful additions to Christmas pleasure—and the raucous cry of the croupier at Monte Carlo—“Faites vos jeux, Messieurs et Mesdames!” is scarcely worth crossing the Channel to hear. Perhaps, however, it may be a satisfaction to some folks to spend their surplus cash in “furrin parts” rather than at home? If this should be the case, it will be an equal satisfaction to me to politely intimate that I consider such persons unworthy of their own matchless country. The much abused “English climate” is good enough for anybody. Every sort of “temperature” can be obtained in these favoured British Isles. If warmth, and freedom from east winds be required, it can be obtained at Penzance, Newquay, or Tenby—or better still on the lovely Irish coast at Parknasilla, where palms and tropical trees grow to perfection all winter in the open. Certainly there is no “gambling-hell” there;—there are only warm Irish hearts waiting for sympathy and comprehension, and I venture to think they merit as much good cash spent among them for their benefit as is wasted on the French, who, given the opportunity, abuse their English patrons more outrageously than any wild-headed, big-hearted Irish “agitator” that ever lived. I must confess I have no sympathy with the restless, nervous swarms of semi-lunatics ever “on the go” in search of “change,” who turn their backs on Imperial Britain at the first breath of its winter, which, taken on the whole, is a much more healthy winter than other countries are blessed with. And an “old English Yule” kept in the old English manner is not to be despised. Try it, all you who are not going abroad—you who are not only content, but glad and proud to remain in this
“Earth of Majesty, this seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demi-paradise,
This fortress built by Nature for herself;
. . . This little world,
This precious stone set in the silver sea!”
Try to keep a happy and “merrie” Christmas in England—try to make it a blessed and unforgettable festival of pleasure for more than yourselves. Do some little special kindness, each one of you, unobtrusively in your own immediate neighbourhood, and never bother about the “inconvenience,” or the “trouble,” or the “cold.”
“Cold Christmas? No!
Our Christmas is not cold;
Although the north winds blow
And pile the drifting snow,
And the beech-trees on the freezing wold
Rock sadly to and fro.
Our Christmas bears a warm, true heart,
His face is red with glee,
And he jests and laughs
And sings and quaffs—
He was never unkind to me, my love,
May he never be cold to thee!
“Old Christmas? No!
Though states and kingdoms wear,
And change and ruin grow
From ages as they flow,
He’s as light of tread, as young and fair
As a thousand years ago.
The morning beams are always new
And scatter blessings free,
And the Christmas Day
Is as new as they,
He was never old to me, my love;
May he never grow old to thee!”
So runs a sweet old song, sung by a true English poet in days long ago gone by, and the clear, clean, glad and wholesome spirit of it is surely worth cherishing. Let none of us say we “hate” Christmas. Whatever our memories, bitter or sweet, they do not belong to the festival, but only to ourselves. Suppose therefore we lose sight of ourselves—our precious selves—just for once in our lives, and consider others a little? If we do this, we shall find it easy to be “merry,” easy to smile, easy to say a kind word, easy to do a kind action, easy to “bring home the holly,” and very easy to hang up the mistletoe and waft a kiss from under it to any cross old boy who declines to be as happy as we would like to make him!
