To-day that message rings the knell of the past, and the deathless promise of the future:
“Tho’ much is taken, much abides.”
Life, though it is beset by greater perils; liberty, though it is restricted by an excess of legislation; and the pursuit of happiness, though it is turned into new, and possibly nobler, channels. The old society “in which men looked up without envy or malice, and even found life richer from the thought that there were degrees of excellency and honour,” has been replaced by a society in which perpetual change has bred dissatisfaction and insecurity. But more clearly than before the note of a real Democracy, of a sense of comradeship, of a natural, cheerful, irresponsible interest in one another, has been struck in what was once the City of Brotherly Love. It gives to Christmas something which earlier Christmases never knew; a coming-together of people whose lives are, by force of circumstance, apart, a closing-in of circles which are commonly and necessarily remote.
For a week before the feast, the great pioneer department store of America sets aside a half-hour in the morning and a half-hour at dusk for community singing of Christmas hymns and carols. The rush of business is suspended, the giant organ peals forth the familiar strains, and men, women, and children, crowded into every inch of available space, sing with all their might, “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen,” “Come, All Ye Faithful,” and “While Shepherds Watch’d Their Flocks by Night.” Nobody claims the sounds they make are beautiful; but nobody denies they are inspiriting.
“If unmelodious was the song,
It was a hearty note, and strong.”
People who surge around counters to do their Christmas shopping are indifferent, not to say inimical, to one another; but people who stand shoulder to shoulder singing the same words are impelled by the force of crowd psychology to good feeling and mutual understanding.
Charity is an old, old virtue, and Christmas has always been its sacred season; but it is not charity which now makes the householder put Christmas candles in his windows, to give the passer-by a sense of recognition and intimacy. It is not charity which rears the great municipal Christmas Tree for all the town to see, or provides the great municipal concert on Christmas Eve for all the town to hear—and join in if it pleases. It is not charity which lights the “Community Christmas Trees” on country roads, and leaves them shining softly in the darkness as a reminder of good-will. It is not charity which sends little groups of men and women, accompanied by a sober deaconess to sing carols in the few quiet streets which Philadelphia has preserved unspoiled. These singers ask for no recompense. They are forging a link in the bond of healthy human emotions. They are adding their share to the little intimacies of the world.
“Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.” “Inalienable rights” the Signers termed them, which yet have never been without assailants. What strange vicissitudes the Bell has witnessed, and what strange meanings have been read into its message! But its promise still holds good. If we never grow wise as the Greeks grew wise, if we never lay hold of the “natural happiness” which is the birthright of Englishmen, we may yet surpass Greece and England in the grace of friendship. It will be something different from friendship with our friends; it will be friendship with our neighbours. It will be—I hope—disunited from duty, and composed of simple, durable materials,—tolerance, good-nature, and a sweet reasonableness of approach. It will read a generous meaning into qualities which are common to all of us, displeasing to most of us, and intelligible only to the wide-eyed few who interpret the heart of humanity.