Joyce Morrell's Harvest / The Annals of Selwick Hall

by Emily Sarah Holt

“Ay, in the sense wherein the word is there used. The power of Christ, at that time, was to be a power over men’s hearts, not an outward show of regality: but ‘He shall so come in like manner as ye have seen Him go,’ is a very different matter.”

“Oh, of course we look for our Lord’s advent in His own person,” quoth Sir Robert: “but I cannot think He will come to a sin-stained earth. It were not suitable to His dignity. The way of the Lord must be prepared.”

“We shall see, when He comes,” gently answereth Father. “But if He had not deigned to come to a sin-stained earth, what should have come either of Robin Stafford or of Aubrey Louvaine?”

Selwick Hall, December ye xxiii.

Four nights hath it taken me to write that last piece, for all the days have we been right busy making ready for Christmas. There be in the buttery now thirty great spice-cakes, and an hundred mince pies, and a mighty bowl of plum-porridge (plum-pudding without the cloth) ready for the boiling, and four barons of beef, and a great sight of carrots and winter greens, and two great cheeses, and a parcel of sugar-candy for the childre, and store of sherris-sack and claret, and Rhenish wine, and muscadel. As to the barrels of ale, and the raisins of Corance (currants) and the apples, and the conserves and codiniac (quince marmalade), and such like, I will not tarry to count them. And to-day, and yet again it shall be to-morrow, have Mother and Aunt Joyce, and we three maids, trudged all the vicinage, bidding our neighbours to the Hall on Christmas Eve and for the even of Christmas Day. And as to-night am I well aweary, for Thirlmere side fell to my share, and I was this morrow as far as old Madge’s bidding her and young Madge, and that is six miles well reckoned. Father saith alway that though it be our duty at all times, yet is it more specially at Christmas, to bid the poor, and the maimed, and the halt, and the blind: so we have them alway of Christmas night, and of Christmas Eve have we a somewhat selecter gathering, of our own kin and close friends and such like: only Master Banaster and Anstace come both times. Then on New Year’s Day have we alway a great sort of childre, and merry games and music and such like. But the last night of the old year will Father have no gatherings nor merrymaking. He saith ’tis a right solemn time; and as each one of us came to the age of fourteen years have we parted at nine o’ the clock as usual, but not on that night for bed. Every one sitteth by him or herself in a separate chamber, with a Bible or some portion thereof open afore. There do we read and pray and meditate until half-past eleven, at which time all we gather in the great chamber. Then Father reads first the 139th Psalm, and then that piece in the Revelation touching all the dead standing afore God: and he prayeth a while, until about five minutes afore the year end. Then all gather in the great window toward Keswick, and tarry as still as death until Master Cridge ring the great bell on Lord Island, so soon as he hear the chimes of Keswick Church. Then, no sooner hath the bell died away, which telleth to all around that the New Year is born, then Father striketh up, and all we join in, the 100th Psalm—to wit, “All people that on earth do dwell.”

And when the last note of the Amen dieth, then we kiss one another, and each wisheth the other a happy new year and God’s blessing therein: and so away to bed.

I reckon I shall not have no time to write again until Christmas Day is well over.

“Father,” said I last night to him—we were us two alone that minute—“Father, do you love Christmas?”

He looked on me and smiled.

“I love to see my childre glad, dear maid,” saith he: “and I love to feast my poor neighbours, that at other times get little feasting enough. But Christmas is the childre’s festival, Edith: for it is the festival of untroubled hearts and eyes that have no tears behind them. For the weary hearts and the tearful eyes the true feast is Easter. The one is a hope: the other is a victory. There are no clouds o’er the blue sky in the first: the storm is over, and the sun is out again, in the last. ‘We believe in the resurrection of the dead, and the life of the world to come.’ But we are apt to believe in the resurrection the most truly when the grave hath been lately open: and the life of the world to come is the gladdest thought to them for whom the life of the world that is seems not much to live for.”