And on the night before us, of all nights in the year, the smile and the laugh go freely round, but ever and anon there is, as it were, the echo of a far sigh. A birth in which we have a mighty interest is about to take place, but every now and then comes to the heart the impression of low whispering and soft treading in the back-ground, as of those who wait about a death-bed. We are in a state of divided feelings, somewhat resembling his whose joy at the falling of a rich inheritance is dashed by tender recollections of the friend by whose departure it came. Let Mr. Tennyson explain for us why this is so:—
"Full knee-deep lies the winter snow,
And the winter winds are wearily sighing:
Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow,
And tread softly and speak low,
For the old year lies a-dying.
Old year, you must not die.
You came to us so readily,
You lived with us so steadily,
Old year, you shall not die.
"He lieth still: he doth not move:
He will not see the dawn of day.
He hath no other life above.
He gave me a friend, and a true true-love,
And the New-year will take 'em away.
Old year, you must not go.
So long as you have been with us,
Such joy as you have seen with us,
Old year, you shall not go!
"He frothed his bumpers to the brim;
A jollier year we shall not see.
But tho' his eyes are waxing dim,
And tho' his foes speak ill of him,
He was a friend to me!
Old year, you shall not die.
We did so laugh and cry with you,
I've half a mind to die with you,
Old year, if you must die.
"He was full of joke and jest,
But all his merry quips are o'er,
To see him die, across the waste
His son and heir doth ride post-haste,
But he'll be dead before!
Every one for his own!
The night is starry and cold, my friend,
And the New-year, blithe and bold, my friend,
Comes up to take his own.
"How hard he breathes!—over the snow,
I heard just now the crowing cock.
The shadows flicker to and fro;
The cricket chirps: the light burns low:
'Tis nearly one[4] o'clock.
Shake hands before you die.
Old year, we'll dearly rue for you.
What is it we can do for you?
Speak out before you die!
"His face is growing sharp and thin.
Alack! our friend is gone!
Close up his eyes: tie up his chin:
Step from the corpse, and let him in
That standeth there alone,
And waiteth at the door.
There's a new foot on the floor, my friend,
And a new face at the door, my friend,
A new face at the door!"
Occasionally, too, there will come a thought across us, in these hours, which cannot be made to harmonize with the feelings we are seeking to encourage, and has the unpleasing effect of a discord. It is felt at times, for instance, to be a sort of indecency that we should be looking out merrily for the New Year, when the old one is perishing by our side, and, for an instant, the heart's joyous issues are thrown back upon it. And then, again, the looker forward to hail the "coming guest" will suddenly fix his eyes upon the veil which shrouds that face; and the chill of a moment will creep over his heart, as he speculates on what it may conceal, or, gazing on the sealed book which the New Year carries in his hand, asks himself how many of those who sit with him on this night about the social table, may have their names written in its last page! Thoughts like these, however, are instantly treated like informers, and ducked, as they deserve to be, in the wassail-bowl.
Seeing-in the New Year.—Page 331.
But, in any case, we have never failed to observe that, as the midnight hour draws near, a hush falls upon these assemblies; and when men rise to usher in the new comer, it is for the most part in silence. We do not believe that moment is ever a merry one. The blithe spirits of the night stand still. The glasses are full,—but so is the heart, and the eye is strained upon the finger of the dial whose notes are to sound the arrival, as if held there by a spell. We do not think that any man, of all that group whom our artist has represented, could turn his face away from the dial, even by an effort; and he who could, would be out of place in any assembly of which we made one, unless we were out of place ourselves. The instant the solemn sounds of the midnight chime have ceased, the bells from a thousand steeples lift up their merry voices, but they never, at that moment, found a true echo in our hearts; and the shout which rises from the wassail table, in answer, has ever seemed to us to want much of the mirth to which it makes such boisterous pretension.
But this oppressive sensation soon passes away; and the glad bells of the spirit, like those of the steeples, ring freely out. When the old year is fairly withdrawn, when we have ceased to hear the sound of the falling earth upon its coffin-lid, when the heir stands absolutely in our presence, and the curtain which hides his features has begun slowly to rise (while the gazer on that curtain can discover, as yet, nothing of the dark things that lie behind, and the hopes which the New Year brings are seen through it, by their own light),—then does the heart shake off all that interfered with its hearty enjoyment, and then "comes in the sweet o' the night!" We are, ourselves, of that party in the plate; and it will be late, we promise you, before we separate. One song to the past! and then, "shall we set about some revels?"—as our old friend, Sir Andrew, hath it.
"Here's to the year that's awa!
We'll drink it, in strong and in sma';
And to each bonny lassie that we dearly loo'd,
In the days o' the year that's awa!
"Here's to the soldier who bled!
To the sailor who bravely did fa'!
Oh, their fame shall remain, though their spirits are fled,
On the wings o' the year that's awa!
"Here's to the friend we can trust,
When the storms of adversity blaw;
Who can join in our song, and be nearest our heart,
Nor depart,—like the year that's awa!"
And now are we in the humor, this New Year's morning, for keeping such vigils as they did in Illyria; for "were we" too "not born under Taurus?" No advocates do we mean to be for those whose zeal in symposiac matters, like that of Bardolph, "burns in their noses;" but occasions there are, and this is one, when we hold it lawful to sound the wassail-bowl to some considerable depth. Like honest Isaak Walton, we love to keep within the bounds of "such mirth as does not make friends ashamed to look on one another, next morning;" but we feel that we may venture to be a little intemperate, in the present instance, and yet hold our heads up, even if we should chance to meet one of those gentry whom Burns presumes to be wise, because they "are sae grave." What says Innocentius?—and he was a Father of the Church; "Fecundi calices, quem non fecere disertum?" "Carry Master Silence to bed!" therefore, for we are about to be talkative, and expect to be answered. No man need sit with us longer than he likes: but it is the opening of another year, and we must see more of it. We find much virtue in Sir Toby's excellent reasoning, that "not to be abed after midnight is to be up betimes;" and have no sympathy for those who would insist, to-day, with the stolid Sir Andrew, that "to be up late is to be up late." "A false conclusion!" says Sir Toby; and so say we. So fill the glasses, once more, from the wassail-bowl, and let us "rouse the night-owl" in another "catch!"
But alas! it is later than we thought, and the owl is gone to bed; for we hear the cry of that other bird whom Herrick calls "the Bellman of the night:"—