Berlin, December 25, 1871
TO-DAY is Christmas day, and I have thought much of you all at home, and have wondered if you've been having an apathetic time as usual. I think we often spend Christmas in a most shocking fashion in America, and I mean to revolutionize all that when I get back. So long a time in Germany has taught me better. Here it is a season of universal joy, and everybody enters into it. Last night we had a Christmas tree at the S.'s, as we always do. We went there at half past six, and it was the prettiest thing to see in every house, nearly, a tree just lighted, or in process of being so. As a separate family lives on each floor, often in one house would be three trees, one above the other, in the front rooms. The curtains are always drawn up, to give the passers-by the benefit of it. They don't make a fearful undertaking of having a Christmas tree here, as we do in America, and so they are attainable by everybody. The tree is small, to begin with, and nothing is put on it except the tapers and bonbons. It is fixed on a small stand in the centre of a large square table covered with a white cloth, and each person's presents are arranged in a separate pile around it. The tree is only lighted for the sake of beauty, and for the air of festivity it throws over the thing.—After a crisp walk in the moonlight (which I performed in the style of "Johnny-look-up-in-the-air," for I was engaged in staring into house-windows, so far as it was practicable), we sat down to enjoy a cup of tea and a piece of cake. I had just begun my second cup, when, Presto! the parlour doors flew open, and there stood the little green tree, blossoming out into lights, and throwing its gleams over the well-laden table. There was a general scramble and a search for one's own pile, succeeded by deep silence and suspense while we opened the papers. Such a hand shaking and embracing and thanking as followed! concluding with the satisfactory conviction that we each had "just what we wanted." Germans do not despise the utilitarian in their Christmas gifts, as we do, but, between these and their birthday offerings, expect to be set up for the rest of the year in the necessaries of life as well as in its superfluities. Presents of stockings, underclothes, dresses, handkerchiefs, soaps—nothing comes amiss. And every one must give to every one else. That is LAW.
Amy Fay in Music-Study in Germany.
Christmas Dinner in a Clipper's Fo'c'sle
CHRISTMAS DAY we were running before a fine westerly gale for the mouth of the channel. We had been hove to for forty-eight hours; for, though we had sighted Fayal in the Azores, the Scotchman was afraid to run because the sun was obscured and he couldn't get an observation. So he lay under lower main topsail and fore topmast staysail, and let the fine fair wind blow away while he waited for the sun to come out so he could find out where he was. Not much like Captain Hurlburt in the old Tanjore. Early Christmas morning, a little topsail schooner—one of the fleet of clippers known as "Western Island Fruiters"—came flying along before the wind like a little butterfly, and, seeing the big ship hove to, I suppose they thought there must be something the matter with her; so they kindly ran under our stern and hailed. After finding out where we were from, and where bound, the skipper asked us what was the matter.
"Nothing," said Russell.
"Well," said the schooner skipper, "what are ye hove to for?"
Russell told him he wanted to get a "sight" to find his position.