Then the tapers are extinguished, and the villagers all hasten forth with holy eagerness to see their Jesus cradled in the manger; and, as they direct their steps toward the old church, they awaken the midnight echoes with that sweet old carol:
"Now the circling year have given
The joyful season, when from heaven
Life descended to the earth
In the Babe who took his birth
From our sweet Lady!
"Behold him in the manger laid,
Owned by the cattle of the shed,
Who know their God meanest bands
Enswathed by the tender hands
Of our sweet Lady!
"Now he smiles on Joseph blessed;
Now he seeks his mother's breast;
Now he sobs, and now he cries,
All beneath the guardian eyes
Of our sweet Lady!
"Run, run, ye shepherds, haste and bring
Your simple homage to our King!
Ye heaven-called watchers, taste and see
Our God, meek-seated on the knee
Of our sweet Lady!"
Thus they stream along from every cottage, along every pathway toward the church, men, women, and little children, singing and chatting happily. Far off in the moonlit distance you see small parties hastening over the white plains from their scattered homes to mingle in the festival. How beautifully do they remind us of those happy shepherds who left their flocks near the "Tower of Ader," and went over to Bethlehem, to see the word that had come to pass!
The bells continue pealing out their music to the midnight, and the church continues filling. Listen to the half-suppressed ejaculation of joyous surprise as each new group enters the holy place and beholds its charming decorations! Over every window's curve, and hanging down by its sides, is a mighty wreath of evergreens. In front of every hallowed niche lights are burning, and wreaths of foliage hang over it. The pillars are all twined round and round, up to the very ceiling, with ivy, holly, laurel, intermingled with those berries that grow red in winter. But who shall describe the glories of the sanctuary! The arch that rises over it flows with the fullest folds of tapestry, white as snow, save where they are here and there interwrought with flowers of rose-hued silk and thread of gold, and intertwined with holly and laurel, and boughs of the orange-tree with its golden clusters. On the altar-steps are vases filled with evergreens, slender strings of ivy twisting around tall branches and bending gracefully between them down even to the floor. The altar is crowded with lighted candles, and along the intervals of the candlesticks flow festoons of slender branches, leaves, and flowers. A stole of flowers decorates the very crucifix; the tabernacle sparkles in its richest veil.
Oh! in olden times even a village church was grand beyond description; for then men took a pride in their religion. They loved to see God's Bride in bridal splendor; they loved to see the Queen in regal vesture; they loved to see the Sister of the Church in heaven with something like heavenly glory around her. The rich man gave of his abundance, the poor man gave of his labor, ladies wrought embroidery—all in holy unison strained every nerve to make her temples beautiful.
Now the church has filled with kneeling forms. The rich and the poor, the lady and the servant, the laborers and they for whom they labor, here kneel side by side, they are all equal here, for they are all alike, are God's own children, the brethren of the Babe of Bethlehem.
The steeple-bells have ceased to peal, for not a single thought must now wander outside. Eyes and ears and heart and soul and every feeling are intent upon the grand occurrences within.
Presently blue clouds of sweet incense are seen floating toward the sanctuary, and modestly there comes a youth swinging a silver censer; a long procession of little acolytes, clad in snow-white surplices and bearing lighted tapers, follow him slowly; a saintly looking priest, in precious vestments, closes the holy array. His [{568}] youthful attendants are chosen boys of blameless life and pleading aspect: and, indeed, they look pure and innocent and cherub-like, as they dispose themselves around the holy place, and kneel toward the altar.
Then amid half-suppressed, repentant cries for "mercy on us," swelling forth from the choir, the psalm is said—the psalm of preparation, of praise, of hope, of humble confidence: the confession is made; prayers for pardon, lights and gracious hearing are repeated. Then the priest ascends "unto the altar of God," and whispers prayers, speaking rapturously of the "Child that is born to us, the Son that is given to us." But look at hie countenance as he returns slowly to the middle of the altar; you can see that he is full of some grand event—his soul, his heart, his feelings, all hold jubilee. One more entreaty for mercy repeated again and again with passionate earnestness, and he raises his eyes and his arms as though about to ascend in ecstasy, and, like one inspired, he breaks forth in the angelic hymn, "Gloria in excelsis Deo." It is the signal of jubilee. Suddenly there is a burst of many little bells, shaken by the hands of the surpliced children, ringing out their silver music until the hymn is ended by the priest; the organ's richest and fullest chords are struck, swelling forth in harmony like that which the rivers made in Paradise when they sang their first hymn of praise to him who set them flowing, and the full choir of trained voices burst forth: "Et in terra pax hominibus."