Truly you think yourself at Bethlehem. It seems as though the Child were just born—as though you heard the heavenly hosts singing their grand anthem—saw the shepherds wondering and adoring—beheld the Infant lying in the manger, a fair, radiant, smiling little Babe, with an old saint beside it, leaning on his staff, and a comely virgin, in a trance of motherly affection, kissing its bright forehead. So these villagers seem to feel it all. A start of joy runs through the whole assembly, a radiance lights up every feature; friends kiss each other, fathers kiss their children, mothers kiss their little ones; a whisper runs from soul to soul through all the church—"Pax hominibus."
Then follow collect, the epistle, the gradual, a gospel, all full of the grand event. And then the choir's jubilee begins again, as the anointed one at the altar intones "Credo in unum Deum." Who shall tell the stirless reverence of each prostrate form, as all bow yet lower at the words that still the mystery of the night! Softly the organ warbles in its mellowest keys; from the richest voice in all the choir sweetly flow the words "Et Homo factus est." Every mind reflects, and every heart is melted.
Then comes the offertory; and all present, according to their various means, make their offerings for those "who serve the altar," and for the poor. While the priest raises in offering the paten with the Post and the chalice with wine, the villagers also, kneeling, make an offering of their homage to their new-born Redeemer; and mothers lift their little ones to heaven in spirit, praying that they may advance "in wisdom and age and grace with God and men," as did the Child of Mary. Then follows the washing of the heads, with its appropriate prayers; then, the secretas, the preface, the whispered prayers for God's church, for friends and benefactors, for all the living faithful.
The moment of consecration draws nigh. Books are laid aside, hands are clasped upon the breast, every head is bent. The sweet voices in the choir have been hushed; the organ's silvery tones, murmuring more and more softly, have at length died away, awe-stricken by the silence that fills God's house. Yes! silence fills it, for silence now seems a something—a breathless, pulseless, but mighty spirit feeling all this temple, as the cloud of God's glory once filled the tabernacle. You think you could almost [{569}] most hear a spirit move, you feel as though you were among the angels when they waited breathless to behold the effect of the sublime utterance, "Let there be light." Bending low in reverend humility, the priest in a whisper of awe speaks the almighty words, "This is my body," "This is the chalice of my blood;" the light breathing of that whisper is heard even in the bosom of the Eternal Father, the golden gates of Paradise are thrown open, and God "bows the heavens and comes down." He is here, this church is now the hut of Bethlehem, this altar is the manger; for the Child is born upon it as really as the Virgin-mother there brought him forth.
As when of old light was made, there was a music of the spheres, of the sun and moon and all the stars and planets, singing their morning hymn of gratitude, so is the stillness now also broken, so does the choir, warbling in swelling glee, burst forth in grand climax, "Hosanna in excelsis." And in the mean time priest and people united utter to their new-born Saviour many rich and beautiful prayers for the living, for the faithful departed, for themselves.
The villagers are absorbed in prayer; it seems as though their fervor kept redoubling, as though the flames of holy love burned higher and higher every instant. Well they may, for the moment is approaching in which each heart will be a manger in which Jesus will be laid, each breast a tabernacle in which love itself shall dwell. Already there is a move among them; with modest gait, with clasped hands and downcast eyes, they advance to the sanctuary, the mystic bread is given to them line after line, and, bearing their God with them, they all return in reverence to give thanks, to petition for good things. Serenity is in their eyes and on their features, joy is in their hearts, rapture in their souls, peace among their feelings, and Jesus within their bosoms harmonizing all. O truly happy Christmas! O the bliss that now is theirs, the comfort of this moment! Well may the chanters hymn: "O Jesus, God! Great God! Good Pastor! Sweet Lamb! O Jesus, my Jesus! O Bread! O Manna! O Power! what dost thou not grant to man!"
Then praises and thanks are sung joyously by the priest, and his hand is stretched in blessing from the altar. The Mass is over, and the procession moves from the sanctuary, while the choir chants aloud, "Praise the Lord all ye nations, praise him all ye people. Because his mercy is confirmed upon us, and the truth of the Lord remaineth for ever." (Ps. cxvi.)
The chant dies away, and for awhile not a sound is heard through all the sacred building. No one stirs as yet; all remain some time to return thanks, to allow the impression of the festival to sink deep into their souls. At length they rise, and bowing lowly toward the altar, they go forth. At the church-door hands are shaken, kisses given, warm embraces are exchanged, and joy and happiness and all the blessings of the Child's nativity are wished and wished again.
But follow them home from their midnight celebration. For a long time the village slumbers not; lights glimmer through the cottage-windows, and within groups are kneeling around a little home-made oratory, with a little crib in the middle, and candles around it. This is of greater importance than the gathering around the yule-fire or the decked tree. Moreover, all did not go home when Mass was over. Go back to the church, and behold those silent figures praying in every posture that feeling can suggest. There, before that tabernacle, a mother prays the divine Child for her own babe; a virgin prays for purity like to that of the Virgin-mother; the child of misery seeks consolation from him who was born in a stable; many repeat over and over again the canticle of the angels, and all beg the blessings of him over whom the angels sang it. At length these also are gone; the lights [{570}] are quenched about the altar, all, save the silver lamp which is never extinguished; all is still as was the stable when the shepherds had adored and gone back to their flocks.
But the festival of our Saviour's birth is not over yet. "As the day comes round in music and in light;" you again see the villagers wending their way to the church; and a third time, when the sun is in the mid-arch of heaven. Each time is witnessed the same sublime celebration that we beheld at midnight; for three births of Christ are celebrated. His birth from the Father before lime began; his birth from the immaculate Virgin as a wailing babe at Bethlehem; his mystic birth, by faith and by the sacrament of love, in the heart of each humble adorer.