Transcriber’s Notes
Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. Variations in hyphenation and accents have been standardised but all other spelling and punctuation remains unchanged.
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A Christmas Greeting
By
MARIE CORELLI
NEW YORK
DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
1901
Copyright, 1901
Dodd, Mead and Company
All rights reserved
UNIVERSITY PRESS · JOHN WILSON
AND SON · CAMBRIDGE, U. S. A.
“A MERRY CHRISTMAS!”
A Christmas Greeting
“A MERRY CHRISTMAS!”
It is an old, very old, timeworn greeting, this of the friendly “Merry Christmas to you!” and there are some folks among us in these days who profess to hate the very sound of it. It came into use when England was known as “Merrie England,” an appellation which seems more than singular to us who have to endure the inane dullness and melancholy stupidity of “society” as it exists in this present gloriously-progressive Motor-Era. Looking round on the tired, worn, nervous, querulous faces in the crowds that fill the streets and shops at Christmas-time,—hearing the endless complaints, the new diseases, the troubles, real and fancied, of each person who can manage to detain a friend for five minutes’ hurried and morbid conversation,—reading the delectable details of suicide, murder, mania and misadventure preciously garnered up as gems of literature for the million by the halfpenny press—one may reasonably wonder whether England was ever in truth really “merrie,” as recorded. Her ancient sweet songs and ballads, her old-fashioned “Yule games” and picturesque “country dances” would appear to prove her so,—reports of the “open doors” and generous hospitality of her jolly yeomen and hunting squires in bygone days are still extant,—and it may be reasonably asked why, if she was so “merrie” once, she cannot be equally “merrie” again.
“It is a farce to wish me ‘A Merry Christmas,’” says the pessimist—“I have no cause to be merry!”
Quite so! But then, my excellent friend, you must remember that all the world does not wag in your particular way! Strange, isn’t it? You may possibly have thought now and then, as a self-concentrated unit, that because you are not merry (and you never will be, I fear)—therefore no one else has any right to be so. This is your little mistake! However, as it is Christmas-time we will not be hard on you! You shall enjoy yourself in your own approved fashion of being miserable! No one shall interfere with you, provided you do not interfere with anyone else. Grumble away all by yourself! Sneer at “A Merry Christmas”—only do it alone! Curse the frost, the wind, the rain, the robins, the Christmas cards, the puddings, the mince-pies, the holly, the mistletoe (and the kisses under it!), and announce to blank space your detestation of the whole Festival! No one shall come near you, believe me, so long as you keep on your own ground and do not attempt to trespass on your neighbour’s little plot of harmless enjoyment. For there are still a few of us remaining on the planet who are not absolutely and incurably selfish,—who can find their pleasure in making others happy,—who can put aside their own private griefs for the sake of cheering those who are still more grieved,—who can take delight in the laughter and merriment of children, and for whom the anniversary of Christ’s birth is still a sacred day, consecrated to joy and thanksgiving. True it is that every such recurring anniversary must have its sorrowful thought or memory associated with those who are no longer here with us; true it is in very saddest earnest that the cruel grip of War has robbed many a home of its nearest and dearest, who will be missed and mourned when families gather round the Christmas fire and talk of the past in low voices, with tears in their eyes—nevertheless, it is also true, thank God, that those who are gone are neither “lost” nor really “parted” from us. Possibly they are nearer to us in our lonely evenings than we know,—possibly they hear our voices, and see us as they saw us in life. We cannot tell; and as our ignorance of the Divine mysteries leaves us in doubt, let us be even as we would if our beloved ones were here,—cheerful among ourselves, and kind to all those with whom we are brought in contact.
“Ye who have scorned each other
Or injured friend or brother,
In this fast-fading year;
Ye who by word or deed
Have made a kind heart bleed,
Come, gather here!
Let sinn’d against and sinning
Forget their strife’s beginning
And join in friendship now;
Be links no longer broken,
Be sweet forgiveness spoken
Under the Holly Bough!
“Ye who have nourished sadness,
Estranged from hope and gladness
In this fast-fading year;
Ye with o’er-burdened mind
Made aliens from your kind,
Come, gather here!
Let not your useless sorrow
Pursue you night and morrow,
If e’er you hoped, hope now!
Take heart!—Uncloud your faces.
And join in our embraces
Under the Holly Bough!”
There is no use in grieving:—there is no sense in quarrelling:—there is no advantage in grumbling. People sacrifice both good health and good looks by constant querulousness. Suppose it is a “cold” Christmas, or a “damp” Christmas, or a “green” Christmas, or an “east-windy” Christmas, or an altogether meteorologically disagreeable Christmas. Well, what then? All the peevishness in the world will not alter it. Some of you who don’t like it will make for Egypt or the Riviera. Much good may it do you! An Arab smell, and the “fleecing” of Cairene hotel proprietors are doubtful additions to Christmas pleasure—and the raucous cry of the croupier at Monte Carlo—“Faites vos jeux, Messieurs et Mesdames!” is scarcely worth crossing the Channel to hear. Perhaps, however, it may be a satisfaction to some folks to spend their surplus cash in “furrin parts” rather than at home? If this should be the case, it will be an equal satisfaction to me to politely intimate that I consider such persons unworthy of their own matchless country. The much abused “English climate” is good enough for anybody. Every sort of “temperature” can be obtained in these favoured British Isles. If warmth, and freedom from east winds be required, it can be obtained at Penzance, Newquay, or Tenby—or better still on the lovely Irish coast at Parknasilla, where palms and tropical trees grow to perfection all winter in the open. Certainly there is no “gambling-hell” there;—there are only warm Irish hearts waiting for sympathy and comprehension, and I venture to think they merit as much good cash spent among them for their benefit as is wasted on the French, who, given the opportunity, abuse their English patrons more outrageously than any wild-headed, big-hearted Irish “agitator” that ever lived. I must confess I have no sympathy with the restless, nervous swarms of semi-lunatics ever “on the go” in search of “change,” who turn their backs on Imperial Britain at the first breath of its winter, which, taken on the whole, is a much more healthy winter than other countries are blessed with. And an “old English Yule” kept in the old English manner is not to be despised. Try it, all you who are not going abroad—you who are not only content, but glad and proud to remain in this
“Earth of Majesty, this seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demi-paradise,
This fortress built by Nature for herself;
. . . This little world,
This precious stone set in the silver sea!”
Try to keep a happy and “merrie” Christmas in England—try to make it a blessed and unforgettable festival of pleasure for more than yourselves. Do some little special kindness, each one of you, unobtrusively in your own immediate neighbourhood, and never bother about the “inconvenience,” or the “trouble,” or the “cold.”
“Cold Christmas? No!
Our Christmas is not cold;
Although the north winds blow
And pile the drifting snow,
And the beech-trees on the freezing wold
Rock sadly to and fro.
Our Christmas bears a warm, true heart,
His face is red with glee,
And he jests and laughs
And sings and quaffs—
He was never unkind to me, my love,
May he never be cold to thee!
“Old Christmas? No!
Though states and kingdoms wear,
And change and ruin grow
From ages as they flow,
He’s as light of tread, as young and fair
As a thousand years ago.
The morning beams are always new
And scatter blessings free,
And the Christmas Day
Is as new as they,
He was never old to me, my love;
May he never grow old to thee!”
So runs a sweet old song, sung by a true English poet in days long ago gone by, and the clear, clean, glad and wholesome spirit of it is surely worth cherishing. Let none of us say we “hate” Christmas. Whatever our memories, bitter or sweet, they do not belong to the festival, but only to ourselves. Suppose therefore we lose sight of ourselves—our precious selves—just for once in our lives, and consider others a little? If we do this, we shall find it easy to be “merry,” easy to smile, easy to say a kind word, easy to do a kind action, easy to “bring home the holly,” and very easy to hang up the mistletoe and waft a kiss from under it to any cross old boy who declines to be as happy as we would like to make him!
ENGLAND
1901-1902
Lift up thine eyes, Queen-Warrior of the world!
Stand, fearless-footed on Time’s shifting verge,
And watch the New Year’s doubtful Dawn emerge
From parting clouds thick-roll’d in thunderous War!
Lo, how thy broad East reddens to the West,
The while thy thousand-victoried flag, unfurl’d,
Waves to thy North and South in one royal fold
Of tent-like shelter for an Empire’s rest;
O Queen, sword-girded, helmeted in gold,
Strong Conqueror of all thy many foes,
Look from thy rocky heights and see afar
The coming Future menacing the Past,
With clamour and wild change of present things,
Kingdoms down-shaken with the fall of kings,
But fear not Thou! Thou’rt still the first and last
Imperial wearer of the deathless Rose,—
Crown’d with the sunlight, girdled with the sea,
Mother of mightiest Nations yet to be!
THE KING’S CROWN
A DREAM OF THE PRESENT AND THE FUTURE
The late rays of the sinking sun shot rosy lines of light through the high, painted glass casement of a quaint oriel-chamber, where, on a cushion of crimson velvet, shone the Crown of a great King and Emperor. It was set there in readiness for the morrow,—when, at a stately pageant of national rejoicing, all the people would see it raised high above them as a symbol of the Throne and the glory of the land. Deft jewellers had been at work for days, burnishing its golden setting and polishing its priceless jewels,—and now,—their work completed,—they had brought it here for the night, and, to ensure perfect safety, had left it in this special place because it was more difficult of access than any other corner of the Royal palace. It was a small recess apart;—and the only door leading to it was through the “strong room,” where all the gold and silver plate was kept, and where two armed men paced up and down both day and night, keeping close watch and guard. Flashing sparkles of light twinkled every now and again from the precious stones in the Crown, as the sunset hues caught their finely-cut points and touched them into flame; and an atmosphere of silent majesty surrounded the historical emblem of earth’s proudest empire,—lifeless in itself, yet having the strange power of outlasting the life of all its kings! The sun sank; its rays grew paler and dimmer, till by-and-by they faded altogether. Long shadows came, then the twilight, then the dark, and deep silence. Now and again a trumpet-call from the soldiers’ quarters hard by, a bell slowly chiming the hour, or the clash of muskets outside on the courtyard, betokening a change of sentry, broke the solemn hush of night, but beyond this no human sound disturbed the solitude and obscurity of the secret nook which enshrined the Imperial Crown of a still more splendid and imperial Realm.
All suddenly, about an hour before the moon rose, a thick, almost palpable Darkness, darker than the night itself, gathered in the room and began to circle like a threatening storm around the Crown. Gradually this blackness took upon itself shape and stature, and, rising full height, displayed the gigantic form of an Angel with sable wings, and a countenance distorted with cruelty and avarice.
“Mine is the Crown!” he said. “Mine are the People! Mine is the Land, and mine is the King!”
And as he spoke he stretched forth a hand to snatch the Royal diadem, when, like a flame breaking through the walls and floor of the oriel-chamber, a great light shone on every side, and another Angel, stately and majestic, whose snowy wings were like the early rays of the morning sun shining through white and azure, confronted that fierce Spirit of the Darkness.
“Not so!” said a voice clear as a silver clarion. “Mine is the Crown! Mine are the People! Mine is the Kingdom, and mine is the King!”
For one second of time they stood thus opposed one to the other—the country’s Crown between them. Then came the flashing of a great Sword, and the Angel of darkness struck with it fiercely at his god-like rival.
“War!” he cried. “Eternal war! For all the evils of the land there shall be vengeance!”
And like a shaft of lightning through a cloud another fiery Sword parried the savage blow.
“Peace!” said the silver-sounding voice of the Angel of Light. “Glory and peace! For all the evils of the land there shall be justice!”
Then they closed and fought—those mighty, supernatural Warriors,—and in their fearful contest the air around them both grew dense and lurid, and the Crown, glittering with great gems on its crimson velvet cushion, appeared to float in a pool of blood. Closer and more terrible grew the fight,—and the evil angel, with such ferocity as only hate and cruelty can give, twice thrust his dazzling foe to the ground;—twice smote the heavenly-fair head with the great Sword that bore the words “everlasting death” upon its blade. And while they yet battled on, the moon rose, round and full, peering in upon them like a wondering white face of sad and wistful inquiry. For a moment they paused in their conflict,—and the jewels in the Crown suddenly ceased to sparkle. Five aerial forms of exquisite beauty arose from its golden circlet, lifting themselves above it like drifting wreaths of sea-mist in the radiance of the moonlight, and their voices, small and soft, yet clear as the notes of a sweet song, made music in the silence.
“I am the Spirit of the Pearl!” said one. “Through centuries of history I have seen ‘Right’ forever conquer ‘Might,’ and so shall it be again!”
“I am the Spirit of the Ruby!” said another. “I mark both War and Victory! From the bitter agony and labour of strong battle I have seen the birth of Love and Peace! All things, whether gentle or fierce, kind or cruel, have worked together for the good and the glory of the land;—so has it ever been, and so shall it be again!”
“I am the Spirit of the Sapphire!” said the third; “I know the movements of justice—I watch the performing of God’s Will. Through light, through darkness, through gladness and sorrow, God holds His perfect way with kings and kingdoms. Strife is sharp and strong, but Truth is stronger;—so it has ever been, and so it shall be again!”
“I am the Spirit of the Emerald!” said a fourth. “Through all the history of the realm I have counted the tears of the poor, the sufferings of the weak, the griefs of the lonely, and when I set my light on the great king’s brow I move him to deeds of pity and loving-kindness! I watch the world progressing in good,—I know that there is more tenderness than wrath in humanity,—more love than hate! The Empire’s glory is in deeds of mercy! So it has been before—so it shall be again!”
“I am the Spirit of the Diamond!” said the fifth,—“And wherever I shine, there, too, shines the Star of Freedom! No slave can breathe when my light sparkles in the air! Progress and Love and Wisdom spring up at my command, and naught can lessen the Crown’s glory while I remain its central gem! Liberty and honour! These are the watchwords of our mighty Empire! So they have been for ages; so shall they ever be!”
Their voices ceased, and joining their delicate hands they melted into a shining circle about the Crown,—a circle of pure and penetrating light like the early sunbeams of a clear spring morning.
But the Angel of Darkness, resting on his sword, heard them and smiled—a smile darker and more implacable than any frown.
“Oh, foolish, evanescent Shapes! Oh, vain gods of perishable gems!” he cried; “How shall ye combat Me, who hold the mystic Opal!—the stone of sorrow and of death? What is your strength against mine? Less than the strength of reeds in a swift tide,—for I am the Spirit of Mammon, and Time’s great pendulum swings the hour to me! Lo, here shines the Crown’s mischief!—sparkling with a thousand fires of world’s wealth, world’s lust, world’s treachery, world’s vanity!—hues of the rainbow, as fleeting as they are fair! Emblem of ruin and disaster, take Thou thy place in the Crown, and shed My light upon the great King’s brow! Indestructible and terrible!—Jewel of devils and cursing, I set thee there to work My will!”
He raised on high the Opal, glittering like a foam-bell on a treacherous sea,—and then, bending his dark form above the Crown, strove to set it within that golden band. But the magic circle of fire around it grew brighter, and deeper, and wider, till it was like a flame of glory,—springing higher and ever higher, it surrounded the Angel of Light with countless arrowy beams.
“Fight on, God’s Angel of the Kingdom!” said a distant Voice that echoed like thunder far away. “Fight on! Unto thee shall be given the victory!”
Then the Angel raised his sword of Light and struck the Opal from his enemy’s hand. It fell to the ground, shattered to atoms, and a rushing sound as of many waters filled the air.
“New and Old are as one!” said the Voice; “Past and Future are as Present! Fight on, God’s Angel of the Kingdom,—for Now is the acceptable time!”
And once again those mighty Spirits fought,—and, as they crossed their mystic Swords, there came a wailing noise as of the weeping of a great multitude. Cries of passionate grief echoed up from some dismal unseen abyss of suffering, and the anguish of a great People was borne on the double rhythmic beat of a Funeral march and a Battle song. Strange gleaming visions came and went in the darkness:—women’s pale faces worn with toil and sorrow;—dead soldiers slain in their youth, and lying unburied;—grim countenances of foul and lustful men, who occupied their time in digging gold out of newly-made graves, wherein the bodies had scarcely rested long enough to crumble into dust;—bold eyes of false women shining wickedly through skulls that were crowned with gems;—wide seas on which the great ships tossed, bearing the seeds of new nations;—flashing networks of light, on which the quick news travelled in dancing letters of flame! And over all—a Cloud,—and under all—the Crown! The night hours wore away, and still the combat raged,—and still the Angel of the Darkness fought fiercely with the Angel of the Light. And the visions came and went like shadows in a magic mirror—some beautiful, some terrible,—some that were like great storms raging over the land,—some floating by in the halcyon fairness of long summer days. Now and again while that mystic flashing of Swords made luminance in the air, there came a sound of young voices singing in the distance, and the words that broke through the music were like these—
“Sheathed be the sword for ever!—let the drum
Be school-boys’ pastime,—let your battles cease;—
And be the cannon’s voice for ever dumb
Except to celebrate the joys of peace!
Are ye not brothers? God, whom we revere,
Is He not the Father of all climes and lands?
Form an alliance, holy and sincere,
And join, join hands!”
The song died away in a tremulous wave of melody, and a pearly light began to suffuse the atmosphere like the first suggestion of the opening morn. Weary and pale, but still dauntless and unconquered, the Angel of the Light dealt stroke for stroke, blow for blow against his Enemy, when all at once, with a sudden and savage onslaught, the Angel of the Darkness caught his opponent by the arm which held the sword, and almost wrenched the dazzling weapon from his hand. And then the Angel of the Light gave a great cry of supplication.
“O God of Justice and of Love!” petitioned the silver-sounding voice; “Suffer not Thy Christian kingdom to be torn from Thy gracious protection! Clear Thou this Cloud of evil days, and take away the heavy weight of fear and of sorrow from the hearts of Thy stricken and suffering people, who do not forget Thy mercies in the past! Give Me the Crown, O God of Empires!—Give Me the King!”
And as the prayer was spoken, the Angel of the Darkness fell back, weakened and dismayed, for the heavenly Warrior, grasping his sword with redoubled force and purpose, dealt with it one mighty stroke which brought his foe to the ground.
“Yield thou, mine Enemy!” cried the triumphant Angel; “Claim no more that which was never thine! Seek no more that which shall never belong to thee! Mine is the Crown!—mine is the Kingdom!—and mine, by the grace of God, is the King!”
The widening dawn lightened the painted windows with a silver mist, flecked through with palest rose, and the darkness, gathering together, rolled itself up like a curtain and fled away. All shapes of evil and visions of terror vanished;—and as the morning broke, the Angel of the Light, alone and victorious, with snowy wings widespread, and fair face bright with God’s own eternal splendour, lifted the King’s Crown in both radiant hands towards Heaven, to meet the rays of the rising sun and the full golden glory of the Day!
HYMN FOR THE CORONATION
Ruler of Empires, God of Perfect Love,
That wert, and art, and ever-more shalt be,—
Maker and Master of the worlds above,
Saviour of all who fix their hope on Thee,—
Hear us, great Lord of nations new and old,
Giver of blessings countless and untold,—
To-day before Thy Throne we pledge anew
Our England’s trust in all things high and true,
And with united hearts to Thee we bring
Him unto whom our loyal faith is due,—
God of our fathers! Guard and bless the King!
The country’s crown we set upon his brow,
With prayer, thanksgiving, and the sound of song;
Eternal King of kings, receive him now,
And fill his soul with power divine and strong;
Nerve Thou his hand unto the sceptre’s sway,
Guide Thou his steps in every noble way,
And let the grace of all things sweet and fair
Descend on Her whose spirit pure and rare
For happy years the nation’s pride hath been,
And now the nation’s crown and throne doth share;
God of our fathers! Guard and bless the Queen!
Lord of the Past and Future, let Thy light
Shine on this double crowning of our Land!
In Peace or War, O God defend the Right
And let our shield be still Thy sheltering Hand!
Hear and accept Thy grateful people’s praise
For all Thy mercies in the former days,—
For present joys, for blessings yet to be,
We humbly give the glory unto Thee,
And to Thy service we do consecrate
The Sovereigns of our Empire of the Sea!
God of our fathers! Guard and bless the State!
Long live our Emperor-King and Empress-Queen!
God save them from all evils near or far!
May golden years of happiest peace serene
Make bright the sway of their Imperial star!
Before high Heaven we swear to them our faith,
Honour and truth and loyalty till death!
Courage and chivalry are with us yet,—
God shall forget us all ere We forget!
Loud let our voices with the joy-bells ring,
To all the nations here together met;—
God be with England, and with England’s King!
THE SOUL OF QUEEN ALEXANDRA
A SPIRIT-PICTURE
Have you seen the Queen?
Thousands of eager lips voiced this question,—thousands of eager eyes were turned towards the stately towers of Westminster, rising darkly outlined like fine bronze against the cold grey sky, on that bleak and bitter feast-day of St. Valentine, 1901, when Edward VII., King of Great Britain and Emperor of India, went in state to open his first Parliament. Thousands of loving and loyal hearts, still heavy with grief for the loss of Victoria the Good, so long the Mother of her people, grew warm with tenderness and devotion as the whispered name “Alexandra!” ran from mouth to mouth, and the old fiery chant, so gloriously sung by the last great Poet-Laureate of England, came back like a wave breaking on the shore of many memories:—
“Sea-King’s daughter from over the sea,
Alexandra!
Saxon, and Norman, and Dane are we,
But all of us Danes in our welcome of thee,
Alexandra!
Welcome her thunders of fort and of fleet,
Welcome her thundering cheer of the street!
“Oh, joy to the people, and joy to the Throne,
Come to us, love us, and make us your own!”
For had she not obeyed and fulfilled the Poet’s invocation? Had she not, indeed, come to us, and loved us, and made us her own? And had we not taken her in all her youth and hope and beauty, and made her our own in turn?—our own Princess of Loving-Kindness, dear to all, honoured by all as one of the purest and noblest figures in all the history of English Royal annals? And so on this St. Valentine’s Day of never-to-be-forgotten memory, the people gathered in multitudes to see her pass,—transformed from Princess into Queen—a change which, though always predestined, seemed at the time singular and as much attended by grief as by gladness. For she—like all the people who were one with her in truth and loyalty to the Throne—mourned the loss of the greatest, best, and wisest Sovereign that had ever reigned in England since the days of Elizabeth,—one, who to the diplomacy, tact, and foresight of Elizabeth, had added the sweetness, gentleness, and love of a pure womanly heart, ever in sympathy with the joys and griefs of her people. Affection, curiosity, and compassion struggled for the mastery in the minds of the vast crowds that watched the progress of the gorgeous State Coach, drawn by the dainty cream ponies which had but lately, alas! drawn the dead Queen through the great city to her last rest; and people standing a-tiptoe strove to peer through the glass on all sides, not so much to catch a glimpse of the King’s familiar face as to note the expression on the delicate fair features of his Consort. It was difficult to see her within the cumbrous painted and gilded equipage,—the King’s brilliant uniform and glittering orders made his figure more conspicuous than hers; moreover, his features were so well known to the crowds who had long loved him as their “popular” prince, that no one was put to any great strain to recognize him. But the shrinking, graceful form at his side was less distinct in outline—one saw a blur of sable robes and long-flowing veil, the gleam of jewels, a wistful face with soft grieved eyes, and that was all.
Inside the House of Lords, however, the impression was different. There, amid the rustle of black silken robes, and the sweep of mourning veils and funereal plumes, the glisten of diamonds, the milky sheen of pearls, and the almost startling relief of colour afforded by the scarlet robes of the Peers, came the very incarnation of majesty;—of grief and beauty in one, when the “Sea-King’s daughter” stood pale and proud beside her Husband and King,—when the Royal robes of ruby velvet and snowy ermine fell around that slight regal figure clad in solemn black, almost crushing it with a weight of splendour, and when the sweet eyes gazed out on the crowded gathering of the world’s most brilliant personages of rank and influence with a gravity not unmingled with pain. A fitting partner for the Throne of the greatest Emperor on earth.
“She stood beside him like a rainbow braided,
Within some storm, when scarce its shadows vast
From the blue paths of the swift sun have faded.”
There was present one who looked upon her at that moment, and looking, saw her with other eyes than those of mere humanity,—saw her as earthly sight alone can never see her,—in the clear undarkened air of psychic vision which brings all things, all circumstances, all seeming shapes into the true prospective of the Soul’s distinct and unerring observation. And in that Light she stood uplifted;—the symbols of earth’s passing power and splendour were no longer visible—the crowding forms around her were as drifting shadows, dimly outlined or vanishing altogether into darker space. High above them all her Spirit rose transfigured;—revealed in its true beauty,—transformed by a Thought,—and hallowed by a Prayer! No longer robed in sombre mourning garb, her figure shone resplendent, clad in the dazzling whiteness of an Angel’s wearing;—Royal robes of Heaven’s imperishable gold enfolded her as with wings,—and on her brow sparkled the deathless Crown of many bravely-endured mortal sorrows turned into jewels of immortal joy! Unconscious of the living radiating light surrounding her she stood; serene and prayerful,—watchful and patient,—fearless and resigned,—loving and true; and like the breaking of great waves upon the shifting sand, came the murmur of a mighty people’s praise,—the grateful blessings of brave soldiers far away, fighting for England’s honour,—the tenderness of children’s love—the thankfulness of struggling souls rescued from sin and death! Pure thoughts, pure words, pure deeds formed a glittering triumphal arch of rainbow hues above her, attracting with an irresistible force the unseen powers of good, which, through all clouds of doubt and chance, do yet flash their star-like rays of hope upon the world, inspiring the mind of humanity to fresh work, ambition, and endeavour. To her—a Queen of Fair Virtues—ascended the earnest, though unworded petitions of all good women for guidance and example,—to her their looks were turned for leadership through the devious and difficult ways of life,—for to them she seemed
“Fixt like a beacon-tower above the waves
Of tempest.”
War or peace,—loss or gain,—defeat or victory—these earthly incidents of life passed over her as the mere brief reflex of a darkness on her brightness, and touched her not at all. Plainly could it be seen that she had known sorrow; plainly was it evident that she had shed tears. She had clasped the Cross to her breast—she had testified her faith in God by a grand resignation to the Divine Will. But these things made the stature of her Soul so much the fairer, that such marks of pain and loss could only be perceived in her as indications of more perfect gladness. So did she shine;—pictured for a fleeting moment in the clear mirror of spiritual perception, with all the colours of unfading Truth about her, and seen, not “as in a glass darkly, but face to face,”—a visible Queen indeed, of a far wider realm than Imperial Britain! For Imperial Britain may have its day like Imperial Rome—may run its course equally to decay and death,—but the Empire of love and purity, of unselfishness and goodness, of truth and kindness, is built up on eternal foundations and can never end! And within that Empire the Soul of Queen Alexandra is crowned more gloriously than with the crown of England,—from every quarter of it she commands more subjects than any earthly kingdom holds,—and those who cannot penetrate into this boundless and everlasting realm of hers, do not know her, and cannot say they have ever looked upon her! And when the King’s first Parliament was opened—when all the “great” in rank and wealth and fashion had pushed and scrambled and hustled themselves out of Westminster, commenting audibly and flippantly on the looks, manners and deportment of their Majesties, how many among them, we may wonder, had seen the veil of earthly things withdrawn and the appearance of that lovely Soul disclosed as God sees it, in all the fairest portraiture of a truly Royal Presence?
One—certainly one—out of all the brilliant assemblage had truly “seen” the Queen;—and that one who was so permitted to behold her as she actually is in the watchful sight of Heaven, remembers every line, every grace, every touch of colour and beauty in the gracious Spirit-picture,—and is glad—for England’s sake!
A CHRISTMAS CAROL AT SANDRINGHAM
REFRAIN
God save your gracious Majesties,—
Let nothing you dismay,
Remember Christ our Saviour
Was born on Christmas Day.
The gates of Heaven were opened then,
And the Herald-Angels came—
Singing “Peace on earth, goodwill to men”
In blessed Jesu’s Name;
But the world is forgetting that sacred song,
Heard by the shepherds of old,
And, despite Christ’s birth, there is war on earth,
And wolves in the Master’s fold;—
And for this cause we are sent to you,—
To give you a word of cheer—
God save your gracious Majesties,
And send you a happy Year!
Three weary travellers are we,
And at your door we stand,—
We come from an Empire of the free,
A far-off Golden Land—
A Land where the dear ones you have lov’d
And lost for a parting breath,
Are as angels bright, in the perfect light
Of a life that knows no death.
In heavenly choir they sing with us,
Their voices you may hear—
“God save your gracious Majesties,
And send you a Blessèd Year!”
From your heart’s gentle excellence
A welcome we would win!
We pray you send us not from hence,
But let us enter in.
Poor are our garments,—no store we keep
Of wealth for the world to see,—
But the names we bear are forever fair—
“Faith,—Hope,—and Charity!”
Sisters belov’d of Christ, we come
To sing you a carol clear,—
“God save your gracious Majesties,
And give you a Happy Year!”
Unbar to us your household gate,—
With you we seek to dwell;—
We are your Angel guards of state,
And we will shield you well!
No foes shall harm you, no ills befall,
While we in your home remain,
And the love of the grand, sweet Empire-Land
Shall glorify your reign!
May Jesu’s love and peace protect
You and your children dear!—
God save your gracious Majesties
For many a good New Year!
REFRAIN
God save your gracious Majesties,
Let nothing you dismay,
’Tis life to know that Christ our Lord
Was born on Christmas Day!
A QUESTION OF FAITH
PROPOUNDED TO ALL WHOM IT MAY CONCERN
Before fully entering on this paper, I should like those who may be inclined to read it to understand very distinctly, once and for all, that I am a Christian. I am sorry that the too-hasty misjudgment of others compels me to assert the fact. The term “atheist” has been applied to me by several persons who should know better,—for it is an absolutely false, and I may add, libellous accusation. That it has been uttered unthinkingly and at random by idle chatterers who have never read a line I have written I can well believe,—nevertheless it is a mischievous rumour, as senseless as wicked. Poor and inadequate as my service is, and must ever be, still I am a follower of the Christian Faith, as expounded in Christ’s own words to His disciples. I believe that Christian Faith to be the grandest and purest in the world,—the most hopeful, the most strengthening, the most soul-supporting and ennobling religion ever taught to humanity. To me, in hours of the bitterest trial, it has proved not “a reed shaken by the wind”—but a rock firmer than the foundations of the world, against which the waves of tribulation break in vain and disperse to naught,—and when brought face to face with imminent death as I have been, it has kept me fearless and calm. I know—because I have experienced—its priceless worth, its truth, its grand up-lifting-power; and it is because this simple Christian Faith is so dear to me, and so much a part of my every-day life, that I venture to ask a few straight questions of those who, calling themselves Christians, seem to have lost sight altogether of their Master and His commands. I like people who are consistent. Inconsistency of mind is like uncleanliness of body; it breeds discomfort and disease. And in this wonderful age of ours, in which there is so little real “greatness,”—when even the tried heroism of our leading statesmen and generals is sullied by contemptible jealousies and petty discussions of a quarrelsome nature,—when the minds of men are bent chiefly on money-making and mechanical inventions to save labour (labour being most unfortunately estimated as a curse instead of the blessing it indubitably is), I find inconsistency the chief ingredient of all modern thought. Things are jumbled up in a heterogeneous mass, without order, distinction or merit. And the principal subject on which men and women are most wildly, glaringly inconsistent is that which is supposed to be the guiding rule of life—religion. I should like to try and help settle this vexed question. I want to find out what the Christian Empire means by its “faith.” I want to know how our King proposes to enact his magnificent part of “Defender of the Faith.” I venture to lift up my voice as the voice of one alone in the wilderness, and to send it with as clear a pitch and true a tone as I can across the sea of discussion,—the stormy ocean of angry and contradictory tongues,—and I ask bluntly and straightly, “What is it all about? Do you believe your religion, or do you not?”
It is an honest question, and demands an honest answer. Put it to yourselves plainly. Do you believe with all your heart and soul in the faith you profess to follow?
Again—put it with equal plainness—Do you not believe one iota of it all, and are you only following it as a matter of custom and form?
Let us, my reader or readers, be round and frank with each other. If you are a Christian, your religion is to believe that Christ was a human Incarnation or Manifestation of an Eternal God, born miraculously of the Virgin Mary; that He was crucified in the flesh as a criminal, died, was buried, rose again from the dead, and ascended to heaven as God and Man in one, and there perpetually acts as Mediator between mankind and Divine Justice. Remember, that if you believe this you believe in the PURELY SUPERNATURAL. But let anyone talk or write of the purely supernatural as existent in any other form save this one of the Christian Faith, and you will probably be the first to scout the idea of the supernatural altogether. Why? Where is your consistency? If you believe in one thing which is supernatural, why not in others?
Now let us consider the other side of the question. You who do not believe, but still pretend to do so, for the sake of form and conventional custom, do you realize what you are? You consider yourself virtuous and respectable, no doubt; but facts are facts, and you, in your pretence at faith, are nothing but a liar. The honest sunshiny face of day looks on you and knows you for a hypocrite—a miserable unit who is trying in a vague, mad fashion to cheat the Eternal Forces. Be ashamed of lying, man or woman, whichever you be! Stand out of the press and say openly that you do not believe; so at least shall you be respected. Do not show any religious leanings either to one side or the other “for the sake of custom”—and then we shall see you as you are, and refrain from branding you “liar.” I would say to all, clergy and laity, who do not in their hearts believe in the Christian Faith, “Go out of the Church; stand aside and let us see who is who. Let us have space in which to count up those who are willing to sacrifice all their earthly well-being for Christ’s sake (for it amounts to nothing less than this), and those who prefer this world to the next.” I will not presume to calculate as to which will form the larger majority. I only say it is absurd to keep up churches, and an enormous staff of clergy, archbishops, bishops, popes, cardinals, and the like, for a faith in which we do not TRULY, ABSOLUTELY, AND ENTIRELY BELIEVE. It is a mere pageant of inflated falsehood, and as such must be loathsome in the sight of God,—this always with the proper proviso, “if there indeed be a God.” Yet, apart from a God altogether, it is degrading to ourselves to play the hypocrite with the serious facts of life and death. Therefore, I ask you again—Do you believe, or do you not believe? My object in proposing the question at all is to endeavour to show the spiritual and symbolic basis upon which the Christian Faith rests, and the paramount necessity there is for accepting it in its pristine purity and beauty, if we would be wise. To grasp it thoroughly, we must view it not as it now seems to look to us through the darkening shadows of sectarianism, BUT AS IT WAS ORIGINALLY FOUNDED. The time has come upon us that is spoken of in the New Testament, when “one shall be taken and the other left,” and the sorting of the sheep from the goats has already commenced. It can be said with truth that most of our Churches, as they now exist, are diametrically opposed to the actual teachings of their Divine Founder. It can be proved that in our daily lives we live exactly in the manner which Christ Himself would have most sternly condemned. And when all the proofs are put before you plainly, and without disguise or hyperbole, in the simplest and straightest language possible, I shall again ask you, “DO YOU BELIEVE, OR DO YOU NOT BELIEVE?” If you do believe, declare it openly and live accordingly; if you do not believe, in God’s name leave off lying!
The Symbolism of the Christian Faith has been and is still very much lost sight of, owing to the manner in which the unimaginative and unthinking majority of people will persist in looking at things from a directly physical, materialistic, and worldly point of view. But if we take the life and character of Christ as a Symbolic representation of that Perfect Manhood which alone can be pleasing to God,—which alone can be worthy to call the Divine Source of Creation “Father!”—some of our difficulties may possibly be removed. Christ’s Gospel was first proclaimed in the East,—and the Eastern peoples were accustomed to learn the great truths of religion by a “symbolic,” or allegorical method of instruction. Christ Himself knew this,—for He taught them many things by parables.
We shall do well to keep this spirit of Eastern symbolism in mind when considering the “miraculous” manner of Christ’s birth. Note the extreme poverty, humility, well-nigh shame attending it! Joseph doubted Mary, and was “minded to put her away privily.” Mary herself doubted the Angelic Annunciation, and said, “How shall this be?”
Thus, even with those most closely concerned, a cloud of complete disbelief and distrust environed the very thought, suggestion, and announcement of God-in-Man.
It should be remembered that the Evangelists Mark and John, have no account of a miraculous birth at all. John, supreme as a Symbolist, the “disciple whom Jesus loved,” wrote, “The WORD was made flesh and dwelt among us.”
Securing this symbolic statement for ourselves, we find that two of the chief things which we attach importance to in this world—namely, birth and position—are altogether set aside in this humanizing of the WORD, and are of no account whatever. And that the helpless Child lying in a manger on that first Christmas morning of the world, was, despite poverty and humility, foredestined to possess more power than all the kings and emperors ever born in the purple.
Thus, the first lessons we get from the birth of Christ are—Faith and Humility—and these are the whole spirit of His Divine doctrine.
Now,—How does this spirit pervade our social community to-day, after nearly two thousand years of constant preaching and teaching?
Look round on the proud array of the self-important, pugnacious, quarrelsome, sectarian, and intolerant so-called “servants of the Lord.” The Pope of Rome, and his Cardinals and his Monsignori! The Archbishop of Canterbury, and his Bishops, Deacons, Deans and Chapters, and the like! The million “sects”—and all the cumbrous paraphernalia of the wealthy and worldly “ordained” to preach the Gospel! Ask them for “proofs” of faith! For signs of “humility”! For evidences of any kind to show that they are in very soul and life and truth the followers of that Master who never knew luxury, and had not where to lay His head!
And you, among the laity, how can you pray, or pretend to pray to a poor and despised “Man of Sorrow,” in these days, when with every act and word of your life you show your neighbours that you love Money better than anything else in earth or in heaven!—when even you who are millionaires only give and do just as much as will bring you notoriety or purchase you a “handle” to your names! Why do you bend your hypocritical heads on Sundays to the Name of “Jesus,” who (so far as visible worldly position admitted) was merely the son of a carpenter, and followed the carpenter’s trade, while on week-days you make no secret of your scorn of, or indifference to the “working-man,” and more often than not spurn the beggar from your gates!
Be consistent, friends!—be consistent! IF YOU BELIEVE IN CHRISTIANITY, you must also believe in these three things:—