TWELFTH-DAY; OR, THE LAST OF OUR HOLIDAYS. Carrigbawn, January 7, 1851. YESTERDAY, my dear Anthony, ended our Christmas holidays, and to-day finds me once more in the solitude and repose of my own study, communing in spirit with one friend, when so many others have been withdrawn from me in their bodily presence. But those joyous associations cannot last for ever, and well is it for us that they cannot. Though man is a gregarious animal, and has few joys that are not heightened by the sympathy of friends, and multiplied a thousand-fold by being reflected from the faces that he loves; yet, believe me, there are times and seasons when the spirit seeks repose from excitement, and pants for solitude as the hart does for the water-brooks. I am thoroughly convinced, that most of the mighty events which have revolutionised society, and changed the destinies of mankind, were devised by man, not amongst his species, but apart from them; and though, at first sight, this may appear somewhat paradoxical, both in regard to man's physical and psychological being, yet he who looks deeper into the matter will see that such is not the case. Though man be social in all his instincts and qualities, still is solitude as needful to his well-being as sleep is necessary to the refection of an existence which seems a priori to abhor the negation of activity, mental or bodily. As the giant rises refreshed from sleep, so the soul comes forth from its silent, secret chamber, re-invigorated by that communion which it holds with itself-ay, and with a greater than itself that primeval fountain of all thought -the Father of Spirits. In all ages and in all countries solitude has had its lovers and its eulogists. The heathen philosopher and the Christian moralist have alike proclaimed its holiness and its dignity. Were I to quote half that occurs to my memory, my dear Anthony, I should exhaust your patience long before I should find the end of my materials. Seneca has many fine reflections on the subject; but be of good courage-I shall not inflict one of them upon you. Petrarch, in one of his elegant Latin epistles—which were as famous in his own days as they are neglected in ours-draws a most eloquent contrast between the man who dwells in the city, and him who cultivates a solitary life in the country. This, too, I shall spare you; but I know not how to defraud you of the sentiments of one of the great lights of the early Christian Church, whose compositions are as redolent of the odour of holiness as was his solitary life of the spirit of devotion. Thus writes St. Jerome ;-"Sapiens nunquam solus esse potest, habet enim secum omnes, qui sunt et qui fuerint boni, et animum liberum quocunque vult, profert et transfert et quod corpore_non potest, cogitatione complectitur: et si hominum inopia fuerit, loquitur cum Deo." This last thought discovers the real source of the moral elevation which solitude confers upon man. And so it has ever been; the more he is withdrawn from the creature, the more he is in converse with the Creator. When one human being alone stood on the earth, God was ever present with him. When he found a companion to share the world with him, even still "they heard the voice of the Lord walking in the garden." Then, as the race multiplied, the visible Deity was rarely amongst them, but He ministered by His angels; and so, from time to time, as man mingled more with his fellows, he communed less with his great Spiritual Head; and it is still the primeval yearnings of the soul for purer food than it finds in the world around it that has driven ardent and meditative men to deserts and mountain tops, to cells and caves. truce with these reflections, dear Anthony. I sat down to tell you all about our last merry meeting at the Park, and here I am lauding solitude like a hermit or a disappointed lover. But a Despite of occasional defections from our band of friends, the main body held together up to "Twelfth-day"-that day which usage has long sanctioned as "the last of the Christmas holidays;" and now we were all assembled for the last time around the festive board at "the Park." Somehow insensibly, perhaps not unnaturally, a slight tinge of melancholy, or rather of pensiveness, spread amongst us; for the endearing pleasures of social converse were dashed by the ever-recurring reflection that they were so shortly to end. Still the ever joyous voice of Uncle Saul kept us all from flagging, and every sigh was chased away by his bantering laugh and trustful hope in the future. And now the ladies had retired, the superabundant leaves of the table were removed, and the diminished portion was rolled nearer to the fire. The wind had risen high and gustfully without, and the rain pattered on the windows, while within, a little knot of true friends sat together, segregated, as it were, from the world and its storms-each bound to other, more or less closely, by those bonds of love which form the dearest, as they are the most enduring of existence. Uncle Saul sent round the wine, and then threw a log of bog-deal on the fire that sent the burning peat in a thousand sparklets up the ample chimney. "Well, old friend," said he to the Parson, "Twelfth-day is not now what you and I recollect it when we were youngsters. Ah! I remember the great plumcake, with its mighty surface of frosted sugar, the drawing of characters, the choosing of King and Queen, charades and dancing, and I know not what. I protest it almost rivalled its great antecedent, Christmas-day. But now Little Christmas' is but the shadow of the substance, the ghost of the goodly festival which the Gregorian calendar so unceremoniously thrust out of its place." "You say truly, my dear sir," said the Parson, "these things you mention seem but as of yesterday-but how entirely are they passed away. Who now of those around us would recognise the truth of the picture of choosing the king which is so well described in the old rhymes with which our boy hood was familiar? "Ay, ay, dear Parson," I may say to each of those youngsters here, as honest Justice Shallow said to Falstaff, "Ha! Cousin Silence, that thou had'st seen that that this knight and I have seen!" 66 Nay," said the kind old man, smiling good-humouredly at the rakish character with which my uncle had thus invested him; "I do not think I can respond with the knight: We have heard the chimes at midnight, Master Shallow.' But if Twelfth-night has been shorn of some of its festal splendour, it has lost nothing of its interest to the Christian as the Feast of the Epiphany. It has been ever one of the chief festivals of the Church; and in its earlier ages attached itself most strongly both to the affections and the imaginations of the people. And what marvel! Can there be any event more suggestive of a thousand interesting thoughts, more picturesque and dramatic-let me say so with reverence-than the wonderful one which the day commemorates? Let us for a few moments, in imagination, transport ourselves from beside those blazing logs to the arid sands of the desert, and exchange the wild storm and the drenching rain for the stillness of the air, heavy with the spices of Araby. "Not far from the banks of the fleet-flowing Tigris, stands one of those struc tures of which travellers speak with awe and wonder; those Pyramids which, ere Abraham left his native land, were raised, that man might watch the stars of heaven. "'Tis evening-one of the kingly priesthood, who rules that land, enters the pile to worship, as is their wont, the heavenly host, and study the laws by which they are guided. Hours pass on as he is so engaged, while the heavens declare the glory of God.' At length a star unknown, unseen before, shines forth to the westward-brilliant as the star of the morning, and baffling the lore of Melchior. With hurried steps he hastens to where others of his caste are seeking repose, and, awakening them from sleep, shews them this wondrous sight. Long and anxiously they gaze on this portentous light; till Gaspar, at length, breaks the silence, and, turning to Balthazar, exclaims-Is not this the star thus spoken of by our forefather, Balaam?' "I shall see him-but not now; I shall behold him-but not nigh. "And long and anxious still they gaze and commune with themselves, and ponder over the occult lore of Chaldea; and, at length, the word goes forth amongst their followers, to prepare for a distant journey. "And now, behold these venerable sages setting forth, star-summoned, towards the royal city of David, to visit the King of the Jews.' Swift-footed dromedaries bear on their backs the richest products of the country-gold, and frankincense, and myrrh. A chosen band of followers attend them. How picturesque their appearance in the lonely and monotonous desert!-their striped kafieh, with its varied colours, bound round their heads by the agal, and the party-coloured abayeh thrown round their shoulders. Thus furnished, they traverse the wastes of Arabia, undeterred by its toils and dangers; after many days they cross the Jordan, and soon are within the walls of Jerusalem. But there they search in vain for the star-announced King. Desired to seek him diligently in Bethlehem, they quickly leave the city of David. And now see them descending from Zion's heights, leaving behind them its gorgeous palaces and gilded domes! Mark them now crossing the narrow valley, and ascending the sloping plain which hides Bethlehem from their view. Beneath lies the little peaceful, humble village. Ah! sure this is not the birth-place of a King. They are filled with perplexity and doubt, when-lo, the star!-the star! once more shines bright as when first it glittered upon them in their own land, and guides them through the streets of Bethlehem, till at length the lamp unto their feet' burns fixedly over the shrine that they have been seeking; and what do they find in the gloom of that mid-winter night? A hovel, and within a poor mother with her little babe! Ah! but they know Him: their purged eyes and enlightened spirits see deep into God's mysteries; and they behold Omnipotence in the feeble infant, and kingly splendour and majesty in the poor swaddling-clothes and the rude manger. And so they fall down and worship, and offer their precious gifts: and those mysterious kings and priests depart content to traverse again the toilsome way, for they have paid their homage to the King of kings. They appear and disappear, as did Melchizedek, the king and priest of old, having waited as shadowy guests upon the true Melchizedek." Is there not something touching, sublime, in all this? What situations' for the painter !—what material for the poet! what an absorbing study for all mankind!" The worthy parson was firmly seated by this time on his hobby," and he rode as pleasantly as did mitred abbot of olden time ever slip over the ground on his ambling mule. Pausing for a moment he seemed as if his spirit was contemplating the picture he had been painting, and then he resumed. "How thoroughly, in what are called the dark ages, did people understand and appreciate these striking points in the Epiphany! What a hold did it take upon their feelings and affections-what a mass of legends has grown out of the wanderings and the worship of the Three Kings! What mysteries and miracle-plays in which Melchior, Gaspar and Balthazar are the prominent actors, grew up under the sanction of the Church !” 66 6 "I remember," said I, venturing somewhat audaciously to slip in an observation, "to have read somewhere a curious mode, half dramatic, half religious, in which the offerings of the Magi' were exhibited in some of the churches in early times. Three boys, clothed in silk, with golden crowns upon their heads, and each a golden vessel in his hand, represented the Magi. Entering the choir, and advancing towards the altar, they chaunted these lines: "O quam dignis celebranda dies ista laudibus, Then the first boy lifted up the vessel which he held, and said— Then they pointed to the star hanging from the roof, proceeded to make their offerings, and withdrew into the sacristy." "Before we leave the subject," said the pastor, "I will repeat to you the beautiful application of delectable old Jeremy Taylor, for it lives in my memory. 'God,' he observes, has drawn all the world to himself by one star or another; by natural reason or by the secrets of philosophy; by the revelations of the Gospel or by the ministry of angels; by the illuminations of the Spirit or by the sermons or dictates of spiritual fathers, and hath consigned this lesson to us, that we must never appear before the Lord empty, offering gifts to him by the expenses or by the affections of charity; either the worshipping or the oblations of religion; either the riches of the world or the love of the soul; for if we cannot bring gold with the rich Arabians, we may, with the poor shepherds, come and "kiss the Son lest he be angry," and in all come and serve him with fear, and reverence, and spiritual rejoicings.' The good old parson paused again. Whether he purposed a further excur sion I cannot say, for Uncle Saul, after a respectful interval of silence, cried out, cheerily "How is this? I protest the bottles have somehow all congregated about me. Here goes for another round of the table !" And accordingly he sent them sliding along the polished surface of the mahogany with great energy. This was in a manner holding the parson's hobby by the head; but Saul did it, as he did everything, kindly and gently, and the good old chaplain dismounted as graciously as if Saul had bowed down with uncovered head and held the stirrup. The bottles performed their circuit, undiminished by a single glass, so we all rose and went to the drawing-room. Do you know, my dear Anthony, it is quite a magnificent sight to my mind to see the after-dinner entry of gentlemen en masse into the drawing-room. As the eagle flutters the sweet inmates of the dove-cote, so the triumphant advance of the male sex breaks into the formal row around the fire, invades the sanctity of the sofa or the ottoman, though every inch of it be garrisoned by the fair ones, penetrating into the most remote corners to which young ladies withdrawn themselves, and sitting down before the most inaccessible prudes and holding them in a state of siege. As the chess-board, which looks dull enough while the white and black pieces keep guardedly asunder, becomes an object of interest to every looker on when the hostile colours are intermixed in a general may have melee-so the animation and picturesqueness of the drawing-room is infinitely heightened when we see in every part of it the pantaloons chequering the petticoats, and the black dress of the men interposed between, and, by contrast, setting off the lighter hues in which the fair sex delight to array themselves. Then what charming groups one sometimes discovers if he has only the luck to steal in unawares, and keeps a sharp look out about him. Here a couple of girls beside a small table, poring over prints, and it may be the arm of one thrown over the neck or round the waist of the other; or some languid and pale-faced woman reposing on that couch withdrawn a little from the fireside, while seated beside her on a low stool is a bright-eyed little one, who looks up laughingly in her face till she wins from her graver companion a smile or a caress; and then the piano-forte is sure to have its swarm of the sweetest clustering about it, for I have ever observed that they who love music most are themselves the most loveable; and though musicians are not necessarily beauties, yet trust me, my dear Anthony-and I flatter myself I know something about the matter that musical women, in nine cases out of every ten, have deep, full eyes, gentle faces, and pleasing manners. When I entered the drawing-room I cast my eyes around me, as my wont is, to select the party to which I should attach myself. The elderly ladies buried in the deep-cushioned chairs, were not particularly attractive, but I heard Abigail's voice in very earnest discussion, and I instinctively made my way towards it. I found her and Matilda in a warm debate on the subject of music, and I was instantly appealed to as an umpire. "Jonathan," said Abigail, "I maintain that we can enjoy music better in the daylight and sunshine than at any other period. Of course I am right?” "And I, cousin," said Matilda, "believe that the shadows of evening, or the glimmering of the moon, or the starlight, is the hour when we can most keenly appreciate sweet sounds. What say you?” "A difficult question to answer, truly; and yet, you are each right in part." "How so, most sapient cousin ?" cried Abigail. "There is a class of music, my dear Abigail, which sympathises best with light and life, with sunshine and animation. Such in general is the music of animate life. The carol of jocund birds, as they rise on the wing, or greet the sunbeams from thicket and tree. Such too is military music, the braying of the brazen trumpet, and the cheery sound of the shrill fife, for they speak of bustle, and things that stir the spirit; and such too was, I doubt not, the pipe of the shepherd upon the plains in the days when shepherds piped in good earnest. But," I continued, turning to Matilda, "there is a music deeper, intenser, more spiritual, which claims no kindred with the grosser things of day, which shrinks from glare and noise, and needs subdued light and holy silence to make itself felt. A music that, like the stars, comes out only in tranquil night. Shakspeare, who knew nature by instinct better than any other human being did by education, was of my mind. Remember how he places Lorenzo and Jessica : "The moon shines bright-in such a night as this, "And again, Lorenzo says: "How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank, "Portia, too, when she hears the strain, exclaims: Methinks it sounds much sweeter than by day.' "And Nerrissa replies.— "Silence bestows that virtue on it, madam.' |