CHAPTER XXIX. THE WING OF THE ANGEL.
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The merry Christmas came; Christmas so full of rejoicing
and gay-hearted laughter—which men looked forward
to in the old time as to a blessed day of mingled
joy and thanksgiving; which rose in every heart like an
incarnate laugh—like a great snow-clad giant bearing
on his stalwart shoulders all good cheer, as brawn, and
mighty rounds of beef, and foaming tankards, and flagons
full of ale and “sack and sugar” (no “fault” in any
quantity)—and rolling from his bearded lip shaken with
merriment, tidings of joy, and merry jests and quips;
tidings of love and peace, and hopeful words for old and
young, in cabin and in stately hall; and still again in
every pause of the full-handed laughter, tidings of joy
and love, tidings of love and peace!
The organs rolled aloft their blessed promise of the
peaceful other world. The lips of young singing maidens
uttered that promise in the pauses of the storm; the
great music-storm which clashed and roared along the
fretted roofs of mightiest cathedrals, drowning every
sound but that low silent voice which ever floated in like
some enchanting murmur, louder than thunder, stiller
than the whisper of the lightest wind, the voice which
soared, a divine harmony above the whole, and said to
every heart—“Peace and good-will, peace and good-will,
peace and good-will to all mankind!”
Children were merry every where, and old men glad.
Relations gathered once more round the board at which
they had sat, little boys and girls once; all were for the
time quite other men and women than those scheming
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ones, whom the great surges of the world had swept
away from all their youth and innocence, to struggle in
the sea of bitter thoughts, and never-ceasing yearnings and
desires.
Christmas, in one word, once again had come to shower
blessings on the earth; the poor cold earth, weary and
very sick; and at his approach the snow-clad lowlands
and the mountain land alike, smiled with new joy and
youth.
At Doctor Courtlandt's hospitable board all his old
neighbors who would leave their homes were assembled.
Miss Emberton and her brother and Monsieur Pantoufle
from the Glades were there; and Mr. and Mrs. Courtlandt
from the Parsonage—the girls too—and even the
old worn out hunter John had come, well wrapped up in
furs, to welcome again, surrounded by his friends, the
advent of the time.
Hunter John was very feeble and tottering; his sands
of life were well-nigh run, and he seemed to see the hour
plainly now was at hand when his old body must return
to dust, and his soul to him who gave it.
They all took their seats round the hospitable board;
and then commenced the merry laughter, and the friendly
wishes for health and happiness, which those good honest
people were accustomed to utter on such occasions.
Caroline and Mr. Robert Emberton were very merry,
and Mr. Emberton seemed all at once to have lost his
unhappy feeling of ennui and lassitude; he was not
heard to complain of being bored once during the whole
day. Max and Alice, tranquilly happy, conversed with
their eyes alone—that eloquent and most expressive language
which needs no tongue to utter it. Doctor Courtlandt's
intended marriage with Miss Emberton was now
no secret, and the friendly voices round them, told them
plainly that myriads of good wishes would accompany
them to church.
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Why should we attempt to catch those merry accents,
trace those gayly uttered words, petrify here with a cold
pen those bursts of laughter, circling and crossing round
from side to side; why try to describe a Christmas dinner?
All know the original; the portrait would find
many critics. When the poor chronicler has told how
they attacked the viands, and emptied willingly many
full cups, how every moment laughter exploded in the
air, and how the merry jest went round, or better still
the health to absent friends;—when this is said, he has
told all, and for his pains has written a few lifeless words.
Much better leave the subject unattempted—leave the
scene purely to the imagination.
Old hunter John looked on with cordial eyes, but very
dim eyes; these merry sounds seemed to remind him of
his youth, floating to him not from the real lips around
him, but from the far land of dreams, and from those
lips, cold now so long, so long! As he listened, all the
past revived for him; the merry scenes; the border revelry
of old; the life and joy of that old time dead long,
long ago. He listened as in a dream; he heard again
those joyous youthful voices; his youth returned to him,
with its rubicund faces, and gay-dancing eyes, and jubilant
jests and laughter.
The old man raised his feeble head, venerable with its
gray locks now nearly blown away by the chill wind of
age, and sought to erect his drooping shoulders. But
overcome by weakness he sank down, his forehead on his
arm, murmuring, “The arrows of the Almighty are
within me; blessed be the name of the Lord.”
They raised him, and bore him in the midst of a great
show of sympathy, to a chamber; a mist seemed to obscure
his eyes, which he sought with a motion of the
hand to dispel. Stretched comfortably on a soft bed, he
revived however, and seemed to regain his strength, and
would have risen.
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Doctor Courtlandt forbade this, and advised him to remain
quiet. The old man smiled, and shook his head.
“I believe you are right, neighbor,” he said, “I'm goin'—
most nigh given out. But tell 'em not to be uneasy
on my 'count. I'm only mighty weak.”
“You are no worse, my good old friend,” the Doctor
replied, “than you have often been of late. This was
only a sudden weakness which you will get over. It was
vertigo.”
“Anan?” said hunter John.
“Your head was full of blood from the riding. You'll
soon recover.”
The old man smiled faintly.
“Well, Doctor,” he said, “go down and cheer 'em up.'
Seems to me they ain't laughin'.”
The Doctor after giving some directions went out, leaving
Mrs. Courtlandt—a famous nurse, and one who delighted
in doing all a nurse's offices—with him. Hunter
John turned his face to the wall, and remained silent.
Suddenly he felt an arm round his neck. He turned,
and a tear dropped on his old wan cheek.
“Alice!” he said.
The child—she was scarcely more—clung closer around
his neck; and thus locked in a close embrace, the old
man and his darling Alice, rested happily.
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Cooke, John Esten, 1830-1886 [1854], Leather stocking and silk, or, Hunter John Myers and his times: a story of the valley of Virginia. (Harper and Brothers, New York) [word count] [eaf515T].
