"Dickens' Christmas message in the 1851 Christmas
edition of his weekly magazine, Household Words, reminds readers to remember
those who have passed and to cherish their memory as part of the celebration
of the holiday.
Dickens himself had recently lost his father John Dickens, his infant
daughter Dora, his sister Fanny, and her crippled son Henry Jr. He also
remembers, as always, Catherine's sister Mary, a dear girl--almost a
woman--never to be one, who had died in 1837."
David Perdue, On
Charles Dickens
Christmas is more than a time
of joy and gift-giving and receiving presents. It is a time to recall
our blessings and to gain strength in the grace and bosom of our families.
And above all it is a time to remember that greatest, almost incomprehensible
gift in all history, how our Lord made himself as us, and as we are of him,
and came to us in the flesh, the incarnation of love.
And thereby those of us who are no longer present in body at the Christmas
hearth may still be there in spirit with us, as we will some day be with
them. Not bound up in crippling self-pity, not immobilized by faceless
fear, not fleeting as a merely morose remembrance, but to be there vitally in
our lives as our good angels, reminding us that the Christmas spirit is to be
found in 'active usefulness, perseverance, cheerful discharge of duty,
kindness and forbearance.' This is how we may not only honor and
cherish their memory, but actually live again in love with them.
What greater gift could we possibly desire to receive, than the ability to do
good, to persevere in love, and to thereby live in the love of those for whom
we care and who care for us, always? That gift is there, if only we
will not shut the door of our hearts, and be open to it.
Christmas is a time of life, remembrance, and love.
What Christmas Is As We Grow Older
By Charles Dickens
Household Words, 1851
Time was, with most of us, when Christmas Day encircling all our limited
world like a magic ring, left nothing out for us to miss or seek; bound
together all our home enjoyments, affections, and hopes; grouped everything
and every one around the Christmas fire; and made the little picture shining
in our bright young eyes, complete...
And is our life here, at the best, so constituted that, pausing as we advance
at such a noticeable mile-stone in the track as this great birthday, we look
back on the things that never were, as naturally and full as gravely as on
the things that have been and are gone, or have been and still are? If it be
so, and so it seems to be, must we come to the conclusion that life is little
better than a dream, and little worth the loves and strivings that we crowd
into it?
No! Far be such miscalled philosophy from us, dear Reader, on Christmas Day!
Nearer and closer to our hearts be the Christmas spirit, which is the spirit
of active usefulness, perseverance, cheerful discharge of duty, kindness and
forbearance! It is in the last virtues especially, that we are, or should be,
strengthened by the unaccomplished visions of our youth; for, who shall say
that they are not our teachers to deal gently even with the impalpable
nothings of the earth!
Therefore, as we grow older, let us be more thankful that the circle of our
Christmas associations and of the lessons that they bring, expands! Let us welcome
every one of them, and summon them to take their places by the Christmas
hearth...
Welcome, everything! Welcome, alike what has been, and what never was, and
what we hope may be, to your shelter underneath the holly, to your places
round the Christmas fire, where what is sits open- hearted! In yonder shadow,
do we see obtruding furtively upon the blaze, an enemy's face? By Christmas
Day we do forgive him! If the injury he has done us may admit of such
companionship, let him come here and take his place. If otherwise, unhappily,
let him go hence, assured that we will never injure nor accuse him.
On this day we shut out Nothing!
"Pause," says a low voice. "Nothing? Think!"
"On Christmas Day, we will shut out from our fireside, Nothing."
"Not the shadow of a vast City where the withered leaves are lying
deep?" the voice replies. "Not the shadow that darkens the whole
globe? Not the shadow of the City of the Dead?"
Not even that. Of all days in the year, we will turn our faces towards that
City upon Christmas Day, and from its silent hosts bring those we loved,
among us. City of the Dead, in the blessed name wherein we are gathered
together at this time, and in the Presence that is here among us according to
the promise, we will receive, and not dismiss, thy people who are dear to us!
Yes. We can look upon these children angels that alight, so solemnly, so
beautifully among the living children by the fire, and can bear to think how
they departed from us. Entertaining angels unawares, as the Patriarchs did,
the playful children are unconscious of their guests; but we can see
them--can see a radiant arm around one favourite neck, as if there were a
tempting of that child away.
Among the celestial figures there is one, a poor misshapen boy on earth, of a
glorious beauty now, of whom his dying mother said it grieved her much to
leave him here, alone, for so many years as it was likely would elapse before
he came to her-- being such a little child. But he went quickly, and was laid
upon her breast, and in her hand she leads him.
There was a gallant boy, who fell, far away, upon a burning sand beneath a
burning sun, and said, "Tell them at home, with my last love, how much I
could have wished to kiss them once, but that I died contented and had done
my duty!" Or there was another, over whom they read the words,
"Therefore we commit his body to the deep," and so consigned him to
the lonely ocean and sailed on. Or there was another, who lay down to his
rest in the dark shadow of great forests, and, on earth, awoke no more. O
shall they not, from sand and sea and forest, be brought home at such a time!
There was a dear girl--almost a woman--never to be one--who made a mourning
Christmas in a house of joy, and went her trackless way to the silent City.
Do we recollect her, worn out, faintly whispering what could not be heard,
and falling into that last sleep for weariness? O look upon her now! O look
upon her beauty, her serenity, her changeless youth, her happiness! The
daughter of Jairus was recalled to life, to die; but she, more blest, has
heard the same voice, saying unto her, "Arise for ever!"
We had a friend who was our friend from early days, with whom we often
pictured the changes that were to come upon our lives, and merrily imagined
how we would speak, and walk, and think, and talk, when we came to be old.
His destined habitation in the City of the Dead received him in his prime.
Shall he be shut out from our Christmas remembrance? Would his love have so
excluded us?
Lost friend, lost child, lost parent, sister, brother, husband, wife, we will
not so discard you! You shall hold your cherished places in our Christmas
hearts, and by our Christmas fires; and in the season of immortal hope, and
on the birthday of immortal mercy, we will shut out Nothing!
The winter sun goes down over town and village; on the sea it makes a rosy
path, as if the Sacred tread were fresh upon the water. A few more moments,
and it sinks, and night comes on, and lights begin to sparkle in the
prospect. On the hill-side beyond the shapelessly-diffused town, and in the
quiet keeping of the trees that gird the village-steeple, remembrances are
cut in stone, planted in common flowers, growing in grass, entwined with
lowly brambles around many a mound of earth. In town and village, there are
doors and windows closed against the weather, there are flaming logs heaped
high, there are joyful faces, there is healthy music of voices.
Be all ungentleness and harm excluded from the temples of the Household Gods,
but be those remembrances admitted with tender encouragement! They are of the
time and all its comforting and peaceful reassurances; and of the history
that re-united even upon earth the living and the dead; and of the broad
beneficence and goodness that too many men have tried to tear to narrow
shreds.
