Christmas Echoes for Christmas Hearths

Preface

. E wish you a merry Christmas ! A merry Christmas ! how our hearts throb at the words, and still the greeting passes from lip to lip, from soul to soul, till the whole wide world echoes and re-echoes the sound, and earth's many voices seem all united in one loud universal chorus. Who has not felt the sweet expectancy of Christmastide ? Ah, who ? Who amongst us can look back to a Christmas without a sorrow, sin, or unfulfilled hope? Oh then, looking back, gather up the echoes of past seasons, learn a lesson from their teachings, and in so doing the present shall be a blessed, glorious time, a time of receiving and not of expectancy only, a time when perchance the Babe of Bethlehem shall be born anew into many a cold grey life, a time when meeting friends shall think of the great reunion and gather strength for partings yet to come.

So we rejoice in the genial glow of our Christmas hearths, for with the joy of the season encircling us who can be sad or gloomy ? Only, I pray you amid it all listen Preface. VIII to the echoes of past years, and so their errors will be blotted out in this, and the blessings awaiting you be threefold. Again the old, old greeting floats around, and taking advantage of the general chorus, we say : " A Merry, Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year, to you all ! " EMILIE SEARCHFIELD. Cljrbfmas (£s|j0£S. \:SEEN hands are weaving, In forest, bower, and grove, Dead leaves, faded leaves, Flushed with sunset glory, Into a crown ; ■ To deck the old man's elfin locks, Weirdly streaming down, Tossed by wild winds as they rove : To crown old Christmas hoary. Unseen hands are weaving, Beside the glowing hearth, Sweet dreams, faded dreams Of golden memory, Into a crown ; Childhood's tender shadowy joys, Visions of renown, Youth's fair garlands, not of earth : A crown for Christmas hoary.

Unseen hands are weaving, Where outcasts roam and weep, Hard words, cruel words, The echoes of a story, They form no crown, — Of sin and sorrow, woe and pain, Peace for ever flown : 'Tis but a wreath of anguish deep No crown for Christmas hoary. Unseen hands are weaving, Where Christmas echoes roll, Bright thoughts, glowing thoughts. Bathed in fadeless glory, Into a crown : High aspirations, hopes, desires, Seeds of kindness sown, Holy yearnings of the soul, — A crown for Christmas hoary. Tiwuthu Quills' Bream. Love took up the harp of life, and smote on all the chords with might, Smote on the chord of self, that, trembling, passed in music out of si^ht. — Tennyson. Ctmo% (gmlls' <§xmm.

Chapter I

?E had dreamt that dream before, or something very like it ! Timothy Quills was quite sure of it, even ere he was thoroughly awake ; and back, back, through a long vista of dreary years, his thoughts wandered, until the church clock striking seven warned him that it was time to be stirring. Timothy Quills was a schoolmaster ; but I strongly sus pect that mother Nature intended him in the first place to fill some other post; but when she by some mischance made one leg and foot shorter, smaller, and weaker than the other, she whispered to John and Mary, his parents, that the lad must get his living by his head, as he could not work in the fields like his strong, sturdy brother. So when every one, clergyman, schoolmaster, and all, gave it as their opinion that Timothy possessed talent and application, which, if improved, would be useful both to himself and the rest of mankind, it became their most earnest desire that Tim should become a scholar.

And Tim became a scholar, not a brilliant one, 'tis true, for he was not clever as some had supposed ; but he plodded on carefully, until at length he had reached the climax of his parents' ambition, and was a schoolmaster. Now I think you will agree with me in saying that he was not at all suited to the work when I tell you that his temper was both sour and stern, the conse quence most probably of his slight deformity and other wise delicate health. The children he taught never loved him ; even his own brother and sisters appeared half afraid of him, and never seemed glad to see him. " Tim is such a gentleman," they used to say among themselves ; " he talks a'most as fine as the parson, he don't want to have nothing to say to us." So Timothy grew morbid, as well as sour and stern, and kept all his thoughts locked up within his own bosom.

He sometimes spoke of his ailments to his mother when he went home on a Saturday, as he often did, his school being but four miles from his native village. But she, good soul, did not know how to comfort him, did not know how "her boy " craved for sympathy and love ; so she would tell him that " his affliction was what pleased God, and he must bear it " ; and then, her stock of consolatory speeches becoming exhausted, she would turn abruptly to some other subj ect. Now these weekly visits were of great importance to Timothy ; for ever since his childhood he had loved and admired one who, as the years sped by, seemed but to be removed farther from him. And yet this only made him love her the more. If she could have seen him on Satur day mornings surveying his sallow, careworn face in the glass, brushing his hair and arranging his necktie ; and above all, if she could have read the story of his intense, hopeless love in his grey eyes, I feel sure that she would have pitied him ; and after pity you know what comes next.

She was tall, graceful, and pretty, — pretty in her girlish freshness, nothing more ; and yet Timothy Quills worshipped her. Perhaps that was why the great desire of his heart was denied him. It was a happy day for Timothy whenever he chanced to meet his idol at his mother's cottage ; happier still if he could gather up courage enough to offer to escort her home, for Mary never refused him that privilege. She liked to hear him talk, and to feel that a "great scholar" like him loved her. But did she love him in return ? We shall see. In the meantime Timothy gave satisfaction to his em ployers, and his salary was raised. Mary too, he fancied, became more gentle in her ways : not nearly so high and mighty when she dropped in of a Saturday afternoon to chat with his sisters, and when he walked home with her afterwards he was quite sure that she was different, for her voice grew very soft when she spoke, and then her smiles when he looked into her face were almost enough to turn poor Tim's brain.

He dared not break the spell, he could not tell her of his love, for fear she should refuse him ; and yet he lived on, weaving bright threads into his grey, mo notonous life, till even the hard lines of his face grew softer, and his stern lip accustomed itself to smile. He taught better too in those days, and became altogether so much more pleasant and talkative that even John Quills noticed the change in his manner, and nodding sagaciously over his pipe came to the conclusion that " 'twas all owin' to Tim's goin' a courtin'. He could remember that his own tongue seemed a deal more lissome like when he courted his Mary than 'twas now." How quickly the days passed ! In after years Timothy remembered them as being the most happy, and yet the most intensely miserable, he had ever known. It was all very well while he was with Mary, listening to her voice, and watching the dimples and smiles upon her face ; but there were times when he was alone, and could think it all over, when he hated himself, and wished his figure were fine, and his poor worn face handsome, for her sake.

He could not even twirl his stick about like other young men, he needed its support. What was he for any woman to love, poor plain cripple as he was ! Oh, he was -wretched and rebellious in those days ; so who can wonder that God never gave him the desire of his soul ? He was not even thankful for his education ; he thought it only served to make him all the more sensitive ; he wished he was as strong, straight, and ignorant as Jack, for then perhaps he would not feel as he did. Jack was happy enough, and if he had only been like him he would have been happy too. Ah, Timothy ! as if you did not know that every Jack has his Jill, and consequently his own share of anxieties and heartaches. It did not last long, however ; the suspense came to an end at last, for one Saturday, when Mary came into his mother's as usual, Jack and the girls began joking her about some one else, and as Mary blushed and stammered Tim knew that there was no longer any chance for him.

There was no change in his manner, however, for when she rose to go Tim took his hat and stick as usual to accom pany her home, and Mary chatted softly all the way, till poor Tim thought himself a simpleton in supposing for one moment that she cared for him. " Of course, of course, he knew 'twas only pity she had felt all the while," and Tim struck his stick angrily upon the road when he was returning, and said over and over again that life was nothing to him now. He did not go home on Saturdays after that ; and when his brother Jack sometimes paid him a visit on Sundays, and inquired the reason, he said "he was not well." Every body said the same ; the clergyman pronounced him looking ill ; and the children, poor little souls, complained sadly of his grumbling, but as he seldom used the cane they did not care so much.

It came on so gradually too that no one noticed how really wasted and weak he was. Then there came a time when he gave up entirely for a few days, and the woman whom he hired to keep his cottage clean urged him to send for a doctor ; but he would not, he would not even hear of letting his own mother know of his ill ness. He had never known what-k was to be strong, and this weakness had been coming on so long that he even fancied, when the thought came that he could not live if the fearful pain and exhaustion he was suffering from con tinued much longer, that he was " giving way," and he was angry with himself accordingly. He denied himself nothing in the shape of comforts ; but as to having a doctor, and calling himself ill, that was en tirely out of the question. So after a few days he resumed his work, or rather took his old seat in the schoolroom : he could not work though ; his voice was too feeble to be heard, and his poor brain grew bewildered even at the sight of the familiar little faces around him.

Still he struggled against it, and after a few days seemed to be less weak, and then after that his strength began slowly to return. How he yearned for sympathy ! I think that if his mother had been there he would have told her all ; but it was summer time, and all hands were busy in the fields. Even Jack seemed to have forsaken him too ; but he knew the reason, for rumours had reached him of a "new maid servant at Farmer Watson's, that Jack seemed to be oncom mon took up with," so that there was no one to whom he could look for a kindly word. If his pupils had only loved him, he might have gathered strength from their looks and actions ; but they did not, so that he felt very, very lonely and miserable. He thought he would leave there, and get a school else where at some distance off, and begin anew.

Not that he had any hope left of being happy anywhere, he was too desponding for that ; but he would still have to work, and how could he do it there ? The harvest holidays came, and he said " good-bye " to the scene of his two years' labours without a sigh ; he was too selfish in his own sorrow to think of anything or any one else ; and although the clergyman and managers of the school respected him, they could not be sorry to have him go, for they knew that in his present condition he was less fit than he ever had been for his work. They were sorry for him, and said that change would do him good ; but when Tim agreed with them in the cold, stony way in which he always spoke now, they felt almost glad to be rid of him. If they had only known all that he had suffered, mentally and physically, they might have judged him more tenderly ; but they did not, only Tim and God knew that.

He was not a Christian : he knew the story of redeeming love by heart; he read the Bible daily, lived an outwardly good life : but a Christian must be something more, and Tim was not that. He would not have felt so lonely if he had. His mother and the neighbours were somewhat surprised at his altered appearance ; but he did not complain, so they never even guessed how ill he really was. It had always been his custom during his holidays to work in the garden, saying that " it did him good " ; and now, weak as he was, he was still expected to do it. He would fain have rested all day long ; but every one urged that a little outdoor work would strengthen him, as he was not quite as well as usual : so what had formerly been a pleasant change of occupation became a weary task. Oh, none knew how weary ; none knew of the utter exhaustion he felt, when in the evening he dragged his weary steps into the meadow behind the house, and lying down upon the soft grass watched the setting sun and the sparkling water in the distance !

Then, when the sunlight had faded and the clouds looked white and grey as usual, when the river had ceased to sparkle, and only flowed on darkly, singing its low monotonous song, he still lay there ; or else, wending his way to the water side, walked along the river's edge, thinking, oh ! so bitterly, of himself and the dreary life before him. Yet if he had known how frail and slender the thread of that life had been and still was, I think perhaps it might have aroused him to value it more. It was not good for him to linger by the river side, it filled his mind with horrible dim uncertainties, which another time he would have laughed at ; but looking into its depths as it glided along over the green vegetation which grew in the bed of the river, completely hiding in the dim evening light the bright yellow pebbles which lay beneath, the most ridiculous ideas seemed plausible, if only they spoke bitterly of life in general, and of his own in particular.

The low, sweet song of the river, which would have soothed him had the sun been shining, only served as food to his morbid fancies ; so that weak both in mind and body, with no strong staff of religion to lean upon, no thought of Jesus' great love to comfort him, he was very, very miserable. Yet with it all he grew stronger : life, precious life, gained the victory over death ; and no one knew how fierce the struggle had been between the two. In the meantime, Mary, " his Mary " as he had hitherto been wont to call her, was married ; he had seen the wedding procession pass by the garden gate, as they were on their way to the village church. Mary had even turned her head as if looking for some one ; but Tim kept in out of sight, he could not bear that she should smile upon him on her wedding morning.

He had heard the bells ringing merrily when all was over, speaking of joy and peace to the happy bride ; but to him they spoke of naught but anger and bitterness. At length the holidays were over. He had succeeded in getting another situation as schoolmaster at a distance of some forty miles from the scene of his troubles ; and he left home to begin his new work. The evening before he went away Jack asked him to go out into the meadow with him ; " he wanted to tell him something." Simple, kind hearted Jack would rather have bitten his tongue out than have pained any one ; and yet, as Tim listened to his brother's plain, unvarnished tale of honest love, it cut his heart sorely. To his praise be it said however that he did not let Jack guess the pain he was giving. Nay, he even went so far as to press his brother's hand, and hope that he would be very, very happy.

But when Jack furthermore hinted that the wedding would be very soon, and he should of course like Tim to come if he could get away from his school for a few days, he started nervously, and declined in such a strange manner that Jack, deeming the impossibility of getting leave of absence would cause a great disappointment to Timothy, proposed putting off the great event till Christmas, when holiday time would come round again. What Timothy said neither he nor his brother rightly knew, for the speech -he made was full of blunders and nervous hesitation ; but Jack understood that he was on no account to put off his marriage, for Tim would rather not be present, although, as he had said before, he wished them all happiness and prosperity. The two parted more kindly than they ever had before ; there was more brotherly union between them, for love had softened Jack wonderfully.

He could not understand Tim ; but somehow he felt for him, and although Tim's refusal of his invitation hurt his mind for the moment he knew by the distressed look upon his brother's face that it was not really unkindness which had prompted him ; and although he never suspected the real cause (for the idea of Tim's being in love had not entered Jack's mind) yet there was room in his heart, since it had been so expanded by love, to pity Tim, and, if need were, all the rest of the world. So Timothy went away, which brings me to the end of my first chapter without even having had time to hint as to the nature of Timothy Quills' Dream.

Chapter II

Time passes quickly, so some say, while others complain of the tardiness of his flight ; and yet as he moves along, his golden sands are flowing, always flowing, from one glass ; constantly, unceasingly flowing, for each man alike. If only we would all endeavour to live, and not merely exist, as some do ! if only each golden sand as it fell carried with it the remembrance of some good, kind, holy thought or action ! We should not then complain of the slow progress of time, neither should we regret his rapid flight. Still we must remember that, whether we wish it or not, we are each moment n earing eternity, and that each moment, trifling as it may appear when compared with a lifetime, helps to fit or unfit us for that glorious life awaiting us in the land where time is no longer known. The years which have passed since we last saw Timothy Quills have wrought a mighty change in him in some respects ; and yet the morning on which my story com mences found him not altogether faultless.

He was still an egotist, still wrapped up in self. Yet God's hand and God's word had been seen and recognised by him ; much of the old morbidness was gone, much of the sternness of his nature softened. Yes, he was learning, slowly to be sure, yet for all that, he was learning, to be a Christian. Eighteen years he had been living at Lynwood, yet in all that time he had made scarcely a single friend. The younger part of the village population came to his school to be taught, and left again to take their part in the toil and bustle of the world, without having gained one tender word or look from the studious man. Yet no one spoke ill of him. He kept to himself, they said, and injured nobody, while on the other hand the education of their children showed that he was very strict in doing his duty.

So far all was well ; but how very like he was to the servant who hid the talent in the earth ! Being buried did not lessen its value ; but where was the usury ? The talent would be but a talent in a hundred years' time, if left hidden in the ground. And 'how much treasure might Timothy Quills have laid up in heaven if only he had been genial and warm hearted in his intercourse with the world. If he had participated in the joys and sorrows around him he would have been less lonely ; other people's joys and sorrows would have been his own ; his sphere would have been wider ; his supply of food for thought, holy meditation, and thankfulness, larger. Every day he prayed, and taught others to do the same, "Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven"; yet he never did that will like the angels, cheerfully.

There was pleasure for him in his studies, yet it was after all a selfish pleasure ; shutting him out so much from the world that he entirely forgot at times but that he inhabited a little sphere of his own. He was not a ministering spirit ; he did not attempt to do God's will perfectly, else why was it that he was so little known and loved ? Once, and once only, he had opened his heart, and that was shortly after his arrival in Lynwood. A young man named Charles Weston, a teacher in the Sunday school, pitied him when he saw his pale, sickly face, and by degrees won so upon Timothy by the friendliness of his manner that the two became almost inseparable friends. Timothy was of service to young Weston in helping him on with his studies, and it was not long before the former found out that his friend had had his share of trouble as well as himself.

Charles Weston spoke of his lost love in a resigned gentle way ; she was dead, and his great comfort was in knowing that to the end he had possessed her pure undivided affection ; not one quarrel or unkind word rose up to vex him now she was gone, and Timothy sighed as he thought how comparatively easy Charles Weston's case was over his. How he came to speak of his trouble he never knew. Still you must not for one moment suppose that he dwelt at all upon his misplaced affection ; no, on the contrary Man- Clifford's name never passed his lips after the day upon which he discovered that his idol was not his, even to worship. He spoke to Charles Weston of his affliction, making a miserable attempt at the same time to ridicule his "ugly face " as he called it ; but Charles Weston could not understand such ridicule, and answered so feelingly and kindly that Tim never spoke to him so again.

Gradually he found himself copying his friend's gentle manner, and perhaps he would in time have entirely thrown off the reserve and shy ness habitual to him ; but Charles Weston left Lynwood for London, and then poor Timothy shrank back into himself again, feeling as lonely as ever. He was never so wretched though after that, for he had learnt to think differently upon many points. Charles Weston was a Christian ; you could not fail to recognise the power of Divine grace in the beautiful, even tenor of his life, and ere long Timothy fancied that he was one too. But a Christian would never live a life like his ! God's people, like the flowers of the field, must hold up their heads and catch the sunlight of heaven, or they can never thrive. Timothy Quills, while accepting the storms, and dull, grey fogs of life, never for one moment supposed that any part of the sunshine was for him ; consequently he never ex panded, never came to perfection.

But this dream ! It stirred the depths of his heart, roused the slumbering memories of the past, showing him that they were not dead as he had supposed but only lying dormant, gathering strength as it were, to return at the appointed time and overflow his very soul with their mighty flood. Eighteen years before, he had had a dream of being out upon a hot, sandy road, surrounded by a vast concourse of people, composed of rich and poor, old and young, sickly and strong. Yet Timothy noticed that in one respect all were alike ; each had some burden to carry. One poor man had a pair of crutches hugged closely in his arms, and Tim wondered how he managed to walk without their aid ; for both legs were dangling hopelessly from his body, not even touching the ground. Yet he moved on as fast as the others, as far as he could see.

Some had one thing, some another. Tim himself carried his stick, and he was sur prised to find how heavy it was ; while those who were healthy and strong (having no crutches, stick, spectacles, ear trumpet, medicine bottles, wooden legs, or in fact any thing denoting bodily infirmity to carry) bore on their shoulders huge wooden crosses. Yet it was surprising, con sidering the weight of the burdens they carried, and the scorching heat of the mid-day sun, to see how contented and even happy the greater part of them looked. Tim was not contented though. His stick, small as it was, seemed heavier than most of the other's burdens. He could not attribute its seeming weight to his own bodily weakness ; for there were many others in that vast company, compared with whom he was quite strong and well.

How was it that he stumbled along so helplessly, losing his breath every now and then, so as to be obliged to halt and regain it? He looked at a poor woman walking by his side ; she carried a widow's cap in her hand, and Tim noticed that it was slowly slipping from her hold. She was tottering too, as if its weight were more than she could bear. Just then another woman toiling along beneath a heavy cross seemed as if she were about to fall : instantly the widow's other hand was outstretched to save her companion, and then she her self no longer tottered ; but grasping the cap firmly, lovingly, still with one hand helping to support the other's cross, the two women walked on, apparently cheering each other as they went. The cripple dropped his crutch, and Tim watched to see who would pick it up.

He could not, that was certain ; for he was not permitted to lean upon his stick, and without it he feared he should fall. Presently a man carrying a pair c of spectacles came up, and from the way in which he groped about on the ground for the fallen crutches, it was evident that he was quite blind. He sighed heavily as he gave them back to their owner, and Tim heard the cripple say : " Thank you, my friend ! Maybe, I shall be able to do as much for you some day." His voice was breezy and pleasant ; but the blind man sighed again, more heavily than before. " Are you able to see at all ?" asked the one with the crutches, and there was real, deep feeling in his voice. " No, I'm as blind as a beetle !" replied the other. " Well, there are worse things to bear even than that," responded the cripple cheerily ; and Tim thought he was about to refer to his own disabled limbs ; but no, instead of that, the cripple pointed to where a man in the prime of life, with only here and there a silver thread showing among his black locks, walked proudly along, carrying his cross as if it were but a feather's weight.

Tim saw nothing at first to show that the man's case was a bad one ; but after looking stedfastly at the cross for a few minutes, it seemed to lose its former appearance, and although a cross still, it looked strangely like the figure of a young man. Something, he knew not what, told him that this proud man's cross was a disobedient, erring son. Tim saw how difficult it was for him to bear that cross, and not to stoop his fine figure ; he read the tale of bitter anguish and murdered pride in the father's face; and he, the man who had thought so much of his own troubles, found it in his heart to pity him. But the cripple was talking, and he turned to listen. " If your sight is quite gone, why do you still carry your spectacles ?" Tim heard him ask. " Oh ! to remind me of what was once, I suppose," the blind man replied wearily.