Montgomery County sentinel. [volume] (Rockville, Md.) 1855-1974, 1892-12-30
IN THE CHRISTMAS SEASON AND
BEFORE THE NEW YEAR.

the entertainment Oh our readers IN Tue |
dying hours of the old year-how the |
buried germs Of the past, and the half-for. |
gotten burst into the beauty Of the days
which
"Have gone glimmering through the dream
of things that were"
Yes, there are strings in every heart.
Strings that were not spun in a factory
built with hands-not stolen from q silk
worms shroud-cords Of nobler harp than
Apollo swept, that sometimes play Eolean
to the wings Of angel thought How like
the soft and silken rustic Of curtain, how
like a veil Of golden gauze trailing through
the air come its melodies as they are touched
by memory's zephyr. How sweetly the
music falls on the listening heart-how
mournfully swell the chimes as they tell Of
the days that are no more-of hopes that
have been crushed, broken and which lie
withered on the heart. But let's muffie the
bells of memory for moment, and lass on.
Some author, whose name we cannot re-
call at present, has said that fixed holidays
and festivals are not salutary." "Let the
young" he wrote, "be taught to draw their
happiness from the present. Let them make
the most of that which now is. To be look
ing forward or backward to some day chris
tened happy or merry is enough to breed
disaffection to vulgar time, and bring por-
ton of the calendar into disrespect" A
worse argument, or colder, idier tit-bit of
philosophy was never set forth On what
pinnacle of reason did this Plato poser I'm
agine all the little boys in round.a bouts
throughout the world trained up by arbi'
trary injunction to be happy all the time.
Christmas, with its vacation, its mirth and
its gifts, is coming What Of that my dear
little fellows. Every day is alike. There is
no such being as Santa Claus, and never
has been since chimneys were built Attend
to your books, make most Of the hours as
they pass. Imagine, we say, all the solemn
little urchins in a row, hemmed in by the
dead walls of the school room, would they
not become saffron and cadaverous as the
money getting men whose year is not even
bright,speckled by Sundays and is like a
monotonous dream OF dollars broken in two
by some awful convulsionY
What if anticipation were abolished, and
the memory OF past pleasures were no longer
sweet? Blessed be the Illuminated peaks Of
time, sun.gilt and temple crowned. Plod
ding through the dull hours, over dead flats
of weary liie over the sharp rocks of ardu-
Gus duty and responsibility, from the deep
gulis of deep detection, we see the bright
hlll-tops ahead. Then does thedrooping wing
become like the golden feathers of dove
Sweet be the wales which lie beyond, from
which we look back upon the rosy hours Of
the eve, the sumptuous light OF the setting
sun.
Instead of having no festivals, we have
need of more in poverty stricken calendar
The days will not be jealous of each other.
Whoever heard of fight between Monday
and Tuesday? For current time will divide
itself into eras-days marked by white
stone, anniversaries of joy or sorrow-which
we will at least secretly cherish as they pass
by. Human nature knows its wants, and
the recollections of birthdays is founded in
its hottest and best laws, and if wicked
Utilitarianism should erase the Golden Let
tiers, abrogate feasts, and untwine the festive
garlands from the happiest of them all, the
very act would constitute bad anniversary.
These remembrances arethe very sentiment
of lite, and encroach upon the inroads of an
essential worldiness We think that joy is
not less sacred than sorrow, the one with
its coronals, the other with its sable weeds,
its cypress and its rosemary, and each has
its times and seasons and outward tokens
There is nothing good In the world without
its tokens No man liveth to himself, and
no man dieth TO himself Who likes to be
glad in corner, letting his stomach dim.
Pile with stingy, chucklng, gurging gig.
gley 1t is perfectly amazing TO US, that so.
called good people have taken up such a
horrid antipathy TO all kinds Of festive Gus.
toms and recreations which have sprung up
in the ordinary progress of society, and
they will snap the knitted hands of rosy
children in an innocent dance to the sound
of viol, while they cannot shake mate
rial lash over the subtle, sordid, immaterial
spirit OF greed and lust of gain. They will
say, scan you go from these things to your
Bonded knee ~ And wherefore not let us
ask. For even the hilarity, which is to be
nnnd.mnsd arcln1as far tho ,;n,a hainu /, IA A
gnawing worm of envy, malgnities, and
carking cares, nnchristian discomfort, and
cursed tends. Such ideas we cannot help
associating with the sickness of hypocrisy.
From whatever system Of reasoning they
spring, they are wrong aud bad, throwing
a doubt and a suspicion over things which
ought to be as free and fresh as the rose
just wetted with the dews They give false
views of life, spread a color of jaundice over
innocence, skim off the rich milk from
our daily cup, leaving blue, sickly pool
beneath.
Olden usage is not yet dead. Keep up
the time honored customs. Reflect, like true
philosophers, how much of our happiness
we owe TO little things. Chase not away
those bright smiles from the faces of the
young, because the cheeks now radiant with
animation have in days gone by, as alas !
they will be yet again, trickled over by tears,
OF all festivals, the glad Christmas season
is most looked for with eager joy. Short as
the days OF December are, the approach and
continuation Of the season brings and car.
ries with ii a contagious joy.
And now, as we pause TO say good.by TO
the dying year, whilst the wind is signing
around the corner, singing at the windows,
shrieking and bowling through the forests I;
and The trees, hard by, stand shivering in
the gusts, dismantled and desolate, what a
troop of memories come settling around us
like the evening shades creeping slowly
down the mountain sides Memories
beads from shivered necklace, some still
hrillian nj in The onan eunlioht an. hlau.e If n