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Poverty and misery
always seem to jar more at the time when the whole world makes
merry. We took an entire week off to keep Christmas in. Till after
New Year's Day no one thought of anything else. The "Holy Eve" was
the greatest of the year. Then the Domkirke shone with a thousand
wax candles that made the gloom in the deep recesses behind the
granite pillars seem deeper still, and brought out the picture
of the Virgin Mary and her child, long hidden under the whitewash
of the Reformation, and so preserved to our day by the very means
taken to destroy it. The people sang the dear old hymns about the
child cradled in the manger, and mother's tears fell in her hymn-book.
Dear old mother! She had a house full, and little enough to manage
with; but never one went hungry or unhelped from her door. I am
a believer in organized, systematic charity upon the evidence of
my senses; but--I am glad we have that one season in which we can
forget our principles and err on the side of mercy, that little
corner in the days of the dying year for sentiment and no questions
asked.


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