It seems almost like having been in two places at once to be able to tell from observation a Christmas Tale of Two Cities. First there was Stuttgart, where the sun was pouring down warm and summerish on the hills around the city, and where we were borne away on the glad tide that went sweeping along towards Christmas under the fairest skies that ever smiled on saint or sinner in mid-winter, until it grew so near the time we almost heard the Christmas bells. And then there was Hamburg, to which place—having consigned ourselves to the tender mercies of a sleeping coupÉ—we went rushing off through the night, and found the dear, glad Christmas just going to happen there, too, and the great Northern city seemed very noisy and bold and out-in-the-world after Stuttgart, nestled so snugly among its hills.

Hamburg has, however, its quiet spots, if you seek them under the great elms in the suburbs, or among the quaint streets in the oldest portions of the city. One of the very stillest places is a paved court by St. George's Church, where the little, old houses of one story all look towards three great crosses in an octagonal enclosure, on which Christ and the two thieves hang, and Mary and John stand weeping below. It has always been still there when we have passed through, though close to the busy streets. It is a place with a history, I am sure. Indeed, what place is not? But it is reticent and knows how to keep its secrets. Perhaps Dickens might have made something out of the grave, small houses that have been staring at the crosses so many long years.

A very good place for moralizing, too, is down by the Elbe, where the great ships from all quarters of the earth lie, and you hear Dutch and Danish sailors talking, and don't understand a word. There commerce seems a mighty thing, and the world grows appallingly great, and you feel of as much importance in it as the small cat who sits meditatively licking her paws down on the tug-boat just below you.

But this was to be more or less about Christmas. Christmas in general is something about which there is nothing to say, because it sings its own songs without words in all our hearts; but a story of one particular Christmas may not be amiss here, since it tells of a pretty and graceful welcome which Germans knew how to give to a wanderer,—a welcome in which tones of tenderness were underlying the merriment, and delicate consideration shaped the whole plan.

In a room radiant, not with one Christmas-tree, but with five,—a whole one for each person being the generous allowance,—stood a lordly fir, glistening with long icicles of glass, resplendent with ornaments of scarlet and gold and white. The stars and stripes floated proudly from its top; unmistakable cherries of that delectable substance, Marzipan, hung in profusion from its branches; and at its base stood the Father of his Country. George, on this occasion, was a doll of inexpressibly fascinating mien, arrayed in a violet velvet coat, white satin waistcoat and knee-breeches, lace ruffles, silver buckles, white wig, and three-cornered hat, and wearing that dignified, imperturbable Washingtonian expression of countenance which one would not have believed could be produced on a foreign shore. He held no hatchet in his hand, but graciously extended a document heavily sealed and tied with red, white, and blue ribbons.

This document was written in elegant and impressive English. A very big and fierce-looking American eagle hovered over the page, which was also adorned by the arms of the German Empire and of Hamburg. The purport of the document was that George Washington, first President of the United States, did herewith present his compliments to a certain wandering daughter of America, wishing her, on the part of her country, family, and friends,

“A merry Christmas and happy New Year,”

and “all foreign authorities, corporations, and private individuals were enjoined to promote, by all legal means of hospitality and good-will, the loyal execution of the above-mentioned wishes.” It displayed the names of several highly honorable witnesses, and concluded:—

“Given under my hand and seal at my permanent White House residence, Elysium, 24th December, 1876.

—— “George Washington.”

And the seal bore the initials of the mighty man.

The tree yielded gifts many and charming, but the sweetest gift was the kindly thought that prompted the pretty device. Though one had to smile where all were smiling, yet was it not, all in all, quite enough to make one a little “teary roun' the lashes,” especially when one is very much “grown up,” and so has not the remotest claim upon the happy things that, “by the grace of God,” belong to the children? Such scenes make one feel the world is surely not so black as it is painted.

There was during the festivities, later, a bit of mistletoe over the door, which, in an indirect, roundabout way, through our ancestral England, was also meant as a tribute to America, and which caused much merriment during the holidays in a family unusually blessed with cousins in assorted sizes. When certain flaxen-haired maidens felt that their age and dignity did not permit them to indulge in such sports, and so resisted all allurements to stand an instant under the mistletoe-bough, what did the bold young student cousins? Each seized a twig of green and stood it up suggestively in a cousin's fair braided locks, when she was at last “under the mistletoe,” and

“I wad na hae thought a lassie

Wad sae o' a kiss complain!”

None but the brave deserve the fair, and then—lest any one should be shocked—they were positively all cousins, and when they were more than five times removed I can solemnly affirm I think it was the hand only that was gallantly lifted to the lips of Cousin Hugo, or Cousin Rudolph, or Cousin Siegfried; and, if I am mistaken after all, Christmas comes but once a year, and youth but once in a lifetime.

At the theatre, Christmas pieces were given especially for the children. The Stadt Theatre one evening was crowded with pretty little heads, the private boxes full to overflowing; and across the body of the house a great, solid row of orphan girls in a uniform of black, with short sleeves and a large white kerchief pinned soberly across the shoulders. They wear no hats in winter, nor do common housemaids here. A friend in Stuttgart remarked innocently to a servant who was walking with her to the theatre one bitter cold night, “Why, Luise, you'll freeze; you ought to wear a hat or hood.” “No, indeed!” said the girl, quite repudiating the idea, “I am no fraÜlein.” They do not seem to suffer any evil consequences, never having known anything different, and perhaps the little orphans, too, are not so cold as they look. It may be they are made to go bareheaded, to teach them their station and humility, but it seems a miracle that it does not teach them influenza. The little things were in the seventh heaven of delight, and the play a bit of pure, delicious nonsense,—a fairy-tale with an old, familiar theme,—the three golden apples and the three princesses who pluck them, and in consequence are plunged into the depths of the earth, where a fire-breathing dragon is their keeper; the despair of their royal father, who is a portly old gentleman with a very big crown, and his proclamation that whoever, high or low, shall rescue them may wed them; then the procession that sets out in search of the missing maidens, with the tailor, the gardener, and the hunter in advance, and the adventures of the three, until the hunter, who is the beautiful, good young man who always succeeds,—in fairy-tales,—finally rescues the princesses, and marries the youngest and loveliest, while the tailor and gardener, who have conducted themselves in a treacherous and unseemly manner, are punished according to the swift retribution that always overtakes offenders—in fairy-tales.

The action was extremely rapid, the scenery very effective; there were perfect armies of children on the stage, some of whom danced a kind of Chinese mandarin ballet, and some of whom represented apes, and also danced in the suite of the Prince of Monkeyland, one of the rejected suitors of the princesses. In actual life the Prince of Monkeyland is, unfortunately, not always rejected. There was a pretty scene when the sunlight streamed through the Gothic windows of an old castle, and red-capped dwarfs hopped about the stone floor, and played all sorts of pranks by the old well. And then there was the man in the moon, with his lantern; and all the women in the moon, who were blue, filmy, misty creatures, bowing and swaying in a way that made the children through the house scream with laughter; and these moony maidens were so very ethereal they could only speak in a whisper, and almost fainted when the hunter, who happened to be up that way, addressed them.

“Speak softly, softly, noble stranger,” they implored, in a whispering chorus, shrinking from him in affright, with their hands on their ears. “Thy voice is like a thunder-clap.”

It was certainly one of the prettiest spectacular dramas imaginable, with its innocent, droll plot; and to see a good old-fashioned fairy-tale put on the stage so well, and to see it with hundreds of blissful, ecstatic children, was thoroughly enjoyable.

Through the holidays social life here seems to resolve itself chiefly into great family gatherings, and the custom of watching the old year out is very general. One party of between thirty and forty persons, being only brothers and sisters with their children, was a charming affair. The dignified played whist, and the frivolous sang and were merry in other rooms. Tea and light cakes were served frequently during the evening, from the arrival of the guests until the supper at eleven, when the long table was brilliant with choice glass and silver and flowers; and fresh young faces and sweet, benign elderly ones were gathered around. A family party can be a dismal, dreary assembling of incongruous elements that make one soul-sick and weary of the world, or it can be a tender, cheery, blessed thing. There are, indeed, many varieties of family parties. Most of the large ones are perhaps no better than they ought to be; but this gathering of a clan happened to possess the intangible something that cheers and charms.

There were jests and toasts and laughter and blushes, and there was a wonderful punch, brewed by the eldest son of the house in an enormous crimson glass punch-bowl,—which, like the “Luck of Edenhall,” “made a purple light shine over all,”—and dipped out with a gold ladle; and its remarkably intoxicating ingredients, particularly the number of bottles of champagne poured in at the last, I shall never divulge.

The host rose just before midnight, and alluded briefly to certain losses, and causes for sadness experienced by the family during the year; yet they were still, he said very simply, united, loving, and hopeful; he then gave the toast to the New Year, and they all drank it heartily, standing, as the clock was striking twelve, after which was a general movement through the room, warm greetings, hand-pressures and kisses, and suspicious moisture about many eyes, though lips were smiling bravely.

Then came a walk home through the great city, whose streets were crowded full at two o'clock in the morning. “Prosit Neujahr! Prosit Neujahr!” sounded everywhere, far and near. A band of workmen, arm in arm, tramp along in great jollity, pushing their way and greeting the whole world. “Prosit Neujahr!” they cry to the young aristocrat; “Prosit Neujahr!” is the hearty response. For an hour all men are brothers, and everybody turns away from the sad old year, and gives an eager welcome to the new young thing, whom we trust, though we know him not. Above the surging multitude, and the hoarse, loud voices and impetuous hearts, and wild welcoming of the unknown, the starlit night seems strangely still, and the quiet moon shines down on the great frozen Alster basin, around which reaches the twinkling line of city lights. Beyond are the city spires. “Round our restlessness His rest,” says some one softly; and so

Prosit Neujahr!