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T is a stormy, rainy day in the fall;
the wind rages at the windows; the
leaves are falling from the trees, and
for many days the sun has hidden
gr
her face behind the clouds, thus depriving men,
animals and vegetation of the sunshine so nec
essary for all of them.
In a small, plainly furnished room sits a
young man sunk in deep reveries. The lamp
on the table throws a dim light on a pale, in
telligent face, but which is full of sorrow and
despair. Off and on he buries his head in his
hands on the table and sighs deeply.
It is Franz Gruber, teacher and organist at
Arnsdorf, in Salzburg, Germany. As the sum
mer has disappeared, and the fall, with its
usual accompaniment of wind and rain, has
taken its place, so the sunshine has fled from
the heart of this young man, and worry, sor
row and despair have entered, leaving their
traces visible on the pale but handsome fea
tures of the young organist.
Franz Gruber’s beautiful young wife is
dangerously sick. Five years they have been
married—five years full of love and happiness.
All at once she is taken ill, and the young man
sits there all alone, sunk in deep, melancholy
reveries, his heart full of sad forebodings.
All at once he is aroused from his medita
tions; the door is thrown open, and Joseph
Mohr, his fatherly friend and priest at Ober
dorf, rushes in to the room, and, with smiles
on his face and cheerfulness in this voice he
slaps the young organist on the shoulder and
cries out: “Good evening, Franz! See what I
have here!” He draws a paper from his pocket
and continues: “You will be surprised at what
it is, Franz. It’s a poem, yes!—a poem, a
song which I have just completed—a Christ
mas song which we shall sing for the first time
on Christmas morning in our church. Oh, it is
beautiful, I assure you; I can feel it ; and I
want you to compose the music for it. I know
you can do it; you will find the right melody,
one that touches the heart of every one.”
But Franz Gruber looked up at his friend and
shook his head. Mechanically he took the pa
per and laid it on the table without looking
at it.
“No, Joseph,” he s aid, with trembling
voice, “I can not do it; not a note would come
from my soul, or if any should come they
would be nothing but discords or tones or sor
row and pain.”
Then Joseph Mohr, who, in his enthusiasm
and happiness over his poem, had not noticed
the pale and sorrowful face of his young
friend, started and cried out in bewilderment:
“For God’s sake, Franz, what’s the matter
with you? What has happened?”
Then Gruber opened his heart to his vener
able friend and told him all about his trou
bles.
*««**«««
Then came days full of anxiety and despair.
There was no improvement, no hope. The an
gel of death was approaching rapidly.
Again the storm rages at the windows. The
leaves have all fallen from the trees, and noth
ing is left but bare, dry branches. Instead of
THE STORY OF A CHRISTMAS SONG
By Carl TAeodore Wettstein.
THE GOLDEN AGE FOR WEEK OF JAN. 29, 1914.
rain, snow now covers the earth; and when, in
December, the Christmas angel came on his
annual tour, leaving his Christmas spirit in
every home, in every heart—the spirit of love
and happiness—then Franz Gruber stood,
crushed and in despair, at the lifeless body of
his dearly beloved wife, looking down with
broken heart upon a beautiful little girl of
about four years that knelt at the bed of her
mother, sobbing bitterly, as if her little heart
would break.
It is the evening before Christmas—
“Heiliger Abend” (Holy Eve) ,as the Ger
mans say. Franz Gruber again sits alone in
his room. It will be the first Christmas without
his dear wife since their marriage. He can not
forget his heavy loss. Again he sits there in
sad reveries; no relieving tears come to alle
viate the intense pain that still fills his heart.
The comforting words of his venerable friend
are not able to rouse him from his melancholy.
Even his best and truest friend—music, the
comforter of the soul— is not able to brines re
o
lief. Whenever he touches the keys of the lit
tle organ it brings out mournful melodies, and
he has not been able to compose a single new
song.
****###♦
All at once the church bells’ of the town ring
out in jubilant tones, reminding the people to
come to church in order to celebrate that one
“Holy Night” when the child was born whose
name today, after nineteen hundred years, is
on the lips and in the hearts of millions of peo
ple in every part of the world. Then, after
church, the Christmas tree is lighted and
“ Christkindchen ”* comes into every home, to
rich and poor—not in body, but in the spirit—
the real Christmas spirit, not a Santa Claus
spirit, which, I am very sorry to say, is replac
ing the Christian spirit in many American fam
ilies—and fills all hearts, young and old, with
love and happiness.
But the Christma schimes make no impres
sion on Franz Gruber. There is peace, heaven
ly peace, and joy and happiness all around him,
but no beam of this Christmas spirit finds its
way into the heart of our poor, suffering
friend, who sits there again all alone in his lit
tle room, thinking of his great loss, and recall
ing the happy years he has lived in company
with his beloved wife.
Suddenly the door of the next room is
thrown open, and, surrounded by the lustre of
many glittering candles on a large Christmas
tree, a little white angel comes running in;
she jumps upon her father’s lap, throws her
little arms around his neck, covers his face
with kisses from her sweet, rosy lips, and be
tween tears and laughter cries out: “Merry
Christmas, dear papa! Oh, now you must come
and see our Christmas tree and all the nice
things “Kristkindchen’ (Kriskindel) has
brought for you and me.”
Some of Gruber’s friends, under the leader
ship of Joseph Mohr, had arranged this surprise
without Franz Gruber having the least suspi
cion that such a Christmas festival was await
ing him.
Then the ice broke away from the young
man’s soul, the gates to his heart were opened,
melancholy and despair vanished, and heaven
ly peace took their place. Tears, refreshing
tears, at last came in streams from his
bringing relief to the soul of this poor, trou
bled young man. He clasped his dear little an
gel in his arms, pressed her to his heart, cov
ered her sweet face with kisses, and together
they went into the next room, where Joseph-
Mohr and a few intimate friends greeted the
young man affectionately.
Then his eyes fell on a little stable in the
corner of the room, with Mary and Joseph and
the Christchild in a manger, the shepherds
standing at the entrance, and a transparent
above the stable with that wonderful heavenly
message of the angels:
“Glory to God in the highest, peace on earth
and good will to men.”
Now Franz Gruber’s soul filled with heav
enly harmonies, and beautiful melodies fluctu
ated through his heart, inspired by his genius..
He sa wthe poem Joseph Mohr had brought
him some time ago; he read it ,sat down at the
organ, touched the keys, and, as if he wanted
to regain in melodies what he had neglected in
all these sad days and weeks, the tones rushed
and roared through the house, thus relieving
his burdened soul from all gloomy thoughts.
Then he fell into soft, beautiful fantasies, and
then and there the melody of that beautiful
song which Joseph Mohr had brought him was
born—a song and a melody which today, after
a hundred years, is sung and played more than
it ever was. t is that beautiful, that bewitch
ing, that wonderful melody which is sung all
over the world where the German tongue is
spoken. It is the first song the child is taught
by his mother, and it is the song that brings
tears into the eyes of the aged when they hear
this wonderful melody which reminds them of
their childhood days when sitting in the twi
light around the fire with mother, listening to
her stories of the Wise Men of the Orient, the
Shepherds in the field, the Song of the Angels,
the Christchild at Bethlehem, and of the sing
ing of this and other Christmas carols. They
will never forget the happiness connected with
it, even if they should be a hundred years old.
Often this song has touched the innermost
soul of the wayward and criminal when he
heard it sung or played at Christmas time; it
made him stop on the road to ruin, and, like
the prodigal son in the Bible, he retraced his
steps from the evil ways and threw himself at
the feet of his Heavenly Father, where he
found forgiveness and heavenly peace for his
soul.
And this is the song:
“Stille Nacht! Heilige Nacht!
Alles schlaeft! Einsam Wacht
Nur das heilige Elternpaar,
Bei dem himmlischen Kind,” etc.
All is calm ,all is bright
Which, as it was translated into English, is
something like this:
“Silent night! Holy night!
‘ Round yon ’ virgin mother and child.
Holy infant, so tender and mild!
Sleep in heavenly peace!
Sleep in heavenly peace!”
•From a poem by an unknown German author. 1?