The Truce Of Christmas

Passionate peace is in the sky-- And in the snow in silver sealed The beasts are perfect in the field, And men seem men so suddenly-- (But take ten swords and ten times ten And blow the bugle in praising men; For we are for all men under the sun, And they are against us every one; And misers haggle and madmen clutch And there is peril in praising much, And we have the terrible tongues uncurled That praise the world to the sons of the world).

The idle humble hill and wood Are bowed about the sacred birth, And for one little hour the earth Is lazy with the love of good-- (But ready are you, and ready am I, If the battle blow and the guns go by; For we are for all men under the sun, And they are against us every one; And the men that hate herd all together, To pride and gold, and the great white feather, And the thing is graven in star and stone That the men who love are all alone).

Hunger is hard and time is tough, But bless the beggars and kiss the kings, For hope has broken the heart of things, And nothing was ever praised enough. (But hold the shield for a sudden swing And point the sword when you praise a thing, For we are for all men under the sun, And they are against us every one, And mime and merchant, thane and thrall Hate us because we love them all, Only till Christmastide go by Passionate peace is in the sky).

'The Commonwealth.'

DECEMBER 25th CHRISTMAS DAY

There fared a mother driven forth Out of an inn to roam; In the place where she was homeless All men are at home. The crazy stable close at hand, With shaking timber and shifting sand, Grew a stronger thing to abide and stand Than the square stones of Rome.

For men are homesick in their homes, And strangers under the sun, And they lay their heads in a foreign land Whenever the day is done. Here we have battle and blazing eyes, And chance and honour and high surprise, But our homes are under miraculous skies Where the Yule tale was begun.

A Child in a foul stable, Where the beasts feed and foam, Only where He was homeless Are you and I at home: We have hands that fashion and heads that know, But our hearts we lost--how long ago! In a place no chart nor ship can show Under the sky's dome.

This world is wild as an old wives' tale, And strange the plain things are, The earth is enough and the air is enough For our wonder and our war; But our rest is as far as the fire-drake swings And our peace is put in impossible things Where clashed and thundered unthinkable wings Round an incredible star.

To an open house in the evening Home shall all men come, To an older place than Eden And a taller town than Rome. To the end of the way of the wandering star, To the things that cannot be and that are, To the place where God was homeless And all men are at home.

The House of Christmas: 'Daily News.'

DECEMBER 26th BOXING DAY

There are innumerable persons with eyeglasses and green garments who pray for the return of the maypole or the Olympian Games. But there is about these people a haunting and alarming something which suggests that it is just possible that they do not keep Christmas. If so, where is the sense of all their dreams of festive traditions? Here is a solid and ancient festive tradition still plying a roaring trade in the streets, and they think it vulgar. If this is so, let them be very certain of this: that they are the kind of people who in the time of the maypole would have thought the maypole vulgar; who in the time of the Canterbury pilgrimage would have thought the Canterbury pilgrimage vulgar; who in the time of the Olympian Games would have thought the Olympian Games vulgar. Nor can there be any reasonable doubt that they were vulgar. Let no man deceive himself; if by vulgarity we mean coarseness of speech, rowdiness of behaviour, gossip, horseplay, and some heavy drinking: vulgarity there always was, wherever there was joy, wherever there was faith in the gods.

'Heretics.'

DECEMBER 27th ST. JOHN'S DAY

Christ did not love humanity, He never said He loved humanity; He loved men. Neither He nor anyone else can love humanity; it is like loving a gigantic centipede. And the reason that the Tolstoians can even endure to think of an equally distributed love is that their love of humanity is a logical love, a love into which they are coerced by their own theories, a love which would be an insult to a tom-cat.

'Twelve Types.'

DECEMBER 28th HOLY INNOCENTS' DAY

That little urchin with the gold-red hair (whom I have just watched toddling past my house), she shall not be lopped and lamed and altered; her hair shall not be cut short like a convict's. No; all the kingdoms of the earth shall be hacked about and mutilated to suit her. The winds of the world shall be tempered to that lamb unshorn. All crowns that cannot fit her head shall be broken; all raiment and building that does not harmonize with her glory shall waste away. Her mother may bid her bind her hair, for that is natural authority; but the Emperor of the Planet shall not bid her cut it off. She is the human and sacred image; all around her the social fabric shall sway and split and fall; the pillars of society shall be shaken and the roofs of ages come rushing down; and not one hair of her head shall be harmed.

'What's Wrong with the World.'

DECEMBER 29th ST. THOMAS À BECKET

When four knights scattered the blood and brains of St. Thomas of Canterbury it was not only a sign of anger but a sort of black admiration. They wished for his blood, but they wished even more for his brains. Such a blow will remain for ever unintelligible unless we realize what the brains of St. Thomas were thinking about just before they were distributed over the floor. They were thinking about the great medieval conception that the Church is the judge of the world. Becket objected to a priest being tried even by the Lord Chief Justice. And his reason was simple: because the Lord Chief Justice was being tried by the priest. The judiciary was itself sub judice. The kings were themselves in the dock. The idea was to create an invisible kingdom without armies or prisons, but with complete freedom to condemn publicly all the kingdoms of the earth.

'What's Wrong with the World.'

DECEMBER 30th

Progress is not an illegitimate word, but it is logically evident that it is illegitimate for us. It is a sacred word, a word that could only rightly be used by rigid believers and in the ages of faith.

'Heretics.'

DECEMBER 31st

With all the multiplicity of knowledge there is one thing happily that no man knows: whether the world is old or young.

'The Defendant.'