120
THE TWO NEW YEAR’S NIGHTS.
FROM THE GERMAN OF LAUN.
NIGHT THE FIRST.
It struck eleven.
“One parting glass to the departing year!” exclaimed our host, “and to the many happy hours we have enjoyed therein.”
The glasses rang merrily, and every eye beamed with the remembrance of social pleasure past.
“There is certainly,” said Herrmann, “something awful—a contradictory feeling between mirth and sadness—connected with the moment which marks the change of the year. In point of fact, every succeeding instant is the beginning and end of a year—of a century—of a thousand years, if you will: and it is convention alone which makes us attach a degree of solemnity to the midnight hour between the last day of December and the first of January.”
“Exactly so,” replied Falk; “on religious grounds whole nations have attached importance to it, and what more do we require? In the life of man, periodical rejoicings concerning himself individually are much more apt to affect him, and, for my own part, I always gladly contribute my quota of cheerfulness to the celebration of them. But it must be owned, that when family anniversaries assume a shade of seriousness, they are apt to degenerate into mawkish sentimentality; for, however pleasingly the name of festival may strike upon the ear, it is, after all, but the commemoration of some circumstance that has contributed to our happiness. The pleasures of domestic life, however dear to the man of feeling, fall short of festival dignity. We all, indeed, rejoice to find ourselves again re-united in the same social intercourse of a twelvemonth since; and the old year smiles on us as benignly in its dying hour as though it had nothing to reproach us with. But it is a higher feeling than that of mirth alone, which consecrates this hour; and the received opinions of a large class of mankind confirm it. Even as the church has its All Saint’s and All Soul’s feasts, so must this hour prove a solemn festival of all joy or all sorrow to mankind at large. Where, then, mutual good wishes are exchanged for the welfare and happiness of all around us, there is far less of egotism than in the celebration of mere family anniversaries. The old year resembles a dignified matronly friend casting a last mournful smile upon us ere she leave the world for ever, and the new year greets us like a lovely, promising infant; while, between the bier of the one, and the cradle of the other, lie hidden presentiments which are sometimes unconsciously expressed by the lips of man in wishes of serious import.”
“Prithee let our good wishes rest until midnight,” interposed the host, “otherwise we may blend our New Year’s congratulations with half-embodied forebodings; for, as we sincerely wish each other well, it would be more agreeable to hope that our good wishes may, like true presentiments, be realised. But, alas! experience upsets your theory like that of many others.”
“Speak more circumspectly as regards experience,” replied Falk, “or else, weigh well what real experience you have had: suppose, for instance, a man be betrayed into unusual conviviality, and his slumbers thereby disturbed, he forthwith decides from experience that wine at night must disagree with him.”
“The example you give is applicable to men only,” observed the hostess; “we ladies are inclined to agree with you as regards the magic of a New Year’s wi-h, so pray expound to us, but in a manner adapted to our feminine comprehensions, why so many aspirations remain unfulfilled?”
“Probably,” said Herrmann, “because Falk’s theory is only a prelude to what he will presently favour us with. The theme is almost worn out, so a dash of probability will give it an interest, like a good story-teller, who assures you his tale is ‘founded on fact.’”
Without seeming to notice Herr-
