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Title: Old Christmas
Author: Washington Irving
Release Date: May 13, 2006 [EBook #1850]
Last Updated: November 26, 2012
Language: English
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OLD CHRISTMAS
by Washington Irving
But is old, old, good old Christmas gone? Nothing but the hair of his
good, gray, old head and beard left? Well, I will have that, seeing that
I cannot have more of him.
Hue and Cry after Christmas.
Contents
A man might then behold
At Christmas, in each hall
Good fires to curb the cold,
And meat for great and small.
The neighbours were friendly bidden,
And all had welcome true,
The poor from the gates were not chidden,
When this old cap was new.
Old Song
Christmas
There is nothing in England that exercises a more delightful spell over my
imagination than the lingerings of the holiday customs and rural games of
former times. They recall the pictures my fancy used to draw in the May
morning of life, when as yet I only knew the world through books, and
believed it to be all that poets had painted it; and they bring with them
the flavour of those honest days of yore, in which, perhaps with equal
fallacy, I am apt to think the world was more home-bred, social, and
joyous than at present. I regret to say that they are daily growing more
and more faint, being gradually worn away by time, but still more
obliterated by modern fashion. They resemble those picturesque morsels of
Gothic architecture which we see crumbling in various parts of the
country, partly dilapidated by the waste of ages, and partly lost in the
additions and alterations of latter days. Poetry, however, clings with
cherishing fondness about the rural game and holiday revel, from which it
has derived so many of its themes,—as the ivy winds its rich foliage
about the Gothic arch and mouldering tower, gratefully repaying their
support by clasping together their tottering remains, and, as it were,
embalming them in verdure.
Of all the old festivals, however, that of Christmas awakens the strongest
and most heartfelt associations. There is a tone of solemn and sacred
feeling that blends with our conviviality, and lifts the spirit to a state
of hallowed and elevated enjoyment. The services of the church about this
season are extremely tender and inspiring. They dwell on the beautiful
story of the origin of our faith, and the pastoral scenes that accompanied
its announcement. They gradually increase in fervour and pathos during the
season of Advent, until they break forth in full jubilee on the morning
that brought peace and good-will to men. I do not know a grander effect of
music on the moral feelings than to hear the full choir and the pealing
organ performing a Christmas anthem in a cathedral, and filling every part
of the vast pile with triumphant harmony.
It is a beautiful arrangement, also derived from days of yore, that this
festival, which commemorates the announcement of the religion of peace and
love, has been made the season for gathering together of family
connections, and drawing closer again those bands of kindred hearts which
the cares and pleasures and sorrows of the world are continually operating
to cast loose; of calling back the children of a family who have launched
forth in life, and wandered widely asunder, once more to assemble about
the paternal hearth, that rallying-place of the affections, there to grow
young and loving again among the endearing mementoes of childhood.
There is something in the very season of the year that gives a charm to
the festivity of Christmas. At other times we derive a great portion of
our pleasures from the mere beauties of nature. Our feelings sally forth
and dissipate themselves over the sunny landscape, and we﹃live abroad and
everywhere.﹄The song of the bird, the murmur of the stream, the breathing
fragrance of spring, the soft voluptuousness of summer, the golden pomp of
autumn; earth with its mantle of refreshing green, and heaven with its
deep delicious blue and its cloudy magnificence, all fill us with mute but
exquisite delight, and we revel in the luxury of mere sensation. But in
the depth of winter, when nature lies despoiled of every charm, and
wrapped in her shroud of sheeted snow, we turn for our gratifications to
moral sources. The dreariness and desolation of the landscape, the short
gloomy days and darksome nights, while they circumscribe our wanderings,
shut in our feelings also from rambling abroad, and make us more keenly
disposed for the pleasures of the social circle. Our thoughts are more
concentrated; our friendly sympathies more aroused, we feel more sensibly
the charm of each other's society, and are brought more closely together
by dependence on each other for enjoyment. Heart calleth unto heart; and
we draw our pleasures from the deep wells of living kindness, which lie in
the quiet recesses of our bosoms: and which when resorted to, furnish
forth the pure element of domestic felicity.
The pitchy gloom without makes the heart dilate on entering the room
filled with the glow and warmth of the evening fire. The ruddy blaze
diffuses an artificial summer and sunshine through the room, and lights up
each countenance into a kindlier welcome. Where does the honest face of
hospitality expand into a broader and more cordial smile—where is
the shy glance of love more sweetly eloquent—than by the winter
fireside? and as the hollow blast of wintry wind rushes through the hall,
claps the distant door, whistles about the casement, and rumbles down the
chimney, what can be more grateful than that feeling of sober and
sheltered security with which we look around upon the comfortable chamber
and the scene of domestic hilarity?
The English, from the great prevalence of rural habits throughout every
class of society, have always been fond of those festivals and holidays
which agreeably interrupt the stillness of country life; and they were, in
former days, particularly observant of the religious and social rites of
Christmas. It is inspiring to read even the dry details which some
antiquarians have given of the quaint humours, the burlesque pageants, the
complete abandonment to mirth and good-fellowship with which this festival
was celebrated. It seemed to throw open every door, and unlock every
heart. It brought the peasant and the peer together, and blended all ranks
in one warm generous flow of joy and kindness. The old halls of castles
and manor-houses resounded with the harp and the Christmas carol, and
their ample boards groaned under the weight of hospitality. Even the
poorest cottage welcomed the festive season with green decorations of bay
and holly—the cheerful fire glanced its rays through the lattice,
inviting the passenger to raise the latch, and join the gossip knot
huddled around the hearth, beguiling the long evening with legendary jokes
and oft-told Christmas tales.
One of the least pleasing effects of modern refinement is the havoc it has
made among the hearty old holiday customs. It has completely taken off the
sharp touchings and spirited reliefs of these embellishments of life, and
has worn down society into a more smooth and polished, but certainly a
less characteristic surface. Many of the games and ceremonials of
Christmas have entirely disappeared, and like the sherris sack of old
Falstaff, are become matters of speculation and dispute among
commentators. They flourished in times full of spirit and lustihood, when
men enjoyed life roughly, but heartily and vigorously; times wild and
picturesque, which have furnished poetry with its richest materials, and
the drama with its most attractive variety of characters and manners. The
world has become more worldly. There is more of dissipation, and less of
enjoyment. Pleasure has expanded into a broader, but a shallower stream,
and has forsaken many of those deep and quiet channels where it flowed
sweetly through the calm bosom of domestic life. Society has acquired a
more enlightened and elegant tone; but it has lost many of its strong
local peculiarities, its homebred feelings, its honest fireside delights.
The traditionary customs of golden-hearted antiquity, its feudal
hospitalities, and lordly wassailings, have passed away with the baronial
castles and stately manor-houses in which they were celebrated. They
comported with the shadowy hall, the great oaken gallery, and the
tapestried parlour, but are unfitted to the light showy saloons and gay
drawing-rooms of the modern villa.
Shorn, however, as it is, of its ancient and festive honours, Christmas is
still a period of delightful excitement in England. It is gratifying to
see that home feeling completely aroused which seems to hold so powerful a
place in every English bosom. The preparations making on every side for
the social board that is again to unite friends and kindred; the presents
of good cheer passing and repassing, those tokens of regard, and
quickeners of kind feelings; the evergreens distributed about houses and
churches, emblems of peace and gladness; all these have the most pleasing
effect in producing fond associations, and kindling benevolent sympathies.
Even the sound of the waits, rude as may be their minstrelsy, breaks upon
the mid-watches of a winter night with the effect of perfect harmony. As I
have been awakened by them in that still and solemn hour,﹃when deep sleep
falleth upon man,﹄I have listened with a hushed delight, and, connecting
them with the sacred and joyous occasion, have almost fancied them into
another celestial choir, announcing peace and good-will to mankind.
How delightfully the imagination, when wrought upon by these moral
influences, turns everything to melody and beauty: The very crowing of the
cock, who is sometimes heard in the profound repose of the country,
"telling the night-watches to his feathery dames," was thought by the
common people to announce the approach of this sacred festival:
"Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes
Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated,
This bird of dawning singeth all night long:
And then, they say, no spirit dares stir abroad;
The nights are wholesome—then no planets strike,
No fairy takes, no witch hath power to charm,
So hallow'd and so gracious is the time."
Amidst the general call to happiness, the bustle of the spirits, and stir
of the affections, which prevail at this period, what bosom can remain
insensible? It is, indeed, the season of regenerated feeling—the
season for kindling, not merely the fire of hospitality in the hall, but
the genial flame of charity in the heart.
The scene of early love again rises green to memory beyond the sterile
waste of years; and the idea of home, fraught with the fragrance of
home-dwelling joys, reanimates the drooping spirit,—as the Arabian
breeze will sometimes waft the freshness of the distant fields to the
weary pilgrim of the desert.
Stranger and sojourner as I am in the land,—though for me no social
hearth may blaze, no hospitable roof throw open its doors, nor the warm
grasp of friendship welcome me at the threshold,—yet I feel the
influence of the season beaming into my soul from the happy looks of those
around me. Surely happiness is reflective, like the light of heaven; and
every countenance, bright with smiles, and glowing with innocent
enjoyment, is a mirror transmitting to others the rays of a supreme and
ever shining benevolence. He who can turn churlishly away from
contemplating the felicity of his fellow beings, and sit down darkling and
repining in his loneliness when all around is joyful, may have his moments
of strong excitement and selfish gratification, but he wants the genial
and social sympathies which constitute the charm of a merry Christmas.
The Stage-coach
Omne bene
Sine poena
Tempus est ludendi;
Venit hora,
Absque mora
Libros deponendi.
—Old Holiday School Song.
In the preceding paper I have made some general observations on the
Christmas festivities of England, and am tempted to illustrate them by
some anecdotes of a Christmas passed in the country; in perusing which, I
would most courteously invite my reader to lay aside the austerity of
wisdom, and to put on that genuine holiday spirit which is tolerant of
folly, and anxious only for amusement.
In the course of a December tour in Yorkshire, I rode for a long distance
in one of the public coaches, on the day preceding Christmas. The coach
was crowded, both inside and out, with passengers, who, by their talk,
seemed principally bound to the mansions of relations or friends to eat
the Christmas dinner. It was loaded also with hampers of game, and baskets
and boxes of delicacies; and hares hung dangling their long ears about the
coachman's box,—presents from distant friends for the impending
feast. I had three fine rosy-cheeked schoolboys for my fellow passengers
inside, full of the buxom health and manly spirit which I have observed in
the children of this country. They were returning home for the holidays in
high glee, and promising themselves a world of enjoyment. It was
delightful to hear the gigantic plans of pleasure of the little rogues,
and the impracticable feats they were to perform during their six weeks'
emancipation from the abhorred thraldom of book, birch, and pedagogue.
They were full of anticipations of the meeting with the family and
household, down to the very cat and dog; and of the joy they were to give
their little sisters by the presents with which their pockets were
crammed; but the meeting to which they seemed to look forward with the
greatest impatience was with Bantam, which I found to be a pony, and,
according to their talk, possessed of more virtues than any steed since
the days of Bucephalus. How he could trot! how he could run! and then such
leaps as he would take—there was not a hedge in the whole country
that he could not clear.
They were under the particular guardianship of the coachman, to whom,
whenever an opportunity presented, they addressed a host of questions, and
pronounced him one of the best fellows in the whole world. Indeed, I could
not but notice the more than ordinary air of bustle and importance of the
coachman, who wore his hat a little on one side, and had a large bunch of
Christmas greens stuck in the button-hole of his coat. He is always a
personage full of mighty care and business, but he is particularly so
during this season, having so many commissions to execute in consequence
of the great interchange of presents.
And here, perhaps, it may not be unacceptable to my untravelled readers to
have a sketch that may serve as a general representation of this very
numerous and important class of functionaries who have a dress, a manner,
a language, an air, peculiar to themselves, and prevalent throughout the
fraternity; so that, wherever an English stage-coachman may be seen, he
cannot be mistaken for one of any other craft or mystery.
He has commonly a broad, full face, curiously mottled with red, as if the
blood had been forced by hard feeding into every vessel of the skin; he is
swelled into jolly dimensions by frequent potations of malt liquors, and
his bulk is still further increased by a multiplicity of coats, in which
he is buried like a cauliflower, the upper one reaching to his heels. He
wears a broad-brimmed, low-crowned hat; a huge roll of coloured
handkerchief about his neck, knowingly knotted and tucked in at the bosom;
and has in summer-time a large bouquet of flowers in his buttonhole; the
present, most probably, of some enamoured country lass. His waistcoat is
commonly of some bright colour, striped; and his small-clothes extend far
below the knees, to meet a pair of jockey boots which reach about half-way
up his legs.
All this costume is maintained with much precision; he has a pride in
having his clothes of excellent materials; and, notwithstanding the
seeming grossness of his appearance, there is still discernible that
neatness and propriety of person which is almost inherent in an
Englishman. He enjoys great consequence and consideration along the road;
has frequent conferences with the village housewives, who look upon him as
a man of great trust and dependence; and he seems to have a good
understanding with every bright-eyed country lass. The moment he arrives
where the horses are to be changed, he throws down the reins with
something of an air, and abandons the cattle to the care of the hostler;
his duty being merely to drive from one stage to another.
When off the box, his hands are thrust in the pockets of his greatcoat,
and he rolls about the inn-yard with an air of the most absolute
lordliness. Here he is generally surrounded by an admiring throng of
hostlers, stable-boys, shoe-blacks, and those nameless hangers-on that
infest inns and taverns, and run errands, and do all kinds of odd jobs,
for the privilege of battening on the drippings of the kitchen and the
leakage of the tap-room. These all look up to him as to an oracle;
treasure up his cant phrases; echo his opinions about horses and other
topics of jockey lore; and, above all, endeavour to imitate his air and
carriage. Every ragamuffin that has a coat to his back thrusts his hands
in the pockets, rolls in his gait, talks slang, and is an embryo Coachey.
Perhaps it might be owing to the pleasing serenity that reigned in my own
mind, that I fancied I saw cheerfulness in every countenance throughout
the journey. A stage-coach, however, carries animation always with it, and
puts the world in motion as it whirls along. The horn, sounded at the
entrance of a village, produces a general bustle. Some hasten forth to
meet friends; some with bundles and bandboxes to secure places, and in the
hurry of the moment can hardly take leave of the group that accompanies
them. In the meantime, the coachman has a world of small commissions to
execute. Sometimes he delivers a hare or pheasant; sometimes jerks a small
parcel or newspaper to the door of a public-house; and sometimes, with
knowing leer and words of sly import, hands to some half-blushing,
half-laughing housemaid an odd-shaped billet-doux from some rustic
admirer. As the coach rattles through the village, every one runs to the
window, and you have glances on every side of fresh country faces, and
blooming, giggling girls. At the corners are assembled juntas of village
idlers and wise men, who take their stations there for the important
purpose of seeing company pass; but the sagest knot is generally at the
blacksmith's, to whom the passing of the coach is an event fruitful of
much speculation. The smith, with the horse's heel in his lap, pauses as
the vehicle whirls by; the Cyclops round the anvil suspend their ringing
hammers, and suffer the iron to grow cool; and the sooty spectre in brown
paper cap, labouring at the bellows, leans on the handle for a moment, and
permits the asthmatic engine to heave a long-drawn sigh, while he glares
through the murky smoke and sulphureous gleams of the smithy.
Perhaps the impending holiday might have given a more than usual animation
to the country, for it seemed to me as if everybody was in good looks and
good spirits. Game, poultry, and other luxuries of the table, were in
brisk circulation in the villages; the grocers', butchers', and
fruiterers' shops were thronged with customers. The housewives were
stirring briskly about, putting their dwellings in order; and the glossy
branches of holly, with their bright red berries, began to appear at the
windows. The scene brought to mind an old writer's account of Christmas
preparations:—"Now capons and hens, besides turkeys, geese, and
ducks, with beef and mutton—must all die; for in twelve days a
multitude of people will not be fed with a little. Now plums and spice,
sugar and honey, square it among pies and broth. Now or never must music
be in tune, for the youth must dance and sing to get them a heat, while
the aged sit by the fire. The country maid leaves half her market, and
must be sent again, if she forgets a pack of cards on Christmas eve. Great
is the contention of Holly and Ivy, whether master or dame wears the
breeches. Dice and cards benefit the butler; and if the cook do not lack
wit, he will sweetly lick his fingers."
I was roused from this fit of luxurious meditation by a shout from my
little travelling companions. They had been looking out of the
coach-windows for the last few miles, recognising every tree and cottage
as they approached home, and now there was a general burst of joy—"There's
John! and there's old Carlo! and there's Bantam!" cried the happy little
rogues, clapping their hands.
At the end of a lane there was an old sober-looking servant in livery
waiting for them: he was accompanied by a superannuated pointer, and by
the redoubtable Bantam, a little old rat of a pony, with a shaggy mane and
long, rusty tail, who stood dozing quietly by the roadside, little
dreaming of the bustling times that awaited him.
I was pleased to see the fondness with which the little fellows leaped
about the steady old footman, and hugged the pointer, who wriggled his
whole body for joy. But Bantam was the great object of interest; all
wanted to mount at once; and it was with some difficulty that John
arranged that they should ride by turns, and the eldest should ride first.
Off they set at last; one on the pony, with the dog bounding and barking
before him, and the others holding John's hands; both talking at once, and
overpowering him by questions about home, and with school anecdotes. I
looked after them with a feeling in which I do not know whether pleasure
or melancholy predominated: for I was reminded of those days when, like
them, I had neither known care nor sorrow, and a holiday was the summit of
earthly felicity. We stopped a few moments afterward to water the horses,
and on resuming our route, a turn of the road brought us in sight of a
neat country seat. I could just distinguish the forms of a lady and two
young girls in the portico, and I saw my little comrades, with Bantam,
Carlo, and old John, trooping along the carriage road. I leaned out of the
coach-window, in hopes of witnessing the happy meeting, but a grove of
trees shut it from my sight.
In the evening we reached a village where I had determined to pass the
night. As we drove into the great gateway of the inn, I saw on one side
the light of a rousing kitchen fire beaming through a window. I entered,
and admired, for the hundredth time, that picture of convenience,
neatness, and broad, honest enjoyment, the kitchen of an English inn. It
was of spacious dimensions, hung round with copper and tin vessels, highly
polished, and decorated here and there with a Christmas green. Hams,
tongues, and flitches of bacon were suspended from the ceiling; a
smoke-jack made its ceaseless clanking beside the fireplace, and a clock
ticked in one corner. A well scoured deal table extended along one side of
the kitchen, with a cold round of beef and other hearty viands upon it,
over which two foaming tankards of ale seemed mounting guard.
Travellers of inferior order were preparing to attack this stout repast,
while others sat smoking and gossiping over their ale on two high-backed
oaken seats beside the fire. Trim house-maids were hurrying backwards and
forwards under the directions of a fresh, bustling landlady; but still
seizing an occasional moment to exchange a flippant word, and have a
rallying laugh, with the group round the fire. The scene completely
realised Poor Robin's humble idea of the comforts of midwinter.
"Now trees their leafy hats do bare,
To reverence Winter's silver hair;
A handsome hostess, merry host,
A pot of ale now and a toast,
Tobacco and a good coal fire,
Are things this season doth require."*
* Poor Robin's Almanack, 1684.
I had not been long at the inn when a postchaise drove up to the door. A
young gentleman stepped out, and by the light of the lamps I caught a
glimpse of a countenance which I thought I knew. I moved forward to get a
nearer view, when his eye caught mine. I was not mistaken; it was Frank
Bracebridge, a sprightly, good-humoured young fellow, with whom I had once
travelled on the Continent. Our meeting was extremely cordial; for the
countenance of an old fellow traveller always brings up the recollection
of a thousand pleasant scenes, odd adventures, and excellent jokes. To
discuss all these in a transient interview at an inn was impossible; and
finding that I was not pressed for time, and was merely making a tour of
observation, he insisted that I should give him a day or two at his
father's country-seat, to which he was going to pass the holidays, and
which lay at a few miles' distance.﹃It is better than eating a solitary
Christmas dinner at an inn,﹄said he;﹃and I can assure you of a hearty
welcome in something of the old-fashion style.﹄His reasoning was cogent;
and I must confess the preparation I had seen for universal festivity and
social enjoyment had made me feel a little impatient of my loneliness. I
closed, therefore, at once with his invitation: the chaise drove up to the
door; and in a few moments I was on my way to the family mansion of the
Bracebridges.
Christmas Eve
Saint Francis and Saint Benedight
Blesse this house from wicked wight,
From the night-mare and the goblin,
That is hight good-fellow Robin;
Keep it from all evil spirits.
Fairies, weezels, rats, and ferrets:
From curfew time
To the next prime.
—CARTWRIGHT.
It was a brilliant moonlight night, but extremely cold; our chaise whirled
rapidly over the frozen ground; the post-boy smacked his whip incessantly,
and a part of the time his horses were on a gallop.﹃He knows where he is
going,﹄said my companion, laughing, "and is eager to arrive in time for
some of the merriment and good cheer of the servants' hall. My father, you
must know, is a bigoted devotee of the old school, and prides himself upon
keeping up something of old English hospitality. He is a tolerable
specimen of what you will rarely meet with nowadays in its purity, the old
English country gentleman; for our men of fortune spend so much of their
time in town, and fashion is carried so much into the country, that the
strong, rich peculiarities of ancient rural life are almost polished away.
My father, however, from early years, took honest Peacham* for his
textbook, instead of Chesterfield: he determined, in his own mind, that
there was no condition more truly honourable and enviable than that of a
country gentleman on his paternal lands, and, therefore, passes the whole
of his time on his estate. He is a strenuous advocate for the revival of
the old rural games and holiday observances, and is deeply read in the
writers, ancient and modern, who have treated on the subject. Indeed, his
favourite range of reading is among the authors who flourished at least
two centuries since; who, he insists, wrote and thought more like true
Englishmen than any of their successors. He even regrets sometimes that he
had not been born a few centuries earlier, when England was itself, and
had its peculiar manners and customs. As he lives at some distance from
the main road, in rather a lonely part of the country, without any rival
gentry near him, he has that most enviable of all blessings to an
Englishman, an opportunity of indulging the bent of his own humour without
molestation. Being representative of the oldest family in the
neighbourhood, and a great part of the peasantry being his tenants, he is
much looked up to, and, in general, is known simply by the appellation of
'The Squire;' a title which has been accorded to the head of the family
since time immemorial. I think it best to give you these hints about my
worthy old father, to prepare you for any little eccentricities that might
otherwise appear absurd."
* Peacham's "Complete Gentleman," 1622.
We had passed for some time along the wall of a park, and at length the
chaise stopped at the gate. It was in a heavy, magnificent old style, of
iron bars, fancifully wrought at top into flourishes and flowers. The huge
square columns that supported the gate were surmounted by the family
crest. Close adjoining was the porter's lodge, sheltered under dark
fir-trees, and almost buried in shrubbery.
The post-boy rang a large porter's bell, which resounded through the
still, frosty air, and was answered by the distant barking of dogs, with
which the mansion-house seemed garrisoned. An old woman immediately
appeared at the gate. As the moonlight fell strongly upon her, I had full
view of a little primitive dame, dressed very much in the antique taste,
with a neat kerchief and stomacher, and her silver hair peeping from under
a cap of snowy whiteness. She came curtseying forth, with many expressions
of simple joy at seeing her young master. Her husband, it seems, was up at
the house keeping Christmas eve in the servants' hall; they could not do
without him, as he was the best hand at a song and story in the household.
My friend proposed that we should alight and walk through the park to the
hall, which was at no great distance, while the chaise should follow on.
Our road wound through a noble avenue of trees, among the naked branches
of which the moon glittered as she rolled through the deep vault of a
cloudless sky. The lawn beyond was sheeted with a slight covering of snow,
which here and there sparkled as the moonbeams caught a frosty crystal;
and at a distance might be seen a thin, transparent vapour, stealing up
from the low grounds, and threatening gradually to shroud the landscape.
My companion looked round him with transport:—"How often," said he,
"have I scampered up this avenue, on returning home on school vacations!
How often have I played under these trees when a boy! I feel a degree of
filial reverence for them, as we look up to those who have cherished us in
childhood. My father was always scrupulous in exacting our holidays, and
having us around him on family festivals. He used to direct and
superintend our games with the strictness that some parents do the studies
of their children. He was very particular that we should play the old
English games according to their original form and consulted old books for
precedent and authority for every 'merrie disport;' yet I assure you there
never was pedantry so delightful. It was the policy of the good old
gentleman to make his children feel that home was the happiest place in
the world; and I value this delicious home-feeling as one of the choicest
gifts a parent can bestow."
We were interrupted by the clangour of a troop of dogs of all sorts and
sizes, "mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, and curs of low degree," that,
disturbed by the ringing of the porter's bell, and the rattling of the
chaise, came bounding, open-mouthed, across the lawn.
"The little dogs and all,
Tray, Blanch, and Sweetheart—see, they bark at me!"
cried Bracebridge, laughing. At the sound of his voice the bark was
changed into a yelp of delight, and in a moment he was surrounded and
almost overpowered by the caresses of the faithful animals.
We had now come in full view of the old family mansion, partly thrown in
deep shadow, and partly lit up by the cold moonshine. It was an irregular
building of some magnitude, and seemed to be of the architecture of
different periods. One wing was, evidently very ancient, with heavy
stone-shafted bow windows jutting out and overrun with ivy, from among the
foliage of which the small diamond-shaped panes of glass glittered with
the moonbeams. The rest of the house was in the French taste of Charles
the Second's time, having been repaired and altered, as my friend told me,
by one of his ancestors, who returned with that monarch at the
Restoration. The grounds about the house were laid out in the old formal
manner of artificial flower-beds, clipped shrubberies, raised terraces,
and heavy stone balustrades, ornamented with urns, a leaden statue or two,
and a jet of water. The old gentleman, I was told, was extremely careful
to preserve this obsolete finery in all its original state. He admired
this fashion in gardening; it had an air of magnificence, was courtly and
noble, and befitting good old family style. The boasted imitation of
nature in modern gardening had sprung up with modern republican notions,
but did not suit a monarchical government; it smacked of the levelling
system. I could not help smiling at this introduction of politics into
gardening, though I expressed some apprehension that I should find the old
gentleman rather intolerant in his creed. Frank assured me, however, that
it was almost the only instance in which he had ever heard his father
meddle with politics; and he believed that he had got this notion from a
member of Parliament who once passed a few weeks with him. The Squire was
glad of any argument to defend his clipped yew-trees and formal terraces,
which had been occasionally attacked by modern landscape gardeners.
As we approached the house, we heard the sound of music, and now and then
a burst of laughter from one end of the building. This, Bracebridge said,
must proceed from the servants' hall, where a great deal of revelry was
permitted, and even encouraged, by the Squire throughout the twelve days
of Christmas, provided everything was done comformably to ancient usage.
Here were kept up the old games of hoodman blind, shoe the wild mare, hot
cockles, steal the white loaf, bob apple and snapdragon: the Yule log and
Christmas candle were regularly burnt, and the mistletoe, with its white
berries, hung up to the imminent peril of all the pretty housemaids.*
*1 See Note A.
So intent were the servants upon their sports, that we had to ring
repeatedly before we could make ourselves heard. On our arrival being
announced, the Squire came out to receive us, accompanied by his two other
sons; one a young officer in the army, home on leave of absence; the other
an Oxonian, just from the University. The Squire was a fine,
healthy-looking old gentleman, with silver hair curling lightly round an
open, florid countenance; in which a physiognomist, with the advantage,
like myself, of a previous hint or two, might discover a singular mixture
of whim and benevolence.
The family meeting was warm and affectionate; as the evening was far
advanced, the Squire would not permit us to change our travelling dresses,
but ushered us at once to the company, which was assembled in a large
old-fashioned hall. It was composed of different branches of a numerous
family connection, where there were the usual proportion of old uncles and
aunts, comfortably married dames, superannuated spinsters, blooming
country cousins, half-fledged striplings, and bright-eyed boarding-school
hoydens. They were variously occupied; some at a round game of cards;
others conversing around the fireplace; at one end of the hall was a group
of the young folks, some nearly grown up, others of a more tender and
budding age, fully engrossed by a merry game; and a profusion of wooden
horses, penny trumpets, and tattered dolls, about the floor, showed traces
of a troop of little fairy beings, who, having frolicked through a happy
day, had been carried off to slumber through a peaceful night.
While the mutual greetings were going on between Bracebridge and his
relatives, I had time to scan the apartment. I have called it a hall, for
so it had certainly been in old times, and the Squire had evidently
endeavoured to restore it to something of its primitive state. Over the
heavy projecting fireplace was suspended a picture of a warrior in armour
standing by a white horse, and on the opposite wall hung helmet, buckler,
and lance. At one end an enormous pair of antlers were inserted in the
wall, the branches serving as hooks on which to suspend hats, whips, and
spurs; and in the corners of the apartment were fowling-pieces,
fishing-rods, and other sporting implements. The furniture was of the
cumbrous workmanship of former days, though some articles of modern
convenience had been added, and the oaken floor had been carpeted; so that
the whole presented an odd mixture of parlour and hall.
The grate had been removed from the wide overwhelming fireplace, to make
way for a fire of wood, in the midst of which was an enormous log glowing
and blazing, and sending forth a vast volume of light and heat; this I
understood was the Yule-log, which the Squire was particular in having
brought in and illumined on a Christmas eve, according to ancient custom.*
*2 See Note B.
It was really delightful to see the old Squire seated in his hereditary
elbow-chair by the hospitable fireside of his ancestors, and looking
around him like the sun of a system, beaming warmth and gladness to every
heart. Even the very dog that lay stretched at his feet, as he lazily
shifted his position and yawned, would look fondly up in his master's
face, wag his tail against the floor, and stretch himself again to sleep,
confident of kindness and protection. There is an emanation from the heart
in genuine hospitality which cannot be described, but is immediately felt,
and puts the stranger at once at his ease. I had not been seated many
minutes by the comfortable hearth of the worthy cavalier before I found
myself as much at home as if I had been one of the family.
Supper was announced shortly after our arrival. It was served up in a
spacious oaken chamber, the panels of which shone with wax, and around
which were several family portraits decorated with holly and ivy. Beside
the accustomed lights, two great wax tapers, called Christmas candles,
wreathed with greens, were placed on a highly-polished buffet among the
family plate. The table was abundantly spread with substantial fare; but
the Squire made his supper of frumenty, a dish made of wheat cakes boiled
in milk with rich spices, being a standing dish in old times for Christmas
eve. I was happy to find my old friend, minced-pie, in the retinue of the
feast; and finding him to be perfectly orthodox, and that I need not be
ashamed of my predilection, I greeted him with all the warmth wherewith we
usually greet an old and very genteel acquaintance.
The mirth of the company was greatly promoted by the humours of an
eccentric personage whom Mr. Bracebridge always addressed with the quaint
appellation of Master Simon. He was a tight, brisk little man, with the
air of an arrant old bachelor. His nose was shaped like the bill of a
parrot; his face slightly pitted with the smallpox, with a dry perpetual
bloom on it, like a frost-bitten leaf in autumn. He had an eye of great
quickness and vivacity, with a drollery and lurking waggery of expression
that was irresistible. He was evidently the wit of the family, dealing
very much in sly jokes and innuendoes with the ladies, and making infinite
merriment by harpings upon old themes; which, unfortunately, my ignorance
of the family chronicles did not permit me to enjoy. It seemed to be his
great delight during supper to keep a young girl next him in a continual
agony of stifled laughter, in spite of her awe of the reproving looks of
her mother, who sat opposite. Indeed, he was the idol of the younger part
of the company, who laughed at everything he said or did, and at every
turn of his countenance. I could not wonder at it; for he must have been a
miracle of accomplishments in their eyes. He could imitate Punch and Judy;
make an old woman of his hand, with the assistance of a burnt cork and
pocket-handkerchief: and cut an orange into such a ludicrous caricature,
that the young folks were ready to die with laughing.
I was let briefly into his history by Frank Bracebridge. He was an old
bachelor of a small independent income, which by careful management was
sufficient for all his wants. He revolved through the family system like a
vagrant comet in its orbit; sometimes visiting one branch, and sometimes
another quite remote; as is often the case with gentlemen of extensive
connections and small fortunes in England. He had a chirping, buoyant
disposition, always enjoying the present moment; and his frequent change
of scene and company prevented his acquiring those rusty unaccommodating
habits with which old bachelors are so uncharitably charged. He was a
complete family chronicle, being versed in the genealogy, history, and
intermarriages of the whole house of Bracebridge, which made him a great
favourite with the old folks; he was a beau of all the elder ladies and
superannuated spinsters, among whom he was habitually considered rather a
young fellow, and he was a master of the revels among the children; so
that there was not a more popular being in the sphere in which he moved
than Mr. Simon Bracebridge. Of late years he had resided almost entirely
with the Squire, to whom he had become a factotum, and whom he
particularly delighted by jumping with his humour in respect to old times,
and by having a scrap of an old song to suit every occasion. We had
presently a specimen of his last mentioned talent; for no sooner was
supper removed, and spiced wines and other beverages peculiar to the
season introduced, than Master Simon was called on for a good old
Christmas song. He bethought himself for a moment, and then, with a
sparkle of the eye, and a voice that was by no means bad, excepting that
it ran occasionally into a falsetto, like the notes of a split reed, he
quavered forth a quaint old ditty:
"Now Christmas is come,
Let us beat up the drum,
And call all our neighbours together;
And when they appear,
Let us make them such cheer
As will keep out the wind and the weather,"
etc.
The supper had disposed every one to gaiety, and an old harper was
summoned from the servants' hall, where he had been strumming all the
evening, and to all appearance comforting himself with some of the
Squire's home-brewed. He was a kind of hanger-on, I was told, of the
establishment, and though ostensibly a resident of the village, was
oftener to be found in the Squire's kitchen than his own home, the old
gentleman being fond of the sound of "harp in hall."
The dance, like most dances after supper, was a merry one; some of the
older folks joined in it, and the Squire himself figured down several
couples with a partner with whom he affirmed he had danced at every
Christmas for nearly half a century. Master Simon, who seemed to be a kind
of connecting link between the old times and the new, and to be withal a
little antiquated in the taste of his accomplishments, evidently piqued
himself on his dancing, and was endeavouring to gain credit by the heel
and toe, rigadoon, and other graces of the ancient school; but he had
unluckily assorted himself with a little romping girl from
boarding-school, who, by her wild vivacity, kept him continually on the
stretch, and defeated all his sober attempts at elegance;—such are
the ill-assorted matches to which antique gentlemen are unfortunately
prone!
The young Oxonian, on the contrary, had led out one of his maiden aunts,
on whom the rogue played a thousand little knaveries with impunity; he was
full of practical jokes, and his delight was to tease his aunts and
cousins; yet, like all madcap youngsters, he was a universal favourite
among the women. The most interesting couple in the dance was the young
officer and a ward of the Squire's, a beautiful blushing girl of
seventeen. From several shy glances which I had noticed in the course of
the evening, I suspected there was a little kindness growing up between
them; and, indeed, the young soldier was just the hero to captivate a
romantic girl. He was tall, slender, and handsome, and like most young
British officers of late years, had picked up various small
accomplishments on the Continent—he could talk French and Italian—draw
landscapes,—sing very tolerably—dance divinely; but above all
he had been wounded at Waterloo;—what girl of seventeen, well read
in poetry and romance, could resist such a mirror of chivalry and
perfection!
The moment the dance was over, he caught up a guitar, and lolling against
the old marble fireplace, in an attitude which I am half inclined to
suspect was studied, began the little French air of the Troubadour. The
Squire, however, exclaimed against having anything on Christmas eve but
good old English; upon which the young minstrel, casting up his eye for a
moment, as if in an effort of memory, struck into another strain, and,
with a charming air of gallantry, gave Herrick's "Night-Piece to Julia:"
"Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee,
The shooting stars attend thee,
And the elves also,
Whose little eyes glow
Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee.
"No Will-o'-the-Wisp mislight thee;
Nor snake or glow-worm bite thee;
But on, on thy way,
Not making a stay,
Since ghost there is none to affright thee.
"Then let not the dark thee cumber;
What though the moon does slumber,
The stars of the night
Will lend thee their light,
Like tapers clear without number.
"Then, Julia, let me woo thee,
Thus, thus to come unto me;
And when I shall meet
Thy silvery feet,
My soul I'll pour into thee."
The song might have been intended in compliment to the fair Julia, for so
I found his partner was called, or it might not; she, however, was
certainly unconscious of any such application, for she never looked at the
singer, but kept her eyes cast upon the floor. Her face was suffused, it
is true, with a beautiful blush, and there was a gentle heaving of the
bosom, but all that was doubtless caused by the exercise of the dance;
indeed, so great was her indifference, that she was amusing herself with
plucking to pieces a choice bouquet of hothouse flowers, and by the time
the song was concluded, the nosegay lay in ruins on the floor.
The party now broke up for the night with the kind-hearted old custom of
shaking hands. As I passed through the hall, on the way to my chamber, the
dying embers of the Yule-clog still sent forth a dusky glow; and had it
not been the season when "no spirit dares stir abroad," I should have been
half tempted to steal from my room at midnight, and peep whether the
fairies might not be at their revels about the hearth.
My chamber was in the old part of the mansion, the ponderous furniture of
which might have been fabricated in the days of the giants. The room was
panelled with cornices of heavy carved work, in which flowers and
grotesque faces were strangely intermingled; and a row of black looking
portraits stared mournfully at me from the walls. The bed was of rich
though faded damask, with a lofty tester, and stood in a niche opposite a
bow window. I had scarcely got into bed when a strain of music seemed to
break forth in the air just below the window. I listened, and found it
proceeded from a band, which I concluded to be the waits from some
neighbouring village. They went round the house, playing under the
windows.
I drew aside the curtains, to hear them more distinctly. The moonbeams
fell through the upper part of the casement, partially lighting up the
antiquated apartment. The sounds, as they receded, became more soft and
aerial, and seemed to accord with quiet and moonlight. I listened and
listened—they became more and more tender and remote, and, as they
gradually died away, my head sank upon the pillow and I fell asleep.
Christmas Day
Dark and dull night, flie hence away,
And give the honour to this day
That Sees December turn'd to May.
. . . . . . . .
Why does the chilling winter's morne
Smile like a field beset with corn?
Or smell like to a meade new-shorne,
Thus on the sudden?—Come and see
The cause why things thus fragrant be.
—HERRICK.
When I awoke the next morning, it seemed as if all the events of the
preceding evening had been a dream, and nothing but the identity of the
ancient chamber convinced me of their reality. While I lay musing on my
pillow, I heard the sound of little feet pattering outside of the door,
and a whispering consultation. Presently a choir of small voices chanted
forth an old Christmas carol, the burden of which was:
"Rejoice, our Saviour he was born
On Christmas Day in the morning."
I rose softly, slipped on my clothes, opened the door suddenly, and beheld
one of the most beautiful little fairy groups that a painter could
imagine.
It consisted of a boy and two girls, the eldest not more than six, and
lovely as seraphs. They were going the rounds of the house, and singing at
every chamber-door; but my sudden appearance frightened them into mute
bashfulness. They remained for a moment playing on their lips with their
fingers, and now and then stealing a shy glance, from under their
eyebrows, until, as if by one impulse, they scampered away, and as they
turned an angle of the gallery, I heard them laughing in triumph at their
escape.
Everything conspired to produce kind and happy feelings in this stronghold
of old-fashioned hospitality. The window of my chamber looked out upon
what in summer would have been a beautiful landscape. There was a sloping
lawn, a fine stream winding at the foot of it, and a tract of park beyond,
with noble clumps of trees, and herds of deer. At a distance was a neat
hamlet, with the smoke from the cottage chimneys hanging over it; and a
church with its dark spire in strong relief against the clear, cold sky.
The house was surrounded with evergreens, according to the English custom,
which would have given almost an appearance of summer; but the morning was
extremely frosty; the light vapour of the preceding evening had been
precipitated by the cold, and covered all the trees and every blade of
grass with its fine crystallisations. The rays of a bright morning sun had
a dazzling effect among the glittering foliage. A robin, perched upon the
top of a mountain-ash that hung its clusters of red berries just before my
window, was basking himself in the sunshine, and piping a few querulous
notes; and a peacock was displaying all the glories of his train, and
strutting with the pride and gravity of a Spanish grandee on the
terrace-walk below.
I had scarcely dressed myself, when a servant appeared to invite me to
family prayers. He showed me the way to a small chapel in the old wing of
the house, where I found the principal part of the family already
assembled in a kind of gallery, furnished with cushions, hassocks, and
large prayer-books; the servants were seated on benches below. The old
gentleman read prayers from a desk in front of the gallery, and Master
Simon acted as clerk, and made the responses; and I must do him the
justice to say that he acquitted himself with great gravity and decorum.
The service was followed by a Christmas carol, which Mr. Bracebridge
himself had constructed from a poem of his favourite author, Herrick; and
it had been adapted to an old church melody by Master Simon. As there were
several good voices among the household, the effect was extremely
pleasing; but I was particularly gratified by the exaltation of heart, and
sudden sally of grateful feeling, with which the worthy Squire delivered
one stanza: his eyes glistening, and his voice rambling out of all the
bounds of time and tune:
"'Tis thou that crown'st my glittering hearth
With guiltlesse mirth,
And giv'st me wassaile bowles to drink,
Spiced to the brink:
Lord, 'tis Thy plenty-dropping hand,
That soiles my land;
And giv'st me for my bushell sowne,
Twice ten for one."
I afterwards understood that early morning service was read on every
Sunday and saint's day throughout the year, either by Mr. Bracebridge or
by some member of the family. It was once almost universally the case at
the seats of the nobility and gentry of England, and it is much to be
regretted that the custom is fallen into neglect; for the dullest observer
must be sensible of the order and serenity prevalent in those households,
where the occasional exercise of a beautiful form of worship in the
morning gives, as it were, the key-note to every temper for the day, and
attunes every spirit to harmony.
Our breakfast consisted of what the Squire denominated true old English
fare. He indulged in some bitter lamentations over modern breakfasts of
tea-and-toast, which he censured as among the causes of modern effeminacy
and weak nerves, and the decline of old English heartiness; and though he
admitted them to his table to suit the palates of his guests, yet there
was a brave display of cold meats, wine, and ale, on the sideboard.
After breakfast I walked about the grounds with Frank Bracebridge and
Master Simon, or Mr. Simon as he was called by everybody but the Squire.
We were escorted by a number of gentleman-like dogs, that seemed loungers
about the establishment; from the frisking spaniel to the steady old
staghound; the last of which was of a race that had been in the family
time out of mind: they were all obedient to a dog-whistle which hung to
Master Simon's buttonhole, and in the midst of their gambols would glance
an eye occasionally upon a small switch he carried in his hand.
The old mansion had a still more venerable look in the yellow sunshine
than by pale moonlight; and I could not but feel the force of the Squire's
idea, that the formal terraces, heavily moulded balustrades, and clipped
yew-trees, carried with them an air of proud aristocracy. There appeared
to be an unusual number of peacocks about the place, and I was making some
remarks upon what I termed a flock of them, that were basking under a
sunny wall, when I was gently corrected in my phraseology by Master Simon,
who told me that, according to the most ancient and approved treatise on
hunting, I must say a MUSTER of peacocks. "In the same way," added he,
with a slight air of pedantry,﹃we say a flight of doves or swallows, a
bevy of quails, a herd of deer, of wrens, or cranes, a skulk of foxes, or
a building of rooks.﹄He went on to inform me, that, according to Sir
Anthony Fitzherbert, we ought to ascribe, to this bird "both understanding
and glory; for, being praised, he will presently set up his tail chiefly
against the sun, to the intent you may the better behold the beauty
thereof. But at the fall of the leaf, when his tail falleth, he will mourn
and hide himself in corners, till his tail come again as it was."
I could not help smiling at this display of small erudition on so
whimsical a subject; but I found that the peacocks were birds of some
consequence at the Hall, for Frank Bracebridge informed me that they were
great favourites with his father, who was extremely careful to keep up the
breed; partly because they belonged to chivalry, and were in great request
at the stately banquets of the olden time; and partly because they had a
pomp and magnificence about them, highly becoming an old family mansion.
Nothing, he was accustomed to say, had an air of greater state and dignity
than a peacock perched upon an antique stone balustrade.
Master Simon had now to hurry off, having an appointment at the parish
church with the village choristers, who were to perform some music of his
selection. There was something extremely agreeable in the cheerful flow of
animal spirits of the little man; and I confess I had been somewhat
surprised at his apt quotations from authors who certainly were not in the
range of every-day reading. I mentioned this last circumstance to Frank
Bracebridge, who told me with a smile that Master Simon's whole stock of
erudition was confined to some half-a-dozen old authors, which the Squire
had put into his hands, and which he read over and over, whenever he had a
studious fit; as he sometimes had on a rainy day, or a long winter
evening. Sir Anthony Fitzherbert's "Book of Husbandry;" Markham's﹃Country
Contentments;﹄the "Tretyse of Hunting," by Sir Thomas Cockayne, Knight;
Izaak Walton's "Angler," and two or three more such ancient worthies of
the pen, were his standard authorities; and, like all men who know but a
few books, he looked up to them with a kind of idolatry, and quoted them
on all occasions. As to his songs, they were chiefly picked out of old
books in the Squire's library, and adapted to tunes that were popular
among the choice spirits of the last century. His practical application of
scraps of literature, however, had caused him to be looked upon as a
prodigy of book-knowledge by all the grooms, huntsmen, and small sportsmen
of the neighbourhood.
While we were talking we heard the distant toll of the village bell, and I
was told that the Squire was a little particular in having his household
at church on a Christmas morning; considering it a day of pouring out of
thanks and rejoicing; for, as old Tusser observed:
"At Christmas be merry, and thankful withal,
And feast thy poor neighbours, the great and the small."
"If you are disposed to go to church," said Frank Bracebridge, "I can
promise you a specimen of my cousin Simon's musical achievements. As the
church is destitute of an organ, he has formed a band from the village
amateurs, and established a musical club for their improvement; he has
also sorted a choir, as he sorted my father's pack of hounds, according to
the directions of Jervaise Markham, in his 'Country Contentments;' for the
bass he has sought out all the 'deep solemn mouths,' and for the tenor the
'loud ringing mouths,' among the country bumpkins; and for 'sweet mouths,'
he has culled with curious taste among the prettiest lasses in the
neighbourhood; though these last, he affirms, are the most difficult to
keep in tune; your pretty female singer being exceedingly wayward and
capricious, and very liable to accident."
As the morning, though frosty, was remarkably fine and clear, the most of
the family walked to the church, which was a very old building of gray
stone, and stood near a village, about half a mile from the park gate.
Adjoining it was a low snug parsonage, which seemed coeval with the
church. The front of it was perfectly matted with a yew-tree that had been
trained against its walls, through the dense foliage of which apertures
had been formed to admit light into the small antique lattices. As we
passed this sheltered nest, the parson issued forth and preceded us.
I had expected to see a sleek, well-conditioned pastor, such as is often
found in a snug living in the vicinity of a rich patron's table; but I was
disappointed. The parson was a little, meagre, black-looking man, with a
grizzled wig that was too wide, and stood off from each ear; so that his
head seemed to have shrunk away within it, like a dried filbert in its
shell. He wore a rusty coat, with great skirts, and pockets that would
have held the church Bible and prayer-book; and his small legs seemed
still smaller, from being planted in large shoes decorated with enormous
buckles.
I was informed by Frank Bracebridge that the parson had been a chum of his
father's at Oxford, and had received this living shortly after the latter
had come to his estate. He was a complete black-letter hunter, and would
scarcely read a work printed in the Roman character. The editions of
Caxton and Wynkin de Worde were his delight; and he was indefatigable in
his researches after such old English writers as have fallen into oblivion
from their worthlessness. In deference, perhaps, to the notions of Mr.
Bracebridge, he had made diligent investigations into the festive rites
and holiday customs of former times; and had been as zealous in the
inquiry as if he had been a boon companion; but it was merely with that
plodding spirit with which men of adust temperament follow up any track of
study, merely because it is denominated learning; indifferent to its
intrinsic nature, whether it be the illustration of the wisdom, or of the
ribaldry and obscenity of antiquity. He had pored over these old volumes
so intensely, that they seemed to have been reflected into his countenance
indeed; which, if the face be an index of the mind, might be compared to a
title-page of black-letter.
On reaching the church porch, we found the parson rebuking the gray-headed
sexton for having used mistletoe among the greens with which the church
was decorated. It was, he observed, an unholy plant, profaned by having
been used by the Druids in their mystic ceremonies; and though it might be
innocently employed in the festive ornamenting of halls and kitchens, yet
it had been deemed by the Fathers of the Church as unhallowed, and totally
unfit for sacred purposes. So tenacious was he on this point, that the
poor sexton was obliged to strip down a great part of the humble trophies
of his taste, before the parson would consent to enter upon the service of
the day.
The interior of the church was venerable but simple; on the walls were
several mural monuments of the Bracebridges, and just beside the altar was
a tomb of ancient workmanship, on which lay the effigy of a warrior in
armour, with his legs crossed, a sign of his having been a crusader. I was
told it was one of the family who had signalised himself in the Holy Land,
and the same whose picture hung over the fireplace in the hall.
During service, Master Simon stood up in the pew, and repeated the
responses very audibly; evincing that kind of ceremonious devotion
punctually observed by a gentleman of the old school, and a man of old
family connections. I observed, too, that he turned over the leaves of a
folio prayer-book with something of a flourish; possibly to show off an
enormous seal-ring which enriched one of his fingers, and which had the
look of a family relic. But he was evidently most solicitous about the
musical part of the service, keeping his eye fixed intently on the choir,
and beating time with much gesticulation and emphasis.
The orchestra was in a small gallery, and presented a most whimsical
grouping of heads, piled one above the other, among which I particularly
noticed that of the village tailor, a pale fellow with a retreating
forehead and chin, who played on the clarionet, and seemed to have blown
his face to a point; and there was another, a short pursy man, stooping
and labouring at a bass viol, so as to show nothing but the top of a round
bald head, like the egg of an ostrich. There were two or three pretty
faces among the female singers, to which the keen air of a frosty morning
had given a bright rosy tint; but the gentlemen choristers had evidently
been chosen, like old Cremona fiddles, more for tone than looks; and as
several had to sing from the same book, there were clusterings of odd
physiognomies, not unlike those groups of cherubs we sometimes see on
country tombstones.
The usual services of the choir were managed tolerably well, the vocal
parts generally lagging a little behind the instrumental, and some
loitering fiddler now and then making up for lost time by travelling over
a passage with prodigious celerity, and clearing more bars than the
keenest fox-hunter to be in at the death. But the great trial was an
anthem that had been prepared and arranged by Master Simon, and on which
he had founded great expectation. Unluckily there was a blunder at the
very outset; the musicians became flurried; Master Simon was in a fever;
everything went on lamely and irregularly until they came to a chorus
beginning "Now let us sing with one accord," which seemed to be a signal
for parting company: all became discord and confusion; each shifted for
himself, and got to the end as well, or rather as soon, as he could,
excepting one old chorister in a pair of horn spectacles bestriding and
pinching a long sonorous nose; who, happening to stand a little apart, and
being wrapped up in his own melody, kept on a quavering course, wriggling
his head, ogling his book, and winding all up by a nasal solo of at least
three bars' duration.
The parson gave us a most erudite sermon on the rites and ceremonies of
Christmas, and the propriety of observing it not merely as a day of
thanksgiving, but of rejoicing; supporting the correctness of his opinions
by the earliest usages of the Church, and enforcing them by the
authorities of Theophilus of Cesarea, St. Cyprian, St. Chrysostom, St.
Augustine, and a cloud more of Saints and Fathers, from whom he made
copious quotations. I was a little at a loss to perceive the necessity of
such a mighty array of forces to maintain a point which no one present
seemed inclined to dispute; but I soon found that the good man had a
legion of ideal adversaries to contend with; having, in the course of his
researches on the subject of Christmas, got completely embroiled in the
sectarian controversies of the Revolution, when the Puritans made such a
fierce assault upon the ceremonies of the Church, and poor old Christmas
was driven out of the land by proclamation of Parliament.* The worthy
parson lived but with times past, and knew but a little of the present.
*3 See Note C.
Shut up among worm-eaten tomes in the retirement of his antiquated little
study, the pages of old times were to him as the gazettes of the day;
while the era of the Revolution was mere modern history. He forgot that
nearly two centuries had elapsed since the fiery persecution of poor
mince-pie throughout the land; when plum-porridge was denounced as﹃mere
popery,﹄and roast beef as antichristian; and that Christmas had been
brought in again triumphantly with the merry court of King Charles at the
Restoration. He kindled into warmth with the ardour of his contest, and
the host of imaginary foes with whom he had to combat; had a stubborn
conflict with old Prynne and two or three other forgotten champions of the
Round-heads, on the subject of Christmas festivity; and concluded by
urging his hearers, in the most solemn and affecting manner, to stand to
the traditionary customs of their fathers, and feast and make merry on
this joyful anniversary of the Church.
I have seldom known a sermon attended apparently with more immediate
effects; for, on leaving the church, the congregation seemed one and all
possessed with the gaiety of spirit so earnestly enjoined by their pastor.
The elder folks gathered in knots in the churchyard, greeting and shaking
hands; and the children ran about crying, Ule! Ule! and repeating some
uncouth rhymes,* which the parson, who had joined us, informed me had been
handed down from days of yore. The villagers doffed their hats to the
Squire as he passed, giving him the good wishes of the season with every
appearance of heartfelt sincerity, and were invited by him to the Hall, to
take something to keep out the cold of the weather; and I heard blessings
uttered by several of the poor, which convinced me that, in the midst of
his enjoyments, the worthy old cavalier had not forgotten the true
Christmas virtue of charity.
* "Ule! Ule!
Three puddings in a pule;
Crack nuts and cry ule!"
On our way homeward his heart seemed overflowing with generous and happy
feelings. As we passed over a rising ground which commanded something of a
prospect, the sounds of rustic merriment now and then reached our ears;
the Squire paused for a few moments, and looked around with an air of
inexpressible benignity. The beauty of the day was of itself sufficient to
inspire philanthropy. Notwithstanding the frostiness of the morning, the
sun in his cloudless journey had acquired sufficient power to melt away
the thin covering of snow from every southern declivity, and to bring out
the living green which adorns an English landscape even in midwinter.
Large tracts of smiling verdure contrasted with the dazzling whiteness of
the shaded slopes and hollows. Every sheltered bank on which the broad
rays rested yielded its silver rill of cold and limpid water, glittering
through the dripping grass; and sent up slight exhalations to contribute
to the thin haze that hung just above the surface of the earth. There was
something truly cheering in this triumph of warmth and verdure over the
frosty thraldom of winter; it was, as the Squire observed, an emblem of
Christmas hospitality, breaking through the chills of ceremony and
selfishness, and thawing every heart into a flow. He pointed with pleasure
to the indications of good cheer reeking from the chimneys of the
comfortable farmhouses and low, thatched cottages. "I love," said he, "to
see this day well kept by rich and poor; it is a great thing to have one
day in the year, at least, when you are sure of being welcome wherever you
go, and of having, as it were, the world all thrown open to you; and I am
almost disposed to join with Poor Robin, in his malediction of every
churlish enemy to this honest festival:
"'Those who at Christmas do repine,
And would fain hence despatch him,
May they with old Duke Humphry dine,
Or else may Squire Ketch catch 'em.'"
The Squire went on to lament the deplorable decay of the games and
amusements which were once prevalent at this season among the lower
orders, and countenanced by the higher: when the old halls of castles and
manor-houses were thrown open at daylight; when the tables were covered
with brawn, and beef, and humming ale; when the harp and the carol
resounded all day long, and when rich and poor were alike welcome to enter
and make merry.* "Our old games and local customs," said he, "had a great
effect in making the peasant fond of his home, and the promotion of them,
by the gentry made him fond of his lord. They made the times merrier, and
kinder, and better; and I can truly say, with one of our old poets:
"'I like them well—the curious preciseness
And all-pretended gravity of those
That seek to banish hence these harmless sports,
Have thrust away much ancient honesty.'
*4 See Note D.
"The nation," continued he, "is altered; we have almost lost our simple,
true-hearted peasantry. They have broken asunder from the higher classes,
and seem to think their interests are separate. They have become too
knowing, and begin to read newspapers, listen to alehouse politicians, and
talk of reform. I think one mode to keep them in good humour in these hard
times would be for the nobility and gentry to pass more time on their
estates, mingle more among the country people, and set the merry old
English games going again."
Such was the good Squire's project for mitigating public discontent; and,
indeed, he had once attempted to put his doctrine in practice, and a few
years before had kept open house during the holidays in the old style. The
country people, however, did not understand how to play their parts in the
scene of hospitality; many uncouth circumstances occurred; the manor was
overrun by all the vagrants of the country, and more beggars drawn into
the neighbourhood in one week than the parish officers could get rid of in
a year. Since then, he had contented himself with inviting the decent part
of the neighbouring peasantry to call at the Hall on Christmas Day, and
distributing beef, and bread, and ale, among the poor, that they might
make merry in their own dwellings.
We had not been long home when the sound of music was heard from a
distance. A band of country lads, without coats, their shirt-sleeves
fancifully tied with ribands, their hats decorated with greens, and clubs
in their hands, were seen advancing up the avenue, followed by a large
number of villagers and peasantry. They stopped before the hall door,
where the music struck up a peculiar air, and the lads performed a curious
and intricate dance, advancing, retreating, and striking their clubs
together, keeping exact time to the music; while one, whimsically crowned
with a fox's skin, the tail of which flaunted down his back, kept capering
around the skirts of the dance, and rattling a Christmas-box with many
antic gesticulations.
The Squire eyed this fanciful exhibition with great interest and delight,
and gave me a full account of its origin, which he traced to the times
when the Romans held possession of the island; plainly proving that this
was a lineal descendant of the sword-dance of the ancients. "It was now,"
he said, "nearly extinct, but he had accidentally met with traces of it in
the neighbourhood, and had encouraged its revival; though, to tell the
truth, it was too apt to be followed up by rough cudgel-play and broken
heads in the evening."
After the dance was concluded, the whole party was entertained with brawn
and beef, and stout home-brewed. The Squire himself mingled among the
rustics, and was received with awkward demonstrations of deference and
regard.
It is true, I perceived two or three of the younger peasants, as they were
raising their tankards to their mouths when the Squire's back was turned,
making something of a grimace, and giving each other the wink; but the
moment they caught my eye they pulled grave faces, and were exceedingly
demure. With Master Simon, however, they all seemed more at their ease.
His varied occupations and amusements had made him well known throughout
the neighbourhood. He was a visitor at every farmhouse and cottage;
gossiped with the farmers and their wives; romped with their daughters;
and, like that type of a vagrant bachelor, the bumblebee, tolled the
sweets from all the rosy lips of the country around.
The bashfulness of the guests soon gave way before good cheer and
affability. There is something genuine and affectionate in the gaiety of
the lower orders, when it is excited by the bounty and familiarity of
those above them; the warm glow of gratitude enters into their mirth, and
a kind word or a small pleasantry, frankly uttered by a patron, gladdens
the heart of the dependant more than oil and wine. When the Squire had
retired, the merriment increased, and there was much joking and laughter,
particularly between Master Simon and a hale, ruddy-faced, white-headed
farmer, who appeared to be the wit of the village; for I observed all his
companions to wait with open mouths for his retorts, and burst into a
gratuitous laugh before they could well understand them.
The whole house, indeed, seemed abandoned to merriment. As I passed to my
room to dress for dinner, I heard the sound of music in a small court,
and, looking through a window that commanded it, I perceived a band of
wandering musicians, with pandean pipes and tambourine; a pretty,
coquettish housemaid was dancing a jig with a smart country lad, while
several of the other servants were looking on. In the midst of her sport
the girl caught a glimpse of my face at the window, and, colouring up, ran
off with an air of roguish affected confusion.
The Christmas Dinner
Lo, now is come the joyful'st feast!
Let every man be jolly,
Eache roome with yvie leaves is drest,
And every post with holly.
Now all our neighbours' chimneys smoke,
And Christmas blocks are burning;
Their ovens they with bak't meats choke,
And all their spits are turning.
Without the door let sorrow lie,
And if, for cold, it hap to die,
We'll bury't in a Christmas pye,
And evermore be merry.
—WITHERS'S Juvenilia.
I had finished my toilet, and was loitering with Frank Bracebridge in the
library, when we heard a distant thwacking sound, which he informed me was
a signal for the serving up of the dinner. The Squire kept up old customs
in kitchen as well as hall; and the rolling-pin, struck upon the dresser
by the cook, summoned the servants to carry in the meats.
"Just in this nick the cook knock'd thrice,
And all the waiters in a trice
His summons did obey;
Each serving man, with dish in hand,
March'd boldly up, like our train-band,
Presented and away."*
* Sir John Suckling.
The dinner was served up in the great hall, where the Squire always held
his Christmas banquet. A blazing, crackling fire of logs had been heaped
on to warm the spacious apartment, and the flame went sparkling and
wreathing up the wide-mouthed chimney. The great picture of the crusader
and his white horse had been profusely decorated with greens for the
occasion; and holly and ivy had likewise been wreathed around the helmet
and weapons on the opposite wall, which I understood were the arms of the
same warrior. I must own, by the by, I had strong doubts about the
authenticity of painting and armour as having belonged to the crusader,
they certainly having the stamp of more recent days; but I was told that
the painting had been so considered time out of mind; and that as to the
armour, it had been found in a lumber room, and elevated to its present
situation by the Squire, who at once determined it to be the armour of the
family hero; and as he was absolute authority on all such subjects to his
own household, the matter had passed into current acceptation. A sideboard
was set out just under this chivalric trophy, on which was a display of
plate that might have vied (at least in variety) with Belshazzar's parade
of the vessels of the Temple:﹃flagons, cans, cups, beakers, goblets,
basins, and ewers;﹄the gorgeous utensils of good companionship, that had
gradually accumulated through many generations of jovial housekeepers.
Before these stood the two Yule candles, beaming like two stars of the
first magnitude: other lights were distributed in branches, and the whole
array glittered like a firmament of silver.
We were ushered into this banqueting scene with the sound of minstrelsy,
the old harper being seated on a stool beside the fireplace, and twanging
his instrument with a vast deal more power than melody. Never did
Christmas board display a more goodly and gracious assemblage of
countenances; those who were not handsome were, at least, happy; and
happiness is a rare improver of your hard-favoured visage.
I always consider an old English family as well worth studying as a
collection of Holbein's portraits or Albert Durer's prints. There is much
antiquarian lore to be acquired; much knowledge of the physiognomies of
former times. Perhaps it may be from having continually before their eyes
those rows of old family portraits, with which the mansions of this
country are stocked; certain it is, that the quaint features of antiquity
are often most faithfully perpetuated in these ancient lines; and I have
traced an old family nose through a whole picture-gallery, legitimately
handed down from generation to generation, almost from the time of the
Conquest. Something of the kind was to be observed in the worthy company
around me. Many of their faces had evidently originated in a Gothic age,
and been merely copied by succeeding generations; and there was one little
girl, in particular, of staid demeanour, with a high Roman nose, and an
antique vinegar aspect, who was a great favourite of the Squire's, being,
as he said, a Bracebridge all over, and the very counterpart of one of his
ancestors who figured in the court of Henry VIII.
The parson said grace, which was not a short, familiar one, such as is
commonly addressed to the Deity, in these unceremonious days; but a long,
courtly, well-worded one of the ancient school.
There was now a pause, as if something was expected; when suddenly the
butler entered the hall with some degree of bustle; he was attended by a
servant on each side with a large wax-light, and bore a silver dish, on
which was an enormous pig's head, decorated with rosemary, with a lemon in
its mouth, which was placed with great formality at the head of the table.
The moment this pageant made its appearance, the harper struck up a
flourish; at the conclusion of which the young Oxonian, on receiving a
hint from the Squire, gave, with an air of the most comic gravity, an old
carol, the first verse of which was as follows:
"Caput apri defero
Reddens laudes Domino.
The boar's head in hand bring I,
With garlands gay and rosemary.
I pray you all synge merily
Qui estis in convivio."
Though prepared to witness many of these little eccentricities, from being
apprised of the peculiar hobby of mine host; yet, I confess, the parade
with which so odd a dish was introduced somewhat perplexed me, until I
gathered from the conversation of the Squire and the parson that it was
meant to represent the bringing in of the boar's head: a dish formerly
served up with much ceremony, and the sound of minstrelsy and song, at
great tables on Christmas Day. "I like the old custom," said the Squire,
"not merely because it is stately and pleasing in itself, but because it
was observed at the College of Oxford, at which I was educated. When I
hear the old song chanted, it brings to mind the time when I was young and
gamesome—and the noble old college-hall—and my fellow students
loitering about in their black gowns; many of whom, poor lads, are now in
their graves!"
The parson, however, whose mind was not haunted by such associations, and
who was always more taken up with the text than the sentiment, objected to
the Oxonian's version of the carol: which he affirmed was different from
that sung at college. He went on, with the dry perseverance of a
commentator, to give the college reading, accompanied by sundry
annotations: addressing himself at first to the company at large; but
finding their attention gradually diverted to other talk, and other
objects, he lowered his tone as his number of auditors diminished, until
he concluded his remarks, in an under voice, to a fat-headed old gentleman
next him, who was silently engaged in the discussion of a huge plateful of
turkey.*
*5 See Note E.
The table was literally loaded with good cheer, and presented an epitome
of country abundance, in this season of overflowing larders. A
distinguished post was allotted to "ancient sirloin," as mine host termed
it; being, as he added, "the standard of old English hospitality, and a
joint of goodly presence, and full of expectation."
There were several dishes quaintly decorated, and which had evidently
something traditionary in their embellishments; but about which, as I did
not like to appear over curious, I asked no questions. I could not,
however, but notice a pie, magnificently decorated with peacocks'
feathers, in imitation of the tail of that bird, which overshadowed a
considerable tract of the table. This, the Squire confessed, with some
little hesitation, was a pheasant-pie, though a peacock-pie was certainly
the most authentical; but there had been such a mortality among the
peacocks this season, that he could not prevail upon himself to have one
killed.*
*6 See Note F.
It would be tedious, perhaps, to my wiser readers, who may not have that
foolish fondness for odd and obsolete things to which I am a little given,
were I to mention the other makeshifts of this worthy old humourist, by
which he was endeavouring to follow up, though at humble distance, the
quaint customs of antiquity. I was pleased, however, to see the respect
shown to his whims by his children and relatives; who, indeed, entered
readily into the full spirit of them, and seemed all well versed in their
parts; having doubtless been present at many a rehearsal. I was amused,
too, at the air of profound gravity with which the butler and other
servants executed the duties assigned them, however eccentric. They had an
old-fashioned look; having, for the most part, been brought up in the
household, and grown into keeping with the antiquated mansion, and the
humours of its lord; and most probably looked upon all his whimsical
regulations as the established laws of honourable housekeeping. When the
cloth was removed, the butler brought in a huge silver vessel of rare and
curious workmanship, which he placed before the Squire. Its appearance was
hailed with acclamation; being the Wassail Bowl, so renowned in Christmas
festivity. The contents had been prepared by the Squire himself; for it
was a beverage in the skilful mixture of which he particularly prided
himself, alleging that it was too abstruse and complex for the
comprehension of an ordinary servant. It was a potation, indeed, that
might well make the heart of a toper leap within him; being composed of
the richest and raciest wines, highly spiced and sweetened, with roasted
apples bobbing about the surface.*
*7 See Note G.
The old gentleman's whole countenance beamed with a serene look of
indwelling delight, as he stirred this mighty bowl. Having raised it to
his lips, with a hearty wish of a merry Christmas to all present, he sent
it brimming, around the board, for every one to follow his example,
according to the primitive style; pronouncing it "the ancient fountain of
good feeling, where all hearts met together."*
*8 See Note H.
There was much laughing and rallying, as the honest emblem of Christmas
joviality circulated, and was kissed rather coyly by the ladies. When it
reached Master Simon he raised it in both hands, and with the air of a
boon companion struck up an old Wassail chanson:
The browne bowle,
The merry browne bowle,
As it goes round about-a,
Fill
Still,
Let the world say what it will,
And drink your fill all out-a.
The deep canne,
The merry deep canne,
As thou dost freely quaff-a,
Sing,
Fling,
Be as merry as a king,
And sound a lusty laugh-a.*
* From "Poor Robin's Almanack."
Much of the conversation during dinner turned upon family topics, to which
I was a stranger. There was, however, a great deal of rallying of Master
Simon about some gay widow, with whom he was accused of having a
flirtation. This attack was commenced by the ladies; but it was continued
throughout the dinner by the fat-headed old gentleman next the parson,
with the persevering assiduity of a slow-hound; being one of those
long-winded jokers, who, though rather dull at starting game, are
unrivalled for their talents in hunting it down. At every pause in the
general conversation, he renewed his bantering in pretty much the same
terms; winking hard at me with both eyes whenever he gave Master Simon
what he considered a home thrust. The latter, indeed, seemed fond of being
teased on the subject, as old bachelors are apt to be; and he took
occasion to inform me, in an undertone, that the lady in question was a
prodigiously fine woman, and drove her own curricle.
The dinner-time passed away in this flow of innocent hilarity; and, though
the old hall may have resounded in its time with many a scene of broader
rout and revel, yet I doubt whether it ever witnessed more honest and
genuine enjoyment. How easy it is for one benevolent being to diffuse
pleasure around him; and how truly is a kind heart a fountain of gladness,
making everything in its vicinity to freshen into smiles! The joyous
disposition of the worthy Squire was perfectly contagious; he was happy
himself, and disposed to make all the world happy; and the little
eccentricities of his humour did but season, in a manner, the sweetness of
his philanthropy.
When the ladies had retired, the conversation, as usual, became still more
animated; many good things were broached which had been thought of during
dinner, but which would not exactly do for a lady's ear; and though I
cannot positively affirm that there was much wit uttered, yet I have
certainly heard many contests of rare wit produce much less laughter. Wit,
after all, is a mighty tart, pungent ingredient, and much too acid for
some stomachs; but honest good humour is the oil and wine of a merry
meeting, and there is no jovial companionship equal to that where the
jokes are rather small, and the laughter abundant. The Squire told several
long stories of early college pranks and adventures, in some of which the
parson had been a sharer; though in looking at the latter, it required
some effort of imagination to figure such a little dark anatomy of a man
into the perpetrator of a madcap gambol. Indeed, the two college chums
presented pictures of what men may be made by their different lots in
life. The Squire had left the university to live lustily on his paternal
domains, in the vigorous enjoyment of prosperity and sunshine, and had
flourished on to a hearty and florid old age; whilst the poor parson, on
the contrary, had dried and withered away, among dusty tomes, in the
silence and shadows of his study.
Still there seemed to be a spark of almost extinguished fire, feebly
glimmering in the bottom of his soul; and as the Squire hinted at a sly
story of the parson and a pretty milkmaid, whom they once met on the banks
of the Isis, the old gentleman made an "alphabet of faces," which, as far
as I could decipher his physiognomy, I verily believe was indicative of
laughter;—indeed, I have rarely met with an old gentleman who took
absolutely offence at the imputed gallantries of his youth.
I found the tide of wine and wassail fast gaining on the dry land of sober
judgment. The company grew merrier and louder as their jokes grew duller.
Master Simon was in as chirping a humour as a grasshopper filled with dew;
his old songs grew of a warmer complexion, and he began to talk maudlin
about the widow. He even gave a long song about the wooing of a widow,
which he informed me he had gathered from an excellent black-letter work,
entitled "Cupid's Solicitor for Love," containing store of good advice for
bachelors, and which he promised to lend me. The first verse was to this
effect:
"He that will woo a widow must not dally,
He must make hay while the sun doth shine;
He must not stand with her, Shall I, Shall I?
But boldly say, Widow, thou must be mine."
This song inspired the fat-headed old gentleman, who made several attempts
to tell a rather broad story out of Joe Miller, that was pat to the
purpose; but he always stuck in the middle, everybody recollecting the
latter part excepting himself. The parson, too, began to show the effects
of good cheer, having gradually settled down into a doze, and his wig
sitting most suspiciously on one side. Just at this juncture we were
summoned to the drawing-room, and, I suspect, at the private instigation
of mine host, whose joviality seemed always tempered with a proper love of
decorum.
After the dinner-table was removed, the hall was given up to the younger
members of the family, who, prompted to all kind of noisy mirth by the
Oxonian and Master Simon, made its old walls ring with their merriment, as
they played at romping games. I delight in witnessing the gambols of
children, and particularly at this happy holiday-season, and could not
help stealing out of the drawing-room on hearing one of their peals of
laughter. I found them at the game of blind-man's buff. Master Simon, who
was the leader of their revels, and seemed on all occasions to fulfil the
office of that ancient potentate, the Lord of Misrule,* was blinded in the
midst of the hall. The little beings were as busy about him as the mock
fairies about Falstaff; pinching him, plucking at the skirts of his coat,
and tickling him with straws. One fine blue-eyed girl of about thirteen,
with her flaxen hair all in beautiful confusion, her frolic face in a
glow, her frock half torn off her shoulders, a complete picture of a romp,
was the chief tormentor; and from the slyness with which Master Simon
avoided the smaller game, and hemmed this wild little nymph in corners,
and obliged her to jump shrieking over chairs, I suspected the rogue of
being not a whit more blinded than was convenient.
*9 See Note I.
When I returned to the drawing-room, I found the company seated around the
fire, listening to the parson, who was deeply ensconced in a high-backed
oaken chair, the work of some cunning artificer of yore, which had been
brought from the library for his particular accommodation. From this
venerable piece of furniture, with which his shadowy figure and dark
weazen face so admirably accorded, he was dealing forth strange accounts
of popular superstitions and legends of the surrounding country, with
which he had become acquainted in the course of his antiquarian
researches. I am half inclined to think that the old gentleman was himself
somewhat tinctured with superstition, as men are very apt to be who live a
recluse and studious life in a sequestered part of the country, and pore
over black-letter tracts, so often filled with the marvellous and
supernatural. He gave us several anecdotes of the fancies of the
neighbouring peasantry, concerning the effigy of the crusader which lay on
the tomb by the church altar. As it was the only monument of the kind in
that part of the country, it had always been regarded with feelings of
superstition by the goodwives of the village. It was said to get up from
the tomb and walk the rounds of the churchyard in stormy nights,
particularly when it thundered; and one old woman, whose cottage bordered
on the churchyard, had seen it, through the windows of the church, when
the moon shone, slowly pacing up and down the aisles. It was the belief
that some wrong had been left unredressed by the deceased, or some
treasure hidden, which kept the spirit in a state of trouble and
restlessness. Some talked of gold and jewels buried in the tomb, over
which the spectre kept watch; and there was a story current of a sexton in
old times who endeavoured to break his way to the coffin at night; but
just as he reached it, received a violent blow from the marble hand of the
effigy, which stretched him senseless on the pavement. These tales were
often laughed at by some of the sturdier among the rustics, yet when night
came on, there were many of the stoutest unbelievers that were shy of
venturing alone in the footpath that led across the churchyard. From these
and other anecdotes that followed, the crusader appeared to be the
favourite hero of ghost stories throughout the vicinity. His picture,
which hung up in the hall, was thought by the servants to have something
supernatural about it; for they remarked that, in whatever part of the
hall you went, the eyes of the warrior were still fixed on you. The old
porter's wife, too, at the lodge, who had been born and brought up in the
family, and was a great gossip among the maid servants, affirmed that in
her young days she had often heard say that on Midsummer eve, when it is
well known all kinds of ghosts, goblins, and fairies become visible and
walk abroad, the crusader used to mount his horse, come down from his
picture, ride about the house, down the avenue, and so to the church to
visit the tomb; on which occasion the church door most civilly swung open
of itself: not that he needed it; for he rode through closed gates and
even stone walls, and had been seen by one of the dairymaids to pass
between two bars of the great park gate, making himself as thin as a sheet
of paper.
All these superstitions, I found, had been very much countenanced by the
Squire, who, though not superstitious himself, was very fond of seeing
others so. He listened to every goblin tale of the neighbouring gossips
with infinite gravity, and held the porter's wife in high favour on
account of her talent for the marvellous. He was himself a great reader of
old legends and romances, and often lamented that he could not believe in
them; for a superstitious person, he thought, must live in a kind of
fairyland.
Whilst we were all attention to the parson's stories, our ears were
suddenly assailed by a burst of heterogeneous sounds from the hall, in
which was mingled something like the clang of rude minstrelsy, with the
uproar of many small voices and girlish laughter. The door suddenly flew
open, and a train came trooping into the room, that might almost have been
mistaken for the breaking up of the court of Fairy. That indefatigable
spirit, Master Simon, in the faithful discharge of his duties as Lord of
Misrule, had conceived the idea of a Christmas mummery, or masking; and
having called in to his assistance the Oxonian and the young officer, who
were equally ripe for anything that should occasion romping and merriment,
they had carried it into instant effect. The old housekeeper had been
consulted; the antique clothes-presses and wardrobes rummaged and made to
yield up the relics of finery that had not seen the light for several
generations; the younger part of the company had been privately convened
from the parlour and hall, and the whole had been bedizened out, into a
burlesque imitation of an antique masque.*
*10 See Note J.
Master Simon led the van, as "Ancient Christmas," quaintly apparelled in a
ruff, a short cloak, which had very much the aspect of one of the old
housekeeper's petticoats, and a hat that might have served for a village
steeple, and must indubitably have figured in the days of the Covenanters.
From under this his nose curved boldly forth, flushed with a frost-bitten
bloom, that seemed the very trophy of a December blast. He was accompanied
by the blue-eyed romp, dished up as "Dame Mince-Pie," in the venerable
magnificence of faded brocade, long stomacher, peaked hat, and high-heeled
shoes. The young officer appeared as Robin Hood, in a sporting dress of
Kendal green and a foraging cap with a gold tassel. The costume, to be
sure, did not bear testimony to deep research, and there was an evident
eye to the picturesque, natural to a young gallant in the presence of his
mistress. The fair Julia hung on his arm in a pretty rustic dress, as
"Maid Marian." The rest of the train had been metamorphosed in various
ways; the girls trussed up in the finery of the ancient belles of the
Bracebridge line, and the striplings bewhiskered with burnt cork, and
gravely clad in broad skirts, hanging sleeves, and full-bottomed wigs, to
represent the characters of Roast Beef, Plum Pudding, and other worthies
celebrated in ancient maskings. The whole was under the control of the
Oxonian, in the appropriate character of Misrule; and I observed that he
exercised rather a mischievous sway with his wand over the smaller
personages of the pageant.
The irruption of this motley crew, with beat of drum, according to ancient
custom, was the consummation of uproar and merriment. Master Simon covered
himself with glory by the stateliness with which, as Ancient Christmas, he
walked a minuet with the peerless, though giggling, Dame Mince-Pie. It was
followed by a dance of all the characters, which, from its medley of
costumes, seemed as though the old family portraits had skipped down from
their frames to join in the sport. Different centuries were figuring at
cross hands and right and left; the dark ages were cutting pirouettes and
rigadoons; and the days of Queen Bess jigging merrily down the middle,
through a line of succeeding generations.
The worthy Squire contemplated these fantastic sports, and this
resurrection of his old wardrobe, with the simple relish of childish
delight. He stood chuckling and rubbing his hands, and scarcely hearing a
word the parson said, notwithstanding that the latter was discoursing most
authentically on the ancient and stately dance at the Paon, or Peacock,
from which he conceived the minuet to be derived.* For my part, I was in a
continual excitement, from the varied scenes of whim and innocent gaiety
passing before me. It was inspiring to see wild-eyed frolic and
warm-hearted hospitality breaking out from among the chills and glooms of
winter, and old age throwing off his apathy, and catching once more the
freshness of youthful enjoyment. I felt also an interest in the scene,
from the consideration that these fleeting customs were posting fast into
oblivion, and that this was, perhaps, the only family in England in which
the whole of them were still punctiliously observed. There was a
quaintness, too, mingled with all this revelry that gave it a peculiar
zest; it was suited to the time and place; and as the old Manor House
almost reeled with mirth and wassail, it seemed echoing back the joviality
of long-departed years.
*11 See Note K.
But enough of Christmas and its gambols; it is time for me to pause in
this garrulity. Methinks I hear the questions asked by my graver readers,
﹃To what purpose is all this?—how is the world to be made wiser by
this talk?﹄Alas! is there not wisdom enough extant for the instruction of
the world? And if not, are there not thousands of abler pens labouring for
its improvement?—It is so much pleasanter to please than to instruct—to
play the companion rather than the preceptor.
What, after all, is the mite of wisdom that I could throw into the mass of
knowledge? or how am I sure that my sagest deductions may be safe guides
for the opinions of others? But in writing to amuse, if I fail, the only
evil is my own disappointment. If, however, I can by any lucky chance, in
these days of evil, rub out one wrinkle from the brow of care, or beguile
the heavy heart of one moment of sorrow; if I can now and then penetrate
through the gathering film of misanthropy, prompt a benevolent view of
human nature, and make my reader more in good humour with his fellow
beings and himself, surely, surely, I shall not then have written entirely
in vain.
THE END.
Notes
1 (return)
[ NOTE A.
The misletoe is still hung up in farmhouses and kitchens at Christmas; and
the young men have the privilege of kissing the girls under it, plucking
each time a berry from the bush. When the berries are all plucked, the
privilege ceases.]
2 (return)
[ NOTE B.
The Yule-clog is a great log of wood, sometimes the root of a tree,
brought into the house with great ceremony, on Christmas eve, laid in the
fireplace, and lighted with the brand of last year's clog. While it lasted
there was great drinking, singing, and telling of tales. Sometimes it was
accompanied by Christmas candles, but in the cottages the only light was
from the ruddy blaze of the great wood fire. The Yule-clog was to burn all
night; if it went out, it was considered a sign of ill luck.
Herrick mentions it in one of his songs:
"Come, bring with a noise
My merrie, merrie boyes,
The Christmas log to the firing:
While my good dame, she
Bids ye all be free,
And drink to your hearts' desiring."
The Yule-clog is still burnt in many farmhouses and kitchens in England,
particularly in the north, and there are several superstitions connected
with it among the peasantry. If a squinting person come to the house while
it is burning, or a person barefooted, it is considered an ill omen. The
brand remaining from the Yule-clog is carefully put away to light the next
year's Christmas fire.]
3 (return)
[ NOTE C.
From the Flying Eagle, a small gazette, published December 24, 1652: "The
House spent much time this day about the business of the Navy, for
settling the affairs at sea; and before they rose, were presented with a
terrible remonstrance against Christmas day, grounded upon divine
Scriptures, 2 Cor. v. 16; 1 Cor. xv. 14, 17; and in honour of the Lord's
Day, grounded upon these Scriptures, John xx. I; Rev. i. 10; Psalm cxviii.
24; Lev. xxiii. 7, 11; Mark xvi. 8; Psalm lxxxiv. 10, in which Christmas
is called Anti-Christ's masse, and those Mass-mongers and Papists who
observe it, etc. In consequence of which Parliament spent some time in
consultation about the abolition of Christmas day, passed orders to that
effect, and resolved to sit on the following day, which was commonly
called Christmas day."]
4 (return)
[ NOTE D.
An English gentleman at the opening of the great day, i. e. on Christmas
day in the morning, had all his tenants and neighbours enter his hall by
daybreak. The strong beer was broached, and the black jacks went
plentifully about with toast, sugar, nutmeg, and good Cheshire cheese. The
hackin (the great sausage) must be boiled by daybreak, or else two young
men must take the maiden (i.e. the cook) by the arms and run her round the
market-place till she is shamed of her laziness.—Round about our
Sea-coal Fire.]
5 (return)
[ NOTE E.
The old ceremony of serving up the boar's head on Christmas day is still
observed in the hall of Queen's College, Oxford. I was favoured by the
parson with a copy of the carol as now sung, and as it may be acceptable
to such of my readers as are curious in these grave and learned matters, I
give it entire.
"The boar's head in hand bear I,
Bedeck'd with bays and rosemary;
And I pray you, my masters, be merry,
Quot estia in convivio.
Caput apri defero
Reddens laudes Domino.
"The boar's head, as I understand,
Is the rarest dish in all this land,
Which thus bedeck'd with a gay garland
Let us servire cantico.
Caput apri defero, etc.
"Our Steward hath provided this
In honour of the King of Bliss,
Which on this day to be served is
In Reginensi Atrio.
Caput apri defero,"
Etc., etc., etc.]
6 (return)
[ NOTE F.
The peacock was anciently in great demand for stately entertainments.
Sometimes it was made into a pie, at one end of which the head appeared
above the crust in all its plumage, with the beak richly gilt; at the
other end the tail was displayed. Such pies were served up at the solemn
banquets of chivalry, when knights-errant pledged themselves to undertake
any perilous enterprise; whence came the ancient oath, used by Justice
Shallow, "by cock and pie."
The peacock was also an important dish for the Christmas feast; and
Massinger, in his "City Madam," gives some idea of the extravagance with
which this, as well as other dishes, was prepared for the gorgeous revels
of the olden times:
"Men may talk of country Christmasses, Their thirty pound butter'd eggs,
their pies of carps' tongues: Their pheasants drench'd with ambergris; the
carcases of three fat wethers bruised for gravy, to make sauce for a
single peacock!"]
7 (return)
[ NOTE G.
The Wassail Bowl was sometimes composed of ale instead of wine; with
nutmeg, sugar, toast, ginger, and roasted crabs; in this way the nut-brown
beverage is still prepared in some old families, and round the hearths of
substantial farmers at Christmas. It is also called Lambs' Wool, and is
celebrated by Herrick in his "Twelfth Night:"
"Next crowne the bowle full
With gentle Lambs' Wool,
Add sugar, nutmeg, and ginger,
With store of ale too;
And thus ye must doe
To make the Wassaile a swinger."]
8 (return)
[ NOTE H.
The custom of drinking out of the same cup gave place to each having his
cup. When the steward came to the doore with the Wassel, he was to cry
three times, Wassel, Wassel, Wassel, and then the chappel (chaplain) was
to answer with a song.—Archaeologia.]
9 (return)
[ NOTE I.
At Christmasse there was in the Kings's house, wheresoever hee was lodged,
a lorde of misrule, or mayster of merry disportes; and the like had ye in
the house of every nobleman of honour, or good worshippe, were he
spirituall or temporall.—Stow.]
10 (return)
[ NOTE J.
Maskings or mummeries were favourite sports at Christmas in old times; and
the wardrobes at halls and manor-houses were often laid under contribution
to furnish dresses and fantastic disguisings. I strongly suspect Master
Simon to have taken the idea of his from Ben Jonson's "Masque of
Christmas."]
11 (return)
[ NOTE K.
Sir John Hawkins, speaking of the dance called the Pavon, from pavo, a
peacock, says: "It is a grave and majestic dance; the method of dancing it
anciently was by gentlemen dressed with caps and swords, by those of the
long robe in their gowns, by the peers in their mantles, and by the ladies
in gowns with long trains, the motion whereof, in dancing, resembled that
of a peacock."—History of Music.]
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