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.
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.'
"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.
Special Feature: Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol :
Marley was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. Scrooge signed it. And Scrooge's name was good upon 'Change, for anything he chose to put his hand to.
