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.
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.
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.
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."
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
