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
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.
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.
