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´╗┐Title: Old Christmas
Author: Irving, Washington, 1783-1859
Language: English
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Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Old Christmas" ***

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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


CHRISTMAS

THE STAGE-COACH

CHRISTMAS EVE

CHRISTMAS DAY

THE CHRISTMAS DINNER


     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


[Footnote 1: 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.]


[Footnote 2: 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.]


[Footnote 3: 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."]


[Footnote 4: 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.]


[Footnote 5: 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.]

[Footnote 6: 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!"]



[Footnote 7: 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."]


[Footnote 8: 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.]


[Footnote 9: 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.]


[Footnote 10: 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."]


[Footnote 11: 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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