The Sketch-Book of Geoffrey Crayon
Page 22
CHRISTMAS.
But is old, old, good old Christmas gone? Nothing but the hair of hisgood, gray old head and beard left? Well, I will have that, seeing Icannot have more of him. HUE AND CRY AFTER CHRISTMAS.
A man might then behold At Christmas, in each hall Good fires to curb the cold, And meat for great and small. The neighbors were friendly bidden, And all had welcome true, The poor from the gates were not chidden When this old cap was new. OLD SONG.
NOTHING in England exercises a more delightful spell over my imaginationthan the lingerings of the holiday customs and rural games of formertimes. They recall the pictures my fancy used to draw in the May morningof life, when as yet I only knew the world through books, and believedit to be all that poets had painted it; and they bring with them theflavor of those honest days of yore, in which, perhaps with equalfallacy, I am apt to think the world was more homebred, social, andjoyous than at present. I regret to say that they are daily growingmore and more faint, being gradually worn away by time, but still moreobliterated by modern fashion. They resemble those picturesque morselsof Gothic architecture which we see crumbling in various parts of thecountry, partly dilapidated by the waste of ages and partly lost in theadditions and alterations of latter days. Poetry, however, clings withcherishing fondness about the rural game and holiday revel from whichit has derived so many of its themes, as the ivy winds its rich foliageabout the Gothic arch and mouldering tower, gratefully repaying theirsupport by clasping together their tottering remains, and, as it were,embalming them in verdure.
Of all the old festivals, however, that of Christmas awakens thestrongest and most heartfelt associations. There is a tone of solemn andsacred feeling that blends with our conviviality and lifts the spirit toa state of hallowed and elevated enjoyment. The services of the Churchabout this season are extremely tender and inspiring. They dwell on thebeautiful story of the origin of our faith and the pastoral scenes thataccompanied its announcement. They gradually increase in fervor andpathos during the season of Advent, until they break forth in fulljubilee on the morning that brought peace and good-will to men. I do notknow a grander effect of music on the moral feelings than to hear thefull choir and the pealing organ performing a Christmas anthem in acathedral, and filling every part of the vast pile with triumphantharmony.
It is a beautiful arrangement, also, derived from days of yore, thatthis festival, which commemorates the announcement of the religionof peace and love, has been made the season for gathering together offamily connections, and drawing closer again those bands of kindredhearts which the cares and pleasures and sorrows of the world arecontinually operating to cast loose; of calling back the children of afamily who have launched forth in life and wandered widely asunder, oncemore to assemble about the paternal hearth, that rallying-place of theaffections, there to grow young and loving again among the endearingmementos of childhood.
There is something in the very season of the year that gives a charm tothe festivity of Christmas. At other times we derive a great portion ofour pleasures from the mere beauties of Nature. Our feelings sally forthand dissipate themselves over the sunny landscape, and we "live abroadand everywhere." The song of the bird, the murmur of the stream, thebreathing fragrance of spring, the soft voluptuousness of summer, thegolden pomp of autumn, earth with its mantle of refreshing green, andheaven with it deep delicious blue and its cloudy magnificence,--allfill us with mute but exquisite delight, and we revel in the luxury ofmere sensation. But in the depth of winter, when Nature lies despoiledof every charm and wrapped in her shroud of sheeted snow, we turn forour gratifications to moral sources. The dreariness and desolation ofthe landscape, the short gloomy days and darksome nights, while theycircumscribe our wanderings, shut in our feelings also from ramblingabroad, and make us more keenly disposed for the pleasure of the socialcircle. Our thoughts are more concentrated; our friendly sympathies morearoused. We feel more sensibly the charm of each other's society,and are brought more closely together by dependence on each other forenjoyment. Heart calleth unto heart, and we draw our pleasures from thedeep wells of loving-kindness which lie in the quiet recesses of ourbosoms, and which, when resorted to, furnish forth the pure element ofdomestic felicity.
The pitchy gloom without makes the heart dilate on entering the roomfilled with the glow and warmth of the evening fire. The ruddy blazediffuses an artificial summer and sunshine through the room, and lightsup each countenance in a kindlier welcome. Where does the honest face ofhospitality expand into a broader and more cordial smile, where is theshy glance of love more sweetly eloquent, than by the winter fireside?and as the hollow blast of wintry wind rushes through the hall, clapsthe distant door, whistles about the casement, and rumbles down thechimney, what can be more grateful than that feeling of sober andsheltered security with which we look round upon the comfortable chamberand the scene of domestic hilarity?
The English, from the great prevalence of rural habit throughoutevery class of society, have always been found of those festivals andholidays, which agreeably interrupt the stillness of country life, andthey were, in former days, particularly observant of the religious andsocial rites of Christmas. It is inspiring to read even the dry detailswhich some antiquaries have given of the quaint humors, the burlesquepageants, the complete abandonment to mirth and good-fellowship withwhich this festival was celebrated. It seemed to throw open every doorand 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 andthe Christmas carol, and their ample boards groaned under the weight ofhospitality. Even the poorest cottage welcomed the festive season withgreen decorations of bay and holly--the cheerful fire glanced its raysthrough the lattice, inviting the passengers to raise the latch and jointhe gossip knot huddled round the hearth beguiling the long evening withlegendary jokes and oft-told Christmas tales.
One of the least pleasing effects of modern refinement is the havoc ithas made among the hearty old holiday customs. It has completely takenoff the sharp touchings and spirited reliefs of these embellishmentsof life, and has worn down society into a more smooth and polished,but certainly a less characteristic, surface. Many of the games andceremonials of Christmas have entirely disappeared, and, like thesherris sack of old Falstaff, are become matters of speculation anddispute among commentators. They flourished in times full of spiritand lustihood, when men enjoyed life roughly, but heartily andvigorously--times wild and picturesque, which have furnished poetry withits richest materials and the drama with its most attractive variety ofcharacters and manners. The world has become more worldly. There ismore of dissipation, and less of enjoyment. Pleasure has expanded into abroader, but a shallower stream, and has forsaken many of those deepand quiet channels where it flowed sweetly through the calm bosom ofdomestic life. Society has acquired a more enlightened and elegant tone,but it has lost many of its strong local peculiarities, its homebredfeelings, its honest fireside delights. The traditionary customsof golden-hearted antiquity, its feudal hospitalities, and lordlywassailings, have passed away with the baronial castles and statelymanor-houses in which they were celebrated. They comported with theshadowy hall, the great oaken gallery, and the tapestried parlor, butare unfitted to the light showy saloons and gay drawing-rooms of themodern villa.
Shorn, however, as it is, of its ancient and festive honors, Christmasis still a period of delightful excitement in England. It is gratifyingto see that home-feeling completely aroused which holds so powerful aplace in every English bosom. The preparations making on every sidefor the social board that is again to unite friends and kindred; thepresents of good cheer passing and repassing, those tokens of regard andquickeners of kind feelings; the evergreens distributed about housesand churches, emblems of peace and gladness,--all these have the mostpleasing effect in producing fond associations and kindling benevolentsympathies. Even
the sound of the Waits, rude as may be theirminstrelsy, breaks upon the mid-watches of a winter night with theeffect of perfect harmony. As I have been awakened by them in that stilland solemn hour "when deep sleep falleth upon man," I have listenedwith a hushed delight, and, connecting them with the sacred andjoyous occasion, have almost fancied them into another celestial choirannouncing peace and good-will to mankind.
How delightfully the imagination, when wrought upon by these moralinfluences, turns everything to melody and beauty! The very crowingof the cock, heard sometimes in the profound repose of the country,"telling the night-watches to his feathery dames," was thought by thecommon 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, andstir of the affections which prevail at this period what bosom canremain insensible? It is, indeed, the season of regenerated feeling--theseason for kindling not merely the fire of hospitality in the hall, butthe genial flame of charity in the heart.
The scene of early love again rises green to memory beyond the sterilewaste of years; and the idea of home, fraught with the fragrance ofhome-dwelling joys, reanimates the drooping spirit, as the Arabianbreeze will sometimes waft the freshness of the distant fields to theweary pilgrim of the desert.
Stranger and sojourner as I am in the land, though for me no socialhearth may blaze, no hospitable roof throw open its doors, nor thewarm grasp of friendship welcome me at the threshold, yet I feel theinfluence of the season beaming into my soul from the happy looks ofthose around me. Surely happiness is reflective, like the light ofheaven, and every countenance, bright with smiles and glowing withinnocent enjoyment, is a mirror transmitting to others the rays of asupreme and ever-shining benevolence. He who can turn churlishly awayfrom contemplating the felicity of his fellow-beings, and can sit downdarkling and repining in his loneliness when all around is joyful, mayhave his moments of strong excitement and selfish gratification, but hewants the genial and social sympathies which constitute the charm of amerry Christmas.