Lo, now is come our 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,
Wee’l bury ‘t in a Christmas pye,
And evermore be merry.
WITHERS, 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 like-wise been wreathed round 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 the painting and armor 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 armor, 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
armor of the family hero; and as he was absolute authority on all
such subjects in 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-favored 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 demeanor, with a high Roman nose
and an antique vinegar aspect, who was a great favorite 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 at Oxford at which I was
educated. When I hear the old song chanted it brings to mind the time
when I was young and gamesome, and the noble old college hall, and my
fellow-students loitering about in their black gowns; many of whom, poor
lads! are now in their graves.”
The parson, however, whose mind was not haunted by such associations,
and who was always more taken up with the text than the sentiment,
objected to the Oxonian’s version of the carol, which he affirmed
was different from that sung at college. He went on, with the dry
perseverance of a commentator, to give the college reading, accompanied
by sundry annotations, addressing himself at first to the company at
large; but, finding their attention gradually diverted to other talk and
other objects, he lowered his tone as his number of auditors diminished,
until he concluded his remarks in an under voice to a fat-headed old
gentleman next him who was silently engaged in the discussion of a huge
plateful of turkey.*
* The 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 favored 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 estis 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 honor of the King of Bliss,
Which on this day to be served is
In Reginensi Atrio.
Caput apri defero, etc., etc., etc.
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
traditional in their embellishments, but about which, as I did not like
to appear overcurious, I asked no questions.
I could not, however, but notice a pie magnificently decorated with
peacock’s 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.*
* 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!
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 or this worthy old
humorist, by which he was endeavoring 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 humors of its lord, and most probably looked
upon all his whimsical regulations as the established laws of honorable
housekeeping.
When the cloth was removed the butler brought in a huge silver vessel
of rare and curious workmanship, which he placed before the squire.
Its appearance was hailed with acclamation, being the Wassail Bowl, so
renowned in Christmas festivity. The contents had been prepared by the
squire himself; for it was a beverage in the skilful mixture of which
he particularly prided himself, alleging that it was too abstruse and
complex for the comprehension of an ordinary servant. It was a potation,
indeed, that might well make the heart of a toper leap within him, being
composed of the richest and raciest wines, highly spiced and sweetened,
with roasted apples bobbing about the surface.*
* The 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 Lamb’s Wool, and is celebrated
by Herrick in his “Twelfth Night”:
Next crowne the bowle full
With gentle Lamb’s Wool;
Add sugar, nutmeg, and ginger,
With store of ale too,
And thus ye must doe
To make the Wassaile a swinger.
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 round 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.” *
* “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 chappell (chaplain) was to answer with
a song.”--Archaeologia.
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 brown bowle,
The merry brown 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 humor 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-humor 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
that took absolute 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 humor 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 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 blindman’s-buff. Master Simon, who
was the leader of their revels, and seemed on all occasions to fulfill
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.
* At Christmasse there was in the Kinges house, wheresoever
hee was lodged, a lorde of misrule or mayster of merie
disportes, and the like had ye in the house of every
nobleman of honor, or good worshipper were he spirituall or
temporall.--STOW.
When I returned to the drawing-room I found the company seated round 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 out strange accounts
of the 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
marvelous and supernatural. He gave us several anecdotes of the fancies
of the neighboring 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 good wives 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 endeavored 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 favorite 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 was 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 neighboring gossips
with infinite gravity, and held the porter’s wife in high favor 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 fairy-land.
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 were 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 Faery. 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 clothespresses 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 parlor and hall, and the whole had been
bedizened out into a burlesque imitation of an antique mask.*
* Maskings or mummeries were favorite 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.”
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 a 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 character 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 of the Pavon, 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 gayety 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 was 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.+
* 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.
+ At the time of the first publication of this paper the
picture of an old-fashioned Christmas in the country was
pronounced by some as out of date. The author had afterwards
an opportunity of witnessing almost all the customs above
described, existing in unexpected vigor in the skirts of
Derbyshire and Yorkshire, where he passed the Christmas
holidays. The reader will find some notice of them in the
author’s account of his sojourn at Newstead Abbey.
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 laboring 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 in 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-humor
with his fellow-beings and himself--surely, surely, I shall not then
have written entirely in vain.