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OLD CHRISTMAS
WASHINGTON IRVING
[Illustration: CHRISTMAS]
[Illustration: publisher's logo]
FIFTH EDITION
[Illustration: "The old family mansion, partly thrown in deep shadow,
and partly lit up by the cold moonshine"
--_Frontispiece._]
[Illustration: OLD CHRISTMAS:
FROM THE
Sketch Book
of
Washington Irving.
ILLUSTRATED BY
R CALDECOTT
London.
Macmillan & Co
1886]
[Illustration]
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._
[Illustration: PREFACE]
Before the remembrance of the good old times, so fast passing, should
have entirely passed away, the present artist, R. Caldecott, and
engraver, James D. Cooper, planned to illustrate Washington Irving's
"Old Christmas" in this manner. Their primary idea was to carry out the
principle of the Sketch Book, by incorporating the designs with the
text. Throughout they have worked together and _con amore_. With what
success the public must decide.
NOVEMBER 1875.
[Illustration: CONTENTS]
PAGE
CHRISTMAS 1
THE STAGE COACH 17
CHRISTMAS EVE 41
CHRISTMAS DAY 75
THE CHRISTMAS DINNER 117
[Illustration]
[Illustration: LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS]
DESIGNED BY RANDOLPH CALDECOTT,
AND
ARRANGED AND ENGRAVED BY J. D. COOPER.
THE OLD MANSION BY MOONLIGHT--_Frontispiece._
TITLE-PAGE.
PAGE
ANCIENT FIREPLACE iv
HEADING TO PREFACE v
HEADING TO CONTENTS vii
TAILPIECE TO CONTENTS vii
HEADING TO LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS ix
TAILPIECE TO LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS xiv
"THE POOR FROM THE GATES WERE NOT CHIDDEN" xvi
HEADING TO CHRISTMAS 1
THE MOULDERING TOWER 2
CHRISTMAS ANTHEM IN CATHEDRAL 4
THE WANDERER'S RETURN 5
"NATURE LIES DESPOILED OF EVERY CHARM" 6
"THE HONEST FACE OF HOSPITALITY" 8
"THE SHY GLANCE OF LOVE" 8
OLD HALL OF CASTLE 10
THE GREAT OAKEN GALLERY 12
THE WAITS 14
"AND SIT DOWN DARKLING AND REPINING" 16
THE STAGE COACH 19
THE THREE SCHOOLBOYS 20
THE OLD ENGLISH STAGE COACHMAN 23
"HE THROWS DOWN THE REINS WITH SOMETHING OF AN AIR" 25
THE STABLE IMITATORS 26
THE PUBLIC HOUSE 28
THE HOUSEMAID 29
THE SMITHY 30
"NOW OR NEVER MUST MUSIC BE IN TUNE" 32
THE COUNTRY MAID 32
THE OLD SERVANT AND BANTAM 34
A NEAT COUNTRY SEAT 35
INN KITCHEN 37
THE RECOGNITION. TAILPIECE 40
THE POST-CHAISE 43
THE LODGE GATE 46
THE OLD PRIMITIVE DAME 46
"THE LITTLE DOGS AND ALL" 49
MISTLETOE 52
THE SQUIRE'S RECEPTION 53
THE FAMILY PARTY 54
TOYS 55
THE YULE LOG 57
THE SQUIRE IN HIS HEREDITARY CHAIR 58
THE FAMILY PLATE 60
MASTER SIMON 61
YOUNG GIRL 62
HER MOTHER 62
THE OLD HARPER 65
MASTER SIMON DANCING 67
THE OXONIAN AND HIS MAIDEN AUNT 68
THE YOUNG OFFICER WITH HIS GUITAR 70
THE FAIR JULIA 72
ASLEEP 74
CHRISTMAS DAY 77
THE CHILDREN'S CAROL 78
ROBIN ON THE MOUNTAIN ASH 80
MASTER SIMON AS CLERK 81
BREAKFAST 84
VIEWING THE DOGS 85
MASTER SIMON GOING TO CHURCH 88
THE VILLAGE CHURCH 91
THE PARSON 93
REBUKING THE SEXTON 95
EFFIGY OF A WARRIOR 96
MASTER SIMON AT CHURCH 97
THE VILLAGE CHOIR 97
THE VILLAGE TAILOR 98
AN OLD CHORISTER 100
THE SERMON 101
CHURCHYARD GREETINGS 104
FROSTY THRALDOM OF WINTER 106
MERRY OLD ENGLISH GAMES 109
THE POOR AT HOME 111
VILLAGE ANTICS 112
TASTING THE SQUIRE'S ALE 113
THE WIT OF THE VILLAGE 115
COQUETTISH HOUSEMAID 116
ANTIQUE SIDEBOARD 119
THE COOK WITH THE ROLLING-PIN 120
THE WARRIOR'S ARMS 121
"FLAGONS, CANS, CUPS, BEAKERS, GOBLETS, BASINS, AND EWERS" 122
THE CHRISTMAS DINNER 123
A HIGH ROMAN NOSE 124
THE PARSON SAID GRACE 125
THE BOAR'S HEAD 126
THE FAT-HEADED OLD GENTLEMAN 129
PEACOCK PIE 130
THE WASSAIL BOWL 132
THE SQUIRE'S TOAST 134
THE LONG-WINDED JOKER 136
LONG STORIES 138
THE PARSON AND THE PRETTY MILKMAID 139
MASTER SIMON GROWS MAUDLIN 140
THE BLUE-EYED ROMP 143
THE PARSON'S TALE 144
THE SEXTON'S REBUFF 146
THE CRUSADER'S NIGHT RIDE 148
ANCIENT CHRISTMAS AND DAME MINCE-PIE 151
ROBIN HOOD AND MAID MARIAN 152
THE MINUET 153
ROAST BEEF, PLUM PUDDING, AND MISRULE 153
THE CHRISTMAS DANCE IN COSTUME 154
"CHUCKLING AND RUBBING HIS HANDS" 155
"ECHOING BACK THE JOVIALITY OF LONG-DEPARTED YEARS" 157
RETROSPECT 159
[Illustration]
[Illustration: CHRISTMAS]
[Illustration]
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._
[Illustration: 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.
[Illustration]
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.
[Illustration]
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.
[Illustration]
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.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
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 round upon the comfortable
chamber and the scene of domestic hilarity?
[Illustration]
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 round the hearth, beguiling the long evening with
legendary jokes and oft-told Christmas tales.
[Illustration]
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 home-bred
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.
[Illustration]
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.
[Illustration]
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, re-animates 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.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: The Stage Coach]
[Illustration]
Omne benè
Sine poenâ
Tempus est ludendi;
Venit hora,
Absque morâ,
Libros deponendi.
_Old Holiday School Song._
[Illustration]
THE STAGE COACH
[Illustration: I]
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.
[Illustration]
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.
[Illustration]
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
button-hole; 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.
[Illustration]
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
ostler; 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
ostlers, 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.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
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.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
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."
[Illustration]
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.
[Illustration]
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 afterwards 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.
[Illustration]
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
housemaids 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 mid-winter.
[Illustration]
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.[A]
I had not been long at the inn when a post-chaise 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.
[Illustration]
FOOTNOTE:
[A] Poor Robin's Almanack, 1684.
[Illustration: Christmas Eve]
[Illustration]
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.
[Illustration]
CHRISTMAS EVE
[Illustration: I]
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 now-a-days 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[B] for his text book, 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."
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.
[Illustration]
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 a
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.
[Illustration: "It was in a heavy magnificent old style, of iron bars,
fancifully wrought at top into flourishes and flowers."--PAGE 46.]
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."
[Illustration]
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.
[Illustration]
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 conformably 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.[C]
[Illustration]
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.
[Illustration: "The company, which was assembled in a large
old-fashioned hall."--PAGE 54.]
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.
[Illustration]
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.
[Illustration]
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.[D]
[Illustration]
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.
[Illustration]
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.
[Illustration]
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 small-pox, 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.
[Illustration]
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."
[Illustration]
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!
[Illustration]
[Illustration]