I had not been long at the inn when a postchaise drove up to

Produced by Donald Lainson

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.