lovely as seraphs. They were going the rounds of the house, and singing
at every chamber-door; but my sudden appearance frightened them into
mute bashfulness. They remained for a moment playing on their lips with
their fingers, and now and then stealing a shy glance, from under their
eyebrows, until, as if by one impulse, they scampered away, and as they
turned an angle of the gallery, I heard them laughing in triumph at
their escape.
Everything conspired to produce kind and happy feelings in this
stronghold of old-fashioned hospitality. The window of my chamber looked
out upon what in summer would have been a beautiful landscape. There was
a sloping lawn, a fine stream winding at the foot of it, and a tract
of park beyond, with noble clumps of trees, and herds of deer. At a
distance was a neat hamlet, with the smoke from the cottage chimneys
hanging over it; and a church with its dark spire in strong relief
against the clear, cold sky. The house was surrounded with evergreens,
according to the English custom, which would have given almost an
appearance of summer; but the morning was extremely frosty; the light
vapour of the preceding evening had been precipitated by the cold,
and covered all the trees and every blade of grass with its fine
crystallisations. The rays of a bright morning sun had a dazzling
effect among the glittering foliage. A robin, perched upon the top of
a mountain-ash that hung its clusters of red berries just before my
window, was basking himself in the sunshine, and piping a few querulous
notes; and a peacock was displaying all the glories of his train,
and strutting with the pride and gravity of a Spanish grandee on the
terrace-walk below.
I had scarcely dressed myself, when a servant appeared to invite me to
family prayers. He showed me the way to a small chapel in the old wing
of the house, where I found the principal part of the family already
assembled in a kind of gallery, furnished with cushions, hassocks, and
large prayer-books; the servants were seated on benches below. The old
gentleman read prayers from a desk in front of the gallery, and Master
Simon acted as clerk, and made the responses; and I must do him the
justice to say that he acquitted himself with great gravity and decorum.
The service was followed by a Christmas carol, which Mr. Bracebridge
himself had constructed from a poem of his favourite author, Herrick;
and it had been adapted to an old church melody by Master Simon. As
there were several good voices among the household, the effect was
extremely pleasing; but I was particularly gratified by the exaltation
of heart, and sudden sally of grateful feeling, with which the worthy
Squire delivered one stanza: his eyes glistening, and his voice rambling
out of all the bounds of time and tune:
"'Tis thou that crown'st my glittering hearth
With guiltlesse mirth,
And giv'st me wassaile bowles to drink,
Spiced to the brink:
Lord, 'tis Thy plenty-dropping hand,
That soiles my land;
And giv'st me for my bushell sowne,
Twice ten for one."
I afterwards understood that early morning service was read on every
Sunday and saint's day throughout the year, either by Mr. Bracebridge or
by some member of the family. It was once almost universally the case
at the seats of the nobility and gentry of England, and it is much to
be regretted that the custom is fallen into neglect; for the dullest
observer must be sensible of the order and serenity prevalent in those
households, where the occasional exercise of a beautiful form of worship
in the morning gives, as it were, the key-note to every temper for the
day, and attunes every spirit to harmony.
Our breakfast consisted of what the Squire denominated true old English
fare. He indulged in some bitter lamentations over modern breakfasts
of tea-and-toast, which he censured as among the causes of modern
effeminacy and weak nerves, and the decline of old English heartiness;
and though he admitted them to his table to suit the palates of his
guests, yet there was a brave display of cold meats, wine, and ale, on
the sideboard.
After breakfast I walked about the grounds with Frank Bracebridge and
Master Simon, or Mr. Simon as he was called by everybody but the
Squire. We were escorted by a number of gentleman-like dogs, that seemed
loungers about the establishment; from the frisking spaniel to the
steady old staghound; the last of which was of a race that had been in
the family time out of mind: they were all obedient to a dog-whistle
which hung to Master Simon's buttonhole, and in the midst of their
gambols would glance an eye occasionally upon a small switch he carried
in his hand.
The old mansion had a still more venerable look in the yellow sunshine
than by pale moonlight; and I could not but feel the force of the
Squire's idea, that the formal terraces, heavily moulded balustrades,
and clipped yew-trees, carried with them an air of proud aristocracy.
There appeared to be an unusual number of peacocks about the place, and
I was making some remarks upon what I termed a flock of them, that
were basking under a sunny wall, when I was gently corrected in my
phraseology by Master Simon, who told me that, according to the most
ancient and approved treatise on hunting, I must say a MUSTER of
peacocks. "In the same way," added he, with a slight air of pedantry,
"we say a flight of doves or swallows, a bevy of quails, a herd of deer,
of wrens, or cranes, a skulk of foxes, or a building of rooks." He went
on to inform me, that, according to Sir Anthony Fitzherbert, we ought to
ascribe, to this bird "both understanding and glory; for, being praised,
he will presently set up his tail chiefly against the sun, to the intent
you may the better behold the beauty thereof. But at the fall of the
leaf, when his tail falleth, he will mourn and hide himself in corners,
till his tail come again as it was."
I could not help smiling at this display of small erudition on so
whimsical a subject; but I found that the peacocks were birds of some
consequence at the Hall, for Frank Bracebridge informed me that they
were great favourites with his father, who was extremely careful to
keep up the breed; partly because they belonged to chivalry, and were
in great request at the stately banquets of the olden time; and partly
because they had a pomp and magnificence about them, highly becoming
an old family mansion. Nothing, he was accustomed to say, had an air of
greater state and dignity than a peacock perched upon an antique stone
balustrade.
Master Simon had now to hurry off, having an appointment at the parish
church with the village choristers, who were to perform some music of
his selection. There was something extremely agreeable in the cheerful
flow of animal spirits of the little man; and I confess I had been
somewhat surprised at his apt quotations from authors who certainly
were not in the range of every-day reading. I mentioned this last
circumstance to Frank Bracebridge, who told me with a smile that Master
Simon's whole stock of erudition was confined to some half-a-dozen old
authors, which the Squire had put into his hands, and which he read over
and over, whenever he had a studious fit; as he sometimes had on a
rainy day, or a long winter evening. Sir Anthony Fitzherbert's "Book of
Husbandry;" Markham's "Country Contentments;" the "Tretyse of Hunting,"
by Sir Thomas Cockayne, Knight; Izaak Walton's "Angler," and two
or three more such ancient worthies of the pen, were his standard
authorities; and, like all men who know but a few books, he looked up
to them with a kind of idolatry, and quoted them on all occasions. As
to his songs, they were chiefly picked out of old books in the Squire's
library, and adapted to tunes that were popular among the choice spirits
of the last century. His practical application of scraps of literature,
however, had caused him to be looked upon as a prodigy of book-knowledge
by all the grooms, huntsmen, and small sportsmen of the neighbourhood.
While we were talking we heard the distant toll of the village bell,
and I was told that the Squire was a little particular in having his
household at church on a Christmas morning; considering it a day of
pouring out of thanks and rejoicing; for, as old Tusser observed:
"At Christmas be merry, and thankful withal,
And feast thy poor neighbours, the great and the small."
"If you are disposed to go to church," said Frank Bracebridge, "I can
promise you a specimen of my cousin Simon's musical achievements. As the
church is destitute of an organ, he has formed a band from the village
amateurs, and established a musical club for their improvement; he has
also sorted a choir, as he sorted my father's pack of hounds, according
to the directions of Jervaise Markham, in his 'Country Contentments;'
for the bass he has sought out all the 'deep solemn mouths,' and for
the tenor the 'loud ringing mouths,' among the country bumpkins; and
for 'sweet mouths,' he has culled with curious taste among the prettiest
lasses in the neighbourhood; though these last, he affirms, are the most
difficult to keep in tune; your pretty female singer being exceedingly
wayward and capricious, and very liable to accident."
As the morning, though frosty, was remarkably fine and clear, the most
of the family walked to the church, which was a very old building of
gray stone, and stood near a village, about half a mile from the park
gate. Adjoining it was a low snug parsonage, which seemed coeval with
the church. The front of it was perfectly matted with a yew-tree that
had been trained against its walls, through the dense foliage of
which apertures had been formed to admit light into the small antique
lattices. As we passed this sheltered nest, the parson issued forth and
preceded us.
I had expected to see a sleek, well-conditioned pastor, such as is often
found in a snug living in the vicinity of a rich patron's table; but I
was disappointed. The parson was a little, meagre, black-looking man,
with a grizzled wig that was too wide, and stood off from each ear; so
that his head seemed to have shrunk away within it, like a dried filbert
in its shell. He wore a rusty coat, with great skirts, and pockets that
would have held the church Bible and prayer-book; and his small legs
seemed still smaller, from being planted in large shoes decorated with
enormous buckles.
I was informed by Frank Bracebridge that the parson had been a chum of
his father's at Oxford, and had received this living shortly after the
latter had come to his estate. He was a complete black-letter hunter,
and would scarcely read a work printed in the Roman character. The
editions of Caxton and Wynkin de Worde were his delight; and he was
indefatigable in his researches after such old English writers as have
fallen into oblivion from their worthlessness. In deference, perhaps, to
the notions of Mr. Bracebridge, he had made diligent investigations into
the festive rites and holiday customs of former times; and had been as
zealous in the inquiry as if he had been a boon companion; but it was
merely with that plodding spirit with which men of adust temperament
follow up any track of study, merely because it is denominated learning;
indifferent to its intrinsic nature, whether it be the illustration of
the wisdom, or of the ribaldry and obscenity of antiquity. He had pored
over these old volumes so intensely, that they seemed to have been
reflected into his countenance indeed; which, if the face be an index of
the mind, might be compared to a title-page of black-letter.
On reaching the church porch, we found the parson rebuking the
gray-headed sexton for having used mistletoe among the greens with which
the church was decorated. It was, he observed, an unholy plant, profaned
by having been used by the Druids in their mystic ceremonies; and though
it might be innocently employed in the festive ornamenting of halls
and kitchens, yet it had been deemed by the Fathers of the Church as
unhallowed, and totally unfit for sacred purposes. So tenacious was he
on this point, that the poor sexton was obliged to strip down a great
part of the humble trophies of his taste, before the parson would
consent to enter upon the service of the day.
The interior of the church was venerable but simple; on the walls were
several mural monuments of the Bracebridges, and just beside the altar
was a tomb of ancient workmanship, on which lay the effigy of a warrior
in armour, with his legs crossed, a sign of his having been a crusader.
I was told it was one of the family who had signalised himself in the
Holy Land, and the same whose picture hung over the fireplace in the
hall.
During service, Master Simon stood up in the pew, and repeated the
responses very audibly; evincing that kind of ceremonious devotion
punctually observed by a gentleman of the old school, and a man of old
family connections. I observed, too, that he turned over the leaves of a
folio prayer-book with something of a flourish; possibly to show off an
enormous seal-ring which enriched one of his fingers, and which had the
look of a family relic. But he was evidently most solicitous about
the musical part of the service, keeping his eye fixed intently on the
choir, and beating time with much gesticulation and emphasis.
The orchestra was in a small gallery, and presented a most whimsical
grouping of heads, piled one above the other, among which I particularly
noticed that of the village tailor, a pale fellow with a retreating
forehead and chin, who played on the clarionet, and seemed to have blown
his face to a point; and there was another, a short pursy man, stooping
and labouring at a bass viol, so as to show nothing but the top of a
round bald head, like the egg of an ostrich. There were two or three
pretty faces among the female singers, to which the keen air of a frosty
morning had given a bright rosy tint; but the gentlemen choristers had
evidently been chosen, like old Cremona fiddles, more for tone than
looks; and as several had to sing from the same book, there were
clusterings of odd physiognomies, not unlike those groups of cherubs we
sometimes see on country tombstones.
The usual services of the choir were managed tolerably well, the vocal
parts generally lagging a little behind the instrumental, and some
loitering fiddler now and then making up for lost time by travelling
over a passage with prodigious celerity, and clearing more bars than
the keenest fox-hunter to be in at the death. But the great trial was an
anthem that had been prepared and arranged by Master Simon, and on which
he had founded great expectation. Unluckily there was a blunder at the
very outset; the musicians became flurried; Master Simon was in a fever;
everything went on lamely and irregularly until they came to a chorus
beginning "Now let us sing with one accord," which seemed to be a signal
for parting company: all became discord and confusion; each shifted for
himself, and got to the end as well, or rather as soon, as he could,
excepting one old chorister in a pair of horn spectacles bestriding and
pinching a long sonorous nose; who, happening to stand a little apart,
and being wrapped up in his own melody, kept on a quavering course,
wriggling his head, ogling his book, and winding all up by a nasal solo
of at least three bars' duration.
The parson gave us a most erudite sermon on the rites and ceremonies
of Christmas, and the propriety of observing it not merely as a day
of thanksgiving, but of rejoicing; supporting the correctness of his
opinions by the earliest usages of the Church, and enforcing them by the
authorities of Theophilus of Cesarea, St. Cyprian, St. Chrysostom, St.
Augustine, and a cloud more of Saints and Fathers, from whom he made
copious quotations. I was a little at a loss to perceive the necessity
of such a mighty array of forces to maintain a point which no one
present seemed inclined to dispute; but I soon found that the good man
had a legion of ideal adversaries to contend with; having, in the course
of his researches on the subject of Christmas, got completely embroiled
in the sectarian controversies of the Revolution, when the Puritans made
such a fierce assault upon the ceremonies of the Church, and poor old
Christmas was driven out of the land by proclamation of Parliament.* The
worthy parson lived but with times past, and knew but a little of the
present.
*[3] See Note C.
Shut up among worm-eaten tomes in the retirement of his antiquated
little study, the pages of old times were to him as the gazettes of the
day; while the era of the Revolution was mere modern history. He forgot
that nearly two centuries had elapsed since the fiery persecution of
poor mince-pie throughout the land; when plum-porridge was denounced as
"mere popery," and roast beef as antichristian; and that Christmas had
been brought in again triumphantly with the merry court of King Charles
at the Restoration. He kindled into warmth with the ardour of his
contest, and the host of imaginary foes with whom he had to combat; had
a stubborn conflict with old Prynne and two or three other forgotten
champions of the Round-heads, on the subject of Christmas festivity;
and concluded by urging his hearers, in the most solemn and affecting
manner, to stand to the traditionary customs of their fathers, and feast
and make merry on this joyful anniversary of the Church.
I have seldom known a sermon attended apparently with more immediate
effects; for, on leaving the church, the congregation seemed one and
all possessed with the gaiety of spirit so earnestly enjoined by their
pastor. The elder folks gathered in knots in the churchyard, greeting
and shaking hands; and the children ran about crying, Ule! Ule! and
repeating some uncouth rhymes,* which the parson, who had joined us,
informed me had been handed down from days of yore. The villagers doffed
their hats to the Squire as he passed, giving him the good wishes of the
season with every appearance of heartfelt sincerity, and were invited by
him to the Hall, to take something to keep out the cold of the weather;
and I heard blessings uttered by several of the poor, which convinced
me that, in the midst of his enjoyments, the worthy old cavalier had not
forgotten the true Christmas virtue of charity.
* "Ule! Ule!
Three puddings in a pule;
Crack nuts and cry ule!"
On our way homeward his heart seemed overflowing with generous and happy
feelings. As we passed over a rising ground which commanded something
of a prospect, the sounds of rustic merriment now and then reached our
ears; the Squire paused for a few moments, and looked around with an
air of inexpressible benignity. The beauty of the day was of itself
sufficient to inspire philanthropy. Notwithstanding the frostiness of
the morning, the sun in his cloudless journey had acquired sufficient
power to melt away the thin covering of snow from every southern
declivity, and to bring out the living green which adorns an English
landscape even in midwinter. Large tracts of smiling verdure contrasted
with the dazzling whiteness of the shaded slopes and hollows. Every
sheltered bank on which the broad rays rested yielded its silver rill of
cold and limpid water, glittering through the dripping grass; and sent
up slight exhalations to contribute to the thin haze that hung just
above the surface of the earth. There was something truly cheering in
this triumph of warmth and verdure over the frosty thraldom of winter;
it was, as the Squire observed, an emblem of Christmas hospitality,
breaking through the chills of ceremony and selfishness, and thawing
every heart into a flow. He pointed with pleasure to the indications of
good cheer reeking from the chimneys of the comfortable farmhouses and
low, thatched cottages. "I love," said he, "to see this day well kept
by rich and poor; it is a great thing to have one day in the year,
at least, when you are sure of being welcome wherever you go, and of
having, as it were, the world all thrown open to you; and I am almost
disposed to join with Poor Robin, in his malediction of every churlish
enemy to this honest festival:
"'Those who at Christmas do repine,
And would fain hence despatch him,
May they with old Duke Humphry dine,
Or else may Squire Ketch catch 'em.'"
The Squire went on to lament the deplorable decay of the games and
amusements which were once prevalent at this season among the lower
orders, and countenanced by the higher: when the old halls of castles
and manor-houses were thrown open at daylight; when the tables were
covered with brawn, and beef, and humming ale; when the harp and the
carol resounded all day long, and when rich and poor were alike welcome
to enter and make merry.* "Our old games and local customs," said he,
"had a great effect in making the peasant fond of his home, and the
promotion of them, by the gentry made him fond of his lord. They made
the times merrier, and kinder, and better; and I can truly say, with one
of our old poets:
"'I like them well--the curious preciseness
And all-pretended gravity of those
That seek to banish hence these harmless sports,
Have thrust away much ancient honesty.'
*[4] See Note D.
"The nation," continued he, "is altered; we have almost lost our
simple, true-hearted peasantry. They have broken asunder from the higher
classes, and seem to think their interests are separate. They have
become too knowing, and begin to read newspapers, listen to alehouse
politicians, and talk of reform. I think one mode to keep them in good
humour in these hard times would be for the nobility and gentry to pass
more time on their estates, mingle more among the country people, and
set the merry old English games going again."
Such was the good Squire's project for mitigating public discontent;
and, indeed, he had once attempted to put his doctrine in practice, and
a few years before had kept open house during the holidays in the old
style. The country people, however, did not understand how to play their
parts in the scene of hospitality; many uncouth circumstances occurred;
the manor was overrun by all the vagrants of the country, and more
beggars drawn into the neighbourhood in one week than the parish
officers could get rid of in a year. Since then, he had contented
himself with inviting the decent part of the neighbouring peasantry to
call at the Hall on Christmas Day, and distributing beef, and bread, and
ale, among the poor, that they might make merry in their own dwellings.
We had not been long home when the sound of music was heard from a
distance. A band of country lads, without coats, their shirt-sleeves
fancifully tied with ribands, their hats decorated with greens, and
clubs in their hands, were seen advancing up the avenue, followed by a
large number of villagers and peasantry. They stopped before the hall
door, where the music struck up a peculiar air, and the lads performed
a curious and intricate dance, advancing, retreating, and striking their
clubs together, keeping exact time to the music; while one, whimsically
crowned with a fox's skin, the tail of which flaunted down his
back, kept capering around the skirts of the dance, and rattling a
Christmas-box with many antic gesticulations.
The Squire eyed this fanciful exhibition with great interest and
delight, and gave me a full account of its origin, which he traced to
the times when the Romans held possession of the island; plainly proving
that this was a lineal descendant of the sword-dance of the ancients.
"It was now," he said, "nearly extinct, but he had accidentally met
with traces of it in the neighbourhood, and had encouraged its revival;
though, to tell the truth, it was too apt to be followed up by rough
cudgel-play and broken heads in the evening."
After the dance was concluded, the whole party was entertained with
brawn and beef, and stout home-brewed. The Squire himself mingled among
the rustics, and was received with awkward demonstrations of deference
and regard.
It is true, I perceived two or three of the younger peasants, as they
were raising their tankards to their mouths when the Squire's back was
turned, making something of a grimace, and giving each other the wink;
but the moment they caught my eye they pulled grave faces, and were
exceedingly demure. With Master Simon, however, they all seemed more at
their ease.