and at length reach the wide and open country. The wheels skim over
the hard and frosty ground; and the horses, bursting into a canter at
a smart crack of the whip, step along the road as if the load behind
them, coach, passengers, cod-fish, oyster barrels, and all, were but
a feather at their heels. They have descended a gentle slope, and
enter upon a level, as compact and dry as a solid block of marble, two
miles long. Another crack of the whip, and on they speed, at a smart
gallop, the horses tossing their heads and rattling the harness as
if in exhilaration at the rapidity of the motion, while the coachman
holding whip and reins in one hand, takes off his hat with the other,
and resting it on his knees, pulls out his handkerchief, and wipes his
forehead partly because he has a habit of doing it, and partly because
it's as well to show the passengers how cool he is, and what an easy
thing it is to drive four-in-hand, when you have had as much practice
as he has. Having done this very leisurely (otherwise the effect would
be materially impaired), he replaces his handkerchief, pulls on his
hat, adjusts his gloves, squares his elbows, cracks the whip again, and
on they speed, more merrily than before.
A few small houses scattered on either side of the road, betoken the
entrance to some town or village. The lively notes of the guard's
key-bugle vibrate in the clear cold air, and wake up the old gentleman
inside, who carefully letting down the window-sash half way, and
standing sentry over the air, takes a short peep out, and then
carefully pulling it up again, informs the other inside that they're
going to change directly; on which the other inside wakes himself up,
and determines to postpone his next nap until after the stoppage. Again
the bugle sounds lustily forth, and rouses the cottager's wife and
children, who peep out at the house-door, and watch the coach till it
turns the corner, when they once more crouch round the blazing fire,
and throw on another log of wood against father comes home, while
father himself, a full mile off, has just exchanged a friendly nod
with the coachman, and turned round, to take a good long stare at the
vehicle as it whirls away.
And now the bugle plays a lively air as the coach rattles through the
ill-paved streets of a country town; and the coachman, undoing the
buckle which keeps his ribands together, prepares to throw them off
the moment he stops. Mr. Pickwick emerges from his coat collar, and
looks about him with great curiosity: perceiving which, the coachman
informs Mr. Pickwick of the name of the town, and tells him it was
market-day yesterday, both which pieces of information Mr. Pickwick
retails to his fellow-passengers, whereupon they emerge from their coat
collars too, and look about them also. Mr. Winkle, who sits at the
extreme edge, with one leg dangling in the air, is nearly precipitated
into the street, as the coach twists round the sharp corner by the
cheesemonger's shop, and turns into the market-place; and before Mr.
Snodgrass, who sits next to him, has recovered from his alarm, they
pull up at the inn yard, where the fresh horses, with cloths on, are
already waiting. The coachman throws down the reins and gets down
himself, and the other outside passengers drop down also, except those
who have no great confidence in their ability to get up again, and they
remain where they are, and stamp their feet against the coach to warm
them; looking with longing eyes and red noses at the bright fire in the
inn bar, and the sprigs of holly with red berries which ornament the
window.
But the guard has delivered at the corn-dealer's shop, the brown paper
packet he took out of the little pouch which hangs over his shoulder
by a leathern strap, and has seen the horses carefully put to, and has
thrown on the pavement the saddle which was brought from London on the
coach-roof, and has assisted in the conference between the coachman
and the hostler about the grey mare that hurt her off-fore-leg last
Tuesday, and he and Mr. Weller are all right behind, and the coachman
is all right in front, and the old gentleman inside, who has kept the
window down full two inches all this time, has pulled it up again,
and the cloths are off, and they are all ready for starting, except
the "two stout gentlemen," whom the coachman enquires after with some
impatience. Hereupon the coachman and the guard, and Sam Weller, and
Mr. Winkle, and Mr. Snodgrass, and all the hostlers, and every one of
the idlers, who are more in number than all the others put together,
shout for the missing gentlemen as loud as they can bawl. A distant
response is heard from the yard, and Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Tupman come
running down it, quite out of breath, for they have been having a glass
of ale a-piece, and Mr. Pickwick's fingers are so cold that he has been
full five minutes before he could find the sixpence to pay for it.
The coachman shouts an admonitory "Now, then, gen'l-m'n," the guard
re-echoes it--the old gentleman inside, thinks it a very extraordinary
thing that people will get down when they know there isn't time for
it--Mr. Pickwick struggles up on one side, Mr. Tupman on the other,
Mr. Winkle cries "All right," and off they start. Shawls are pulled
up, coat collars are re-adjusted, the pavement ceases, the houses
disappear; and they are once again dashing along the open road, with
the fresh clear air blowing in their faces, and gladdening their very
hearts within them.
Such was the progress of Mr. Pickwick and his friends by the Muggleton
Telegraph, on their way to Dingley Dell; and at three o'clock that
afternoon, they all stood high and dry, safe and sound, hale and
hearty, upon the steps of the Blue Lion, having taken on the road
enough of ale and brandy, to enable them to bid defiance to the frost
that was binding up the earth in its iron fetters, and weaving its
beautiful network upon the trees and hedges.
CHARLES DICKENS
A Visit from St. Nicholas
'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;
And mamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap--
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave a lustre of midday to objects below;
When what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer,
With a little old driver, so lively and quick
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick!
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled and shouted, and called them by name:
"Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall!
Now dash away, dash away, dash away all!"
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of toys--and St. Nicholas, too.
And then in a twinkling I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.
His eyes, how they twinkled! his dimples, how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry;
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow.
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face and a little round belly
That shook, when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly.
He was chubby and plump--a right jolly old elf;
And I laughed, when I saw him, in spite of myself.
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.
He sprang in his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle;
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight:
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!"
CLEMENT C. MOORE
Crowded Out
Nobody ain't Christmas shoppin'
Fur his stockin',
Nobody ain't cotch no turkkey,
Nobody ain't bake no pie.
Nobody's laid nuthin' by;
Santa Claus don't cut no figger
Fur his mammy's little nigger.
Seems lak everybody's rushin'
An' er crushin';
Crowdin' shops an' jammin' trolleys,
Buyin' shoes an' shirts an' toys
Fur de white folks' girls an' boys;
But no hobby-horse ain't rockin'
Fur his little wore-out stockin'.
He ain't quar'lin, recollec',
He don't 'spec'
Nuthin'--it's his not expectin'
Makes his mammy wish--O Laws!--
Fur er nigger Santy Claus,
Totin' jus' er toy balloon
Fur his mammy's little coon.
ROSALIE M. JONAS
II
HOLIDAY SAINTS AND LORDS
[Illustration: HOLIDAY SAINTS AND LORDS]
My Lord of Misrule
St. Nicholas
An Old Saint in a New World
St. Thomas
Kriss Kringle
II Santissimo Bambino
The Christ Child
The April Baby is Thankful
Good King Wenceslas
Jean Valjean plays the Christmas Saint
St. Brandan
St. Stephen's, or Boxing Day
St. Basil in Trikkola
[Illustration]
"Here comes old Father Christmas,
With sound of fife and drums;
With mistletoe about his brows,
So merrily he comes!"
ROSE TERRY COOKE
My Lord of Misrule
"Firste," says Master Stubs, "all the wilde heades of the parishe
conventynge together, chuse them a grand Capitaine (of mischeef) whom
they innoble with the title of my Lorde of Misserule, and hym they
crown with great solemnitie, and adopt for their kyng. This kyng
anoynted, chuseth for the twentie, fourtie, threescore, or a hundred
lustie guttes like hymself, to waite uppon his lordely majestie, and
to guarde his noble persone. Then every one of these his menne he
investeth with his liveries of greene, yellowe or some other light
wanton colour. And as though that were not (baudie) gaudy enough I
should saie, they bedecke themselves with scarffes, ribons and laces,
hanged all over with golde rynges, precious stones and other jewelles:
this doen, they tye about either legge twentie or fourtie belles with
rich hankercheefes in their handes, and sometymes laied acrosse over
their shoulders and neckes, borrowed for the moste parte of their
pretie Mopsies and loovyng Bessies, for bussyng them in the darcke.
Thus thinges sette in order, they have their hobbie horses, dragons,
and other antiques, together with their baudie pipers, and thunderyng
drommers, to strike up the Deville's Daunce withall" (meaning the
Morris Dance), "then marche these heathen companie towardes the church
and churche yarde, their pipers pipyng, drommers thonderyng, their
stumppes dauncyng, their belles iynglyng, their handkerchefes swyngyng
about their heades like madmen, their hobbie horses and other monsters
skyrmishyng amongst the throng: and in this sorte they goe to the
churche (though the minister bee at praier or preachyng) dauncyng and
swingyng their handkercheefes over their heades, in the churche, like
devilles incarnate, with suche a confused noise that no man can heare
his owne voice. Then the foolishe people, they looke, they stare, they
laugh, they fleere, and mount upon formes and pewes, to see these
goodly pageauntes, solemnized in this sort."
Quoted by T. K. HERVEY
St. Nicholas
According to Hone's "Ancient Mysteries" Saint Nicholas, Bishop of Myra,
was a saint of great virtue and piety.... The old legend is that the
sons of a rich Asiatic, on their way to Athens for education, were
slain by a robber innkeeper, dismembered, and their parts hidden in
a brine tub. In the morning came the Saint, whose visions had warned
him of the crime, whose authority forced confession, and whose prayers
restored the boys to life. The Salisbury Missal of 1534 contains a
curious engraving of the scene, in which the bodies of the children
are leaping from the brine tub at the Bishop's call even while the
innkeeper at the table above their heads is busily cutting a leg and
foot into pieces small enough for his purposes.
Ever since, St. Nicholas has been the special saint of the school-boy,
and certain of the customs of montem day at Eton College are said to
have originated in old festivals in his honor.
St. Nicholas is the grand patron of the children of France, to whom
he brings bonbons for the good, but a cane for the naughty child. In
Germany he acts as an advance courier examining into the conduct of the
children, distributes goodies and promises to those with good records
a further reward which the Christ Child brings at Christmas time. But
his own peculiar celebration takes place in a tiny seaport of southern
Italy where it is curiously interwoven with ancient usages possibly
remaining from some worship of Neptune.
On St. Nicholas's Day, the 6th of December, the sailors of the port
take the saint's image from the beautiful church of St. Nicholas and
with a long procession of boats carry it far out to sea. Returning with
it at nightfall they are met by bonfires, torches, all the townspeople,
and hundreds of quaintly dressed pilgrims, who welcome the returning
saint with songs and carry him to visit one shrine after another,
before returning him to the custody of the canons.
W. S. Walsh quotes a writer in Chambers' "Book of Days" as saying:
"Through the native rock which formes the tomb of the saint, water
constantly exudes, which is collected by the canons on a sponge
attached to a reed, squeezed into bottles and sold to pilgrims as a
miraculous specific under the name of the "manna of St. Nicholas."
An Old Saint in a New World
While Catholicism prevailed, St. Nicholas was everywhere the children's
saint. In Holland, where his personality was modified by memories of
Woden, god of the elements and the harvest, he had a peculiar hold on
popular affection which persisted into Protestant times. The children
of the Dutch still believe that St. Nicholas brings the gifts that
they always get on the eve of his titular day, December 6. In New
Amsterdam this day was one of the five chief feastdays of the year.
After New Orange became New York the characteristic traits of the Dutch
children's festival were transferred to the near-by Christmas festival
which was English as well as Dutch. It cannot now be said when the
change began or when it was firmly established. It is known, indeed,
that by the middle of the eighteenth century St. Nicholas Day had
been dropped from the list of official holidays which, religious and
patriotic together, then numbered twenty-seven. But, on the other hand,
more than one memoir and book of reminiscences says that as late as the
middle of the nineteenth century some conservative old Dutch families
still celebrated the true St. Nicholas Day in their homes in the true
old fashion, then bestowing the children's annual meed of gifts. Nor
is any light thrown on the question by certain entries in a local
newspaper, _Rivington's Gazetteer_, dated in December, 1773 and 1774,
and referring to celebrations of "the anniversary of St. Nicholas,
otherwise called Santa Claus," for they speak of social meetings of
the "sons of that ancient saint" in which children can hardly have
participated, and they indicate days which were neither Christmas Day
nor the true St. Nicholas Day.
It is clear, however, that on Manhattan by a gradual consolidation
of the two old festivals Christmas became pre-eminently a children's
festival presided over by the children's saint whose modern name, Santa
Claus, is a variant of the Dutch St. Niclaes or San Claas. In all
European countries Christmas still means simply the day of Christ's
nativity; for the "Old Christmas" whom we meet in English ballads of
earlier times, the "Father Christmas" of Charles Dickens, and the
"Père Noël" of the French are abstractly mythical figures in no way
related to St. Nicholas. But anywhere in our America the domestic
observance of Christmas centres around Santa Claus with his burden
of gifts. The stockings that our children hang on Christmas Eve were
once the shoes that the children of Amsterdam and New Amsterdam set in
the chimney corners on the eve of December 6; and the reindeer whose
hoofs our children hear represent the horse, descended from Woden's
horse Sleipner, upon whose back St. Nicholas still makes his rounds in
Holland. The Christmas-tree is not Dutch but German; about the middle
of the nineteenth century we acquired it from our German immigrants.
But even this the American child accepts at the hands of Santa Claus,
not of the Christ Child as does the little German. "Kriss Kringle,"
it may be added, a name now often mistakenly used as though it were a
synonym of Santa Claus, is a corruption of the German Christkindlein
(Christ Child).
MRS. SCHUYLER VAN RENSSELAER
From the _History of the City of New York_
St. Thomas
Another of the Saints of the holiday season is doubting Thomas, whose
festival appropriately comes on Dec. 21, just when the child mind is
almost ready to doubt the efficacy of all those letters to Santa Claus,
and has more than doubts whether conduct has been so perfect as to
warrant hope for the Christmas stocking.
St. Thomas seems to have remained a doubter to the end, for in the
cathedral of Prato is shown the girdle of the "Madonnadella Cintola";
her ascension into heaven took place when Thomas was not with his
brother apostles, whose account of the miracle he refused to believe;
whereon the indignant Madonna threw her girdle back to him from heaven
as evidence,--or so the legend reads,--with the girdle to prove it.
His emblem as an apostle is a builder's rule or square; possibly
associated with that other legend of the king of the Indies who ordered
the saint to build him a magnificent palace. On the return of the king
and his discovery that the money for this building had all been given
to the poor, the saint was thrown into a dungeon. Before worse befel,
the king died and four days later appeared to his heir with an account
of the splendid palace of gold and precious stones built for him in
heaven by the charities of the saint on earth.
W. P. R.
Kriss Kringle
Just as the moon was fading
Amid her misty rings,
And every stocking was stuffed
With childhood's precious things,
Old Kriss Kringle looked round,
And saw on the elm-tree bough,
High-hung, an oriole's nest,
Silent and empty now.
"Quite like a stocking," he laughed,
"Pinned up there on the tree!
Little I thought the birds
Expected a present from me!"
Then old Kriss Kringle, who loves
A joke as well as the best,
Dropped a handful of flakes
In the oriole's empty nest.
THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH
_By permission of the Houghton Mifflin Company_
Il Santissimo Bambino
"Il Santissimo Bambino," of the _Ara Cœli_ in Rome, smiles placidly
with the gravity of a sphinx on all alike. Wee little folk before it
clasp dimpled hands and lispingly recite their speeches of praise.
Older folk lift up a prayer for the safe return of friends afar;
sometimes, as a concession to the faithful--at a price--it is driven
out in a bannered coach to bless the sick. If the patient is to live,
the image will turn red; if he is to die, it will turn pale. Should its
attendant monks by chance forget to return it to the gorgeous manger of
the Franciscan church to which it belongs, perchance it will return of
its own will, borne by no human hands, while all the bells of churches
and convents are set a-swaying by the touch of angel hosts--or so the
Roman peasants say.
In England similar images have been used in the service which follows
the midnight mass of Christmas Eve; so soon as the Host is safely
returned to its receptacle there is disclosed to the view of the
reverently adoring monks the tiny waxen doll, elaborately swathed yet
so as to leave visible the pink, expressionless face, and half hidden
hands and feet. The officiating priest lifts the image and facing the
waiting monks holds it reverently while in circling procession, one
after another, each bends for a moment to kiss the tiny figure on face
or hands, crosses himself and passes on. The ceremony is one to be
seen only among the Trappist monks and only at this one service of the
Christmas season.
W. P. R.
The Christ Child
Elise Traut relates the legend that on every Christmas eve the little
Christ-child wanders all over the world bearing on its shoulders a
bundle of evergreens. Through city streets and country lanes, up and
down hill, to proudest castle and lowliest hovel, through cold and
storm and sleet and ice, this holy child travels, to be welcomed or
rejected at the doors at which he pleads for succor. Those who would
invite him and long for his coming set a lighted candle in the window
to guide him on his way hither. They also believe that he comes to them
in the guise of any alms-craving, wandering person who knocks humbly
at their doors for sustenance, thus testing their benevolence. In many
places the aid rendered the beggar is looked upon as hospitality shown
to Christ.
The April Baby is Thankful
December 27th.--It is the fashion, I believe, to regard Christmas as a
bore of rather a gross description, and as a time when you are invited
to overeat yourself, and pretend to be merry without just cause. As a
matter of fact, it is one of the prettiest and most poetic institutions
possible, if observed in the proper manner, and after having been more
or less unpleasant to everybody for a whole year, it is a blessing to
be forced on that one day to be amiable, and it is certainly delightful
to be able to give presents without being haunted by the conviction
that you are spoiling the recipient, and will suffer for it afterward.
Servants are only big children, and are made just as happy as children
by little presents and nice things to eat, and, for days beforehand,
every time the three babies go into the garden they expect to meet the
Christ Child with His arms full of gifts. They firmly believe that it
is thus their presents are brought, and it is such a charming idea that
Christmas would be worth celebrating for its sake alone.
As great secrecy is observed, the preparations devolve entirely on me,
and it is not very easy work, with so many people in our own house and
on each of the farms, and all the children, big and little, expecting
their share of happiness. The library is uninhabitable for several days
before and after, as it is there that we have the trees and presents.
All down one side are the trees, and the other three sides are lined
with tables, a separate one for each person in the house. When the
trees are lighted, and stand in their radiance shining down on the
happy faces, I forget all the trouble it has been, and the number of
times I have had to run up and down stairs, and the various aches in
head and feet, and enjoy myself as much as anybody. First the June baby
is ushered in, then the others and ourselves according to age, then
the servants, then come the head inspector and his family, and other
inspectors from the different farms, the mamsells, the bookkeepers and
secretaries, and then all the children, troops and troops of them--the
big ones leading the little ones by the hand and carrying the babies in
their arms, and the mothers peeping round the door. As many as can get
in stand in front of the trees, and sing two or three carols; then they
are given their presents, and go off triumphantly, making room for the
next batch. My three babies sang lustily too, whether they happened to
know what was being sung or not. They had on white dresses in honour
of the occasion, and the June baby was even arrayed in a low-necked
and short-sleeved garment, after the manner of Teutonic infants,
whatever the state of the thermometer. Her arms are like miniature
prize-fighter's arms--I never saw such things; they are the pride and
joy of her little nurse, who had tied them up with blue ribbons, and
kept on kissing them. I shall certainly not be able to take her to
balls when she grows up, if she goes on having arms like that.