by the peasantry of the south of Ireland on St. Stephen's Day. It bears
a close resemblance to the Manx proceedings described by Waldron,--as
taking place however on a different day. "On the 24th of December,"
says that writer, in his account of the Isle of Man, "towards evening
the servants in general have a holiday; they go not to bed all night,
but ramble about till the bells ring in all the churches, which is at
twelve o'clock. Prayers being over, they go to hunt the wren; and after
having found one of these poor birds, they kill her and lay her on a
bier with the utmost solemnity, bringing her to the parish church and
burying her with a whimsical kind of solemnity, singing dirges over her
in the Manx language, which they call her knell; after which Christmas
begins."
The Wren-boys in Ireland, who are also called Droleens, go from house
to house for the purpose of levying contributions, carrying one or more
of these birds in the midst of a bush of holly, gaily decorated with
colored ribbons; which birds they have, like the Manx mummers, employed
their morning in killing. The following is their song; of which they
deliver themselves in most monotonous music:--
"The wren, the wren, the king of all birds,
St. Stephen's-day was caught in the furze,
Although he is little, his family's great.
I pray you, good landlady, give us a treat.
"My box would speak, if it had but a tongue,
And two or three shillings would do it no wrong;
Sing holly, sing ivy--sing ivy, sing holly,
A drop just to drink, it would drown melancholy.
"And if you draw it of the best,
I hope, in heaven your soul will rest;
But if you draw it of the small,
It won't agree with these Wren-boys at all."
If an immediate acknowledgment, either in money or drink, is not made
in return for the civility of their visit, some such nonsensical verses
as the following are added:--
"Last Christmas-day, I turned the spit,
I burned my fingers (I feel it yet),
A cock sparrow flew over the table,
The dish began to fight with the ladle.
"The spit got up like a naked man,
And swore he'd fight with the dripping pan;
The pan got up and cocked his tail,
And swore he'd send them all to jail."
The story told to account for the title of "king of all birds," here
given to the wren, is a curious sample of Irish ingenuity, and is thus
stated in the clever "Tales of the Munster Festivals," by an Irish
servant in answer to his master's inquiry:--
"Saint Stephen! why, what the mischief, I ask you again, have I to do
with Saint Stephen?"
"Nothen, sure, sir, only this being his day, when all the boys o' the
place go about that way with the wran, the king of all birds, sir, as
they say (bekays wanst when all the birds wanted to choose a king,
and they said they'd have the bird that would fly highest, the aigle
flew higher than any of 'em, till at last when he couldn't fly an inch
higher, a little rogue of a wran that was a-hide under his wing took
a fly above him a piece, and was crowned king, of the aigle an' all,
sir), tied in the middle o' the holly that way you see, sir, by the
leg, that is. An old custom, sir."
Vainly have we endeavored to arrive at the probable origin of hunting
and killing these little birds upon this day. The tradition commonly
related is by no means satisfactory. It is said that a Danish army
would have been surprised and destroyed by some Irish troops, had not
a wren given the alarm by pecking at some crumbs upon a drum-head,--the
remains of the sleeping drummer's supper; which roused him, when he
instantly beat to arms. And that from this circumstance the wren became
an object of hatred to the Irish.
T. K. HERVEY
The Presepio
After Christmas Day, during the remainder of December, there is a
Presepio, or representation of the manger in which our Savior was laid,
to be seen in many of the churches at Rome. That of the Ara Cœli is
best worth seeing; which church occupies the site of the temple of
Jupiter, and is adorned with some of its beautiful pillars.
On entering we found daylight completely excluded from the church; and
until we advanced we did not perceive the artificial light, which was
so managed as to stream in fluctuating rays from intervening silvery
clouds, and shed a radiance over the lovely babe and bending mother,
who in a most graceful attitude lightly holds up the drapery which half
conceals her sleeping infant from the bystanders. He lies in richly
embroidered swaddling clothes, and his person as well as that of His
virgin mother, is ornamented with diamonds and other precious stones;
for which purpose we are informed the princesses and ladies of high
rank lend their jewels. Groups of cattle grazing, peasantry engaged
in different occupations, and other objects enliven the picturesque
scenery; every living creature in the group, with eyes directed towards
the Presepio, falls prostrate in adoration.
From HONE'S _Year Book_
Hodening in Kent
When I was a lad, about forty-five years since, it was always the
custom on Christmas Eve, with the male farm-servants from every farm
in our parish, to go round in the evening from house to house with
the hodening horse, which consisted of the imitation of a horse's
head made of wood, life size, fixed on a stick about the length of a
broom handle. The lower jaw of the head was made to open with hinges;
a hole was made through the roof of the mouth, then another through
the forehead coming out by the throat; pulled through this was passed
a cord attached at the lower jaw, which, when pulled by the cord at
the throat, caused it to close and open; on the lower jaw large headed
hobnails were driven in to form the teeth. The strongest of the lads
was selected for the horse; he stooped and made as long a back as he
could, supporting himself by the stick carrying the head; then he was
covered with a horse-cloth, and one of his companions mounted his back.
The horse had a bridle and reins. Then commenced the kicking, rearing,
jumping, etc., and the banging together of the teeth.
There was no singing by the accompanying paraders. They simply by
ringing or knocking at the houses on their way summoned the inmates to
the doors and begged a gratuity. I have seen some of the wooden heads
carved out quite hollow in the throat part, and two holes bored through
the forehead to form the eyes. The lad who played the horse would hold
a lighted candle in the hollow, and you can imagine how horrible it was
to any one who opened the door to see such a thing close to his eyes.
A contributor to the _Church Times_, Jan. 23, 1891
Origin of the Christmas Tree
A Scandinavian myth of great antiquity speaks of a "service tree"
sprung from the blood-drenched soil where two lovers had been killed by
violence. At certain nights in the Christmas season mysterious lights
were seen flaming in its branches, that no wind could extinguish.
One tale describes Martin Luther as attempting to explain to his wife
and children the beauty of a snow-covered forest under the glittering
star besprinkled sky. Suddenly an idea suggested itself. He went into
the garden, cut off a little fir tree, dragged it into the nursery, put
some candles on its branches and lighted them.
"It has been explained," says another authority, "as being derived
from the ancient Egyptian practice of decking houses at the time of
the winter solstice with branches of the date palm--the symbol of life
triumphant over death, and therefore of perennial life in the renewal
of each bounteous year." The Egyptians regarded the date palm as the
emblem not only of immortality, but also of the starlit firmament.
Some of its traditions may have been strongly influenced by the fact
that about this time the Jews celebrated their Feast of Chanuckah or
Lights, known also as the Feast of Dedication, of which lighted candles
are a feature. In Germany, the name for Christmas Eve is Weihnacht,
the Night of Dedication, while in Greece at about this season the
celebration is called the Feast of Lights.
As a regular institution, however, it can be traced back only to
the sixteenth century. During the Middle Ages it suddenly appears
in Strassburg; it maintained itself along the Rhine for two hundred
years, when suddenly at the beginning of the nineteenth century the
fashion spread all over Germany, and by fifty years later had conquered
Christendom.
W. S. WALSH in _Curiosities of Popular Customs_
(condensed)
Origin of the Christmas Card
The Christmas Card is the legitimate descendant of the "school pieces"
or "Christmas pieces" which were popular from the beginning to the
middle of the nineteenth century. These were sheets of writing-paper
sometimes surrounded with those hideous and elaborate pen flourishes
forming birds, scrolls, etc., so unnaturally dear to the hearts of
writing masters, and sometimes headed with copper-plate engravings,
plain or colored. These were used by school boys at the approach of
holidays for carefully written letters exploiting the progress they had
made in composition and chirography. Charity boys were large purchasers
of these pieces, says one writer, and at Christmas time used to take
them round their parish to show and at the same time solicit a trifle.
The Christmas Card proper had its tentative origin in 1846. Mr. Joseph
Cundall, a London artist, claims to have issued the first in that year.
It was printed in lithography, colored by hand, and was of the usual
size of a lady's card.
Not until 1862, however, did the custom obtain any foothold. Then
experiments were made with cards of the size of an ordinary _carte de
visite_, inscribed simply "A Merry Christmas" and "A Happy New Year."
After that came to be added robins and holly branches, embossed
figures and landscapes. "I have the original designs before me now,"
wrote "Luke Limner" (John Leighton) to the London _Publishers'
Circular_, Dec. 31, 1883: "they were produced by Goodall & Son. Seeing
a growing want and the great sale obtained abroad, this house produced
(1868) a Little Red Riding Hood, a Hermit and his Cell, and many other
subjects in which snow and the robin played a part."
W. S. WALSH in _Curiosities of Popular Customs_
The Yule Clog
Amid the interior forms to be observed, on this evening, by those who
would keep their Christmas after the old orthodox fashion, the first to
be noticed is that of the Yule Clog. This huge block, which, in ancient
times, and consistently with the capacity of its vast receptacle, was
frequently the root of a large tree, it was the practice to introduce
into the house with great ceremony, and to the sound of music.
In Drake's "Winter Nights" mention is made of the Yule Clog, as "lying,
in ponderous majesty, on the kitchen floor," until "each had sung his
Yule song, standing on its centre,"--ere it was consigned to the flames
that
"Went roaring up the chimney wide."
This Yule Clog, according to Herrick, was to be lighted with the brand
of the last year's log, which had been carefully laid aside for the
purpose, and music was to be played during the ceremony of lighting.
This log appears to have been considered as sanctifying the roof-tree,
and was probably deemed a protection against those evil spirits over
whom this season was in every way a triumph. Accordingly, various
superstitions mingled with the prescribed ceremonials in respect of
it. From the authority already quoted on this subject, we learn that
its virtues were not to be extracted unless it were lighted with clean
hands--a direction, probably, including both a useful household hint to
the domestics, and, it may be, a moral of a higher kind:--
"Wash your hands or else the fire
Will not tend to your desire;
Unwash'd hands, ye maidens, know,
Dead the fire though ye blow."
Around this fire, when duly lighted, the hospitalities of the evening
were dispensed; and as the flames played about it and above it, with
a pleasant song of their own, the song and the tale and the jest went
cheerily round.
T. K. HERVEY
Come bring with a Noise
Come bring with a noise,
My merry merry boys,
The Christmas log to the firing;
While my good dame, she
Bids ye all be free,
And drink to your heart's desiring.
With the last year's brand
Light the new block, and
For good success in his spending,
On your psaltries play,
That sweet luck may
Come while the log is a tending.
Drink now the strong beer,
Cut the white loaf here,
The while the meat is a shredding,
For the rare mince-pies;
And the plums stand by,
To fill the paste that's a kneading.
ROBERT HERRICK
Shoe or Stocking
In Holland, children set their shoes,
This night, outside the door;
These wooden shoes Knecht Clobes sees,
And fills them from his store.
But here we hang our stockings up
On handy hook or nail;
And Santa Claus, when all is still,
Will plump them, without fail.
Speak out, you "Sober-sides," speak out,
And let us hear your views;
Between a stocking and a shoe,
What do you see to choose?
One instant pauses Sober-sides,
A little sigh to fetch--
"Well, seems to me a stocking's best,
For wooden shoes won't stretch!"
EDITH M. THOMAS
_By permission of Houghton Mifflin Company_
Jule-Nissen
I do not know how the forty years I have been away have dealt with
"Jule-nissen," the Christmas elf of my childhood in far-off Denmark. He
was pretty old then, gray and bent, and there were signs that his time
was nearly over. So it may be that they have laid him away. I shall
find out when I go over there next time. When I was a boy we never sat
down to our Christmas Eve dinner until a bowl of rice and milk had been
taken up to the attic, where he lived with the martin and its young,
and kept an eye upon the house--saw that everything ran smoothly. I
never met him myself, but I know the house cat must have done so. No
doubt they were well acquainted; for when in the morning I went in for
the bowl, there it was, quite dry and licked clean, and the cat purring
in the corner. So, being there all night, she must have seen and likely
talked with him....
The Nisse was of the family, as you see,--very much of it,--and
certainly not to be classed with the cattle. Yet they were his special
concern; he kept them quiet, saw to it, when the stableman forgot,
that they were properly bedded and cleaned and fed. He was very well
known to the hands about the farm, and they said that he looked just
like a little old man, all in gray and with a pointed red night-cap and
long gray beard. He was always civilly treated, as indeed he deserved
to be, but Christmas was his great holiday, when he became part of
it, indeed, and was made much of. So, for that matter, was everything
that lived under the husbandman's roof or within reach of it. Even the
sparrows that burrowed in the straw-thatch and did it no good were not
forgotten. A sheaf of rye was set out in the snow for them on the
Holy Eve, so that on that night at least they should have shelter and
warmth unchallenged, and plenty to eat. At all other times we were
permitted to raid their nests and help ourselves to a sparrow roast,
which was by long odds the greatest treat we had. Thirty or forty of
them, dug out by the light of the stable-lantern and stuffed into Ane's
long stocking, which we had borrowed for a game-bag, made a meal for
the whole family, each sparrow a fat mouthful. Ane was the cook, and
I am very certain that her pot roast of sparrow would pass muster at
any Fifth Avenue restaurant as the finest dish of reed-birds that ever
was. However, at Christmas their sheaf was their sanctuary, and no one
as much as squinted at them. Only last winter, when Christmas found me
stranded in a little Michigan town, wandering disconsolate about the
streets, I came across such a sheaf raised on a pole in a dooryard, and
I knew at once that one of my people lived in that house and kept Yule
in the old way. So I felt as if I were not quite a stranger.
Blowing in the Yule from the grim old tower that had stood eight
hundred years against the blasts of the North Sea was one of the
customs of the old town that abide, however it fares with the Nisse;
that I know. At sun-up, while yet the people were at breakfast, the
town band climbed the many steep ladders to the top of the tower, and
up there, in fair weather or foul--and sometimes it blew great guns
from the wintry sea--they played four old hymns, one to each corner
of the compass, so that no one was forgotten. They always began with
Luther's sturdy challenge, "A Mighty Fortress is Our God," while
down below we listened devoutly. There was something both weird and
beautiful about those far-away strains in the early morning light of
the northern winter, something that was not of earth and that suggested
to my child's imagination the angels' songs on far Judean hills. Even
now, after all these years, the memory of it does that. It could not
have been because the music was so rare, for the band was made up of
small store-keepers and artisans who thus turned an honest penny on
festive occasions. Incongruously enough, I think the official town
mourner, who bade people to funerals, was one of them. It was like
the burghers' guard, the colonel of which--we thought him at least a
general, because of the huge brass sword he trailed when he marched at
the head of his men--was the town tailor, a very small but very martial
man. But whether or no, it was beautiful. I have never heard music
since that so moved me. When the last strain died away, came the big
bells with their deep voices that sang far out over field and heath,
and our Yule was fairly under way.
JACOB RIIS in _The Old Town_
[Illustration: THE BELLS. _Blashfield._]
"Lame Needles" in Eubœa
In the first place, it must be clearly understood that Christmas time
to a Greek is by no means considered as festive; in fact they look upon
the twelve days which intervene between Christmas and Epiphany rather
with abhorrence than otherwise; it is to them the season when ghosts
and hobgoblins are supposed to be most rampant; it is generally cold,
ungenial weather, and the Greeks of to-day, like their ancestors, live
contented only when the warm rays of the life-giving sun scorch them.
They can get up no enthusiasm as we can about yule logs and blazing
fires, for they have nothing to warm themselves with save small
charcoal braziers capable of communicating heat to not more than one
limb at a time; all the festive energies of the race are reserved for
Carnival and Easter-tide, when the warmth of spring enables them once
more to enjoy life out-of-doors--the only one tolerable when you know
what their low dirty houses are like....
For a month before Christmas every pious Greek has observed a rigid
fast; consequently the "table" which on that day is spread in every
house produces something akin to festivity. On a small round table was
placed a perfect mountain of maccaroni and cheese--coarse sheep's-milk
cheese which stung the mouth like mustard and left a pungent taste
which tarried therein for days. There were no plates, no forks,
no spoons. What a meal it was indeed, as if it were a contest in
gastronomic activity! I was left far behind in the contest, and great
was my relief when it was removed and dried fruits and nuts took its
place. To drink we had resinated wine--that is to say wine which had
been stored in a keg covered with resin inside, which gives the flavor
so much relished by the Greeks, but which is almost as unpalatable
to an Englishman as beer must be to those who drink it for the first
time. The wine, however, had the effect of loosening the tongues of my
friends, who had been too busy as yet to talk, and they told me many
interesting Christmas tales.
In the first place the conversation turned on certain spirits called
"lame needles," which every Eubœan woman of low degree will tell you
visit the earth at this season of the year; one lame needle, presumably
the leader, comes on Christmas Eve, and the rest of the tribe put in an
appearance on Christmas Day. They are dreadful creatures to look upon,
and according to my friends, they live in caves whilst on earth, near
which no wise person at this season of the year will venture.
They subsist, like the Amazons of old, on snakes and lizards, and
sometimes on women, if they are lucky enough to entrap one.
These demons are only dangerous at night from sunset to cockcrow. When
not engaged in dancing the lame needles wander about, and do any amount
of mischief. It is their custom to enter houses by the chimney, so
every housewife is careful at this season of the year to leave some
embers burning all night, for they dread fire and also crosses, and
it is for this reason that at Christmas time we see so many whitewash
crosses on the cottage doors in Greece.... When Epiphany comes these
lame needles are forced to flee again underground; but before they
go they take a hack at the tree which supports the world, and which
one day they will cut through. In appearance these ugly visitors are
supposed to be goat-footed goblins, far taller than any man; in fact,
I should imagine that they are lineal descendants of the satyrs of old
still haunting their accustomed purlieus.... I will give you a specimen
of one of the stories which my friends told me when I slightly threw
discredit on the above described apparitions. It is not a very lively
one, but will show the character of the Christmas stories which are
current in Greece to-day.
"A lame needle once overheard two women settling to get up at night
during the season of the twelve days to leaven bread at the house of
one of them. Accordingly he knocked at the door of the woman who was
going to carry her dough to the other's house and pretended to be a
messenger sent to hurry her.
"Fearing nothing, the silly woman set off with her dough accompanied
by the uncanny messenger. When they had got a little distance the lame
needle turned round and said, 'Stop; I wish to eat you!' Whereat the
woman recognized who he was, and mindful of the fact that lame needles
are very inquisitive, she replied, 'Just wait till I tell you a story.'
It was very long and very interesting, so the first cock crew before
it was finished. 'It is only the black one; go on; I have yet time,'
said the eager lame needle. Then the second cock crew, and he said, 'It
is only the red one; I have nought yet to fear.' Just as the woman had
reached the most thrilling part of her story the third cock crew, 'It
is the white one,' exclaimed the terrified hobgoblin; 'I must be gone.'"
I am sure this story is believed by the peasants of Eubœa.
J. THEODORE BENT
Who Rides behind the Bells?
Our shabby drawing-room was ablaze with red candles; and what with
holly red on the walls and the snow banking the casements and bells
jingling up and down the avenue, the sense of Christmas was very real.
For me, Christmas seems always to be just past or else on the way; and
that sixth sense of Christmas being actually Now is thrice desirable.
On the stroke of nine we two, waiting before the fire, heard Nichola on
the basement stairs; and by the way in which she mounted, with labor
and caution, I knew that she was bringing the punch. We had wished to
have it ready--that harmless steaming punch compounded from my mother's
recipe--when our guests arrived, so that they should first of all hear
the news and drink health to Eunice and Hobart.
Nichola was splendid in her scarlet merino and that vast cap effect
managed by a starched pillow-case and a bit of string, and over her arm
hung a huge holly wreath for the bowl's brim. When she had deposited
her fragrant burden and laid the wreath in place she stood erect and
looked at us solemnly for a moment, and then her face wrinkled in all
directions and was lighted with her rare puckered smile.
"Mer--ry Christmas!" she said.
"Merry Christmas, Nichola!" we cried, and I think that in all her years
with us we had never before heard the words from her lips.
"_Who_ goes ridin' behind the sleigh-bells to-night?" she asked then
abruptly.
"Who rides?" I repeated, puzzled.
"Yes," Nichola said; "this is a night when all folk stay home.
The whole world sits by the fire on Christmas night. An' yet the
sleigh-bells ring like mad. It is not holy."
Pelleas and I had never thought of that. But there may be something in
it. Who indeed, when all the world keeps hearth-holiday, who is it that
rides abroad on Christmas night behind the bells?
"Good spirits, perhaps, Nichola," Pelleas said, smiling.
"I do not doubt it," Nichola declared gravely; "that is not holy
either--to doubt."
"No," we said, "to doubt good spirits is never holy."
ZONA GALE in _The Loves of Pelleas and Etarre_
Guests at Yule
Nöel! Nöel!
Thus sounds each Christmas bell
Across the winter snow.
But what are the little footprints all
That mark the path from the church-yard wall?
These are those of the children waked to-night
From sleep by the Christmas bells and light:
Ring sweetly, chimes! Soft, soft, my rhymes!
Their beds are under the snow.