roused by the steam of its good things, they were far enough as yet
from getting anything to eat, as a consequence; and the next ceremony
is one which strikingly marks the rudeness of the times. "A huntsman
cometh into the hall, with a fox, and a purse-net with a cat, both
bound at the end of a staff, and with them nine or ten couple of
hounds, with the blowing of hunting-horns. And the fox and the cat
are set upon by the hounds, and killed beneath the fire." "What this
'merry disport' signified (if practised) before the Reformation," says
a writer in Mr. Hone's Year Book, "I know not. In 'Ane compendious boke
of godly and spiritual songs, Edinburgh, 1621, printed from an old
copy,' are the following lines, seemingly referring to some pageant:--
'The hunter is Christ that hunts in haist,
The hunds are Peter and Pawle,
The paip is the fox, Rome is the Rox
That rubbis us on the gall.'"
After these ceremonies, the welcome permission to betake themselves to
the far more interesting one of an attack upon the good things of the
feast appears to have been at length given; but at the close of the
second course the subject of receiving the officers who had tendered
their Christmas service was renewed. Whether the gentlemen of the law
were burlesquing their own profession intentionally or whether it was
an awkward hit, like that which befell their brethren of Gray's Inn,
does not appear. However the common serjeant made what is called "a
plausible speech," insisting on the necessity of these officers "for
the better reputation of the Commonwealth;" and he was followed, to the
same effect, by the King's serjeant-at-law till the Lord Chancellor
silenced them by desiring a respite of further advice, which it is
greatly to be marvelled he had not done sooner.
And thereupon he called upon the "ancientest of the masters of the
revels" for a song,--a proceeding to which we give our unqualified
approbation.
T. K. HERVEY
King Witlaf's Drinking-Horn
Witlaf, a king of the Saxons,
Ere yet his last he breathed,
To the merry monks of Croyland
His drinking-horn bequeathed,--
That, whenever they sat at their revels,
And drank from the golden bowl,
They might remember the donor,
And breathe a prayer for his soul.
So sat they once at Christmas,
And bade the goblet pass;
In their beards the red wine glistened
Like dew-drops in the grass.
They drank to the soul of Witlaf,
They drank to Christ the Lord,
And to each of the Twelve Apostles,
Who had preached His holy word.
They drank to the Saints and Martyrs
Of the dismal days of yore,
And as soon as the horn was empty
They remembered one Saint more.
And the reader droned from the pulpit,
Like the murmur of many bees,
The legend of good Saint Guthlac,
And Saint Basil's homilies;
Till the great bells of the convent,
From their prison in the tower,
Guthlac and Bartholomæus,
Proclaimed the midnight hour.
And the Yule-log cracked in the chimney
And the Abbot bowed his head,
And the flamelets flapped and flickered
But the Abbot was stark and dead.
Yet still in his pallid fingers
He clutched the golden bowl,
In which, like a pearl dissolving,
Had sunk and dissolved his soul.
But not for this their revels
The jovial monks forbore,
For they cried, "Fill high the goblet!
We must drink to one Saint more."
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
Old Christmastide
Heap on more wood!--the wind is chill;
But let it whistle as it will,
We'll keep our Christmas merry still.
Each age has deemed the new-born year
The fittest time for festal cheer.
Even heathen yet, the savage Dane
At Iol more deep the mead did drain;
High on the beach his galley drew,
And feasted all his pirate crew;
Then in his low and pine-built hall,
Where shields and axes decked the wall,
They gorged upon the half-dressed steer;
Caroused in seas of sable beer;
While round, in brutal jest, were thrown
The half-gnawed rib and marrow-bone,
Or listened all, in grim delight,
While scalds yelled out the joy of fight,
Then forth in frenzy would they hie,
While wildly loose their red locks fly;
And, dancing round the blazing pile,
They make such barbarous mirth the while,
As best might to the mind recall
The boisterous joys of Odin's hall.
And well our Christian sires of old
Loved when the year its course had rolled,
And brought blithe Christmas back again,
With all his hospitable train.
Domestic and religious rite
Gave honour to the holy night:
On Christmas eve the bells were rung;
On Christmas eve the mass was sung;
That only night, in all the year,
Saw the stoled priest the chalice rear.
The damsel donned her kirtle sheen;
The hall was dressed with holly green;
Forth to the wood did merry men go,
To gather in the mistletoe;
Then opened wide the baron's hall
To vassal, tenant, serf, and all;
Power laid his rod of rule aside,
And ceremony doffed his pride.
The heir, with roses in his shoes,
That night might village partner choose;
The lord, underogating, share
The vulgar game of "post and pair."
All hailed, with uncontrolled delight,
And general voice, the happy night
That to the cottage, as the crown,
Brought tidings of salvation down.
The fire, with well-dried logs supplied,
Went roaring up the chimney wide;
The huge hall-table's oaken face,
Scrubbed till it shone, the day to grace,
Bore then upon its massive board
No mark to part the squire and lord.
Then was brought in the lusty brawn
By old blue-coated serving man;
Then the grim boar's head frowned on high,
Crested with bays and rosemary.
Well can the green-garbed ranger tell,
How, when, and where, the monster fell;
What dogs before his death he tore,
And all the baiting of the boar.
The Wassail round, in good brown bowls,
Garnished with ribbons, blithely trowls.
There the huge sirloin reeked; hard by
Plum-porridge stood, and Christmas pie;
Nor failed old Scotland to produce,
At such high tide, her savoury goose.
Then came the merry masquers in,
And carols roared with blithesome din;
If unmelodious was the song,
It was a hearty note, and strong,
Who lists may in their mumming see
Traces of ancient mystery;
White shirts supplied the masquerade,
And smutted cheeks the vizors made:
But, O! what masquers, richly dight,
Can boast of bosoms half so light!
England was merry England, when
Old Christmas brought his sports again.
'Twas Christmas broached the mightiest ale;
'Twas Christmas told the merriest tale;
A Christmas gambol oft could cheer
The poor man's heart through half the year.
SIR WALTER SCOTT
Christmas Games in "Old Wardle's" Kitchen
[According to annual custom, on Christmas eve, observed by old
Wardle's forefathers from time immemorial.]
From the centre of the ceiling of this kitchen, old Wardle had just
suspended with his own hands a huge branch of mistletoe, and this
same branch of mistletoe instantaneously gave rise to a scene of
general and most delightful struggling of confusion; in the midst of
which Mr. Pickwick, with a gallantry which would have done honour
to a descendant of Lady Tollimglower herself, took the old lady by
the hand, led her beneath the mystic branch, and saluted her in all
courtesy and decorum. The old lady submitted to this piece of practical
politeness with all the dignity which befitted so important and serious
a solemnity, but the younger ladies, not being so thoroughly imbued
with a superstitious veneration of the custom, or imagining that the
value of a salute is very much enhanced if it cost a little trouble to
obtain it, screamed and struggled, and ran into corners, and threatened
and remonstrated, and did everything but leave the room, until some
of the less adventurous gentlemen were on the point of desisting, when
they all at once found it useless to resist any longer, and submitted
to be kissed with a good grace. Mr. Winkle kissed the young lady with
the black eyes, and Mr. Snodgrass kissed Emily; and Mr. Weller, not
being particular about the form of being under the mistletoe, kissed
Emma and the other female servants, just as he caught them. As to the
poor relations, they kissed everybody, not even excepting the plainer
portion of the young-lady visitors, who, in their excessive confusion,
ran right under the mistletoe, directly it was hung up, without knowing
it! Wardle stood with his back to the fire, surveying the whole scene
with the utmost satisfaction; and the fat boy took the opportunity of
appropriating to his own use, and summarily devouring, a particularly
fine mince-pie, that had been carefully put by for somebody else.
Now the screaming had subsided, and faces were in a glow and curls
in a tangle, and Mr. Pickwick, after kissing the old lady as
before-mentioned, was standing under the mistletoe, looking with a very
pleased countenance on all that was passing around him, when the young
lady with the black eyes, after a little whispering with the other
young ladies, made a sudden dart forward, and, putting her arm round
Mr. Pickwick's neck, saluted him affectionately on the left cheek;
and before Mr. Pickwick distinctly knew what was the matter, he was
surrounded by the whole body, and kissed by every one of them.
It was a pleasant thing to see Mr. Pickwick in the centre of the group,
now pulled this way, and then that, and first kissed on the chin and
then on the nose, and then on the spectacles, and to hear the peals
of laughter which were raised on every side; but it was a still more
pleasant thing to see Mr. Pickwick, blinded shortly afterwards with a
silk-handkerchief, falling up against the wall, and scrambling into
corners, and going through all the mysteries of blind-man's buff, with
the utmost relish for the game, until at last he caught one of the
poor relations; and then had to evade the blind-man himself, which he
did with a nimbleness and agility that elicited the admiration and
applause of all beholders. The poor relations caught just the people
whom they thought would like it; and when the game flagged, got caught
themselves. When they were all tired of blind-man's buff, there was a
great game at snap-dragon, and when fingers enough were burned with
that, and all the raisins gone, they sat down by the huge fire of
blazing logs to a substantial supper, and a mighty bowl of wassail,
something smaller than an ordinary wash-house copper, in which the hot
apples were hissing and bubbling with a rich look, and a jolly sound,
that were perfectly irresistible.
"This," said Mr. Pickwick, looking round him, "this is, indeed,
comfort."
"Our invariable custom," replied Mr. Wardle. "Everybody sits down with
us on Christmas eve, as you see them now--servants and all; and here
we wait till the clock strikes twelve, to usher Christmas in, and wile
away the time with forfeits and old stories. Trundle, my boy, rake up
the fire."
Up flew the bright sparks in myriads as the logs were stirred, and
the deep red blaze sent forth a rich glow, that penetrated into the
furthest corner of the room, and cast its cheerful tint on every face.
"Come," said Wardle, "a song--a Christmas song. I'll give you one, in
default of a better."
"Bravo," said Mr. Pickwick.
"Fill up," cried Wardle. "It will be two hours good before you see the
bottom of the bowl through the deep rich colour of the wassail; fill up
all round, and now for the song."
Thus saying, the merry old gentleman, in a good, round, sturdy voice,
commenced without more ado--
A CHRISTMAS CAROL
I care not for Spring; on his fickle wing
Let the blossoms and buds be borne:
He woos them amain with his treacherous rain,
And he scatters them ere the morn.
An inconstant elf, he knows not himself,
Or his own changing mind an hour,
He'll smile in your face, and with wry grimace,
He'll wither your youngest flower.
Let the Summer sun to his bright home run,
He shall never be sought by me;
When he's dimmed by a cloud I can laugh aloud,
And care not how sulky he be;
For his darling child is the madness wild
That sports in fierce fever's train;
And when love is too strong, it don't last long,
As many have found to their pain.
A mild harvest night, by the tranquil light
Of the modest and gentle moon,
Has a far sweeter sheen for me, I ween,
Than the broad and unblushing noon.
But every leaf awakens my grief,
As it lies beneath the tree;
So let Autumn air be never so fair,
It by no means agrees with me.
But my song I troll out, for Christmas stout,
The hearty, the true, and the bold;
A bumper I drain, and with might and main
Give three cheers for this Christmas old.
We'll usher him in with a merry din
That shall gladden his joyous heart,
And we'll keep him up while there's bite or sup,
And in fellowship good, we'll part.
In his fine honest pride, he scorns to hide
One jot of his hard-weather scars;
They're no disgrace, for there's much the same trace
On the cheeks of our bravest tars.
Then again I sing 'till the roof doth ring,
And it echoes from wall to wall--
To the stout old wight, fair welcome to-night,
As the King of the Seasons all!
This song was tumultuously applauded, for friends and dependents make
a capital audience; and the poor relations especially were in perfect
ecstasies of rapture. Again was the fire replenished, and again went
the wassail round.
CHARLES DICKENS
A "Mystery" as performed in Mexico
Against the wing-wall of the Hacienda del Mayo, which occupied one end
of the plaza, was raised a platform, on which stood a table covered
with scarlet cloth. A rude bower of cane-leaves, on one end of the
platform, represented the manger of Bethlehem; while a cord, stretched
from its top across the plaza to a hole in the front of the church,
bore a large tinsel star, suspended by a hole in its centre. There
was quite a crowd in the plaza, and very soon a procession appeared,
coming up from the lower part of the village. The three kings took the
lead; the Virgin, mounted on an ass that gloried in a gilded saddle
and rose-besprinkled mane and tail, followed them, led by the angel;
and several women, with curious masks of paper, brought up the rear.
Two characters, of the harlequin sort--one with a dog's head on his
shoulders, and the other a bald-headed friar, with a huge hat hanging
on his back--played all sorts of antics for the diversion of the
crowd. After making the circuit of the plaza, the Virgin was taken to
the platform, and entered the manger. King Herod took his seat at the
scarlet table, with an attendant in blue coat and red sash, whom I took
to be his Prime Minister. The three kings remained on their horses
in front of the church; but between them and the platform, under the
string on which the star was to slide, walked two men in long white
robes and blue hoods, with parchment folios in their hands. These were
the Wise Men of the East, as one might readily know from their solemn
air, and the mysterious glances which they cast towards all quarters of
the heavens.
In a little while, a company of women on the platform, concealed behind
a curtain, sang an angelic chorus to the tune of 'Opescator dell'
onda.' At the proper moment, the Magi turned towards the platform,
followed by the star, to which a string was conveniently attached, that
it might be slid along the line. The three kings followed the star
till it reached the manger, when they dismounted, and inquired for the
sovereign, whom it had led them to visit. They were invited upon the
platform, and introduced to Herod, as the only king; this did not seem
to satisfy them, and, after some conversation, they retired. By this
time the star had receded to the other end of the line, and commenced
moving forward again, they following. The angel called them into the
manger, where, upon their knees, they were shown a small wooden box,
supposed to contain the sacred infant; they then retired, and the star
brought them back no more. After this departure, King Herod declared
himself greatly confused by what he had witnessed, and was very much
afraid this newly found king would weaken his power. Upon consultation
with his Prime Minister, the Massacre of the Innocents was decided
upon, as the only means of security.
[Illustration: THE HOLY NIGHT. _Von Uhde._]
The angel, on hearing this, gave warning to the Virgin, who quickly got
down from the platform, mounted her bespangled donkey, and hurried off.
Herod's Prime Minister directed all the children to be handed up for
execution. A boy, in a ragged sarape, was caught and thrust forward;
the Minister took him by the heels in spite of his kicking, and held
his head on the table. The little brother and sister of the boy,
thinking he was really to be decapitated, yelled at the top of their
voices, in an agony of terror, which threw the crowd into a roar of
laughter. King Herod brought down his sword with a whack on the table,
and the Prime Minister, dipping his brush into a pot of white paint
which stood before him, made a flaring cross on the boy's face. Several
other boys were caught and served likewise; and, finally, the two
harlequins, whose kicks and struggles nearly shook down the platform.
The procession then went off up the hill, followed by the whole
population of the village. All the evening there were fandangoes in the
méson, bonfires and rockets on the plaza, ringing of bells, and high
mass in the church, with the accompaniment of two guitars, tinkling to
lively polkas.
BAYARD TAYLOR in _Eldorado_
VIII
WHEN ALL THE WORLD IS KIN
[Illustration: WHEN ALL THE WORLD IS KIN]
Christmas
Christmas Night of '62
Merry Christmas in the Tenements
Christmas at Sea
The First Christmas Tree in the Legation Compound, at Tokyo, Japan
Christmas in India
A Belgian Christmas Eve Procession
Christmas at the Cape
The "Good Night" in Spain
Christmas in Rome
Christmas in Burgundy
Christmas in Germany
Christmas Dinner in a Clipper's Fo'c'sle
Christmas in Jail
Colonel Carter's Christmas Tree
[Illustration]
But Christmas is not only the mile-mark of another year, moving
us to thoughts of self-examination,--it is a season, from all its
associations, whether domestic or religious, suggesting thoughts of
joy. A man dissatisfied with his endeavors is a man tempted to sadness.
And in the midst of winter, when his life runs lowest and he is
reminded of the empty chairs of his beloved, it is well that he should
be condemned to this fashion of the smiling face.
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
Christmas Night of '62
The wintry blast goes wailing by,
The snow is falling overhead;
I hear the lonely sentry's tread,
And distant watch-fires light the sky.
Dim forms go flitting through the gloom;
The soldiers cluster round the blaze
To talk of other Christmas days,
And softly speak of home and home.
My sabre swinging overhead,
Gleams in the watch-fire's fitful glow,
While fiercely drives the blinding snow,
And memory leads me to the dead.
My thoughts go wandering to and fro,
Vibrating 'twixt the Now and Then;
I see the low-browed home agen,
The old hall wreathed with mistletoe.
And sweetly from the far off years
Comes borne the laughter faint and low,
The voices of the Long Ago!
My eyes are wet with tender tears.
I feel agen the mother kiss,
I see agen the glad surprise
That lighted up the tranquil eyes
And brimmed them o'er with tears of bliss,
As, rushing from the old hall-door,
She fondly clasped her wayward boy--
Her face all radiant with the joy
She felt to see him home once more.
My sabre swinging on the bough
Gleams in the watch-fire's fitful glow,
While fiercely drives the blinding snow
Aslant upon my saddened brow.
Those cherished faces all are gone!
Asleep within the quiet graves
Where lies the snow in drifting waves,--
And I am sitting here alone.
There's not a comrade here to-night
But knows that loved ones far away
On bended knees this night will pray:
"God bring our darling from the fight."
But there are none to wish me back,
For me no yearning prayers arise.
The lips are mute and closed the eyes--
My home is in the bivouac.
In the Army of Northern Virginia.
WILLIAM G. MCCABE
Quoted from W. P. Trent's _Southern Writers_
Merry Christmas in the Tenements
It was just a sprig of holly, with scarlet berries showing against the
green, stuck in, by one of the office boys probably, behind the sign
that pointed the way up to the editorial rooms. There was no reason
why it should have made me start when I came suddenly upon it at the
turn of the stairs; but it did. Perhaps it was because that dingy hall,
given over to dust and draughts all the days of the year, was the last
place in which I expected to meet with any sign of Christmas; perhaps
it was because I myself had nearly forgotten the holiday. Whatever the
cause, it gave me quite a turn.
I stood, and stared at it. It looked dry, almost withered. Probably it
had come a long way. Not much holly grows about Printing-House Square,
except in the colored supplements, and that is scarcely of a kind to
stir tender memories. Withered and dry, this did. I thought, with a
twinge of conscience, of secret little conclaves of my children, of
private views of things hidden from mamma at the bottom of drawers,
of wild flights when papa appeared unbidden in the door, which I had
allowed for once to pass unheeded. Absorbed in the business of the
office, I had hardly thought of Christmas coming on, until now it was
here. And this sprig of holly on the wall that had come to remind
me,--come nobody knew how far,--did it grow yet in the beechwood
clearings, as it did when I gathered it as a boy, tracking through
the snow? "Christ-thorn" we called it in our Danish tongue. The red
berries, to our simple faith, were the drops of blood that fell from
the Saviour's brow as it dropped under its cruel crown upon the
cross....
* * * * *
The lights of the Bowery glow like a myriad twinkling stars upon
the ceaseless flood of humanity that surges ever through the great
highway of the homeless. They shine upon long rows of lodging-houses,
in which hundreds of young men, cast helpless upon the reef of the
strange city, are learning their first lessons of utter loneliness;
for what desolation is there like that of the careless crowd when all
the world rejoices? They shine upon the tempter setting his snares
there, and upon the missionary and the Salvation Army lass, disputing
his catch with him; upon the police detective going his rounds with
coldly observant eye intent upon the outcome of the contest; upon
the wreck that is past hope, and upon the youth pausing on the verge
of the pit in which the other has long ceased to struggle. Sights
and sounds of Christmas there are in plenty in the Bowery. Balsam
and hemlock and fir stand in groves along the busy thoroughfare, and
garlands of green embower mission and dive impartially. Once a year
the old street recalls its youth with an effort. It is true that it
is largely a commercial effort; that the evergreen, with an instinct
that is not of its native hills, haunts saloon-corners by preference;
but the smell of the pine woods is in the air, and--Christmas is not
too critical--one is grateful for the effort. It varies with the
opportunity. At "Beefsteak John's" it is content with artistically
embalming crullers and mince-pies in green cabbage under the window
lamp. Over yonder, where the mile-post of the old lane still
stands,--in its unhonored old age become the vehicle of publishing the
latest "sure cure" to the world,--a florist, whose undenominational
zeal for the holiday and trade outstrips alike distinction of creed and
property, has transformed the sidewalk and the ugly railroad structure
into a veritable bower, spanning it with a canopy of green, under which
dwell with him, in neighborly good-will, the Young Men's Christian
Association and the Jewish tailor next door....