"Then I stooped for a bunch of holly
Which had fallen on the floor,
And there fell to the ground as I lifted it
A berry--or something more;
And after it fell my eyes could see
More clearly than before!
But oh! for the red Christingle
That never was missing of yore,
And oh! for the red Christingle
That I miss forever more!"
Christingles are not much known in this country. They are made by
piercing a hole in an orange, putting a piece of quill three or four
inches long, set upright, in the hole, and usually a second piece
inside this. Each quill is divided into several slips, each one of
which is loaded with a raisin. The weight of the raisins bends down
the little boughs, giving two circles of pendants. A coloured taper is
placed in the upper quill and lighted on Christmas Eve. The custom is
a German one.
The harbinger of Christmas, in Holland, is a Star of Bethlehem carried
along through the cities by the young men who pick up alms for the
poor. They gather much money, for all come to welcome this symbol of
peace. They then betake themselves to the head burgomaster of the
town, who is bound to give them a good meal.
The little Russian, amid the snows, looks for the red candle and the
Christmas Tree, and the ice is all alight with gay illuminations. The
little Roman boy watches with delight the preparation for the
_Beffana_ in the public squares of Rome. For the _Beffana_ is the
witch who rides on a broomstick; she is a female Santa Claus, who
brings presents to a good child and a bunch of rods to a bad one. Her
worship is celebrated on Christmas Eve to the sound of trumpets and
all manner of unearthly noises. Then the boy goes to the Church of the
Augustins, to see the little Jesus Child lying in the lap of his Holy
Mother. He hears the most charming music, and singing choristers swing
the censer before the Host. Above his head Saint Michael fights with
the dragon. He sees the splendid procession of the cardinals in their
gorgeous red and white robes, and as he goes down the broad marble
steps, on each side of which beautiful statues stand in niches, his
mother, poor Dominica, peasant of the Campagna, kneels and makes the
sign of the cross, and tells her boy that this is Christmas, the day
on which the Jesus Child was born to take his sins away. Again he
wanders with her through the market-place; every one gives him
playthings, fruits, and cakes; a rich foreigner tosses him a coin. The
little Antonio asks why, and his mother tells him it is Christmas, but
not so gay as when she was a little girl, for then the _pifferari_,
the shepherds from the mountains, came, in their short cloaks with
ribbons around their pointed hats, to play on their bagpipes before
every image of the Virgin. Then they go again to the Church, the
beautiful Church of Ara Coeli, to hear the angel girls make Christmas
speeches to welcome the little Christ-child, and as he looks at the
image of the Madonna, all hung with jewels, he wishes it were
Christmas all the year round.
The Christmas tree dates back to the Druids, but seems to have
disappeared from England for several centuries. Meantime, it blossomed
in Germany, where, under the tender and soft Scandinavian influence
which has such an admirable and ameliorating effect on homely German
life, it has continued to bear its fruit for six hundred years. It
came back to England in the days of Queen Charlotte, who, true to her
German associations, had a tree dressed at Kew Palace in the rooms of
her German attendant. It was hung, writes the Hon. Amelia Murray, with
gifts for the children, "who were invited to see it; and I remember,"
she says, "what a pleasure it was to hunt for one's name."
The "Mayflower," which brought much else that was good, forgot the
Christmas tree. It was not until the beginning of the present century
that one could be seen near Plymouth Rock. Men and women now living
can remember when Washington Irving's "Sketch-book" told to them the
first story of an English Christmas, and some brave women determined
to hang a few boughs and red berries around the cold, barren church.
Then the tree began to bud and burgeon with gifts, and the rare
glories of colour crept in upon the snows of winter. The red fire on
the hearth, the red berries on the mantel, brought in the light which
grew pale in winter, the hospitality and the cheer of the turkey and
plum-pudding went around, and Christmas carols began to be sung by men
of Puritan antecedents. Old Christmas, frightened away at first by a
few fanatics, came at last to America to stay, and the mistletoe,
prettiest, most weird, most artistic of parasites, was removed from
dreary Druidical associations, and no longer assists at human
sacrifices,--unless some misogynist may so consider the getting of
husbands.
The English Christmas is the typical one in the art of entertaining.
In every country neighbourhood, public county balls are conducted with
great pomp during the twelve days of Christmas. From all the great
houses within ten or fifteen miles come large parties, dressed in the
latest London fashions, among them the most distinguished lights of
the London world. Country residents are also conspicuous, and for
people who live altogether in the country this is the chosen occasion
for the first introduction of a daughter into society. The town hall
or any other convenient building is beautifully dressed with holly and
mistletoe. The band is at the upper end and the different sets form
exclusive groups about the room, seldom mixing even in the Virginia
Reel and other country dances.
The private festivities of Christmas consist of a dinner to the
tenantry and a large one to the family, all of whose members are
expected. The mistletoe is hung conspicuously from the great lantern
in the hall, or over the stag's head at the door. The rooms are
wreathed with holly, each picture is framed in it, and the ladies put
the red berries in their hair and all over their dresses. The
customary turkey, a mighty bird, enters, making an event at the
dinner, while later on, a plum-pudding, all ablaze, with a sprig of
holly in the midst, makes another sensation. Mince-pies are set on
fire with the aid of a little alcohol, which is poured over them from
a small silver ladle. After the dinner, is passed the loving cup, a
silver cup with two handles, containing a hot, spiced, sweetened ale.
It has two mouths, and as it is lifted its weight requires both hands.
In England, Christmas and New Year's still keep some of the mediæval
village customs. Men go about in motley, imitating quacks and
fortune-tellers, and there is much noise and tooting of horns. These
mummers are sent to the servants' hall, where a plentiful supper and
horns of ale await them. The waits, or carol singers, are another
remnant of old Christmas. In remote parts of England the stables are
lighted, to prove that man has not forgotten the Child born and laid
in a manger. As for the parish festivities, in which the hall has so
prominent a part, the school feasts, the blankets for the poor, the
clothing-club meetings at Martinmas, all has been told us in novels,
which have also given us many a picture of comfortable and stately
English life.
The modern English squire does not, however, eat, drink, and make
merry for twelve days, as he used. The wassail-bowl is broken at the
fountain, and mince-pies and goose-pies and yule-cakes are thought to
be heavy for modern digestion. But the good cheer remains.
The noblest as well as the humblest of all English houses, especially
in Yorkshire, keep up the old superstition of lighting the Yule log,
"the ponderous ashen fagot from the yard," and great ill-luck is
foretold if its flame dies out before Twelfth Night. Frumenty, which
is a porridge boiled with milk, sugar, wine, spices, and raisins, is
served. It was in a cup of frumenty, as every conscientious reader of
fairy stories will remember, that Tom Thumb was dropped by his
careless nurse. The Christmas pie of Yorkshire, is a "brae goose-pie"
which Herrick in one of his delightful verses thus defends:
"Come guard this night the Christmas pie,
That the thiefe, though ne'er so slie,
With his fleshhooks, don't come nie
To catch it.
"From him who all alone sits there,
Having his eyes still in his eare,
And a deale of nightly feare
To watch it."
In America, the young people are utilizing Christmas day as they do in
England, if there is no frost, to go a-hunting. Afternoon tea, under
the mistletoe in the hall of a country house, is generally taken in a
riding habit.
In most families it is a purely domestic festival; although, as the
tree has been enjoyed the night before, when Santa Claus, the great
German sprite, has held his revels, there is no reason why a grand
dinner to one's friends should not be given. And let us plead that the
turkey, our great national bird, may not be cooked by gas. He is so
much better roasted before a wood fire.
There are some difficulties in giving a Christmas dinner in a large
city, as nearly all the waiters are sure to be drunk, and the cook has
also, perhaps, been at the frumenty. Being a religious as well as a
social festival, it is apt to bring about a confusion of ideas. But,
everything else apart, it is Children's Day; it is the day when, as
Dickens says, we should remember the time when its great Founder was a
child Himself. It is especially the day for the friendless young, the
children in hospitals, the lame, the sick, the weary, the blind. No
child should be left alone on Christmas Day, for loneliness with
children means brooding. A child growing up with no child friend is
not a child at all, but a premature man or woman.
The best Christmas present to a boy is a box of tools, the best to a
girl any number of dolls. After dressing and undressing them, giving
them a bath, taking them through a fit of sickness, punishing them,
and giving them an airing in the park,--for little maidens begin to
imitate mamma at a very early age,--the next best amusement is to
manufacture a doll's house. The brother must plane the box,--an old
wine box will do,--and fit in it four compartments, each of which must
be elaborately papered. Then a "real carpet" must be nailed down and
pictures hung on the wall. These bits, framed with gold paper, usually
require mamma's help. The kitchen must be fitted up with tins, which
perhaps had better be bought, but after the _batterie de cuisine_ is
finished, then the chairs and beds should be made at home. Cardboard
boxes can be cut into excellent doll's beds. Pillows, bolsters,
mattress, sheets, pillow-cases, will keep little fingers busy for many
days.
When they get older, and can write letters, a post-office is a
delightful boon. These are to be bought, but they are far more amusing
if made at home. Any good-sized card-box will do for this purpose. The
lid should be fastened to it so that when it stands up it will open
like a door. A slit must be cut out about an inch wide, and from five
to six inches long, so as to allow the postage of small parcels, yet
not large enough even to admit the smallest hand. Children should
learn to respect the inviolate character of the post from the earliest
age.
On the door should be written the times of the post. Most children are
fond of writing letters to one another, and this will of course give
rise to a grand manufacture of note paper, envelopes, and post-cards,
and will call forth ingenuity in designing and colouring monograms and
crests, for their note paper and envelopes. An envelope must be taken
carefully to pieces, to form a flat pattern. Then those cut from it
have to be folded, gummed together, a touch of gum put on the flap
and the monogram made to correspond. It is wonderful what occupation
this gives for weeks. A paint-box should be also amongst the Christmas
gifts.
Capital scrap-books can be made by children. Old railway guides may be
the foundation, and every illustrated paper the magazine of art. A
paste-pot, next to a paint-box, is a most serviceable toy.
Children like to imitate their elders. A little boy of two years
enjoys smoking a pipe as he sees grandpapa smoke, and knocks out
imaginary ashes, as he does, against the door.
Hobby horses are profitable steeds, and can be made to go through any
amount of paces. But mechanical toys are more amusing to his elders
than to the child, who wishes to do his own mechanism. A boy can be
amused by turning him out of the house, giving him a ball or a kite,
or letting him dig in the ground for the unhappy mole. Little girls,
who must be kept in, on a rainy day, or invalid children, are very
hard to amuse and recourse must be had to story-telling, to the dear
delightful thousand and one books now written for children, of which
"Alice in Wonderland" is the flower and perfection.
For communities of children, as in asylums and schools, there is
nothing like music, songs, and marches; anything to keep them in time
and tune. It removes for a moment that institutionized look which has
so unhappy an effect.
Happy is the child who has inherited a garret full of old trunks, old
furniture, old pictures, any kind of old things. It is a precious
inheritance. Given the dramatic instinct and a garret, and a family of
quick-witted boys and girls will have amusement long after the
Christmas holidays are passed.
It would be a great amusement for weeks before Christmas, if children
were taught to make the ornaments for the tree, as is done in
economical Germany. Here the ideas of secrecy and mystery are so
associated with Santa Claus that such an idea would be rejected. But a
thing is twice as interesting if we put ourselves into it.
At Christmas time let us invoke the fairies. They, the gentry, the wee
people, the good people, are very dear to the real little wee people,
who see the fun and do not believe too much in them. The fairies who
make their homes under old trees and resort to toadstools for shelter,
and who make invisible excursions into farmhouses have afforded the
Irish nurse no end of legends. An old nurse once held a magnificent
position in the nursery because she had seen a fairy.
The Christmas green was once the home of the peace-loving wood-sprite.
Christmas evergreens and red berries make the most effective interior
decorations, their delightful fragrance, their splendid colour renders
the palace more beautiful, and the humble house attractive. Before
Twelfth Night, January 6, they must all be taken down. The festivities
of this great day were much celebrated in mediæval times, and the
picture by Rubens, "The King Drinks," recalls the splendour of these
feasts. It is called Kings' Day to commemorate the three kings of
Orient, who paid their visit to the humble manger, bringing those
first Christmas gifts of which we have any account.
The negroes from Africa, who were brought as slaves to the West Indian
Islands, always celebrate this day with queer and fetich rites. It is
in honour of the black king Melchior whom we see in the pictures "from
Afric's sunny fountains."
The Twelfth-Night cake, crowned with candles, is cut and eaten with
many ceremonies on this occasion. The universality of Christmas is its
most remarkable feature. Trace it as one will to the ancient
Saturnalia, this universality is still inexplicable. It long antedates
the Christian era. The distinctly modern customs are the giving of
gifts, and the good eating, which, if followed back, we find to have
been gluttony among the Norsemen.
To the older members of the family the day is a sad one. The little
verse at the head of the chapter recalls the fact that for every child
gone back to heaven, there is one Christingle less. But if it will
bring the rich to the poor, if it will not forget a single legend or
grace, if the holly and evergreen will breathe the sweetest and
highest significance, if we can remember that every simple festival at
Christmas which makes the hearth-stone brighter is a tribute to the
highest wisdom, if we connect Christmas and humanity, then shall we
keep it aright. For the world unlocks its heart on every Christmas Day
as it has done for eighteen Christian centuries. The cairn of
Christmas memories rises higher and higher as the dear procession of
children, those constantly arriving, precious pilgrims from the
unknown world, halts by the majestic mountain to receive gifts, giving
more than they take. For what would Christmas be without the children?