CHRISTMAS.
But is old, old, good old Christmas gone?
Nothing but the hair of his good, gray old head and beard left?
Well, I will have that, seeing I cannot have more of him.
HUE AND CRY AFTER CHRISTMAS.
A man might then behold At Christmas, in each hall
Good fires to curb the cold, And meat for great and small.
The neighbors were friendly bidden, And all had welcome true,
The poor from the gates were not chidden When this old cap was new.
OLD SONG.
NOTHING in England exercises a more delightful spell over my imagination than the lingerings
of the holiday customs and rural games of former times.
They recall the pictures my fancy used to draw in the May morning of life, when as yet
I only knew the world through books, and believed it to be all that poets had painted it; and
they bring with them the flavor of those honest days of yore, in which, perhaps with equal
fallacy, I am apt to think the world was more homebred, social, and joyous than at present.
I regret to say that they are daily growing more and more faint, being gradually worn
away by time, but still more obliterated by modern fashion.
They resemble those picturesque morsels of Gothic architecture which we see crumbling
in various parts of the country, partly dilapidated by the waste of ages and partly lost in the
additions and alterations of latter days.
Poetry, however, clings with cherishing fondness about the rural game and holiday revel from
which it has derived so many of its themes, as the ivy winds its rich foliage about the
Gothic arch and mouldering tower, gratefully repaying their support by clasping together
their tottering remains, and, as it were, embalming them in verdure.
Of all the old festivals, however, that of Christmas awakens the strongest and most heartfelt
associations.
There is a tone of solemn and sacred feeling that blends with our conviviality and lifts
the spirit to a state of hallowed and elevated enjoyment.
The services of the Church about this season are extremely tender and inspiring.
They dwell on the beautiful story of the origin of our faith and the pastoral scenes that
accompanied its announcement.
They gradually increase in fervor and pathos during the season of Advent, until they break
forth in full jubilee on the morning that brought peace and good-will to men.
I do not know a grander effect of music on the moral feelings than to hear the full choir
and the pealing organ performing a Christmas anthem in a cathedral, and filling every part
of the vast pile with triumphant harmony.
It is a beautiful arrangement, also, derived from days of yore, that this festival, which
commemorates the announcement of the religion of peace and love, has been made the season
for gathering together of family connections, and drawing closer again those bands of kindred
hearts which the cares and pleasures and sorrows of the world are continually operating to
cast loose; of calling back the children of a family who have launched forth in life and
wandered widely asunder, once more to assemble about the paternal hearth, that rallying-place
of the affections, there to grow young and loving again among the endearing mementos
of childhood.
There is something in the very season of the year that gives a charm to the festivity of
Christmas.
At other times we derive a great portion of our pleasures from the mere beauties of Nature.
Our feelings sally forth and dissipate themselves over the sunny landscape, and we "live abroad
and everywhere."
The song of the bird, the murmur of the stream, the breathing fragrance of spring, the soft
voluptuousness of summer, the golden pomp of autumn, earth with its mantle of refreshing
green, and heaven with it deep delicious blue and its cloudy magnificence,—all fill us
with mute but exquisite delight, and we revel in the luxury of mere sensation.
But in the depth of winter, when Nature lies despoiled of every charm and wrapped in her
shroud of sheeted snow, we turn for our gratifications to moral sources.
The dreariness and desolation of the landscape, the short gloomy days and darksome nights,
while they circumscribe our wanderings, shut in our feelings also from rambling abroad,
and make us more keenly disposed for the pleasure of the social circle.
Our thoughts are more concentrated; our friendly sympathies more aroused.
We feel more sensibly the charm of each other's society, and are brought more closely together
by dependence on each other for enjoyment.
Heart calleth unto heart, and we draw our pleasures from the deep wells of loving-kindness
which lie in the quiet recesses of our bosoms, and which, when resorted to, furnish forth
the pure element of domestic felicity.
The pitchy gloom without makes the heart dilate on entering the room filled with the glow
and warmth of the evening fire.
The ruddy blaze diffuses an artificial summer and sunshine through the room, and lights
up each countenance in a kindlier welcome.
Where does the honest face of hospitality expand into a broader and more cordial smile,
where is the shy glance of love more sweetly eloquent, than by the winter fireside?
and as the hollow blast of wintry wind rushes through the hall, claps the distant door,
whistles about the casement, and rumbles down the chimney, what can be more grateful than
that feeling of sober and sheltered security with which we look round upon the comfortable
chamber and the scene of domestic hilarity?
The English, from the great prevalence of rural habit throughout every class of society,
have always been found of those festivals and holidays, which agreeably interrupt the
stillness of country life, and they were, in former days, particularly observant of
the religious and social rites of Christmas.
It is inspiring to read even the dry details which some antiquaries have given of the quaint
humors, the burlesque pageants, the complete abandonment to mirth and good-fellowship with
which this festival was celebrated.
It seemed to throw open every door and unlock every heart.
It brought the peasant and the peer together, and blended all ranks in one warm, generous
flow of joy and kindness.
The old halls of castles and manor-houses resounded with the harp and the Christmas
carol, and their ample boards groaned under the weight of hospitality.
Even the poorest cottage welcomed the festive season with green decorations of bay and holly—the
cheerful fire glanced its rays through the lattice, inviting the passengers to raise
the latch and join the gossip knot huddled round the hearth beguiling the long evening
with legendary jokes and oft-told Christmas tales.
One of the least pleasing effects of modern refinement is the havoc it has made among
the hearty old holiday customs.
It has completely taken off the sharp touchings and spirited reliefs of these embellishments
of life, and has worn down society into a more smooth and polished, but certainly a
less characteristic, surface.
Many of the games and ceremonials of Christmas have entirely disappeared, and, like the sherris
sack of old Falstaff, are become matters of speculation and dispute among commentators.
They flourished in times full of spirit and lustihood, when men enjoyed life roughly,
but heartily and vigorously—times wild and picturesque, which have furnished poetry with
its richest materials and the drama with its most attractive variety of characters and
manners.
The world has become more worldly.
There is more of dissipation, and less of enjoyment.
Pleasure has expanded into a broader, but a shallower stream, and has forsaken many
of those deep and quiet channels where it flowed sweetly through the calm bosom of domestic
life.
Society has acquired a more enlightened and elegant tone, but it has lost many of its
strong local peculiarities, its homebred feelings, its honest fireside delights.
The traditionary customs of golden-hearted antiquity, its feudal hospitalities, and lordly
wassailings, have passed away with the baronial castles and stately manor-houses in which
they were celebrated.
They comported with the shadowy hall, the great oaken gallery, and the tapestried parlor,
but are unfitted to the light showy saloons and gay drawing-rooms of the modern villa.
Shorn, however, as it is, of its ancient and festive honors, Christmas is still a period
of delightful excitement in England.
It is gratifying to see that home-feeling completely aroused which holds so powerful
a place in every English bosom.
The preparations making on every side for the social board that is again to unite friends
and kindred; the presents of good cheer passing and repassing, those tokens of regard and
quickeners of kind feelings; the evergreens distributed about houses and churches, emblems
of peace and gladness,—all these have the most pleasing effect in producing fond associations
and kindling benevolent sympathies.
Even the sound of the Waits, rude as may be their minstrelsy, breaks upon the mid-watches
of a winter night with the effect of perfect harmony.
As I have been awakened by them in that still and solemn hour "when deep sleep falleth upon
man," I have listened with a hushed delight, and, connecting them with the sacred and joyous
occasion, have almost fancied them into another celestial choir announcing peace and good-will
to mankind.
How delightfully the imagination, when wrought upon by these moral influences, turns everything
to melody and beauty!
The very crowing of the cock, heard sometimes in the profound repose of the country, "telling
the night-watches to his feathery dames," was thought by the common people to announce
the approach of this sacred festival.
"Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated,
This bird of dawning singeth all night long; And then, they say, no spirit dares stir abroad,
The nights are wholesome—then no planets strike,
No fairy takes, no witch hath power to charm, So hallow'd and so gracious is the time."
Amidst the general call to happiness, the bustle of the spirits, and stir of the affections
which prevail at this period what bosom can remain insensible?
It is, indeed, the season of regenerated feeling—the season for kindling not merely the fire of
hospitality in the hall, but the genial flame of charity in the heart.
The scene of early love again rises green to memory beyond the sterile waste of years;
and the idea of home, fraught with the fragrance of home-dwelling joys, reanimates the drooping
spirit, as the Arabian breeze will sometimes waft the freshness of the distant fields to
the weary pilgrim of the desert.
Stranger and sojourner as I am in the land, though for me no social hearth may blaze,
no hospitable roof throw open its doors, nor the warm grasp of friendship welcome me at
the threshold, yet I feel the influence of the season beaming into my soul from the happy
looks of those around me.
Surely happiness is reflective, like the light of heaven, and every countenance, bright with
smiles and glowing with innocent enjoyment, is a mirror transmitting to others the rays
of a supreme and ever-shining benevolence.
He who can turn churlishly away from contemplating the felicity of his fellow-beings, and can
sit down darkling and repining in his loneliness when all around is joyful, may have his moments
of strong excitement and selfish gratification, but he wants the genial and social sympathies
which constitute the charm of a merry Christmas.