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OLD CHRISTMAS

By Washington Irving


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 that
I cannot have more of him.

Hue and Cry after Christmas.




CONTENTS


CHRISTMAS

THE STAGE-COACH

CHRISTMAS EVE

CHRISTMAS DAY

THE CHRISTMAS DINNER


A man might then behold
At Christmas, in each hall
Good fires to curb the cold,
And meat for great and small.
The neighbours were friendly bidden,
And all had welcome true,
The poor from the gates were not chidden,
When this old cap was new.

Old Song




Christmas


There is nothing in England that 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 flavour of those honest days of yore, in which,
perhaps with equal fallacy, I am apt to think the world was more
home-bred, 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
fervour 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
mementoes 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 its 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 pleasures 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 living 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 into 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 around upon the comfortable
chamber and the scene of domestic hilarity?

The English, from the great prevalence of rural habits throughout every
class of society, have always been fond 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
antiquarians have given of the quaint humours, 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 passenger to raise the latch, and join the
gossip knot huddled around 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 parlour, 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 honours, Christmas
is still a period of delightful excitement in England. It is gratifying
to see that home feeling completely aroused which seems to hold 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, who is sometimes heard 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 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.




The Stage-coach

Omne bene
Sine poena
Tempus est ludendi;
Venit hora,
Absque mora
Libros deponendi.

--Old Holiday School Song.

In the preceding paper I have made some general observations on the
Christmas festivities of England, and am tempted to illustrate them by
some anecdotes of a Christmas passed in the country; in perusing which,
I would most courteously invite my reader to lay aside the austerity of
wisdom, and to put on that genuine holiday spirit which is tolerant of
folly, and anxious only for amusement.

In the course of a December tour in Yorkshire, I rode for a long
distance in one of the public coaches, on the day preceding Christmas.
The coach was crowded, both inside and out, with passengers, who, by
their talk, seemed principally bound to the mansions of relations or
friends to eat the Christmas dinner. It was loaded also with hampers of
game, and baskets and boxes of delicacies; and hares hung dangling their
long ears about the coachman's box,--presents from distant friends for
the impending feast. I had three fine rosy-cheeked schoolboys for my
fellow passengers inside, full of the buxom health and manly spirit
which I have observed in the children of this country. They were
returning home for the holidays in high glee, and promising themselves
a world of enjoyment. It was delightful to hear the gigantic plans of
pleasure of the little rogues, and the impracticable feats they were to
perform during their six weeks' emancipation from the abhorred thraldom
of book, birch, and pedagogue. They were full of anticipations of the
meeting with the family and household, down to the very cat and dog; and
of the joy they were to give their little sisters by the presents with
which their pockets were crammed; but the meeting to which they seemed
to look forward with the greatest impatience was with Bantam, which
I found to be a pony, and, according to their talk, possessed of more
virtues than any steed since the days of Bucephalus. How he could trot!
how he could run! and then such leaps as he would take--there was not a
hedge in the whole country that he could not clear.

They were under the particular guardianship of the coachman, to whom,
whenever an opportunity presented, they addressed a host of questions,
and pronounced him one of the best fellows in the whole world. Indeed, I
could not but notice the more than ordinary air of bustle and importance
of the coachman, who wore his hat a little on one side, and had a large
bunch of Christmas greens stuck in the button-hole of his coat. He
is always a personage full of mighty care and business, but he is
particularly so during this season, having so many commissions to
execute in consequence of the great interchange of presents.

And here, perhaps, it may not be unacceptable to my untravelled readers
to have a sketch that may serve as a general representation of this
very numerous and important class of functionaries who have a dress,
a manner, a language, an air, peculiar to themselves, and prevalent
throughout the fraternity; so that, wherever an English stage-coachman
may be seen, he cannot be mistaken for one of any other craft or
mystery.

He has commonly a broad, full face, curiously mottled with red, as if
the blood had been forced by hard feeding into every vessel of the
skin; he is swelled into jolly dimensions by frequent potations of malt
liquors, and his bulk is still further increased by a multiplicity of
coats, in which he is buried like a cauliflower, the upper one reaching
to his heels. He wears a broad-brimmed, low-crowned hat; a huge roll of
coloured handkerchief about his neck, knowingly knotted and tucked in
at the bosom; and has in summer-time a large bouquet of flowers in his
buttonhole; the present, most probably, of some enamoured country
lass. His waistcoat is commonly of some bright colour, striped; and his
small-clothes extend far below the knees, to meet a pair of jockey boots
which reach about half-way up his legs.

All this costume is maintained with much precision; he has a pride in
having his clothes of excellent materials; and, notwithstanding the
seeming grossness of his appearance, there is still discernible
that neatness and propriety of person which is almost inherent in an
Englishman. He enjoys great consequence and consideration along the
road; has frequent conferences with the village housewives, who look
upon him as a man of great trust and dependence; and he seems to have
a good understanding with every bright-eyed country lass. The moment
he arrives where the horses are to be changed, he throws down the reins
with something of an air, and abandons the cattle to the care of the
hostler; his duty being merely to drive from one stage to another.

When off the box, his hands are thrust in the pockets of his greatcoat,
and he rolls about the inn-yard with an air of the most absolute
lordliness. Here he is generally surrounded by an admiring throng of
hostlers, stable-boys, shoe-blacks, and those nameless hangers-on that
infest inns and taverns, and run errands, and do all kinds of odd jobs,
for the privilege of battening on the drippings of the kitchen and
the leakage of the tap-room. These all look up to him as to an oracle;
treasure up his cant phrases; echo his opinions about horses and other
topics of jockey lore; and, above all, endeavour to imitate his air and
carriage. Every ragamuffin that has a coat to his back thrusts his
hands in the pockets, rolls in his gait, talks slang, and is an embryo
Coachey.

Perhaps it might be owing to the pleasing serenity that reigned in
my own mind, that I fancied I saw cheerfulness in every countenance
throughout the journey. A stage-coach, however, carries animation always
with it, and puts the world in motion as it whirls along. The horn,
sounded at the entrance of a village, produces a general bustle. Some
hasten forth to meet friends; some with bundles and bandboxes to secure
places, and in the hurry of the moment can hardly take leave of the
group that accompanies them. In the meantime, the coachman has a
world of small commissions to execute. Sometimes he delivers a hare or
pheasant; sometimes jerks a small parcel or newspaper to the door of a
public-house; and sometimes, with knowing leer and words of sly import,
hands to some half-blushing, half-laughing housemaid an odd-shaped
billet-doux from some rustic admirer. As the coach rattles through the
village, every one runs to the window, and you have glances on every
side of fresh country faces, and blooming, giggling girls. At the
corners are assembled juntas of village idlers and wise men, who take
their stations there for the important purpose of seeing company pass;
but the sagest knot is generally at the blacksmith's, to whom the
passing of the coach is an event fruitful of much speculation. The
smith, with the horse's heel in his lap, pauses as the vehicle whirls
by; the Cyclops round the anvil suspend their ringing hammers, and
suffer the iron to grow cool; and the sooty spectre in brown paper cap,
labouring at the bellows, leans on the handle for a moment, and permits
the asthmatic engine to heave a long-drawn sigh, while he glares through
the murky smoke and sulphureous gleams of the smithy.

Perhaps the impending holiday might have given a more than usual
animation to the country, for it seemed to me as if everybody was in
good looks and good spirits. Game, poultry, and other luxuries of
the table, were in brisk circulation in the villages; the grocers',
butchers', and fruiterers' shops were thronged with customers. The
housewives were stirring briskly about, putting their dwellings in
order; and the glossy branches of holly, with their bright red berries,
began to appear at the windows. The scene brought to mind an old
writer's account of Christmas preparations:--"Now capons and hens,
besides turkeys, geese, and ducks, with beef and mutton--must all die;
for in twelve days a multitude of people will not be fed with a little.
Now plums and spice, sugar and honey, square it among pies and broth.
Now or never must music be in tune, for the youth must dance and sing to
get them a heat, while the aged sit by the fire. The country maid leaves
half her market, and must be sent again, if she forgets a pack of cards
on Christmas eve. Great is the contention of Holly and Ivy, whether
master or dame wears the breeches. Dice and cards benefit the butler;
and if the cook do not lack wit, he will sweetly lick his fingers."

I was roused from this fit of luxurious meditation by a shout from
my little travelling companions. They had been looking out of the
coach-windows for the last few miles, recognising every tree and
cottage as they approached home, and now there was a general burst of
joy--"There's John! and there's old Carlo! and there's Bantam!" cried
the happy little rogues, clapping their hands.

At the end of a lane there was an old sober-looking servant in livery
waiting for them: he was accompanied by a superannuated pointer, and by
the redoubtable Bantam, a little old rat of a pony, with a shaggy mane
and long, rusty tail, who stood dozing quietly by the roadside, little
dreaming of the bustling times that awaited him.

I was pleased to see the fondness with which the little fellows leaped
about the steady old footman, and hugged the pointer, who wriggled his
whole body for joy. But Bantam was the great object of interest; all
wanted to mount at once; and it was with some difficulty that John
arranged that they should ride by turns, and the eldest should ride
first.

Off they set at last; one on the pony, with the dog bounding and barking
before him, and the others holding John's hands; both talking at once,
and overpowering him by questions about home, and with school anecdotes.
I looked after them with a feeling in which I do not know whether
pleasure or melancholy predominated: for I was reminded of those days
when, like them, I had neither known care nor sorrow, and a holiday was
the summit of earthly felicity. We stopped a few moments afterward to
water the horses, and on resuming our route, a turn of the road brought
us in sight of a neat country seat. I could just distinguish the forms
of a lady and two young girls in the portico, and I saw my little
comrades, with Bantam, Carlo, and old John, trooping along the carriage
road. I leaned out of the coach-window, in hopes of witnessing the happy
meeting, but a grove of trees shut it from my sight.

In the evening we reached a village where I had determined to pass the
night. As we drove into the great gateway of the inn, I saw on one side
the light of a rousing kitchen fire beaming through a window. I entered,
and admired, for the hundredth time, that picture of convenience,
neatness, and broad, honest enjoyment, the kitchen of an English inn.
It was of spacious dimensions, hung round with copper and tin vessels,
highly polished, and decorated here and there with a Christmas green.
Hams, tongues, and flitches of bacon were suspended from the ceiling; a
smoke-jack made its ceaseless clanking beside the fireplace, and a clock
ticked in one corner. A well scoured deal table extended along one side
of the kitchen, with a cold round of beef and other hearty viands upon
it, over which two foaming tankards of ale seemed mounting guard.

Travellers of inferior order were preparing to attack this stout repast,
while others sat smoking and gossiping over their ale on two high-backed
oaken seats beside the fire. Trim house-maids were hurrying backwards
and forwards under the directions of a fresh, bustling landlady; but
still seizing an occasional moment to exchange a flippant word, and have
a rallying laugh, with the group round the fire. The scene completely
realised Poor Robin's humble idea of the comforts of midwinter.

"Now trees their leafy hats do bare,
To reverence Winter's silver hair;
A handsome hostess, merry host,
A pot of ale now and a toast,
Tobacco and a good coal fire,
Are things this season doth require."*


* Poor Robin's Almanack, 1684.

I had not been long at the inn when a postchaise drove up to the door.
A young gentleman stepped out, and by the light of the lamps I caught a
glimpse of a countenance which I thought I knew. I moved forward to
get a nearer view, when his eye caught mine. I was not mistaken; it was
Frank Bracebridge, a sprightly, good-humoured young fellow, with whom I
had once travelled on the Continent. Our meeting was extremely cordial;
for the countenance of an old fellow traveller always brings up
the recollection of a thousand pleasant scenes, odd adventures, and
excellent jokes. To discuss all these in a transient interview at an
inn was impossible; and finding that I was not pressed for time, and was
merely making a tour of observation, he insisted that I should give him
a day or two at his father's country-seat, to which he was going to pass
the holidays, and which lay at a few miles' distance. "It is better
than eating a solitary Christmas dinner at an inn," said he; "and I can
assure you of a hearty welcome in something of the old-fashion style."
His reasoning was cogent; and I must confess the preparation I had seen
for universal festivity and social enjoyment had made me feel a little
impatient of my loneliness. I closed, therefore, at once with his
invitation: the chaise drove up to the door; and in a few moments I was
on my way to the family mansion of the Bracebridges.