Old Christmas From the Sketch Book of Washington Irving
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OLD CHRISTMAS
WASHINGTON IRVING
[Illustration: CHRISTMAS]
[Illustration: publisher's logo]
FIFTH EDITION
[Illustration: "The old family mansion, partly thrown in deep shadow,
and partly lit up by the cold moonshine"
--_Frontispiece._]
[Illustration: OLD CHRISTMAS:
FROM THE
Sketch Book
of
Washington Irving.
ILLUSTRATED BY
R CALDECOTT
London.
Macmillan & Co
1886]
[Illustration]
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._
[Illustration: PREFACE]
Before the remembrance of the good old times, so fast passing, should
have entirely passed away, the present artist, R. Caldecott, and
engraver, James D. Cooper, planned to illustrate Washington Irving's
"Old Christmas" in this manner. Their primary idea was to carry out the
principle of the Sketch Book, by incorporating the designs with the
text. Throughout they have worked together and _con amore_. With what
success the public must decide.
NOVEMBER 1875.
[Illustration: CONTENTS]
PAGE
CHRISTMAS 1
THE STAGE COACH 17
CHRISTMAS EVE 41
CHRISTMAS DAY 75
THE CHRISTMAS DINNER 117
[Illustration]
[Illustration: LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS]
DESIGNED BY RANDOLPH CALDECOTT,
AND
ARRANGED AND ENGRAVED BY J. D. COOPER.
THE OLD MANSION BY MOONLIGHT--_Frontispiece._
TITLE-PAGE.
PAGE
ANCIENT FIREPLACE iv
HEADING TO PREFACE v
HEADING TO CONTENTS vii
TAILPIECE TO CONTENTS vii
HEADING TO LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS ix
TAILPIECE TO LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS xiv
"THE POOR FROM THE GATES WERE NOT CHIDDEN" xvi
HEADING TO CHRISTMAS 1
THE MOULDERING TOWER 2
CHRISTMAS ANTHEM IN CATHEDRAL 4
THE WANDERER'S RETURN 5
"NATURE LIES DESPOILED OF EVERY CHARM" 6
"THE HONEST FACE OF HOSPITALITY" 8
"THE SHY GLANCE OF LOVE" 8
OLD HALL OF CASTLE 10
THE GREAT OAKEN GALLERY 12
THE WAITS 14
"AND SIT DOWN DARKLING AND REPINING" 16
THE STAGE COACH 19
THE THREE SCHOOLBOYS 20
THE OLD ENGLISH STAGE COACHMAN 23
"HE THROWS DOWN THE REINS WITH SOMETHING OF AN AIR" 25
THE STABLE IMITATORS 26
THE PUBLIC HOUSE 28
THE HOUSEMAID 29
THE SMITHY 30
"NOW OR NEVER MUST MUSIC BE IN TUNE" 32
THE COUNTRY MAID 32
THE OLD SERVANT AND BANTAM 34
A NEAT COUNTRY SEAT 35
INN KITCHEN 37
THE RECOGNITION. TAILPIECE 40
THE POST-CHAISE 43
THE LODGE GATE 46
THE OLD PRIMITIVE DAME 46
"THE LITTLE DOGS AND ALL" 49
MISTLETOE 52
THE SQUIRE'S RECEPTION 53
THE FAMILY PARTY 54
TOYS 55
THE YULE LOG 57
THE SQUIRE IN HIS HEREDITARY CHAIR 58
THE FAMILY PLATE 60
MASTER SIMON 61
YOUNG GIRL 62
HER MOTHER 62
THE OLD HARPER 65
MASTER SIMON DANCING 67
THE OXONIAN AND HIS MAIDEN AUNT 68
THE YOUNG OFFICER WITH HIS GUITAR 70
THE FAIR JULIA 72
ASLEEP 74
CHRISTMAS DAY 77
THE CHILDREN'S CAROL 78
ROBIN ON THE MOUNTAIN ASH 80
MASTER SIMON AS CLERK 81
BREAKFAST 84
VIEWING THE DOGS 85
MASTER SIMON GOING TO CHURCH 88
THE VILLAGE CHURCH 91
THE PARSON 93
REBUKING THE SEXTON 95
EFFIGY OF A WARRIOR 96
MASTER SIMON AT CHURCH 97
THE VILLAGE CHOIR 97
THE VILLAGE TAILOR 98
AN OLD CHORISTER 100
THE SERMON 101
CHURCHYARD GREETINGS 104
FROSTY THRALDOM OF WINTER 106
MERRY OLD ENGLISH GAMES 109
THE POOR AT HOME 111
VILLAGE ANTICS 112
TASTING THE SQUIRE'S ALE 113
THE WIT OF THE VILLAGE 115
COQUETTISH HOUSEMAID 116
ANTIQUE SIDEBOARD 119
THE COOK WITH THE ROLLING-PIN 120
THE WARRIOR'S ARMS 121
"FLAGONS, CANS, CUPS, BEAKERS, GOBLETS, BASINS, AND EWERS" 122
THE CHRISTMAS DINNER 123
A HIGH ROMAN NOSE 124
THE PARSON SAID GRACE 125
THE BOAR'S HEAD 126
THE FAT-HEADED OLD GENTLEMAN 129
PEACOCK PIE 130
THE WASSAIL BOWL 132
THE SQUIRE'S TOAST 134
THE LONG-WINDED JOKER 136
LONG STORIES 138
THE PARSON AND THE PRETTY MILKMAID 139
MASTER SIMON GROWS MAUDLIN 140
THE BLUE-EYED ROMP 143
THE PARSON'S TALE 144
THE SEXTON'S REBUFF 146
THE CRUSADER'S NIGHT RIDE 148
ANCIENT CHRISTMAS AND DAME MINCE-PIE 151
ROBIN HOOD AND MAID MARIAN 152
THE MINUET 153
ROAST BEEF, PLUM PUDDING, AND MISRULE 153
THE CHRISTMAS DANCE IN COSTUME 154
"CHUCKLING AND RUBBING HIS HANDS" 155
"ECHOING BACK THE JOVIALITY OF LONG-DEPARTED YEARS" 157
RETROSPECT 159
[Illustration]
[Illustration: CHRISTMAS]
[Illustration]
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._
[Illustration: 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.
[Illustration]
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.
[Illustration]
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.
[Illustration]
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.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
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 round upon the comfortable
chamber and the scene of domestic hilarity?
[Illustration]
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 round the hearth, beguiling the long evening with
legendary jokes and oft-told Christmas tales.
[Illustration]
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 home-bred
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.
[Illustration]
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.
[Illustration]
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, re-animates 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.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: The Stage Coach]
[Illustration]
Omne bene
Sine poena
Tempus est ludendi;
Venit hora,
Absque mora,
Libros deponendi.
_Old Holiday School Song._
[Illustration]
THE STAGE COACH
[Illustration: I]
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.
[Illustration]
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.
[Illustration]
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
button-hole; 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.
[Illustration]