CHRISTMAS.  
The next and last of these popular festivities that I shall notice at any length, is jolly old Christmas,—the festival of the fireside; the most domestic and heartfelt carnival of the year. It has changed its features with the change of national manners and notions, but still it is a time of gladness, of home re-union and rejoicing; a precious time, and one so thoroughly suited to the grave yet cheerful spirit of Englishmen, that it will not soon lose its hold on our affections. Its old usages are so well known; they have been so repeatedly of late years brought to our notice by Washington Irving, Walter Scott, Leigh Hunt in his most graphic and cordial-spirited Months, Indicator, and London Journal, and by many other lovers of the olden time, that I shall not now particularly describe them. We have already seen how, in all our religious festivals, the most ancient customs and rites have been interwoven with Catholicism. Who does not recognise in the decoration of our houses and churches with ivy, holly, and other evergreens, the decorations of the altars of Greece and Rome with laurels and bays as the symbols of the renewal of the year and the immortality of Nature? In our mistletoe branches the practice of Druidical times? Who does not see in the Abbot of Unreason, and his jolly crew, the Saturnalia of ancient times? Those who do not, may find in Brand’s Antiquities, the various volumes of Time’s Telescope, collected by my worthy friend John Millard, and in Hone’s Everyday Table, and Year Books, matter on these subjects, and on the Christmas pageants, rites, and processions[452] of Rome, that would of itself fill a large volume. In old times it was from Christmas to Candlemas a period of general jollification; for the first twelve days—a general carnival. The churches were decorated with evergreens; midnight mass was celebrated with great pomp; according to Aubrey, they danced in the church after prayers, crying Yole, Yole, Yole, etc. For a fortnight before Christmas, and during its continuance, the mummers, or guisers, in their grotesque array, went from house to house, acting George and the Dragon, having the Princess Saba, the Doctor, and other characters all playing and saying their parts in verse. Others acted Alexander the Great, and the King of Egypt. Bands of carollers went about singing; and all the great gentry had
A good old fashion when Christmas was come,
To call in their old neighbours with bagpipe and drum.
And then in those good old halls, what a feasting, and a sporting, and a clamour was there! The Yule block on the fire, the plum-porridge and mince-pies on the table, with mighty rounds of beef, plum-pudding, turkeys, capons, geese, goose-pies, herons, and sundry other game and good things. Ale of twelve months old circling round, and the old butler and his serving-men carrying up the boar’s head, singing in chorus the accustomed chant, as they set it before the lord of the feast:
Caput Apri defero
Reddens laudes domino.
The boar’s head in hand bring I,
With garlands gay and rosemary;
I pray you all sing merrily,
Qui estis in convivio, etc.
Then, as Burton in his Anatomie of Melancholie, tells us,—“what cards, tables, dice, shovel-board, chesse-play, the philosopher’s game, small trunkes, billiards, musicke, singing, dancing, ale-games, catches, purposes, questions, merry tales of arrant knights, kings, queens, lovers, lords, ladies, giants, dwarfs, thieves, fairies, goblins, friars, witches, and the rest. Then what kissing under the mistletoe! roaring of storms without, and blazing hearths and merry catches within!”
[453]
With all this rude happiness we cannot now linger; let us be thankful that our ancestors, rich and poor, enjoyed it so thoroughly, enjoyed it together, as became Christians, on the feast of the nativity of their common Saviour. We will just review this state of things as it existed in the time of old Wither, two hundred years ago; and the remembrance of it, as it glanced on the imagination of Scott, and then turn to it as it exists amongst us now.
CHRISTMAS.
So now is come our joyful’st feast;
Let every man be jolly;
Each room with ivy leaves is dressed,
And every post with holly.
Though some churls at our mirth repine,
Round your foreheads garlands twine;
Drown sorrow in a cup of wine,
And let us all be merry.
Now all our neighbours’ chimneys smoke,
And Christmas blocks are burning,
Their ovens they with baked meats choke,
And all their spits are turning.
Without the door let sorrow lie;
And if from cold it hap to die,
We’ll bury it in a Christmas pie,
And evermore be merry.
Now every lad is wondrous trim,
And no man minds his labour;
Our lasses have provided them
A bagpipe and a tabor:
Young men and maids, and girls and boys,
Give life to one another’s joys;
And you anon shall by their noise
Perceive that they are merry.
Rank misers now do sparing shun;
Their hall of music soundeth;
And dogs thence with whole shoulders run,
So all things there aboundeth.
The country folks themselves advance
With crowdy-muttons out of France;
And Jack shall pipe, and Jyll shall dance,
And all the town be merry.[454]
Ned Squash hath fetched his bands from pawn,
And all his best apparel;
Brisk Nell hath bought a ruff of lawn
With dropping of the barrel.
And those that hardly all the year
Had bread to eat, or rags to wear,
Will have both clothes and dainty fare,
And all the day be merry.
Now poor men to the justices
With capons make their errants;
And if they hap to fail of these,
They plague them with their warrants:
But now they find them with good cheer,
And what they want, they take in beer,
For Christmas comes but once a year,
And then they shall be merry.
Good farmers in the country nurse
The poor, that else were undone;
Some landlords spend their money worse
On lust and pride in London.
There the roysters they do play;
Drab and dice their lands away,
Which may be ours another day,
And therefore let’s be merry.
The client now his suit forbears;
The prisoner’s heart is eased;
The debtor drinks away his cares,
And for the time is pleased.
Though others’ purses be most fat,
Why should we pine or grieve at that?
Hang sorrow! care will kill a cat,
And therefore let’s be merry.
Hark! now the wags abroad do call
Each other forth to rambling;
Anon you’ll see them in the hall
For nuts and apples scrambling.
Hark how the roofs with laughter sound,
Anon they’ll think the house goes round,
For they the cellar’s depth have found,
And then they will be merry.[455]
The wenches with their wassail bowls
About the streets are singing;
The boys are come to catch the owls,
The wild mare in it bringing.
Our kitchen-boy hath broke his box,
And to the dealing of the ox
Our honest neighbours come by flocks,
And here they will be merry.
Now kings and queens poor sheepcotes have,
And mute with every body;
The lowest now may play the knave,
And wise men play the noddy.
Some youths will now a mumming go,
And others play at Rowland-bo,
And twenty other games boys mo,
Because they will be merry.
Then wherefore in these merry daies
Should we, I pray, be duller?
No, let us sing some roundelays,
To make our mirth the fuller.
And while we thus inspired sing,
Let all the streets with echoes ring;
Woods and hills and every thing,
Bear witness we are merry.
This is, at once, quaint and graphic. It shews us the joys of our ancestors in their homeliness and their strength. It is full of the spirit of the time, and the impressions of surrounding things. Let us now see the same days through the magic mist of a modern poet’s imagination—a poet whose soul turned to all the beauty and picturesque splendour, and the jollity of the past, with a passion never, in any bosom, living with a stronger delight. How, in reverted vision of his heart and mind is every thing purified, sanctified, and refined. What a force of enjoyment breathes through the whole: how vividly are all the characteristics of the time, its fable and its manners given; yet with what a grace and delicacy, unknown to the poet of the times themselves. We have here all the happiness, the hospitality, the generous simplicity of the past, tinged with the beautiful illusions of the present.
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ANCIENT CHRISTMAS.
And well our Christian sires of old
Loved, when the year its course had rolled,
And brought blithe Christmas back again,
With all its 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 of 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 vassals, tenants, 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 braun
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,
While round the merry wassail bowl,
Garnished with ribbons, blithe did trowl
There the huge sirloin reeked; hard by
Plum-porridge stood, and Christmas pie;[457]
Nor failed old Scotland to produce,
At such high tide the savoury goose.
Then came the merry maskers 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 shirt supplied the masquerade,
And smutted cheeks the vizor made;
But oh! what maskers richly dight
Can boast of bosoms half so light!
England was merry England then,
Old Christmas brought his sports again;
’Twas Christmas broached the mightiest ale;
’Twas Christmas told the merriest tale;
A Christmas gambol oft would cheer
A poor man’s heart through half the year.
Scott’s Marmion.
 
In these two poems we have sufficient picture of the past; what of these things continue with the present? In Catholic countries, indeed, much of the ancient show and circumstance remain. In Rome, all the splendour of the church is called forth. On Christmas-eve, the pipes of the Pifferari, or Calabrian minstrels, are heard in the streets. The decorators are busy in draping the churches, clothing altars, and festooning fa?ades. Devout ladies and holy nuns are preparing dresses, crowns, necklaces, and cradles, for the Madonna and Child of their respective churches. The toilette of the Virgin is performed, and she blazes in diamonds, or shines in tin, according to the riches of the respective parish treasuries. In the Church of the Pantheon, says Lady Morgan, she was crowned with gilt paper, and decked with glass beads, and on the same day in Santa Maria Novella, we beheld the coal-black face set off with rubies and sapphires, which glittered on her dusky visage “like a rich jewel in an Ethiop’s ear.” The cannons of St. Angelo announce the festival; shops are shut, and saloons deserted. The midnight supper and the midnight bands begin the holy revel, and the splendid pomp in which the august ceremonies are performed at the churches of the Quirinal, St. Louis, and the Ara C?li, is succeeded by a banquet of which even the poorest child of indigence contrives to partake. The people from the mountains[458] and the Campagna flock in to witness and to enjoy the fête, and present a strange sight of wild figures amid the inhabitants of the city. The churches are lit up with thousands of wax tapers; the culla, or cradle of Christ, is removed from the shrine at the chapel of Santa Maria Maggiore, and carried in procession to the chapel of the Santa Croce, where it is exposed on the high altar on Christmas-day to the admiration of the faithful. Musical masses are performed; the Pope himself performs service in the Sextine Chapel on Christmas-eve, and on Christmas-day his Holiness performs mass in St. Peter’s, in Hebrew, Greek, and Latin; amid a most brilliant assembly of people of all nations, princes, ambassadors, nobles, and distinguished strangers.
At Naples numbers of shepherds from the mountains of the Abruzzi and the neighbouring Apennines, flock in two or three weeks before Christmas, and go about the streets, playing on their bagpipes, as the Calabrians do both here and in Rome. Most of the Neapolitan families engage some of these itinerant musicians to play a quarter of an hour at their houses on each day of the Novena: the wild appearance of these mountaineers, and the shrill notes of their pipes attract the attention of travellers. Fireworks are displayed here in the most extraordinary manner; and, as in other parts of Italy, it is the custom to erect in the churches and in private houses, representations of the birth of our Saviour;—the stable, the shepherds, the oxen, the Virgin Mary, receiving the homage of kings and their trains, are all exhibited with great ingenuity. A similar custom prevailed in some parts of Spain. Such are the customs of these and other catholic countries. In the north, where Christmas was celebrated as a festival of the gods of the ancient Scandinavians, under the name of Yule, it is now celebrated with great devotion; and in Germany they have some domestic customs of a very interesting nature. Coleridge, in the Friend, gives the following account of what he witnessed himself. “The children make little presents to their parents, and to each other; and the parents to their children. For three or four months before Christmas, the girls are all busy; and the boys save their pocket-money to make or purchase these presents. What the present is to be, is cautiously kept secret, and the girls have a world of contrivances to conceal it—such as working[459] when they are out on visits, and the others are not with them; getting up in the morning before daylight, etc. Then, on the evening before Christmas-day, one of the parlours is lighted up by the children, into which the parents must not go. A great yew bough is fastened on the table at a little distance from the wall; a multitude of little tapers are fixed in the bough, but not so as to burn it till they are nearly consumed; and coloured paper, etc. hangs and flutters from the twigs. Under this bough, the children lay out in great order, the presents they mean for their parents, still concealing in their pockets, what they intend for each other. Then the parents are introduced, and each presents his little gift: they then bring out the remainder, one by one, from their pockets, and present them with kisses and embraces. When I witnessed this scene, there were eight or nine children, and the eldest daughter and mother wept aloud for joy and tenderness; and the tears ran down the face of the father, and he clasped all his children so tight to his breast, it seemed as if he did it to stifle the sob that was rising within him. I was very much affected. The shadow of the bough and its appendages on the walls and arching over on the ceiling, made a pretty picture; and then the rapture of the very little ones, when at last the twigs and their needles began to take fire and snap,—O, it was a delight for them!
“On the next day, in the great parlour, the parents lay on the table the presents for the children. A scene of more sober joy succeeds; as on this day, after an old custom, the mother says privately to each of her daughters, and the father to his sons, that which he has observed most praiseworthy, and that which was most faulty in their conduct. Formerly, and still in all the smaller towns and villages throughout North Germany, these presents are sent by all the parents to some one fellow, who, in high buskins, a white robe, a mask, and an enormous flax wig, personates Knecht Rupert, i. e. the servant Rupert. On Christmas night he goes round to every house, and says that Jesus Christ, his master, sent him thither. The parents and elder children receive him with great pomp and reverence, while the little ones are most terribly frightened. He then inquires for the children, and according to the character which he hears from the parents he gives them the intended presents, as if they came out of heaven[460] from Jesus Christ. Or if they should have been bad children, he gives the parents a rod, and, in the name of his master, recommends them to use it frequently. About seven or eight years old, the children are let into the secret, and it is curious how faithfully they keep it.”
The bough mentioned by Coleridge as yew, is by other writers said to be of birch. The Christ-child is said to come flying through the air on golden wings; and causes the birch-bough fixed in the corner of the room to grow, and to produce in the night, all manner of fruit; gilt sweetmeats, apples, nuts, etc., for the good children. Richter makes Quintus Fixlein recal one of these scenes of his youth, very beautifully. “I will,” said he to himself, “go through the whole Christmas-eve, from the very dawn, as I had it of old. At his very rising he finds spangles on the table, sacred spangles from the gold-leaf and silver-leaf with which the Christ-child has been emblazoning and coating his apples and nuts, the presents of the night. Then comes his mother, bringing him both Christianity and clothes; for in drawing on his trousers, she easily recapitulated the ten commandments; and in tying his garters, the Apostles’ creed. So soon as candlelight was over, and daylight come, he clambers to the arm of the settle, and then measures the nocturnal growth of the yellow wiry grove of Christmas-birch. There was no such thing as school all day. About three o’clock the old gardener takes his place on his large chair, with his Cologne tobacco-pipe, and, after this, no mortal shall work a stroke. He tells nothing but lies, of the aeronautic Christ-child, and the jingling Ruprecht with his bells. In the dark our little Quintus takes an apple, and divides it with all the figures of stereometry, and spreads the fragments in two heaps on the table. Then, as the lighted candle enters, he starts up in amazement at the unexpected present, and says to his mother, ‘Look what the good Christ-child has given thee and me, and I saw one of his wings glittering!’ And for this same glittering he himself lies in wait the whole evening.
“About eight o’clock, both of them with necks almost excoriated with washing, and clean linen, and in universal anxiety lest the Holy Christ-child find them up, are put to bed. What a magic night! What tumult of dreaming hopes! The populous, motley,[461] glittering cave of fancy opens itself in the length of the night, and in the exhaustion of dreaming effort, still darker and darker, fuller and more grotesque; but the waking gives back to the thirsty heart its hopes. All accidental tones, the cries of animals, of watchmen, are, for the timidly devout fancy, sounds out of heaven; singing voices of angels in the air; church music of the morning worship.
“At last come rapid lights from the neighbourhood, playing through the window on the walls, and the Christmas trumpets, and the crowing from the steeple hurries both the boys from their bed. With their clothes in their hands, without fear for the darkness, without feeling for the morning frost, rushing, intoxicated, shouting, they hurry down stairs into the dark room. Fancy riots in the pastry and fruit perfume of the still eclipsed treasures, and haunts her air-castles by the glimmering of the Hesperides-fruit with which the birch-tree is laden. While their mother strikes a light, the falling sparks sportfully open and shroud the dainties on the table, and the many-coloured grove on the wall; and a single atom of that fire bears on it a hanging garden of Eden.”
I am informed by a lady friend that German families in Manchester have introduced this custom of the Christmas-tree, and that it is spreading fast amongst the English there,—pine-tops being brought to market for the pupose, which are generally illuminated with a taper for every day in the year.
Such are the rites, fancies, and ceremonies with which other, and especially............