Christmas Day

by Washington Irving

　　Dark and dull night, flie hence away, And give the honour to this day That Sees December turn'd to May. . . . . . . . . Why does the chilling winter's morne Smile like a field beset with corn? Or smell like to a meade new-shorne, Thus on the sudden?--Come and see The cause why things thus fragrant be. --HERRICK.When I awoke the next morning, it seemed as if all the events ofthe preceding evening had been a dream, and nothing but theidentity of the ancient chamber convinced me of their reality.While I lay musing on my pillow, I heard the sound of little feetpattering outside of the door, and a whispering consultation.Presently a choir of small voices chanted forth an old Christmascarol, the burden of which was:

　　"Rejoice, our Saviour he was born On Christmas Day in the morning."I rose softly, slipped on my clothes, opened the door suddenly, andbeheld one of the most beautiful little fairy groups that a paintercould imagine.

　　It consisted of a boy and two girls, the eldest not more than six,and lovely as seraphs. They were going the rounds of the house,and singing at every chamber-door; but my sudden appearancefrightened them into mute bashfulness. They remained for a momentplaying on their lips with their fingers, and now and then stealinga shy glance, from under their eyebrows, until, as if by oneimpulse, they scampered away, and as they turned an angle of thegallery, I heard them laughing in triumph at their escape.

　　Everything conspired to produce kind and happy feelings in thisstronghold of old-fashioned hospitality. The window of my chamberlooked out upon what in summer would have been a beautifullandscape. There was a sloping lawn, a fine stream winding at thefoot of it, and a tract of park beyond, with noble clumps of trees,and herds of deer. At a distance was a neat hamlet, with the smokefrom the cottage chimneys hanging over it; and a church with itsdark spire in strong relief against the clear, cold sky. The housewas surrounded with evergreens, according to the English custom,which would have given almost an appearance of summer; but themorning was extremely frosty; the light vapour of the precedingevening had been precipitated by the cold, and covered all thetrees and every blade of grass with its fine crystallisations. Therays of a bright morning sun had a dazzling effect among theglittering foliage. A robin, perched upon the top of a mountain-ash that hung its clusters of red berries just before my window,was basking himself in the sunshine, and piping a few querulousnotes; and a peacock was displaying all the glories of his train,and strutting with the pride and gravity of a Spanish grandee onthe terrace-walk below.

　　I had scarcely dressed myself, when a servant appeared to invite meto family prayers. He showed me the way to a small chapel in theold wing of the house, where I found the principal part of thefamily already assembled in a kind of gallery, furnished withcushions, hassocks, and large prayer-books; the servants wereseated on benches below. The old gentleman read prayers from adesk in front of the gallery, and Master Simon acted as clerk, andmade the responses; and I must do him the justice to say that heacquitted himself with great gravity and decorum.

　　The service was followed by a Christmas carol, which Mr.Bracebridge himself had constructed from a poem of his favouriteauthor, Herrick; and it had been adapted to an old church melody byMaster Simon. As there were several good voices among thehousehold, the effect was extremely pleasing; but I wasparticularly gratified by the exaltation of heart, and sudden sallyof grateful feeling, with which the worthy Squire delivered onestanza: his eyes glistening, and his voice rambling out of all thebounds of time and tune:

　　"'Tis thou that crown'st my glittering hearth With guiltlesse mirth, And giv'st me wassaile bowles to drink, Spiced to the brink: Lord, 'tis Thy plenty-dropping hand, That soiles my land; And giv'st me for my bushell sowne, Twice ten for one."I afterwards understood that early morning service was read onevery Sunday and saint's day throughout the year, either by Mr.Bracebridge or by some member of the family. It was once almostuniversally the case at the seats of the nobility and gentry ofEngland, and it is much to be regretted that the custom is falleninto neglect; for the dullest observer must be sensible of theorder and serenity prevalent in those households, where theoccasional exercise of a beautiful form of worship in the morninggives, as it were, the key-note to every temper for the day, andattunes every spirit to harmony.

　　Our breakfast consisted of what the Squire denominated true oldEnglish fare. He indulged in some bitter lamentations over modernbreakfasts of tea-and-toast, which he censured as among the causesof modern effeminacy and weak nerves, and the decline of oldEnglish heartiness; and though he admitted them to his table tosuit the palates of his guests, yet there was a brave display ofcold meats, wine, and ale, on the sideboard.

　　After breakfast I walked about the grounds with Frank Bracebridgeand Master Simon, or Mr. Simon as he was called by everybody butthe Squire. We were escorted by a number of gentleman-like dogs,that seemed loungers about the establishment; from the friskingspaniel to the steady old staghound; the last of which was of arace that had been in the family time out of mind: they were allobedient to a dog-whistle which hung to Master Simon's buttonhole,and in the midst of their gambols would glance an eye occasionallyupon a small switch he carried in his hand.

　　The old mansion had a still more venerable look in the yellowsunshine than by pale moonlight; and I could not but feel the forceof the Squire's idea, that the formal terraces, heavily mouldedbalustrades, and clipped yew-trees, carried with them an air ofproud aristocracy. There appeared to be an unusual number ofpeacocks about the place, and I was making some remarks upon what Itermed a flock of them, that were basking under a sunny wall, whenI was gently corrected in my phraseology by Master Simon, who toldme that, according to the most ancient and approved treatise onhunting, I must say a MUSTER of peacocks. "In the same way," addedhe, with a slight air of pedantry, "we say a flight of doves orswallows, a bevy of quails, a herd of deer, of wrens, or cranes, askulk of foxes, or a building of rooks." He went on to inform me,that, according to Sir Anthony Fitzherbert, we ought to ascribe, tothis bird "both understanding and glory; for, being praised, hewill presently set up his tail chiefly against the sun, to theintent you may the better behold the beauty thereof. But at thefall of the leaf, when his tail falleth, he will mourn and hidehimself in corners, till his tail come again as it was."

　　I could not help smiling at this display of small erudition on sowhimsical a subject; but I found that the peacocks were birds ofsome consequence at the Hall, for Frank Bracebridge informed methat they were great favourites with his father, who was extremelycareful to keep up the breed; partly because they belonged tochivalry, and were in great request at the stately banquets of theolden time; and partly because they had a pomp and magnificenceabout them, highly becoming an old family mansion. Nothing, he wasaccustomed to say, had an air of greater state and dignity than apeacock perched upon an antique stone balustrade.

　　Master Simon had now to hurry off, having an appointment at theparish church with the village choristers, who were to perform somemusic of his selection. There was something extremely agreeable inthe cheerful flow of animal spirits of the little man; and Iconfess I had been somewhat surprised at his apt quotations fromauthors who certainly were not in the range of every-day reading.I mentioned this last circumstance to Frank Bracebridge, who toldme with a smile that Master Simon's whole stock of erudition wasconfined to some half-a-dozen old authors, which the Squire had putinto his hands, and which he read over and over, whenever he had astudious fit; as he sometimes had on a rainy day, or a long winterevening. Sir Anthony Fitzherbert's "Book of Husbandry;" Markham's"Country Contentments;" the "Tretyse of Hunting," by Sir ThomasCockayne, Knight; Izaak Walton's "Angler," and two or three moresuch ancient worthies of the pen, were his standard authorities;and, like all men who know but a few books, he looked up to themwith a kind of idolatry, and quoted them on all occasions. As tohis songs, they were chiefly picked out of old books in theSquire's library, and adapted to tunes that were popular among thechoice spirits of the last century. His practical application ofscraps of literature, however, had caused him to be looked upon asa prodigy of book-knowledge by all the grooms, huntsmen, and smallsportsmen of the neighbourhood.

　　While we were talking we heard the distant toll of the villagebell, and I was told that the Squire was a little particular inhaving his household at church on a Christmas morning; consideringit a day of pouring out of thanks and rejoicing; for, as old Tusserobserved:

　　"At Christmas be merry, and thankful withal, And feast thy poor neighbours, the great and the small.""If you are disposed to go to church," said Frank Bracebridge, "Ican promise you a specimen of my cousin Simon's musicalachievements. As the church is destitute of an organ, he hasformed a band from the village amateurs, and established a musicalclub for their improvement; he has also sorted a choir, as hesorted my father's pack of hounds, according to the directions ofJervaise Markham, in his "Country Contentments;" for the bass hehas sought out all the 'deep solemn mouths,' and for the tenor the'loud ringing mouths,' among the country bumpkins; and for 'sweetmouths,' he has culled with curious taste among the prettiestlasses in the neighbourhood; though these last, he affirms, are themost difficult to keep in tune; your pretty female singer beingexceedingly wayward and capricious, and very liable to accident."

　　As the morning, though frosty, was remarkably fine and clear, themost of the family walked to the church, which was a very oldbuilding of gray stone, and stood near a village, about half a milefrom the park gate. Adjoining it was a low snug parsonage, whichseemed coeval with the church. The front of it was perfectlymatted with a yew-tree that had been trained against its walls,through the dense foliage of which apertures had been formed toadmit light into the small antique lattices. As we passed thissheltered nest, the parson issued forth and preceded us.

　　I had expected to see a sleek, well-conditioned pastor, such as isoften found in a snug living in the vicinity of a rich patron'stable; but I was disappointed. The parson was a little, meagre,black-looking man, with a grizzled wig that was too wide, and stoodoff from each ear; so that his head seemed to have shrunk awaywithin it, like a dried filbert in its shell. He wore a rustycoat, with great skirts, and pockets that would have held thechurch Bible and prayer-book; and his small legs seemed stillsmaller, from being planted in large shoes decorated with enormousbuckles.

　　I was informed by Frank Bracebridge that the parson had been a chumof his father's at Oxford, and had received this living shortlyafter the latter had come to his estate. He was a complete black-letter hunter, and would scarcely read a work printed in the Romancharacter. The editions of Caxton and Wynkin de Worde were hisdelight; and he was indefatigable in his researches after such oldEnglish writers as have fallen into oblivion from theirworthlessness. In deference, perhaps, to the notions of Mr.Bracebridge, he had made diligent investigations into the festiverites and holiday customs of former times; and had been as zealousin the inquiry as if he had been a boon companion; but it wasmerely with that plodding spirit with which men of adusttemperament follow up any track of study, merely because it isdenominated learning; indifferent to its intrinsic nature, whetherit be the illustration of the wisdom, or of the ribaldry andobscenity of antiquity. He had pored over these old volumes sointensely, that they seemed to have been reflected into hiscountenance indeed; which, if the face be an index of the mind,might be compared to a title-page of black-letter.

　　On reaching the church porch, we found the parson rebuking thegray-headed sexton for having used mistletoe among the greens withwhich the church was decorated. It was, he observed, an unholyplant, profaned by having been used by the Druids in their mysticceremonies; and though it might be innocently employed in thefestive ornamenting of halls and kitchens, yet it had been deemedby the Fathers of the Church as unhallowed, and totally unfit forsacred purposes. So tenacious was he on this point, that the poorsexton was obliged to strip down a great part of the humbletrophies of his taste, before the parson would consent to enterupon the service of the day.

　　The interior of the church was venerable but simple; on the wallswere several mural monuments of the Bracebridges, and just besidethe altar was a tomb of ancient workmanship, on which lay theeffigy of a warrior in armour, with his legs crossed, a sign of hishaving been a crusader. I was told it was one of the family whohad signalised himself in the Holy Land, and the same whose picturehung over the fireplace in the hall.

　　During service, Master Simon stood up in the pew, and repeated theresponses very audibly; evincing that kind of ceremonious devotionpunctually observed by a gentleman of the old school, and a man ofold family connections. I observed, too, that he turned over theleaves of a folio prayer-book with something of a flourish;possibly to show off an enormous seal-ring which enriched one ofhis fingers, and which had the look of a family relic. But he wasevidently most solicitous about the musical part of the service,keeping his eye fixed intently on the choir, and beating time withmuch gesticulation and emphasis.

　　The orchestra was in a small gallery, and presented a mostwhimsical grouping of heads, piled one above the other, among whichI particularly noticed that of the village tailor, a pale fellowwith a retreating forehead and chin, who played on the clarionet,and seemed to have blown his face to a point; and there wasanother, a short pursy man, stooping and labouring at a bass viol,so as to show nothing but the top of a round bald head, like theegg of an ostrich. There were two or three pretty faces among thefemale singers, to which the keen air of a frosty morning had givena bright rosy tint; but the gentlemen choristers had evidently beenchosen, like old Cremona fiddles, more for tone than looks; and asseveral had to sing from the same book, there were clusterings ofodd physiognomies, not unlike those groups of cherubs we sometimessee on country tombstones.

　　The usual services of the choir were managed tolerably well, thevocal parts generally lagging a little behind the instrumental, andsome loitering fiddler now and then making up for lost time bytravelling over a passage with prodigious celerity, and clearingmore bars than the keenest fox-hunter to be in at the death. Butthe great trial was an anthem that had been prepared and arrangedby Master Simon, and on which he had founded great expectation.Unluckily there was a blunder at the very outset; the musiciansbecame flurried; Master Simon was in a fever; everything went onlamely and irregularly until they came to a chorus beginning "Nowlet us sing with one accord," which seemed to be a signal forparting company: all became discord and confusion; each shifted forhimself, and got to the end as well, or rather as soon, as hecould, excepting one old chorister in a pair of horn spectaclesbestriding and pinching a long sonorous nose; who, happening tostand a little apart, and being wrapped up in his own melody, kepton a quavering course, wriggling his head, ogling his book, andwinding all up by a nasal solo of at least three bars' duration.

　　The parson gave us a most erudite sermon on the rites andceremonies of Christmas, and the propriety of observing it notmerely as a day of thanksgiving, but of rejoicing; supporting thecorrectness of his opinions by the earliest usages of the Church,and enforcing them by the authorities of Theophilus of Cesarea, St.Cyprian, St. Chrysostom, St. Augustine, and a cloud more of Saintsand Fathers, from whom he made copious quotations. I was a littleat a loss to perceive the necessity of such a mighty array offorces to maintain a point which no one present seemed inclined todispute; but I soon found that the good man had a legion of idealadversaries to contend with; having, in the course of hisresearches on the subject of Christmas, got completely embroiled inthe sectarian controversies of the Revolution, when the Puritansmade such a fierce assault upon the ceremonies of the Church, andpoor old Christmas was driven out of the land by proclamation ofParliament.* The worthy parson lived but with times past, and knewbut a little of the present.

　　* See Note C.

　　Shut up among worm-eaten tomes in the retirement of his antiquatedlittle study, the pages of old times were to him as the gazettes ofthe day; while the era of the Revolution was mere modern history.He forgot that nearly two centuries had elapsed since the fierypersecution of poor mince-pie throughout the land; when plum-porridge was denounced as "mere popery," and roast beef asantichristian; and that Christmas had been brought in againtriumphantly with the merry court of King Charles at theRestoration. He kindled into warmth with the ardour of hiscontest, and the host of imaginary foes with whom he had to combat;had a stubborn conflict with old Prynne and two or three otherforgotten champions of the Round-heads, on the subject of Christmasfestivity; and concluded by urging his hearers, in the most solemnand affecting manner, to stand to the traditionary customs of theirfathers, and feast and make merry on this joyful anniversary of theChurch.

　　I have seldom known a sermon attended apparently with moreimmediate effects; for, on leaving the church, the congregationseemed one and all possessed with the gaiety of spirit so earnestlyenjoined by their pastor. The elder folks gathered in knots in thechurchyard, greeting and shaking hands; and the children ran aboutcrying, Ule! Ule! and repeating some uncouth rhymes,* which theparson, who had joined us, informed me had been handed down fromdays of yore. The villagers doffed their hats to the Squire as hepassed, giving him the good wishes of the season with everyappearance of heartfelt sincerity, and were invited by him to theHall, to take something to keep out the cold of the weather; and Iheard blessings uttered by several of the poor, which convinced methat, in the midst of his enjoyments, the worthy old cavalier hadnot forgotten the true Christmas virtue of charity.

　　* "Ule! Ule! Three puddings in a pule; Crack nuts and cry ule!"On our way homeward his heart seemed overflowing with generous andhappy feelings. As we passed over a rising ground which commandedsomething of a prospect, the sounds of rustic merriment now andthen reached our ears; the Squire paused for a few moments, andlooked around with an air of inexpressible benignity. The beautyof the day was of itself sufficient to inspire philanthropy.Notwithstanding the frostiness of the morning, the sun in hiscloudless journey had acquired sufficient power to melt away thethin covering of snow from every southern declivity, and to bringout the living green which adorns an English landscape even inmidwinter. Large tracts of smiling verdure contrasted with thedazzling whiteness of the shaded slopes and hollows. Everysheltered bank on which the broad rays rested yielded its silverrill of cold and limpid water, glittering through the drippinggrass; and sent up slight exhalations to contribute to the thinhaze that hung just above the surface of the earth. There wassomething truly cheering in this triumph of warmth and verdure overthe frosty thraldom of winter; it was, as the Squire observed, anemblem of Christmas hospitality, breaking through the chills ofceremony and selfishness, and thawing every heart into a flow. Hepointed with pleasure to the indications of good cheer reeking fromthe chimneys of the comfortable farmhouses and low, thatchedcottages. "I love," said he, "to see this day well kept by richand poor; it is a great thing to have one day in the year, atleast, when you are sure of being welcome wherever you go, and ofhaving, as it were, the world all thrown open to you; and I amalmost disposed to join with Poor Robin, in his malediction ofevery churlish enemy to this honest festival:

　　"'Those who at Christmas do repine, And would fain hence despatch him, May they with old Duke Humphry dine, Or else may Squire Ketch catch 'em.'"The Squire went on to lament the deplorable decay of the games andamusements which were once prevalent at this season among the lowerorders, and countenanced by the higher: when the old halls ofcastles and manor-houses were thrown open at daylight; when thetables were covered with brawn, and beef, and humming ale; when theharp and the carol resounded all day long, and when rich and poorwere alike welcome to enter and make merry.* "Our old games andlocal customs," said he, "had a great effect in making the peasantfond of his home, and the promotion of them, by the gentry made himfond of his lord. They made the times merrier, and kinder, andbetter; and I can truly say, with one of our old poets:

　　"'I like them well--the curious preciseness And all-pretended gravity of those That seek to banish hence these harmless sports, Have thrust away much ancient honesty.'* See Note D.

　　"The nation," continued he, "is altered; we have almost lost oursimple, true-hearted peasantry. They have broken asunder from thehigher classes, and seem to think their interests are separate.They have become too knowing, and begin to read newspapers, listento alehouse politicians, and talk of reform. I think one mode tokeep them in good humour in these hard times would be for thenobility and gentry to pass more time on their estates, mingle moreamong the country people, and set the merry old English games goingagain."

　　Such was the good Squire's project for mitigating publicdiscontent; and, indeed, he had once attempted to put his doctrinein practice, and a few years before had kept open house during theholidays in the old style. The country people, however, did notunderstand how to play their parts in the scene of hospitality;many uncouth circumstances occurred; the manor was overrun by allthe vagrants of the country, and more beggars drawn into theneighbourhood in one week than the parish officers could get rid ofin a year. Since then, he had contented himself with inviting thedecent part of the neighbouring peasantry to call at the Hall onChristmas Day, and distributing beef, and bread, and ale, among thepoor, that they might make merry in their own dwellings.

　　We had not been long home when the sound of music was heard from adistance. A band of country lads, without coats, their shirt-sleeves fancifully tied with ribands, their hats decorated withgreens, and clubs in their hands, were seen advancing up theavenue, followed by a large number of villagers and peasantry.They stopped before the hall door, where the music struck up apeculiar air, and the lads performed a curious and intricate dance,advancing, retreating, and striking their clubs together, keepingexact time to the music; while one, whimsically crowned with afox's skin, the tail of which flaunted down his back, kept caperingaround the skirts of the dance, and rattling a Christmas-box withmany antic gesticulations.

　　The Squire eyed this fanciful exhibition with great interest anddelight, and gave me a full account of its origin, which he tracedto the times when the Romans held possession of the island; plainlyproving that this was a lineal descendant of the sword-dance of theancients. "It was now," he said, "nearly extinct, but he hadaccidentally met with traces of it in the neighbourhood, and hadencouraged its revival; though, to tell the truth, it was too aptto be followed up by rough cudgel-play and broken heads in theevening."

　　After the dance was concluded, the whole party was entertained withbrawn and beef, and stout home-brewed. The Squire himself mingledamong the rustics, and was received with awkward demonstrations ofdeference and regard.

　　It is true, I perceived two or three of the younger peasants, asthey were raising their tankards to their mouths when the Squire'sback was turned, making something of a grimace, and giving eachother the wink; but the moment they caught my eye they pulled gravefaces, and were exceedingly demure. With Master Simon, however,they all seemed more at their ease.

　　His varied occupations and amusements had made him well knownthroughout the neighbourhood. He was a visitor at every farmhouseand cottage; gossiped with the farmers and their wives; romped withtheir daughters; and, like that type of a vagrant bachelor, thebumblebee, tolled the sweets from all the rosy lips of the countryaround.

　　The bashfulness of the guests soon gave way before good cheer andaffability. There is something genuine and affectionate in thegaiety of the lower orders, when it is excited by the bounty andfamiliarity of those above them; the warm glow of gratitude entersinto their mirth, and a kind word or a small pleasantry, franklyuttered by a patron, gladdens the heart of the dependant more thanoil and wine. When the Squire had retired, the merrimentincreased, and there was much joking and laughter, particularlybetween Master Simon and a hale, ruddy-faced, white-headed farmer,who appeared to be the wit of the village; for I observed all hiscompanions to wait with open mouths for his retorts, and burst intoa gratuitous laugh before they could well understand them.

　　The whole house, indeed, seemed abandoned to merriment. As Ipassed to my room to dress for dinner, I heard the sound of musicin a small court, and, looking through a window that commanded it,I perceived a band of wandering musicians, with pandean pipes andtambourine; a pretty, coquettish housemaid was dancing a jig with asmart country lad, while several of the other servants were lookingon. In the midst of her sport the girl caught a glimpse of my faceat the window, and, colouring up, ran off with an air of roguishaffected confusion.