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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
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.
Christmas Eve
Saint Francis and Saint Benedight
Blesse this house from wicked wight,
From the night-mare and the goblin,
That is hight good-fellow Robin;
Keep it from all evil spirits.
Fairies, weezels, rats, and ferrets:
From curfew time
To the next prime.
—CARTWRIGHT.
It was a brilliant moonlight night, but extremely cold; our chaise
whirled rapidly over the frozen ground; the post-boy smacked his whip
incessantly, and a part of the time his horses were on a gallop. "He
knows where he is going," said my companion, laughing, "and is
eager to arrive in time for some of the merriment and good cheer of the
servants' hall. My father, you must know, is a bigoted devotee of the old
school, and prides himself upon keeping up something of old English
hospitality. He is a tolerable specimen of what you will rarely meet with
nowadays in its purity, the old English country gentleman; for our men of
fortune spend so much of their time in town, and fashion is carried so
much into the country, that the strong, rich peculiarities of ancient
rural life are almost polished away. My father, however, from early years,
took honest Peacham* for his textbook, instead of Chesterfield: he
determined, in his own mind, that there was no condition more truly
honourable and enviable than that of a country gentleman on his paternal
lands, and, therefore, passes the whole of his time on his estate. He is a
strenuous advocate for the revival of the old rural games and holiday
observances, and is deeply read in the writers, ancient and modern, who
have treated on the subject. Indeed, his favourite range of reading is
among the authors who flourished at least two centuries since; who, he
insists, wrote and thought more like true Englishmen than any of their
successors. He even regrets sometimes that he had not been born a few
centuries earlier, when England was itself, and had its peculiar manners
and customs. As he lives at some distance from the main road, in rather a
lonely part of the country, without any rival gentry near him, he has that
most enviable of all blessings to an Englishman, an opportunity of
indulging the bent of his own humour without molestation. Being
representative of the oldest family in the neighbourhood, and a great part
of the peasantry being his tenants, he is much looked up to, and, in
general, is known simply by the appellation of 'The Squire;' a title which
has been accorded to the head of the family since time immemorial. I think
it best to give you these hints about my worthy old father, to prepare you
for any little eccentricities that might otherwise appear absurd."
* Peacham's "Complete Gentleman," 1622.
We had passed for some time along the wall of a park, and at length the
chaise stopped at the gate. It was in a heavy, magnificent old style, of
iron bars, fancifully wrought at top into flourishes and flowers. The huge
square columns that supported the gate were surmounted by the family
crest. Close adjoining was the porter's lodge, sheltered under dark
fir-trees, and almost buried in shrubbery.
The post-boy rang a large porter's bell, which resounded through the
still, frosty air, and was answered by the distant barking of dogs, with
which the mansion-house seemed garrisoned. An old woman immediately
appeared at the gate. As the moonlight fell strongly upon her, I had full
view of a little primitive dame, dressed very much in the antique taste,
with a neat kerchief and stomacher, and her silver hair peeping from under
a cap of snowy whiteness. She came curtseying forth, with many expressions
of simple joy at seeing her young master. Her husband, it seems, was up at
the house keeping Christmas eve in the servants' hall; they could not do
without him, as he was the best hand at a song and story in the household.
My friend proposed that we should alight and walk through the park to
the hall, which was at no great distance, while the chaise should follow
on. Our road wound through a noble avenue of trees, among the naked
branches of which the moon glittered as she rolled through the deep vault
of a cloudless sky. The lawn beyond was sheeted with a slight covering of
snow, which here and there sparkled as the moonbeams caught a frosty
crystal; and at a distance might be seen a thin, transparent vapour,
stealing up from the low grounds, and threatening gradually to shroud the
landscape.
My companion looked round him with transport:—"How often,"
said he, "have I scampered up this avenue, on returning home on
school vacations! How often have I played under these trees when a boy! I
feel a degree of filial reverence for them, as we look up to those who
have cherished us in childhood. My father was always scrupulous in
exacting our holidays, and having us around him on family festivals. He
used to direct and superintend our games with the strictness that some
parents do the studies of their children. He was very particular that we
should play the old English games according to their original form and
consulted old books for precedent and authority for every 'merrie
disport;' yet I assure you there never was pedantry so delightful. It was
the policy of the good old gentleman to make his children feel that home
was the happiest place in the world; and I value this delicious
home-feeling as one of the choicest gifts a parent can bestow."
We were interrupted by the clangour of a troop of dogs of all sorts and
sizes, "mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, and curs of low
degree," that, disturbed by the ringing of the porter's bell, and the
rattling of the chaise, came bounding, open-mouthed, across the lawn.
"The little dogs and all,
Tray, Blanch, and Sweetheart—see, they bark at me!"
cried Bracebridge, laughing. At the sound of his voice the bark was
changed into a yelp of delight, and in a moment he was surrounded and
almost overpowered by the caresses of the faithful animals.
We had now come in full view of the old family mansion, partly thrown
in deep shadow, and partly lit up by the cold moonshine. It was an
irregular building of some magnitude, and seemed to be of the architecture
of different periods. One wing was, evidently very ancient, with heavy
stone-shafted bow windows jutting out and overrun with ivy, from among the
foliage of which the small diamond-shaped panes of glass glittered with
the moonbeams. The rest of the house was in the French taste of Charles
the Second's time, having been repaired and altered, as my friend told me,
by one of his ancestors, who returned with that monarch at the
Restoration. The grounds about the house were laid out in the old formal
manner of artificial flower-beds, clipped shrubberies, raised terraces,
and heavy stone balustrades, ornamented with urns, a leaden statue or two,
and a jet of water. The old gentleman, I was told, was extremely careful
to preserve this obsolete finery in all its original state. He admired
this fashion in gardening; it had an air of magnificence, was courtly and
noble, and befitting good old family style. The boasted imitation of
nature in modern gardening had sprung up with modern republican notions,
but did not suit a monarchical government; it smacked of the levelling
system. I could not help smiling at this introduction of politics into
gardening, though I expressed some apprehension that I should find the old
gentleman rather intolerant in his creed. Frank assured me, however, that
it was almost the only instance in which he had ever heard his father
meddle with politics; and he believed that he had got this notion from a
member of Parliament who once passed a few weeks with him. The Squire was
glad of any argument to defend his clipped yew-trees and formal terraces,
which had been occasionally attacked by modern landscape gardeners.
As we approached the house, we heard the sound of music, and now and
then a burst of laughter from one end of the building. This, Bracebridge
said, must proceed from the servants' hall, where a great deal of revelry
was permitted, and even encouraged, by the Squire throughout the twelve
days of Christmas, provided everything was done comformably to ancient
usage. Here were kept up the old games of hoodman blind, shoe the wild
mare, hot cockles, steal the white loaf, bob apple and snapdragon: the
Yule log and Christmas candle were regularly burnt, and the mistletoe,
with its white berries, hung up to the imminent peril of all the pretty
housemaids.*
*1 See Note A.
So intent were the servants upon their sports, that we had to ring
repeatedly before we could make ourselves heard. On our arrival being
announced, the Squire came out to receive us, accompanied by his two other
sons; one a young officer in the army, home on leave of absence; the other
an Oxonian, just from the University. The Squire was a fine,
healthy-looking old gentleman, with silver hair curling lightly round an
open, florid countenance; in which a physiognomist, with the advantage,
like myself, of a previous hint or two, might discover a singular mixture
of whim and benevolence.
The family meeting was warm and affectionate; as the evening was far
advanced, the Squire would not permit us to change our travelling dresses,
but ushered us at once to the company, which was assembled in a large
old-fashioned hall. It was composed of different branches of a numerous
family connection, where there were the usual proportion of old uncles and
aunts, comfortably married dames, superannuated spinsters, blooming
country cousins, half-fledged striplings, and bright-eyed boarding-school
hoydens. They were variously occupied; some at a round game of cards;
others conversing around the fireplace; at one end of the hall was a group
of the young folks, some nearly grown up, others of a more tender and
budding age, fully engrossed by a merry game; and a profusion of wooden
horses, penny trumpets, and tattered dolls, about the floor, showed traces
of a troop of little fairy beings, who, having frolicked through a happy
day, had been carried off to slumber through a peaceful night.
While the mutual greetings were going on between Bracebridge and his
relatives, I had time to scan the apartment. I have called it a hall, for
so it had certainly been in old times, and the Squire had evidently
endeavoured to restore it to something of its primitive state. Over the
heavy projecting fireplace was suspended a picture of a warrior in armour
standing by a white horse, and on the opposite wall hung helmet, buckler,
and lance. At one end an enormous pair of antlers were inserted in the
wall, the branches serving as hooks on which to suspend hats, whips, and
spurs; and in the corners of the apartment were fowling-pieces,
fishing-rods, and other sporting implements. The furniture was of the
cumbrous workmanship of former days, though some articles of modern
convenience had been added, and the oaken floor had been carpeted; so that
the whole presented an odd mixture of parlour and hall.
The grate had been removed from the wide overwhelming fireplace, to
make way for a fire of wood, in the midst of which was an enormous log
glowing and blazing, and sending forth a vast volume of light and heat;
this I understood was the Yule-log, which the Squire was particular in
having brought in and illumined on a Christmas eve, according to ancient
custom.*
*2 See Note B.
It was really delightful to see the old Squire seated in his hereditary
elbow-chair by the hospitable fireside of his ancestors, and looking
around him like the sun of a system, beaming warmth and gladness to every
heart. Even the very dog that lay stretched at his feet, as he lazily
shifted his position and yawned, would look fondly up in his master's
face, wag his tail against the floor, and stretch himself again to sleep,
confident of kindness and protection. There is an emanation from the heart
in genuine hospitality which cannot be described, but is immediately felt,
and puts the stranger at once at his ease. I had not been seated many
minutes by the comfortable hearth of the worthy cavalier before I found
myself as much at home as if I had been one of the family.
Supper was announced shortly after our arrival. It was served up in a
spacious oaken chamber, the panels of which shone with wax, and around
which were several family portraits decorated with holly and ivy. Beside
the accustomed lights, two great wax tapers, called Christmas candles,
wreathed with greens, were placed on a highly-polished buffet among the
family plate. The table was abundantly spread with substantial fare; but
the Squire made his supper of frumenty, a dish made of wheat cakes boiled
in milk with rich spices, being a standing dish in old times for Christmas
eve. I was happy to find my old friend, minced-pie, in the retinue of the
feast; and finding him to be perfectly orthodox, and that I need not be
ashamed of my predilection, I greeted him with all the warmth wherewith we
usually greet an old and very genteel acquaintance.
The mirth of the company was greatly promoted by the humours of an
eccentric personage whom Mr. Bracebridge always addressed with the quaint
appellation of Master Simon. He was a tight, brisk little man, with the
air of an arrant old bachelor. His nose was shaped like the bill of a
parrot; his face slightly pitted with the smallpox, with a dry perpetual
bloom on it, like a frost-bitten leaf in autumn. He had an eye of great
quickness and vivacity, with a drollery and lurking waggery of expression
that was irresistible. He was evidently the wit of the family, dealing
very much in sly jokes and innuendoes with the ladies, and making infinite
merriment by harpings upon old themes; which, unfortunately, my ignorance
of the family chronicles did not permit me to enjoy. It seemed to be his
great delight during supper to keep a young girl next him in a continual
agony of stifled laughter, in spite of her awe of the reproving looks of
her mother, who sat opposite. Indeed, he was the idol of the younger part
of the company, who laughed at everything he said or did, and at every
turn of his countenance. I could not wonder at it; for he must have been a
miracle of accomplishments in their eyes. He could imitate Punch and Judy;
make an old woman of his hand, with the assistance of a burnt cork and
pocket-handkerchief: and cut an orange into such a ludicrous caricature,
that the young folks were ready to die with laughing.
I was let briefly into his history by Frank Bracebridge. He was an old
bachelor of a small independent income, which by careful management was
sufficient for all his wants. He revolved through the family system like a
vagrant comet in its orbit; sometimes visiting one branch, and sometimes
another quite remote; as is often the case with gentlemen of extensive
connections and small fortunes in England. He had a chirping, buoyant
disposition, always enjoying the present moment; and his frequent change
of scene and company prevented his acquiring those rusty unaccommodating
habits with which old bachelors are so uncharitably charged. He was a
complete family chronicle, being versed in the genealogy, history, and
intermarriages of the whole house of Bracebridge, which made him a great
favourite with the old folks; he was a beau of all the elder ladies and
superannuated spinsters, among whom he was habitually considered rather a
young fellow, and he was a master of the revels among the children; so
that there was not a more popular being in the sphere in which he moved
than Mr. Simon Bracebridge. Of late years he had resided almost entirely
with the Squire, to whom he had become a factotum, and whom he
particularly delighted by jumping with his humour in respect to old times,
and by having a scrap of an old song to suit every occasion. We had
presently a specimen of his last mentioned talent; for no sooner was
supper removed, and spiced wines and other beverages peculiar to the
season introduced, than Master Simon was called on for a good old
Christmas song. He bethought himself for a moment, and then, with a
sparkle of the eye, and a voice that was by no means bad, excepting that
it ran occasionally into a falsetto, like the notes of a split reed, he
quavered forth a quaint old ditty:
"Now Christmas is come,
Let us beat up the drum,
And call all our neighbours together;
And when they appear,
Let us make them such cheer
As will keep out the wind and the weather,"
etc.
The supper had disposed every one to gaiety, and an old harper was
summoned from the servants' hall, where he had been strumming all the
evening, and to all appearance comforting himself with some of the
Squire's home-brewed. He was a kind of hanger-on, I was told, of the
establishment, and though ostensibly a resident of the village, was
oftener to be found in the Squire's kitchen than his own home, the old
gentleman being fond of the sound of "harp in hall."
The dance, like most dances after supper, was a merry one; some of the
older folks joined in it, and the Squire himself figured down several
couples with a partner with whom he affirmed he had danced at every
Christmas for nearly half a century. Master Simon, who seemed to be a kind
of connecting link between the old times and the new, and to be withal a
little antiquated in the taste of his accomplishments, evidently piqued
himself on his dancing, and was endeavouring to gain credit by the heel
and toe, rigadoon, and other graces of the ancient school; but he had
unluckily assorted himself with a little romping girl from
boarding-school, who, by her wild vivacity, kept him continually on the
stretch, and defeated all his sober attempts at elegance;—such are the
ill-assorted matches to which antique gentlemen are unfortunately prone!
The young Oxonian, on the contrary, had led out one of his maiden
aunts, on whom the rogue played a thousand little knaveries with impunity;
he was full of practical jokes, and his delight was to tease his aunts and
cousins; yet, like all madcap youngsters, he was a universal favourite
among the women. The most interesting couple in the dance was the young
officer and a ward of the Squire's, a beautiful blushing girl of
seventeen. From several shy glances which I had noticed in the course of
the evening, I suspected there was a little kindness growing up between
them; and, indeed, the young soldier was just the hero to captivate a
romantic girl. He was tall, slender, and handsome, and like most young
British officers of late years, had picked up various small
accomplishments on the Continent—he could talk French and Italian—draw
landscapes,—sing very tolerably—dance divinely; but above all he had
been wounded at Waterloo;—what girl of seventeen, well read in poetry
and romance, could resist such a mirror of chivalry and perfection!
The moment the dance was over, he caught up a guitar, and lolling
against the old marble fireplace, in an attitude which I am half inclined
to suspect was studied, began the little French air of the Troubadour. The
Squire, however, exclaimed against having anything on Christmas eve but
good old English; upon which the young minstrel, casting up his eye for a
moment, as if in an effort of memory, struck into another strain, and,
with a charming air of gallantry, gave Herrick's "Night-Piece to
Julia:"
"Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee,
The shooting stars attend thee,
And the elves also,
Whose little eyes glow
Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee.
"No Will-o'-the-Wisp mislight thee;
Nor snake or glow-worm bite thee;
But on, on thy way,
Not making a stay,
Since ghost there is none to affright thee.
"Then let not the dark thee cumber;
What though the moon does slumber,
The stars of the night
Will lend thee their light,
Like tapers clear without number.
"Then, Julia, let me woo thee,
Thus, thus to come unto me;
And when I shall meet
Thy silvery feet,
My soul I'll pour into thee."
The song might have been intended in compliment to the fair Julia, for
so I found his partner was called, or it might not; she, however, was
certainly unconscious of any such application, for she never looked at the
singer, but kept her eyes cast upon the floor. Her face was suffused, it
is true, with a beautiful blush, and there was a gentle heaving of the
bosom, but all that was doubtless caused by the exercise of the dance;
indeed, so great was her indifference, that she was amusing herself with
plucking to pieces a choice bouquet of hothouse flowers, and by the time
the song was concluded, the nosegay lay in ruins on the floor.
The party now broke up for the night with the kind-hearted old custom
of shaking hands. As I passed through the hall, on the way to my chamber,
the dying embers of the Yule-clog still sent forth a dusky glow; and had
it not been the season when "no spirit dares stir abroad," I
should have been half tempted to steal from my room at midnight, and peep
whether the fairies might not be at their revels about the hearth.
My chamber was in the old part of the mansion, the ponderous furniture
of which might have been fabricated in the days of the giants. The room
was panelled with cornices of heavy carved work, in which flowers and
grotesque faces were strangely intermingled; and a row of black looking
portraits stared mournfully at me from the walls. The bed was of rich
though faded damask, with a lofty tester, and stood in a niche opposite a
bow window. I had scarcely got into bed when a strain of music seemed to
break forth in the air just below the window. I listened, and found it
proceeded from a band, which I concluded to be the waits from some
neighbouring village. They went round the house, playing under the
windows.
I drew aside the curtains, to hear them more distinctly. The moonbeams
fell through the upper part of the casement, partially lighting up the
antiquated apartment. The sounds, as they receded, became more soft and
aerial, and seemed to accord with quiet and moonlight. I listened and
listened—they became more and more tender and remote, and, as they
gradually died away, my head sank upon the pillow and I fell asleep.
Christmas Day
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 of the
preceding evening had been a dream, and nothing but the identity of the
ancient chamber convinced me of their reality. While I lay musing on my
pillow, I heard the sound of little feet pattering outside of the door,
and a whispering consultation. Presently a choir of small voices chanted
forth an old Christmas carol, 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, and
beheld one of the most beautiful little fairy groups that a painter could
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 appearance frightened them into mute
bashfulness. They remained for a moment playing on their lips with their
fingers, and now and then stealing a shy glance, from under their
eyebrows, until, as if by one impulse, they scampered away, and as they
turned an angle of the gallery, I heard them laughing in triumph at their
escape.
Everything conspired to produce kind and happy feelings in this
stronghold of old-fashioned hospitality. The window of my chamber looked
out upon what in summer would have been a beautiful landscape. There was a
sloping lawn, a fine stream winding at the foot 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 smoke from the cottage chimneys hanging over it; and
a church with its dark spire in strong relief against the clear, cold sky.
The house was surrounded with evergreens, according to the English custom,
which would have given almost an appearance of summer; but the morning was
extremely frosty; the light vapour of the preceding evening had been
precipitated by the cold, and covered all the trees and every blade of
grass with its fine crystallisations. The rays of a bright morning sun had
a dazzling effect among the glittering 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 querulous
notes; and a peacock was displaying all the glories of his train, and
strutting with the pride and gravity of a Spanish grandee on the
terrace-walk below.
I had scarcely dressed myself, when a servant appeared to invite me to
family prayers. He showed me the way to a small chapel in the old wing of
the house, where I found the principal part of the family already
assembled in a kind of gallery, furnished with cushions, hassocks, and
large prayer-books; the servants were seated on benches below. The old
gentleman read prayers from a desk in front of the gallery, and Master
Simon acted as clerk, and made the responses; and I must do him the
justice to say that he acquitted 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 favourite author, Herrick; and
it had been adapted to an old church melody by Master Simon. As there were
several good voices among the household, the effect was extremely
pleasing; but I was particularly gratified by the exaltation of heart, and
sudden sally of grateful feeling, with which the worthy Squire delivered
one stanza: his eyes glistening, and his voice rambling out of all the
bounds 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 on every
Sunday and saint's day throughout the year, either by Mr. Bracebridge or
by some member of the family. It was once almost universally the case at
the seats of the nobility and gentry of England, and it is much to be
regretted that the custom is fallen into neglect; for the dullest observer
must be sensible of the order and serenity prevalent in those households,
where the occasional exercise of a beautiful form of worship in the
morning gives, as it were, the key-note to every temper for the day, and
attunes every spirit to harmony.
Our breakfast consisted of what the Squire denominated true old English
fare. He indulged in some bitter lamentations over modern breakfasts of
tea-and-toast, which he censured as among the causes of modern effeminacy
and weak nerves, and the decline of old English heartiness; and though he
admitted them to his table to suit the palates of his guests, yet there
was a brave display of cold meats, wine, and ale, on the sideboard.
After breakfast I walked about the grounds with Frank Bracebridge and
Master Simon, or Mr. Simon as he was called by everybody but the Squire.
We were escorted by a number of gentleman-like dogs, that seemed loungers
about the establishment; from the frisking spaniel to the steady old
staghound; the last of which was of a race that had been in the family
time out of mind: they were all obedient to a dog-whistle which hung to
Master Simon's buttonhole, and in the midst of their gambols would glance
an eye occasionally upon a small switch he carried in his hand.
The old mansion had a still more venerable look in the yellow sunshine
than by pale moonlight; and I could not but feel the force of the Squire's
idea, that the formal terraces, heavily moulded balustrades, and clipped
yew-trees, carried with them an air of proud aristocracy. There appeared
to be an unusual number of peacocks about the place, and I was making some
remarks upon what I termed a flock of them, that were basking under a
sunny wall, when I was gently corrected in my phraseology by Master Simon,
who told me that, according to the most ancient and approved treatise on
hunting, I must say a MUSTER of peacocks. "In the same way,"
added he, with a slight air of pedantry, "we say a flight of doves or
swallows, a bevy of quails, a herd of deer, of wrens, or cranes, a skulk
of foxes, or a building of rooks." He went on to inform me, that,
according to Sir Anthony Fitzherbert, we ought to ascribe, to this bird
"both understanding and glory; for, being praised, he will presently
set up his tail chiefly against the sun, to the intent you may the better
behold the beauty thereof. But at the fall of the leaf, when his tail
falleth, he will mourn and hide himself in corners, till his tail come
again as it was."
I could not help smiling at this display of small erudition on so
whimsical a subject; but I found that the peacocks were birds of some
consequence at the Hall, for Frank Bracebridge informed me that they were
great favourites with his father, who was extremely careful to keep up the
breed; partly because they belonged to chivalry, and were in great request
at the stately banquets of the olden time; and partly because they had a
pomp and magnificence about them, highly becoming an old family mansion.
Nothing, he was accustomed to say, had an air of greater state and dignity
than a peacock perched upon an antique stone balustrade.
Master Simon had now to hurry off, having an appointment at the parish
church with the village choristers, who were to perform some music of his
selection. There was something extremely agreeable in the cheerful flow of
animal spirits of the little man; and I confess I had been somewhat
surprised at his apt quotations from authors who certainly were not in the
range of every-day reading. I mentioned this last circumstance to Frank
Bracebridge, who told me with a smile that Master Simon's whole stock of
erudition was confined to some half-a-dozen old authors, which the Squire
had put into his hands, and which he read over and over, whenever he had a
studious fit; as he sometimes had on a rainy day, or a long winter
evening. Sir Anthony Fitzherbert's "Book of Husbandry;"
Markham's "Country Contentments;" the "Tretyse of
Hunting," by Sir Thomas Cockayne, Knight; Izaak Walton's
"Angler," and two or three more such ancient worthies of the
pen, were his standard authorities; and, like all men who know but a few
books, he looked up to them with a kind of idolatry, and quoted them on
all occasions. As to his songs, they were chiefly picked out of old books
in the Squire's library, and adapted to tunes that were popular among the
choice spirits of the last century. His practical application of scraps of
literature, however, had caused him to be looked upon as a prodigy of
book-knowledge by all the grooms, huntsmen, and small sportsmen of the
neighbourhood.
While we were talking we heard the distant toll of the village bell,
and I was told that the Squire was a little particular in having his
household at church on a Christmas morning; considering it a day of
pouring out of thanks and rejoicing; for, as old Tusser observed:
"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,
"I can promise you a specimen of my cousin Simon's musical
achievements. As the church is destitute of an organ, he has formed a band
from the village amateurs, and established a musical club for their
improvement; he has also sorted a choir, as he sorted my father's pack of
hounds, according to the directions of Jervaise Markham, in his 'Country
Contentments;' for the bass he has sought out all the 'deep solemn
mouths,' and for the tenor the 'loud ringing mouths,' among the country
bumpkins; and for 'sweet mouths,' he has culled with curious taste among
the prettiest lasses in the neighbourhood; though these last, he affirms,
are the most difficult to keep in tune; your pretty female singer being
exceedingly wayward and capricious, and very liable to accident."
As the morning, though frosty, was remarkably fine and clear, the most
of the family walked to the church, which was a very old building of gray
stone, and stood near a village, about half a mile from the park gate.
Adjoining it was a low snug parsonage, which seemed coeval with the
church. The front of it was perfectly matted with a yew-tree that had been
trained against its walls, through the dense foliage of which apertures
had been formed to admit light into the small antique lattices. As we
passed this sheltered nest, the parson issued forth and preceded us.
I had expected to see a sleek, well-conditioned pastor, such as is
often found in a snug living in the vicinity of a rich patron's table; but
I was disappointed. The parson was a little, meagre, black-looking man,
with a grizzled wig that was too wide, and stood off from each ear; so
that his head seemed to have shrunk away within it, like a dried filbert
in its shell. He wore a rusty coat, with great skirts, and pockets that
would have held the church Bible and prayer-book; and his small legs
seemed still smaller, from being planted in large shoes decorated with
enormous buckles.
I was informed by Frank Bracebridge that the parson had been a chum of
his father's at Oxford, and had received this living shortly after the
latter had come to his estate. He was a complete black-letter hunter, and
would scarcely read a work printed in the Roman character. The editions of
Caxton and Wynkin de Worde were his delight; and he was indefatigable in
his researches after such old English writers as have fallen into oblivion
from their worthlessness. In deference, perhaps, to the notions of Mr.
Bracebridge, he had made diligent investigations into the festive rites
and holiday customs of former times; and had been as zealous in the
inquiry as if he had been a boon companion; but it was merely with that
plodding spirit with which men of adust temperament follow up any track of
study, merely because it is denominated learning; indifferent to its
intrinsic nature, whether it be the illustration of the wisdom, or of the
ribaldry and obscenity of antiquity. He had pored over these old volumes
so intensely, that they seemed to have been reflected into his countenance
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 the
gray-headed sexton for having used mistletoe among the greens with which
the church was decorated. It was, he observed, an unholy plant, profaned
by having been used by the Druids in their mystic ceremonies; and though
it might be innocently employed in the festive ornamenting of halls and
kitchens, yet it had been deemed by the Fathers of the Church as
unhallowed, and totally unfit for sacred purposes. So tenacious was he on
this point, that the poor sexton was obliged to strip down a great part of
the humble trophies of his taste, before the parson would consent to enter
upon the service of the day.
The interior of the church was venerable but simple; on the walls were
several mural monuments of the Bracebridges, and just beside the altar was
a tomb of ancient workmanship, on which lay the effigy of a warrior in
armour, with his legs crossed, a sign of his having been a crusader. I was
told it was one of the family who had signalised himself in the Holy Land,
and the same whose picture hung over the fireplace in the hall.
During service, Master Simon stood up in the pew, and repeated the
responses very audibly; evincing that kind of ceremonious devotion
punctually observed by a gentleman of the old school, and a man of old
family connections. I observed, too, that he turned over the leaves of a
folio prayer-book with something of a flourish; possibly to show off an
enormous seal-ring which enriched one of his fingers, and which had the
look of a family relic. But he was evidently most solicitous about the
musical part of the service, keeping his eye fixed intently on the choir,
and beating time with much gesticulation and emphasis.
The orchestra was in a small gallery, and presented a most whimsical
grouping of heads, piled one above the other, among which I particularly
noticed that of the village tailor, a pale fellow with a retreating
forehead and chin, who played on the clarionet, and seemed to have blown
his face to a point; and there was another, 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 the egg of an ostrich. There were two or three pretty
faces among the female singers, to which the keen air of a frosty morning
had given a bright rosy tint; but the gentlemen choristers had evidently
been chosen, like old Cremona fiddles, more for tone than looks; and as
several had to sing from the same book, there were clusterings of odd
physiognomies, not unlike those groups of cherubs we sometimes see on
country tombstones.
The usual services of the choir were managed tolerably well, the vocal
parts generally lagging a little behind the instrumental, and some
loitering fiddler now and then making up for lost time by travelling over
a passage with prodigious celerity, and clearing more bars than the
keenest fox-hunter to be in at the death. But the great trial was an
anthem that had been prepared and arranged by Master Simon, and on which
he had founded great expectation. Unluckily there was a blunder at the
very outset; the musicians became flurried; Master Simon was in a fever;
everything went on lamely and irregularly until they came to a chorus
beginning "Now let us sing with one accord," which seemed to be
a signal for parting company: all became discord and confusion; each
shifted for himself, and got to the end as well, or rather as soon, as he
could, excepting one old chorister in a pair of horn spectacles bestriding
and pinching a long sonorous nose; who, happening to stand a little apart,
and being wrapped up in his own melody, kept on a quavering course,
wriggling his head, ogling his book, and winding all up by a nasal solo of
at least three bars' duration.
The parson gave us a most erudite sermon on the rites and ceremonies of
Christmas, and the propriety of observing it not merely as a day of
thanksgiving, but of rejoicing; supporting the correctness 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 Saints and Fathers, from whom he made
copious quotations. I was a little at a loss to perceive the necessity of
such a mighty array of forces to maintain a point which no one present
seemed inclined to dispute; but I soon found that the good man had a
legion of ideal adversaries to contend with; having, in the course of his
researches on the subject of Christmas, got completely embroiled in the
sectarian controversies of the Revolution, when the Puritans made such a
fierce assault upon the ceremonies of the Church, and poor old Christmas
was driven out of the land by proclamation of Parliament.* The worthy
parson lived but with times past, and knew but a little of the present.
*3 See Note C.
Shut up among worm-eaten tomes in the retirement of his antiquated
little study, the pages of old times were to him as the gazettes of the
day; while the era of the Revolution was mere modern history. He forgot
that nearly two centuries had elapsed since the fiery persecution of poor
mince-pie throughout the land; when plum-porridge was denounced as
"mere popery," and roast beef as antichristian; and that
Christmas had been brought in again triumphantly with the merry court of
King Charles at the Restoration. He kindled into warmth with the ardour of
his contest, and the host of imaginary foes with whom he had to combat;
had a stubborn conflict with old Prynne and two or three other forgotten
champions of the Round-heads, on the subject of Christmas festivity; and
concluded by urging his hearers, in the most solemn and affecting manner,
to stand to the traditionary customs of their fathers, and feast and make
merry on this joyful anniversary of the Church.
I have seldom known a sermon attended apparently with more immediate
effects; for, on leaving the church, the congregation seemed one and all
possessed with the gaiety of spirit so earnestly enjoined by their pastor.
The elder folks gathered in knots in the churchyard, greeting and shaking
hands; and the children ran about crying, Ule! Ule! and repeating some
uncouth rhymes,* which the parson, who had joined us, informed me had been
handed down from days of yore. The villagers doffed their hats to the
Squire as he passed, giving him the good wishes of the season with every
appearance of heartfelt sincerity, and were invited by him to the Hall, to
take something to keep out the cold of the weather; and I heard blessings
uttered by several of the poor, which convinced me that, in the midst of
his enjoyments, the worthy old cavalier had not 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 and
happy feelings. As we passed over a rising ground which commanded
something of a prospect, the sounds of rustic merriment now and then
reached our ears; the Squire paused for a few moments, and looked around
with an air of inexpressible benignity. The beauty of the day was of
itself sufficient to inspire philanthropy. Notwithstanding the frostiness
of the morning, the sun in his cloudless journey had acquired sufficient
power to melt away the thin covering of snow from every southern
declivity, and to bring out the living green which adorns an English
landscape even in midwinter. Large tracts of smiling verdure contrasted
with the dazzling whiteness of the shaded slopes and hollows. Every
sheltered bank on which the broad rays rested yielded its silver rill of
cold and limpid water, glittering through the dripping grass; and sent up
slight exhalations to contribute to the thin haze that hung just above the
surface of the earth. There was something truly cheering in this triumph
of warmth and verdure over the frosty thraldom of winter; it was, as the
Squire observed, an emblem of Christmas hospitality, breaking through the
chills of ceremony and selfishness, and thawing every heart into a flow.
He pointed with pleasure to the indications of good cheer reeking from the
chimneys of the comfortable farmhouses and low, thatched cottages. "I
love," said he, "to see this day well kept by rich and poor; it
is a great thing to have one day in the year, at least, when you are sure
of being welcome wherever you go, and of having, as it were, the world all
thrown open to you; and I am almost disposed to join with Poor Robin, in
his malediction of every 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 and
amusements which were once prevalent at this season among the lower
orders, and countenanced by the higher: when the old halls of castles and
manor-houses were thrown open at daylight; when the tables were covered
with brawn, and beef, and humming ale; when the harp and the carol
resounded all day long, and when rich and poor were alike welcome to enter
and make merry.* "Our old games and local customs," said he,
"had a great effect in making the peasant fond of his home, and the
promotion of them, by the gentry made him fond of his lord. They made the
times merrier, and kinder, and better; 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.'
*4 See Note D.
"The nation," continued he, "is altered; we have almost
lost our simple, true-hearted peasantry. They have broken asunder from the
higher classes, and seem to think their interests are separate. They have
become too knowing, and begin to read newspapers, listen to alehouse
politicians, and talk of reform. I think one mode to keep them in good
humour in these hard times would be for the nobility and gentry to pass
more time on their estates, mingle more among the country people, and set
the merry old English games going again."
Such was the good Squire's project for mitigating public discontent;
and, indeed, he had once attempted to put his doctrine in practice, and a
few years before had kept open house during the holidays in the old style.
The country people, however, did not understand how to play their parts in
the scene of hospitality; many uncouth circumstances occurred; the manor
was overrun by all the vagrants of the country, and more beggars drawn
into the neighbourhood in one week than the parish officers could get rid
of in a year. Since then, he had contented himself with inviting the
decent part of the neighbouring peasantry to call at the Hall on Christmas
Day, and distributing beef, and bread, and ale, among the poor, that they
might make merry in their own dwellings.
We had not been long home when the sound of music was heard from a
distance. A band of country lads, without coats, their shirt-sleeves
fancifully tied with ribands, their hats decorated with greens, and clubs
in their hands, were seen advancing up the avenue, followed by a large
number of villagers and peasantry. They stopped before the hall door,
where the music struck up a peculiar air, and the lads performed a curious
and intricate dance, advancing, retreating, and striking their clubs
together, keeping exact time to the music; while one, whimsically crowned
with a fox's skin, the tail of which flaunted down his back, kept capering
around the skirts of the dance, and rattling a Christmas-box with many
antic gesticulations.
The Squire eyed this fanciful exhibition with great interest and
delight, and gave me a full account of its origin, which he traced to the
times when the Romans held possession of the island; plainly proving that
this was a lineal descendant of the sword-dance of the ancients. "It
was now," he said, "nearly extinct, but he had accidentally met
with traces of it in the neighbourhood, and had encouraged its revival;
though, to tell the truth, it was too apt to be followed up by rough
cudgel-play and broken heads in the evening."
After the dance was concluded, the whole party was entertained with
brawn and beef, and stout home-brewed. The Squire himself mingled among
the rustics, and was received with awkward demonstrations of deference and
regard.
It is true, I perceived two or three of the younger peasants, as they
were raising their tankards to their mouths when the Squire's back was
turned, making something of a grimace, and giving each other the wink; but
the moment they caught my eye they pulled grave faces, and were
exceedingly demure. With Master Simon, however, they all seemed more at
their ease.
His varied occupations and amusements had made him well known
throughout the neighbourhood. He was a visitor at every farmhouse and
cottage; gossiped with the farmers and their wives; romped with their
daughters; and, like that type of a vagrant bachelor, the bumblebee,
tolled the sweets from all the rosy lips of the country around.
The bashfulness of the guests soon gave way before good cheer and
affability. There is something genuine and affectionate in the gaiety of
the lower orders, when it is excited by the bounty and familiarity of
those above them; the warm glow of gratitude enters into their mirth, and
a kind word or a small pleasantry, frankly uttered by a patron, gladdens
the heart of the dependant more than oil and wine. When the Squire had
retired, the merriment increased, and there was much joking and laughter,
particularly between Master Simon and a hale, ruddy-faced, white-headed
farmer, who appeared to be the wit of the village; for I observed all his
companions to wait with open mouths for his retorts, and burst into a
gratuitous laugh before they could well understand them.
The whole house, indeed, seemed abandoned to merriment. As I passed to
my room to dress for dinner, I heard the sound of music in a small court,
and, looking through a window that commanded it, I perceived a band of
wandering musicians, with pandean pipes and tambourine; a pretty,
coquettish housemaid was dancing a jig with a smart country lad, while
several of the other servants were looking on. In the midst of her sport
the girl caught a glimpse of my face at the window, and, colouring up, ran
off with an air of roguish affected confusion.
The Christmas Dinner
Lo, now is come the joyful'st feast!
Let every man be jolly,
Eache roome with yvie leaves is drest,
And every post with holly.
Now all our neighbours' chimneys smoke,
And Christmas blocks are burning;
Their ovens they with bak't meats choke,
And all their spits are turning.
Without the door let sorrow lie,
And if, for cold, it hap to die,
We'll bury't in a Christmas pye,
And evermore be merry.
—WITHERS'S Juvenilia.
I had finished my toilet, and was loitering with Frank Bracebridge in
the library, when we heard a distant thwacking sound, which he informed me
was a signal for the serving up of the dinner. The Squire kept up old
customs in kitchen as well as hall; and the rolling-pin, struck upon the
dresser by the cook, summoned the servants to carry in the meats.
"Just in this nick the cook knock'd thrice,
And all the waiters in a trice
His summons did obey;
Each serving man, with dish in hand,
March'd boldly up, like our train-band,
Presented and away."*
* Sir John Suckling.
The dinner was served up in the great hall, where the Squire always
held his Christmas banquet. A blazing, crackling fire of logs had been
heaped on to warm the spacious apartment, and the flame went sparkling and
wreathing up the wide-mouthed chimney. The great picture of the crusader
and his white horse had been profusely decorated with greens for the
occasion; and holly and ivy had likewise been wreathed around the helmet
and weapons on the opposite wall, which I understood were the arms of the
same warrior. I must own, by the by, I had strong doubts about the
authenticity of painting and armour as having belonged to the crusader,
they certainly having the stamp of more recent days; but I was told that
the painting had been so considered time out of mind; and that as to the
armour, it had been found in a lumber room, and elevated to its present
situation by the Squire, who at once determined it to be the armour of the
family hero; and as he was absolute authority on all such subjects to his
own household, the matter had passed into current acceptation. A sideboard
was set out just under this chivalric trophy, on which was a display of
plate that might have vied (at least in variety) with Belshazzar's parade
of the vessels of the Temple: "flagons, cans, cups, beakers, goblets,
basins, and ewers;" the gorgeous utensils of good companionship, that
had gradually accumulated through many generations of jovial housekeepers.
Before these stood the two Yule candles, beaming like two stars of the
first magnitude: other lights were distributed in branches, and the whole
array glittered like a firmament of silver.
We were ushered into this banqueting scene with the sound of
minstrelsy, the old harper being seated on a stool beside the fireplace,
and twanging his instrument with a vast deal more power than melody. Never
did Christmas board display a more goodly and gracious assemblage of
countenances; those who were not handsome were, at least, happy; and
happiness is a rare improver of your hard-favoured visage.
I always consider an old English family as well worth studying as a
collection of Holbein's portraits or Albert Durer's prints. There is much
antiquarian lore to be acquired; much knowledge of the physiognomies of
former times. Perhaps it may be from having continually before their eyes
those rows of old family portraits, with which the mansions of this
country are stocked; certain it is, that the quaint features of antiquity
are often most faithfully perpetuated in these ancient lines; and I have
traced an old family nose through a whole picture-gallery, legitimately
handed down from generation to generation, almost from the time of the
Conquest. Something of the kind was to be observed in the worthy company
around me. Many of their faces had evidently originated in a Gothic age,
and been merely copied by succeeding generations; and there was one little
girl, in particular, of staid demeanour, with a high Roman nose, and an
antique vinegar aspect, who was a great favourite of the Squire's, being,
as he said, a Bracebridge all over, and the very counterpart of one of his
ancestors who figured in the court of Henry VIII.
The parson said grace, which was not a short, familiar one, such as is
commonly addressed to the Deity, in these unceremonious days; but a long,
courtly, well-worded one of the ancient school.
There was now a pause, as if something was expected; when suddenly the
butler entered the hall with some degree of bustle; he was attended by a
servant on each side with a large wax-light, and bore a silver dish, on
which was an enormous pig's head, decorated with rosemary, with a lemon in
its mouth, which was placed with great formality at the head of the table.
The moment this pageant made its appearance, the harper struck up a
flourish; at the conclusion of which the young Oxonian, on receiving a
hint from the Squire, gave, with an air of the most comic gravity, an old
carol, the first verse of which was as follows:
"Caput apri defero
Reddens laudes Domino.
The boar's head in hand bring I,
With garlands gay and rosemary.
I pray you all synge merily
Qui estis in convivio."
Though prepared to witness many of these little eccentricities, from
being apprised of the peculiar hobby of mine host; yet, I confess, the
parade with which so odd a dish was introduced somewhat perplexed me,
until I gathered from the conversation of the Squire and the parson that
it was meant to represent the bringing in of the boar's head: a dish
formerly served up with much ceremony, and the sound of minstrelsy and
song, at great tables on Christmas Day. "I like the old custom,"
said the Squire, "not merely because it is stately and pleasing in
itself, but because it was observed at the College of Oxford, at which I
was educated. When I hear the old song chanted, it brings to mind the time
when I was young and gamesome—and the noble old college-hall—and my
fellow students loitering about in their black gowns; many of whom, poor
lads, are now in their graves!"
The parson, however, whose mind was not haunted by such associations,
and who was always more taken up with the text than the sentiment,
objected to the Oxonian's version of the carol: which he affirmed was
different from that sung at college. He went on, with the dry perseverance
of a commentator, to give the college reading, accompanied by sundry
annotations: addressing himself at first to the company at large; but
finding their attention gradually diverted to other talk, and other
objects, he lowered his tone as his number of auditors diminished, until
he concluded his remarks, in an under voice, to a fat-headed old gentleman
next him, who was silently engaged in the discussion of a huge plateful of
turkey.*
*5 See Note E.
The table was literally loaded with good cheer, and presented an
epitome of country abundance, in this season of overflowing larders. A
distinguished post was allotted to "ancient sirloin," as mine
host termed it; being, as he added, "the standard of old English
hospitality, and a joint of goodly presence, and full of
expectation."
There were several dishes quaintly decorated, and which had evidently
something traditionary in their embellishments; but about which, as I did
not like to appear over curious, I asked no questions. I could not,
however, but notice a pie, magnificently decorated with peacocks'
feathers, in imitation of the tail of that bird, which overshadowed a
considerable tract of the table. This, the Squire confessed, with some
little hesitation, was a pheasant-pie, though a peacock-pie was certainly
the most authentical; but there had been such a mortality among the
peacocks this season, that he could not prevail upon himself to have one
killed.*
*6 See Note F.
It would be tedious, perhaps, to my wiser readers, who may not have
that foolish fondness for odd and obsolete things to which I am a little
given, were I to mention the other makeshifts of this worthy old
humourist, by which he was endeavouring to follow up, though at humble
distance, the quaint customs of antiquity. I was pleased, however, to see
the respect shown to his whims by his children and relatives; who, indeed,
entered readily into the full spirit of them, and seemed all well versed
in their parts; having doubtless been present at many a rehearsal. I was
amused, too, at the air of profound gravity with which the butler and
other servants executed the duties assigned them, however eccentric. They
had an old-fashioned look; having, for the most part, been brought up in
the household, and grown into keeping with the antiquated mansion, and the
humours of its lord; and most probably looked upon all his whimsical
regulations as the established laws of honourable housekeeping. When the
cloth was removed, the butler brought in a huge silver vessel of rare and
curious workmanship, which he placed before the Squire. Its appearance was
hailed with acclamation; being the Wassail Bowl, so renowned in Christmas
festivity. The contents had been prepared by the Squire himself; for it
was a beverage in the skilful mixture of which he particularly prided
himself, alleging that it was too abstruse and complex for the
comprehension of an ordinary servant. It was a potation, indeed, that
might well make the heart of a toper leap within him; being composed of
the richest and raciest wines, highly spiced and sweetened, with roasted
apples bobbing about the surface.*
*7 See Note G.
The old gentleman's whole countenance beamed with a serene look of
indwelling delight, as he stirred this mighty bowl. Having raised it to
his lips, with a hearty wish of a merry Christmas to all present, he sent
it brimming, around the board, for every one to follow his example,
according to the primitive style; pronouncing it "the ancient
fountain of good feeling, where all hearts met together."*
*8 See Note H.
There was much laughing and rallying, as the honest emblem of Christmas
joviality circulated, and was kissed rather coyly by the ladies. When it
reached Master Simon he raised it in both hands, and with the air of a
boon companion struck up an old Wassail chanson:
The browne bowle,
The merry browne bowle,
As it goes round about-a,
Fill
Still,
Let the world say what it will,
And drink your fill all out-a.
The deep canne,
The merry deep canne,
As thou dost freely quaff-a,
Sing,
Fling,
Be as merry as a king,
And sound a lusty laugh-a.*
* From "Poor Robin's Almanack."
Much of the conversation during dinner turned upon family topics, to
which I was a stranger. There was, however, a great deal of rallying of
Master Simon about some gay widow, with whom he was accused of having a
flirtation. This attack was commenced by the ladies; but it was continued
throughout the dinner by the fat-headed old gentleman next the parson,
with the persevering assiduity of a slow-hound; being one of those
long-winded jokers, who, though rather dull at starting game, are
unrivalled for their talents in hunting it down. At every pause in the
general conversation, he renewed his bantering in pretty much the same
terms; winking hard at me with both eyes whenever he gave Master Simon
what he considered a home thrust. The latter, indeed, seemed fond of being
teased on the subject, as old bachelors are apt to be; and he took
occasion to inform me, in an undertone, that the lady in question was a
prodigiously fine woman, and drove her own curricle.
The dinner-time passed away in this flow of innocent hilarity; and,
though the old hall may have resounded in its time with many a scene of
broader rout and revel, yet I doubt whether it ever witnessed more honest
and genuine enjoyment. How easy it is for one benevolent being to diffuse
pleasure around him; and how truly is a kind heart a fountain of gladness,
making everything in its vicinity to freshen into smiles! The joyous
disposition of the worthy Squire was perfectly contagious; he was happy
himself, and disposed to make all the world happy; and the little
eccentricities of his humour did but season, in a manner, the sweetness of
his philanthropy.
When the ladies had retired, the conversation, as usual, became still
more animated; many good things were broached which had been thought of
during dinner, but which would not exactly do for a lady's ear; and though
I cannot positively affirm that there was much wit uttered, yet I have
certainly heard many contests of rare wit produce much less laughter. Wit,
after all, is a mighty tart, pungent ingredient, and much too acid for
some stomachs; but honest good humour is the oil and wine of a merry
meeting, and there is no jovial companionship equal to that where the
jokes are rather small, and the laughter abundant. The Squire told several
long stories of early college pranks and adventures, in some of which the
parson had been a sharer; though in looking at the latter, it required
some effort of imagination to figure such a little dark anatomy of a man
into the perpetrator of a madcap gambol. Indeed, the two college chums
presented pictures of what men may be made by their different lots in
life. The Squire had left the university to live lustily on his paternal
domains, in the vigorous enjoyment of prosperity and sunshine, and had
flourished on to a hearty and florid old age; whilst the poor parson, on
the contrary, had dried and withered away, among dusty tomes, in the
silence and shadows of his study.
Still there seemed to be a spark of almost extinguished fire, feebly
glimmering in the bottom of his soul; and as the Squire hinted at a sly
story of the parson and a pretty milkmaid, whom they once met on the banks
of the Isis, the old gentleman made an "alphabet of faces,"
which, as far as I could decipher his physiognomy, I verily believe was
indicative of laughter;—indeed, I have rarely met with an old gentleman
who took absolutely offence at the imputed gallantries of his youth.
I found the tide of wine and wassail fast gaining on the dry land of
sober judgment. The company grew merrier and louder as their jokes grew
duller. Master Simon was in as chirping a humour as a grasshopper filled
with dew; his old songs grew of a warmer complexion, and he began to talk
maudlin about the widow. He even gave a long song about the wooing of a
widow, which he informed me he had gathered from an excellent black-letter
work, entitled "Cupid's Solicitor for Love," containing store of
good advice for bachelors, and which he promised to lend me. The first
verse was to this effect:
"He that will woo a widow must not dally,
He must make hay while the sun doth shine;
He must not stand with her, Shall I, Shall I?
But boldly say, Widow, thou must be mine."
This song inspired the fat-headed old gentleman, who made several
attempts to tell a rather broad story out of Joe Miller, that was pat to
the purpose; but he always stuck in the middle, everybody recollecting the
latter part excepting himself. The parson, too, began to show the effects
of good cheer, having gradually settled down into a doze, and his wig
sitting most suspiciously on one side. Just at this juncture we were
summoned to the drawing-room, and, I suspect, at the private instigation
of mine host, whose joviality seemed always tempered with a proper love of
decorum.
After the dinner-table was removed, the hall was given up to the
younger members of the family, who, prompted to all kind of noisy mirth by
the Oxonian and Master Simon, made its old walls ring with their
merriment, as they played at romping games. I delight in witnessing the
gambols of children, and particularly at this happy holiday-season, and
could not help stealing out of the drawing-room on hearing one of their
peals of laughter. I found them at the game of blind-man's buff. Master
Simon, who was the leader of their revels, and seemed on all occasions to
fulfil the office of that ancient potentate, the Lord of Misrule,* was
blinded in the midst of the hall. The little beings were as busy about him
as the mock fairies about Falstaff; pinching him, plucking at the skirts
of his coat, and tickling him with straws. One fine blue-eyed girl of
about thirteen, with her flaxen hair all in beautiful confusion, her
frolic face in a glow, her frock half torn off her shoulders, a complete
picture of a romp, was the chief tormentor; and from the slyness with
which Master Simon avoided the smaller game, and hemmed this wild little
nymph in corners, and obliged her to jump shrieking over chairs, I
suspected the rogue of being not a whit more blinded than was convenient.
*9 See Note I.
When I returned to the drawing-room, I found the company seated around
the fire, listening to the parson, who was deeply ensconced in a
high-backed oaken chair, the work of some cunning artificer of yore, which
had been brought from the library for his particular accommodation. From
this venerable piece of furniture, with which his shadowy figure and dark
weazen face so admirably accorded, he was dealing forth strange accounts
of popular superstitions and legends of the surrounding country, with
which he had become acquainted in the course of his antiquarian
researches. I am half inclined to think that the old gentleman was himself
somewhat tinctured with superstition, as men are very apt to be who live a
recluse and studious life in a sequestered part of the country, and pore
over black-letter tracts, so often filled with the marvellous and
supernatural. He gave us several anecdotes of the fancies of the
neighbouring peasantry, concerning the effigy of the crusader which lay on
the tomb by the church altar. As it was the only monument of the kind in
that part of the country, it had always been regarded with feelings of
superstition by the goodwives of the village. It was said to get up from
the tomb and walk the rounds of the churchyard in stormy nights,
particularly when it thundered; and one old woman, whose cottage bordered
on the churchyard, had seen it, through the windows of the church, when
the moon shone, slowly pacing up and down the aisles. It was the belief
that some wrong had been left unredressed by the deceased, or some
treasure hidden, which kept the spirit in a state of trouble and
restlessness. Some talked of gold and jewels buried in the tomb, over
which the spectre kept watch; and there was a story current of a sexton in
old times who endeavoured to break his way to the coffin at night; but
just as he reached it, received a violent blow from the marble hand of the
effigy, which stretched him senseless on the pavement. These tales were
often laughed at by some of the sturdier among the rustics, yet when night
came on, there were many of the stoutest unbelievers that were shy of
venturing alone in the footpath that led across the churchyard. From these
and other anecdotes that followed, the crusader appeared to be the
favourite hero of ghost stories throughout the vicinity. His picture,
which hung up in the hall, was thought by the servants to have something
supernatural about it; for they remarked that, in whatever part of the
hall you went, the eyes of the warrior were still fixed on you. The old
porter's wife, too, at the lodge, who had been born and brought up in the
family, and was a great gossip among the maid servants, affirmed that in
her young days she had often heard say that on Midsummer eve, when it is
well known all kinds of ghosts, goblins, and fairies become visible and
walk abroad, the crusader used to mount his horse, come down from his
picture, ride about the house, down the avenue, and so to the church to
visit the tomb; on which occasion the church door most civilly swung open
of itself: not that he needed it; for he rode through closed gates and
even stone walls, and had been seen by one of the dairymaids to pass
between two bars of the great park gate, making himself as thin as a sheet
of paper.
All these superstitions, I found, had been very much countenanced by
the Squire, who, though not superstitious himself, was very fond of seeing
others so. He listened to every goblin tale of the neighbouring gossips
with infinite gravity, and held the porter's wife in high favour on
account of her talent for the marvellous. He was himself a great reader of
old legends and romances, and often lamented that he could not believe in
them; for a superstitious person, he thought, must live in a kind of
fairyland.
Whilst we we |
