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 flavor
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 tree, 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 moldering 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 fervor and pathos during the season of
Advent, and till 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 that 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 tinually 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 they
are to grow young and loving again among the endearing mementos 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 mantill
of refreshing green, and heaven with its deep delicious blue, as 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 my nature lies despoiled of
every charm, and wrapped in her shroud if she did 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,
should 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 ready 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 blasts 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 domesticalarity. 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
rights of Christmas. Is inspiring to read even the dry details which some antiquarians
have given of the quaint humors the burlesque pageants. The complete abandonment to mirth
and good fellowship with which this festival was celebrated, seemed to throw open.
Every door resounded with the harp and the Christmas carol, and their ample boards
grown 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, enjoining the gossip knot
huddled round the hearth, beguiling the long evening, the legendary jokes and oft
told Christmas tales. One of the least pleasing effects of modern refinement is the
havoc that has made among the hearty old holiday customs. It has completely taken
off the sharp touchings and spirited reliefs of these embellishments of life. 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 Charissa of old Falstaff, are become matters of speculation and dispute among
commentators. The flourished and time is 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 is become more wardly. There was more
dissipation and less of enjoyment. Pleasure has expanded into a broader, but a
shallower stream, as forsaken many of those deep and quiet channels where it flows
sweetly through the calm bosom of domestic life. Society has acquired a more enlightened
and elegant tone, but it has lost many of his strong local peculiarities,
his homebred feelings, his 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 parlor, but
are unfitted to delight showy saloons and gay drawing rooms of the modern villa.
Shorn. However, as it is of its ancient infestive. Christmas is still
a period of delightful excitement in England. 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 presence 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 enkindling benevolent sympathies. Even the sound of the
weights, rude, as may be their minstrelsy, breaks upon the mid watches
of a winter night, with the effects 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 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 the sacred festival. Some say that, ever against that
season comes wherein our Savior's birth is celebrated, this bird of dawning singeth all
night long. And then they say, no spirit dares stir abroad the knights
are wholesome. Then no planet strike, no fairy takes no which hath power
to charm. So hallowed and so gracious is the time, amidst the general
cause 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 through open its doors, nor the warm
grasp of friendship welcomed 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
cheerlessly 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 and of Christmas by Washington Irving