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A seam of medieval Christmas. Let
us imagine Christmas Day in a medieval town

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of northern England. The cathedral is
only partly finished. Its nave and transepts

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are the work of Norman architects,
but the choir has been destroyed in order

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to be rebuilt by more graceful designers
and more skillful hands. The old city

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is full of craftsmen assembled to complete
the church. Some have come as a

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religious duty to work off their tale
of sins by bodily labor. Some are

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animated by a love of art,
simple men who might have rivaled with the

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Greeks and ages of more cultivation.
Others, again are well known carvers brought

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for hire from distant towns and countries
beyond the sea. But to day,

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and for some days past, the
sound of hammer and chisel has been silent

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in the choir. Monks have bustled
about the nave, dressing it up with

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holly boughs and bushes of yew,
and preparing a stage for the sacred play

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they are going to exhibit on the
feast day. Christmas is not like Corpus

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Christie, And now the market place
stands inches deep in snow. So that

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the miracles must be enacted beneath the
roof instead of in the open air.

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And what place so appropriate as cathedral
where poor people may have warmth and sheltered

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while they see the show. Besides, the gloomy old church, with its

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windows darkened by the falling snow,
lends itself to candlelight effects that will enhance

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the splendor of the scene. Everything
is ready the incense of morning mass,

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yet lingers round the altar. The
voice of the fire, who told the

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people from the pulp the story of
Christ's birth, has hardly ceased to echo.

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Time has just been given for a
midday dinner, and for the shepherds

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and the farm lads to troop in
from the countryside. The monks are ready

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at the wooden stage to draw its
curtain, and all the knave is full

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of eager fiss. There you may
see the smith and carpenter, the butcher's

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wife, the country priest, and
the gray cowled friar. Scores of workmen

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whose home the cathedral for the time
is made are also here, and you

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may know the artists by their thoughtful
foreheads and keen eyes. That young monk

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carved Madonna and her son above the
southern porch. Beside him stands the master

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mason, whose strong arms have hewn
gigantic images of prophets and apostles for the

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pinnacles outside the choir, and the
little man with cunning eyes between the two,

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as he who cuts such quaint hobgoblins
for the gargoyles. He has a

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vein of satire in him, and
his humor overflows into the stone many and

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many A grim beast and hideous head
has he hidden among vine leaves and trellis

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work upon the porches. Those who
know him well are loath to anger him,

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for fear their sons and sons sons
should laugh at them forever caricatured insult

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stone hark. There sums the bell. The curtain is drawn, and the

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candles blaze brightly round the wooden stage. What is this first scene? We

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have God in heaven, dressed like
a pope with triple crown, and attended

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by his court of angels. They
sing and toss up censers till he lifts

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his hand and speaks in a long
Latin speech. He unfolds the order of

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creation and his will concerning man.
At the end of it, up leaps

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an ugly buffoon in goat skin with
ram's horns upon his head. Some children

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begin to cry, but the older
people laugh, for this is the devil,

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the clown and comic character who talks
their common tongue. It has no

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reverence before the very throne of heaven. He asks leave to plague men and

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receives it. Then, with many
a curious caper, he goes down to

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hell. Beneath the stage, The
angels sing and toss their sins as before,

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and the first scene closes to a
sound of organs. The next is

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more conventional, in spite of some
grotesque incidents. It represents the fall.

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The monks hurry over it quickly as
a tedious but necessary prelude to the birth

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of Christ. That is the true
Christmas part of the ceremony, and it

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is understood that the best actors in
the most beautiful dresses are to be reserved

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for it. The builders of the
choir in particular, are interested in the

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coming scenes, since one of their
number has been chosen for his handsome face

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and tenor voice to sing the angel's
part. He is a young fellow of

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nineteen, but his beard is not
yet grown, and long hair hangs down

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upon his shoulders a chorister of the
cathedral. His younger brother will act the

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Virgin Mary. At last the curtain
is drawn. We see a cottage room

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dimly lighted by a lamp, and
Mary spinning near her bedside. She sings

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a country air and goes on working
till a rustling noise is heard. More

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light is thrown upon the stage,
and a glorious creature in white raiment with

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a broad golden wings appears. He
bears the lily and cries Ave Maria,

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Grazia Blena. She does not answer, but stands confused with down dropped eyes

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and timid mien. Gabriel rises from
the ground and comforts her and sings aloud

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as message of glad tidings. Then
Mary gathers courage and kneeling in her turn

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thanks God, And when the angel
in his radiance disappears, she sings the

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Song of the Magnificat clearly and simply. In the darkened room, very soft

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and silver sounds this hymn through the
Great Church. The women kneel and children

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are hushed as by a lullaby,
but some of the hinds and prentice lads

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begin to think it rather dull.
They are not sorry. When the next

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scene opens with a sheepfold and a
little camp fire. Unmistakable bleatings issue from

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the fold, and five or six
common fellows are sitting round the blazing wood.

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One might fancy they had stepped straight
from the church floor to the stage.

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So natural do they look. Besides, they call themselves by common names,

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Colin and Tom Lyobed and nimble Dick. Many a round laugh wakes echoes

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in the church when these shepherds stand
up and hold debate about a stolen sheep.

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Tom lyobd has nothing to remark but
that he is very sleepy and does

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not want to go in search of
it tonight. Colin cuts jokes and throws

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out shrewd suspicions that Dick knows something
of the matter. But Dick is sly

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and keeps them off the scent,
although a few of his asides reveal to

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the audience that he is the real
thief. While they are thus talking,

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silence falls upon the shepherds. Soft
music from the church organ breathes, and

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they appear to fall asleep. The
stage is now quite dark, and for

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a few moments the isles echo only
to the dying melody. When behold,

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a ray of light is seen,
and splendor grows around the stage from hidden

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candles, and in the glory,
Gabriel appears upon a higher platform made to

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look like clouds. The shepherds waken
confusion, striving to shelter their eyes from

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this unwonted brilliancy. But Gabriel waves
his lily, spreads its great gold wings,

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and bids good cheer with clarion voice. The shepherds fall to worship,

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and suddenly round Gabriel. There gathers
a choir of angels and a song of

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gloria enix chersis to the sound of
a deep organ is heard far off from

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distant dials. It swells and seems
to come from Heaven through a long resonant

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fugue. The glory flies, and
as it ceases with complex conclusion, the

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lights die out, the angels disappear, and Gabriel fades into the darkness.

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Still, the shepherd's and eel rustically
chanting a carol, half in Latin,

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half in English, which begins in
Dotchi jubilo. The people know it well,

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and when the chorus rises with Ubi
Suntgodia, its wild melody is caught

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by voices up and down the nave. This scene makes deep impression upon many

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hearts, for the beauty of Gabriel
is rare, and few who see him

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in his angel's dress would know him. For the lad who daily carves his

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lilies and broad water flags about the
pillars of the choir. To that simple

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audience, he interprets heaven, and
little children will see him in their dreams,

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dark winter nights, and awful force, will be trodden by his feet,

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made musical by his melodious voice,
and parted by the rustling of his

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wings. The youth himself may return
to morrow, to the workman's blouse and

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chisel, but his memory lives in
many minds and may form a part of

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Christmas, for the fancy of men
is yet unborn. The next drawing of

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the curtain shows as the stable of
Bethlehem, crowned by its star. There

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kneels Mary and Joseph leans upon his
staff. The ox and the ass are

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close at hand, and Jesus lies
in jeweled robes on straw. Within the

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manger to right and left bow.
The shepherds worshiping in dumb show, while

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voices from behind trannt to solemn him. In the midst of the melody is

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heard the flourish of trumpets and Herald's
step upon the stage, followed by the

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three crowned kings. They have come
from the far east, led by the

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star. The song ceases, while
drums and fifes and trumpets play a stately

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march. The kings pass by,
and due obeisance one by one, each

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gives some costly gift. Each doffs
his crown and leaves it at the Saviour's

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feet. Then they retire to a
distance and worship in silence, like the

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shepherd's. Again, the angel's song
is heard, and while it the eyes

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away, the curtain closes and the
lights are put out. The play is

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over, and the evening has come. The people must go from the warm

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church into the frozen snow and crunch
their homeward way beneath the moon. But

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in their minds they carry a sense
of light and music and unearthly loveliness.

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Not a scene of this day's pageant
will be lost. It grows within them

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and creates the poetry of Christmas.
Nor must we forget the sculptors who listen

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to the play. We spoke of
them minutely, because these mysteries sank deep

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into their souls and found a way
into their carvings. On the cathedral walls.

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The monk who made Madonna by the
southern porch will remember Gabriel and place

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them bending low in a lordly salutation
by her side. The painted glass of

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the chapter house will glow with fiery
choires of angels learned by heart that night.

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And who does not know the mocking
devils and quaint sadders that the humorous

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sculptor carved among his fruit and flowers. Some of the miserries of the stalls

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still bare, portraits of the shepherd
thief, and of the ox and ass

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who blinked so blindly when the kings
by torchlight brought their dazzling gifts. Truly,

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these old miracle plays and the carved
work of cunning hands that they inspired,

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are worth to us more than all
the delicate creations of Italian pencils.

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Our homely northern churches still retain,
for the child who reads their bosses in

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their sculptured fronts, more Christmas poetry
than we can find in Fra Angelico's devoutness

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or the liveliness of Giotto. Not
that Southern artists have done nothing for our

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Christmas. Chimabui's gigantic angels at Assisi
and the radiant serevs of Raphael or of

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Signor Eli were seen by Milton in
his Italian journey. He gazed in Romish

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churches on graceful nativities into which Angelico
and Creedy through their simple souls, How

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much they tinged his fancy we cannot
say. But what we know of heavenly

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hierarchies we later men have learned from
Milton, and what he saw he spoke,

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and what he spoke in sounding verse
lives for us now, and sways

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our reason, and controls our fancy, and makes fine art of high theology.

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End of a scene of medieval Christmas
by John Addington Simmonds