A seam of medieval Christmas. Let us imagine Christmas Day in a medieval town
of northern England. The cathedral is only partly finished. Its nave and transepts
are the work of Norman architects, but the choir has been destroyed in order
to be rebuilt by more graceful designers and more skillful hands. The old city
is full of craftsmen assembled to complete the church. Some have come as a
religious duty to work off their tale of sins by bodily labor. Some are
animated by a love of art, simple men who might have rivaled with the
Greeks and ages of more cultivation. Others, again are well known carvers brought
for hire from distant towns and countries beyond the sea. But to day,
and for some days past, the sound of hammer and chisel has been silent
in the choir. Monks have bustled about the nave, dressing it up with
holly boughs and bushes of yew, and preparing a stage for the sacred play
they are going to exhibit on the feast day. Christmas is not like Corpus
Christie, And now the market place stands inches deep in snow. So that
the miracles must be enacted beneath the roof instead of in the open air.
And what place so appropriate as cathedral where poor people may have warmth and sheltered
while they see the show. Besides, the gloomy old church, with its
windows darkened by the falling snow, lends itself to candlelight effects that will enhance
the splendor of the scene. Everything is ready the incense of morning mass,
yet lingers round the altar. The voice of the fire, who told the
people from the pulp the story of Christ's birth, has hardly ceased to echo.
Time has just been given for a midday dinner, and for the shepherds
and the farm lads to troop in from the countryside. The monks are ready
at the wooden stage to draw its curtain, and all the knave is full
of eager fiss. There you may see the smith and carpenter, the butcher's
wife, the country priest, and the gray cowled friar. Scores of workmen
whose home the cathedral for the time is made are also here, and you
may know the artists by their thoughtful foreheads and keen eyes. That young monk
carved Madonna and her son above the southern porch. Beside him stands the master
mason, whose strong arms have hewn gigantic images of prophets and apostles for the
pinnacles outside the choir, and the little man with cunning eyes between the two,
as he who cuts such quaint hobgoblins for the gargoyles. He has a
vein of satire in him, and his humor overflows into the stone many and
many A grim beast and hideous head has he hidden among vine leaves and trellis
work upon the porches. Those who know him well are loath to anger him,
for fear their sons and sons sons should laugh at them forever caricatured insult
stone hark. There sums the bell. The curtain is drawn, and the
candles blaze brightly round the wooden stage. What is this first scene? We
have God in heaven, dressed like a pope with triple crown, and attended
by his court of angels. They sing and toss up censers till he lifts
his hand and speaks in a long Latin speech. He unfolds the order of
creation and his will concerning man. At the end of it, up leaps
an ugly buffoon in goat skin with ram's horns upon his head. Some children
begin to cry, but the older people laugh, for this is the devil,
the clown and comic character who talks their common tongue. It has no
reverence before the very throne of heaven. He asks leave to plague men and
receives it. Then, with many a curious caper, he goes down to
hell. Beneath the stage, The angels sing and toss their sins as before,
and the first scene closes to a sound of organs. The next is
more conventional, in spite of some grotesque incidents. It represents the fall.
The monks hurry over it quickly as a tedious but necessary prelude to the birth
of Christ. That is the true Christmas part of the ceremony, and it
is understood that the best actors in the most beautiful dresses are to be reserved
for it. The builders of the choir in particular, are interested in the
coming scenes, since one of their number has been chosen for his handsome face
and tenor voice to sing the angel's part. He is a young fellow of
nineteen, but his beard is not yet grown, and long hair hangs down
upon his shoulders a chorister of the cathedral. His younger brother will act the
Virgin Mary. At last the curtain is drawn. We see a cottage room
dimly lighted by a lamp, and Mary spinning near her bedside. She sings
a country air and goes on working till a rustling noise is heard. More
light is thrown upon the stage, and a glorious creature in white raiment with
a broad golden wings appears. He bears the lily and cries Ave Maria,
Grazia Blena. She does not answer, but stands confused with down dropped eyes
and timid mien. Gabriel rises from the ground and comforts her and sings aloud
as message of glad tidings. Then Mary gathers courage and kneeling in her turn
thanks God, And when the angel in his radiance disappears, she sings the
Song of the Magnificat clearly and simply. In the darkened room, very soft
and silver sounds this hymn through the Great Church. The women kneel and children
are hushed as by a lullaby, but some of the hinds and prentice lads
begin to think it rather dull. They are not sorry. When the next
scene opens with a sheepfold and a little camp fire. Unmistakable bleatings issue from
the fold, and five or six common fellows are sitting round the blazing wood.
One might fancy they had stepped straight from the church floor to the stage.
So natural do they look. Besides, they call themselves by common names,
Colin and Tom Lyobed and nimble Dick. Many a round laugh wakes echoes
in the church when these shepherds stand up and hold debate about a stolen sheep.
Tom lyobd has nothing to remark but that he is very sleepy and does
not want to go in search of it tonight. Colin cuts jokes and throws
out shrewd suspicions that Dick knows something of the matter. But Dick is sly
and keeps them off the scent, although a few of his asides reveal to
the audience that he is the real thief. While they are thus talking,
silence falls upon the shepherds. Soft music from the church organ breathes, and
they appear to fall asleep. The stage is now quite dark, and for
a few moments the isles echo only to the dying melody. When behold,
a ray of light is seen, and splendor grows around the stage from hidden
candles, and in the glory, Gabriel appears upon a higher platform made to
look like clouds. The shepherds waken confusion, striving to shelter their eyes from
this unwonted brilliancy. But Gabriel waves his lily, spreads its great gold wings,
and bids good cheer with clarion voice. The shepherds fall to worship,
and suddenly round Gabriel. There gathers a choir of angels and a song of
gloria enix chersis to the sound of a deep organ is heard far off from
distant dials. It swells and seems to come from Heaven through a long resonant
fugue. The glory flies, and as it ceases with complex conclusion, the
lights die out, the angels disappear, and Gabriel fades into the darkness.
Still, the shepherd's and eel rustically chanting a carol, half in Latin,
half in English, which begins in Dotchi jubilo. The people know it well,
and when the chorus rises with Ubi Suntgodia, its wild melody is caught
by voices up and down the nave. This scene makes deep impression upon many
hearts, for the beauty of Gabriel is rare, and few who see him
in his angel's dress would know him. For the lad who daily carves his
lilies and broad water flags about the pillars of the choir. To that simple
audience, he interprets heaven, and little children will see him in their dreams,
dark winter nights, and awful force, will be trodden by his feet,
made musical by his melodious voice, and parted by the rustling of his
wings. The youth himself may return to morrow, to the workman's blouse and
chisel, but his memory lives in many minds and may form a part of
Christmas, for the fancy of men is yet unborn. The next drawing of
the curtain shows as the stable of Bethlehem, crowned by its star. There
kneels Mary and Joseph leans upon his staff. The ox and the ass are
close at hand, and Jesus lies in jeweled robes on straw. Within the
manger to right and left bow. The shepherds worshiping in dumb show, while
voices from behind trannt to solemn him. In the midst of the melody is
heard the flourish of trumpets and Herald's step upon the stage, followed by the
three crowned kings. They have come from the far east, led by the
star. The song ceases, while drums and fifes and trumpets play a stately
march. The kings pass by, and due obeisance one by one, each
gives some costly gift. Each doffs his crown and leaves it at the Saviour's
feet. Then they retire to a distance and worship in silence, like the
shepherd's. Again, the angel's song is heard, and while it the eyes
away, the curtain closes and the lights are put out. The play is
over, and the evening has come. The people must go from the warm
church into the frozen snow and crunch their homeward way beneath the moon. But
in their minds they carry a sense of light and music and unearthly loveliness.
Not a scene of this day's pageant will be lost. It grows within them
and creates the poetry of Christmas. Nor must we forget the sculptors who listen
to the play. We spoke of them minutely, because these mysteries sank deep
into their souls and found a way into their carvings. On the cathedral walls.
The monk who made Madonna by the southern porch will remember Gabriel and place
them bending low in a lordly salutation by her side. The painted glass of
the chapter house will glow with fiery choires of angels learned by heart that night.
And who does not know the mocking devils and quaint sadders that the humorous
sculptor carved among his fruit and flowers. Some of the miserries of the stalls
still bare, portraits of the shepherd thief, and of the ox and ass
who blinked so blindly when the kings by torchlight brought their dazzling gifts. Truly,
these old miracle plays and the carved work of cunning hands that they inspired,
are worth to us more than all the delicate creations of Italian pencils.
Our homely northern churches still retain, for the child who reads their bosses in
their sculptured fronts, more Christmas poetry than we can find in Fra Angelico's devoutness
or the liveliness of Giotto. Not that Southern artists have done nothing for our
Christmas. Chimabui's gigantic angels at Assisi and the radiant serevs of Raphael or of
Signor Eli were seen by Milton in his Italian journey. He gazed in Romish
churches on graceful nativities into which Angelico and Creedy through their simple souls, How
much they tinged his fancy we cannot say. But what we know of heavenly
hierarchies we later men have learned from Milton, and what he saw he spoke,
and what he spoke in sounding verse lives for us now, and sways
our reason, and controls our fancy, and makes fine art of high theology.
End of a scene of medieval Christmas by John Addington Simmonds