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Speaker 1: The arraignment, conviction and imprisonment of Christmas on Saint Thomas's

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Day last, and how he broke out a prison in

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the holidays and got away only left his hoary hair

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and gray beard sticking between two iron bars of a

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window with a hue and cry after Christmas. And a

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letter from mister Woodcock, a fellow in Oxford to a

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malignant lady in London. And diver's passages between the lady

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and the crier about old Christmas and what shift he

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was fain to make to save his life and great

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stir to fetch him back again with divers other witty

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passages prepared by some and minced pie for sicily plum porridge,

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and are to be sold by Ralph Fiddler Chandler at

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the sign of the pack of Cards in Mustard Alley

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in Braun Street, sixteen forty five. This is a LibriVox recording.

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All liberyvox recordings are in the public domain. For more

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information or to volunteer plays, visit lebryvox dot org. Read

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by algiepug Perth, Western Australia. Lady, I beseech you for

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the love of Oxford Hire, A crier I will see

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him paid for his pains. To cry old Father Christmas,

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and keep him with you if you can meet with

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him and stay him till we come to London, for

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we expect to be there shortly, and then we will

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have all things as they were, Won't I warrant you

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hold up your spirits and let not your old friends

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be lost out of your favor. For his sake? Who

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is your ever servant, Joe Woodcock? Lady, honest cry, I

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knew thou newest old Father Christmas. I am sent to

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thee from an honest scholar of Oxford that hath given

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me many a hug and kiss in Christmas time, when

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we have been ready to Christmas for thee here he

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has gone from heads, and that we have lost the

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poor old man. You know what marks he hath and

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how to cry him crier? He shall pay me for

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my pains. Lady, your old friend, mister Woodcock of Oxford.

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Wilt thou take his word crier? I will cry him.

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I warrant you through the city and country, and it

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shall go hard, but I will find him out. I

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can partly guess who can tell some news of him?

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If any people in England can for I am acquainted

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with all his familiar friends. Trust me in this business.

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I'll bring you word within few days. Oh yes, oh yes,

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oh yes. Any man or woman, whether popish or prolactical,

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superstitious or judaical, or what person so of any tribe

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or trulleybub that can give any knowledge or tell any

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tidings of an old, old, old, very old, gray bearded

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gentleman called Christmas, who was wont to be a very

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familiar guest and visit all sorts of people, both rich

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and poor, and used to appear in glittering gold, silk

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and silver in the court and in all shapes in

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the theater in Whitehall, and had ringing feasts and jollity

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in all places, both in the city and country for

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his coming. If you went to the temple, you might

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have found him there at inn and inn till many

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a gentleman had outed all the money from his pocket,

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and after all the butlers found him blocked up in

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their boxes, and in almost every house, you might have

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found him at cards and dice. The very boys and

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children could have traced him, and the beggars have followed

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him from place to place, him walking up and down

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and in every house, roast beef and mutton pies and

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plum porridge, and all manner of delicates round about him,

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and everyone saluting Merry Christmas. If you had gone to

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the Queen's chapel, you might have found him standing against

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the wall, and the papists weeping and beating themselves before him,

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and kissing his hoary head with superstitious tears, in a

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theater exceeding all the plays of the bull, the Fortune,

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and the cock pit for age. This hoary headed man

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was of great years, and as white as snow. He

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entered the Romish calendar time out of mind is old

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or very fleer, as Father Methusalem, was one that looked

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fresh in the bishop's time, though therefore made him pine

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away ever since he was full and fat as any

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dumb doctor of them all. He looked under the consecrated

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lawn sleeves as big as bulled beef, just like Bacchus

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upon a ton of wine, when the grapes hang shaking

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about his ears. But since the catalike liquor is taken

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away from him, he is much wasted, so that he

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hath looked very thin and ill of late. But the

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wanton women that are so mad after him, do not

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know how he is metamorphized, so that he is not

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now like himself, but rather like Jack Olnt. But yet,

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some other marks that you may know him by is

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that the wanton women dote after him. He helped them

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to so many new gowns, hats, and handkerchiefs, and other

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fine knacks, of which he hath a pack on his back,

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in which is good store of all sorts. Besides the

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fine knacks that he got out of their husband's pockets

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for household provisions. For him, he got prentices, servants and scholars,

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many play days, and therefore was well beloved by them also,

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and made all merry with bagpipes, fiddles and other musics, gigs,

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dancers and mummings. Yay, the young people had more merry

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days and hours before him whilst he stayed, which was

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in some houses twelve days, in some twenty, in some more,

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in some less than in all a year. Again, all

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knew therefore that by your diligent inquiry, can tell me

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any tidings of this old man called Christmas, and tell

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me where he may be met withal, whether in any

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of your streets or elsewhere, though in never so straightened

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a place in an apple woman's stall, or grocer's current tub,

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in a cook's oven, or the maid's porridge pot, or

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crept into some corner of a translator shop where the

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cobbler was so merrily to chaunt his carols. Whosoever can

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tell what is become of him, or where he may

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be found, let them bring him again into England to

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the Crier, and they shall have a benediction from the Pope,

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one hundred oaths from the cavaliers, forty kisses from the

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wanton wenches, and be made persevered to the next archbishop.

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Malignants will send him a piece of brawn, and ever

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apprenticed boy will give him his point of wine. Next

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Holy Thursday, the good wives will keep him in some

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corner of their mince pies, and the new Nuncio Island

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will return him to be canonized the next reformation of

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the calendar. And so Pope save Christmas. Crier, Lady, I

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am come to tell you what return I can make

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of the crying of old Father Christmas, which I have done.

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And I am now here to give you an answer, lady,

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well said, honest mister Woodcock will remember you for it. Cry,

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the poor old man upon Saint Thomas. His day was

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a rain condemned, and after conviction cast into prison amongst

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the king's soldiers, fearing to be hanged or some other

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execution to be done upon him, and got out at

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so narrow a passage between two iron bars of a window,

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that nothing but onely his old gray beard and hoary

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hair of his head stuck there, but nothing else to

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be seen of him. And if you will have that,

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compound for it, lest it be sold among the sequestered goods,

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or burnt with the next popish pictures by the hand

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of the hangman lady.

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Speaker 2: But is old old, good old Christmas gone? Nothing but

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the hair of his good, grieve old head and beard left. Well,

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I will have that, seeing I cannot have more of him.

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One lock whereof will serve mister Woodcock for a token.

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But what is the event of his departure?

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Speaker 1: Crier? The poor are sorry for it, for they go

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to every door of begging, as they were wonte to

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do good missus somewhat against this good time. But time

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was transform'd away, be gone. He is not for you,

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And so they, instead of going to the ale house

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to be drunk, were fain to work all the holidays.

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The scholars came into the hall where their hungry stomachs

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had thought to have found good brawn and Christmas pies,

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roast beef and plum porridge. But no such matter. Away,

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ye profane, these are superstitious meats. Your stomachs must be

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fed with wholesome doctrine. Alas poor tallow faced chandlers. I

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met them morning through the streets, and complaining that they

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could get no vent for their mustard for want of brawn. Lady, Well,

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if ever the Catholics or bishops ruly get in England,

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they will set the church doors open on Christmas Day,

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and we shall have Mass at the high Altar, as

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was used when the day was first instituted, and not

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have the Holy Eucharist bard out of school, as schoolboys

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do their masters against the festival. What shall we have

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our mouths shut to welcome Old Christmas? No, no bid

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him come by night over the Thames, and we will

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have a back door open to let him in. I

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will myself give him his diet for one year to

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try his fortune. This time twelvemonth, it may prove better