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Speaker 1: A seam of medieval Christmas. Let us imagine Christmas Day

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in a medieval town of northern England. The cathedral is

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only partly finished. Its nave and transepts are the work

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of Norman architects, but the choir has been destroyed in

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order to be rebuilt by more graceful designers and more

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skillful hands. The old city is full of craftsmen assembled

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to complete the church. Some have come as a religious

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

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Some are animated by a love of art, simple men

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who might have rivaled with the Greeks and ages of

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more cultivation. Others, again are well known carvers brought for

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hire from distant towns and countries beyond the sea. But

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to day, and for some days past, the sound of

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hammer and chisel has been silent in the choir. Monks

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have bustled about the nave, dressing it up with holly

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boughs and bushes of yew, and preparing a stage for

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the sacred play they are going to exhibit on the

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feast day. Christmas is not like Corpus Christie, And now

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the market place stands inches deep in snow. So that

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the miracles must be enacted beneath the roof instead of

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in the open air. And what place so appropriate as

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cathedral where poor people may have warmth and sheltered while

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

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its windows darkened by the falling snow, lends itself to

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candlelight effects that will enhance the splendor of the scene.

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Everything is ready the incense of morning mass, yet lingers

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

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the people from the pulp the story of Christ's birth,

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has hardly ceased to echo. Time has just been given

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for a midday dinner, and for the shepherds and the

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farm lads to troop in from the countryside. The monks

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are ready at the wooden stage to draw its curtain,

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and all the knave is full of eager fiss. There

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you may see the smith and carpenter, the butcher's wife,

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

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workmen whose home the cathedral for the time is made

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are also here, and you may know the artists by

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their thoughtful foreheads and keen eyes. That young monk carved

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Madonna and her son above the southern porch. Beside him

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stands the master mason, whose strong arms have hewn gigantic

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images of prophets and apostles for the pinnacles outside the choir,

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and the little man with cunning eyes between the two,

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as he who cuts such quaint hobgoblins for the gargoyles.

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He has a vein of satire in him, and his

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humor overflows into the stone many and many A grim

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beast and hideous head has he hidden among vine leaves

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and trellis work upon the porches. Those who know him

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well are loath to anger him, for fear their sons

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and sons sons should laugh at them forever caricatured insult

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

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and the candles blaze brightly round the wooden stage. What

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is this first scene? We have God in heaven, dressed

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like a pope with triple crown, and attended by his

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court of angels. They sing and toss up censers till

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he lifts his hand and speaks in a long Latin speech.

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He unfolds the order of creation and his will concerning man.

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At the end of it, up leaps an ugly buffoon

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in goat skin with ram's horns upon his head. Some

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children begin to cry, but the older people laugh, for

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this is the devil, the clown and comic character who

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talks their common tongue. It has no reverence before the

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very throne of heaven. He asks leave to plague men

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and receives it. Then, with many a curious caper, he

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goes down to hell. Beneath the stage, The angels sing

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and toss their sins as before, and the first scene

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closes to a sound of organs. The next is more conventional,

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in spite of some grotesque incidents. It represents the fall.

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The monks hurry over it quickly as a tedious but

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necessary prelude to the birth of Christ. That is the

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true Christmas part of the ceremony, and it is understood

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that the best actors in the most beautiful dresses are

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to be reserved for it. The builders of the choir

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in particular, are interested in the coming scenes, since one

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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

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a young fellow of nineteen, but his beard is not

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yet grown, and long hair hangs down upon his shoulders

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a chorister of the cathedral. His younger brother will act

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the Virgin Mary. At last the curtain is drawn. We

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see a cottage room dimly lighted by a lamp, and

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Mary spinning near her bedside. She sings a country air

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and goes on working till a rustling noise is heard.

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More light is thrown upon the stage, and a glorious

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creature in white raiment with a broad golden wings appears.

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He bears the lily and cries Ave Maria, Grazia Blena.

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She does not answer, but stands confused with down dropped

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eyes and timid mien. Gabriel rises from the ground and

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comforts her and sings aloud as message of glad tidings.

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Then Mary gathers courage and kneeling in her turn thanks God,

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And when the angel in his radiance disappears, she sings

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the Song of the Magnificat clearly and simply. In the

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darkened room, very soft and silver sounds this hymn through

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the Great Church. The women kneel and children are hushed

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as by a lullaby, but some of the hinds and

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prentice lads begin to think it rather dull. They are

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not sorry. When the next scene opens with a sheepfold

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and a little camp fire. Unmistakable bleatings issue from the fold,

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and five or six common fellows are sitting round the

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blazing wood. One might fancy they had stepped straight from

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the church floor to the stage. So natural do they look. Besides,

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they call themselves by common names, Colin and Tom Lyobed

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and nimble Dick. Many a round laugh wakes echoes in

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the church when these shepherds stand up and hold debate

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about a stolen sheep. Tom lyobd has nothing to remark

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but that he is very sleepy and does not want

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to go in search of it tonight. Colin cuts jokes

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and throws out shrewd suspicions that Dick knows something of

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the matter. But Dick is sly and keeps them off

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the scent, although a few of his asides reveal to

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the audience that he is the real thief. While they

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are thus talking, silence falls upon the shepherds. Soft music

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from the church organ breathes, and they appear to fall asleep.

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The stage is now quite dark, and for a few

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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

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the stage from hidden candles, and in the glory, Gabriel

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appears upon a higher platform made to look like clouds.

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The shepherds waken confusion, striving to shelter their eyes from

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

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great gold wings, and bids good cheer with clarion voice.

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The shepherds fall to worship, and suddenly round Gabriel. There

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gathers a choir of angels and a song of gloria

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enix chersis to the sound of a deep organ is

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heard far off from distant dials. It swells and seems

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to come from Heaven through a long resonant fugue. The

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glory flies, and as it ceases with complex conclusion, the

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

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the darkness. Still, the shepherd's and eel rustically chanting a carol,

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half in Latin, half in English, which begins in Dotchi jubilo.

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The people know it well, and when the chorus rises

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with Ubi Suntgodia, its wild melody is caught by voices

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up and down the nave. This scene makes deep impression

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upon many hearts, for the beauty of Gabriel is rare,

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and few who see him in his angel's dress would

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know him. For the lad who daily carves his lilies

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and broad water flags about the pillars of the choir.

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To that simple audience, he interprets heaven, and little children

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will see him in their dreams, dark winter nights, and

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awful force, will be trodden by his feet, made musical

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by his melodious voice, and parted by the rustling of

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his wings. The youth himself may return to morrow, to

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the workman's blouse and chisel, but his memory lives in

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many minds and may form a part of Christmas, for

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the fancy of men is yet unborn. The next drawing

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of the curtain shows as the stable of Bethlehem, crowned

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by its star. There kneels Mary and Joseph leans upon

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his staff. The ox and the ass are close at hand,

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and Jesus lies in jeweled robes on straw. Within the

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manger to right and left bow. The shepherds worshiping in

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dumb show, while voices from behind trannt to solemn him.

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In the midst of the melody is heard the flourish

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

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

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led by the star. The song ceases, while drums and

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fifes and trumpets play a stately march. The kings pass by,

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and due obeisance one by one, each gives some costly gift.

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Each doffs his crown and leaves it at the Saviour's feet.

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Then they retire to a distance and worship in silence,

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like the shepherd's. Again, the angel's song is heard, and

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while it the eyes away, the curtain closes and the

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lights are put out. The play is over, and the

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evening has come. The people must go from the warm

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church into the frozen snow and crunch their homeward way

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beneath the moon. But in their minds they carry a

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sense of light and music and unearthly loveliness. Not a

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scene of this day's pageant will be lost. It grows

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within them and creates the poetry of Christmas. Nor must

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we forget the sculptors who listen to the play. We

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spoke of them minutely, because these mysteries sank deep into

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their souls and found a way into their carvings. On

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the cathedral walls. The monk who made Madonna by the

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southern porch will remember Gabriel and place them bending low

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in a lordly salutation by her side. The painted glass

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of the chapter house will glow with fiery choires of

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angels learned by heart that night. And who does not

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know the mocking devils and quaint sadders that the humorous

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sculptor carved among his fruit and flowers. Some of the

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miserries of the stalls still bare, portraits of the shepherd thief,

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and of the ox and ass who blinked so blindly

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when the kings by torchlight brought their dazzling gifts. Truly,

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these old miracle plays and the carved work of cunning

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hands that they inspired, are worth to us more than

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all the delicate creations of Italian pencils. Our homely northern

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churches still retain, for the child who reads their bosses

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in their sculptured fronts, more Christmas poetry than we can

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find in Fra Angelico's devoutness or the liveliness of Giotto.

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Not that Southern artists have done nothing for our Christmas.

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Chimabui's gigantic angels at Assisi and the radiant serevs of

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Raphael or of Signor Eli were seen by Milton in

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his Italian journey. He gazed in Romish churches on graceful

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nativities into which Angelico and Creedy through their simple souls,

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How much they tinged his fancy we cannot say. But

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what we know of heavenly hierarchies we later men have

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learned from Milton, and what he saw he spoke, and

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what he spoke in sounding verse lives for us now,

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and sways our reason, and controls our fancy, and makes

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fine art of high theology. End of a scene of

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medieval Christmas by John Addington Simmonds