Speaker 1: Christmas in England by Washington Irving, there is nothing in
England but 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, 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 ot and viviality,
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, until they break
forth in 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. And to hear
the full choir and the pealing organ performing a Christmas
anthem in the 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 bonds of kindred hearts
which the cares and pleasures and sorrows of the world
are continually 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, there to
grow young and loving again among the endearing mementoes 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. In the course of
a December tour in Yorkshire, I rode for some distance
in one of the public coaches on the day preceding Christmas.
The coach was crowded both inside and out with passengers who,
by their talk seemed principally bound to the mansions of
relations and friends to eat the Christmas dinner. It was
loaded also withers of game, and baskets and boxes of delicacies,
and hares hung dangling their long ears about the coachman's
box presents from distant friends for the impending feasts. I
had three fine, rosy cheeked schoolboys for my fellow passengers, inside,
full of the buxom health and manly spirits which I
have observed in the children of this country. They were
returning home for the holidays in high glee and promising
themselves a world of enjoyment. It was delightful to hear
the gigantic plans of pleasure of the little rogues and
the impracticable feats they were to perform during their six
weeks emancipation from the abhorred thraldom of book Birch and Pedagogue.
They were full of anticipations of the meeting with the
family and household down to the very cat and dog,
and of the joy they were to give their little
sisters by the presents with which their pockets were crammed.
But the meeting to which they seemed to look forward
with the greatest impatience was with Bantam, which I found
to be a pony and, according to their talk, possessed
of more virtues than any steed since the days of Bucephalus.
How he could trot, how he could run, and then
such leaps as he would take. There was not a
hedge in the whole country that he could not clear.
They were under the particular guardianship of the coachman, to whom,
whenever an opportunity presented, they addressed a host of questions
and pronounced him one of the best fellows in the
whole world. Indeed, I could not but notice the more
than ordinary air of bustle and importance of the coachman,
who wore his hat a little on one side and
had a large bunch of Christmas greens stuck in the
buttonhole of his coat. He is always a personage full
of mighty care and bud business, and he is particularly
so during this season, having so many commissions to execute
in consequence of the great interchange of presents. Perhaps the
impending holiday might have given a more than usual animation
to the country, for it seemed to me as if
everybody was in good looks and good spirits. Game, poultry,
and other luxuries of the table were in brisk circulation
in the villages. The grocers, butchers, and fruiterer's shops were
thronged with customers. The housewives were stirring briskly about putting
their dwellings in order, and the glossy branches of holly,
with their bright red berries, began to appear at the windows.
The scene brought to mind an old writer's account of
Christmas preparations. Now, capons and hens, besides turkeys, geese and ducks,
with beef and mutton, must all die, for in twelve
days a multitude of people will not be fed with
a little. Now plums and spice, sugar and honey, square
it among pies and broth. Now or never must music
be in tune. For the youth must dance and sing
to get them a heat, while the aged sit by
the fire. The country maid leaves half her market and
must be sent again if she forgets a pack of
cards on Christmas Eve. Great is the contention of holly
and ivy. Whether master or dame wears the breeches, dice
and cards benefit the butler, And if the cook do
not lack wit, he will sweetly lick his fingers. End
of Christmas in England by Washington Irving