Speaker 1: 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