Old Christmas

OLD CHRISTMAS

By Washington Irving


But is old, old, good old Christmas gone? Nothing but the hair of his
good, gray, old head and beard left? Well, I will have that, seeing that
I cannot have more of him.

Hue and Cry after Christmas.




CONTENTS


CHRISTMAS

THE STAGE-COACH

CHRISTMAS EVE

CHRISTMAS DAY

THE CHRISTMAS DINNER


     A man might then behold
       At Christmas, in each hall
     Good fires to curb the cold,
       And meat for great and small.
     The neighbours were friendly bidden,
       And all had welcome true,
     The poor from the gates were not chidden,
       When this old cap was new.

     Old Song




Christmas


There is nothing in England that 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 flavour 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 mouldering 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 our conviviality, 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
fervour and pathos during the season of Advent, until they break forth
in full 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 than to
hear the full choir and the pealing organ performing a Christmas anthem
in a 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 bands 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. Our feelings sally forth
and dissipate themselves over the sunny landscape, and we "live abroad
and everywhere." The song of the bird, the murmur of the stream, the
breathing fragrance of spring, the soft voluptuousness of summer, the
golden pomp of autumn; earth with its mantle of refreshing green, and
heaven with its deep delicious blue and its cloudy magnificence, all
fill us with mute but exquisite delight, and we revel in the luxury of
mere sensation. But in the depth of winter, when nature lies despoiled
of every charm, and wrapped in her shroud of sheeted snow, we turn for