Part 15
Not that our firesides are altogether without domestic fortune-tellers or amateur practitioners in the art of sleight-of-hand. But the prophecies of the former are drawn from, and the feats of the other performed with the cards. Indeed we must not omit to particularize cards as furnishing in all their uses one of the great resources at this season of long evenings and in-door amusements, as they appear also to have formed an express feature of the Christmas entertainments of all ranks of people in old times. We are told that the squire of three hundred a-year in Queen Anne's time "never played at cards but at Christmas, when the family pack was produced from the mantel-piece;" and Stevenson, an old writer of Charles the Second's time, in an enumeration of the preparations making for the mirth of the season, tells us that "the country-maid leaves half her market and must be sent again, if she forgets a pack of cards on Christmas Eve." And who of us all has not shared in the uproarious mirth which young and unclouded spirits find, amid the intrigues and speculations of a round game! To the over-scrupulous on religious grounds, who, looking upon cards as the "devil's books," and to the moral alarmist who, considering card-playing to be in itself gaming, would each object to this species of recreation for the young and innocent, it may be interesting to know that the practice has been defended by that bishop of bishops, Jeremy Taylor himself, and that he insists upon no argument against the innocence of a practice being inferred from its abuse.
We have before alluded to the bards and harpers who assembled in ancient days at this time of wassail, making the old halls to echo to the voice of music, and stirring the blood with the legends of chivalry or chilling it with the wizard tale. And the tale and the song are amongst the spirits that wait on Christmas still, and charm the long winter evenings with their yet undiminished spells. Many a Christmas evening has flown over our heads on the wings of music, sweeter, far sweeter, dearer, a thousand times dearer, than ever was played by wandering minstrel or uttered by stipendiary bard; and we have formed a portion of happy groups, when some thrilling story has sent a chain of sympathetic feeling through hearts that shall beat in unison no more, and tales of the grave and its tenants have sent a paleness into cheeks that the grave itself hath since made paler still.
The winter hearth is the very land of gossip-red. There it is that superstition loves to tell her marvels, and curiosity to gather them. The gloom and desolation without, with the wild, unearthly voice of the blast, as it sweeps over a waste of snows and cuts sharp against the leafless branches, or the wan sepulchral light that shows the dreary earth as it were covered with a pall, and the trees like spectres rising from beneath it, alike send men huddling round the blazing fire, and awaken those impressions of the wild and shadowy and unsubstantial, to which tales of marvel or of terror are such welcome food. But other inspirations are born of the blaze itself; and the jest and the laugh and the merry narration are of the spirits that are raised within the magic circles that surround it.
"They should have drawn thee by the high heap't hearth, Old Winter! seated in thy great armed-chair, Watching the children at their Christmas mirth; Or circled by them, as thy lips declare Some merry jest, or tale of murder dire, Or troubled spirit that disturbs the night; Pausing at times to move the languid fire, Or taste the old October, brown and bright."
The song and the story, the recitation and the book read aloud are, in town and in village, mansion and farmhouse, amongst the universal resources of the winter nights now, as they or their equivalents have at all times been. The narratives of "old adventures, and valiaunces of noble knights, in times past," the stories of Sir Bevys of Southampton and Sir Guy of Warwick, of Adam Bell, Clymme of the Clough, and William of Cloudesley, with other ancient romances or historical rhymes, which formed the recreation of the common people at their Christmas dinners and bride-ales long ago, may have made way for the wild legend of the sea, or fearful anecdote--
"Of horrid apparition, tall and ghastly, That walks at dead of night, or takes its stand O'er some new opened grave, and, strange to tell, Evanishes at crowing of the cock;"
and for the more touching ballads which sing of the late repentance of the cruel Barbara Allan,--
"O mither, mither, mak my bed, O mak it saft and narrow; Since my love died for me to-day, I'll die for him to morrow;"
or how the
"Pretty babes, with hand in hand, Went wandering up and down; But never more could see the man Returning from the town;"
or how "there came a ghost to Margaret's door," and chilled the life-blood in her veins, by his awful announcement,--
"My bones are buried in a kirk-yard, Afar beyond the sea; And it is but my sprite, Marg'ret, That's speaking now to thee;"
or may have been replaced, in higher quarters, by the improved narrative literature of the present day, and the traditions or memories which haunt all homes. But the spirit of the entertainment itself is still the same, varied only by circumstances in its forms.
It is apparently by a group of the latter kind that this branch of the Christmas amusements is illustrated in the plate. The youthful members of a family are listening, in all probability, to some tale of their sires, related by the withered crone, who, grown old in that service, links those young beings with a generation gone by, and stands, as it were, prophesying "betwixt the living and the dead." If we may judge from the aspect of the aged sybil herself, and the pale and earnest faces that surround her, the narrative which she is imparting is one of the fearful class, and not to be listened to beyond the cheering inspirations of that bright fire; although the moving shadows which it flings upon the old walls are amongst the terrors which are born of her story. For the scene of these emotions, the artist has chosen, as artists still love to do, the chamber of an ancient mansion, with its huge chimney and oriel-window. And it may be that for picturesque effects which are to address themselves to the eye, artists are right in so doing. No doubt, the high chronicles of chivalry, and the mysterious traditions of the past, comport well with the gloom of the gothic gallery;--and, certainly, the long rambling passages of an old house afford at once room for the wandering of ghosts, and that dim, shadowy light by which imagination sees them best. But the true poetry of life is not confined to ancient dwellings; and every house, in every crowded thoroughfare of every city, has its own tales to tell around the Christmas fire. The most pert-looking dwelling of them all, that may seem as if it were forever staring out of its sash windows into the street, has its own mysteries, and is, if it have been tenanted sufficiently long, as closely haunted by recollections as the baron's castle, or the squire's old manor-house. Like them,--
"_Its_ stones have voices, and _its_ walls do live; It is the house of memory!"
Within its neat parlors and light saloons, the lyre of human passions has been struck on all its chords. Birth and death, marriage and separation, joy and grief, in all their familiar forms, have knocked at its painted door, and crossed its narrow threshold; and the hearts within have their own traditions of the past, and their own reckonings to take, and their own anecdotes to revise, and their own ghosts to bring back, amid the commemorations of this festal time.
And--whatever may be said for the ancient ghost stories, which are fast losing ground--fitting it is that, amid the mirth of this pleasant time, such thoughts should be occasionally stirred, and those phantoms of the heart brought back. Not that the joy of the young and hopeful should be thereby darkened, but that they may be duly warned that "youth's a stuff will not endure," and taught in time the tenure upon which hope is held. That was a beautiful custom of the Jews which led them, when they built houses, to leave ever some part unfinished, as a memento of the ruin and desolation of their city. Not that they, therefore, built the less, or the less cheerfully; but that in the very midst of their amplest accommodations they preserved a perpetual and salutary reference to the evil of their condition,--a useful check upon their worldly thoughts. And thus should mirth be welcomed and hopes built up, wherever the materials present themselves; but a mark should, notwithstanding, be placed upon the brightest of them all, remembrances ever let in, which may recall to us the imperfect condition of our nature here, and speak of the certain decay which must attend all hopes erected for mere earthly dwellings.
But _thou_ shouldst speak of this, thou for whom the following lines were written long ago, though they have not yet met thine eye, thou who hast learnt this lesson more sternly than even I, and speakest so well of _all_ things! Many a "Winter's Tale" have we two read together (Shakspeare's among the rest--and how often!), and many a written lay has linked our thoughts in a sympathy of sentiment, on many an evening of Christmas. It may be that on some night of that which is approaching, these lines may meet thy notice, and through them, _one more_ winter's eve may yet be spent by thee and me, in a communion of thought and feeling. No fear that joy should carry it all, with us! No danger that the ghosts of the past should fail to mingle with our Christmas feelings, in that hour! There can be no future hope built up for thee or me, or for most others who have passed the first season of youth, to which something shall not be wanting; which shall not, like the houses of the Jews, be left imperfect in some part; and for the same reason,--even for the memories of the ruined past!
Farewell! I do not bid thee weep; The hoarded love of many years, The visions hearts like thine must keep, May not be told by tears! No! tears are but the spirit's showers, To wash its _lighter_ clouds away, In breasts where sun-bows, like the flowers, Are born of rain and ray; But gone from thine is all the glow That helped to form life's promise-bow!
Farewell! I know that never more Thy spirit, like the bird of day, Upon its own sweet song shall soar Along a sunny way! The hour that wakes the waterfall To music, in its far-off flight, And hears the silver fountains call, Like angels through the night, Shall bring thee songs whose tones are sighs From harps whose chords are memories!
Night! when, like perfumes that have slept, All day, within the wild-flower's heart, Steal out the thoughts the soul has kept In silence and apart; And voices we have pined to hear, Through many a long and lonely day, Come back upon the dreaming ear, From grave-lands, far away; And gleams look forth, of spirit-eyes, Like stars along the darkening skies!
When fancy and the lark are still-- Those riders of the morning gale! And walks the moon o'er vale and hill With memory and the nightingale; The moon that is the daylight's ghost (As memory is the ghost of hope), And holds a lamp to all things lost Beneath night's solemn cope, Pale as the light by memory led Along the cities of the dead!
Alas, for thee! alas for thine! Thy youth that is no longer young! Whose heart, like Delphi's ruined shrine, Gives oracles--oh! still divine!-- But never more in song! Whose breast, like Echo's haunted hall, Is filled with murmurs of _the past_, Ere yet its "gold was dim," and all Its "pleasant things" laid waste! From whose sweet windows never more Shall look the sunny soul of yore!
Farewell! I do not bid thee weep, The smile and tear are past for thee; The river of thy thoughts must keep Its solemn course, too still and deep For idle eyes to see! Oh! earthly things are all too far To throw their shadows o'er its stream! But, now and then, a silver star, And, now and then, a gleam Of glory from the skies be given, To light its waves with dreams of heaven!
To the out-door sports of this merry time which arise out of the natural phenomena of the season itself, we need do no more than allude here, because every school-boy knows far more about them than we are now able to tell him, though we too reckoned them all amidst the delights of our boyhood. The rapid motions and graceful manœuvres of the skilful amongst the skaters, the active games connected with this exercise (such as the Golf of our northern neighbors, not very commonly practised in England), the merry accidents of the sliders, and the loud and mischievous laugh of the joyous groups of snowballers,--are all amongst the picturesque features by which the Christmas time is commonly marked in these islands. To be sure, the kind of seasons seems altogether to have abandoned us in which the ice furnished a field for those diversions during a period of six weeks; and the days are gone when fairs were held on the broad Thames, and books were printed and medals struck on the very pathway of his fierce and daily tides. Even now as we write however, in this present year of grace, old Winter stands without the door in something like the garb in which as boys we loved him best, and that old aspect of which we have such pleasant memories, and which Cowper has so well described:
"O Winter! ruler of the inverted year! Thy scattered hair with sleet-like ashes filled; Thy breath congealed upon thy lips; thy cheeks Fringed with a beard made white with other snows Than those of age; thy forehead wrapt in clouds; A leafless branch thy sceptre; and thy throne A sliding car indebted to no wheels, But urged by storms along thy slippery way!"
In looking over a description of London we have met with a quotation of a passage from Fitz-Stephen, an old historian of that city, in which he gives a quaint description of these familiar sports, as they were practised in King Henry the Second's day on the large pond or marsh which then occupied the site of what is now Moorfields. The passage is short and we will quote it.
"When that vast lake," he says, "which waters the walls of the city towards the north is hard frozen, the youth in great numbers go and divert themselves on the ice. Some, taking a small run for increment of velocity, place their feet at a proper distance and are carried sliding sideways a great way. Others will make a large cake of ice, and seating one of their companions upon it, they take hold of one another's hands and draw him along; when it happens that, moving so swiftly on so slippery a place, they all fall headlong. Others there are who are still more expert in these amusements on the ice; they place certain bones, the leg bones of animals, under the soles of their feet by tying them round their ankles, and then, taking a pole shod with iron into their hands, they push themselves forward by striking it against the ice, and are carried on with a velocity equal to the flight of a bird or a bolt discharged from a cross-bow."
But amongst all the amusements which in cities contribute to make the Christmas time a period of enchantments for the young and happy, there is another, which must not be passed over without a word of special notice; and that one is the theatre,--a world of enchantment in itself. We verily believe that no man ever forgets the night on which as a boy he first witnessed the representation of a play. All sights and sounds that reached his senses before the withdrawing of the mysterious curtain, all things which preceded his introduction to that land of marvels which lies beyond, are mingled inextricably with the memories of that night, and haunt him through many an after year. The very smell of the lamps and orange-peel, the discordant cries, the ringing of the prompter's bell, and above all the heavy dark green curtain itself, become essential parts of the charm in which his spirit is long after held. It was so with ourselves; and though many a year is gone by since that happy hour of our lives, and most of the spells which were then cast have been long since broken, yet we felt another taken from us when at Drury Lane an attempt was made to substitute a rich curtain of crimson and gold for the plain dark fall of green. And then the overture! the enchanting prelude to all the wonders that await us! the unearthly music leading us into fairy land! the incantation at whose voice, apparently, the mysterious veil on which our eyes have been so long and so earnestly rivetted rises, as if by its own act, and reveals to us the mysteries of an enchanted world! From that moment all things that lie on this side the charmed boundary are lost sight of, and all the wonders that are going on beyond it are looked on with the most undoubting faith. It is not for a moment suspected that the actors therein are beings of natures like ourselves, nor is there any questioning but that we are gazing upon scenes and doings separated from the realities of life. Verily do we believe that never again in this life are so many new and bewildering and bewitching feelings awakened in his breast, as on the first night in which the boy is spectator of a theatrical performance, if he be old enough to enjoy and not quite old enough clearly to understand what is going on.
At this holiday period of the year the boxes of our theatres are filled with the happy faces, and their walls ring with the sweet laughter of children. All things are matters of amazement and subjects of exclamation. But in London above all things,--far, far beyond all other things (though it does not begin for some days later than this) is the pantomime with its gorgeous scenery and incomprehensible transformations and ineffable fun. "Ready to leap out of the box," says Leigh Hunt, "they joy in the mischief of the clown, laugh at the thwacks he gets for his meddling, and feel no small portion of contempt for his ignorance in not knowing that hot water will scald, and gunpowder explode; while with head aside to give fresh energy to the strokes, they ring their little palms against each other in testimony of exuberant delight." The winter pantomimes are introduced on the evening next after Christmas night; and some account of this entertainment seems, as a feature of the season, due to our Christmas readers.
From Italy, then, we appear to have derived our pantomime,--the legitimate drama of Christmas, and to pagan times and deities the origin of our pantomimical characters may be directly referred. The nimble harlequin of our stage is the Mercury of the ancients, and in his magic wand and charmed cap may be recognized that god's caduceus and petasus. Our columbine is Psyche, our clown Momus, and our pantaloon is conjectured to be the modern representative of Charon,--variously habited indeed, according to Venetian fancy and feelings. Even Punch, the friend of our childhood, the great-headed, long-nosed, hump-backed "Mister Pōnch," it seems, was known to the Romans, under the name of Maccus.
Our pantomime, however, is an inferior translation, rather than a good copy, from its Italian original. The rich humor, the ready wit, the exquisite raciness of the Italian performance have all evaporated, and with us are burlesqued by the vapid joke, the stale trick, and acts of low buffoonery. We read of the pantomimic actors, Constantini and Cecchini, being ennobled; of Louis XIII. patronizing the merits of Nicholas Barbieri, and raising him to fortune; that Tiberio Fiurilli, the inventor of the character of Scaramouch, was the early companion of Louis XIV., and that the wit of the harlequin Dominic made him a favored guest at the same monarch's table. These instances of distinction are alone sufficient proof of the superior refinement of the actors of Italian pantomime, above our vulgar tribe of tumblers. The Italian artists were fellows "of infinite jest," whose ready wit enabled them to support extempore dialogue, suiting "the action to the word, and the word to the action;" for the Arlequino of Italy was not a mute like his English representative. Many of the Italian harlequins were authors of considerable reputation; Ruzzante, who flourished about 1530, may be regarded as the Shakspeare of pantomime. "Till his time," says D'Israeli, "they had servilely copied the duped fathers, the wild sons, and the tricking valets of Plautus and Terence; and perhaps, not being writers of sufficient skill but of some invention, were satisfied to sketch the plots of dramas, boldly trusting to extempore acting and dialogue. Ruzzante peopled the Italian stage with a fresh, enlivening crowd of pantomimic characters. The insipid dotards of the ancient comedy were transformed into the Venetian Pantaloon, and the Bolognese Doctor; while the hare-brained fellow, the arch knave, and the booby, were furnished from Milan, Bergamo, and Calabria. He gave his newly created beings new language and a new dress. From Plautus, he appears to have taken the hint of introducing all the Italian dialects into one comedy, by making each character use his own,--and even the modern Greek, which, it seems, afforded many an unexpected play on words for the Italian. This new kind of pleasure, like the language of Babel, charmed the national ear; every province would have its dialect introduced on the scene, which often served the purpose both of recreation and a little innocent malice. Their masks and dresses were furnished by the grotesque masqueraders of the Carnival, which, doubtless, often contributed many scenes and humors to the quick and fanciful genius of Ruzzante."
To the interesting essay, by the author of the "Curiosities of Literature," from whence this extract is derived, we beg leave to refer the reader for an anecdotical history of pantomime. Mr. D'Israeli in conclusion observes, that "in gesticulation and humor our Rich appears to have been a complete mime; his genius was entirely confined to pantomime, and he had the glory of introducing Harlequin on the English stage, which he played under the feigned name of Lun. He could describe to the audience by his signs and gestures, as intelligibly as others could express by words. There is a large caricature print of the triumph which Rich had obtained over the severe muses of tragedy and comedy, which lasted too long not to excite jealousy and opposition from the _corps dramatique_.
"Garrick, who once introduced a speaking Harlequin, has celebrated the silent but powerful language of Rich:--
"When LUN appeared, with matchless art and whim, He gave the power of speech to every limb, Tho' mask'd and mute, convey'd his quick intent, And told in frolic gestures what he meant; But now the motley coat and sword of wood Require a tongue to make them understood!'"