Part 137
Warton says, “This carol, yet with many innovations, is retained at Queen’s-college, in Oxford.” It is still sung in that college, somewhat altered, “to the common chant of the prose version of the psalms in cathedrals;” so, however, the rev. Mr. Dibdin says, as mentioned before.
Mr. Brand thinks it probable that Chaucer alluded to the custom of bearing the boar’s head, in the following passage of the “Franklein’s Tale:”--
“Janus sitteth by the fire with double berd, And he drinketh of his bugle-horne the wine, Before him standeth the _brawne of the tusked swine_.”
In “The Wonderful Yeare, 1603,” Dekker speaks of persons apprehensive of catching the plague, and says, “they went (most bitterly) miching and muffled up and down, with rue and wormwood stuft into their eares and nosthrils, looking like so many _bores heads_ stuck with branches of rosemary, to be served in for brawne at Christmas.”
Holinshed says, that in 1170, upon the young prince’s coronation, king Henry II. “served his son at the table as sewer, bringing up the _bore’s head_, with trumpets before it, according to the manner.”[423]
An engraving from a clever drawing by Rowlandson, in the possession of the editor of the _Every-Day Book_, may gracefully close this article.
“Civil as an orange.”
_Shakspeare._
There are some just observations on the old mode of passing this season, in “The World,” a periodical paper of literary pleasantries. “Our ancestors considered Christmas in the double light of a holy commemoration, and a cheerful festival, and accordingly distinguished it by devotion, by vacation from business, by merriment, and hospitality. They seemed eagerly bent to make themselves, and every one about them happy; with what punctual zeal did they wish one another a _merry Christmas!_ and what an omission would it have been thought, to have concluded a letter without the _compliments of the season_! The great hall resounded with the tumultuous joys of servants and tenants, and the gambols they played served as amusement to the lord of the manor, and his family, who, by encouraging every art conducive to mirth and entertainment, endeavoured to soften the rigour of the season, and mitigate the influence of winter.”
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The country squire of three hundred a year, an independent gentleman in the reign of queen Anne, is described as having “never played at cards but at Christmas, when the family pack was produced from the mantle-piece.” “His chief drink the year round was generally ale, except at this season, the 5th of November, or some other gala days, when he would make a bowl of strong brandy punch, garnished with a toast and nutmeg. In the corner of his hall, by the fire-side, stood a large wooden two-armed chair, with a cushion, and within the chimney corner were a couple of seats. Here, at Christmas, he entertained his tenants, assembled round a glowing fire, made of the roots of trees, and other great logs, and told and heard the traditionary tales of the village, respecting ghosts and witches, till fear made them afraid to move. In the meantime the jorum of ale was in continual circulation.”[424]
It is remarked, in the “Literary Pocket Book,” that now, Christmas-day only, or at most a day or two, are kept by people in general; the rest are school holidays; “But, formerly, there was nothing but a run of merry days from Christmas-eve to Candlemas, and the first twelve in particular were full of triumph and hospitality. We have seen but too well the cause of this degeneracy. What has saddened our summer-time has saddened our winter. What has taken us from our fields and May-flowers, and suffered them to smile and die alone, as if they were made for nothing else, has contradicted our flowing cups at Christmas. The middle classes make it a sorry business of a pudding or so extra, and a game at cards. The rich invite their friends to their country houses, but do little there but gossip and gamble; and the poor are either left out entirely, or presented with a few clothes and eatables that make up a wretched substitute for the long and hospitable intercourse of old. All this is so much the worse, inasmuch as christianity had a special eye to those feelings which should remind us of the equal rights of all; and the greatest beauty in it is not merely its charity, which we contrive to swallow up in faith, but its being alive to the _sentiment_ of charity, which is still more opposed to these proud distances and formal dolings out.--The same spirit that vindicated the pouring of rich ointment on his feet, (because it was a homage paid to sentiment in his person,) knew how to bless the gift of a cup of water. Every face which you contribute to set sparkling at Christmas is a reflection of that goodness of nature which generosity helps to uncloud, as the windows reflect the lustre of the sunny heavens. Every holly bough and lump of berries with which you adorn your houses is a piece of natural piety as well as beauty, and will enable you to relish the green world of which you show yourselves not forgetful. Every wassail bowl which you set flowing without drunkenness, every harmless pleasure, every innocent mirth however mirthful, every forgetfulness even of serious things, when they are only swallowed up in the kindness and joy with which it is the end of wisdom to produce, is
‘Wisest, virtuousest, discreetest, best;’
and Milton’s Eve, who suggested those epithets to her husband, would have thought so too, if we are to judge by the poet’s account of her hospitality.”
ANCIENT CHRISTMAS.
And well our christian sires of old Loved, when the year its course had roll’d And brought blithe Christmas back again, With all its hospitable train. Domestic and religious rite Gave honour to the holy night: On Christmas-eve the bells were rung; On Christmas-eve the mass was sung; That only night, in all the year, Saw the stoled priest the chalice rear. The damsel donn’d her kirtle sheen; The hall was dress’d with holly green; Forth to the wood did merry men go, To gather in the misletoe. Then open wide the baron’s hall, To vassal, tenant, serf, and all; Power laid his rod of rule aside, And ceremony doff’d his pride. The heir, with roses in his shoes, That night might village partner choose: The lord, underogating, share The vulgar game of “post and pair.” All hailed, with uncontrouled delight, And general voice, the happy night, That to the cottage, as the crown, Brought tidings of salvation down.
The fire, with well-dried logs supply’d, Went, roaring, up the chimney wide; The huge hall table’s oaken face, Scrubb’d till it shone, the day to grace, Bore then upon its massive board No mark to part the squire and lord. Then was brought in the lusty brawn, By old blue-coated serving man; Then the grim boar’s-head frown’d on high, Crested with bays and rosemary. Well can the green-garb’d ranger tell, How, when, and where the monster fell, What dogs before his death he tore, And all the baiting of the boar; While round the merry wassel bowl, Garnish’d with ribbons, blithe did trowl. There the huge sirloin reek’d; hard by Plum-porridge stood, and Christmas pie; Nor fail’d old Scotland to produce, At such high tide her savoury goose. Then came the merry maskers in, And carols roar’d with blithsome din; If unmelodious was the song, It was a hearty note and strong. Who lists may in their mumming see Traces of ancient mystery; White shirts supply the masquerade, And smutted cheeks the visor made; But, oh! what masquers, richly dight, Can boast of bosoms half so light! England was merry England when Old Christmas brought his sports again. ’Twas Christmas broach’d the mightiest ale; ’Twas Christmas told the merriest tale; A Christmas gambol oft would cheer A poor man’s heart through half the year.
_Sir Walter Scott._
WAITS.
The musicians who play by night in the streets at Christmas are called _waits_. It has been presumed, that _waits_ in very ancient times meant watchmen; they were minstrels at first attached to the king’s court, who sounded the watch every night, and paraded the streets during winter to prevent depredations.
In London, the _waits_ are remains of the musicians attached to the corporation of the city under that denomination. They cheer the hours of the long nights before Christmas with instrumental music. To denote that they were “the lord mayor’s music,” they anciently wore a _cognizance_, or badge on the arm, similar to that represented in the engraving below, from a picture by A. Bloemart.
He blows his bagpipe soft or strong, Or high or low, to hymn or song, Or shrill lament, or solemn groan, Or dance, or reel, or sad o-hone! Or ballad gay, or well-a-day-- To all he gives due melody.
Preparatory to Christmas, the bellman of every parish in London rings his bell at dead midnight, that his “worthy masters and mistresses” may listen, and be assured by his vocal intonation that he is reciting “a copy of verses” in praise of their several virtues, especially their liberality; and, when the festival is over, he calls with his bell, and hopes he shall be “remembered.”
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At the good town of Bungay, in Suffolk, the “watch” of the year 1823 circulated the following, headed by a representation of a moiety of their dual body:--
YOUR pardon, Gentles, while we thus implore, In strains not less _awakening_ than of yore, Those smiles we deem our best reward to catch, And for the which we’ve long been on the _Watch_; Well pleas’d if we that recompence obtain, Which we have ta’en so many _steps_ to gain. Think of the perils in our _calling past_, The chilling coldness of the midnight blast, The beating rain, the swiftly-driving snow, The various ills that we must undergo, Who roam, the glow-worms of the human race, The living Jack-a-lanthorns of the place. ’Tis said by some, perchance, to mock our toil, That we are prone to “_waste the midnight oil_!” And that, a task thus idle to pursue, Would be an idle _waste of money_ too! How hard, that we the _dark_ designs should rue Of those who’d fain make _light_ of all we do! But such the fate which oft doth merit greet, And which now drives us fairly off our beat! Thus it appears from this our dismal plight, That _some_ love _darkness_, rather than the _light_. Henceforth let riot and disorder reign, With all the ills that follow in their train; Let TOMS and JERRYS unmolested brawl, (No _Charlies_ have they now to _floor_ withal,) And “rogues and vagabonds” infest the Town, For cheaper ’tis to _save_ than _crack_ a _crown_! To brighter scenes we now direct our view-- And first, fair Ladies, let us turn to you.
May each NEW YEAR new joys, new pleasures bring, And Life for you be one delightful spring! No summer’s sun annoy with fev’rish rays, No winter chill the evening of your days! To you, kind Sirs, we next our tribute pay: May smiles and sunshine greet you on your way! If married, calm and peaceful be your lives; If single, may you forthwith get you wives! Thus, whether Male or Female, Old or Young, Or Wed or Single, be this burden sung: Long may you live to hear, and we to call, _A Happy Christmas and New Year to all!_
J. and R. Childs, Printers, Bungay.
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Previous to Christmas 1825, a trio of foreign minstrels appeared in London, ushering the season with melody from instruments seldom performed on in the streets. These were Genoese with their guitars. Musicians of this order are common in Naples and all over Italy; at the carnival time they are fully employed, and at other periods are hired to assist in those serenades whereof English ladies hear nothing, unless they travel, save by the reports of those who publish accounts of their adventures. The three now spoken of took up their abode in London, at the King’s-head public-house, in Leather-lane, from whence ever and anon, to wit, daily, they sallied forth to “discourse most excellent music.” They are represented in the engraving below, from a sketch hastily taken by a gentleman who was of a dinner party, by whom they were called into the house of a street in the suburbs.
Ranged in a row, with guitars slung Before them thus, they played and sung: Their instruments and choral voice Did each glad guest still more rejoice; And each guest wish’d again to hear Their wild guitars and voices clear.
There was much of character in the men themselves. One was tall, and had that kind of face which distinguishes the Italian character; his complexion a clear pale cream colour, with dark eyes, black hair, and a manner peculiarly solemn: the second was likewise tall, and of more cheerful feature; but the third was a short thick-set man, with an Oxberry countenance of rich waggery, heightened by large whiskers: this was the humorist. With a bit of cherry-tree held between the finger and thumb, they rapidly twirled the wires in accompaniment of various airs, which they sung with unusual feeling and skill. They were acquainted with every foreign tune that was called for. That Italian minstrels of this class should venture here for the purpose of perambulating our streets, is evidence that the refinement in our popular manners is known in the “land of song,” and they will bear testimony to it from the fact that their performances are chiefly in the public-houses of the metropolis, from whence thirty years ago such aspirants to entertain John Bull would have been expelled with expressions of abhorrence.
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To the accounts of Christmas keeping in old times, old George Wither adds amusing particulars in rhime.
_Christmas._
So now is come our joyfulst feast; Let every man be jolly; Each room with ivy leaves is drest, And every post with holly. Though some churls at our mirth repine, Round your foreheads garlands twine; Drown sorrow in a cup of wine, And let us all be merry.
Now all our neighbours’ chimnies smoke, And Christmas blocks are burning; Their ovens they with baked meat choke, And all their spits are turning. Without the door let sorrow lye; And if for cold it hap to die, We’ll bury’t in a Christmas pie, And evermore be merry.
Now every lad is wond’rous trim, And no man minds his labour; Our lasses have provided them A bagpipe and a tabor; Young men and maids, and girls and boys, Give life to one another’s joys; And you anon shall by their noise Perceive that they are merry.
Rank misers now do sparing shun; Their hall of music soundeth; And dogs thence with whole shoulders run, So all things there aboundeth. The country folks, themselves advance, With crowdy-muttons out of France; And Jack shall pipe and Jyll shall dance, And all the town be merry.
Ned Squash hath fetcht his bands from pawn, And all his best apparel; Brisk Nell hath bought a ruff of lawn With dropping of the barrel. And those that hardly all the year Had bread to eat, or rags to wear, Will have both clothes and dainty fare, And all the day be merry.
Now poor men to the justices With capons make their errants; And if they hap to fail of these, They plague them with their warrants: But now they feed them with good cheer, And what they want, they take in beer, For Christmas comes but once a year, And then they shall be merry.
Good farmers in the country nurse The poor, that else were undone; Some landlords spend their money worse, On lust and pride at London. There the roysters they do play, Drab and dice their lands away, Which may be ours another day, And therefore let’s be merry.
The client now his suit forbears, The prisoner’s heart is eased; The debtor drinks away his cares, And for the time is pleased. Though others’ purses be more fat, Why should we pine, or grieve at that? Hang sorrow! care will kill a cat, And therefore let’s be merry.
Hark! now the wags abroad do call, Each other forth to rambling; Anon you’ll see them in the hall, For nuts and apples scrambling. Hark! how the roofs with laughter sound, Anon they’ll think the house goes round, For they the cellar’s depth have found, And there they will be merry.
The wenches with their wassel bowls About the streets are singing; The boys are come to catch the owls, The wild mare in it bringing. Our kitchen boy hath broke his box, And to the dealing of the ox, Our honest neighbours come by flocks, And here they will be merry.
Now kings and queens poor sheepcotes have And mute with every body; The honest now may play the knave, And wise men play the noddy. Some youths will now a mumming go, Some others play at Rowland-bo, And twenty other game boys mo, Because they will be merry.
Then, wherefore, in these merry daies, Should we, I pray, be duller? No, let us sing some roundelayes, To make our mirth the fuller. And, while we thus inspired sing, Let all the streets with echoes ring; Woods and hills, and every thing, Bear witness we are merry.
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From Mr. Grant’s “Popular Superstitions of the Highlands,” we gather the following account:--
_Highland Christmas._
As soon as the brightening glow of the eastern sky warns the anxious housemaid of the approach of Christmas-day, she rises full of anxiety at the prospect of her morning labours. The meal, which was steeped in the _sowans-bowie_ a fortnight ago, to make the _Prechdachdan sour_, or _sour scones_, is the first object of her attention. The gridiron is put on the fire, and the sour scones are soon followed by hard cakes, soft cakes, buttered cakes, brandered bannocks, and pannich perm. The baking being once over, the sowans pot succeeds the gridiron, full of new sowans, which are to be given to the family, agreeably to custom, this day in their beds. The sowans are boiled into the consistence of molasses, when the _Lagan-le-vrich_, or yeast-bread, to distinguish it from boiled sowans, is ready. It is then poured into as many bickers as there are individuals to partake of it, and presently served to the whole, old and young. It would suit well the pen of a Burns, or the pencil of a Hogarth, to paint the scene which follows. The ambrosial food is despatched in aspiring draughts by the family, who soon give evident proofs of the enlivening effects of the _Lagan-le-vrich_. As soon as each despatches his bicker, he jumps out of bed--the elder branches to examine the ominous signs of the day,[425] and the younger to enter on its amusements. Flocking to the swing, a favourite amusement on this occasion, the youngest of the family get the first “_shouder_,” and the next oldest to him in regular succession. In order to add the more to the spirit of the exercise, it is a common practice with the person in the _swing_, and the person appointed to swing him, to enter into a very warm and humorous altercation. As the swinged person approaches the swinger, he exclaims, _Ei mi tu chal_, “I’ll eat your kail.” To this the swinger replies, with a violent shove, _Cha ni u mu chal_, “You shan’t eat my kail.” These threats and repulses are sometimes carried to such a height, as to break down or capsize the threatener, which generally puts an end to the quarrel.
As the day advances, those minor amusements are terminated at the report of the gun, or the rattle of the ball-clubs--the gun inviting the marksman to the “_Kiavamuchd_,” or prize-shooting, and the latter to “_Luchd-vouil_,” or the ball combatants--both the principal sports of the day. Tired at length of the active amusements of the field, they exchange them for the substantial entertainments of the table. Groaning under the “_sonsy haggis_,”[426] and many other savoury dainties, unseen for twelve months before, the relish communicated to the company, by the appearance of the festive board, is more easily conceived than described. The dinner once despatched, the flowing bowl succeeds, and the sparkling glass flies to and fro like a weaver’s shuttle. As it continues its rounds, the spirits of the company become the more jovial and happy. Animated by its cheering influence, even old decrepitude no longer feels his habitual pains--the fire of youth is in his eye, as he details to the company the exploits which distinguished him in the days of “_auld langsyne_;” while the young, with hearts inflamed with “_love and glory_,” long to mingle in the more lively scenes of mirth, to display their prowess and agility. Leaving the patriarchs to finish those professions of friendship for each other, in which they are so devoutly engaged, the younger part of the company will shape their course to the ball-room, or the card-table, as their individual inclinations suggest; and the remainder of the evening is spent with the greatest pleasure of which human nature is susceptible.
EVERGREENS AT CHRISTMAS.
When _Rosemary_ and _Bays_, the poet’s crown, Are bawl’d in frequent cries through all the town; Then judge the festival of Christmass near, Christmass, the joyous period of the year! Now with bright _Holly_ all the temples strow, With _Lawrel_ green, and sacred _Misletoe_.
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From ev’ry hedge is pluck’d by eager hands The _Holly branch_ with prickly leaves replete, And fraught with berries of a crimson hue; Which, torn asunder from its parent trunk, Is straightway taken to the neighb’ring towns, Where windows, mantels, candlesticks, and shelves, Quarts, pints, decanters, pipkins, basins, jugs, And other articles of household ware, The verdant garb confess.
_R. J. Thorn._
The old and pleasant custom of decking our houses and churches at Christmas with evergreens is derived from ancient heathen practices. Councils of the church forbad christians to deck their houses with bay leaves and green boughs at the same time with the pagans; but this was after the church had permitted such doings in order to accommodate its ceremonies to those of the old mythology. Where druidism had existed, “the houses were decked with evergreens in December, that the sylvan spirits might repair to them, and remain unnipped with frost and cold winds, until a milder season had renewed the foliage of their darling abodes.”[427]
Polydore Vergil says that, “Trimmyng of the Temples, with hangynges, floures, boughes, and garlondes, was taken of the heathen people, whiche decked their idols and houses with suche array.” In old church calendars Christmas-eve is marked “Templa exornantur.” _Churches are decked._
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The holly and the ivy still maintain some mastery at this season. At the two universities, the windows of the college chapels are decked with laurel. The old Christmas carol in MS. at the British Museum, quoted at p. 1598, continues in the following words:--