                                    1819-20

                                THE SKETCH BOOK

                                   CHRISTMAS

                              by Washington Irving
CHRISTMAS

  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 I cannot have more of him.

                                         HUE AND CRY AFTER CHRISTMAS.

               A man might then behold

                 At Christmas, in each hall

               Good fires to curb the cold,

                 And meat for great and small.

               The neighbors were friendly bidden,

                 And all had welcome true,

               The poor from the gates were not chidden

                 When this old cap was new.

                                            OLD SONG.

  NOTHING in England 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 homebred, 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 later 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 fervor 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 mementos 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 our
gratifications to moral sources. The dreariness and desolation of
the landscape, the short gloomy days and darksome nights, while they
circumscribe our wanderings, shut in our feelings also from rambling
abroad, and make us more keenly disposed for the pleasure of the
social circle. Our thoughts are more concentrated; our friendly
sympathies more aroused. We feel more sensibly the charm of each
other's society, and are brought more closely together by dependence
on each other for enjoyment. Heart calleth unto heart; and we draw our
pleasures from the deep wells of loving-kindness, which lie in the
quiet recesses of our bosoms; and which, when resorted to, furnish
forth the pure element of domestic felicity.

  The pitchy gloom without makes the heart dilate on entering the room
filled with the glow and warmth of the evening fire. The ruddy blaze
diffuses an artificial summer and sunshine through the room, and
lights up each countenance in a kindlier welcome. Where does the
honest face of hospitality expand into a broader and more cordial
smile- where is the shy glance of love more sweetly eloquent- than
by the winter fireside? and as the hollow blast of wintry wind
rushes through the hall, claps the distant door, whistles about the
casement, and rumbles down the chimney, what can be more grateful than
that feeling of sober and sheltered security, with which we look round
upon the comfortable chamber and the scene of domestic hilarity?

  The English, from the great prevalence of rural habit throughout
every class of society, have always been fond of those festivals and
holidays which agreeably interrupt the stillness of country life;
and they were, in former days, particularly observant of the religious
and social rites of Christmas. It is inspiring to read even the dry
details which some antiquaries have given of the quaint humors, the
burlesque pageants, the complete abandonment to mirth and
good-fellowship, with which this festival was celebrated. It seemed to
throw open every door, and unlock every heart. It brought the
peasant and the peer together, and blended all ranks in one warm
generous flow of joy and kindness. The old halls of castles and
manor-houses resounded with the harp and the Christmas carol, and
their ample boards groaned under the weight of hospitality. Even the
poorest cottage welcomed the festive season with green decorations
of bay and holly- the cheerful fire glanced its rays through the
lattice, inviting the passengers to raise the latch, and join the
gossip knot huddled round the hearth, beguiling the long evening
with legendary jokes and oft-told Christmas tales.

  One of the least pleasing effects of modern refinement is the
havoc it has made among the hearty old holiday customs. It has
completely taken off the sharp touchings and spirited reliefs of these
embellishments of life, and has worn down society into a more smooth
and polished, but certainly a less characteristic surface. Many of the
games and ceremonials of Christmas have entirely disappeared, and,
like the sherris sack of old Falstaff, are become matters of
speculation and dispute among commentators. They flourished in times
full of spirit and lustihood, when men enjoyed life roughly, but
heartily and vigorously; times wild and picturesque, which have
furnished poetry with its richest materials, and the drama with its
most attractive variety of characters and manners. The world has
become more worldly. There is more of dissipation, and less of
enjoyment. Pleasure has expanded into a broader, but a shallower
stream; and has forsaken many of those deep and quiet channels where
it flowed sweetly through the calm bosom of domestic life. Society has
acquired a more enlightened and elegant tone; but it has lost many
of its strong local peculiarities, its homebred feelings, its honest
fireside delights. The traditionary customs of golden-hearted
antiquity, its feudal hospitalities, and lordly wassailings, have
passed away with the baronial castles and stately manor-houses in
which they were celebrated. They comported with the shadowy hall,
the great oaken gallery, and the tapestried parlor, but are unfitted
to the light showy saloons and gay drawing-rooms of the modern villa.

  Shorn, however, as it is, of its ancient and festive honors,
Christmas is still a period of delightful excitement in England. It is
gratifying to see that home feeling completely aroused which holds
so powerful a place in every English bosom. The preparations making on
every side for the social board that is again to unite friends and
kindred; the presents of good cheer passing and repassing, those
tokens of regard, and quickeners of kind feelings; the evergreens
distributed about houses and churches, emblems of peace and
gladness; all these have the most pleasing effect in producing fond
associations, and kindling benevolent sympathies. Even the sound of
the Waits, rude as may be their minstrelsy, breaks upon the midwatches
of a winter night with the effect of perfect harmony. As I have been
awakened by them in that still and solemn hour. "when deep sleep
falleth upon man," I have listened with a hushed delight, and,
connecting them with the sacred and joyous occasion, have almost
fancied them into another celestial choir, announcing peace and
good-will to mankind.

  How delightfully the imagination, when wrought upon by these moral
influences, turns every thing to melody and beauty! The very crowing
of the cock, heard sometimes in the profound repose of the country,
"telling the night watches to his feathery dames," was thought by
the common people to announce the approach of this sacred festival.

         "Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes

          Wherein our Savior's birth is celebrated,

          This bird of dawning singeth all night long;

          And then, they say, no spirit dares stir abroad;

          The nights are wholesome- then no planets strike,

          No fairy takes, no witch hath power to charm,

          So hallow'd and so gracious is the time."

Amidst the general call to happiness, the bustle of the spirits, and
stir of the affections, which prevail at this period, what bosom can
remain insensible? It is, indeed, the season of regenerated feeling-
the season for kindling, not merely the fire of hospitality in the
hall, but the genial flame of charity in the heart.

  The scene of early love again rises green to memory beyond the
sterile waste of years; and the idea of home, fraught with the
fragrance of home-dwelling joys, reanimates the drooping spirit; as
the Arabian breeze will sometimes waft the freshness of the distant
fields to the weary pilgrim of the desert.

  Stranger and sojourner as I am in the land- though for me no
social hearth may blaze, no hospitable roof throw open its doors,
nor the warm grasp of friendship welcome me at the threshold- yet I
feel the influence of the season beaming into my soul from the happy
looks of those around me. Surely happiness is reflective, like the
light of heaven; and every countenance, bright with smiles, and
glowing with innocent enjoyment, is a mirror transmitting to others
the rays of a supreme and ever-shining benevolence. He who can turn
churlishly away from contemplating the felicity of his
fellow-beings, and can sit down darkling and repining in his
loneliness when all around is joyful, may have his moments of strong
excitement and selfish gratification, but he wants the genial and
social sympathies which constitute the charm of a merry Christmas.

                        THE END
.
