第16章 THE SKETCH BOOK(1)

CHRISTMAS

by Washington Irving

CHRISTMAS

But is old, old, good old Christmas gone? Nothing but the hair ofhis 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 myimagination, than the lingerings of the holiday customs and ruralgames of former times. They recall the pictures my fancy used todraw in the May morning of life, when as yet I only knew the worldthrough 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, inwhich, perhaps, with equal fallacy, I am apt to think the world wasmore homebred, social, and joyous than at present. I regret to saythat they are daily growing more and more faint, being graduallyworn 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, partlydilapidated by the waste of ages, and partly lost in the additions andalterations of later days. Poetry, however, clings with cherishingfondness about the rural game and holiday revel, from which it hasderived so many of its themes- as the ivy winds its rich foliage aboutthe Gothic arch and mouldering tower, gratefully repaying theirsupport, by clasping together their tottering remains, and, as itwere, embalming them in verdure.

Of all the old festivals, however, that of Christmas awakens thestrongest and most heartfelt associations. There is a tone of solemnand sacred feeling that blends with our conviviality, and lifts thespirit to a state of hallowed and elevated enjoyment. The servicesof the church about this season are extremely tender and inspiring.

They dwell on the beautiful story of the origin of our faith, andthe pastoral scenes that accompanied its announcement. Theygradually increase in fervor and pathos during the season of Advent,until they break forth in full jubilee on the morning that broughtpeace and good-will to men. I do not know a grander effect of music onthe moral feelings, than to hear the full choir and the pealingorgan performing a Christmas anthem in a cathedral, and fillingevery part of the vast pile with triumphant harmony.

It is a beautiful arrangement, also, derived from days of yore, thatthis festival, which commemorates the announcement of the religionof peace and love, has been made the season for gathering togetherof family connections, and drawing closer again those bands of kindredhearts, which the cares and pleasures and sorrows of the world arecontinually operating to cast loose; of calling back the children of afamily, who have launched forth in life, and wandered widelyasunder, once more to assemble about the paternal hearth, thatrallying place of the affections, there to grow young and loving againamong the endearing mementos of childhood.

There is something in the very season of the year that gives a charmto the festivity of Christmas. At other times we derive a greatportion of our pleasures from the mere beauties of nature. Ourfeelings sally forth and dissipate themselves over the sunnylandscape, and we "live abroad and everywhere." The song of thebird, the murmur of the stream, the breathing fragrance of spring, thesoft voluptuousness of summer, the golden pomp of autumn; earth withits mantle of refreshing green, and heaven with its deep deliciousblue and its cloudy magnificence, all fill us with mute butexquisite delight, and we revel in the luxury of mere sensation. Butin the depth of winter, when nature lies despoiled of every charm, andwrapped in her shroud of sheeted snow, we turn for ourgratifications to moral sources. The dreariness and desolation ofthe landscape, the short gloomy days and darksome nights, while theycircumscribe our wanderings, shut in our feelings also from ramblingabroad, and make us more keenly disposed for the pleasure of thesocial circle. Our thoughts are more concentrated; our friendlysympathies more aroused. We feel more sensibly the charm of eachother's society, and are brought more closely together by dependenceon each other for enjoyment. Heart calleth unto heart; and we draw ourpleasures from the deep wells of loving-kindness, which lie in thequiet recesses of our bosoms; and which, when resorted to, furnishforth the pure element of domestic felicity.

The pitchy gloom without makes the heart dilate on entering the roomfilled with the glow and warmth of the evening fire. The ruddy blazediffuses an artificial summer and sunshine through the room, andlights up each countenance in a kindlier welcome. Where does thehonest face of hospitality expand into a broader and more cordialsmile- where is the shy glance of love more sweetly eloquent- thanby the winter fireside? and as the hollow blast of wintry windrushes through the hall, claps the distant door, whistles about thecasement, and rumbles down the chimney, what can be more grateful thanthat feeling of sober and sheltered security, with which we look roundupon the comfortable chamber and the scene of domestic hilarity?