QUAINT OLD CHRISTMAS CUSTOMS
Compared with the celebrations of our ancestors,
the modern Christmas becomes a very hurried thing. The rush of the twentieth
century forbids twelve days of celebration, or even two. Paterfamilias
considers himself very indulgent if he gives two nights and a day to the annual
festival, because, forsooth, “the office needs him!”
One by one the quaint old customs have vanished.
We still have the Christmas tree, evergreens in our houses and churches, and
the yawning stocking still waits in many homes for the good St. Nicholas.
But what is poor Santa Claus to do when the
chimney leads to the furnace? And what of the city apartment, which boasts a
radiator and gas grate, but no chimney? The myth evidently needs reconstruction
to meet the times in which we live, and perhaps we shall soon see pictures of
Santa Claus arriving in an automobile, and taking the elevator to the ninth
floor, flat B, where a single childish stocking is hung upon the radiator.
Nearly all of the Christmas observances began in
ancient Rome. The primitive Italians were wont to celebrate the winter solstice
and call it the feast of Saturn. Thus Saturnalia came to mean almost any kind of
celebration which came in the wake of conquest, and these ceremonies being
engrafted upon Anglo-Saxon customs assumed a religious significance.
The pretty maid who hesitates and blushes beneath
the overhanging branch of mistletoe, never stops to think of the grim festival
with which the Druids celebrated its gathering.
In their mythology the plant was regarded with the
utmost reverence, especially when found growing upon an oak.
At the time of the winter solstice, the ancient
Britons, accompanied by their priests, the Druids, went out with great pomp and
rejoicing to gather the mistletoe, which was believed to possess great curative
powers. These processions were usually by night, to the accompaniment of
flaring torches and the solemn chanting of the people. When an oak was reached
on which the parasite grew, the company paused.
Two white bulls were bound to the tree and the
chief Druid, clothed in white to signify purity, climbed, more or less
gracefully, to the plant. It was severed from the oak, and another priest,
standing below, caught it in the folds of his robe. The bulls were then
sacrificed, and often, alas, human victims also. The mistletoe thus gathered
was divided into small portions and distributed among the people. The tiny
sprays were fastened above the doors of the houses, as propitiation to the
sylvan deities during the cold season.
These rites were retained throughout the Roman
occupation of Great Britain, and for some time afterward, under the sovereignty
of the Jutes, the Saxons, and the Angles.
In Scandinavian mythology there is a beautiful
legend of the mistletoe. Balder, the god of poetry, the son of Odin and Friga,
one day told his mother that he had dreamed his death was near at hand. Much
alarmed, the mother invoked all the powers of nature—earth, air, water, fire,
animals and plants, and obtained from them a solemn oath that they would do her
son no harm.
Then Balder fearlessly took his place in the
combats of the gods and fought unharmed while showers of arrows were falling
all about him.
His enemy, Loake, determined to discover the
secret of his invulnerability, and, disguising himself as an old woman, went to
the mother with a question of the reason of his immunity. Friga answered that
she had made a charm and invoked all nature to keep from injuring her son.
“Indeed,” said the old woman, “and did you ask all
the animals and plants? There are so many, it seems impossible.”
“All but one,” answered Friga proudly; “all but a
little insignificant plant which grows upon the bark of the oak. This I did not
think of invoking, since so small a thing could do no harm.”
Much delighted, Loake went away and gathered
mistletoe. Then he entered the assembly of the gods and made his way to the blind
Heda.
“Why do you not shoot with the arrows at Balder?”
asked Loake.
“Alas,” replied Heda, “I am blind and have no
arms.”
Loake then gave him an arrow tipped with mistletoe
and said: “Balder is before thee.” Heda shot and Balder fell, pierced through
the heart.
In its natural state, the plant is believed to be
propagated by the missel-thrush, which feeds upon its berries, but under
favourable climatic conditions one may raise one’s own mistletoe by bruising
the berries on the bark of fruit trees, where they take root readily. It must
be remembered, however, that the plant is a true parasite and will eventually
kill whatever tree gives it nourishment.
Kissing under the mistletoe was also a custom of
the Druids, and in those uncivilised days men kissed each other. For each kiss,
a single white berry was plucked from the spray, and kept as a souvenir by the
one who was kissed.
The burning of the Yule log was an ancient
Christmas ceremony borrowed from the early Scandinavians. At their feast of Juul
(pronounced Yuul), at the time of the winter solstice, they were wont to kindle
huge bonfires in honour of their god Thor. The custom soon made its way to
England where it is still in vogue in many parts of the country.
One may imagine an ancient feudal castle, heavily
fortified, standing in splendid isolation upon a snowy hill, on that night of
all others when war was forgotten and peace proclaimed. Drawn by six horses,
the great Yule log was brought into the hall and rolled into the vast fireplace,
where it was lighted with the charred remnants of last year’s Yule log,
religiously kept in some secure place as a charm against fire.
As the flames seize upon the oak and the light
gleams from the castle windows, a lusty procession of wayfarers passes through,
each one raising his hat as he passes the fire which burns all the evil out of
the hearts of men, and up to the rafters there rings a stern old Saxon chant.
When the song was finished, the steaming wassail
bowl was brought out, and all the company drank to a better understanding.
Up to the time of Henry VI, and even afterward,
the Yule log was greeted with bards and minstrelsy. If a squinting person came
into the hall while the log was burning, it was sure to bring bad luck. The
appearance of a barefooted man was worse, and a flat-footed woman was the worst
of all.
As an accompaniment to the Yule log, a monstrous
Christmas candle was burned on the table at supper; even now in St. John’s
College at Oxford, there is an old candle socket of stone, ornamented with the
figure of a lamb. What generations of gay students must have sat around that
kindly light when Christmas came to Oxford!
Snap-dragon was a favourite Christmas sport at
this time. Several raisins were put into a large shallow bowl and thoroughly
saturated with brandy. All other lights were extinguished and the brandy
ignited. By turns each one of the company tried to snatch a raisin out of the
flames, singing meanwhile.
In Devonshire, they burn great bundles of ash
sticks, while master and servants sit together, for once on terms of perfect
equality, and drink spiced ale, and the season is one of great rejoicing.
Another custom in Devonshire is for the farmer,
his family, and friends, to partake of hot cake and cider, and afterward go to
the orchard and place a cake ceremoniously in the fork of a big tree, when cider
is poured over it while the men fire off pistols and the women sing.
A similar libation, but of spiced ale, used to be
sprinkled through the orchards and meadows of Norfolk. Midnight of Christmas
was the time usually chosen for the ceremony.
In Devon and Cornwall, a belief is current that,
at midnight on Christmas Eve, the cattle kneel in their stalls in honour of the
Saviour, as legend claims they did in Bethlehem.
In Wales, they carry about at Christmas time a
horse’s skull gaily adorned with ribbons, and supported on a pole by a man who
is wholly concealed by a white cloth. There is a clever contrivance for opening
and shutting the jaws, and this strange creature pursues and bites all who come
near it.
The figure is usually accompanied by a party of
men and boys grotesquely dressed, who, on reaching a house, sing some verses,
often extemporaneous, demanding admittance, and are answered in the same fashion
by those within until rhymes have given out on one side or the other.
In Scotland, he who first opens the door on
Christmas Day expects more good luck than will fall to the lot of other members
of the family during the year, because, as the saying goes, he lets in Yule.
In Germany, Christmas Eve is the children’s night,
and there is a tree and presents. England and America appear to have borrowed
the Christmas tree from Germany, where the custom is ancient and very generally
followed.
In the smaller towns and villages in northern
Germany, the presents are sent by all the parents to some one fellow who, in
high buskins, white robe, mask, and flaxen wig, personates the servant, Rupert.
On Christmas night he goes around to every house, and says that his master sent
him. The parents and older children receive him with pomp and reverence, while
the younger ones are often badly frightened.
He asks for the children, and then demands of
their parents a report of their conduct during the past year. The good children
are rewarded with sugar-plums and other things, while for the bad ones a rod is
given to the parents with instructions to use it freely during the coming year.
In those parts of Pennsylvania where there are
many German settlers, the little sinners often find birchen rods suggestively
placed in their stockings on Christmas morning.
In Poland, the Christmas gifts are hidden, and the
members of the family search for them.
In Sweden and Norway, the house is thoroughly
cleaned, and juniper or fir branches are spread over the floor. Then each
member of the family goes in turn to the bake house, or outer shed, where he
takes his annual bath.
But it is back to Old England, after all, that we
look for the merriest Christmas. For two or three weeks beforehand, men and
boys of the poorer class, who were called “waits,” sang Christmas carols under
every window. Until quite recently these carols were sung all through England,
and others of similar import were heard in France and Italy.
The English are said to “take their pleasures
sadly,” but in the matter of Christmas they can “give us cards and spades and
still win.” Parties of Christmas drummers used to go around to the different
houses, grotesquely attired, and play all sorts of tricks. The actors were
chiefly boys, and the parish beadle always went along to insure order.
The Christmas dinner of Old England was a thing
capable of giving the whole nation dyspepsia if they indulged freely.
The main dish was a boar’s head, roasted to a
turn, and preceded by trumpets and minstrelsy. Mustard was indispensable to
this dish.
Next came a peacock, skinned and roasted. The beak
was gilded, and sometimes a bit of cotton, well soaked in spirits, was put into
his mouth, and when he was brought to the table this was ignited, so that the
bird was literally spouting fire. He was stuffed with spices, basted with yolks
of eggs, and served with plenty of gravy.
Geese, capons, pheasants, carps’ tongues,
frumenty, and mince, or “shred” pies, made up the balance of the feast.
The chief functionary of Christmas was called “The
Lord of Misrule.”
In the house of king and nobleman he held full
sway for twelve days. His badge was a fool’s bauble and he was always attended
by a page, both of them being masked. So many pranks were played, and so much
mischief perpetrated which was far from being amusing, that an edict was
eventually issued against this form of liberty, not to say license.
The Lord of Misrule was especially reviled by the
Puritans, one of whom set him down as “a grande captain of mischiefe.” One may
easily imagine that this stern old gentleman had been ducked by a party of
revellers following in the wake of the lawless “Captaine” because he had
refused to contribute to their entertainment.
We need not lament the passing of Christmas
pageantry, if the spirit of the festival remains. Through the centuries that
have passed since the first Christmas, the spirit of it has wandered in and out
like a golden thread in a dull tapestry, sometimes hidden, but never wholly
lost. It behooves us to keep well and reverently such Christmas as we have,
else we shall share old Ben Jonson’s lament in The Mask of Father Christmas,
which was presented before the English Court nearly two hundred years ago:
“Any man or woman ... that can give any knowledge,
or tell any tidings of an old, very old, grey haired gentleman called
Christmas, who was wont to be a very familiar ghest, and visit all sorts of
people both pore and rich, and used to appear in glittering gold, silk and
silver in the court, and in all shapes in the theatre in Whitehall, and had
singing, feasts and jolitie in all places, both citie and countrie for his
coming—whosoever can tel what is become of him, or where he may be found, let
them bring him back again into England.”
CONSECRATION
Cathedral spire and lofty architrave,
Nor priestly rite and humble reverence,
Nor costly fires of myrrh and frankincense
May give the consecration that we crave;
Upon the shore where tides forever lave
With grateful coolness on the fevered sense;
Where passion grows to silence, rapt, intense,
There waits the chrismal fountain of the wave.
By rock-hewn altars where is said no word,
Save by the deep that calleth unto deep,
While organ tones of sea resound above;
The truth of truths our inmost souls have heard,
And in our hearts communion wine we keep,
For He Himself hath said it—“God is Love!”
