 | The works of 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.
At Christmas, in each hall
Good fires to curb the cold,
And meat for great and small.
The neighbours were friendly bidden,
And all had welcome true,
The poor from the gates were not chidden,
When this old cap was new.
There is nothing in England that
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 flavour 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 latter
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 fervour 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 connexions, 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