The Sketch-Book of Geoffrey Crayon
had been contemplating, but found they were already falling into
indistinctness and confusion. Names, inscriptions, trophies, had all
become confounded in my recollection, though I had scarcely taken my
foot from off the threshold. What, thought I, is this vast assemblage
of sepulchres but a treasury of humiliation--a huge pile of reiterated
homilies on the emptiness of renown and the certainty of oblivion? It
is, indeed, the empire of death; his great shadowy palace where he sits
in state mocking at the relics of human glory and spreading dust and
forgetfulness on the monuments of princes. How idle a boast, after all,
is the immortality of a name! Time is ever silently turning over his
pages; we are too much engrossed by the story of the present to think
of the characters and anecdotes that gave interest to the past; and
each age is a volume thrown aside to be speedily forgotten. The idol of
to-day pushes the hero of yesterday out of our recollection, and will in
turn be supplanted by his successor of tomorrow. “Our fathers,” says Sir
Thomas Browne, “find their graves in our short memories, and sadly tell
us how we may be buried in our survivors.” History fades into fable;
fact becomes clouded with doubt and controversy; the inscription
moulders from the tablet; the statue falls from the pedestal. Columns,
arches, pyramids, what are they but heaps of sand, and their epitaphs
but characters written in the dust? What is the security of a tomb or
the perpetuity of an embalmment? The remains of Alexander the Great have
been scattered to the wind, and his empty sarcophagus is now the mere
curiosity of a museum. “The Egyptian mummies, which Cambyses or time
hath spared, avarice now consumeth; Mizraim cures wounds, and Pharaoh is
sold for balsams.” *
What then is to ensure this pile which now towers above me from sharing
the fate of mightier mausoleums? The time must come when its gilded
vaults which now spring so loftily, shall lie in rubbish beneath the
feet; when instead of the sound of melody and praise the wind shall
whistle through the broken arches and the owl hoot from the shattered
tower; when the garish sunbeam shall break into these gloomy mansions of
death, and the ivy twine round the fallen column; and the fox-glove hang
its blossoms about the nameless urn, as if in mockery of the dead.
Thus man passes away; his name passes from record and recollection; his
history is as a tale that is told, and his very monument becomes a ruin.
* Sir T. Browne.
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 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 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 it 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 found 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 mid-watches 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