The Sketch-Book of Geoffrey Crayon
many generations of jovial housekeepers. Before these stood the two Yule
candles, beaming like two stars of the first magnitude; other lights
were distributed in branches, and the whole array glittered like a
firmament of silver.
We were ushered into this banqueting scene with the sound of minstrelsy,
the old harper being seated on a stool beside the fireplace and
twanging, his instrument with a vast deal more power than melody. Never
did Christmas board display a more goodly and gracious assemblage of
countenances; those who were not handsome were at least happy, and
happiness is a rare improver of your hard-favored visage. I always
consider an old English family as well worth studying as a collection of
Holbein’s portraits or Albert Durer’s prints. There is much antiquarian
lore to be acquired, much knowledge of the physiognomies of former
times. Perhaps it may be from having continually before their eyes those
rows of old family portraits, with which the mansions of this country
are stocked; certain it is that the quaint features of antiquity are
often most faithfully perpetuated in these ancient lines, and I have
traced an old family nose through a whole picture-gallery, legitimately
handed down from generation to generation almost from the time of the
Conquest. Something of the kind was to be observed in the worthy company
around me. Many of their faces had evidently originated in a Gothic
age, and been merely copied by succeeding generations; and there was one
little girl in particular, of staid demeanor, with a high Roman nose
and an antique vinegar aspect, who was a great favorite of the squire’s,
being, as he said, a Bracebridge all over, and the very counterpart of
one of his ancestors who figured in the court of Henry VIII.
The parson said grace, which was not a short familiar one, such as is
commonly addressed to the Deity in these unceremonious days, but a long,
courtly, well-worded one of the ancient school. There was now a pause,
as if something was expected, when suddenly the butler entered the hall
with some degree of bustle: he was attended by a servant on each side
with a large wax-light, and bore a silver dish on which was an enormous
pig’s head decorated with rosemary, with a lemon in its mouth, which was
placed with great formality at the head of the table. The moment this
pageant made its appearance the harper struck up a flourish; at the
conclusion of which the young Oxonian, on receiving a hint from the
squire, gave, with an air of the most comic gravity, an old carol, the
first verse of which was as follows
Caput apri defero
Reddens laudes Domino.
The boar’s head in hand bring I,
With garlands gay and rosemary.
I pray you all synge merily
Qui estis in convivio.
Though prepared to witness many of these little eccentricities, from
being apprised of the peculiar hobby of mine host, yet I confess the
parade with which so odd a dish was introduced somewhat perplexed me,
until I gathered from the conversation of the squire and the parson that
it was meant to represent the bringing in of the boar’s head, a dish
formerly served up with much ceremony and the sound of minstrelsy and
song at great tables on Christmas Day. “I like the old custom,” said the
squire, “not merely because it is stately and pleasing in itself,
but because it was observed at the college at Oxford at which I was
educated. When I hear the old song chanted it brings to mind the time
when I was young and gamesome, and the noble old college hall, and my
fellow-students loitering about in their black gowns; many of whom, poor
lads! are now in their graves.”
The parson, however, whose mind was not haunted by such associations,
and who was always more taken up with the text than the sentiment,
objected to the Oxonian’s version of the carol, which he affirmed
was different from that sung at college. He went on, with the dry
perseverance of a commentator, to give the college reading, accompanied
by sundry annotations, addressing himself at first to the company at
large; but, finding their attention gradually diverted to other talk and
other objects, he lowered his tone as his number of auditors diminished,
until he concluded his remarks in an under voice to a fat-headed old
gentleman next him who was silently engaged in the discussion of a huge
plateful of turkey.*
* The old ceremony of serving up the boar’s head on
Christmas Day is still observed in the hall of Queen’s
College, Oxford. I was favored by the parson with a copy of
the carol as now sung, and as it may be acceptable to such
of my readers as are curious in these grave and learned
matters, I give it entire:
The boar’s head in hand bear I,
Bedeck’d with bays and rosemary
And I pray you, my masters, be merry
Quot estis in convivio
Caput apri defero,
Reddens laudes domino.
The boar’s head, as I understand,
Is the rarest dish in all this land,
Which thus bedeck’d with a gay garland
Let us servire cantico.
Caput apri defero, etc.
Our steward hath provided this
In honor of the King of Bliss,
Which on this day to be served is
In Reginensi Atrio.
Caput apri defero, etc., etc., etc.
The table was literally loaded with good cheer, and presented an
epitome of country abundance in this season of overflowing larders.
A distinguished post was allotted to “ancient sirloin,” as mine host
termed it, being, as he added, “the standard of old English hospitality,
and a joint of goodly presence, and full of expectation.” There were
several dishes quaintly decorated, and which had evidently something
traditional in their embellishments, but about which, as I did not like
to appear overcurious, I asked no questions.
I could not, however, but notice a pie magnificently decorated with
peacock’s feathers, in imitation of the tail of that bird, which
overshadowed a considerable tract of the table. This, the squire
confessed with some little hesitation, was a pheasant pie, though a
peacock pie was certainly the most authentical; but there had been such
a mortality among the peacocks this season that he could not prevail
upon himself to have one killed.*
* The peacock was anciently in great demand for stately
entertainments. Sometimes it was made into a pie, at one end
of which the head appeared above the crust in all its
plumage, with the beak richly gilt; at the other end the
tail was displayed. Such pies were served up at the solemn
banquets of chivalry, when knights-errant pledged themselves
to undertake any perilous enterprise, whence came the
ancient oath, used by Justice Shallow, “by cock and pie.”
The peacock was also an important dish for the Christmas feast; and
Massinger, in his “City Madam,” gives some idea of the extravagance
with which this, as well as other dishes, was prepared for the gorgeous
revels of the olden times:
Men may talk of Country Christmasses,
Their thirty pound butter’d eggs, their pies of carps’ tongues;
Their pheasants drench’d with ambergris: the carcases of three
fat wethers bruised for gravy to make sauce for a single peacock!
It would be tedious, perhaps, to my wiser readers, who may not have
that foolish fondness for odd and obsolete things to which I am a
little given, were I to mention the other makeshifts or this worthy old
humorist, by which he was endeavoring to follow up, though at humble
distance, the quaint customs of antiquity. I was pleased, however, to
see the respect shown to his whims by his children and relatives; who,
indeed, entered readily into the full spirit of them, and seemed all
well versed in their parts, having doubtless been present at many a
rehearsal. I was amused, too, at the air of profound gravity with which
the butler and other servants executed the duties assigned them, however
eccentric. They had an old-fashioned look, having, for the most part,
been brought up in the household and grown into keeping with the
antiquated mansion and the humors of its lord, and most probably looked
upon all his whimsical regulations as the established laws of honorable
housekeeping.
When the cloth was removed the butler brought in a huge silver vessel
of rare and curious workmanship, which he placed before the squire.
Its appearance was hailed with acclamation, being the Wassail Bowl, so
renowned in Christmas festivity. The contents had been prepared by the
squire himself; for it was a beverage in the skilful mixture of which
he particularly prided himself, alleging that it was too abstruse and
complex for the comprehension of an ordinary servant. It was a potation,
indeed, that might well make the heart of a toper leap within him, being
composed of the richest and raciest wines, highly spiced and sweetened,
with roasted apples bobbing about the surface.*
* The Wassail Bowl was sometimes composed of ale instead of
wine, with nutmeg, sugar, toast, ginger, and roasted crabs;
in this way the nut-brown beverage is still prepared in some
old families and round the hearths of substantial farmers at
Christmas. It is also called Lamb’s Wool, and is celebrated
by Herrick in his “Twelfth Night”:
Next crowne the bowle full
With gentle Lamb’s Wool;
Add sugar, nutmeg, and ginger,
With store of ale too,
And thus ye must doe
To make the Wassaile a swinger.
The old gentleman’s whole countenance beamed with a serene look of
indwelling delight as he stirred this mighty bowl. Having raised it to
his lips, with a hearty wish of a merry Christmas to all present, he
sent it brimming round the board, for every one to follow his example,
according to the primitive style, pronouncing it “the ancient fountain
of good feeling, where all hearts met together.” *
* “The custom of drinking out of the same cup gave place to
each having his cup. When the steward came to the doore with
the Wassel, he was to cry three times, Wassel, Wassel,
Wassel, and then the chappell (chaplain) was to answer with
a song.”--Archaeologia.
There was much laughing and rallying as the honest emblem of Christmas
joviality circulated and was kissed rather coyly by the ladies. When it
reached Master Simon, he raised it in both hands, and with the air of a
boon companion struck up an old Wassail Chanson:
The brown bowle,
The merry brown bowle,
As it goes round-about-a,
Fill
Still,
Let the world say what it will,
And drink your fill all out-a.
The deep canne,
The merry deep canne,
As thou dost freely quaff-a,
Sing
Fling,
Be as merry as a king,
And sound a lusty laugh-a.*
* From Poor Robin’s Almanack.
Much of the conversation during dinner turned upon family topics, to
which I was a stranger. There was, however, a great deal of rallying of
Master Simon about some gay widow with whom he was accused of having
a flirtation. This attack was commenced by the ladies, but it was
continued throughout the dinner by the fat-headed old gentleman next
the parson with the persevering assiduity of a slow hound, being one of
those long-winded jokers who, though rather dull at starting game, are
unrivalled for their talents in hunting it down. At every pause in the
general conversation he renewed his bantering in pretty much the same
terms, winking hard at me with both eyes whenever he gave Master Simon
what he considered a home thrust. The latter, indeed, seemed fond of
being teased on the subject, as old bachelors are apt to be, and he took
occasion to inform me, in an undertone, that the lady in question was a