Christmas Observances
Out of the customs, practices, and ceremonies in the observance of the Feast of the Nativity, for hundreds of years, we have sifted and saved what is worth keeping. In the changes that have been wrought, the new Christmas is better than the old, better in itself, better for the time in which we live. It is not so picturesque, but it is imbued with more of the spirit of charity and fraternity, of the love that warms and the kindness that cheers, of thoughts and things that win us from ourselves to human fellowship, of peace on earth and good will to men. From hall to hovel, from childhood’s playthings to the touching pledges of later life, its passing moments are the brightest of the year. From the stately temple, with its “long-drawn aisle and fretted vault,” its “gules and or and azure on nave and chancel pane,” to the little meeting-house with its severe simplicity and lack of adornment alike, as
“* * beautiful as songs of the immortals,
The holy melodies of love arise.”
Reference is often made to Walter Scott as by far the best of the descriptive poets of the Old Christmas. Says he, in closing his lines in “Marmion,”—
“England was merry England, when
Old Christmas brought his sports again.
’Twas Christmas broached the mightiest ale;
’Twas Christmas told the merriest tale;
A Christmas gambol oft would cheer
The poor man’s heart through half the year.”
But when it comes to delightful description of the later Christmas, our own Washington Irving is the Laureate. In the Sketch Book he shows in his admirable way how this kindliest of seasons is pervaded and irradiated with the brotherhood which is the essential spirit of Christianity. In its gifts, its symbols, its gracious influences, its blessings, and benedictions, he sees nothing doctrinal, or dogmatic, or theological, but only mouldings to newer forms of the old faith; only the message which leads men and women and children to step aside from their own paths of pleasantness and peace, and go out on a mission of love and mercy into a world which knows more of the darkness of adversity than of the sunshine of happiness. In a letter written by Charles Dickens to Irving, in 1841, it is apparent that Bracebridge Hall made a very strong impression upon him, and it was manifest afterwards that Irving’s sketches served as the prototype of the Christmas scenes at Dingley Dell in the Pickwick Papers, and the forerunner of a series of Christmas stories commencing with the Christmas Carol in prose. The elders who, years ago, when Mr. Dickens visited this country, heard him read with dramatic force the closing chapters of the Carol, detailing the softening influences which metamorphosed the miserly Scrooge into a benefactor, and lifted Bob Cratchit’s family with his crippled boy, Tiny Tim, out of the depths of depressing poverty, will never forget the pathos which he threw into the last line, the invocation of Tiny Tim, “God bless us, every one.” These stories, however, started a flood-tide of Christmas editions of daily papers, pictorial papers, class papers, and monthly magazines, to the point of wearisome superfluity. They contain nothing pertaining to the Christmas season, and in respect to such absence are like Thackeray’s “Christmas Books.” In the Kinkleburys, Thackeray himself says, “Christmas Books are so called because they are published at Christmas.” As to the bibliography of Christmas, with the embodiment of songs, hymns, carols, legends, stories, comedies, myths, sermons, customs and usages, its magnitude is such that a reviewer would hardly know where to begin or where to end.
Art has found no higher expression than in its perpetuation of the portraiture of the Madonna and the Child. The great masters who thus immortalized the trust committed to them, found no more inspiring subject than the Motherhood and the Childhood whose sacredness appeals to all hearts through the never-ending, still-beginning succession of the ages. As we gaze on these spiritual faces, with their transcendent beauty, their unclouded serenity, their heaven-reflected radiance, on the canvas of Raphael and Angelo and Guido and Murillo and Rubens and Titian and del Sarto and Carlo Dolce, we are reminded that though there was no room for the mother in the inn, she was exalted above all women, and though there was no cradle but a feeding-trough for the child, that manger, in the divinely-appointed time, was transformed into an everlasting throne.