Old Christmas:
THE STAGE COACH
CHRISTMAS EVE
CHRISTMAS DAY
THE CHRISTMAS DINNER




 

 

 

 

 

"The old family mansion, partly thrown in deep shadow, and partly lit up by the cold moonshine"
Frontispiece.

Old Christmas:

FROM THE Sketch Book of Washington Irving.

Illustrated by R Caldecott







London.
Macmillan & Co
1886

 

 

Before the remembrance of the good old times, so fast passing, should have entirely passed away, the present artist, R. Caldecott, and engraver, James D. Cooper, planned to illustrate Washington Irving's "Old Christmas" in this manner. Their primary idea was to carry out the principle of the Sketch Book, by incorporating the designs with the text. Throughout they have worked together and con amore. With what success the public must decide.

November 1875.

 

 

 

DESIGNED BY RANDOLPH CALDECOTT,

AND

ARRANGED AND ENGRAVED BY J. D. COOPER.

 

The Old Mansion by MoonlightFrontispiece.

Title-Page.

 

Ancient Fireplace

Heading to Preface

Heading to Contents

Tailpiece to Contents

Heading to List of Illustrations

Tailpiece to List of Illustrations

"The Poor from the Gates were not chidden"

Heading to Christmas

The Mouldering Tower

Christmas Anthem in Cathedral

The Wanderer's Return

"Nature lies despoiled of every Charm"

"The Honest Face of Hospitality"

"The Shy Glance of Love"

Old Hall of Castle

The Great Oaken Gallery

The Waits

"And sit down Darkling and Repining"

The Stage Coach

The Three Schoolboys

The Old English Stage Coachman

"He throws down the Reins with something of an Air"

The Stable Imitators

The Public House

The Housemaid

The Smithy

"Now or never must Music be in Tune"

The Country Maid

The Old Servant and Bantam

A Neat Country Seat

Inn Kitchen

The Recognition. Tailpiece

The Post-chaise

The Lodge Gate

The Old Primitive Dame

"The Little Dogs and All"

Mistletoe

The Squire's Reception

The Family Party

Toys

The Yule Log

The Squire in his Hereditary Chair

The Family Plate

Master Simon

Young Girl

Her Mother

The Old Harper

Master Simon Dancing

The Oxonian and his Maiden Aunt

The Young Officer with his Guitar

The Fair Julia

Asleep

Christmas Day

The Children's Carol

Robin on the Mountain Ash

Master Simon as Clerk

Breakfast

Viewing the Dogs

Master Simon going to Church

The Village Church

The Parson

Rebuking the Sexton

Effigy of a Warrior

Master Simon at Church

The Village Choir

The Village Tailor

An Old Chorister

The Sermon

Churchyard Greetings

Frosty Thraldom of Winter

Merry Old English Games

The Poor at Home

Village Antics

Tasting the Squire's Ale

The Wit of the Village

Coquettish Housemaid

Antique Sideboard

The Cook with the Rolling-Pin

The Warrior's Arms

"Flagons, Cans, Cups, Beakers, Goblets, Basins, and Ewers"         

The Christmas Dinner

A High Roman Nose

The Parson said Grace

The Boar's Head

The Fat-headed Old Gentleman

Peacock Pie

The Wassail Bowl

The Squire's Toast

The Long-winded Joker

Long Stories

The Parson and the Pretty Milkmaid

Master Simon grows Maudlin

The Blue-Eyed Romp

The Parson's Tale

The Sexton's Rebuff

The Crusader's Night Ride

Ancient Christmas and Dame Mince-Pie

Robin Hood and Maid Marian

The Minuet

Roast Beef, Plum Pudding, and Misrule

The Christmas Dance in Costume

"Chuckling and Rubbing his Hands"

"Echoing back the Joviality of long-departed Years"

Retrospect

 

 

A man might then behold

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.

Old Song.

 

here 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 home-bred, 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 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 mementoes 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 its 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 pleasures 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 living 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 into 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 habits throughout every class of society, have always been fond 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 antiquarians have given of the quaint humours, 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 passenger 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.