I was informed by Frank Bracebridge, that the parson had been a chumof his father's at Oxford, and had received this living shortlyafter the latter had come to his estate. He was a completeblack-letter hunter, and would scarcely read a work printed in theRoman character. The editions of Caxton and Wynkin de Worde were hisdelight; and he was indefatigable in his researches after such oldEnglish writers as have fallen into oblivion from their worthlessness.
In deference, perhaps, to the notions of Mr. Bracebridge, he hadmade diligent investigations into the festive rites and holidaycustoms of former times; and had been as zealous in the inquiry asif he had been a boon companion; but it was merely with thatplodding spirit with which men of adust temperament follow up anytrack of study, merely because it is denominated learning; indifferentto its intrinsic nature, whether it be the illustration of the wisdom,or of the ribaldry and obscenity of antiquity. He had pored over theseold volumes so intensely, that they seemed to have been reflected inhis countenance; which, if the face be indeed an index of the mind,might be compared to a title-page of black letter.
On reaching the church porch, we found the parson rebuking thegray-headed sexton for having used mistletoe among the greens withwhich the church was decorated. It was, he observed, an unholyplant, profaned by having been used by the Druids in their mysticceremonies; and though it might be innocently employed in thefestive ornamenting of halls and kitchens, yet it had been deemed bythe Fathers of the Church as unhallowed, and totally unfit forsacred purposes. So tenacious was he on this point, that the poorsexton was obliged to strip down a great part of the humble trophiesof his taste, before the parson would consent to enter upon theservice of the day.
The interior of the church was venerable but simple; on the wallswere several mural monuments of the Bracebridges, and just besidethe altar was a tomb of ancient workmanship, on which lay the effigyof a warrior in armor, with his legs crossed, a sign of his havingbeen a crusader. I was told it was one of the family who hadsignalized himself in the Holy Land, and the same whose picture hungover the fireplace in the hall.
During service, Master Simon stood up in the pew, and repeated theresponses very audibly; evincing that kind of ceremonious devotionpunctually observed by a gentleman of the old school, and a man of oldfamily connections. I observed too that he turned over the leaves of afolio prayer-book with something of a flourish; possibly to show offan enormous seal-ring which enriched one of his fingers, and which hadthe look of a family relic. But he was evidently most solicitous aboutthe musical part of the service, keeping his eye fixed intently on thechoir, and beating time with much gesticulation and emphasis.
The orchestra was in a small gallery, and presented a most whimsicalgrouping of heads, piled one above the other, among which Iparticularly noticed that of the village tailor, a pale fellow witha retreating forehead and chin, who played on the clarionet, andseemed to have blown his face to a point; and there was another, ashort pursy man, stooping and laboring at a bass-viol, so as to shownothing but the top of a round bald head, like the egg of anostrich. There were two or three pretty faces among the femalesingers, to which the keen air of a frosty morning had given abright rosy tint; but the gentlemen choristers had evidently beenchosen, like old Cremona fiddles, more for tone than looks; and asseveral had to sing from the same book, there were clusterings ofodd physiognomies, not unlike those groups of cherubs we sometimes seeon country tombstones.
The usual services of the choir were managed tolerably well, thevocal parts generally lagging a little behind the instrumental, andsome loitering fiddler now and then making up for lost time bytravelling over a passage with prodigious celerity, and clearingmore bars than the keenest fox-hunter to be in at the death. But thegreat trial was an anthem that had been prepared and arranged byMaster Simon, and on which he had founded great expectation. Unluckilythere was a blunder at the very outset; the musicians became flurried;Master Simon was in a fever; every thing went on lamely andirregularly until they came to a chorus beginning "Now let us singwith one accord," which seemed to be a signal for parting company: allbecame discord and confusion; each shifted for himself, and got to theend as well, or, rather, as soon as he could, excepting one oldchorister in a pair of horn spectacles, bestriding and pinching a longsonorous nose; who happened to stand a little apart, and, beingwrapped up in his own melody, kept on a quavering course, wrigglinghis head, ogling his book, and winding all up by a nasal solo of atleast three bars' duration.
The parson gave us a most erudite sermon on the rites and ceremoniesof Christmas, and the propriety of observing it not merely as a day ofthanksgiving, but of rejoicing; supporting the correctness of hisopinions by the earliest usages of the church, and enforcing them bythe authorities of Theophilus of Cesarea, St. Cyprian, St. Chrysostom,St. Augustine, and a cloud more of saints and fathers, from whom hemade copious quotations. I was a little at a loss to perceive thenecessity of such a mighty array of forces to maintain a point whichno one present seemed inclined to dispute; but I soon found that thegood man had a legion of ideal adversaries to contend with; having, inthe course of his researches on the subject of Christmas, gotcompletely embroiled in the sectarian controversies of the Revolution,when the Puritans made such a fierce assault upon the ceremonies ofthe church, and poor old Christmas was driven out of the land byproclamation of Parliament.* The worthy parson lived but with timespast, and knew but little of the present.
