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(Solved) Respond to the following question: On page 3 of "A Remaining


Respond to the following question:
A Remaining Christmas

 

The world is changing very fast, and neither exactly for the better or the worse,

 

but for division. Our civilization is splitting more and more into two camps, and what

 

was common to the whole of it is becoming restricted to the Christian, and soon will be

 

restricted to the Catholic half.

 

That is why I have called this article ?A Remaining Christmas?. People ask

 

themselves how much remains of this observance and of the feast and its customs. Now

 

a concrete instance is more vivid and, in its own way, of more value than a general

 

appreciation. So I will set down here exactly what Christmas still is in a certain house

 

in England, how it is observed, and all the domestic rites accompanying it in their detail

 

and warmth.

 

This house stands low down upon clay near a little river. It is quite cut off from

 

the towns; no one has built near it. Every cottage for a mile and more is old, with here

 

and there a modern addition. The church of the parish (which was lost of course three

 

and a half centuries ago, under Elizabeth) is as old as the Crusades. It is of the twelfth

 

century. The house of which I speak is in its oldest parts of the fourteenth century at

 

least, and perhaps earlier, but there are modern additions. One wing of it was built

 

seventy years ago at the south end of the house, another at the north end, twenty years

 

ago. Yet the tradition is so strong that you would not tell from the outside, and hardly

 

from the inside, which part is old and which part is new. For, indeed, the old part itself

 

grew up gradually, and the eleven gables of the house show up against the sky as though

 

they were of one age, though in truth they are of every age down along all these 500

 

years and more.

 

The central upper room of the house is the chapel where Mass is said, and there

 

one sees, uncovered by any wall of plaster or brick, the original structure of the house,

 

which is of vast oaken beams, the main supports and transverses pieces half a yard

 

across, morticed strongly into each other centuries, and smoothed roughly with the

 

adze. They are black with the years. The roof soars up like a high?pitched tent, and is

 

supported by a whole fan of lesser curved oaken beams. There is but one window behind

 

the altar. Indeed, the whole house is thus in its structure of the local and native oak,

 

and the brick walls of it are only curtains built in between the wooden framework of that

 

most ancient habitation.

 

Beneath the chapel is the dining room, where there is a very large open hearth

 

which can take huge logs and which is as old as anything in the place. Here wood only

 

is burnt, and that wood oak.

 

Down this room there runs a very long oaken table as dark with age almost as

 

the beams above it, and this table has a history. It came out of one of the Oxford colleges

 

when the Puritans looted them 300 years ago. It never got back to its original home. It

 

passed from one family to another until at last it was purchased (in his youth and upon

 

his marriage) by the man who now owns this house. Those who know about such things

 

give its date as the beginning of the seventeenth century. It was made, then, while

 

Shakespeare was still living, and while the faith of England still hung in the balance; for

 

one cannot say that England was certain to lose her Catholicism finally till the first

 

quarter of that century was passed. This table, roughly carved at the side, has been

 

polished with wax since first it began to bear food for men, and now the surface shines

 

like a slightly, very slightly, undulating sea in a calm. At night the brass candlesticks

 

(for this house is lit with candles, as the proper light for men?s eyes) are reflected in it

 

as in still brown water; so are the vessels of glass and of silver and of pewter, and the

 


 

flagons of wine. No cloth is ever spread to hide this venerable splendour, nor, let us

 

hope, ever will be.

 

At one end of the house, where the largest of its many outer doors (there are

 

several such) swings massively upon huge forged iron hinges, there is a hall, not very

 

wide; its length is as great as the width of the house and its height very great for its

 

width. Like the chapel, its roof soars up, steep and dark, so that from its floor (which is

 

made of very great and heavy slabs of the local stone) one looks up to the roof?tree itself.

 

This hall has another great wide hearth in it for the burning of oak, and there is an

 

oaken staircase, very wide and of an easy slope, with an oaken balustrade and leading

 

up to an open gallery above, whence you look down upon the piece. Above this gallery

 

is a statue of Our Lady, carved in wood, uncoloured, and holding the Holy Child, and

 

beneath her many shelves of books. This room is panelled, as are so many of the rooms

 

of the house, but it has older panels than any of the others, and the great door of it

 

opens on to the high road.

 

Now the way Christmas is kept in this house is this:

 

On Christmas Eve a great quantity of holly and of laurel is brought in from the

 

garden and from the farm (for this house has a farm of 100 acres attached to it and an

 

oak wood of ten acres). This greenery is put up all over the house in every room just

 

before it becomes dark on that day. Then there is brought into the hall a young pine

 

tree, about twice the height of a man, to serve for a Christmas tree, and on this

 

innumerable little candles are fixed, and presents for all the household and the guests

 

and the children of the village.

 

It is at about five o?clock that these last come into the house, and at that hour in

 

England, at that date, it has long been quite dark; so they come into a house all

 

illuminated with the Christmas tree shining like a cluster of many stars seen through a

 

glass.

 

The first thing done after the entry of these people from the village and their

 

children (the children are in number about fifty?for this remote place keeps a good level

 

through the generations and does not shrink or grow, but remains itself) is a common

 

meal, where all eat and drink their fill in the offices. Then the children come in to the

 

Christmas tree. They are each given a silver piece one by one, and one by one, their

 

presents. After that they dance in the hall and sing songs, which have been handed

 

down to them for I do not know how long.

 

These songs are game?songs, and are sung to keep time with the various parts in

 

each game, and the men and things and animals which you hear mentioned in these

 

songs are all of that countryside. Indeed, the tradition of Christmas here is what it

 

should be everywhere, knit into the very stuff of the place; so that I fancy the little

 

children, when they think of Bethlehem, see it in their minds as though it were in the

 

winter depth of England, which is as it should be.

 

These games and songs continue for as long as they will, and then they file out

 

past the great fire in the hearth to a small piece adjoining where a crib has been set up

 

with images of Our Lady and St Joseph and the Holy Child, the Shepherds, and what I

 

will call, by your leave, the Holy Animals. And here, again, tradition is so strong in this

 

house that these figures are never new?bought, but are as old as the oldest of the

 

children of the family, now with children of their own. On this account, the donkey has

 

lost one of its plaster ears, and the old ox which used to be all brown is now piebald,

 

and of the shepherds, one actually has no head. But all that is lacking is imagined.

 

There hangs from the roof of the crib over the Holy Child a tinsel star grown rather

 

obscure after all these years, and much too large for the place. Before this crib the

 

children (some of them Catholic and some Protestant, for the village is mixed) sing their

 


 

carols; the one they know best is the one which begins: ?The First Good Joy that Mary

 

had, it was the joy of One?. There are a half a dozen or so of these carols which the

 

children here sing; and mixed with their voices is the voice of the miller (for this house

 

has great windmill attached to it). The miller is famous in these parts for his singing,

 

having a very deep and loud voice which is his pride. When these carols are over, all

 

disperse, except those who are living in the house, but the older ones are not allowed to

 

go without more good drink for their viaticum, a sustenance for Christian men.

 

Then the people of the house, when they have dined, and their guests, with the

 

priest who is to say Mass for them, sit up till near midnight. There is brought in a very

 

large log of oak (you must be getting tired of oak by this time! But everything here is

 

oaken, for the house is of the Weald). This log of oak is the Christmas or Yule log and

 

the rule is that it must be too heavy for one man to lift; so two men come, bringing it in

 

from outside, the master of the house and his servant. They cast it down upon the fire

 

in the great hearth of the dining?room, and the superstition is that, if it burns all night

 

and is found still smouldering in the morning, the home will be prosperous for the

 

coming year.

 

With that they all go up to the chapel and there the three night Masses are said,

 

one after the other, and those of the household take their Communion.

 

Next morning they sleep late, and the great Christmas dinner is at midday. It is

 

a turkey; and plum pudding, with holly in it and everything conventional, and therefore

 

satisfactory, is done. Crackers are pulled, the brandy is lit and poured over the pudding

 

till the holly crackles in the flame and the curtains are drawn a moment that the flames

 

may be seen. This Christmas feast, so great that it may be said almost to fill the day,

 

they may reprove who will; but for my part I applaud.

 

Now, you must not think that Christmas being over, the season and its glories

 

are at an end, for in this house there is kept up the full custom of the Twelve Days, so

 

that ?Twelfth Day?, the Epiphany, still has, to its inhabitants, its full and ancient

 

meaning as it had when Shakespeare wrote. The green is kept in its place in every room,

 

and not a leaf of it must be moved until Epiphany morning, but on the other hand not

 

a leaf of it must remain in the house, nor the Christmas tree either, by Epiphany

 

evening. It is all taken out and burnt in a special little coppice reserved for these good

 

trees which have done their Christmas duty; and now, after so many years, you might

 

almost call it a little forest, for each tree has lived, bearing witness to the holy vitality of

 

unbroken ritual and inherited things.

 

In the midst of this season between Christmas and Twelfth Day comes the

 

ceremony of the New Year, and this is how it is observed:

 

On New Years? Eve, at about a quarter to twelve o?clock at night, the master of

 

the house and all that are with him go about from room to room opening every door and

 

window, however cold the weather be, for thus, they say, the old year and its burdens

 

can go out and leave everything new for hope and for the youth of the coming time.

 

This also is a superstition, and of the best. Those who observe it trust that it is

 

as old as Europe, and with roots stretching back into forgotten times.

 

While this is going on the bells in the church hard by are ringing out the old year,

 

and when all the windows and doors have thus been opened and left wide, all those in

 

the house go outside, listening for the cessation of the chimes, which comes just before

 

the turn of the year. There is an odd silence of a few minutes, and watches are consulted

 

to make certain of the time (for this house detests wireless and has not even a

 

telephone), and the way they know the moment of midnight is by the boom of a gun,

 

which is fired at a town far off, but can always be heard.

 


 

At that sound the bells of the church clash out suddenly in new chords, the

 

master of the house goes back into it with a piece of stone or earth from outside, all

 

doors are shut, and the household, all of them, rich and poor, drink a glass of wine

 

together to salute the New Year.

 

This, which I have just described, is not in a novel or in a play. It is real, and goes

 

on as the ordinary habit of living men and women. I fear that set down thus in our

 

terribly changing time it must sound very strange and, perhaps in places, grotesque,

 

but to those who practice it, it is not only sacred, but normal, having in the whole of the

 

complicated affair a sacramental quality and an effect of benediction: not to be despised.

 

Indeed, modern men, who lack such things, lack sustenance, and our fathers

 

who founded all those ritual observances were very wise.

 

***

 

Man has a body as well as a soul, and the whole of man, soul and body, is nourished

 

sanely by a multiplicity of observed traditional things. Moreover, there is this great

 

quality in the unchanging practice of Holy Seasons, that it makes explicable, tolerable,

 

and normal what is otherwise a shocking and intolerable and even in the fullest sense,

 

abnormal thing. I mean, the mortality of immortal men.

 

Not only death (which shakes and rends all that is human in us, creating a

 

monstrous separation and threatening the soul with isolation which destroys), not only

 

death, but that accompaniment of mortality which is a perpetual series of lesser deaths

 

and is called change, are challenged, chained, and put in their place by unaltered and

 

successive acts of seasonable regard for loss and dereliction and mutability. The threats

 

of despair, remorse, necessary expiation, weariness almost beyond bearing, dull

 

repetition of things apparently fruitless, unnecessary and without meaning,

 

estrangement, the misunderstanding of mind by mind, forgetfulness which is a false

 

alarm, grief, and repentance, which are true ones, but of a sad company, young men

 

perished in battle before their parents had lost vigour in age, the perils of sickness in

 

the body and even in the mind, anxiety, honour harassed, all the bitterness of living?

 

become part of a large business which may lead to Beatitude. For they are all connected

 

in the memory with holy day after holy day, year by year, binding the generations

 

together; carrying on even in this world, as it were, the life of the dead and giving

 

corporate substance, permanence and stability, without the symbol of which (at least)

 

the vast increasing burden of life might at last conquer us and be no longer borne.

 

***

 

This house where such good things are done year by year has suffered all the things

 

that every age has suffered. It has known the sudden separation of wife and husband,

 

the sudden fall of young men under arms who will never more come home, the scattering

 

of the living and their precarious return, the increase and the loss of fortune, all those

 

terrors and all those lessenings and haltings and failures of hope which make up the

 

life of man. But its Christmas binds it to its own past and promises its future; making

 

the house an undying thing of which those subject to mortality within it are members,

 

sharing in its continuous survival.

 

It is not wonderful that of such a house verse should be written. Many verses

 

have been so written commemorating and praising this house. The last verse written of

 

it I may quote by way of ending:

 

?Stand thou for ever among human Houses,

 

House of the Resurrection, House of Birth;

 

House of the rooted hearts and long carouses,

 

Stand, and be famous over all the Earth.

 


 

_____________________

 

Hilaire Belloc (1870-1953)

 


 

 


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