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    Old Christmas from the Sketchbook of Washington Irving
    Old Christmas from the Sketchbook of Washington Irving
    Old Christmas from the Sketchbook of Washington Irving
    Ebook80 pages1 hour

    Old Christmas from the Sketchbook of Washington Irving

    By Washington Irving

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    About this ebook

    Christmas is the most famous holiday of the year, and the word itself evokes images of Santa Claus, reindeer, snow, Christmas trees, egg nog and more. At the same time, it represents Christianity's most important event, the birth of the baby Jesus. Instantly, well known Christmas carols ring in your ears, pictures of the Nativity Scene become ubiquitous, or maybe you even picture nutcrackers or Scrooge and Tiny Tim.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherCharles River Editors
    Release dateMar 22, 2018
    ISBN9781614304289
    Old Christmas from the Sketchbook of Washington Irving
    Author

    Washington Irving

    Nueva York, 1783 - Sunnyside, 1859. Escritor norteamericano perteneciente al mundo literario del costumbrismo. Washington Irving es el primer autor americano que utiliza la literatura para hacer reír y caricaturizar la realidad, creando además el estilo coloquial que después utilizarían Mark Twain y Hemingway.

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      Book preview

      Old Christmas from the Sketchbook of Washington Irving - Washington Irving

      Old Christmas from the Sketchbook of Washington Irving

      Illustrated byR Caldecott

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

      PREFACE

      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.

      CHRISTMAS

      There 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

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