Storieta
English
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About this book

The work is a scholarly survey of Christmas customs, politics, and ceremonies from the medieval period through the early nineteenth century, written by William Francis Dawson. It begins with a vivid description of Westminster Hall, noting how successive monarchs, from Richard II to George IV, altered its architecture while preserving its role as the setting for royal Christmas feasts. The narrative then moves backward to the twelfth‑century courts of Henry I and Henry II, recounting specific festive assemblies, coronations, and even the tragic death of William Rufus, all anchored in contemporary chronicles and literary references. Interwoven are anecdotes about courtly revelry, ecclesiastical disputes, and exotic entertainments in Constantinople, each illustrating how the holiday was both a public spectacle and a political instrument.

Dawson’s prose reflects the Victorian‑era antiquarian voice, combining detailed archival citation with a literary flair that treats history as a continuous story. The style is formal yet readable, favoring long sentences and occasional poetic quotation. Readers who enjoy meticulous historical analysis, especially those interested in the interplay of ritual, architecture, and power across centuries, will find this volume a rewarding companion.

Who appears in Christmas

  • Richard the SecondMiddle‑aged king in late 14th‑century robes, dark hair, regal crown, solemn expression
  • George the FourthEarly‑19th‑century monarch in military uniform, white waistcoat, powdered wig, confident posture
  • William RufusYoung 11th‑century king, long hair, leather armor, fierce gaze, royal insignia

The opening · free to read

"Rufus's roaring hall."

It is a magnificent relic of the profuse hospitality of former times. Richard the Second heightened its walls and added its noble roof of British oak, which shows the excellence of the wood carving of that period. Although Sir Charles Barry has shortened the Hall of its former proportions to fit it as a vestibule to the New Houses of Parliament, it is still a noble and spacious building, and one cannot walk through it without in imagination recalling some of the Royal Christmases and other stately scenes which have been witnessed there. The last of these festal glories was the coronation of George the Fourth, which took place in 1821. This grand old hall at Westminster was the theatre of Rufus's feasting and revelry; but, vast as the edifice then was, it did not equal the ideas of the extravagant monarch. An old chronicler states that one of the King's courtiers, having observed that the building was too large for the purposes of its construction, Rufus replied, "This halle is not begge enough by one half, and is but a bedchamber in comparison of that I mind to make." Yet this hall was for centuries the largest of its kind in Europe, and in it the Christmas feasts were magnificently kept.

After a reign of thirteen years the vicious life of William Rufus met with a tragical close. His dead body was found by peasants in a glade of the New Forest with the arrow either of a hunter or an assassin in his breast. Sir Walter Tyrrel, a Norman knight, who had been hunting with the king just before his death, fled to Normandy immediately afterwards, and was suspected of being a regicide. The body of Rufus was buried in Winchester Cathedral.

CHRISTMAS IN THE REIGN OF HENRY I.

Henry the First's Christmas festival at Windsor, in 1126, was a memorable one. In that year Henry's daughter Matilda became a widow by the death of her husband, Henry V. of Germany, and King Henry determined to appoint her his successor to the throne of England and the Dukedom of Normandy. On Christmas Day, 1126, a general assembly of the nobles and higher ecclesiastics of the kingdom was held at Windsor for the purpose of declaring the Empress Matilda (as she was still called) the legitimate successor of Henry I., and the clergy and Norman barons of both countries swore allegiance to her in the event of the king's death. This appointment of Matilda was made by Henry in consequence of the calamity which occurred just before Christmas, in 1120, when he lost his much-loved son, Prince William--the only male legitimate issue of Henry--through the wreck of La Blanche Nef (the White Ship). On board the vessel were Prince William, his half-brother Richard, and Henry's natural daughter the Countess of Perche, as well as about a hundred and forty young noblemen of the most distinguished families in England and Normandy, all of whom were lost in their passage home, only a few hours after the safe arrival of the king in England. Henry is said to have swooned at the intelligence, and was never afterwards seen to smile. He had returned home anticipating a joyous Christmas festival, a season of glad tidings, but he was closely followed by this sad news of the death of the heir apparent. The incident has called forth one of the most beautiful poems of Mrs. Hemans, from which we quote two verses:--

"The bark that held a prince went down, The sweeping waves rolled on; And what was England's glorious crown To him that wept a son? He lived--for life may long be borne, Ere sorrow break its chain: Why comes not death to those who mourn? He never smiled again!

He sat where festal bowls went round, He heard the minstrel sing; He saw the tourney's victor crowned, Amidst the kingly ring; A murmur of the restless deep Was blent with every strain, A voice of winds that would not sleep,-- He never smiled again!"

In 1127 Henry invited the king of the Scots to Windsor to join in the royal celebration of Christmas, but the festivities were marred by an unseemly quarrel between the two primates. Thurstan, Archbishop of York, encroaching upon the privileges of his brother of Canterbury (William de Corbeuil), insisted upon placing the crown upon the king's head ere he set out for church. This the partisans of Canterbury would not allow, settling the matter by turning Thurstan's chaplain and followers out of doors, and thereby causing such strife between the heads of the Church that they both set off to Rome to lay their grievances before the Pope. And, subsequently, appeals to Rome became frequent, until a satisfactory adjustment of the powers and privileges of the two archbishops was arrived at. The Archbishop of Canterbury was acknowledged Primate of all England and Metropolitan; but, while the privilege of crowning the sovereign was reserved for the Archbishop of Canterbury, that of crowning the Queen Consort was given to the Archbishop of York.

STRANGE OLD STORIES OF CHRISTMASTIDE.

The progress of literature under the Conqueror and his sons was very great, many devoting themselves almost entirely to literary pursuits. Lanfranc and Anselm, the Archbishops of Canterbury, had proved themselves worthy of their exalted station. Their precepts and examples had awakened the clergy and kindled an ardour for learning unknown in any preceding age. Nor did this enthusiasm perish with its authors: it was kept alive by the honours which were lavished on all who could boast of literary acquirements. During the reign of Henry I. Geoffrey of Monmouth published his History of the Britons, and William of Malmesbury assures us that every poet hastened to the court of Henry's Queen Matilda, at Westminster, to read his verses to the Queen and partake of her bounty. William of Malmesbury carefully collected the lighter ballads which embodied the popular traditions of the English kings, and he tells an amusing story which is connected with the festival of Christmas. In early times dancing developed into a sort of passion, men and women continually dancing and singing together, holding one another by the hands, and concluding the dances with kisses. These levities were at first encouraged by the Church, but afterwards, seeing the abuse of them, the priests were compelled to reprimand and restrain the people. And the story told by William of Malmesbury describes the singular punishment which came upon some young men and women for disturbing a priest who was performing mass on the eve of Christmas. "I, Othbert, a sinner," says the story, "have lived to tell the tale. It was the vigil of the Blessed Virgin, and in a town where was a church of St. Magnus. And the priest, Rathbertus, had just begun the mass, and I, with my comrades, fifteen young women and seventeen young men, were dancing outside the church. And we were singing so loud that our songs were distinctly heard inside the building, and interrupted the service of the mass. And the priest came out and told us to desist; and when we did not, he prayed God and St. Magnus that we might dance as our punishment for a year to come. A youth, whose sister was dancing with us, seized her by the arm to drag her away, but it came off in his hand, and she danced on. For a whole year we continued. No rain fell on us; cold, nor heat, nor hunger, nor thirst, nor fatigue affected us; neither our shoes nor our clothes wore out; but still we went on dancing. We trod the earth down to our knees, next to our middles, and at last were dancing in a pit. At the end of the year release came."

Giraldus Cambrensis, amongst many ridiculous Christmas stories of miracles, visions, and apparitions, tells of one devil who acted a considerable time as a gentleman's butler with great prudence and probity; and of another who was a very diligent and learned clergyman, and a mighty favourite of his archbishop. This last clerical devil was, it seems, an excellent historian, and used to divert the Archbishop with telling him old stories, some of which referred to the incarnation of our Saviour, and were related at the Christmas season. "Before the incarnation of our Saviour," said the Archbishop's historian, "the devils had great power over mankind, but after that event their power was much diminished and they were obliged to fly. Some of them threw themselves into the sea; some concealed themselves in hollow trees, or in the clefts of rocks; and I myself plunged into a certain fountain. As soon as he had said this, finding that he had discovered his secret, his face was covered with blushes, he went out of the room, and was no more seen."

The following cut (taken from MS. Harl., No. 4751, of the end of the twelfth century) represents an elephant, with its castle and armed men, engaged in battle. The bestiaries relate many strange things of the elephant. They say that, though so large and powerful, and so courageous against larger animals, it is afraid of a mouse; that its nature is so cold that it will never seek the company of the female until, wandering in the direction of Paradise, it meets with the plant called the mandrake, and eats of it, and that each female bears but one young one in her life.

Absurd as we consider such stories, they were believed by the Normans, who were no less credulous than the Anglo-Saxons. This is evident from the large number of miracles, revelations, visions, and enchantments which are related with great gravity by the old chroniclers.

THE MISRULE OF KING STEPHEN.

Stephen of Blois was crowned at Westminster Abbey during the Christmas festival (December 26, 1135). As a King of Misrule, he was fitly crowned at Christmastide, and it would have been a good thing for the nation if his reign had been of the ephemeral character which was customary to Lords of Misrule. The nineteen years of his reign were years of disorder unparalleled in any period of our history. On the landing of Henry the First's daughter, "the Empress Matilda," who claimed the English crown for her son Henry, a long struggle ensued, and the country was divided between the adherents of the two rivals, the West supporting Matilda, and London and the East Stephen. For a time the successes in war alternated between the two parties. A defeat at Lincoln left Stephen a prisoner in the hands of his enemies; but after his escape he laid siege to the city of Oxford, where Matilda had assembled her followers. "The Lady" of the English (as Matilda was then called) had retreated into the castle, which, though a place of great strength, proved to be insufficiently victualled. It was surrounded and cut off from all supplies without, and at Christmastide (1142), after a siege of three months, Matilda consulted her own safety by taking flight. On a cold December night, when the ground was covered with snow, she quitted the castle at midnight, attended by four knights, who as well as herself were clothed in white, in order that they might pass unobserved through the lines of their enemies. The adventurous "Lady" made good her escape, and crossing the river unnoticed on the ice, found her way to Abingdon. The long anarchy was ended by the Treaty of Wallingford (1153), Stephen being recognised as king during his life, and the succession devolving upon Matilda's son Henry. A year had hardly passed from the signing of the treaty, when Stephen's death gave Henry the crown, and his coronation took place at Christmastide, 1154, at Westminster.

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