Sunday, December 24, 2000

Old Christmas essays still crackle with life
By Bill Whitaker
Shelf Life

If Christmas traditions vary widely from family to family, then I suppose the Whitaker clan is no different than any other.

For many years, for instance, custom in our widely disseminated clan required that a fruitcake be dispatched from one family member to another. The only peculiar catch was, it was usually the very same, unwanted, unopened fruitcake from the previous year — and, yes, the year before that.

Another tradition involves zealous book-reading, a natural Whitaker pursuit when the cold wind is howling just beyond the door. For me, this tradition includes returning, year after year, to Washington Irving’s wonderfully atmospheric, truly heartwarming essays about Christmas in The Sketchbook of Geoffrey Crayon, Gent. (1819-20).

Re-reading these English Christmas pieces reminds one why Irving — today a ridiculously neglected figure in American literature — was so revered in his own day and for a century afterward. In fact, Charles Dickens ranked the American’s descriptions of England above those of most British writers.

Irving’s essays about Christmas in the rural stretches of 19th century Britain summon up a rich, bygone atmosphere. The author describes a cold, moonlit Yorkshire coach tour where he encounters an old pal who graciously invites him to mark Christmas at the nearby family manor.

Very quickly, Irving gets to the bottom of the season’s real joys: “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.”

Indeed, as it should be on any wintry eve — but especially Christmas Eve.

Appropriately, the best essay concerns Christmas Eve at Bracebridge Hall where the old squire steadfastly invites the area’s common folks to feast and dance and sing at his place, but only if they heed the old Christmas customs and sing the old songs.

Irving dwells on Master Simon, a poor relation of the squire, and his popularity on this spirited occasion: “He could imitate Punch and Judy; make an old woman of his hand with the assistance of a burnt cork and pocket handkerchief; and cut an orange into such a ludicrous caricature that the young folks were ready to die with laughter.”

If nothing else, Irving’s essay permits us to revel in fellowship and feasting by a crackling fireside on a long-ago, frosty Christmas Eve, and the author’s sharply etched imagery and high humor stay long in mind. One favorite passage in “Christmas Eve” comes at the end, when Irving retires to the sound of bundled-up carolers singing in the distance beneath a starry sky.

“The moon beams fell through the upper part of the casement, partially lighting up the antiquated apartment. The sounds as they receded became more soft and aerial, and seemed to accord with the quiet and moon light. I listened and listened — they became more and more tender and remote, and as they gradually died away, my head sunk upon the pillow, and I fell asleep.”

Contact associate editor Bill Whitaker at 676-6732 or whitakerb@abinews.com.