TWELFTH NIGHT REVELS
By Jane Feild Baskin
Of all the so-called lighter plays of Shakespeare, there is none, perhaps, which has a greater charm of its own than “Twelfth Night; or, What You Will.” There is in its droll humor a spiciness, a piquancy, unsurpassed by any of the great dramatist’s own productions or those of his contemporaries. Open the volume where you will, and mingle for a time with the fantastic revelers of the play—what mirth, what laughter, what drollery is here! The spirit of the “Twelfth Night” is rampant. But we can better appreciate the aptness of the title if we see for ourselves the merry-making which of old universally prevailed at that season. In the modern work-a-day world of the present, but scant time is allotted that highest and holiest joy of the Christmastide, and long before “Twelfth Night,” which falls upon the sixth of the new month, we have soberly resumed the accustomed round of daily duties. From the busy, bustling world of to-day it is refreshing to turn back to the past again, and lose ourselves in the joyous abandon of the old-time festival.
It is “Twelfth Night” in “Merrie England” in the days of the long ago, and the Christmas festivities have lingered on to find their culmination in the revels of this night. Truly we find here none of our modern haste in returning to the prosaic realities of life, and unconsciously we imbibe some of the mirth-prevailing spirit. How gay the shops in their holiday garb, and what a goodly store of frosted cakes the confectioner displays! It fairly makes one’s mouth water to see them, and catch a faint whiff of their spicy fragrance, for these are the “Twelfth Night” cakes of all sorts and sizes that will find their way into every home from the highest to the lowest. That little lad turns away regretfully from the huge frosted creation of the baker’s skill to the wee modest one of which his few jingling pence will soon make him the proud possessor, and then gives way good-naturedly to the bustling dame who makes a judicious selection from the varied assortment; and so the happy throng moves in and out, for “Twelfth Night” would scarce be “Twelfth Night” without the cake, the crowning glory of the feast.
The season brings a strange mingling of mirth and superstition and reverence. The smallest lad is familiar with its origin, and can tell the story of the three wise men who journeyed from afar over plain and mountain, until, led by the wondrous star in the East, they knelt beside the cradle of the infant King and worshiped Him. The wealthier class bring their gifts of gold and frankincense and myrrh to place upon the altar, as did those wise men of old, and the humble rustic invokes a blessing upon his harvest fields.
At dusk the farmer gathers around him his friends and servants, and together the strange little procession makes its way across the freshly turned sod to where the young wheat is beginning to spring up. Here, on the highest part of the ground, twelve small fires and one large one are kindled. Cider circulates freely while they drink to the health of the company and to the success of the future harvest, and a fantastic circle gathers around the larger fire to shout and halloo until the welkin rings, and the answer is borne back on the night wind from all the neighboring hillsides where similar fires glimmer dimly in the distance. This ceremony completed, the merry company return home again, where the housewife and her maids have been busily preparing for the evening’s festivities. The table fairly groans under its weight of meats and puddings, and cakes with caraways, and pitchers of sparkling cider and ale, while a huge frosted cake with a hole through the center occupies the position of honor. After supper a queer ceremony takes place. The company follow the bailiff, or keeper of oxen, to the wain-house, where the master fills a cup with strong ale, and, standing before the finest and largest of the oxen, pledges him a curious toast. He then produces the big cake with the hole in the center, and places it upon the ox’s horn. The ox is tickled to make him toss his head, and if he throw the cake behind him, it is considered the mistress’ perquisite, but if before, the bailiff claims the prize. More sport of the same kind follows amidst the laughter and shouts of the rustics assembled, and then the boisterous crowd returns home once more to find the doors fast-barred; nor can they gain admittance from the fair ones within until they have earned it with rollicking song and jest. Once inside a scene of mirth and jollity ensues, and all too quickly the moments speed, for care is forgotten in the joyous abandon of the present.
In the southern villages a friendly, jovial crowd make their way to the orchard and encircle the best-bearing tree. In sparkling ale they drink a toast, chanting in joyous unison,
“Here’s to thee, old apple tree,
Whence thou mayst bud and whence thou mayst blow,
And whence thou mayst bear apples enow.
Hats full! Caps full!
Bushel, bushel, sacks full,
And our pockets full, too. Huzza!”
How lustily the shout rings out on the evening air, and then the merry company return with empty pitchers, only to be greeted by shouts of laughter from behind the fast-closed doors. Just a faint whiff of the goodly store within, and the tantalizing demand to guess what is on the spit. This, of course, is some bit or dainty not likely to be thought of, and when, after many random hits and freely interchanged jests, it is guessed at last, the doors are thrown open, and the lucky clodpole is rewarded with the much-prized tidbit, amid the congratulations of his less fortunate companions. So with mirth and wassail speeds the night away, for truly “care’s an enemy to life.”
The simple-hearted rustic firmly believes that by these timely ceremonies and invocations he has helped to keep the blight from his rye, and to insure a goodly return from the well-laden orchard trees. But “Twelfth Night” festivities are by no means confined to the simple, free-hearted sports of field and farm. In palace and mansion the feast is observed with great splendor, with masque and pageant, with rollicking song and mirth. Thousands of pounds are spent in preparing for the revels of a night. The long table spread for the feast is a wonder of art fresh from the hands of the pastry cook and confectioner. There are pasteboard castles to be blown up in jest, the rarest of old claret flowing like blood from the side of a wounded stag, with all sorts of curious and dainty conceits set forth amid sparkling glass and silver, while the guests playfully pelt one another with eggshells filled with rose-water. The cake, huge and shining in its frosty whiteness, and wrought in elaborate design, seems to tower over the rest of the feast with a sort of proud and smiling benignity, for reposing in its capacious depth lies the fateful prize of the evening, the bean which proclaims the lucky finder king over the evening’s festivities. The guests cut for this amid good-natured laughter and merriment, and when someone more fortunate than the rest has discovered it, they declare him with one accord “king of the bean,” and cheer him right lustily. The newly crowned monarch is raised aloft to the ceiling to mark a white cross upon one of the great oaken beams, for thereby will evil spirits be warded off for the evening and through all the year to come. The others then draw lots and assume their parts of lords or ministers of state, and each sustains his character with mock dignity throughout the revels. This quaint old ceremony is observed in palace and mansion and humbler household as well, and a sort of good-natured fellowship reigns supreme. The story is told of how Mary, Queen of Scots, when her maid was chosen queen, lent her own royal robes, that the part might be sustained with proper dignity.
“Mirth and revel, jest and play,
Quickly wears the night away.”
The candles have sputtered and burnt out, the tawdry tinsel is thrown aside for the soberer garb of the real, and Sir Francis Flatterer and Sir Randle Rackabite have passed into the ranks of everyday life. The laughter and mirth are but a memory, and we come back with a start to the daylight and the present, with its unfinished duties ever pressing for completion.
And Shakespeare’s “Twelfth Night” lies open before us. From its pages arise, through the master’s art, the living forms of Sir Toby and Malvolio, Viola and the Duke. “Grave and gay, the lovers, the laughers, and the laughed-at, are made to harmonize in one scene and one common purpose.” We can well imagine that Twelfth Night in the Middle Temple in the days of the long ago, when the happy company of barristers and students gathered to hear for the first time, the drama fresh from the master’s hand, when its exquisite poetry charmed with new grace and melody the ear of some secluded scholar, and the antics of its revellers brought a smile even to the lips of that grave and formal dispenser of justice. One commentator tells us that the title was probably suggested by this, the first night of its performance, but do we not find a subtler significance in its embodiment of the spirit of the season? Is not the mirth and jest of those old-time sports and festivities aptly repeated here in this crowd of revelling, laughter-creating personages, in the drollery of Sir Toby Belch and his comrades, and the fantastical vanity of Malvolio? And as, in the midst of those old-time Twelfth Night revels, with their care-free abandon and joy, we catch now and then the sub-tone of the minor, and the richer harmonies of life, a mere glimpse of the simple love and faith of those lives of the long ago, so it is that we look past the boisterous merriment of these jesting revellers of the play to discern the true beauty of the characters who stand in the half-light behind. Then we become conscious of a quiet harmony of color and form, and we feel anew the poet’s close touch with life and nature.
UNCLE ABRAHAM’S SERMON
THE SEANCE
By John Marshall Kelly
Author of “The Resurrection,” “The Tempered Wind,” “The Christmas Tree,” etc.
I’se be’n heahin’ some quare talk erbout yoah doin’s dis pas’ week an’ some yuther times, my heahers. I’se be’n telled erbout some uv dem sayoncies you niggahs hev be’n holdin’, same’s lak dey do up tuh Kunnel Simpson’s house, an’ dat dar triflin’ yalleh house gal uv his’n an’ dat mottled yahd boy be’n lahnin’ you, my belubbed flock, de wiles uv de debbil an’ claimin’ dey’s meejums an’ claihvoyans, an’ hev be’n holpin’ you-alls talk wif spookses an’ hobgoblins an’ onfamiliar sperits.
Now, my chillen, bein’ as I is yoah pasture an’ is set oveh you tuh gyahd yoah morils an’ luk afteh yoah etehnal welfaih, as I hev be’n put heah tuh guide yoah tottehin’ feets in de paf uv de wuhld, I’se boun’ tuh wahn you-alls dat all sich things am onrighteous an’ sinful an’ am tuh be ’voided an’ kep out uv de way uv, an’ dat you am temptin’ fate er de debbil in all sich puhfo’mances.
You-alls ought tuh know, my brudderns an’ sisterns, dat dere ain’ no comin’ back f’om de sperit wuhld, an’ dat any ’tempt tuh prove dat dey is am a vexation uv sperit, an’s gwine bring its own results. I wan’ you-alls tuh ’membeh dis tex’, an’ ’membeh hit well, dat w’en Divehs went tuh hell an’ raised up he eyes in tohment an’ seed Lazarus in ol’ Fatheh Ab’aham’s buzzum, he axed tuh hev him sont foh er speshil wahnin’ tuh he brothehs on yea’th, tuh tell ’em tuh gib all dey money tuh de Chu’ch an’ de poah, an’ tuh git some sores foh de dogs tuh lick an’ go beggin’ an’ eat crum’s wif de pupses so’s dey could be in glory bimeby.
Well, now, you ’membeh dat, an’ you ’membeh lakwise dat he wuz tol’ dere wuz fixed er unpassable gulf ’twixt an’ between an’ dat no one could cross hit, an’ de people would’n’ heed no wahnin’ ef dey did hev one; he say’d hit did’n’ mek no diff’unce ef dey wuz tuh sen’ er dead man tuh come back, dey would’n’ keer, ’cause Lazarus he done riz once, jis’ tuh try ’em, an’ dat afteh he be’n dead foah days.
Now, you-alls ’membehs all dis, my onrighteous travelehs tuh de bah uv Gawd, an’ ’membehs dat ef sperits could er come back dat ol’ money grubbeh Divehs would er come back an’ tol’ de little Divehs, an’ ol’ Mizziz Divehs an’ de whole Divehs fambly, ’bout de trubble he wuz hevin’ down dere an’ tuh wahn dem an’ caution dem ’bout de way dey handled de propehty w’at dey wuz spendin’ so free.
Lazarus he hed no call tuh come back, kaze he’d done shed he sores an’ wuz in good comp’ny at las’, an’ ’sides afteh de sperimen’ he made onc’t dey ain’ neveh gwine let no man come back tuh wahn de people. Lazarus he could’n’ an’ would’n’, an’ Divehs he could’n’ an’ did’n’, an’ dat’s de way wid all de res’.
Now, den, w’at’s all dis I heahs ’bout dem triflin’ niggahs callin’ up ol’ Job Mixon an’ hevin’ him tell de folkses w’at dey done es little chillen, an’ tellin’ dem w’at dey done es grown folkses, an’ doin’ uv hit in sich er foolish way? Who eveh knowed ol’ Job tuh do sich foolishness ez bumpin’ er table, hey?
Jis’ ’magine ol’ Job, w’at wuz hung foh muhdeh an’ w’at hed be’n a thief all he life, gwine erbout dis wuhld es er spook, follehin’ afteh dem puny little house sehvants, rappin’ on tables an’ bumpin’ de floor w’en dey say so!
“Dat you, Unc’ Job? Ef so, please knock.”
Table raps; he mean yes.
“Is you happy oveh theah, Unc’ Job? Rap onc’t ef you is, an’ twic’t ef you ain’.”
Den dey git two raps, strong an’ hahd, ’cause nobody’s fool ’nough tuh ’spect ol’ Job bein’ wheah he happy less’n he could steal er kill.
Den some trim’lin’, puny little niggah w’at won’ pass de graveyahd at night, he say: “Ax him ’bout my mammy; wheah she?” an’ den dat fool meejum go th’oo some jinnyfluxins, one rap A, two rap B, three rap C, an’ spell out er whole lot en passel uv trash w’at nobody kin dispute, an’ den dey say de sperit done answeh!
Yas, I know he tol’ erbout things some uv you-alls done, an’ w’at you thought nobody knowed, an’ you say dat proof ernough. Proof ernough! You need no proof! You guv hit yoah own se’f.
“Mist’ Job, you knows uv anything we-alls done w’at nobody else knows in dis wuhld?”
Do he know anything you-alls done? He doan’ need know; you-alls knows yoah-selves, an’ yoah feah meks yoah heaht palpehtate so foh feah dat somebody’ll know, an’ yoah body ’gins tuh quake an’ shake so dat you-all jis’ nachelly meks de little raps in yo’ agertations an’ yoah shivehin’ nervousness jis’ raps “One rap A, two rap B, three rap C,” an’ spells out de deeds you’ve done foh dat meejum in yoah feah.
You does hit yoahself, you frazzled idjits! You tells uv yoah own sin! You sits dere quakin’ in yoah shoes or wif yoah bare toes rattlin’ on de boahds, wif de trimble in you answehin’ evehy call uv dat finicky dun gal, “One rap A, two rap B, three rap C.”
Job, he mighty fine man tuh be ahbitratin’ uv you-alls fate; mighty fine man, an’ one w’at ought tuh mek betteh folkses outen you.
He wa’nt no good man on yearth; he wa’nt good foh nuffin in dis life—but he’s er mighty good wahnin’ dead, an’ I hope he stay a good wahnin’, an’ stay dead. De Lawd knows He need him foh a wahnin’. He ought tuh git some good outer Job, kaze He sho’ got none heah, foh uv all de liverashous coons w’at eveh lived he wuz de liverashousest an’ de leas’ account an’ de hahdest tuh kill.
He wuz a scand’lous niggah, Job wuz, an’ no respecteh uv pussons, an’ no regahdeh uv uthority; he didn’ keer no moah foh er man’s ufficial puhsition ner his sperityil capacity ’n nothin’.
Why, I ’membehs jis es if hit war yistiddy, how he hed de affront’ry tuh offeh me a drink uv whisky onc’t! Me, his pasture, an’ de watcheh oveh his soul. I rebuked him, my heahehs, an’ rebuked him seveahly, an’ he neveh insulted me dat way erg’in. Yas, suh! I gib him a lesson he neveh fohgot, foh I tuk de whole quaht an’ didn’t gib him er drop uv hit an’ he didn’t hev no moah.
Heah, oveh theah! You needn’ snicker! I knows w’at tuh do in er ’mehgency, an’ I won’ tek no levity ner laughin’ at my sperityil methods, an’ I’d do any uv you-alls de same way; yas, I would, ’n you knows hit!
Job hed de ’dacity tuh ’vite me tuh he house tuh er tuhkey dinneh onc’t, too. Tuhkey, w’en he neveh raised a tuhkey ’cept offen some w’ite man’s roost, ner hed nothin’ but w’at he stole. Dat sho’ wuz er fine tuhkey, an’ I gib Job er nuther lesson an’ showed him dat stolen goods profiteth little.
Dat tuhkey wuz er big gobbleh, an’ dere wuz nobody but me an’ Job dere, an’ I seasoned dat buhd wif de good wine w’at Job hed stole, an’ admonishuns tuh be good an’ wahnin’s f’om de wrath tuh come. Hit wuz er hahd pull, but I finished dat tuhkey in spite uv Job’s hints dat he ’spected hit tuh las’ him er week. Hit sho’ly would hev tasted good if hit hadn’t b’en stoled an’ I hed tuh drink up de wine w’at he hed ’prop’iated f’om somewhere, but de sauce uv a deed well did an’ a sinneh rebuked, almos’ made hit relish, an’ I held out tuh de end.
Now I’s told you-alls ’bout dis tuh show you how tuh meet de tempteh, an’ if Job wuz er comin’ back heah in de sperit an’ you-alls treated him severe he’d go back tuh de place wheah de Lawd put him, an’ let you-alls alone.
Think uv ol’ Job Mixon as er angel uv light, ol’ thief Job sent back heah tuh talk tuh you folkses an’ tell you w’at you-alls done did an w’at you gwine tuh do! Yas, I sees hit, I sees hit! Ol’ Job, w’at man hed tuh keep in jail mos’ uv de time, an’ w’at wuz a debbil in de flesh. De Lawd tried tuh kill him time Kunnel Simpson shot him in he henhouse; an’ tuk ’nutheh tuhn at him de time he got dat whisky. De Lawd knowed he wuzn’t fit foh dis wuhld w’en He made dat wild mule w’at Job stole fall on him an’ den tromp on him, an’ if hit hed be’n anybody but Job, he’d hev died.
A angel uv light, an’ foh fohty yeahs de Lawd tried tuh git him erway f’om you chillen, tuh gib you-all a chanst foh glohy! An’ he’d ’a be’n alive now if hit hadn’t be’n foh shootin’ at a w’ite man an’ hangin’ three days ’foah anybody foun’ him. Yas suh, no ord’nary hangin’ would hev killed dat niggah, an’ de Lawd knowed w’at He ’bout keepin’ any uv us f’om findin’ him afteh he wuz hung.
Claihvoyins! Meejums! Sayoncies! Sperits an’ table rappin’s, an’ “One rap A, two rap B, an’ three rap C!” Sperityilizzum, an’ nex’ thing Christian Science an’ some uv you advanced niggahs will be goin’ ’round heah wid yoah jaw tied up, groanin’ wid de toofache an’ sayin’ dey ain’ no sich thing es pain; some uv you-alls wid razur blades in yoah annatohmmy a-gnawin’ at yoah vitals, sayin’ hit am ’maginary; dat de will rules an you kain’t hurt de flesh!
Listen tuh me, you niggahs! Heah yoah pasture! Keep ’way f’om sich contrapshuns uv de debbil! Sen’ ol’ Job back tuh hell wheah he belong an’ keep ’way f’om de w’ite folkses’ fads! Go on wid yoah conjurin’, if you mus’ hev er rickreation, an’ weah yoah graveyahd rabbit feets, an’ yoah little bags uv niggah wool; but keep ’way f’om sperityilizzum an’ Christian Science an’ all dere attendant evils; eschew, as de poet say, dey alluremen’s, ’less some uv yoah wives an sistehs an’ daughters tuhn out er Mizziz Eddy an’ tries teh lead you in pashtuhs new er indulges in holy ghos’ chillen—dey’s nuff not ’counted foh ’thout that.
Go on, my people an’ be yoahselves, an’ hev pains an’ ha’nts, an’ leave de painless dentistry uv life an’ de ’lightened sperits tuh a w’ite an’ idle an’ moah civilized people; ’membeh dat you hev er neveh-dyin’ soul teh save, an’ beah in min’, night an’ day, de feelin’ uv de song we is now gwine teh sing:
I’se gwine tuh be a angel,
A long, tall angel;
I’se gwine be a angel, bye ’n bye!
A w’ite-robed angel,
A charcoal angel;
I’se gwine be a angel, bye ’n bye!