The chief functionary of Christmas was called “The Lord of Misrule.”
In the house of king and nobleman he held full sway for twelve days. His badge was a fool’s bauble and he was always attended by a page, both of them being masked. So many pranks were played, and so much mischief perpetrated which was far from being amusing, that an edict was eventually issued against this form of liberty, not to say license.
The Lord of Misrule was especially reviled by the Puritans, one of whom set him down as “a grande captain of mischiefe.” One may easily imagine that this stern old gentleman had been ducked by a party of revellers following in the wake of the lawless “Captaine” because he had refused to contribute to their entertainment.
We need not lament the passing of Christmas pageantry, if the spirit of the festival remains. Through the centuries that have passed since the first Christmas, the spirit of it has wandered in and out like a golden thread in a dull tapestry, sometimes hidden, but never wholly lost. It behooves us to keep well and reverently such Christmas as we have, else we shall share old Ben Jonson’s lament in The Mask of Father Christmas, which was presented before the English Court nearly two hundred years ago:
“Any man or woman ... that can give any knowledge, or tell any tidings of an old, very old, grey haired gentleman called Christmas, who was wont to be a very familiar ghest, and visit all sorts of people both pore and rich, and used to appear in glittering gold, silk and silver in the court, and in all shapes in the theatre in Whitehall, and had singing, feasts and jolitie in all places, both citie and countrie for his coming—whosoever can tel what is become of him, or where he may be found, let them bring him back again into England.”
Consecration
Cathedral spire and lofty architrave,
Nor priestly rite and humble reverence,
Nor costly fires of myrrh and frankincense
May give the consecration that we crave;
Upon the shore where tides forever lave
With grateful coolness on the fevered sense;
Where passion grows to silence, rapt, intense,
There waits the chrismal fountain of the wave.
By rock-hewn altars where is said no word,
Save by the deep that calleth unto deep,
While organ tones of sea resound above;
The truth of truths our inmost souls have heard,
And in our hearts communion wine we keep,
For He Himself hath said it—“God is Love!”