But we are forgetting that this is Christmas time—a time for innocent pleasure, and not for moralizing; so, leaving the present age, with all its faults, we will ask our readers to transport themselves with us, in imagination, some six centuries back, and witness how was celebrated in those Ages of Faith the holy night of the Nativity of our Lord.
The period selected is about the middle of the XIIIth century. Religion was then in the fullest splendor of its power. It was the light of civilization, the custodian of all learning. Every art had combined to render its outward expression worthy of the great and holy mysteries it taught. Gothic architecture had at this date attained its highest perfection; painting and sculpture were almost exclusively devoted to the decoration of God's temples; poetry and music were united to render attractive the sublime and rarely-interrupted Offices of the church. The liturgical works of the period are mines of poetic and musical riches that for the most part lie hidden and uncared for in their musty tomes.
Some will doubtless smile when we speak of the Latin poetry of the [pg 503] middle ages, and certainly those who seek in it the polished and classical verses of a Horace or a Virgil will be disappointed. They will, however, find that, despite their somewhat strange Latinity, these productions of a so-called barbarous age contain a depth of feeling, a strength and freshness of expression, quite unknown to the pagan poets, and were as appropriate to those grand old cathedrals under whose roofs they were to resound as were the classic odes and songs to the luxurious banquet-halls of Rome or the effeminate villas of Naples. In fact, to adequately judge of the poetry contained in the Offices of the mediæval period, we must place ourselves amid the surroundings in which they were performed; we must not view it from the stand-point of the present age, with its entirely different ideas of both religious life and religious art.
It will be, then, in an old French cathedral that we shall ask our readers to spend this Christmas night; for the office, or rather religious drama, at which we intend to make them assist, is taken from a Roman-French missal of the XIIIth century.
The night has closed in. Within the city walls the tortuous and narrow streets are nearly deserted; but lights gleam from many a diamond pane, for inside joyous circles are gathered around the glowing logs that brightly sparkle in the ample chimneys. Old stories are repeated by venerable grandfathers to merry grandchildren, who in return sing with silvery voices quaint old carols. Suddenly a well-known sound fills the air; from the high cathedral towers burst forth the joyous chimes that herald the approach of Christ's natal hour. The notes that ring out so clearly in the cold December air are those of the familiar Christmas hymn, Christe Redemptor omnium.[112] Soon a hurrying throng begin to fill the streets, all wending their way towards the same point, through narrow and winding streets. By gabled house and arched doorway, by mullioned window and jutting tower, they press forward until they reach the central square, where rises, in all its splendor, the old cathedral church.
Beautiful and imposing at all times is a Gothic cathedral, but never more so than when the trembling light of a winter moon throws around it a soft halo, just enough to make its grand proportions visible amid the surrounding gloom, while leaving all the finer details wrapt in sombre mystery. Doubly lofty appear tower and spire, and strangely weird each fantastic gargoyle, as a stray moonbeam falls athwart its uncouth countenance.
Let us follow the crowd, and enter beneath the richly-sculptured doorway. Dim is the light within, only just sufficient to find your way among the throng that now begins to fill every part of the vast edifice. The numerous assemblage of priests and choristers are singing the Office of Matins, the grand old melodies of S. Gregory resounding beneath the vaulted roof with that wonderful effect that makes them, when sung by choir and congregation, the most truly religious music that exists. As the last solemn notes of the Te Deum die out, a white-robed chorister-boy representing an angel advances into the centre of the choir, and in sweet, clear accents chants the words of the angelic message, “Nolite timere: ecce enim [pg 504] evangelizo vobis gaudium magnum, quod erit omni populo, quia natus est vobis hodie Salvator mundi, in civitate David. Et hoc vobis signum: Invenietis infantem pannis involutum, et positum in præsepio”—“Fear not: for behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, that shall be to all the people: for this day is born to you a Saviour, who is Christ the Lord, in the city of David. And this shall be a sign unto you: You shall find the infant wrapped in swaddling-clothes, and laid in a manger.”
Then from the high triforium-gallery seven pure young voices ring out, as if from heaven, the words sung by the angel-host on the first Christmas night: “Gloria in excelsis Deo, et in terra pax hominibus bonæ voluntatis.” These familiar words that herald the pious representation of the holy scenes whose reality centuries ago hallowed this night in the mountains of Judæa, are listened to by the vast congregation with rapt and devout attention. In their simple and earnest faith the assistants feel themselves transported back to the days of Herod and to the village of Bethlehem, as they behold emerging from the western porch, and slowly advancing up the nave, a train of shepherds with staves in their hands, singing, as they proceed in search of their newborn King, the following hymn. Both words and music are full of beauty, and the cadence is well suited to a Christmas carol:
Pax in terris nunciatur,
In excelsis gloria.