when we were boys there was no part of the christmas festivities to which we looked forward more eagerly than the singing of carols from house to house on christmas eve. if the night fell wild and rainy, we had to abandon our tuneful journey and content ourselves with singing indoors. but if it was a dry night, we set forth joyfully, even though a disquieted moon and inattentive stars foretold a wet christmas. our hearts were lighter than men’s hearts can be, as we clattered down the lanes, fortified by a hot supper and possibly a scalding tumblerful of mulled claret. we would always start at the houses of friends, and then, made bold by success, we would sing our glad tidings to any house which had a lit window. for the credit of human nature it may be said that we were made welcome p. 71wherever we went. sometimes people offered us money, which our code forbade us to accept, though we should have liked it well enough; more frequently we were asked to come in and have something to eat or drink, offers with which even the infinite capacity of youth could by no means cope. if the night was frosty it was pleasant to toast ourselves for a minute or two in front of the fire before going out again into a world of frozen ruts, sparkling hedgerows, and mysterious shadows, wherein we felt ourselves veritable figures of romance.
and, indeed, we ourselves sang better than we knew. however cheerfully and noisily we might undertake the expedition, it was not long before we became aware that other spirits were abroad. the simple words and merry tunes which we sang suddenly became wonderfully significant. between the verses we heard the sheep calling on far hills while the shepherd kings rode down to bethlehem with their gifts. the trees and fields and houses took up the chant, and our noises were blended with that deep song of the universe which the new ears of the young p. 72hear so often and so clearly. when our carol was over there would fall a great silence that seemed to our quickened senses to be but a gentler and sweeter music of hope and joy. as we passed from one house to the next we spoke to each other in whispers for fear we should break the spell that held the night enchanted. even as we heard other noises when we sang, so now we heard the sound of other feet that trod the same glad road as our own. from being a half-dozen of little boys come out to have some fun on christmas eve, we had become a small section of a great army. tramp, tramp, the joyful feet fell before and behind us along the road, and when we stopped to sing, the whole night thrilled into a triumphant ecstasy of song. on such nights the very earth, it seemed, sang carols.
it is, perhaps, our vivid recollection of the glories of those memorable christmas eves that leads us to be gentle with the little boys and girls who sing at our door to-night. we have all listened to the eloquent persons who can prove that christmas is not what it used to be. they point to the decadence p. 73of pantomime, the decay of the waits and mummers, and the democratic impudence of those who demand christmas-boxes. well, it may be—but children do like modern pantomimes in spite of the generalisations of critics; and though a salvation army band is an unpicturesque substitute for such a village orchestra as is described in “under the greenwood tree,” it at least satisfies the ear of the sentimentalist at two o’clock of a frosty morning. that christmas-boxes are a nuisance is no new discovery. we find swift grumbling to stella about them exactly two hundred years ago. mummers, we are told, are still to be found in the country; five years back we saw them ourselves and were satisfied that they had learnt their rather obscure rhymes from their fathers before them, and not from any well-meaning society for faking old customs.
this said, it must be admitted that carol-singers are not what they were. of the long procession of ragged children who have sung “while shepherds watched their flocks by night” at our gate this december, not one had taken the trouble to learn either p. 74the words or the tune accurately. when asked to sing some other carol they broke down, and it was apparent that they were trusting to their hungry and thinly clad appearance rather than to their singing as a means to obtain alms from the charitable. sometimes—this we fear is really a modern note—the father was waiting in the background to collect the takings! it is rather difficult to know what to do in such cases, for the children may be punished if they are not successful; and yet the practice of sending insufficiently clad children into the streets on a winter’s night is hardly to be encouraged.
nevertheless, though the abuse is manifest, we would hesitate to say that the custom of singing carols at our doors should be stopped. it is difficult to read the heart of a child aright, but it seems to us at least possible that a few of the children win more than a mere handful of pennies from their singing. though they mumble their words to a tune they only half remember, it is not likely that the spirit that made wonderful the christmas eves of long ago shall p. 75altogether pass them by. surely the night conspires with lights of the world to enchant them, and for their own ears their voices achieve beauty beyond the measure of mortal song.
in truth, this is a dream that we can ill afford to spare. it seems a pity, however, that the children are not taught carol-singing at school, especially as they are now often taught, to our great content, the old games and dances. many of the older carols are really beautiful, both in the homely simplicity of their words and in the unaffected charm of the airs to which they are set. the desire of the average child for song is extraordinary—as extraordinary, perhaps, as the regrettable contempt of the average adult for poetry. last year we were present at the dress rehearsal of the pantomime at drury lane, and we heard a theatreful of poor children sing the music-hall ditties of the hour with wonderful spirit and intensity. our emotions were mixed. mingled with the natural pleasure that they should be enjoying themselves was something of regret for the sad lives that so small a p. 76treat should rouse to ecstasy. afterwards we felt sorry that the children had nothing better to sing. we have no prejudice against music-hall songs in general. they are not as intelligent as they might be, but they serve their time in pleasing, harmlessly enough, a number of people who also are not as intelligent as they might be. but somehow the lyres of little singing children deserve better fare than this. we look forward to a time when they will have it.
