Notes & Queries response: Why is it OK to sing Christmas carols in the weeks leading up to Christmas, but not in the weeks following?
This is my response to a question that appeared on the Notes & Queries page of The Guardian website on 18th December, 2022.
The Guardian is apparently no longer happy to host my comments on their site, so it is appearing here instead.
This blog is obviously not affiliated with The Guardian. Its reference to a question that appeared in Notes & Queries is presented here under the terms of fair use.
When I last visited Evelyn Kaye, her world had shrunk to a single, low-ceilinged room that was more like a cave. The curtains were drawn against the winter evening. Her doctor was of the opinion that she would not survive to see the light return to its June zenith.
A kitten played in the flickers of shadow that were cast by fireplace onto the flagstone floor and the dust ripples made by the stiff broom-head. When she dozed, the young cat played on the fringes of her dreams. It had been in the house for less than a day. Already a pair of hearth spirits had brightened the coals of its eyes. It would be a house cat, but she knew that it would not be in this house. Her husband, Alan, who is allergic, tolerated the presence of the kitten as a final gesture of his love for the woman who had shared his life for almost forty years. After she was gone, the it would be moved to another home nearby, where another person – a distant relative – patiently awaited its arrival.
Would the pair of spirits leave with the animal?
“They were here when we moved in and I think they'll still be here when I'm gone,” said Alan. “It'll be a very different cat when I hand it over to Elaine.”
“I hope that you had the good sense to leave your prayerbook at home,” said Evelyn, to my companion, the Reverend, William Wiggins, as the pair of us shouldered our way in through the narrow front door of the cottage.
“It feels good to step out of the shadow of Royal David's City,” said Wiggins, rubbing his red hands in the diffusing warmth of the fire.
“You and I, we're on the same page, Sam,” said Evelyn. “The same gods.”
“Well, that's a matter for debate,” I replied.
“Oh, we're like a pair of scientists studying the same thing under a microscope, only at different magnifications.”
“Could that metaphor be extended to include me?” said Wiggins.
“No, it could not,” said our host, imperiously. “And before you feel hard done by, remember that it was your lot who set the terms.”
A log cracked in the fireplace. A resinous gem of hearth spittle was reflected in the dark eyes of the cat as it arced into the air like a comet.
Alan and Evelyn lived within the Yorston Circle; one of the eight sizeable pagan reserves that were established in the United Kingdom by Patrick Bennion, during the late 1800s and early 20th century. No churches, mosques, synagogues or temples stand on these reservations, and no formal acts of worship take place there. It was thought by Pagan worshippers that Christian prayers and hymns sickened the deities of the field and the hearth. Whether this was a literal poisoning of the animist well, or a figurative erosion of an archaic system of beliefs is up for debate. A contemporary interpretation of pagan deities is that they are the sensory interpretation of electromagnetic fields and that the sonic frequency of hymns is deliberately tailored towards the erosion of these fields.
I am not so certain that I subscribe to this scientific justification of old beliefs. As a boy I saw a glimpse of Giselbert – the capricornus who was once Herald of the Thames – when I was baptised in the river. He seemed very tangible to me.
“I brought the chrism as you requested,” said Wiggins.
Evelyn side-eyed the green glass vial like a hungry dog, who has just witnessed a large scrap of meat fall from a dinner plate.
“Myrrh, the final shiver of the dead,” she said. “Now, which one are you, Sam? Melchior or Caspar? Have you brought me gold to brighten my complexion, or frankincense to make me smell nice?”
“Actually, I brought you a handmade scarf,” I said. “The kinks and bends are deliberate – it is a depiction of the course of the River Thames rendered in duckwool.”
“That's going to be bloody useful where I'm going,” she muttered.
Afterwards, she sat feeding the green-grey scarf across her lap, a few inches at a time, as if she was inspecting the river.
Outside, a group of forest carollers began dragging fallen branches across the thick stone walls, and thinly-glazed windows of the cottage. There was no singing; only occasional high-pitched laughter, and what might have been the voices of excited children.
“That's the most unsettling thing I've ever heard,” said Wiggins, shivering. “I venture, if I were to stick my head outside, it would be roughly 50/50 whether I would encounter a human face or something else.”
“I'd skew more in the direction of something else,” I said. “And I would advise that you take your dog collar off first.”
“It's not supposed to make you feel warm inside. It's there to remind you of your place in the world,” said Evelyn. “Sam, you've done yourself a disservice calling this a scarf. All of the little charms you've woven-in to help me on my way out.”
“I thought that you would appreciate it,” I said. “You can look on it as a Pagan rosary. And, by the way, I am the bearer rather than the creator. It's a gift from the Unified Wells & Aquifers Company.”
“I hear there's a new Herald of the Thames,” she said. “I expect you are all very busy.”
The last we saw of her was Alan carrying to bed in the roof cottage. Nobody ever had a more kindly ascent to heaven, though she would have spurned that analogy.
“I always come away from there feeling like an intolerant wretch,” grumbled Wiggins, as we traipsed back to the road, across the frozen ground.
I noted that he had removed his dog collar. There was, we both felt, a multitude of eyes observing us in the darkness.
“A couple of weeks from now, we'll be on the red pages at the back of the Christmas hymn book,” he said. “The foundation carols - The Christ Child Raised From His Manger, Now We Turn Our Faces From The Star, and so on.
“That was the bargain that was struck. No Christmas carols after the 25th. And it was a generous concession. The last week of December given over to the old religions. The olive branch of a mutton bone laid on the doorsteps of our pagan brethren. Though I doubt you would find a church in the UK that still observes that tradition.”
“The land here holds dominance over the heavens,” I said, after we had both almost fallen victim to the biting wit of the plough, stumbling across the welted scar tissue of medieval agriculture.
While, to the south, the clouds wept over the cathedral Nativity in Catmull, and a keen fog gnawed at a distant incline, and the mica in the hooves of the moor ponies twinkled in the darkness, and, where we walked, the weight of a church bell had relinquished any governance that it once possessed, and held no currency.
I hope this is of help.
The Guardian is apparently no longer happy to host my comments on their site, so it is appearing here instead.
This blog is obviously not affiliated with The Guardian. Its reference to a question that appeared in Notes & Queries is presented here under the terms of fair use.
~
Why is it OK to sing Christmas carols in the weeks leading up to Christmas, but not in the weeks following?
 |
| image generated by Craiyon |
A kitten played in the flickers of shadow that were cast by fireplace onto the flagstone floor and the dust ripples made by the stiff broom-head. When she dozed, the young cat played on the fringes of her dreams. It had been in the house for less than a day. Already a pair of hearth spirits had brightened the coals of its eyes. It would be a house cat, but she knew that it would not be in this house. Her husband, Alan, who is allergic, tolerated the presence of the kitten as a final gesture of his love for the woman who had shared his life for almost forty years. After she was gone, the it would be moved to another home nearby, where another person – a distant relative – patiently awaited its arrival.
Would the pair of spirits leave with the animal?
“They were here when we moved in and I think they'll still be here when I'm gone,” said Alan. “It'll be a very different cat when I hand it over to Elaine.”
~
“It feels good to step out of the shadow of Royal David's City,” said Wiggins, rubbing his red hands in the diffusing warmth of the fire.
“You and I, we're on the same page, Sam,” said Evelyn. “The same gods.”
“Well, that's a matter for debate,” I replied.
“Oh, we're like a pair of scientists studying the same thing under a microscope, only at different magnifications.”
“Could that metaphor be extended to include me?” said Wiggins.
“No, it could not,” said our host, imperiously. “And before you feel hard done by, remember that it was your lot who set the terms.”
A log cracked in the fireplace. A resinous gem of hearth spittle was reflected in the dark eyes of the cat as it arced into the air like a comet.
~
Alan and Evelyn lived within the Yorston Circle; one of the eight sizeable pagan reserves that were established in the United Kingdom by Patrick Bennion, during the late 1800s and early 20th century. No churches, mosques, synagogues or temples stand on these reservations, and no formal acts of worship take place there. It was thought by Pagan worshippers that Christian prayers and hymns sickened the deities of the field and the hearth. Whether this was a literal poisoning of the animist well, or a figurative erosion of an archaic system of beliefs is up for debate. A contemporary interpretation of pagan deities is that they are the sensory interpretation of electromagnetic fields and that the sonic frequency of hymns is deliberately tailored towards the erosion of these fields.
I am not so certain that I subscribe to this scientific justification of old beliefs. As a boy I saw a glimpse of Giselbert – the capricornus who was once Herald of the Thames – when I was baptised in the river. He seemed very tangible to me.
~
“I brought the chrism as you requested,” said Wiggins.
Evelyn side-eyed the green glass vial like a hungry dog, who has just witnessed a large scrap of meat fall from a dinner plate.
“Myrrh, the final shiver of the dead,” she said. “Now, which one are you, Sam? Melchior or Caspar? Have you brought me gold to brighten my complexion, or frankincense to make me smell nice?”
“Actually, I brought you a handmade scarf,” I said. “The kinks and bends are deliberate – it is a depiction of the course of the River Thames rendered in duckwool.”
“That's going to be bloody useful where I'm going,” she muttered.
Afterwards, she sat feeding the green-grey scarf across her lap, a few inches at a time, as if she was inspecting the river.
Outside, a group of forest carollers began dragging fallen branches across the thick stone walls, and thinly-glazed windows of the cottage. There was no singing; only occasional high-pitched laughter, and what might have been the voices of excited children.
“That's the most unsettling thing I've ever heard,” said Wiggins, shivering. “I venture, if I were to stick my head outside, it would be roughly 50/50 whether I would encounter a human face or something else.”
“I'd skew more in the direction of something else,” I said. “And I would advise that you take your dog collar off first.”
“It's not supposed to make you feel warm inside. It's there to remind you of your place in the world,” said Evelyn. “Sam, you've done yourself a disservice calling this a scarf. All of the little charms you've woven-in to help me on my way out.”
“I thought that you would appreciate it,” I said. “You can look on it as a Pagan rosary. And, by the way, I am the bearer rather than the creator. It's a gift from the Unified Wells & Aquifers Company.”
“I hear there's a new Herald of the Thames,” she said. “I expect you are all very busy.”
The last we saw of her was Alan carrying to bed in the roof cottage. Nobody ever had a more kindly ascent to heaven, though she would have spurned that analogy.
~
I noted that he had removed his dog collar. There was, we both felt, a multitude of eyes observing us in the darkness.
“A couple of weeks from now, we'll be on the red pages at the back of the Christmas hymn book,” he said. “The foundation carols - The Christ Child Raised From His Manger, Now We Turn Our Faces From The Star, and so on.
“That was the bargain that was struck. No Christmas carols after the 25th. And it was a generous concession. The last week of December given over to the old religions. The olive branch of a mutton bone laid on the doorsteps of our pagan brethren. Though I doubt you would find a church in the UK that still observes that tradition.”
“The land here holds dominance over the heavens,” I said, after we had both almost fallen victim to the biting wit of the plough, stumbling across the welted scar tissue of medieval agriculture.
While, to the south, the clouds wept over the cathedral Nativity in Catmull, and a keen fog gnawed at a distant incline, and the mica in the hooves of the moor ponies twinkled in the darkness, and, where we walked, the weight of a church bell had relinquished any governance that it once possessed, and held no currency.
I hope this is of help.
 |
| image generated by Craiyon |
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