Classic Christmas Stories (11 page)

Among the replies we received was one from a group of Booth kids and it also
included a beautiful Christmas greeting—a hand-made card with carefully
hand-drawn mistletoe bearing a little verse which read:

’Tis just a wreath of mistletoe

We send to you today

In token of our deepest love

For you so far away.

Well, it’s a long time since the North—longer since Booth, but the magic of
Christmas memories still turns a dark dreary world into light. And that is what
Christmas ought to do.

Many of the Booth kids are parents now. Some married Booth kids. Some are even
grandparents, and some, along with four of the teachers are with the Heavenly
hosts in the Angelic Choir. Now and then a scattered Booth kid appears in the
flesh before me and we reminisce with pleasant thoughts about that year of new
beginnings.

The North although once so far, far away is closer now. In my day
scarcely a Newfoundlander had ever been to that part of the
Delta. And I didn’t know one Delta person who had ever been to
Newfoundland.

Imagine my joy a few years ago when, speaking at the First Ministers’
Conference honouring the retirement of Premiers Levesque and Lougheed, I met the
First Minister of the Northwest Territories, the Honourable James Nerysoo, one
of the little Indian boys from my school in Fort McPherson. Also last year after
participating in the Anglican Synod in St. John’s I met two of the Anglican
delegates from the North— one of whom was a little grade three pupil and both
were our neighbours in Fort McPherson. What joyous meetings these were as in our
home we reflected on the North.

In a world that has become very much smaller there is still the need to be
merry at Christmas time and to spread whatever peace, joy and goodwill we can to
play our part in contributing to the magic and memories of Christmas.

by W. J. Carroll

'T
WAS CHRISTMAS EVE I N St. John's in the year of grace, 1800. A small scad of
snow had fallen and there was just frost enough to harden it up and make the
walking pleasant. A gay troupe of young fellows and girls, masquerading as
mummers, with much laughter and good humour, had just bundled out of the London
Tavern, and were making for the “Barking Kettle, ” up the Middle Path, to
continue the evening's revelry. They were led by a tall strapping young fellow,
over six feet high, and broad in proportion, who that year had been elected King
of the Mummers. No disguise, however complete, could conceal the athletic form
of John Desmond, who was the best known and most popular young fellow in town.
After the departure of the revellers, Dame Quirk hustled up the shutters and
fixed things up for the morrow in the front of the Tavern, while Mary O'Connor,
her beautiful niece, with a couple of other girls, tidied up the big back
parlour which had been disarranged by the mummers, swept the hearth, added a
junk or two to the Yule log that lay ablaze across the brass dog-irons, trimmed
the wicks of the old-
fashioned cod-oil lamps, lit the candles
in the antique sticks on the mantle reserved for gala occasions, and after a few
minutes work, made the room look bright and warm and cozy. Scarcely were the
preparations completed when in trooped a bevy of fair girls, with escorts, who,
after laying aside their wraps, and exchanging the season's greetings with the
genial hostess and rubicund lord, took the seats placed round the fire and
prepared to spend a jolly evening “welcoming in the Christmas.” In a short time
the song and joke went round, and the whole company, were making merry. If
anyone was pre-occupied, and not enjoying the fun, it was the niece of the
hostess, the acknowledged beauty of the town, Mary O'Connor.

It must be remembered that at that time in St. John's things were very
different from what they are now. The “Rebellion” in Ireland had only two years
ago been put down with great slaughter. Many who had been out in “Rising of '98”
had escaped to Newfoundland. Most of them had suffered, justly or unjustly, and
their hearts were boiling with hatred of the conqueror, and seeking every chance
for revenge. Again, amongst the Irish refugees and youngsters there were
innumerable factions, the principal being the “Knockloftys, ” the
“Carrickshocks, ” the “Whey-bellys, ” the “Clear Airs, ” and the
“Yellow-bellys.” On occasions the least word was sufficient to set all factions
fighting. On the other hand the Irish Catholics suffered greatly at the hands of
the military and merchants. As Prowse's
History
has it, they had “to
overcome terrible obstacles—the prejudice and opposition of the straitlaced old
Admiral Milbanke, and the rampant Protestantism of his surrogate.” Bigotry,
intolerance, and racial discord, permeated all classes and creeds. So far did
this feeling of religious and racial antagonism extend, that a certain Corney
Murphy, a powerful and turbulent Irishman, who had lost all he had in the world,
except his life, had started a Secret Branch of the United Irishmen, whose
watchword was, “Down with the Sassenach.” Murphy was a man of exceptional
courage and force of character, and was well educated for his time. So
successful was he in the propagation of disaffection, that he had enlisted in
the cause over 400 men of the local garrison, who had sworn the most solemn
oath, that on getting the pre-arranged signal, they'd desert the barrack fully
armed and equipped; would join the disloyal citizens, attack the merchants and
authorities, civil and military, and plunder the town. As there'd be no traffic
between the island and the old country for some
months, they
hoped to get away with the booty to the United States, where they had the
assurance of sympathizers there, they'd be received with open arms.

Such was the state of the town on Christmas Eve, A. D., 1800 fast and furious.
Mary O'Connor alone, of the whole company, suspected the real state of affairs,
and were she not betrothed to John Desmond, and had she not read his heart like
an open book she'd have been no wiser than her companions. After a short time
came a slight sound as of the rattle of hailstones on the window near which she
was sitting. She knew this to be the signal for John's return. He had
accompanied the mummers up to Riverhead, and when he had seen them engrossed in
“Sir Roger” and other favourite dances, had stolen away to have a few minutes
with his colleen. She slipped out unobserved and stood on a small bridge that
spanned the stream that ran to the harbour past the western end of the tavern.
There, for some time, they opened their pure young hearts to each other, and
revelled in the joys of such as feel the spell of love's young dream. They then
fell to discussing the unhappy state of the town, and Mary charged her lover
with complicity in the plottings of the Secret Society. The love and trust and
sympathy of the pure, young girl, whom he loved dearer than his life, had their
effect on him, and under threats of the direst results if she ever breathed what
he told her, he disclosed an outline of the programme of the conspirators. Mary
vowed then and there, that in spite of everything, she'd save him and the other
innocent dupes of the arch-schemer Murphy, as well as the women and children of
the threatened section of the community. His prayers and threats had no avail,
and she left him in a troubled mood, and retired to her own room with a heavy
heart. After a sleepless night, just before the day dawned, she, with the other
members of the household, made her way to first Mass in the old Chapel. After
Mass was over she went into Sacristy where the Bishop, the Most Reverend Dr.
O'Donnel, was preparing to say the second Mass, and begged to see him privately
for a few minutes. Imagine the Bishop's horror when she disclosed the diabolical
programme of the conspirators. He saw the gravity of the situation at a glance,
and dismissed Mary with his blessing for the service she had done the town, and
assured her that he'd take immediate steps to counteract the evil that had
already been done.

At the last Mass, the Bishop, to the consternation of the
congregation, preached a sermon that was remembered for many a day. He did not
stop here. He immediately saw the Governor and General Skerritt, Commander of
the forces, and pointed out the means by which the outbreak could be avoided. He
called a meeting of the representative citizens, Catholic and Protestant, and
enlisted them in the good work. The Governor offered a hundred guineas reward
for information that would convict the author or authors; the citizens
supplemented this with a reward of two hundred guineas more; and finally he
visited the barracks and preached and entreated and scolded the disaffected
soldiers and did everything that human foresight could suggest to prevent the
threatened bloodshed. The Governor and military authorities coalesced willingly
with him in the good work, and as far as in them lay, removed the disabilities
under which Catholics, both civil and military, laboured. Notwithstanding all
his efforts the propaganda was carried on by the ring-leader Murphy, and though
a large reward was offered for information that would bring the crime home to
him, not a man of them would betray him, altho' his fellow-conspirators were
losing enthusiasm. After the date of the massacre had been postponed two or
three times, at last, on the night of the 24th of April an abortive attempt was
made by some of the more reckless spirits among the soldiery to effect a rising;
only a few responded. Their rendezvous was the powder-shed back of Fort
Townshend at 11 o'clock at night. None of the disaffected citizens attended; the
Bishop and his priests saw to that. The few who rebelled were easily overcome.
Twelve of their ringleaders were tried by court-martial, five of them hanged,
the remaining seven were transported, and thus ended what at one time promised
to be one of the bloodiest massacres in American history. The rest of the story
is soon told. As a recognition of the services of the Bishop the Imperial
Government granted him a pension of £50 to the day of his death. The religious
restrictions were removed, and faction-fighting began to be less frequent. The
stalwart West County, and Irish youngsters turned their superfluous energy to
the land and cleared many smiling farms in the neighbourhood of St. John's and
Conception Bay.

And on that bright Easter morn, that Mary O'Connor and John Desmond were
publicly married in the old Chapel, with the elite of the town, including
General Skerritt, present to honour the ceremony; when
the
smiling old Bishop patted the blooming cheeks of the happy bride, she knew there
was one at least present beside her devoted husband who in his heart gave her
credit for being the means under heaven, of averting an outrage that would have
remained forever a blot on the fair name of St. John's.

by William Whittle

“L
ET’S DANCE AND SING and make good cheer, for
Christmas comes but once a year.”

Among the many festivals to be found in the Christian calendar there is none
that touches the heart with greater love and veneration, and none that is so
universal in its celebration, than that of Christmas. And this was the case in
Newfoundland a century ago, and even up to a more recent date. Although our
forefathers had a hard time of it in trying to gain a foot-hold in the land of
“cod, fog, and fish, ” by which flattering name it was known to the outside
world, having almost to burrow in the ground to avoid the clutches of the law;
although every day witnessed the sickening sight so some poor creature being
whipped through the streets for the crime (?) of stealing a loaf of bread or a
ten-penny nail; although it was an everyday scene, in the harbour, to see some
poor fellow run up the foreyard arm of a man-of-war and flogged for some
trifling offence; although the tread-mill flourished, and the press-gang paraded
the streets, still, on the coming around of each anniversary of the glorious
festival of Christmas, the people of Saint John’s forgot for the nonce their
great troubles and persecutions, and the season became one of unrestrained
festivity and jollification. But I fear the people of St.
John’s have grown lukewarm in their welcome of this, the greatest of all
anniversaries, although the spirit survives, and must, naturally, survive.

A great many of the sports and ceremonies had long ceased to be performed at
the time I was ushered “into this breathing world, ” still I was fortunate in
having for parents those who dearly loved old Terra-Nova, and whose memories
were well stored with anecdote and history of ye olden times, handed down from
sire to son for many generations. Consequently, on each Christmas-eve, when the
Christmas candles were lighted, and chairs drawn up in front of the Christmas
“backjunk, ” the Yule-log of Newfoundland and as the “Mighty flame Went roaring
up the chimney wide, ” we were told the oft-repeated stories of early life in
Newfoundland—some of them enchanting, some of them too sombre to be repeated at
this time. It is no wonder, then, that I take as much boyish delight on each
return of this great festival, amid the worry, hurry, and scurry of this busy
city, as I did years ago in my island-home, when I plead with all a child’s
persistence to be allowed to “sit up” on Christmas-eve that I might attend the
midnight Mass— “That only night of all the year Saw the stoled priest his
chalice rear.”

Vividly do I recall the scene of the great body of worshippers, as they wended
their way to the house of God, in the crisp morning air, to offer up their
thanksgiving to the God of mercy who had allowed them to see another Christmas
Day, while from many a home along the route came sharp and clear notes and words
of the beautiful
Adeste Fideles
, and the nails in clapboard and shingle
cracked in unison and harmony. (There are two customs that I have mentioned
which the rising generation will never know much about—the Midnight Mass, and
the Yule-log or “back-junk.”)

Life in St. John’s one hundred years ago in a social point of view, was unique
indeed. The ringing of the nine o’clock bell at night was the signal for all
persons in the street to retire to their respective homes; and “presently the
constable walked the rounds to see good order kept; and to take up loose
people.” What change has come over the scene! True, in my days of boyhood, the
nine o’clock gun was the signal for all good little boys to hurry home. True,
Paddy Fitzgerald still cries out the hours of the night and morning; still, what
was then a signal to retire for the night seems now to be a summons to go forth
to festivities; for though, as I have said, the watchman still calls the hours
of night and morning, the lights still
glare out, and at the
“very witching hour of night, ” when even the ghosts of all departed
Newfoundlanders hie themselves to their respective resting places, the modern
Newfoundlander is only then bracing himself up for the true enjoyment which
alone comes with the quietness and stillness of night! I find no fault with with
these innovations; but I
do
find fault with the natural tendency of time
to blot out old customs and silence ancient sports, as it has done in St.
John’s. It is too much promoted by the spirit of today, and they who would have
no man enjoy himself, without being able to give a reason for it, are enemies of
society and are robbing life of more than half its beauty and many of its
virtues. I love these ancient sports and ceremonies, such as were practised
years ago in St. John’s. I love commemorations, and no one of them comes around
that I do not feel the better for its occurrence. I love them for their own
sake; I love them for what they teach. I love to think of the fools (not the
natural ones). I recall their antics, and as I do, the “owen-shooks” cause me to
laugh heartily. To laugh heartily now-a-days is to be considered coarse, perhaps
vulgar. One must sit up straight, listen attentively, and
look
wise.
Pshaw!

For the commemoration of this day we are certainly all the better. Although the
younger generation of St. John’s, indeed of the whole Island for that matter,
will probably never realize the great mirth that once attended the return of
this glad season, when the ear was “cocked” to hear the gun that announced the
first family who had partaken of dinner on Christmas Day; when the “I wish you a
Merrie Christmas” was the “open sesame” to all the good things in the larder;
when the Christmas-box was bestowed; when the poor and needy were made, at the
hands of the charitable, to forget the misery and toils of the past year. I
remember, when a boy, playing one Christmas-eve in the basement of the Church of
England Cathedral, where my father was cutting “a gang” of rigging for the
church-ship
Hawk
. In running around the basement, chased by my
companions, my way was suddenly blocked by boards placed upon empty barrels, and
upon the boards were stored “mountains” of beef and loaves of sweet, white
bread. Running aback to father, I asked what it meant, and he told me it was to
be distributed among the poor on Christmas morning! Blessed charity!

I recall tonight in my bachelor’s quarters, the Christmas-days of my
childhood, —days which were made the season for gathering together the family
connections, and by so doing, cementing more closely the bonds of
affections,: once more to sit around the family hearthstone, “that rallying
place of the affections, ” there to feel young again, and once more live over
the days of childhood! O Glorious days of childhood! Who does not desire to
recall them? And with them the recollections of those festivals, those
tarrying-places on the great journey of life. It is pleasing to forget the cares
and torments of the present, and live over again, in sweet imagination, the days
of our youth, knowing that we shall meet those who, like ourselves, have
wandered abroad into the great world without, and no time in the year furnishes
“food for reflection” so abundantly as this season of Christmas. Glorious
Christmas time! At your return the records of other days that may be fading from
the tablets of the memory are once more renewed; the beloved dead are again
restored to us for a short hour, or our hearts dwell with them in their cold,
cold graves, where we laid them years ago!

I did not intend to fall into a moralizing vein, which is commonplace; I
started out with the intention of giving the younger readers of the
Telegram
an idea of the sports and ceremonies that went to make up
the sum of the Christmas holiday season of St. John’s many years ago, and to
recall to the minds of the “old standards” those good old sports wherewith they
passed the season. Of the hearty mirth in these good old days there can be
little doubt; the humour was of the most innocent and the finest quality. Amid
all the absurdity that surrounded many of them there was much real feeling at
the bottom. And what made the interesting days between Xmas-eve and Twelfth Day
more enjoyable was the fact that the humble received no rude check from those to
whom knowledge had opened her stores and wealth her coffers. And all that had
good effect, for nothing so harmonizes the differences between the poor and the
rich as a reciprocal kindness of feeling on such occasions. The labouring
classes in those days had enlarged privileges granted them, if not by positive
law, at least by well-established custom. So, folly was, as it were, “crowned,
and disorder had license.” The younger generation remember the “fools.” Their
time of appearing out was from Christmas Day to Twelfth Day. They had full sway
until the disguise was made a cloak by which to revenge some petty spite. They
then were ordered to be numbered, and finally, were allowed out only on
condition they should appear unmasked. This was the command that terminated this
old custom in St. John’s. It was not, I believed, a statuary law, but merely the
will of a stipendiary magistrate,
the late Mr. Justice
Carter. Some years after they had ceased to appear, one came out on the “Cross”
on Christmas Day. He struck right and left, and finally ran into the arms of a
policeman who locked him up.

I remember some years ago, just about Christmas time, one of my brothers, who
was quite a genius in that line, making a full-rigged brig, and giving to a
person who was to be the “fool” on New Year’s Day, to be used in the decorations
of his cap, with the understanding that the brig was to be mine at the end of
the day. Well, bright and early on New Year’s morning I presented myself at the
door of the “fool, ” fully two hours before the hour came for him to dress.
Finally out he came, “dressed to kill, ” or “mash, ” as the saying goes now. His
milk-white shirt sleeves were literally covered with ribbons; his pantaloons
were of the heaviest broadcloth; and his cap surmounted with my coveted
prize—the full-rigged brig. Down Limekiln-hill he went with the fleetness of a
deer— and there was method in this, as he was anxious that few should know where
he emerged from. And down I went after him. Up Playhouse-hill he ran until his
eye lit on someone, who like himself, was swift afoot. Then commenced the chase.
Up lanes, “across lots, ” down lanes in and out of the crowd, until the person
chased sought shelter in some hallway. Yet, his haven was not secure, for with
his shoulder against the door, the “fool” was determined that it should yield.
Then came a critical moment, for I saw an impending danger to the spars of the
brig; then came the cry and warning, “Stoop! stoop!” He obeys the command, the
door is forced open, the victim secured, a few friendly taps on the legs, and
they shake hands and walk out together. From Playhouse-hill to the Mall, from
the Mall to the Tickle, many times that day did I follow that “fool.” Wherever
the crowd was greatest there was I, like Mr. Fezziwig in Dickens’
Christmas
Carol
, in their midst. At last, late at night, when the “fool, ” weary,
tired, all “played-out, ” sought his home, I was made the happy owner of the
full-rigged brig.

How well they kept from each other the knowledge of what each one was to wear!
Odd costumes were discussed for weeks on street corners, at firesides, and at
friendly parties, but each one kept his secret in regard to his own dress. And
it is safe to say, no belle ever dressed for the “Irish ball” that had as many
come to criticise her taste or admire her appearance as a popular “fool”
had.

“Munn” Carter, I remember, was always a conspicuous “fool, ”
and one who could handle himself well, for Munn was a fellow whom every would-be
boxer did not want to tackle. Davey Foley was always the owner of a stylish rig,
while his friend, Mosey Murphy, appeared, I think, as an “owen-shook.” The
“owen-shook” was always a terror to encounter, for he rarely was merciful to
anyone who made him draw upon his wind, and woe to the man who disputed his
right of give a sound castigation for the trouble incurred.

I must hasten to speak of the most important of these sports and ceremonies—the
mummers. Those who did not live previous to the “Fire” (1846), never saw the
grand celebration, when some two or three hundred of the most stalwart followers
that ever trod the deck of a ship, donned their silk dresses, their costly
bonnets and rich laces, and, marshalled by their escorts, promenaded the
streets, calling upon the governor, the clergy and the mercantile fraternity. So
important were these celebrations deemed by our ancestors, and such was the
earnestness bestowed upon their preparation, that the most costly garments were
loaned from the wardrobes of the “finest ladies in the land” for the
purpose.

The reign of the mummers, like that of the “fools, ” was put an end to, owing
to a street row between them and the spectators, in which the latter received
the worst of it. For, as I have said, both the “fools” and mummers were composed
of the “bone and sinew” of the town. Many a time have I seen a “fool, ” whom the
mob tried to “run, ” pull off his cap, take the handle of his “swab” and clean
out some two or three hundred persons. Those were occasions when the spectators
calculated without their host. Instead of a “lark being behind the disguise, it
proved to be a Jackman, a Dawney, or a Curtin! But, as to the mummers. The
“fools” escorting the ladies, were attired in blue trousers, with gold or red
stripes on the sides, their white shirts completely covered with artificial
flowers and ribbons, while from their sides hung swords which were loaned them
from the barracks for the occasion. Young men and boys, as ladies dressed, often
extravagantly, were thus escorted through the streets. One of the older customs
was to drag a Yule-log along with them. The procession invariably started from
the Custom-house, in recent years, and after marching through the principal
streets, put up at the house of Bill Cody, who lived in the direction of the
Riverhead Bridge, for dinner, where the wassail-bowl was drawn upon, and many a
bumper drank to Father Christmas.