The success of the Puritans in the English Revolution led to the abolition of Christmas, in both its religious form and its guise as an excuse for merriment. This spirit of perpetual Lent was echoed by Thomas Fuller; in a Childermas sermon, he advised his listeners not to be carried away in jollity but to mourn while they are in mirth. A tract of 1656 complained: “Bad joy strips God of all. No evil carries the heart so totally from God as evil joy….A man is very heartily, very totally wicked, every faculty, every sinnew stretch themselves to sin, when sinful in joys.”
To the Christmas-lover this mirthless spirit was the least comprehensible argument of his opponents and the one that stirred most resentment in the hearts of ordinary Englishmen. When Christmas was restored in 1660 with the return of the Stuart dynasty under Charles II, the right to be merry and the comfort of long custom were most celebrated. “Can the Black-moore change his skin, or the Sunne alter his continued course? Yet sooner can these things be done then my mind changed, for to keep old Christmas once again,” asserted Mrs. Custome in Women Will Have Their Will. (Far less delight was shown at the return of church services or the right to Christmas charity than at the restoration of good cheer.) A ballad “The Merry Boys of Christmas” crowed:
Then here’s a Health to Charles our King, Throughout the world admired; Let us his great applauses sing That we so much desired, And wisht among us for to reign When Oliver [Cromwell] rul’d here: But since he’s home returned again, Come fill some Christmas Beer! These holidays we’ll briskly drink, all mirth we will devise, No treason we will speak or think, then bring us brave minc’d Pies: Roast Beef and brave Plum Porridge, our Loyal hearts to cheer: Then prithee make no more ado, but bring us Christmas Beer!
Harper’s magazine on December 26, 1857 published a poem entitled “The Wonders of Santa Claus” which was influential in shaping the 19th century’s view of Santa.
Here he is a rotund old man, clad in red with white fur trim and long black boots; here are the busy elves in a workshop setting; and, for the first time, an Arctic setting, a castle of ice where he and his helpers can labour undisturbed. He is neither bishop, nor proletarian; betokening his elevated status of polar castellan and employer, his pipe is a long one. Among the wonders of his establishment is its ability to disappear into the frosty mist when a stranger happens by; though it is reported that one clever boy drew close enough to see this moral admonition on the gate: “Nobody can ever enter here/ Who lies a-bed too late.” The poet then advises: “Let all who expect a good stocking full,/ Not spend much time in play;/ Keep book and work all the while in mind/ And be up by the peep of day.”
The Arctic hideaway was later revealed to be under Iceland’s Mount Hecla, a volcano which provided Santa with central heating and hot running water – cold water came from a stream of “melted-snow water, contrived with a patented congelator, which thawed when you wanted cold water and froze when you didn’t.”
On December 23, 1927 Santa Claus robbed the First National Bank in Cisco, Texas. Dressed as St. Nick, Marshall Ratliff and three undisguised companions looted the bank and took hostages but were greeted by police and heavily-armed townspeople when they emerged from the building. In the shoot-out that followed, two officers and a bandit were mortally wounded and six civilians were hit by bullets. The remaining robbers made off in the getaway car with two children as hostages but discovered that they had neglected to fill up the vehicle with gasoline. The bullet-ridden car and the hostages were soon abandoned as the bandits tried to make their way to safety on foot. A massive manhunt, the largest in the history of West Texas, with searchers on horseback, in cars, and in planes finally cornered the desperadoes in a field; all three were shot but two managed to escape for a time into the woods. The Santa Claus-clad Ratliff was captured, alive despite six bullet wounds. The two wounded crooks were forced to leave behind the stolen money and were both rounded up within a week.
Put on trial, all were found guilty. The killer of the Cisco sheriff was sentenced to death, the second received 99-year sentence, while Ratliff tried to plead insanity but he two received a death sentence. The erstwhile Santa, unfortunately, killed again in a failed escape attempt; he was eventually taken from his jail cell by an angry mob and lynched. A piece of the rope used in the impromptu hanging is on display in the Callahan County Courthouse in Baird, Texas.
In 1962 another thief dressed as Santa held up a bank in Montreal with equally dismal results. Two policemen were killed as they responded to the call. The killer, 34-year-old Georges Marcotte was arrested and found guilty of two counts of murder. He became one of the last criminals to get a death sentence in Canada but his sentence was commuted to a life term He was granted parole in 1981. Justice works differently in Texas and in Quebec.
The year was 1912 and the rampant commercialism of Christmas in America had begun to irritate the working women of New York City.
Americans had been exchanging holiday gifts for centuries, after the ritual became legal in 1680 following a ban by the Pilgrims, who considered it a crass anathema. By the 19th century Christmas gifts were a firmly entrenched tradition. But by 1911, when a few dozen women in New York City formed what would later be called The Society for the Prevention of Useless Giving, it had reached an early fever pitch.
The yearly emphasis on materialism annoyed the so-called Spugs, but there was also a practical complaint: the era’s custom of employees giving gifts to bosses and higher-ups in exchange for work favors. Frequently, these gifts didn’t run cheap, costing in some cases up to two weeks’ worth of wages, a tradition propelled in part by peer pressure that had grown only bigger with each passing year.
And so, with the help of two of New York richest women, the Spugs decided to strike back.
“Are you a giver of Christmas gifts?” The New York Times reported on November 12, 1912. “If you are, do you give them in the true spirit of generosity or in the hope that you may get presents or favors in return? If that is the way you have been offering holiday remembrances, and if you wish to rebel against this hypocrisy, then you are eligible for membership in the Spug Club.”
The society was founded by Eleanor Robson Belmont, an actress whose husband’s family is the namesake of the Belmont Stakes, and Anne Morgan, the daughter of J.P. Morgan, one of the richest men who ever lived. The group began in 1911, with a few dozen female members, but exploded over the next year, growing to over 6,000, the New York Times reported then.
This growth was in part an expression of collective frustration, but it was effectively powered by the charisma of Belmont, who, in the 1900s, was one of the most famous stage actresses in America. She retired in 1910 after her marriage to August Belmont II, going on to become one of the “genuine grande dames” of Manhattan society, the Times said in her obituary. And while she would later become known as an early savior of the Metropolitan Opera, one of her first big philanthropic projects was helping out the Spugs.
What happened at the Spug meetings? Ice cream was served, for one thing, while women also took in what was then a novel form of entertainment: moving pictures. The rallies were also, at their root, about female solidarity, even if class divisions lingered, giving the occasions an air of maternalistic charity.
“Don’t call them ‘working girls,’” the philanthropist Gertrude Robinson Smith said at a meeting of over 1,000 Spugs in December 1912. “They are self-respecting, self-supporting women.” The Times went on to describe the meeting this way:
“At first it was difficult to single out the working girls. They were all as well dressed as their patronesses. In fact, all sister Spugs, patrons, and patroned looked alike to the reportorial eye. For the benefit of those who still think that the term Spugs is the name for some strange new bug, it must be explained that the letters stand for the Society for the Prevention of Useless Giving.”
The meetings continued, and by the following year, the Spug boom was in full force.
The organization initially was just for women, though men were later allowed in, mostly because of Theodore Roosevelt, who, in December 1912, became the first “man Spug,” prompting hundreds of others to join to movement to tamp down on Christmas gifts.”
Yet just two years later, the Spugs had scattered. War had erupted in Europe, and the attentions of Spug founders Belmont and Morgan—as well as the rest of the world—had shifted elsewhere. The Spug fad was over, though their point had been made, a message that wouldn’t seem out of date today.
Not the seasonal biscuit (we’ll learn about Animal Crackers on trees some other time), but rather a Christmas novelty popular in Britain and countries of the Commonwealth. A Christmas cracker takes the form of a small cardboard tube covered in decorative wrap and containing a strip of chemically-impregnated paper which, when pulled, creates a miniature explosive snap. When opened the cracker reveals a paper hat, a motto or joke and a small prize.
The cracker was invented in 1847 by a London confectioner named Tom Smith. The idea began with the “bon bon”, a French candy in a twist of paper. To this Smith added a small motto and then conceived the idea of a noise when throwing a log on a crackling fire. After much experiment Smith came up with the right chemical formula and the cracker was born. He soon discarded the candy and began to call his invention “cosaques”, after the crack of the Cossack whip.
Since the 1840s the Christmas cracker has contained mottos humorous, romantic, artistic and puzzling with prizes ranging from inexpensive plastic toys to decorated boxes to real musical instruments to expensive jewelry with special lines prepared annually for the Royal Family. It is now an indispensable part of Christmas dinner in millions of houses around the world, includingSweden when associated with “Knut’s parties”, are held at the end of the Christmas season.
Continuing our look at radical Christmas music, this is a poem by Langston Hughes commemorating the 1951 murder of Harry Moore and his wife, both workers for civil rights in Florida. The couple, both associated with the NAACP, had already lost their teaching jobs because of their activism. Their assassination was likely carried out by the Ku Klux Klan but no one was ever arrested for the crime. The poem was later set to music.
Florida means land of flowers. It was on Christmas night In the state named for the flowers Men came bearing dynamite.
Men came stealing through the orange groves Bearing hate instead of love, While the Star of Bethlehem Was in the sky above.
Oh, memories of a Christmas evening When Wise Men traveled from afar Seeking out a lowly manger Guided by a Holy Star!
Oh, memories of a Christmas evenin When to Bethlehem there came “Peace on earth, good will to men”– Jesus was His name.
But they must’ve forgotten Jesus Down in Florida that night Stealing through the orange groves Bearing hate and dynamite.
It was a little cottage, A family, name of Moore. In the windows wreaths of holly, And a pine wreath on the door.
Christmas, 1951, The family prayers were said When father, mother, daughter, And grandmother went to bed.
The father’s name was Harry Moore. The N.A.A.C.P. Told him to carry out its work That Negroes might be free.
So it was that Harry Moore (So deeply did he care) Sought the right for men to live With their heads up everywhere.
Because of that, white killers, Who like Negroes “in their place,” Came stealing through the orange groves On that night of dark disgrace.
It could not be in Jesus’ name, Beneath the bedroom floor, On Christmas night the killers Hid the bomb for Harry Moore.
It could not be in Jesus’ name The killers took his life, Blew his home to pieces And killed his faithful wife.
It could not be for the sake of love They did this awful thing– For when the bomb exploded No hearts were heard to sing.
And certainly no angels cried, “Peace on earth, good will to men”– But around the world an echo hurled A question: When?…When?….When?
When will men for sake of peace And for democracy Learn no bombs a man can make Keep men from being free?
It seems that I hear Harry Moore. From the earth his voice cries, No bomb can kill the dreams I hold– For freedom never dies!
I will not stop! I will not stop– For freedom never dies! I will not stop! I will not stop! Freedom never dies!
So should you see our Harry Moore Walking on a Christmas night, Don’t run and hide, you killers, He has no dynamite.
In his heart is only love For all the human race, And all he wants is for every man To have his rightful place.
And this he says, our Harry Moore, As from the grave he cries: No bomb can kill the dreams I hold For freedom never dies!
For the next few days I will be posting Christmas song lyrics, but not of the usual seasonal variety. Featured will be the words of radical leftists using the holiday to advance one of their causes. We start with Steve Earle’s “Christmas in Washington” from his album El Corazon, issued in 1997 after the reelection of Bill Clinton.
It’s Christmas time in Washington The Democrats rehearsed Getting into gear for four more years Things not getting worse The Republicans drink whiskey neat And thanked their lucky stars They said, “He cannot seek another term They’ll be no more FDRs” And I sat home in Tennessee Just staring at the screen With an uneasy feeling in my chest I’m wondering what it means
[Chorus] So come back, Woody Guthrie Now, come back to us now Tear your eyes from paradise And rise again somehow If you run into Jesus Maybe he can help you out Come back, Woody Guthrie To us now
[Verse 2] I followed in your footsteps once Back in my traveling days Somewhere I failed to find your trail Now I’m stumbling through the haze But there’s killers on the highway now And a man can’t get around So I sold my soul for wheels that roll Now I’m stuck here in this town
[Chorus] Come back, Woody Guthrie Come back to us now Tear your eyes from paradise And rise again somehow If you run into Jesus Maybe he can help us out Come back, Woody Guthrie To us now
[Verse 3] There’s foxes in the henhouse Cows out in the corn The unions have been busted Their proud red banners torn To listen to the radio You’d think that all was well But you and me and Cisco know It’s going straight to hell
[Chorus] So come back, Emma Goldman Rise up, old Joe Hill The barricades are going up They cannot break our will Come back to us, Malcolm X And Martin Luther King We’re marching into Selma As the bells of freedom ring
[Chorus] So come back, Woody Guthrie Come back to us now Tear your eyes from paradise And rise again somehow
The following by Canadian literary giant Robertson Davies appeared in the New York Times in December, 1991:
There are many people — happy people, it usually appears — whose thoughts at Christmas always turn to books. The notion of a Christmas tree with no books under it is repugnant and unnatural to them. I had the good luck to be born into such a family and, although my brothers and I were happy with such insubstantial gifts as skates, toboggans and the like, we would have been greatly disappointed if there had been no books. My father expected the latest Wodehouse, and some vast wad of political recollections — “The Life and Letters of Walter H. Page” when I was very young, and the awesome six volumes of Lloyd George’s war memoirs much later, were the sort of thing that he, and he alone in our family, could read — and my mother wanted and received novels of idyllic rural life by Mary Webb or Sheila Kaye-Smith.
For me, a standby for years was the annual collected volume of the English boys’ magazine Chums, through which I chewed greedily, consuming the historical serial (the boy who did wonders in the army of Wellington or the navy of Nelson); the contemporary serial (the boy whose mother sacrificed to send him to a good school — these were all boarding schools — and who emerged victorious from some scandal in which he had been accused of theft or secret drinking, and carried the school to victory in the great cricket match); the comic serial, about disruptive groups of boy conjurers, boy ventriloquists and boy contortionists who reduced their schools to chaos and their masters to nervous prostration by their sidesplitting japes and wheezes. These wondrous boys were not in the least like the boys I knew in Canada, but that merely gave them the appeal of the exotic. In between the pages of the serials, I read the articles about careers (civil servant, church organist, veterinarian) and about how to make a serviceable violin out of a cigar box and some picture wire.
I particularly relished a column of comic backchat between two wags named Roland Butter and Hammond Deggs. Here is a sample of their wares. R.B.: “Why did the djinn sham pain and whine?” H.D.: “I dunno.” R.B.: “Because the stout porter bit ‘er.” H.D.: “Oh, crumbs!” It was not until much later in life when I came under the spell of Demon Rum that I savored the full richness of that one.
Before Christmas there was always a period of expectancy during which my parents urged me to read Dickens’s “Christmas Carol.” Every year I tried and every year Christmas Day arrived to find that I had got no further than the appearance of Marley’s ghost. I was a slow reader, moving my lips and hearing every word, but I knew the story. It was inescapable. At school no Christmas passed without several children being dragooned into a re-enactment of the Cratchits’ Christmas dinner, for the entertainment of parents. Early in life I developed a distaste for the Cratchits that time has not sweetened. I do not think I was an embittered child, but the Cratchits’ aggressive worthiness, their bravely borne poverty, their exultation over that wretched goose, disgusted me. I particularly disliked Tiny Tim (a part always played by a girl because girls had superior powers of looking moribund and worthy at the same time), and when he chirped, “God bless us every one!” my mental response was akin to Sam Goldwyn’s famous phrase, “Include me out.”
In England, the first Monday after Twelfth Day, January 6, when agricultural labourers return to work and, in many places, when Christmas decorations were taken down. It was also a time when decorated ploughs were paraded through the villages to raise money for the purchase of candles used in blessing the coming agricultural year — a ceremony in which a plough was brought into the church — or just simply for a party to mark the end of the holidays. The men who dragged the plough were called Plough Stots, Bullocks, Jacks or Jags and the implement itself was called the Fool. Should anyone refuse to make a donation the men ploughed up the yard in front of the house in revenge.
The superstitious connection between the plough and the fertility that is desired for the fields is seen in the folk belief that young women who draw the plow or even sit on it or touch it would soon be married and blessed with children. A related custom in Rumania was called plugusorul — boys took decorated ploughs from house to house accompanied by bells and pipers.
Plough Monday in modern England is frequently the occasion for morris-dancing and St. George plays.
