1696: A Christmas Sermon Preached in the Parish Church of St. Eadwalf’s, Sussex
By the Reverend Marmaduke deMallard, Vicar and Unquestionable Ornament to his Office
My dearly beloved brethren, children of prudence and property—
How blessed we are to find ourselves gathered once more beneath this venerable roof, on this most solemn and comforting festival, when Heaven itself condescended to be born upon Earth—in Bethlehem, that ancient village of holiness. Let us remember that Bethlehem, though but small among the princes of Judah, maintained proper habits of order and respect, unlike certain parishes closer to home, where Sunday decorum is now most lamentably on the decline.
Before I proceed to the gospel, which none should imagine I have forgotten, I am compelled, nay, inspired, to remind you that propriety and apparel are the twin pillars of both religion and civility. I have observed, with growing concern and not a little righteous indignation, that many amongst you come to divine service without hats suited to your station. Gentlemen, let me say, the hat is no mere ornament to the skull, but a crown of duty and distinction. It shields both mind and reputation; it proclaims to the world that the wearer fears God and respects fabric. Our Saviour may have lain humbly in a manger at Bethlehem, yet remember that He did not thereby teach slovenliness of attire. Humility need not mean untrimmed brims. Those bareheaded men who swagger about the lanes pretend to simplicity, but I see in their uncovered scalps the spirit of rebellion.
Now, as to the significance of this happy morn, when angels sang and shepherds trembled, I will not weary you with theological niceties. The birth we honour in Bethlehem is also a figure for the birth of our English Empire, which by God’s favour expands daily into heathen territories, there to plant both gospel and good breeding. Some preachers may say empire and piety should not mingle; I say, what better proof of God’s providence than the ability to export our customs at musket point? Even as the Holy Infant brought light to the Gentiles, so does our navy, by cannon and charter, bring Christian civility to the dark corners of the globe. Thus we are, in modest imitation, the Bethlehemites of modern times.
While upon the matter of empire, let me digress—briefly, though pertinently—to the melancholy tale of my late cousin James, who once served as a clerk in Barbados. He expired tragically of sun and spice, yet his example stands as a warning to all faint hearts: the world is no place for hatless men. Had James kept his hat upon his head, the sun might not have smote him. Observe then, congregation, how moral instruction may be drawn even from calamity, and how Bethlehem itself, being warm, teaches the necessity of covering.
But I return, as I always do, to our duty—our duty to the Crown, that Bethlehem of sovereignty, where Majesty was once, by miracle, domestic. It is our good fortune now to serve under the reign of His Majesty King William, by whose vigilance Papists are confounded, trade is encouraged, and taxes are mercifully exacted. Some discontented spirits—though not here, I trust—murmur that taxes are heavy. I say to them, behold the manger at Bethlehem! Was there not taxation then, according to Caesar’s decree? Did not Joseph and Mary travel obediently to their census? Follow, therefore, the example of the Holy Family: pay promptly, complain privately, and trust Providence to balance the books in Heaven.
There are, alas, certain whispers—utterly unfounded, I assure you—that the parish funds were lately misplaced in speculative ventures involving curiosities from the Indies. I shall not stain this sacred day with idle gossip. Still, you may rest assured that every farthing shall be accounted for once the necessary receipts are located.
Now some of you, chiefly the younger sort, imagine that Christmas warrants levity, song, and licentious pudding. You are mistaken. True joy resides in moderation, not excess. Yet neither should you neglect good cheer altogether; I shall not condemn those who take a little wine for the stomach’s sake—when the Vicar himself shares the bottle. Let all things be done decently and in order, as was commanded at Bethlehem when even the oxen kept their appointed places.
Before I conclude, a few words to the women of the parish, whose spiritual welfare lies near my heart. Be obedient to your husbands, industrious in your kitchens, and remember that the veil, like the hat, is both virtuous and fetching. Let no misguided philosopher persuade you toward unnatural equality; the stars themselves declare hierarchy: some shine, others merely twinkle. Accept your station cheerfully, and you shall resemble the star of Bethlehem—bright in obedience, steadfast in position.
And now, in closing, let us consider that holy image once more. The manger, the ox, the humble beginnings—each a parable of Empire, Monarchy, and Millinery. Think, my brethren, how swiftly this peaceful village could descend into chaos were it not for order, for submission, for hats. Madness and republicans stand ever at our gates, sniffing like wolves for ungoverned souls. Therefore watch, pray, obey, pay, and keep your heads both warm and covered.
May the grace of our Lord, who was born in Bethlehem (which, as I have amply shown, bears manifold instruction), rest upon your households and the proper maintenance of your apparel. I shall dine presently with the squire to continue these reflections upon Christian civility; those of you inspired by charity may contribute to the refurbishment of my study roof, which, like Bethlehem itself, admits both light and rain in inconvenient proportions.
Amen.
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