Cromwell vs. Christmas

By the time Oliver Cromwell got done with Christmas, even the holly looked nervous.

This was the 1650s. And Christmas — that loud, messy, half-pagan blowout of roast beef, ale, and questionable dancing — was suddenly Public Enemy Number One.

The Puritans stared at December 25 and saw a riot in slow motion—drunk uncles, gambling, feasting, men in the streets shouting carols at midnight. They saw a holiday that had drifted out of control.

So they did what humorless governments do, and regulated it.

Shops were ordered to stay open. Churches were told to keep it plain. No special services. No decorative nonsense. In some towns, soldiers walked the streets to break up celebrations.

You could get fined or tossed in prison for celebrating.

When Cromwell died in 1658 and the king returned, England exhaled. The roast came back. The greenery crept into doorways again. Christmas survived.

But the Puritan mindset didn’t go away. It boarded ships and crossed the Atlantic.

In Massachusetts Bay, Christmas was treated like a suspicious foreign import. In 1659, celebrating it could cost you five shillings. December 25 wasn’t sacred. It was mandatory workday with a side of moral superiority.

No trees. No Santa. No cozy fireside glow. Just cold weather and colder theology.

Two centuries later, writers and illustrators would resurrect Christmas as a warm, glowing festival of nostalgia and family. But for a while there, if you hung a stocking by the fireplace, you’d better do it quietly.

Because the knock at the door wasn’t bringing presents.

It was bringing a fine.