And out of these little burbling informal coteries there arises a recognisable village personality. The Great House has too often passed from the family of its original owners. It may even have become an “ Institution”. The parson is sometimes shared with one or two adjoining parishes, so there may be no clergyman’s wife to do the honours of the place, and to care for the poor and the sick. Women’s Institutes are developing a sense of responsibility, enabling them to undertake much of what used to be done by one person, and the arrival of “the evacuees” has hastened the growth of this quality. The end of the war will see the Institutes stronger than ever, because of the tasks to which they are rising to-day.
4 From Mumming to Pageantry
THE PASSAGE FROM MUMMING TO PAGEANTRY IS MORE than a change in taste. Mumming is indigenous: Pageantry, as we know it, is exotic. When I was a child, there was a good deal of native talent in the countryside: it sprang spontaneously from the soil, and was not cultivated by connoisseurs. In fact, it was rather despised by the “educated classes”. There were the Christmas Mummers, who always performed in the kitchen. There were true Folk Songs, handed down by ear in the villages, and sung in public houses. And in some places there were traditional dances.
All these things had been originally created by the village people themselves. By “professional” standards they were not very good. They were like the wild primitive plants from which all our cultivated varieties have been developed; and like other wild plants they had characters of their own. A strong growth. A powerful stink. Fewer flowers, and those with less vivid colours than their “ garden” descendants. A difficulty about transplanting and a tendency to fade quickly when gathered and brought into the house.
In recent years, some of those local plays and dances have been revived by archæologically-minded fanatics of physical training. Some modern Morris-dancers are extraordinarily good, but they are trained by experts, and are not spontaneous. Originally, these sports were practised by the ne’er-do-wells of the village: now they are produced by welfare workers. They appear at county festivals. They are judged by professionals. They win challenge cups. The wild flowers have been transplanted into the gardens, to be improved out of knowledge. Yes, they have been improved. They are now danced accurately; yet there must always be something rather absurd in a team of district visitors conscientiously stamping through a Morris Dance, while the rude forefathers of the hamlet sit on a wall smoking and smiling as they watch.
Mummers are found in every county in England, and their play is obviously always a variant on one very archaic pattern. It must be older than Christianity. It grew out of some primitive Nature cults, and the clumsy games of Single-stick, of which it largely consists, were once a dramatisation of the myth of the Sun’s death in winter, and his rising again with the Spring Solstice. It is therefore akin to the stories of Demeter and Proserpine; though beside them, it moves in the farcical world of pantomime. Onto this original stem was grafted a Crusader’s Play, and the characters we see to-day are nearly all of that date—St. George, the Turkish Knight, and so on. All English history, as seen through the eyes of country yokels, has left its mark on the subsequent versions of the Mummers’ Play. Robin Hood appears sometimes, and Wat the Tyler. There seems at first to be a purely arbitrary choice in the names of the battles which crop up in the play, but they are those battles in which men from a particular village took part, for each village had its own version. Indeed, if only one could follow all the allusions, much would be learnt of local history. The battles of the last war are often mentioned, and all the Mummers whom I have seen end their play with a dirge in honour of the Death of Nelson.
And now I will give the Mummers’ Play as it was performed in Quidhampton before 1914. It then disappeared for a time, and I persuaded the old men who had last acted in it to let me take down the words as they spoke them. The play had never before been written down. It had been handed on for generations by word of mouth, and often had grown to be mere gibberish. When I asked the meaning of a phrase or a word, or, if it seemed quite meaningless, suggested a possible alternative, the answer always came:
“That’s ’ow we ’ad it.’’
Each man knew only his own part, and no one knew the play as a whole; though the old man who used to carry the actors’ coats could generally fit the parts in one with another.
THE QUIDHAMPTON MUMMERS’ PLAY
CHARACTERS
BOLD SOLDIER. (Wears an old military tunic.)
FATHER CHRISTMAS. (Traditional dress. Carries a broomstick with
a bunch of holly and mistletoe on it.)
KING GEORGE. (Domed hat.)
TURKISH KNIGHT. (A little smoking cap with tassel.)
CUT-THE-DASH. (A sash worn across his chest.)
THE DOCTOR. (Black clothes; dress coat; cocked hat with feathers.)
LITTLE JOHNNY JACK. (Seven dolls hung across his back.)
All the characters have their clothes sewn all over with different coloured cambric slashed into ribands.
Eater BOLD SOLDIER.
BOLD SOLDIER: Ah ha! The doors are open and we’re now in.
We beg your favour for to win.
For whether we rise or whether we fall,
We’ll do our best endeavour to please you all.
We’re none of the ragged tribe, ladies and gentlemen.
We’ve come here to show you a little fight and pastime.
And if you don’t believe the words I say,
Walk in Father Christmas, and clear the way.
Retires. Enter FATHER CHRISTMAS.
FATHER CHRISTMAS: In comes I, Father Christmas.
Christmas or Christmas not,
I hope old Father Christmas will never be forgot.
And now I pray you, ladies and gentlemen,
To give us room to render.
For we’ve come here to show you fight,
To pass away the winter.
A fight you’ve never seen before.
I’m the man that leads King George in the door.
Walk in, King George, act thy way, and show thy part,
And show the beloved company of thy wondrous art.
KING GEORGE enters.
KING GEORGE: In comes I, King George, lately come from town
to town,
To show the greatness of my strength,
To show the feat of valour.
Dun cow and dun,
Likewise men’s chastity.
To see two dragons fight,
And to kill an ugly creature
Is all my delight.
Ask for Bold Soldier. Oft of him I’ve been told.
I wish his ugly face I could now behold.
FATHER CHRISTMAS: Walk in, Bold Soldier, cut thy way, and act thy
part,
And show the beloved company of thy wondrous art.
Enter BOLD SOLDIER.
BOLD SOLDIER: In comes I, bold soldier, Bold Slasher is my name.
’Tis I that fought the fiery dragon
And brought him to his slaughter,
And by that means I won the King of Egypt’s daughter.
My head is bound with iron, and my body bound with
steel,
And with my arms up to my knuckle bones
I’ll fight King George to win his throne.
Pull out thy purse and pay;
Pull out thy sword and slay.
Satisfaction will I have of thee before I go away.
KING GEORGE: No purse will I pull out,
No money will I pay.
Neither shall thee give me satisfaction
Before thee’st go away.
They fight. BOLD SOLDIER drops wounded.
FATHER CHRISTMAS: O King, O King, what hast thou done?
See, one of my soldiers lies bleeding on the ground.
KING GEORGE: You gave me the first offer, Daddy, how could I
refuse it?
Have you got another of your soldiers for me to conquer
&nb
sp; or to kill?
FATHER CHRISTMAS: Yes; I’ve another of my soldiers for thee to
conquer or to kill.
Walk in, the Turkish Knight,
Go thy way and act thy part,
And show the beloved company of thy wondrous art.
Eater the TURKISH KNIGHT.
TURKISH KNIGHT: I comes in, the Turkish Knight,
Come from a foreign land to fight.
I’ll fight this English champion bold,
If his blood runs hot, I’ll quickly draw it cold.
KING GEORGE: O Turk! O Turk! thou talkest hold.
Thou talkest as other Turks, as I’ve been told.
Pull out thy purse and pay,
Pull out thy sword and slay.
Satisfaction will I have of thee before thee’st go away.
TURKISH KNIGHT: No purse will I pull out,
No money will I pay.
Neither shall I give thee satisfaction
Before I go away.
They fight. TURKISH KNIGHT drops wounded.
FATHER CHRISTMAS: O King, O King, what hast thou done?
See, one of my soldiers lies bleeding on the ground.
KING GEORGE: You gave me the first offer, Daddy; how could I
refuse it?
Have you got another of your soldiers for me to conquer
or to kill?
FATHER CHRISTMAS: Yes; I’ve another of my soldiers for thee to
conquer or to kill.
Walk in, Cut-the-Dash.
Go thy way and act thy part,
And show the beloved company of thy wondrous art.
Enter CUT-THE-DASH.
CUT-THE-DASH: In comes I, Cut-the-Dash.
With my broad sword and my fine sash.
Although my King is not here to take his part,
I’ll take it with all my heart.
Now I’ve almost end my ditty,
I hope on me you’ll all have pity.
Now I’ve almost end my story,
I hope the battle will end in glory.
They fight. He goes on his knees, not altogether beaten.
CUT-THE-DASH: I’ll have no more of thy high words, nor none of
they diddly dumps.
For now that thee’st cut my legs off, I’ll fight thee on my
stumps!
They fight again. KING GEORGE wins.
The three lie on the floor. KING GEORGE walks round them.
KING GEORGE: Behold and see the wonders I have done!
I’ve cut down my enemies like the evening sun.
(To FATHER CHRISTMAS): Call for a doctor as quick as you
please!
Perhaps one of his pills may give a little ease.
FATHER CHRISTMAS: Is there a doctor to be found
To cure my three sons which lie bleeding on the ground?
Enter DOCTOR.
THE DOCTOR: Yes, there is a doctor to be found
To cure thy three Sons which lie bleeding on the ground.
FATHER CHRISTMAS: Are you he?
DOCTOR: I am that.
FATHER CHRISTMAS: What’s thy fee, doctor?
DOCTOR: Ten pound is my fee.
But full fifty will I have of thee
Before I set thy three sons free.
FATHER CHRISTMAS: Tut, tut, Doctor; none of thee foreign off
talk.
DOCTOR: Yes, Father Christmas; I am a foreign off man.
I’ve travelled India, South India, and Bendigo,
And now I’ve returned, to England again.
FATHER CHRISTMAS: Well; give us a sample of thee work.
DOCTOR: I carry a little bottle by my side
Which is called the Opliss Popliss Drops,
Which I touch one to the heart and one to the head.
(He does so).
I heal thee of thy wounds once more,
So please get up I pray.
(They all get up and mingle together fighting again, their swords mingled in a bunch. Father Christmas, with his holly bough, forces himself in among them.)
FATHER CHRISTMAS: I’ll have no more of that fighting here.
Enter JOHNNY JACK.
JOHNNY JACK: Here comes I, little Johnny Jack,
With my wife and family at my back.
Out of eleven, I have but seven,
And three of them are gone to Heaven.
One to the Workhouse he is gone,
And the rest will go when I get home.
Although I am but short, and small,
I think I am the best man among you all.
What say you, Daddy?
FATHER CHRISTMAS: Yes, yes, my son,
JOHNNY JACK: Christmas comes, but once a year,
And when it comes it brings good cheer.
Roast beef, plum pudding and mince pie.
Who likes that better than Father Christmas and I?
Each one of them is a very good thing,
And a pot of your Christmas ale will make our voices ring.
Right wheel! Quick march!
( They march in a circle with tambourine and concertina.)
All sing:
Christmas is the time for merriment,
Time for merriment,
Time for merriment,
Christmas is the time for merriment,
Christmas is the time!
They stand in a circle and sing:
Britannia long expected news from the fleet,
Commanded by Lord Nelson the French to defeat.
But when the news came over, to England it was layed,
The French were defeated, but Lord Nelson he was slayed.
They sing other songs, ending with “ God Save the King”.
Before the wireless had taught country people to listen to jazz bands from London hotels, there was a good deal of home-made music in the country. I am not now speaking of the young ladies who carried their portfolios with them to dinner parties and entertained the company with ballads and pianoforte pieces. It was true that they often did so, but there was plenty of music in other walks of life. Small parties of working men in Wilton used to meet on Sunday evenings to sing Handel and Haydn together. This was before local musical festivals had been heard of, and the parties met for sheer love of music, not in order to practise for an outside event.
I have also a manuscript book of glees and catches used by a little glee party in the neighbouring village. It is written in a very rustic hand, and has been much handled, pawed and used. The spelling is natural, not acquired. This is an instance:
Care thou canker of our joys, now the tyrant reign is over
Fill the mystick bowl my boys, revel all without controul.
Mirth and all thy train come in, cast of sorrow care and
sighs
Seize the villian plunge him in, see the miscrant traitor dies
O’er our merry midnight bowl, God shews happy we shall
be, Day was made for vulgar souls, night my boys for you and me.
Giles Jolt as sleeping in his cart he lay,
Some pilfering villians stole his team away.
Giles wakes and cries, A ha! What the dickens what?
Why here now, am I Giles or am I not?
If I am Giles, I’m sure I feel the smart.
If not, Odds buddikins, I’ve found a cart.
The following catch is said to have “gained a Prize Medal’’:
To the old long life and treasure
To the young all health and pleasure
To the fair their face with eternal grace,
And the foul to be loved at leisure.
This is a graver one with a touch of grim humour:
Look neighbours, look, here lies poor Thomas Day
Dead and turned to clay.
Does he sure? What, young Thomas?
No. No.
Does he sure? What old Thomas?
Aye. Aye.
Aye, Aye, Aye. Poor soul.
From these fragments one can judge the kind of wit
and humour which appealed to country people before their minds had been standardised.
At Abbots Bromley, in Staffordshire, they still dance a Horn Dance, the origin of which had probably been forgotten before 1125, the year in which some people mistakenly think it was first danced. On their heads the dancers wear enormous reindeer horns, with harness of wood and iron. The horns are painted red and blue and white, and the latest coat of that paint is said to date from the sixteenth century. In 1686 a detailed description of the Horn Dance appeared in Plot’s Natural History of Staffordshire, and in 1915 the dance was actually danced in khaki. In that year there were at home on leave four young men belonging to the family which is said to have led the dance for 300 years. Their father was then too old and weak to “lead the horns”, so the sons “took them out”, while the father carried the “little white horn”. When the horns are not in use they still hang in the church, to be ceremoniously carried out whenever they are to be used. Miss Marcia Rice, in her History of Abbots Bromley, says of the dance:
Country Moods and Tenses Page 10
