CHAPTER IX.

Sir Toby.—“Dost thou think because thou art virtuous there shall be no more cakes and ale?” Clown.—“Yes, by Saint Anne; and ginger shall be hot i’ the mouth too.” _Twelfth Night._ Act ii. Sc. 3. England was Merry England then, Old Christmas brought his sports again, ’Twas Christmas broached the mightiest ale, ’Twas Christmas told the merriest tale; A Christmas gambol oft would cheer A poor man’s heart through half the year. _Marmion._ _ANCIENT MERRY-MAKINGS, FEASTS AND CEREMONIES PECULIAR TO CERTAIN SEASONS, AT WHICH ALE WAS THE PRINCIPAL DRINK. — HARVEST HOME, SHEEP SHEARING, AND OTHER SONGS._ England was merry England then, and whatever may be thought of the utility of attempting to revive the ancient sports and amusements of the people, it is undeniable that when the old customs and games went out of vogue, they left behind them a void which seems without any immediate prospect of being filled. We have no doubt gained in many ways by changed habits of life and modes of thought, but it must not be forgotten that at the same time life has lost much of its old picturesqueness and variety. These simple, hearty festivals of old, in which our ancestors so much delighted, served to light up the dull round of the recurring seasons, and to mark with a red letter the day in the calendar appropriate to their celebration. It was these that gained for our country in mediæval times the name of “Merrie England.” The purpose of this chapter, however, is not to compose a dirge on the departed {233} glories of our English merry-makings, but rather to give in short limits some account of the principal feasts and ceremonies in which the national beverage, personified by the familiar name of John Barleycorn, figured as a constant and well-tried friend, a provocative to mirth and good feeling, to jollity and hearty enjoyment. The principal merry-makings of old England were associated with certain special days of the year, or with various events, important in the life of the people, which though not fixed to any particular day in the calendar, were from their nature connected with certain seasons. May Day and Christmas Day, New Year’s Eve and Twelfth Night, the Harvest Home, the Sheep-shearing Supper, and many another minor festival, all served to make the labourer’s lot seem an easier one, and to vary the monotonous round of toil. Herrick thus alludes to the number and variety of the sports and pastimes incidental to the country life in his day:— Thy wakes, thy quintals, here thou hast, Thy maypoles too with garlands graced, Thy morris dance, thy Whitsun-ale, Thy shearing feasts which never fail, Thy harvest home, thy wassail bowl, That’s tossed up after fox-i’-th’ hole,[53] Thy mummeries, thy twelfth-tide kings And queens, thy Xmas revellings, Thy nut-brown mirth, thy russet wit, And no man pays too dear for it. In many a village at the present day the only representative, if so it may be called, of all these rustic jollifications, is the annual dinner of the members of the sick club, if funds will permit, or perhaps tea and a magic lantern. [53] Fox-i’-th’ hole = the tongue. Where can we begin better than with New Year’s Day and the ancient custom of the wassail? New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day were anciently, and still are to some extent, celebrated with various observances; presents and good wishes for the coming year were freely exchanged, and sometimes the lasses and lads would pay their neighbours the compliment of singing a carol to bury the old and usher in the glad new year. But more generally the practice was observed of a {234} crowd of youths and maidens entering their friends’ houses in the first hours of New Year’s Day, bearing with them the wassail-bowl of spiced ale, and singing verses appropriate to the occasion. The origin of the name wassail and of the ceremonies connected with it, is well known and better authenticated than that of most of our ancient customs. Rowena, the daughter of Hengist, on being presented to Vortigern at a feast which her father had prepared for him, kneeled before him and offered him a bowl with the words “Louerd king wœs hœil,” that is, “Lord King, your health.” Vortigern is represented in _Layamon’s Brut_ as not understanding the phrase— The King Vortigerne Haxede his cnihtes What were the speche That the mayde speke. The answer is— Hit is the wone (_wont_) Ine Saxe-londe, That freond saith to his freond, Wan he sal drink “Leofue (_dear_) freond wassail,” The other saith “drinc hail.” Old Geoffrey of Monmouth, after relating the legend, remarks that from that time down to his own day it had been the custom in Britain for one who drinks to another to say, “Wacht heil!” and for that other who pledges him in return, to answer, “Drink heil!” The word wassail, from being used to signify a pledge or greeting, in time came to denote feasting in general, and in the phrase, “wassail-bowl,” to con-note the particular liquor, spiced ale, with which the bowl was filled. Milner, in a dissertation on an ancient cup, supposed to be a wassail-cup, inserted in the eleventh volume of the _Archæologia_, states that the introduction of Christianity amongst our ancestors did not at all interfere with the practice of wassailing. On the contrary, the custom began to assume a sort of religious aspect; and the wassail-bowl itself, which in great monasteries was placed on the Abbot’s table, at the upper end of the refectory, to be circulated amongst the community at his discretion, received the honourable appellation of _Poculum Caritatis_. The wassail-bowl is probably the original of the Grace Cup and Loving Cup. {235} It was also customary in some places for the poor of a village at Christmas time or on New Year’s Eve, to go round to the doors of their richer neighbours, bearing a wassail-bowl, decked with ribbons and a golden apple, and singing a carol appropriate to the occasion. This interesting custom is still carried out to the letter at Chippenham, in Wiltshire. On Christmas Eve five or six burly labourers, carrying a bowl gaily decorated with ribbons, go round from house to house and sing a peculiarly quaint rhyme, of much the same character as that given below, which was once common in Gloucestershire, particularly in the neighbourhood of “Stow on the Wold where the wind blows cold.” Wassail! wassail! all over the town, Our toast it is white, and our ale it is brown; Our bowl is made of a maplin-tree; We be good fellows all;—I drink to thee. Here’s to our horse, and to his right ear, God send our measter a happy new year; A happy new year as e’er he did see,— With my wassailing bowl I drink to thee. Here’s to our mare, and to her right eye, God send our mistress a good Christmas pie; A good Christmas pie as e’er I did see,— With my wassailing bowl I drink to thee. Here’s to our cow, and to her long tail, God send our measter us never may fail Of a cup of good beer: I pray you draw near, And our jolly wassail it’s then you shall hear. Be here my maids? I suppose here be some; Sure they will not let young men stand on the cold stone! Sing hey O, maids! come trole back the pin, And the fairest maid in the house, let us all in. Come, butler, come, bring us a bowl of the best, I hope your soul in heaven will rest; But if you do bring us a bowl of the small, Then down fall butler, and bowl, and all. {236} From this wassail-song it may be gathered that the persons visited were expected to contribute to the wassail-bowl. Another example of a wassailing song begins thus:— Here we come a-wassailing Among the leaves so green; Here we come a wandering, So fair to be seen. Chorus—Love and joy come to you, And to your wassail too, And God send you a happy new year—new year; And God send you a happy new year; Our wassail cup is made of the rosemary tree, So is your beer of the best barley. A quaint custom, doubtless a survivor from pagan times, was wassailing the fruit trees with a view to a productive crop in the coming year. In some places the trees were wassailed on New Year’s Eve, in others on Christmas Eve. The pretty superstition has been commemorated by Herrick in the lines:— Wassaile the trees, that they may beare You many a plum and many a peare; For more or lesse fruits they will bring, As you do give them wassailing. In Devonshire the eve of the Epiphany was devoted to this custom, and in that apple-bearing country, cider was the wassail used on the occasion, and the apple tree the chief recipient of the country folks’ good wishes. The wassailers, with good supply of their favourite beverage, would proceed to some gnarled and crooked, but productive apple tree, and there, forming a circle about his ancient trunk, would drink his health with some such incantation as this:— Here’s to thee, old apple tree, Whence thou mayest bud, and whence thou mayest blow, And whence thou mayst bear apples enow. Hats full, caps full, Bushel, bushel, sacks full, And my pockets full too; hurrah! {237} A variety of the New Year’s Wassail-Bowl custom was, until a few years ago, practised in Scotland. What is called a _hot pint_ (_i.e._, a great kettle full of hot sweetened ale), was prepared, and when the clock had sounded out the knell of the old year, each member of the family drank “A good health and a Happy New Year to all.” A move was then made by the revellers with what remained of the hot pint, and a store of short-bread and _bun_ to visit their friends and neighbours, and to give them seasonable greeting. If the party were the first to enter a friend’s house since twelve o’clock had struck, they were called the _first foot_, and must come in with hands full of cakes, of which all the inmates must partake; and so they went from house to house until either their endurance or that long, long hot pint, failed. Even within this century the custom was so religiously observed that the streets of Edinburgh are described as having been more thronged at midnight than at mid-day. This old practice is said to have received its death-blow in 1812, when the descent of gangs of thieves and pickpockets upon the wassailers caused such scenes of rioting and violence that, after languishing for a few years, it came to an untimely end. It was customary at the beginning of the present century for the inhabitants of the parish of Deerness, in Orkney, to assemble on New Year’s Eve, and pay a round of visits through the district, drinking their neighbours’ healths, and singing various old songs, of which the following may be taken as a specimen:— This night it is guid New Year’s E’en night We’re a’ here Queen Mary’s Men; And we’re come here to crave our right, And that’s before our lady. * * * * * Gae fill the three pint cog o’ ale, The maut maun be aboun the meal. We houp your ale is stark and stout For men to drink the old year out. The composition of the wassail-bowl has been dealt with elsewhere, and it only remains to be added that though the drinking of its spiced contents was very usual on New Year’s Eve, it was not peculiar to that day, but accompanied most occasions of mediæval festivity, and, indeed, was so common that in the days of Queen Elizabeth the wassail-bowl was frequently referred to by the writers of that Golden Age of English {238} literature as symbolical of feasting and good cheer in general. It is thus that Herrick mentions it in his beautiful little poem, entitled _A Thanksgiving for his House_:— Lord, I confess too when I dine, The pulse is thine, And all those other bits that be There placed by Thee. The worts, the purslain, and the mess Of water-cress, Which of Thy kindness Thou hast sent: And my content Makes those, and my beloved beet, To be more sweet. ’Tis Thou that crown’st my glittering hearth With guiltless mirth; And giv’st me wassail bowls to drink, Spiced to the brink. Twelfth Night was specially celebrated with wassailing, accompanied with the consumption of spiced cakes, the combination giving rise to the phrase “cakes and ale.” [Illustration: “Cakes and Ale.” From the “Good-Fellow’s Counsel, or the Bad Husband’s Recantation.” (_Roxburghe Ballads_). ] {239} The twelfth day after Christmas was celebrated in the old days in honour of the three Kings, as the Wise Men were called who came out of the East to worship the Messiah. One of the chief ceremonies connected with the day was the election of the King and Queen of the Bean. A large cake—the Twelfth Cake—had been previously made, in which a bean and a pea were inserted, the cake was cut up and distributed by lot among the company, and whoever got the piece which contained the bean was crowned King of the Bean, while the pea conferred the distinction of Queen upon its happy recipient. Now, now the mirth comes, With the cake full of plums, Where beane’s the king of the sport here; Besides we must know, The pea also Must revell as queene in the court here. * * * * * Give then to the king And queen wassailing; And though with ale ye be whet here, Yet part ye from hence, As free from offence As when ye innocent met here.[54] [54] Herrick’s _Twelfth Night_. Dr. Plot, in his _Natural History of Staffordshire_ (1685), describes a curious custom called the Hobby-horse dance, which he says had been practised at Pagets Bromley within memory of persons living when he wrote. On Twelfth Day a man on a hobby-horse used to dance down the village street, holding in his hand a bow and arrow, and accompanied by six men, carrying deers’ heads on their shoulders. “To this Hobby-horse dance,” says our author, “there also belong’d a _pot_, which was kept by turnes by 4 or 5 of the _chief_ of the _Tow_, whom they call’d _Reeves_, who provided _Cakes_ and _Ale_ to put in this _pot_; all people who had any kindness for the good intent of the Institution of the _sport_, giving pence a piece for themselves and families; and so _forraigners_ too, that came to see it: with which mony (the charge of the _Cakes_ and _Ale_ being defrayed) they not only repaired their _Church_ but {240} kept their _poore_ too: which _charges_ are not now perhaps so cheerfully boarn.” It would be going too far from the special subject of this work to detail the more elaborate festivities of the Court and the Universities, or the masques and revels of those ancient abodes of legal learning, the Inns of Court, where Twelfth Night formed the annual excuse for much feasting and pageantry. On these occasions, no doubt, costly wines and liqueurs formed the staple of the liquids consumed, Both Ippocras and Vernage wine Mount Rose and wine of Greek, and not the honest juice of barley. Suffice it to note in passing that on the 2nd of February, 1601, John Manningham, a student of the Middle Temple, records in his Diary: “At our feast we had a play called _Twelfth Night or What You Will_.” This is the earliest recorded mention of that grand Twelfth-night revel, and was, perhaps, its first performance. The appearance of Twelfth Cake is the signal for the disappearance of mince pies, in accordance with the farewell words an old carolist puts into the mouth of Christmas:— Mark well my heavy doleful tale, For Twelfth-day now is come, And now I must no longer stay And say no word but mum. For I, perforce, must take my leave Of all my dainty cheer— Plum porridge, roast beef, and minced-pies, My strong ale and my beer. A minor festival, Plough Monday, used to be celebrated on the first Monday after Twelfth Night. A plough, dressed up with ribbons by the villagers, was taken round from house to house. Its escort consisted of a number of rustics dressed up in various mummers’ guises, and chanting verses, the text of which was “God speed the Plough.” The principal performers were Bessy and the Clown, Bessy being, in fact, a man dressed up in fantastic female weeds. Bread, cheese, and ale were asked for at the farmhouses and seldom refused, and a variety of curious dances and uncouth antics completed the entertainment of the day. {241} The season of Lent, of course, was marked by no special festivities, but when Easter Sunday was passed, the reaction from the enforced restraint of the previous period made the enjoyment of the Easter-week festivities all the keener. Easter Monday and Tuesday were in some places noted for the curious custom known as “heaving;” on the Monday the men “heaved” the women (_i.e._, lifted them off the ground and kissed them), and on the Tuesday the women’s turn came, and they heaved the men. “Many a time have I passed along the streets inhabited by the lower orders of people,” says one who has witnessed the ceremony, “and seen parties of Jolly matrons assembled round tables on which stood a foaming tankard of Ale. Woe to the luckless man that dared to invade their prerogatives! as sure as seen he was pursued, as sure taken, heaved and kissed, and compelled to pay a fine of sixpence for ‘leave and license’ to depart.” The antiquity of the custom is proved by an entry in one of the Tower Rolls of payments made to certain maids-of-honour for having taken Edward I. in his bed and “lifted him.” The second Monday and Tuesday after Easter were known in olden days as Hock-tide. The Tuesday was the principal day, and was designated Hock Day. Many derivations have been suggested for the name; the best seems to be that which connects it with the German _hoch_ (high). Hock Day would thus denote a day of high festivity. Be that as it may, the name is of great antiquity. In the Annals of Dunstaple we read that in 1242 “Henry III., King of England, crossed over on _Ochedai_ with a great army against the King of France.” On Hock Day the women of the village would go into the streets with cords in their hands, and every one of the opposite sex whom they could catch, was bound until he purchased his release by a contribution for the purposes of the common feast. On this day the feasting seems to have frequently passed into excess, and sometimes with direful results; the Annalist of Dunstaple tells that on Hokke-day in the year 1252 the village of Esseburne was “burned down miserably.” In 1450 a Bishop of Worcester prohibited the celebrations of Hock-tide, on the ground that they led to dissipation and other evils. There seems to be no connection between this festival and the Hock-cart spoken of by Herrick, and to be mentioned anon, save that the name of each takes its derivation, if our surmise be the correct one, from the word _hoch_. The Hock Day meaning High Day; and the Hock Cart, the harvest-home wain piled _high_ with the trophies of autumn. We next come to the May Day festivities, which in many respects {242} may be regarded as the most joyous and picturesque of all the year. Without staying to inquire whether the origin of the festival is to be traced to the old Roman Floralia, or games in honour of the goddess who ushered in the spring and strewed the earth with flowers, let us pause for a while to contemplate the old ceremony of “bringing home the May,” as it was performed some few centuries ago. On May Day morning the inhabitants of every village would go out at an early hour into the fields to gather garlands of hawthorn blossom and other flowers, with which they decorated the May-pole and every door and window of the village. These floral trophies were brought home to the tune of pipe and drum; the fairest maid in all the hamlet was crowned with flowers as Queen of the May, and, embowered in hawthorn branches, presided over the mirth and feasting of the day. Stubbe, in his _Anatomy of Abuses_ (1585), describes the ceremony of raising the May-pole, in language which gives some notion of the pretty scene, and which is all the more likely not to be overdrawn, from the evident abhorrence of the writer to what he regarded as the impiety of the whole affair. “They have twenty or fourtie yoke of oxen,” he writes, “every one having a sweet nosegay of flowers tyed on the tippe of his hornes, and these oxen draw home this Maie pole (this stinckyng Idoll rather) which is couered all ouer with flowers and hearbes bounde rounde aboute with stringes, from the top to the bottome, and sometyme painted with variable colours, with two or three hundred women and children following it with great devotion. And thus being reared up with handkerchiefs and flagges streaming on the toppe they strowe the grounde aboute, binde green boughes aboute it, sett up sommer houses, Bowers and Arbours hard by it. And then fall they to banquet and feast, to leape and daunce aboute it, as the Heathen people did at the dedication of their Idolles, whereof this is a perfect pattern or rather the thing itself.” The May-pole once raised, of course the next thing to be done was to pour a libation in honour of the day, and in most cases this would, equally of course, be performed with the ale of Old England. The May-pole is up, Now give me the cup, I’ll drink to the garlands around it, But first unto those, Whose hands did compose, The glory of flowers that crown’d it. {243} In olden days even the King and Queen condescended to mingle with their lieges, and to assist in commemorating the time-honoured custom. Chaucer, in his _Court of Love_, describes how on May Day, “Forth goeth all the Court both most and least, to fetch the flowers fresh.” Spenser, in his _Shepherd’s Calendar_, thus describes the May Day festival of Elizabethan times:— Siker this morrow, no longer ago, I saw a shole of shepherds out go With singing and shouting and jolly cheer; Before them rode a lusty Tabrere, That to the many a hornpipe played, Whereto they dancen each one with his maid. To see these folks make such jouissance, Made my heart after the pipe to dance. Then to the green-wood they speeden them all, To fetchen home May with their musical; And home they bring him in a royal throne Crowned as king; and his queen attone Was Lady Flora, on whom did attend A fair flock of fairies, and a fresh bend Of lovely nymphs—O that I were there To helpen the ladies their May-bush to bear! Probably the most famous May-pole that ever existed was the one which gave its name to the parish of St. Andrew-Undershaft. It was of such a height that it towered above all the houses and even above the church spire. Chaucer alludes to this mighty pole in the lines:— Right well aloft and high ye beare your head, As ye would beare the greate shaft of Cornhill. When this May-pole was not required for festive purposes, it lay suspended on great iron hooks above the doors of the neighbouring houses. In the reign of Edward VI., after a sermon preached at the cross of St. Paul’s against the iniquity of May games, the inhabitants of these houses in a fit of pious enthusiasm, desiring, doubtless, to replenish their wood-cellars and to destroy an “idoll” at the same time, cut the pole in pieces, each man retaining that portion of it which had been before his house. The May-pole in the Strand was another celebrated {244} shaft. It was erected at the Restoration, when there was a revival of the popular sports which the sour-faced Puritans had so unsparingly condemned. It was 134 ft. high, and was raised with great ceremony and public rejoicings. At Helston, in Cornwall, on the 8th of May, called “Furry Day,” may still be witnessed a survival of the old May Day festivities. Very early in the morning the young men and maidens of the place go off into the country to breakfast. About seven o’clock they return bearing green branches, and decked with flowers, they dance through the streets to the tune of the “Furry Dance.” At eight o’clock the “Hal-an-Tow” (Heel and Toe?) song is sung, and dancing and merriment fill the remainder of the day. THE HAL-AN-TOW. Robin Hood and little John, They both are gone to fair O ! And we will go to the merry green wood, To see what they to do there O ! And for to chase O ! To chase the buck and doe O ! With Hal-an-tow, Jolly rumble O ! Chorus: And we were up as soon as any day O ! And for to fetch the summer home, The Summer and the May O ! For Summer is a come O ! And Winter is a gone O ! Where are those Spaniards That makes so great a boast O ! They shall eat the grey goose feather And we will eat the roast O ! In every land O ! The land where’er we go, With Hal-an-tow, Jolly rumble O ! Chorus: And we were up, &c. {245} As for St. George O ! St. George he was a knight O ! Of all the knights in Christendom St. George he is the right O ! In every land O ! The land where’er we go, With Hal-an-tow, Jolly rumble O ! Chorus: And we were up, &c. God bless Aunt Mary Moyses, And all her power and might O ! And send us peace in merry England, Both day and night O ! And send us peace in merry England, Both now and evermore O ! With Hal-an-tow, Jolly rumble O ! Chorus: And we were up, &c. The custom is popularly attributed to the escape of the town from the threatened attack of a fiery dragon, who, in days when dragons were more common than they are now, hung in mid-air over the place, driving the inhabitants to the greenwood tree for shelter. On his disappearance the people returned with great rejoicings and to this day commemorate their fortunate escape. The true explanation is probably that the festival is simply a survival of the old celebration in honour of _Flora_. In some few country villages a May-pole still survives. One such is to be seen in the little village of Welford, in Gloucestershire, painted in stripes of red, white, and blue. It was decked with flowers on May Day not many years ago, owing to the exertions of some of the local lovers of things ancient; but the genuine spirit of the festival seems to have entirely disappeared, and the ceremony has not been repeated. What’s not destroyed by Time’s relentless hand? Where’s Troy? and where’s the May-pole in the Strand? In the early days of May occur what used to be known as the Gange Days, on which the ceremony of beating the parish bounds was, and still {246} is in some places, undertaken, the work of the day being wound up by a more or less liberal distribution of buns and ale. Sums of money were occasionally left to provide the refreshments for these parish perambulations. At Edgcott, in Buckinghamshire, there was an acre of land called “Gang Monday Land,” the income of which was devoted to the provision of cakes and ale for those who took part in the business of the day; and in Clifton Reynes, in the same county, a devise of land for a like purpose provides that one small loaf, a piece of cheese, and a pint of ale, should be given to every married person, and half a pint of ale to every unmarried person, resident in Clifton, when they walked the parish boundaries in Rogation week. When Whitsuntide came round, the time arrived for those quaint festivals to which Ale gave not only his support, but also his name, and which were known as Whitsun Ales. The Whitsun Ale was a special form of the Church Ale, to be mentioned anon. It is thus described by an old writer:—“Two young men of the Parish are yerely chosen by their last foregoers to be wardens, who, dividing the task, make collection among the parishioners of whatsoever provision it pleaseth them voluntarily to bestow. This they employ in brewing, baking, and other acates[55] against Whitsuntide; upon which holy days the neighbours meet at the Church-house, and there merrily feed on their owne victuals contributing some petty portion to the stock, which by many smalls, groweth to a meetly greatness: for there is entertayned a kind of emulation between these wardens, who, by his graciousness in gathering, and good husbandry in expending, can best advance the churche’s profit. Besides, the neighbour parishes at those times lovingly visit each one another, and this way frankly spend their money together. The afternoones are consumed in such exercises as olde and yong folke (having leisure) doe accustomably weare out the time withall. When the feast is ended, the wardens yield in their account to the parishioners: and such money as exceedeth the disbursement is layd up in store, to defray any extraordinary charges arising in the parish, or imposed on them for the good of the country, or the prince’s service: neither of which commonly so gripe but that somewhat still remayneth to cover the purse’s bottom.” [55] acates = purchases. The Morris Dancers regarded Whitsuntide as their chief festival. Introduced into this country from Spain, the Morisco or Moorish {247} Dance had, in the reign of Henry VIII., attained a great popularity. There seems to have been at that time two principal performers, Robin Hood and Maid Marian; then there was a friar, a piper, a fool, and the rank and file of the dancers. In the parish accounts of Kingston-on-Thames for the year 1537 the Morris Dancers’ wardrobe, then in the charge of the churchwardens, consisted of “A fryers cote of russet and a kyrtele weltyd with red cloth, a Mowren’s (Moor’s) cote of buckram, and four morres daunsars cotes of white fustian spangelid and two gryne saten cotes, and disardde’s (fool’s) cote of cotton, and six payre of garters with belles.” In Elizabethan times the Morris Dance, and indeed every other kind of picturesque country festivity, may be said to have reached the zenith of popularity, soon, alas! to be followed by the chilling austerity of the Puritans, of whom it was so truly said that they “like nothing; no state, no sex; music, dancing, etc., unlawful even in kings; no kind of recreation, no kind of entertainment,—no, not so much as hawking; all are damned.” These teach that Dauncing is a Jezabell And barley-break the ready way to Hell, The Morrice, Idolls; Whitson-ale can bee But profane Reliques of a Jubilee.[56] [56] Thomas Randal—_Annalia Dubrensia_. Whitsuntide, with its lengthening days, was specially set apart for sports and old-fashioned games, and amongst the many meetings for such purposes, none attained a wider popularity than the Cotswold or Dover’s Games. Those who are familiar with the country made classic by its associations with the great Master of English poetry, know well the green hill, still called Dover’s Hill, which forms an outpost of the main body of the Cotswolds, and overlooks the smiling vale of Evesham. On this spot, time out of mind, rural sports and festivities had been held under the name of the Cotswold Games. “How does your fallow greyhound, sir?” says Slender to Page, “I heard say he was outrun at Cotsale.” This was the site chosen by Robert Dover, an attorney of Barton-on-the-Heath, for the enlargement and perpetuation of those national sports in which he took so keen an interest, and which he {248} hoped would counteract the narrow spirit of bigotry which was beginning in his day to curtail the innocent amusements of the people. Armed with a formal authority from King James, Dover was so successful in his organization of the Games that, with a short interregnum during the Commonwealth days, their popularity continued until well into the present century. A curious old volume of poems, called _Annalia Dubrensia_, published in 1636, contains many quaint descriptions of the Games and their object. Drayton, Ben Jonson, Thomas Randall and others of lesser note, contributed each a poem to this collection. One of the contributors thus eulogises the sports and their patron:—       . . . . . . Oh most famous Greece! That for brave Pastimes, wert earth’s Master-piece! Had not our English DOVER, thus out-done Thy foure games, with his Cotswoldian one. Dover himself composed the poem which closes the volume. Some of his motives he thus describes:— I’ve heard our fine refined clergy teach, Of the commandments, that it is a breach To play at any game for gain or coin; ’Tis theft they say; men’s goods you do purloin; One silly beast another to pursue ’Gainst nature is, and fearful to the view, And man with man their activeness to try Forbidden is—much harm doth come thereby; Had we their faith to credit what they say, We must believe all sports are ta’en away; Whereby I see, instead of active things, What harm the same unto our nation brings; The pipe and pot are made the only prize Which all our spriteful youth do exercise. * * * * * Yet I was bold for better recreation T’invent these sports to countercheck that fashion, And bless the troope that come our sports to see, With hearty thankes and friendly courtesie {249} [Illustration: Cotswold Games.] The nature of the sports may be gathered from an inspection of the curious old cut taken from the frontispiece of the above-named work. Dancing, tumbling, wrestling, sword-play, quarter-staff, cudgel play, casting the hammer, dog-racing, horse-racing, coursing—must have made up a highly varied programme, while the table in the midst of the field of view shows, both by its conspicuous position and by the size of the cups and tankards in use, that the good creatures, meat and ale, were by no means neglected. The wonderful structure at the top of the picture represents the wooden castle erected every year, and called Dover Castle in honour of the founder of the sports. The artist does not appear to have quite done justice to his subject if we may credit the account of the Castle given by one of the versifiers:— {250} What Ingineere, or cunning Architect A Fabricke of such pompe did ere erect? I’ve heard men talk, of Castles in the aire, Inchanted Cells, Towers, Pageants most faire, Fortifications, Trophies, Theaters, Laborinths, Puppet-workes, strange Meteores, Of those that have their substance wholie spent To shew their Puppets dauncing with content; Of Egypts Pharoes stately glasen Tower, Built by King Ptolomies’ art magick power, Of Cheops, Pyramids; of Rhodes Colosse, Of Joves Olympick golden Ivorie Bosse. These to thy famous works compared will be Of small account; like them in no degree. The figure of the founder occupies a prominent place in the foreground. He used to appear in clothes that had belonged to King James, and it is said wore them with much greater dignity than did the King. Dover seems to have been a remarkable person in more ways than one, as may be gathered from the following quaint note, to be found in one of the editions of the _Annalia_:—“He was bred an Attorney, who never try’d but two causes, _always made up the Difference_.” The next in order of the country celebrations in which ale formed the principal drink, were the sheep-shearing feasts, formerly so common, but now in most places things of the past. Many songs have been preserved which record these old merry-makings when the day’s work was done, and the farm labourers were gathered round their master’s hospitable board. One of these, taken from the Sussex Archæological Collections, is given below. It is a sample of many. Come all my jolly boys, and we’ll together go Abroad with our masters, to shear the lamb and ewe. * * * * * And there we must work hard, boys, until our backs do ache, And our master he will bring us beer whenever we do lack. * * * * * And then our noble captain doth unto our master say, “Come, let us have one bucket of your good Ale, I pray” He turns unto our captain, and makes him this reply {252} “You shall have the best of beer, I promise, presently,” Then out with the bucket pretty Bess she doth come, And master says “Mind, mind and see that every man has some.” This is some of our pastime while the sheep we do shear, And though we are such merry boys, we work hard, I declare; And when ’tis night, and we have done, our master is more free, And stores us well with good strong beer, and pipes and tobaccee So we do sit and drink, we smoke, and sing and roar, Till we become more merry far than e’er we were before, When all our work is done, and all our sheep are shorn, Then home to our Captain, to drink the Ale that’s strong. ’Tis a barrel, then, of _hum cup_, which we call the _black ram_, And we do sit and swagger, and swear that we are men; But yet before ’tis night, I’ll stand you half a crown, That if you ha’nt a special care, the _ram_ will knock you down. [Illustration: The Merry Bagpipes. The Pleaſant Paſtime betwixt a Jolly Shepherd and a Country Damſel on a Midſummer-Day in the Morning. To the tune of _March Boys, &c._ A Shepherd ſat him under a Thorn he pulled out his pipe and began for to play It was on a Mid-Summer’s-day in the Morn for honour of that Holy-day: A Ditty he did chant along goes to the tune of Cater-Bordee, And this was the burden of his ſong if thou wilt pipe lad, I’ll Dance to thee To thee, to thee, derry, derry, to thee, &c. _Roxburghe Ballads._ ] The Haymakers’ song given below is, or rather was, a great favourite at festive gatherings during the hay harvest:— In the merry month of June, In the prime time of the year; Down in yonder meadows There runs a river clear; And many a little fish Doth in that river play; And many a lad and many a lass, Go abroad a-making hay. In come the jolly mowers, To mow the meadows down; With budget and with bottle Of ale both stout and brown. All labouring men of courage bold Come here their strength to try; They sweat and blow, and cut and mow, For the grass cuts very dry. Gratitude to the Giver of all good things has been the mainspring of rejoicings that in nearly all nations have celebrated the safe {253} ingathering of the fruits of the earth. In England the festival is known by the expressive title of the Harvest Home. An ancient ballad expresses _The Farmer’s Delight in the Merry Harvest_:— Come all my Lads and Lasses Let us together go, To the pleasant Corn-field, Our courage for to show, With sickle and with knapsack, So well we clean our Land, The Farmer crys work on Boys Here’s Beer at your command. In a good old Leather Bottle, Of ale that is so brown, We’ll cut and strip together, Until the Sun goes down; Every morning Sun, The small Birds they do sing; The Echoes of their Harmony, Do make the Wood to ring. Young Nanny she came to me, Some wheat-seed for to lase.[57] She is a pretty Creature, I must speak in her Praise: I wish she was some keeper, She is my whole delight In the Groves and Forests, To range both Day and Night. Thus the industrious Farmer By the Sweat of his Brow He labours and endeavours To make his Barley Mow. Sir John produces Liquor, ’Tis very often said, Good Beer makes Good Blood Good Blood makes pretty maid. {254} When Harvest it is over And the Corn secure from Harm And for to go to Market, We must thrash in the Barn. The Flail which we do handle So stoutly we do swing, And after Harvest Supper, So merry we will sing: With good Success to the Farmer, Or else we are to blame, I wish them Health and Happiness, Till Harvest comes again. Beer has always been _the_ drink in the harvest field. Beneath some shelt’ring heap of yellow corn Rests the hoop’d keg, and friendly cooling horn, That mocks alike the goblet’s brittle frame, It’s costlier potions, and its nobler name. To Mary first the brimming draught is given, By toil made welcome as the dews of heaven, And never lip that press’d its homely edge, Had kinder blessings or a heartier pledge. [57] To lase or lease, provincial term for “to glean.” In most parts of England the grain last cut was brought home in the Hock Cart or Horkey Cart. The name “Horkey,” is probably a corruption of “Hock,” and is equivalent to the German _hoch_, the allusion being to the wain piled _high_ with sheaves. The cart decked with ribbons and surmounted with a sheaf dressed up to represent a woman—perhaps Ceres, goddess of the harvest; the horses pranked out in gay trappings; a crowd of labourers and all the youthful inhabitants of the village hurrahing in the wake presented such a scene as that described by Herrick in his poem of the _Hock Cart_:— Come, sons of summer, by whose toile We are the Lords of wine and oile; By whose tough labours and rough hands We rip up first, then reap our lands, Crown’d with the ears of corne, now come, And, to the pipe, sing harvest home. Come forth, my Lord, and see the cart, Drest up with all the country art. {255} See here a maukin, there a sheet As spotless pure as it is sweet; The horses, mares, and frisking fillies, Clad all in linen white as lillies, The harvest swaines and wenches bound For joy to see the hock-cart crown’d. About the cart heare how the rout Of rural younglings raise the shout, Pressing before, some coming after, Those with a shout and these with laughter. Some blesse the cart; some kisse the sheaves Some prank them up with oaken leaves; Some cross the fill-horse; some with great Devotion stroak the home-borne wheat; While other rusticks, lesse attent To prayers than to merryment, Run after with their breeches rent. A verse was sung to start the hock-cart on its way; generally some thing of this kind:— Harvest home, harvest home, We have ploughed, we have sowed; We have reaped, we have mowed, We have brought home every load, Hip, hip, hip, harvest home! In Hampshire it was years ago the custom at the end of harvest to send to the harvest-field a large bottle containing seven or eight gallons of strong beer; and the head carter, while the beer was being discussed, said or sang the lines:— Well ploughed—well sowed, Well reaped—well mowed, Well carried, and Never a load overthro’d. He then raised his hand, and all cheered. This was called the custom of the Hollowing Bottle. {256} For a description of the harvest-home supper we may again turn to Herrick:— Well, on, brave boyes, to your Lord’s hearth Glittering with fire, where, for your mirth, You shall see first the large and cheefe Foundation of your feast, fat beefe; With upper stories, mutton, veale, And bacon, which makes full the meale; With severall dishes standing by, As here a custard, there a pie, And here all-tempting frumentie. And for to make the merry cheer, If smirking wine be wanting here, There’s that which drowns all care, stout beer, Which freely drink to your lord’s health, Then to the plough, the commonwealth, Next to your flails, your fans, your vats; Then to the maids with wheaten hats; To the rough sickle and the crooked scythe, Drink, frolic, boys, till all be blithe. Robert Bloomfield alludes to the horkey-beer as to a brew specially prepared for the occasion:— And Farmer Cheerum went, good man, And broach’d the horkey-beer, And sich a mort of folks began To eat up our good cheer. When supper was finished the horkey-beer was freely sent about the board, with the effect noticed by old Lydgate in his _Story of Thebes_:—“They were in silence for a tyme tyl good ale gan arise.”—Slow tongues are loosened, and the time is passed in songs and mirth. The following extracts are taken from old Suffolk songs which have descended from father to son for generations. They are typical of many more that might be given:— Here’s a health to our master, The founder of the feast! God bless his endeavours And send him increase. {257} Now our harvest is ended And supper is past, Here’s our mistress’ good health In a full flowing glass! She is a good woman,— She prepared us good cheer; Come all my brave boys, And drink off your beer. Drink, my boys, drink until you come unto me, The longer we sit, my boys, the merrier shall we be! In yon green wood there lies an old fox, Close by his den you may catch him, or no; Ten thousand to one you catch him, or no. His beard and his brush are all of one colour,— (_Takes the glass and empties it off._) I am sorry, kind sir, that your glass is no fuller. ’Tis down the red lane! ’tis down the red lane! So merrily hunt the fox down the red lane!” There is another version of these concluding lines:— Down the red lane there lives an old fox, There does he sit a-mumping his chops: Catch him, boys, catch him, catch if you can; ’Tis twenty to one if you catch him or Nan. The red lane is the throat, and the fox is the tongue. A favourite old Norfolk harvest-home song was “The Pye upon the Pear Tree Top,” the following version of which is taken from Mr. Rye’s admirable _History of Norfolk_:— The pye upon the pear-tree top, (_The singer holds up a glass of beer_) The pear-tree top—the pear-tree top, I hold you a crown she is coming down. (_Brings down the glass slowly_) She is coming down, she is coming down, I hold you a crown she is come down. (_Offers the glass to his right-hand neighbour._) {258} She _is_ come down, she _is_ come down, So lift up your elbow, and hold up your chin, And let your neighbour joggle it in. The drinker then tries to drink, and his neighbour tries to prevent him. During the evening one of the reapers, who had been chosen as “lord,” would retire from the table, and, putting on a kind of mummer’s garb, return, calling “Lar-gess.” He then carried a hat or plate round and collected money to prolong the jollification at the village alehouse. A laughable custom prevalent at Sussex harvest-homes, was the following: Each person at the table—perhaps twenty or thirty men—had to drink, without spilling, a glass of ale placed on the top of a tall hat; when he had finished, he must toss the glass up in the air and catch it in the hat as it fell. Sometimes a man would fail four or five times, and at length get too drunk even to try. Meantime the company kept up the refrain:— I’ve been to London, I’ve been to Dover, I’ve been a rambling, boys, all the world over, Over, over, over and over, Drink up the liquor and turn the bowl over. These lines were sung over and over again, getting louder at the critical moments. If the drinker’s effort was crowned with success the fourth line was changed to— The liquor’s drinked up, and the bowl is turned over, while ill success was greeted by— The liquor’s drinked up, and the bowl _ain’t_ turned over. Another Sussex custom practised not many years ago, and perhaps still, at harvest-home suppers consisted in a harvester sticking a lighted candle in a glass of beer and drinking the beer while he held the candle in position with his nose. The company meantime sing a song, of which the chorus runs— Your nose’s alight, your nose’s alight, Your hair’s alight, your hair’s alight, Your hair’s alight, afire. {259} Frequently the greasy candle would slip from between the nose and the rim of the glass, really bringing about a conflagration of hair or eyebrows. In Scotland a dish always to be met with at harvest home, or _Kirn_-suppers, as they are called, is composed of porridge, strong ale and whisky. Had such dish as this been found at Sabine harvest-homes, well might Horace have exclaimed, “_O dura messorum ilia!_” Much the same course of feasting, strong-ale drinking, and singing is observed as at the English festival— —the frothing bickers,[58] soon as filled, Are drained, and to the gauntrees[59] oft return. [58] The beakers. [59] The frame supporting the barrel. Such were some of the principal ceremonies connected with the harvest-home. It is to be regretted that such observances are now comparatively rare. The kindly association of master and man at these and such-like gatherings, did much to keep alive a mutual spirit of good will, and to grease the wheels of toil, and it is to be feared that such feelings when once lost cannot easily be recalled. Bloomfield well describes this peculiarity of former times, which to that extent, at any rate, may be called the “good old days”:— Here, once a year, distinction lowers its crest, The master, servant, and the merry guest, Are equal all; and round the happy ring, The reaper’s eyes exulting glances fling; And, warmed with gratitude, he quits his place, With sun-burnt hands, and ale-enlivened face, Refills the jug his honored host to tend, To serve at once the master and the friend; Proud thus to meet his smiles, to share his tale, His nuts, his conversation, and his Ale. Last of all the great festivals of the year comes Christmas, celebrated from early ages with feasting and hearty boisterous merriment. In olden times the closing days of the old year, and the opening days of the new, were devoted to holiday-making. From Christmas Day to Twelfth Night was one long Saturnalia of feasting, dancing, and {260} wassailing. One of the chief ceremonies of the time was the bringing in of the Yule Log on Christmas Eve. Escorted by troops of shouting men and boys, and greeted with strains of village minstrelsy, the yule log was drawn from its resting place, lighted in the great hall fireplace with some of the charred fragments of the last Christmas log, and consumed as a token of hospitality and good cheer. Herrick thus describes the ceremony:— Come, bring with a noise, my merry, merry boys, The Christmas log to the firing, While my good Dame she—bids ye all be free, And drink to your heart’s desiring. With the last year’s brand—light the new block, and For good success in his spending, On your psaltries play—that sweet luck may Come while the log is teending.[60] Drink now the strong beare, cut the white loafe here, The while the meat is a-shredding, For the rare mince-pie, and the plums stand by, To fill the paste that’s a-kneeding. [60] Blazing. As an accompaniment to the yule log, an immense candle, called the Yule Candle, shed its light upon the scene of merriment, and neighbours all began To quaff brown Ale foam’d high from tall stone jugs And pledge deep healths in oft-replenished mugs. The custom of wassailing the fruit trees has been already mentioned. In some counties the practice extends to the field and pastures, and a song is still sung on Christmas Eve in Hampshire, of which the chorus is:— Apples and pears with right good corn, Come in plenty to every one, Eat and drink good cake and hot ale, Give Earth to drink and she’ll not fail. {261} The time-honoured amusement appropriate to Christmas Eve was provided by the Mummers and the Lord of Misrule. The Mummers (or Maskers, as the name imports) were to be found in every village. They dressed themselves to represent various characters, and the chief pageant exhibited by them was a version of the national legend of St. George and the Dragon. The principal characters of course were the gallant Knight, and as close a copy of the Dragon as the wit and ingenuity of the village could contrive; then there was Old Father Christmas, the Turk, the Maiden, and a Doctor with a huge box of pills ready to execute any repairs rendered necessary by the internecine fury of the Knight, the Turk, and the Dragon. The performance varied a good deal according to the fancy of the performers, but in all places there seems to have been a set form of recitation in verse describing the various antics of the players. The Lord of Misrule, or Master of Merry Disports, was elected as Master of the Ceremonies, and his term of office extended from All-hallow Eve to Candlemas Day. He directed the revels, exercised full power and authority over high and low in the ordering of the festivities, and played the wit and fool with what skill nature had endowed him. And so in mirth and jollity the evening rolls away, and Christmas Day appears. Sir Roger de Coverley says, or at any rate the _Spectator_ reports that he said: “I have often thought it happens very well that Christmas should fall out in the middle of winter. It is the most dead, uncomfortable time of the year, when the poor people would suffer very much from their poverty and cold, if they had not good cheer, warm fires, and Christmas gambols to support them. I love to rejoice their poor hearts at this season, and to see the whole village merry in my great hall. I allow a double quantity of malt to my small beer, and set it a-running for twelve days for everyone that calls for it.” From _Round about our Coal Fire_ it may be gathered that “an English Gentleman at the opening of the great day (_i.e._, on Christmas day in the morning) had all his tenants and neighbours enter his hall by daybreak. The strong beer was broached, and the black jack went merrily about with toast, nutmeg, and good Cheshire Cheese.” It may not be generally known that the _Old English Gentleman_ is but a version of a very similar song published in 1600, in a book entitled _Le Prince d’Amour_. The earlier song contains the following verse relating to our subject:— {262} With an old fashion when Christmas was come To call in all his neighbours with a bagpipe or drum. And good cheer enough to furnish out every old rome, And beer and ale would make a cat speak and a wise man dumb Like an old Courtier of Queens, And the Queen’s old Courtier. On Christmas Day, and indeed during all the Christmas holidays, the tables were spread from morn till eve; sirloins of beef, mince pies and foaming ale formed the chief ingredients of the feast. In many places, in the houses of the great, the ceremonious custom was observed of bringing in the boar’s head on a dish of costly plate, the whole company following in procession, chanting the well-known lines beginning:— Caput apri defero, Reddens laudes Domino. The custom still observed at Queen’s College, Oxford, of bringing in the boar’s head at Christmas is said to have arisen from the adventure of a student of that house in far-off legendary days, who, according to the wont of students in those distant times, was walking abroad studying his Aristotle, when a wild boar, who happened to be in the neighbourhood, whether annoyed at having his lair disturbed, or out of mere malice, charged down upon him with open mouth. However, the student’s presence of mind did not desert him; with a loud cry of “Græcum est” he thrust the volume down the throat of the monster, who, choked by the tough morsel, then and there expired. Turning from the tables of the great to the cottage of the humble, we find a description of the effect of Old Father Christmas’s approach upon the labourer’s home in Bampfylde’s _Sonnet on Christmas_:— With footstep slow, in furry pall yclad, His brows enreathed with holly never sere, Old Christmas comes, to close the waned year, And aye the shepherd’s heart to make right glad, Who, when his teeming flocks are homeward had, To blazing hearth repairs, and nut-brown beer, And views well pleased the ruddy prattlers dear Hug the grey mongrel; meanwhile maid and lad Squabble for roasted crabs—Thee, Sire, we hail, {263} Whether thine aged limbs thou dost enshroud, In vest of snowy white, and hoary veil, Or wrap’st thy visage in a sable cloud: Thee we proclaim with mirth and cheer, nor fail To greet thee well with many a carol loud. It is the practice in many parts of Cumberland at Christmas to roast apples before the fire on a string, and hold under them a bowl of spiced or mulled ale. The apples roast on until they drop into the ale. Many an ancient Christmas carol tells of the joviality which at that time reigned supreme. The following example is taken from a collection of rare old songs and carols:— Mye boyes come here Theres capital cheere ’Tis Christmas tyme, let myrthe goe rounde With a flaggon of ale, by tyme well brown’d. Drink boyes drinke And never thinke Of crustie old tyme, his scythe and his glasse, He cannot, nor dare not, this waye passe. Drinke and be wise Till red Phœbus arise And banish colde care from the good waning year: The Old year he shall dye, mid plenty of cheere. My boyes, come passe Your empty glasse, And fill them with Ale, as the world is of strife And toaste to the widow, the maide and the wife. Come drink success You cannot do less, To the new coming yere, may it be loaded with funne And ne’er bring us worse than the old one has done. {264} Another verse from a good old song specially celebrates our theme— Come, help us to raise Loud songs to the praise Of good old England pleasures: To the Christmas cheer, And the foaming Beer. And the buttery’s solid treasures. Many pages might be compiled of these old English carols, all in praise of the same theme, the roast beef and good ale of Old England; but one more quotation must suffice. It is from _Poor Robin’s Almanack_ (1695):— Now, thrice welscome, Christmas! Which brings us good cheer; Mince pies and plum-pudding— Strong Ale and strong Beer; But as for curmudgeons Who will not be free, I wish they may die On a two-legged tree. And so the cycle of the waning year is nearly completed. Midst sounds of revelry and mirth the old year is dying, and dying hard, and New Year’s Eve comes round again. The principal customs of New Year’s Eve have been already described, being inextricably blended with those appropriate to New Year’s Day. One scene more; a custom of very ancient origin and still observed. An ivy-mantled tower, from which to-night, at all events, the moping owl has been driven, for within are lights and the sounds of busy preparation. Those who are about to perform the last offices for the dying year are here assembled, and a great brown bowl of foaming ale passes from hand to hand. The old church clock, not bating one jot of his accustomed space from stroke to stroke, for all the impatience of listeners in many a house and cottage near, but deliberately, and with a solemnity befitting the occasion, tolls out the hour of midnight. A moment’s pause; but ere the last echo of its brazen tongue has died upon the ear, a merry peal of clashing music bursts from the ancient pile, carrying over hill and dale, over flood and field, on the rapid wings of {265} sound, the tidings that the old year is dead and the new year reigns in his place. As we gaze back on these old scenes of fun and frolic, their rougher outlines perchance softened by distance, their true-heartiness and geniality shining through the golden mist of time, which of us will be found to deny that in some respects the old was better? Happy the age and harmless were the days, For then true love and amity were found, When every village did a May-pole raise, And Whitsun ales and May-games did abound. [Illustration] {266} [Illustration]