CHRISTMAS AND CHRISTMAS PLAY
"Come, bring with a noise,
My merrie, merrie boys,
The Christmas block to the firing;
While my good dame, she,
Bids ye all be free,
And drink to your heart's desiring."
--_Herrick._
There was bustle and activity in the parish. There was a chill in the
air, the presage of the rapidly approaching Christmas time. House
cleaning and baking occupied the time of the busy housewives. The small
boy's eyes glistened as he watched the huge cakes, loaded with citron,
currants, and coloured as yellow as gold with saffron, emerging from the
oven and consigned, still steaming hot, to some secure place of
retention. Then the bag-puddings--a most indigestible mass--yet sweet
and toothsome, the pastries, pies, and fuggans, passed in regular order
through the hands of the cook.
There is activity among the male population as well as among the
housewives. Small lads run hither and thither crying shrilly, "Pennorths
of Christmas," and exhibiting evergreen, holly and mistletoe for sale.
The farmers are preparing bands for saluting the apple trees. Youngsters
are planning schemes for watching the oxen kneel. Singers are
practising, night after night, the Christmas carols or "curls." Youths
are preparing for the Christmas play of St. George and the Turk.
Ande had been to Helston with the donkey and cart to purchase needed
supplies, and in returning along the "Red Revver" road was allowing the
animal to take his own gait.
"'Allo, Ande, we want 'ee for St. George in the Christmas play," said a
voice from the hedge. It was Puckinharn.
"How art tha, Tommy! Up with 'ee and 'ave a ride. Who's in the company?"
said Ande, all in one breath.
"We doant knaw as yet, but thee must be St. George, that's settled,"
said Tommy, as he clambered up into the cart.
"Well, if I'm to be St. George, we had better begin soon. Suppose we
meet in our furze croft and get down to business this afternoon."
"The very place," assented Tommy.
The donkey was hurried on, while both lads planned and talked. That
afternoon saw a crowd of the village boys assembled in the rough
highland, "the croft," and after much debate the parts were assigned and
practising begun.
Christmas eve came at length. The moon shone serenely from between
broken clouds. The air was clear, crisp and cold, and made great coats a
necessity to comfort. The trees had lost their leafy robe, and now
stood shivering or shaking in envy of their evergreen brethren, while
all the green hedges had aged into withered brown. There was a flash of
light from the parish church tower, and then the single pencil of light
was increased by another and another, until every window of the old
structure was ablaze with illumination in honour of the coming birthday
of the Nazarene. Light after light appeared in cottage of peasant and
mansion of gentleman, as if an answer to the summons of the old church
to do honour to Him who is the "light of the world." Then on the night
air came the song of choirs and carol of singers, mingled with the
strains of musical instruments. From cottage and hall sounded the merry
noise of revelry, the hearty laugh and general good cheer.
Forth through the night, bubbling with good spirit and anticipated
merriment, stalked the St. George Band of Christmas players, adorned in
such a brave manner as even to make the redoubtable British champion,
had he lived to see it, green with envy. What variable garments! What
coats adorned with tinsel, red, and gold, and striped! What shields of
brilliant paper or tin, spears of warlike hickory, and swords--not near
so sharp as the Saracen blade, but still as sharp as wood could be
whittled with a jack-knife; and caps of tall, many-hued tinsel; had the
real St. George worn one of them the terrible, ripping, snorting,
steam-breathing dragon would have bellowed in anguish, and have fallen
down in a dead faint. But they were good enough for the occasion and
their very form was sacred by ancestry.
House after house was visited and the fun grew fast and furious. At very
few places were they not given a ready entrance and hearty welcome.
"Now les to the squire's!" exclaimed one, and the proposition was hailed
with delight. The distance was not far, and the time was shortened by
conversation and by a little warlike practice between St. George and his
Mohammendan enemy, the Turk, in which practice the Turk received a
terrific, broad sword slash, that made him pucker up his face like the
picture of the Saracen's head at the village inn. The Turk was not
gifted in the Turkish language, but made up for it by giving vent in
broad Cornish dialect to his feelings.
"Damme, Ande, ef thee'rt going to cut my nose off my faace and scat my
brains out, I'll be a Turk no longer," and Tommy Puckinharn flung down
his sword in disgust, and stalked on ahead of the company. With one hand
nursing his injured olfactory and the other thrust in his breast, and
meekly followed by his fellows, he looked like Napoleon and army on the
retreat from Moscow. Some one picked up the Turk's weapon and
immediately a discussion arose. No one but a knight must carry a sword
in the company. Sword bearing was the special prerogative of a knight
and "tother chaps must carry spears." The sword bearer then pleaded to
be made a knight, and if Tommy wouldn't be the Turk to install him in
his place. But that was what Tommy didn't want. He had no desire of
being turned out of the second place in the company, even if he did
throw down his weapon, and so he returned and indignantly protested.
When a soldier loses his sword and another finds it, he ought to return
it, was the Turk's argument.
St. George settled the affair by raising the sword finder to the rank of
a squire. The bravery of the Turk in their late encounter, and his
heroic courage on other occasions, merited that he should have an armour
bearer, a squire, to be his constant attendant. The sword finder was
elated and, somehow or other, the pain in the Turk's nose was healed by
this new dignity that his valour had added to his reputation. There was
no more practice in the warlike arts, for the Manor gates were passed
and the great house was near.
The numerous chimney pots sent up various curling clouds of smoke that
glistened palely in the moonlight. The diamond-shaped window panes
gleamed and scintillated with the illumination within, except where a
dark shadow of holly wreath obstructed the light. The broad verandas
were festooned with ropes of evergreen. Up the broad steps strode the
players and, after a few mute looks and a little whispered colloquy, the
herald lifted the rapper and sent a peal through the old building that
would have been certainly heard at any other time but Christmas eve.
Within there was the noise of frolick. The servants were haw-hawing in
the kitchen department over some joke or amusement, and the occasional
thump, thump of feet in measured time indicated a dance, perhaps between
the cook and hostler. The squire's hall was replete with good cheer.
Wreaths of evergreen intertwined with sprigs of holly were hung at
regular spaces on the waxed, panelled walls. At one end was a large
life-sized painting of George the Second. Squire Vivian had a great
reverence for the king that had secured to his family the estate of
Trembath. His father had served King George faithfully in the east, and
there had ever been a strong friendship between the Vivians and the
Hapsburgs. At the other end of the hall hung the picture of the squire's
father and, although in warlike garb, yet had a friendly smile on his
features as if in greeting to His Majesty, the King, on the opposite
wall. In the centre of the side wall was the great open fireplace, the
grate having been removed to make room for the great yule block that was
kindled every Christmas eve with almost religious ceremonies, and near
its warm glow was the form of the squire, seated in his great armchair.
He looked the very impersonation of Father Christmas, minus the beard.
Near him were two or three of his friends from the east, men of his own
age, who seemed to enjoy his conversation and laughed as merrily as
himself. A whist party was in progress on the other side of the
fireplace, while down the long room, here and there, were scattered
various groups engaged in various Christmas games. The hall floor was
not carpeted, for the squire scorned such modern improvements as
innovations and desired nothing better than the old-fashioned waxed
floors. Neither did he see fit to remove any of the emblems of his
father's predecessors, for above the flaming firelog stretched the high
oak mantel, and carved in relief on its shiny surface was the figure of
a Lyonnese warrior galloping amidst devouring ocean waves.
The squire was just chuckling over a young lady's mishap in getting
under the mistletoe when the herald of the St. George company, tired of
raising the great knocker, pushed open the door and entered the hall.
There was a thump on the floor to demand attention, and then in as
authoritative voice as he could command came the heralding of the brave
gallants without.
"Room, a--a--room, brave gallants, room!
Within this court,
I do resort
To show some sport
And pastime;
Gentlemen and ladies, in the Christmas time."
There was silence in the hall for a moment and then the squire spoke out
with a cheery welcome, for he heartily appreciated the amusement.
"Bring in your gallant crew. Ho, there, children, move to one side and
give them room for fair play." This latter to various groups of
merrymakers in the hall.
The whist players dropped their cards, the hall occupants withdrew to
either side, and the elderly parties around the squire ceased their
conversation to give full attention to the antics of these new
merrymakers.
The herald bowed to the squire and company and waved his wand, and in
capered a queer, uncouth figure in mask and flowing wig and whiskers.
The young children burst into peals of laughter at his grotesque
movements, and he had to uphold his authority and gain silence for
himself by thumping the floor vigorously with his tall staff. He had a
right to demand attention, for he was Father Christmas; his round,
cheery face proclaimed it, even without his speech which he proceeded to
make.
"Here come I, old Father Christmas,
Welcome or welcome not,
I 'ope hold Father Christmas
Will never be forgot;
I bring the cold of winter time,
That kisses red the nose;
I bring the snow, the rain, the frost
That bites and stings the toes;
But, then, I'm welcome anyway
Because I am the seer
That brings the nuts, and cake, and pies
Of happy Yuletide cheer."
Father Christmas executed a few joyous capers, but was interrupted by
the herald who, with a little fear on his countenance, stated:
"Father Christmas, thee must stand aside a bit for I think I see an
enemy of thine and of our good Christmas cheer a-coming."
Father Christmas moved aside with a shake of his hoary locks and
muttered:
"Ah, 'tez the Saracen, I fear,
I would our bold St. George were near."
All eyes were fastened on the door through which the valorous Turk, in
his green turban, was entering, his face a little more ferocious by the
wound received from St. George's sword in the contest on the public
road. The Saracen has some difficulty in expressing himself in good
English, but that was to be attributed to his Turkish training.
Flourishing his sword he began:
"Bally, bully mally can
Hodak 'ee St. George ann,
Baresesh tally man,
Abdul caliph Hassan!"
"Pray, speak in English, brave Turk,
Let's 'ear what mischiefs in thee lurk."
The herald had spoken in response to his heathen jargon, and the Saracen
scowled upon him hideously and answered:
"'Tis plain 'ee cannot understand
The language of the Turkey land
And so I'll tell as plain I can
In the words of the Englishman.
Here come I, a Turkey snipe,
Come from the Turkey land to fight,
And if St. George do meet me here
I'll try 'is courage without fear."
The Turk stalked around in brave manner, when a new arrival, the
redoubtable St. George, entered. A cheer went up from the younger
element of the squire's visitors, and even the whist players clapped
their hands, for the Turk was no favourite, and did they not love St.
George, the patron saint of England? St. George bows to the spectators,
and by his speech does not appear very modest over his great victories.
"Here come I, that St. George,
That worthy champion bold,
And with my sword and spear
I won three crowns of gold.
I fought the dragon old
And brought him to the slaughter,
By that I gained fair Sabra,
The king of Egypt's daughter."
The Turkish knight drew his sword and with a warlike pass at St. George,
hurled his defiance:
"St. George, I pray, be not too bold,
If thy blood is hot I'll soon make un cold."
The squire smiles, for there is a strong Cornish accent in the Turk's
tone, notwithstanding his efforts to conceal it. But now St. George also
has drawn his sword and with the threat,
"Thou, Turkish Knight, I pray, forbear,
I'll make thee dread my sword and spear,"
the contest begins.
The servants have opened the door leading to the kitchen department and
now stand crowding in the entrance. Little ones that had been taken to
bed by their nurses were brought down to see the fun. Fair play and a
clear field, the squire had said, and so the centre of the great room
was theirs. And how they did fight! Surely no earthly battle was like
it. In no battle was so much blood shed and so many hard blows
delivered, at least so thought the Turk in reference to the latter, for
he was battered from head to foot with side blows and over cuts, jabs,
and slashes, until he ardently wished for the time to come when he must
fall down dead.
The squire and the others applauded when a good blow was given or one
neatly parried. The Turk at length steadily gave way, to the delight of
the little ones among the spectators. One little maid in her exuberance
of joy danced up and down clapping her hands and saying, "The old Turk
is going to be whipped, and I'm glad." At length, under a shower of
blows, the Turk fell to the ground amid the plaudits of the onlookers.
St. George bends over him to see the extent of his wounds, and the Turk
whispers:
"Ande, I guess I 'ad better stay killed this time."
But St. George is inexorable. Standing erect he
speaks:
"He lives, he breathes, he speaks,
Now in the name of Elicompane
Let the man rise and fight again."
The Turk arises on one knee and continues the conflict, but not for
long, as he is again stricken down and becomes at once a suppliant.
"Oh, pardon me, St. George,
Pardon me I crave,
Pardon me this once,
And I will be thy slave."
Bold St. George had no idea of mercy toward the Turk, and so he spurs
him once more to the conflict.
"I'll never pardon a Turkish Knight,
Therefore arise and try thy might."
Again the contest raged, the Turk, seeking to save himself as much as
possible from the onslaughts of St. George, fights with a good bit of
desperate valour, but down he goes again. St. George shakes his head as
if it were all over and then cries:
"Is there a doctor to be found
To cure a deep and deadly wound?"
Why he should be so solicitous for the welfare of the Turk as to seek a
doctor can hardly be told, unless for the pleasure of fighting with him
again. The doctor is not long in appearing from the hall entrance. With
three-cornered hat perched above an enormous wig and painted face, there
was a professional air about him. With a leer and a funny grimace at the
crowd he began his doggerel speech.
"Oh, yes, there is a doctor to be found,
The best old doctor in the town,
On my back I carry my pack,
Of pills both white, and brown, and black."
St. George stalked toward him and asked, "What can you cure? Can you
cure this man?"
"Cure? I can cure the palsy, and gout,
If the devil's in him, I'll soon pull 'im out."
The spectators crowded forward. Could the doctor cure the slain Turk?
Oh, yes. How wisely he goes about his work! He tries one remedy after
another, but of no avail. The Turk had told St. George in their last
encounter that he was going to fight no more. He wasn't going to fight
again, but to sham being dead, and then they would have to bring on the
other players. He was shamming wonderfully well, until even the squire
thought he was possibly badly hurt. The doctor knew different, however,
for he had been posted by St. George, and so he drew from his pocket a
bottle of exceedingly strong smelling salts. He had purloined it from
his mother's bureau. This would make him well, he averred. St. George
had kindness enough to hold the Turk's head down, while the doctor was
administering the dose. Three great strong whiffs entered the Turk's
nostrils, and seemed to enter every part of his head like the stinging
of a million hornets. He would have gotten up then and there and fought
the whole crowd had not St. George held his head, and the doctor thought
he had better have the full dose.
"Achew! Achew! Achew!"
St. George let go the Turk's head, and the doctor nimbly stepped aside;
the Turk with all the wrath of his race in his face, grasped his sword
and fought like a demon for a few moments. His being killed three times
seemed to increase his power. Then the natural superiority of Ande in
the use of the sword began to assert itself, and the Turk thought that
the sooner he fell the better, and accordingly did so. The old doctor
slowly advanced and shook his head, as if all his skill was of no avail
to resuscitate the slain Saracen.
"Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust,
If man can't cure 'im, old Nick must."
The doctor waved his staff, and in capered the dragon, a sort of hobble
horse made of hoops under distended canvas, and worked by an inside
performer. The great snapping jaws and staring eyes scared the little
ones, but they laughed when they found it was only the slain Turk that
he wanted. The unfortunate Turk, grasped by those rigorous jaws, was
dragged from the hall.
The entertainment ended with the passing of the Christmas box, into
which each one threw an offering, and as if in thankfulness for the
amount the Christmas band, Turk, and dragon as well, mingled in a
ludicrous dance, after which the whole crew was regaled with hot egg-nogg
and cake.
In the midst of the conversation and laughter new sounds penetrated the
hall from without.
"Angels from the realms of glory,
Wing your flight o'er all the earth,
Ye who sang creation's story,
Now proclaim Messiah's birth."
Some of the hall occupants rushed to the hall windows to see the
singers. There in the pale moonlight were singers from the parish church
and neighbourhood. They were singing, accompanied with the music of
clarionet and serpent players. After the anthem the squire sent the old
steward out to bid the choristers enter. He did so by saying to the
choristers: "The squire wants hall hangels to come in." They entered and
continued singing.
In the midst of the singing the Turkish knight leaned over to St. George
and muttered:
"Ande, I'll be a Turkey snipe no more, when thee art St. George."
"Why?" said Ande, "and for goodness sake why do 'ee call it 'Turkey
snipe'? Did 'ee notice the squire smile? A Turkish knight, you mean."
"Aye, I forgits the name; but 'ee nearly beat my insides out with thy
old wooden sword, so 'ee did,'" growled Tommy Puckinharn, softly.
Ande gazed at the Turk's melancholy countenance, and chuckled in
amusement.
"It was all in the play, Tommy, and if 'ee didn't fight so hard and I
didn't cut and slash as I did, perhaps we wouldn't 'ave the cake and
good stuff that we are eating here now," said Ande, at which reply Tommy
seemed some mollified.
The "curl-singers" had finished their anthems and were regaled in the
same manner as the Christmas players, and there was a lull in the
amusements, when the great knocker on the hall door sounded the presence
of a new visitor.