THE REVIVAL OF THE MORRIS DANCE
No view of the modern renaissance of dancing would be complete which did
not take account of the revival of the Morris Dance.
Perhaps it has been too lightly assumed that England being a nation of
shopkeepers has never been a nation of dancers. But shopkeeping is
merely a habit, the product of circumstance, and in its nature a
temporary makeshift. Dancing is a need of the spirit, a daughter of the
high moods, and if, as Lucian said, it is as old as love, it is surely
also as everlasting. The shopkeeping spirit may be, and probably is,
antagonistic to dancing; but by the shopkeeping spirit I do not mean the
modern spirit, for that is an incalculable, energetic and mobile thing,
which is going to bear I know not what strange fruit in life and art. I
mean that austere, unsmiling, level and practical temper which began to
overshadow Western Europe some time in the sixteenth century; which set
its face against ecstasy, and art which is the expression of ecstasy;
which regarded poverty and vagabondage and unrestrained laughter as
disreputable; which worshipped respectability, common-sense, such
success as could be expressed in terms of cash, and all things that were
materially substantial and enduring; which created Puritanism, the
eighteenth century and the industrial revolution. To this temper, which
found a secure lodgment in the Anglo-Saxon mind, dancing was naturally
unsympathetic. But though it long held Britain, and America too, in its
grip, it was not strong enough to strangle the free and joyous spirit
which had created “Merrie England.”
That spirit found its typical expression in the dance, and particularly
in the Morris Dance. Not until the improbable event of the antiquarians
arriving at unanimity will it be determined whether or no the Morris was
originally danced by the Moors or “Moriscos” of Spain and imported by
John of Gaunt into England in the fourteenth century; but if so, it was
“diablement changé en route.” It mixed with the native dances and was
incorporated with a mass of Catholic and even pre-Christian tradition.
In some English villages there are memories of a dance on the 21st of
June, the longest day of the year, of a slaughtered ox, a procession in
which one of the dancers carried a sword and a large wooden cup. To
surmise what dim forgotten rites of a pagan sun-worship linger in this
ritual would take us far into the labyrinth of archæology. But whatever
its origin the Morris gathered unto itself the joy and holiday spirit of
the countryside. It had its roots deep in the soil. It was inspired by
the rhythm of an ancient, simple and full-blooded life, if not by the
very rhythm of the woods and rivers themselves.
In spite of direct attempts at suppression, the inevitable desuetude of
ancient custom, and the changed conditions of the life of the people,
this dancing has come down from Catholic England to our own day. The
Puritan preachers denounced it as “lewde” and “ungodlie”; but it
survived even the tyranny of Cromwell’s major-generals and flourished
gaily under the Merry Monarch. In the eighteenth century it had already
become demoded. In a journal of the period we read of an account of a
_soirée_, in which the writer said of a certain lady, with more candour
than courtesy, that she “looked as silly and gaudy, I do vow, as one of
the old Morris Dancers.” In many villages, particularly in the west and
south-west of England, there still exist “sides” of morris-dancers to
whom the tunes and music have been handed down through an unbroken
tradition. The fidelity of this tradition is in many cases surprising.
Mr Cecil Sharp, to whom is chiefly due the rediscovery of the ancient
dances, relates how he took down a tune from the fiddler of the Bidford
morris-men which was identical, note for note, with one that he had
found in a version printed in 1550. But during the last twenty or thirty
years many of the old morris-sides have been disbanded. The revival has
come at the eleventh hour. Already dances have been collected
representing probably every variety of the morris-step; but in another
generation the memory of the Morris Dance would have almost vanished
from the countryside.
Soon after the Morris Dance took root in England it became incorporated
with the old mummers’ plays, which embodied the cult of Robin Hood. The
traditional characters of Friar Tuck, Little John and Maid Marian
accompanied the dancers. The hobby-horse and the fool, sometimes known
as the dysard, provided the necessary comic relief. But the main
interest, and a very serious interest it was, centred in the dancing. At
one time almost every village possessed its troupe, and among the
various villages there was a rivalry of dancing as keen as the rivalry
of football to-day. Occasionally the contest became so hot that the
victory was only determined by a vigorous bout of cudgelling with the
staves, which served as an accessory in the dance. The Morris Dance was
no hoydenish revel in which any unskilled yokel could take part. It
developed an intricate technique which not unnaturally lent itself to
the introduction of a kind of “star” system among the dancers.
Of these professional performers perhaps the most illustrious was a
certain William Kemp, who achieved fame in Elizabeth’s reign by dancing
the Morris all the way from London to Norwich. He wrote an account of
this feat in a pamphlet called “_Kemp’s Nine Daies’ Wonder_, performed
in a daunce from London to Norwich: Containing the pleasures, paines and
kind entertainment of William Kemp betweene London and that Citty, in
his late _Morrice_.” In his droll and vivid manner he tells how at
Sudbury “there came a lusty tall fellow, a butcher by his profession,
that would in a Morice keepe me company to Bury. I gave him thankes, and
forward wee did set; but ere ever wee had measur’d half a mile of our
way, he gave me over in the plain field, protesting he would not hold
out with me; for, indeed, my pace in dauncing is not ordinary. As he and
I were parting, a lusty country lasse being among the people, cal’d him
faint-hearted lout, saying, ‘If I had begun to daunce, I would have held
out one myle, though it had cost my life.’ At which words many laughed.
‘Nay,’ saith she, ‘if the dauncer will lend me a leash of his bells,
I’le venter to tread one myle with him myself.’ I lookt upon her, saw
mirth in her eyes, heard boldness in her words, and beheld her ready to
tucke up her russat petticoate; and I fitted her with bels, which she
merrily taking garnisht her thicke short legs, and with a smooth brow
bad the tabur begin. The drum strucke: forward marcht I with my merry
Mayde Marian, who shook her stout sides, and footed it merrily to
Melford, being a long myle. There parting with her (besides her
skinfulle of drinke), and English crowne to buy more drinke; for, good
wench, she was in a pittious heate; my kindness she requited by dropping
a dozen good courtsies, and bidding God bless the dauncer. I bade her
adieu; and, to give her her due, she had a good eare, daunst truly, and
wee parted friends.”
The Morris was sometimes danced, as William Kemp and his amateur
roadside companion performed it, as a solo dance; but its most common
characteristic was that it was danced by “sides” or sets of six. Women
but rarely figured as performers. The dress of the men has become
traditional, but it appears originally to have been merely the holiday
dress of the period. It was marked by that “gaudiness” to which the
captious critic of the eighteenth century took exception. The dancer was
plentifully adorned with ribbons and rosettes, and latterly he wore the
tall beaver hat which has become an essential part of the costume. The
outfit was completed by the indispensable bells, which were stitched
upon thongs and tied to the shins. Sometimes both treble and tenor bells
were worn. In some of the dances the performers carried a white
handkerchief and in others a short wooden staff.
In early times the dance was accompanied by a pipe and tabor, otherwise
known as whittle and dub. The pipe was a kind of flageolet, which the
minstrel played with the left hand; from his left thumb was suspended
the tabor or miniature drum. These primitive instruments were superseded
by the fiddle, which in its turn is giving place to the concertina.
The dance of the people is necessarily different from the dance of art.
All national dances are characterised by vigour rather than
[Illustration: MORRIS DANCE: BEAN-SETTING
FROM _The Esperance Morris Book_
_By permission of Messrs. J. Curwen & Sons, Ltd._]
by grace. There is lurking in them a certain note of savagery and
battles long ago. The old fighting England as well as Merrie England
still lives in the Morris. It is not surprising that King Charles’s men
should have danced it on the eve of Naseby fight. It is essentially a
dance for men, and a dance for the open air. It does not sway or glide;
its movement is spirited and abrupt. The foot is lifted as in walking
and then vigorously straightened to a kick; the heels come solidly to
earth. The object of the dancer is to make the bells ring fortissimo,
and to do this he must kick, and kick hard. The Morris does not exhibit
the graceful postures and fawn-like agility of the Spanish country
dances, nor the fiery energy of the Hungarian and the Russian. In its
solid merriment, its even rhythm, its vigorous but restrained movements,
it is essentially British.
It would be impossible to describe the spirit of the Morris Dance better
than in the admirable words of Mr Cecil Sharp, who is not only learned
in the history of the dance, but has sought it out wherever the
tradition lingers on the greensward and under the ancient oaks of an
England that is passing away. “It is, in spirit,” he says, “the
organised, traditional expression of virility, sound health and animal
spirits. It smacks of cudgel-play, of quarter-staff, of wrestling, of
honest fisticuffs. There is nothing sinuous in it, nothing dreamy;
nothing whatever is left to the imagination. It is a formula based upon
and arising out of the life of man, as it is lived by men who hold much
speculation upon the mystery of our whence and whither to be
unprofitable; by men of meagre fancy, but of great kindness to the weak;
by men who fight their quarrels on the spot with naked hands, drink
together when the fight is done, and forget it, or, if they remember,
then the memory is a friendly one. It is the dance of folk who are slow
to anger, but of great obstinacy--forthright of act and speech: to watch
it in its thumping sturdiness is to hold such things as poniards and
stilettos, the swordsman with the domino, the man who stabs in the
back--as unimaginable things. The Morris Dance, in short, is a perfect
expression in rhythm and movement of the English character.”
The modern revival of morris-dancing in England is of very recent
origin, but of astonishingly rapid growth. The story of its rise reads
like a romance. This movement, which is already national in its scope,
which promises to renew the heart of England, which is swelling out into
wider circles that will probably be felt throughout the Empire and
America, was born in a girls’ club in a poor quarter of the north-west
of London. The object of the Espérance Girls’ Club in Cumberland Market
was to bring something of the joyous and serene atmosphere of a younger
and fresher world into the grim and hurried life of the city dwellers.
For some time one of the features of the club had been the encouragement
of music, dancing and play-acting. During some winters Scotch reels and
strathspeys, Irish jigs and folk-songs, had been practised one night a
week. A meeting between Mr H. C. MacIlwaine, the musical director of the
club, and Mr Cecil Sharp, the leading authority on folk-music, led to
the introduction of the English folk-song. From the folk-song to the
folk-dance was only a step. Mr Sharp seven years before had collected a
set of morris-tunes from some dancers in Oxfordshire, in whose family
the Morris had been handed down from father to son for five generations.
The idea suggested itself that as the girls had learnt to sing the old
songs they might also learn to dance the old dances.
In October 1905 Miss Mary Neal, the secretary of the club, who has
throughout been the directing spirit of the movement, went down to
Oxfordshire and brought two of the morris-men up to London, and set them
to teach the members of the club. The success of the experiment was
immediate and astonishing. The girls were as unfamiliar with the steps
and the music as with the speech and dances of ancient Greece; but
perhaps a kind of ancestral memory awoke within them. The rhythms of the
Morris had sprung from the rhythms of the old English life, and the
Londoners, who are said to be never more than three generations from the
soil, responded to a summons of the blood. Within half-an-hour of the
coming of the Oxfordshire dancers the Morris, with its stamping of feet
and clashing of staves, its maze of intricate movements, was in full
swing upon a London floor. Thus was begun the revival of morris-dancing
which to-day is a part of the national life.
The next step was the giving of a public concert to make known to the
larger world the rediscovery of the ancient dances. This took place at
the Small Queen’s Hall in the following April. The public interest was
immediately aroused. As one of the newspapers remarked with prophetic
insight, it was “a little entertainment which may indeed light such a
candle in England as will not immediately be put out.”
From that time the movement progressed by leaps and bounds. Inquiries
began to pour in as to how the traditional dancing could be brought back
into the lives of the English people, to those in the towns who had lost
it altogether as well as to those in the country for whom it was only a
vague memory. Miss Neal’s answer to this demand was to send out the best
dancers among the members of her club to act as teachers. They have
danced the Morris throughout the length and breadth of England. There is
not a county to-day where the merry jangle of the bells and the clatter
of the staves is not heard. In course of time the Board of Education
took cognisance of the movement and introduced the Morris and other
country dances into the curriculum of the elementary schools. In the
spring of 1911 Miss Neal visited America, and by lectures and
demonstration showed to the people of the new continent the old dances
which their Puritan forefathers had omitted to bring with them. In
response to numberless appeals for instruction she left behind one of
the teachers of the Espérance Club, and the movement in the States is
spreading with the same astonishing enthusiasm and rapidity as in
England.
The most significant and hopeful feature of this movement is that it is
in every sense a popular one. The inveterate cavillers may argue that it
is artificially imposed upon the younger generation by a few cultured
and enthusiastic pedants, and they will certainly repeat the well-worn
shibboleth concerning the impossibility of putting back the clock. But
the artificiality has been in the enforced imposition of a Puritan code
that abolished dancing from the village green. To all healthy children
it is as natural to dance as to laugh and sing. The tradition has been
abruptly broken; now it is being restored to them and they respond to it
with every fibre of their being. They are far from regarding it as yet
another troublesome item in a bewildering system of education; they do
not have to be driven to it as to a new species of drill. They revel in
it as in a delightful game, for it satisfies all the child’s inborn love
of music and pantomime and emphatic rhythm. When once the initial
impetus has been given from above, the movement goes on with its own
momentum. Its motive force is not authority but the old indomitable
impulse of the blood.
All that the revival of the old dances will do for the rising generation
it is impossible to foretell. It is giving them back the power of
self-expression, which the common people seem once to have possessed in
the old days when music and song came naturally to birth in the life of
the folk. As Miss Mary Neal has well said: “Music is the one art in
which the otherwise inarticulate can express themselves, and so we have
in this music the truest meeting ground for all classes. The revival and
practice of our English folk-music is part of a great national revival,
a going back from town to country, a reaction against all that is
demoralising in city life. It is a reawakening of that part of our
national consciousness which makes for wholeness, saneness, and healthy
merriment.”
The movement is at present still in its trial stage. If it becomes
indeed a national revival of dancing it must result in a development of
the dance. It cannot remain content with merely perpetuating an ancient
formula. Every form of art which has the seeds of life in it must needs
change and grow. The Morris, as has been said, was originally a men’s
dance, and already its performance by girls is changing something of its
character. The introduction of the feminine element necessarily robs it
of its sturdiness and at the same time lends it an added gaiety and
grace. But the change will probably go deeper than this. The old Morris
was the expression of a mode of life that has passed away; out of it
must be developed some newer variation more fitted to express the spirit
of a broader and fuller life. In a suggestive passage, Mr Holbrook
Jackson indicates the direction of the development: “The old English
folk-dances are limited in range; they are a combination of acrobatic
leaps and hoydenish frisks. They are, indeed, the expression of a
non-reflective and rather boorish peasantry. To-day conditions have
changed. The peasantry are no more, and we have become introspective and
reflective. The bumpkin and his kind have been replaced by the clerk,
with a new set of needs and different nuances of desire; so that we have
to consider not so much the question of reviving the dances of the past,
because, as such, these can never be anything but curiosities, antiques,
but how to pick up the lapsed tradition of the dance at the point in
history when it expressed the emotions of the people, and to give that
tradition a chance of new life in our own day; not a chance of imitating
the past in form, but a chance of imitating the past in spirit, a chance
of doing for to-day what it once did for yesterday.”
The Morris cannot properly be called a dance of art; it is a dance of
the people. It can never be a substitute for the dance of the theatre.
But the popular revival of the old dances is important, not only in
providing a new means of emotional expression, but in arousing a new
interest in the art of the dance itself. Dancing is a sensitive plant
which can only thrive in a congenial atmosphere. In some degree all the
arts appear to live by the breath of popular favour. Their activity is
stimulated, their expression perfected, by interest, criticism and
understanding. The art of dancing has always risen to its highest level
when it has been most esteemed; decadence has always succeeded to
neglect. “Dancing is an art, let the public remember,” a lover and
critic of the dance has said, “which depends on their support for its
very existence. The poet, the painter, the sculptor can work for
posterity; but the dancer’s art is fugitive, not permanent. If the
contemporaries of any dancer fail through ignorance, or dulness, or
bigotry, to appreciate her, no one else can.”
If England becomes once more a nation of dancers, bigotry and dulness
and ignorance will never again be obstacles to the flowering of the art
of the Dance.