Craig Fees, “Christmas Mumming in a North Cotswold Town: With Special Reference to Tourism, Urbanisation and Immigration-Related Social Change“, PhD., Institute of Dialect and Folklife Studies, School of English, University of Leeds, England (1988).

This text is reproduced with the permission of the Whitfield family from a copy kindly provided by Dr. E.C. Cawte. In the letter to Dr. Cawte of 11.8.1962 which accompanied the text, Mr. Whitfield noted that the essay had been written "in 1939 for a book that Country Life were going to publish", the publication of which was prevented by the war.

The Christmas Mummers

At first we do not readily connect the mumming plays, which still take place in many villages at Christmas, with the Churches but there seem to be signs that they were at one time sponsored by them, and there are indications that they have a common source in some play that was acted in celebration of a Crusaders victory. The titles of the plays, - or play, for the plot is always very similar - vary from place to place, but there is always a suggestion in them of that fear of the Moslem, which dominated Europe as the Byzantine Empire declined. "The Fight between Saint George and the Turkish Knight" "The Battle between the Emperor of the Turkes and Saint George" and "The Grand Fight between Bold Slasher and King George," all have a ring about them that suggests this. And the fact that Saint George was canonised at about the time of the Third Crusade, and that King George in the play sometimes becomes King Richard, - presumably Richard Coeur de Lion - is a further support.

But, whatever their origin, these mumming plays still form a distinct feature of village life in many parts of the country at Christmas time, and make an excuse for many an outing that is both profitable and amusing to the villagers. With a mocking faintness an echo of the forgotten Roman Saturnalia comes abroad, and then, when the season is past, is again put by.

There are traces and  records of the plays having been acted everywhere from Dorset to Lancashire for centuries. Parts have often descended from father to son through several generations, and the words have been altered, forgotten. Improved, added to over and over again. An old version in the Harlean MSS has the following bit of dialogue, which gives some idea of the manner of the original:

But this differs very much from the usual dialogue that we now hear in the villages, where it has been, ’totally lost in the rude substitutions of the rustics,' as D'Israeli says in the Curiosities of Literature.

The plot has many common features in most parts of the country. After a fierce onset and much clashing of tin and wooden swords and shields, either the Saracen Knight or King George, or both, drop. The Doctor, sometimes called the Leech, and clearly founded on the quack of mediaeval market places, appears with his bag of instruments, boasting loudly, and by various means he brings the dying man back to life, who then rises, to join in the singing and drinking that ends the evening.

One night, just after Christmas, hearing that the mummers were to act in a friend's house, (at Campden in Gloucestershire), I went to see them once more. When I arrived they were already there, standing at one end of the big room, laughing and joking with the sort of backchat that belongs to Christmas, and drinking their beer. We settled down, a semicircle by the fire, the walls and pictures gay with holly, the mantlepiece crowded with Christmas cards, and waited for them to begin.

They were a mixed and motley group, dressed in all sorts of old clothes for the occasion, and already more than freed from the restraints of self-consciousness by the beer they had drunk. There was Father Christmas, the leader, an old gardener who has played most of the parts in his life, and knows them all; there was Bold Slasher, whose old army tunic, Boer War hat with coloured feathers in it, and blackened face and shining eyes and teeth disguised my mild friend Bill Benfield; and there was little Sammy Gosebeck, bearded and humped, who strutted in prospect of the part of Beelzebub. Harry Taylor, a settled gypsy's son was the Doctor, and looked, in his borrowed opera-hat, old morning coat, and make-up, like some seedy profiteer after a gold rush, and Dick Barnes, the coal merchant, six foot high and with a red and jovial face, a scarlet tunic and a crown of cardboard, bore the aluminium-painted shield and wooden sword of King George himself.

The others, Jack Vinney, the Doctor's argumentative assistant, the Drummer, and Fiddler Crump,- usually known as "I ain't Bin yet," because he does not come in till the end - stood about with their glasses of beer and were already slightly tipsy. The room was full of voices, the low burr of the local accent, the half-refined speech of those who had come under the influence of the B.B.C., and the chatter of those sitting round the fire. A pause came in the talk, jokes that had been repeated in the same conditions year after year came to an end, and it was time to begin.

"Come on, my boys," Father Christmas shouted. "Time to start, or we’ll never get to the Dragon, where they be waiting for us," with which he bustled his men out into the hall, leaving the top end of the room bare.

We waited, expectant, while there was some rather fuddled argument outside, which we could hear through the open door. Then Father Christmas came in, having assumed an almost professional air in the meantime, though to what profession the air belonged it would be difficult to say; a down-and-out bookmaker, perhaps, a cheapjack, a strolling player. He came forward, carrying a broom, and began, standing erect in the middle of the place that had been cleared as a stage, and saying his lines with a heavy solemnity that belonged to some quite different part.

* <indicating footnote>
"In comes I, old Father Christmas,
Christmas now or Christmas not,
I hopes Old Father Christmas 'll never be forgot."

At this point he bowed to the audience, and his white beard came unhooked from one ear and dangled down. Hastily replacing it, but in such a way that it muffled his already blurred speech, he made symbolic gestures of sweeping the floor.

"A room! A room!" he cried, "Aroust! Aroust!
I've brought my broom to sweep your house.
If you'll make room for me,
And my jolly company.
A room! A room, pray give us all,
Beneath the timbers of this hall.
Pray give us room to act our play.
Which we alius acts on Christmas Day;
For I'm come to show you activity,
This merry Christmas Time,
Activity of life, activity of age,
The finest activity acted on a stage.
And if you don't believe in what I say,
Step in. King George, and clear the way."

He stepped back, bowed King George in, and stood at one side; King George, resplendent in his red tunic, swashbuckled up and down the clear part of the floor, mimicking fury with great show of realism, then stood facing the audience in the centre.

"In comes I, King George, this noble knight," he shouted,
Who shed his blood in England's fight,
Fought many a battle at home and abroad.
Conquered many a man in Indian Wars,
And if any man can conquer 'im,
French Captain Collier shall be 'is name."

Bristling, he stood at defiance. We wondered at the meaning of the last line once more, thinking of obscure interpolations that must have crept in from the village memory, perhaps in the Napoleonic Wars. Then Bold Slasher entered, black and louring. He faced King George like an angry dog, and began his challenging reply.

"In comes a soldier stout and bold.
Bold Slasher is my name.
I'm come to fight this Englishman,
King George,- I know 'is name,
I'll cut 'im and I'll slash 'im.
Till 'e's as small as flies.
I’ll send 'im to the cookshop
For them to make mince-pies.
Mince-pies 'ot, and mince-pies cold.
I'll send 'im to the cookshop three days old.
And after that is settled and all done.
I'll fight another mighty champion.
Be 'e christened, dead, or gone."

King George, as he listened to the speech, worked up his rage till it seemed almost real. And the words were hardly done before he stepped forward, wavins his sword and snashins his teeth.

’’Bold Slasher, Bold Slasher," he shouted, "don't be so 'ot.
For in this room you don't know who you've got."

To which Bold Slasher replied without more ado, facing up to him in the most furious manner he could muster.

"Then mind your 'its and guard your blows.
For on this ground you're forced to lie."

At the last word, with a gesture of contempt, he pointed to the floor with his sword. Then they fought, clasping their wooden weapons, dodging, panting, cursing, till suddenly King George fell. Bold Slasher's sword thrust under his armpit. Bold Slasher stood over him triumphant, while he lay on his back, his eyes still open, his face shiny with perspiration, and Father Christmas, stepping forward and wringing his hands, cried out for the doctor.

"Oh, is there a doctor to be found.
To cure King George of his sad wound?
From head to foot wounded is he,
And likewise at the knee.
If there be a doctor, ten thousand pound
Will I gladly give to 'e."

There was a scuffle outside in the hall, and much muttering and giggling and argument. Then the Doctor, his opera-hat half crushed, and his stiff shirt-dicky flapping in front of him. came galloping in astride a broomstick. He wheeled round in the small space left him, faced the audience, and shouted,

"Oh yes, there is a doctor to be found.
Can raise this bleeding man from the ground."

Up to him stepped Father Christmas, demanding, "Well, what cans't 'e cure?"

"All sorts of diseases.
Just what my physic pleases," he gabbled, "Hard corns, soft corns,
Hicksey, picksey, palsey, gout,
Pains within, and pains without,
And if the Devil's in I'll fetch 'im out."

"Ah, but cans't 'e cure a deud mon?"

"Yes, I will if I can. Step in Jack Vinney."

Jack Vinney came in, shuffling and stupid, dressed in a smock, a rural ignoramus and wit, by his manner of crafty idiocy. "My name's not Jack Vinney," he said, gaping and staring.

"What is they name?" the Doctor demanded.

"Mr. Jack Vinney, a man of great strength.
Do as much as thee or any other man.
Twist an old magpie's head off,
Throw 'er dead body in a ditch.
Pull 'er out again six months after,
Stick 'er head on.
And she'll make as good an old magpie
As ever walked in a pair of pattens."

"Hold my horse," said the Doctor, hectoring.

"Will a kick? No.

"Will a bite? No.

"Will it take two men to 'old 'er? No!

"Then 'old 'er theeself!"

So they argued and bantered, and then waited, grinning, for the applause which is always expected during this scene. Then the <Doctor> handed the broomstick to Jack Vinney with a great display, as of curbing a restless and plunging charger.

"Take 'im and give 'im a bait," he said.

"What be I to give 'im?"

"A bucket full of ashes and a frisket.
And rub 'im down with a beesom stick.
And mind 'e don't throw you."

Jack Vinney mounted the broomstick, making it rear and buck, and galloped off the stage, and the Doctor, his hat on the back of his head, his face streaked where the perspiration had run down over his make-up, knelt down astride the still prostrate but grinning King George, examined him. and began the next bit of dialogue, which is the understood comic relief of the piece.

"Jack Vinney, bring me my bag."

"Fetch it theeself."

"What's that?"

"Coming, sir!"

Jack Vinney came in with a little old cracked leather bag, half open, out of which a pair of badger-tongs projected. "Give me my spectacles," the Doctor demanded gruffly.

"Fetch ’em theeself."

"What's that?"

"Coming, sir!"

He handed the spectacles over and stood waiting. The Doctor put them on pompously, still kneeling over King George, whom he kept digging at and tickling, not as part of the play, but in a manner that was intended to be off-stage, as it were. King George, while trying to look dead, spluttered and giggled.

"This man 'ave the toothache," the Doctor announced, with the solemn pomposity of a quack, "the toothache very bad indeed."

"Jack Vinney, bring me my pliers."

"Fetch ’em theeself.”

"What's that?"

"Coming, sir!"

With which the pliers were handed over, and with them, so as not to be seen, but plain to everyone, an old, yellow, horse's tooth. The Doctor forced King George's mouth open, pushed the pliers into it, and brought out the horse's tooth with a great play of struggling on his own part, and much writhing and groaning on King George's. King George fell back on the floor; the tooth was held up in triumph. "Jack Vinney, bring my medicine bottle," the Doctor demanded.

"Fetch it theeself."

"What's that?"

"Coming, sir!"

Jack Vinney handed the bottle over, and watched while the Doctor pretended to pour the blue liquid out of it into King George's mouth. "That'll fetch 'im round. Give me my pill-box," he said.

"Fetch it theeself."

"What's that?"

"Coming, sir!"

The pill-box was handed over. The Doctor shook it and recited his half-incantation, half-advertisement, turning to the audience, and still kneeling astride King George, whom he still went on prodding and teasing as a sort of by-play.

"There was an old 'oman lay deud in the grave," he said,
Fourteen years and a narf.
Pull 'er out again and give 'er my 'umpty-dumpty pills,
And I warrants it'll cure 'er in a fortnight.
I am a doctor. Doctor Good,
With my 'and I stops the blood.
I am a doctor come from Spain,
To raise the dead to life again."

He rose and made passes over King George's prostrate body, and the King stood up, slowly, painfully, drew his hand over his brow, seemed to make a great effort to remember, and spoke in a hollow voice.

"Its tarrible, tarrible, what I have seen.
Its enough to drive any man mad,
Out of seven senses into seventeen."

With that he stood back with Bold Slasher, the Doctor, Father Christmas, and Jack Vinney, and there was a sound of drumming in the hall, and the tramp of feet. The Drummer came in, dressed in a motley and coloured costume, beating his drum, a borrowed kettle.

"In comes the Drummer," he recited,
<">With all his heart
He hopes the Doctor has done 'is part.
Done 'is part with a free goodwill;
But old Jack Vinney's the best man still.
Last Christmas Eve I turned the spit.
I burnt my finger; I felt it itch.
A spark flew over the table.
Pot lid beat the ladle,
Spit-jack stood up like a mission-man,
And said he'd fight the dripping-pan.
The dripping-pan, with his long tall.
Swore he’d send them down to jail,
All to jail with a jolly good will;
But old Jack Vinney's the best man still."

The speech makes nonsense, but when it is recited with vigour as it was then, it seems to make a sort of sense of sound and association, as nonsense should do. At the end of it little Beelzebub marched in, a frying-pan on his shoulder, a wig on his head, looking a very pathetic Devil indeed. And in a little piping voice he said his lines.

"In comes I, old Father Beelzebub.
On my shoulder I carries a club,
And in my hand a dripping pan.
And thinks myself a jolly old man."

He too lined up with the rest, and Fiddler Crump came in. Why he is called that no one knows. It is probably through some association with someone who once acted the part, for Crump is a local name. He carried the fiddle, and had a mask on to make his head look big.

"In comes I that ain't bin yet," he said,
<">Wlth my big yeud and little wit.
My yeud's so big, my wit's so small.
I'll play you a tune that'll please you all."

"What cans't thee play?" Father Christmas asked.

"One of the old favourite tunes,
Ran-tan, the tinder-box.
Jack up the orchard.
And the Old Sow round the tater-bury."

He played, a squeaky and tuneless tune, which they all ignored as they sang:

"My faether died the other night.
And left me all his riches;
An old Tom-Cat,
With a paper hat.
And a pair of leather breeches.
I looked here and I looked there.
And I looked over yonder,
And there I did see
The old grey goose
A-smiling at the gander.
House and land
Is in my command.
And Dobbin in the stable,
Three old chairs that are painted red.
And a rare old kitchen table.
Three old chairs that are painted red.
And a rare old kitchen table.”

As they sang they rocked from side to side to follow the tune, and at the end they stamped on the floor till the dust rose. Then, as the song came to an end, they all bowed, a semicircle of tattered and perspiring figures, ready for more beer. We all clapped and cheered, the beer was brought in by the servants, who had been watching with us, and as they went round pouring it out there was a great scuffling and giggling under the mistletoe which hung over the door. Father Christmas kissed one of the girls and left a red mark from his make-up on her cheek, and Bold Slasher blackened another's face, while little meek Beelzebub fussed about, trying to join in, but was ignored by them.

Soon they lined up again, holding their glasses, and gave us other songs. There was the fragmentary ditty, known as "The Campden Boys" of which no one knows the words properly; there was "John Peel"; "The Farmer's Boy"; "The Lincolnshire Poacher"; and there were half a dozen others. Then, full of beer and warmed against the cold night, they trouped out into the hall, put their coats on, and, with much handshaking, went out into the darkness, to make their last call, at the Dragon, for which they must have been at least an hour late.

* The words of the play were taken down from the memory of one of the oldest men in the village. They have been altered here and there, for continuity and rhythm, but they are substantially in the traditional and often meaningless form.