To
a street corner near you
|
In
the tiny village of Wainfleet, where I spent an important
(and decidedly strange) portion of my childhood, all the children
would play Fox and Geese the day after Christmas.
This
game, as far as I could determine, consisted of gathering
together on the frozen canal, stamping out a wheel-shaped
pattern in the snow, and then falling through the ice.
All
things considered, I think I would have preferred Mummering.
Mummering,
as most readers know, is a British Isles tradition in which
grown men (and more recently, women) wear disguises, act extremely
silly, then ask for money. As traditions go, this may not
be a particularly dignified one, but it certainly beats plunging
into ice-cold water for free.
There
are almost as many names for mummers as there are theories
of their origins. They have been called "Guisers,"
"Guizards," "The Seven Champions," "Johnny
Jacks," "Tipteerers," and "Hogmanay-men"
all of which merely confirms that people in the British Isles
talk funny.
As
if this weren't confusing enough, however, some also call
them the "Wren Boys" and "Morris Dancers."
In general, however, most people know them simply as "mummers."
This, when you stop to think about it, is probably the least
appropriate name of the lot since it means "silent"
(i.e. "Mum's the word") which the mummers are decidedly
not.
The
standard Mummer's Play consists of George (who is most often
a king, although sometimes he's a prince or saint) expressing
the need to kill someone, preferably a Saracen knight. As
it turns out, such a knight just happens to be available,
often with the name of Slasher, and the two go at it until
Slasher is mortally wounded.
At
this point, either Slasher's mother appears, wailing for a
doctor, or the George character (for reasons never made fully
-- or even partially --clear) has a change of heart and requests
the aid of a doctor himself. The call then goes out for a
ten pound doctor whereupon a voice from offside replies: "There
is no ten pound doctor." The request, quite reasonably
in my view, is then changed to a five pound doctor.
Although
this describes the basic plot, it doesn't begin to indicate
the number of personnel involved. One by one, additional players
appear: Big Head, Divilly Doubt (or Devil Doubt), Johnny Funny,
Betty or Betsy, Jack Straw, Tom Fool, and Beelzebub who always
carries a club and frying pan. As each appears, he or she
recites a piece of nonsense verse having absolutely nothing
to do with the preceding action, but concentrates on exhorting
the crowd to give money.
Like
the story-line, the origins of the plays are wonderfully obscure.
Scholastic interest began in the early 1800s by folklore collectors
such as John Brand and George Ormerod, who saw the plays simply
as colourful droller and a means whereby working men could
earn a bit of extra cash for Christmas.
Towards
the end of the 19th century, however, a new respect was being
shown to mummers. This was largely due to Thomas Ordish, a
civil servant who classified the various Mummer's Plays and
suggested a connection to the sword-dance and ancient Germanic
rituals.
Shortly
after this, Sir James Frazer wrote his book, The Golden
Bough, in which he posited that modern folk rituals were
really the remnants of a prehistoric pagan religion. Despite
the fact that Frazer's theory had little evidence backing
it up, and many scholars tearing it down, it was soon accepted
wisdom that the knockabout comedy known as the Mummer's Play
was actually a Neolithic rite, led by a Mother Goddess, to
waken the earth from its winter sleep.
The
figure of the doctor, obviously, had originally been a shaman.
With
so many people supporting this belief, it's a downright shame
that no records of the Mummer's Play can be found predating
the 18th century. Although the records of 16th and 17th century
England are filled with references to mummers, this ancient
performance of death and resurrection is never mentioned.
Closely
connected to the mummers, although in an obscure fashion,
are the Wren Boys. According to the traditional story, the
birds found themselves without a king and decided to give
the position to whomever could fly the highest. Naturally,
the eagle beat all other contestants. Or so it appeared until
a wren, clinging unnoticed to the eagle, took off like a feathered
X-15 and flew a few yards higher.
To
celebrate this, a wren is killed on St. Stephen's Day (more
familiarly known here as Boxing Day) and the Wren Boys parade
with pipes, sing the Wren Song, and perform various entertainment's
to collect money for its burial -- which would never have
been necessary if they hadn't killed the bird in the first
place.
Toronto
is fortunate to have its very own Wren Boys troop which, for
the past fourteen years, has kept the tradition alive despite
not being exactly sure what the tradition is all about.
"I
think it may have to do with some ancient pagan ritual,"
says Jonathan Lynn who often plays the role of king during
their performances, "but I couldn't say for sure."
Pat
O'Gorman, another regular Wren Boy, clarified matters for
us by saying, "I don't really know the origins. You should
ask Jonathan Lynn."
Regardless
of origins, both the mummers and the Wren Boys perform vital
functions. They are a means whereby inhibitions can be cut
loose for a time, adults can have a bit of childlike fun,
and a cultural tradition can be continued.
Best
of all, no one has to get dunked in ice cold water.
Back
to top
|
