Castles, Customs, and Kings: True Tales by English Historical Fiction Authors

by English Historical Fiction Authors

  A less well-known call sign is “Pan-pan” (from the French panne—meaning a breakdown) which is used in less serious incidents such as mechanical problems which are not life-threatening. As with “Mayday” it is repeated three times to ensure clarity and to prevent confusion.

  But I digress: what of May Day, the first day of May and the first day of summer? Traditionally, this was always celebrated in Northern Europe as a chance to say farewell to winter and an opportunity to have a celebratory bonfire (in some parts of Ireland it is still known as Bonfire Night, whereas the English save that expression for 5 November, being Guy Fawkes’ Night).

  It is also the subject of some lovely customs, many of which lasted longer where the Celtic traditions remained strong, rather than elsewhere. Take the charming custom of washing your face with May dew. The 1652 book by Dr. Gerard Boate entitled Irelands Naturall History says this of the custom:

  The English women, and gentlewomen of Ireland…did use in the beginning of summer to gather good store of dew, to keep it by them al the year after for several good uses both of physick and otherwise, wherein by experience they have learnt it to be very available.

  The collecting of dew would take weeks of preparation. In April, May, and into June the girls would get up before the dawn, go to the green fields (wheat was best), and harvest the dew—either with their bare hands, or more especially by spreading a sheet out over the moist grass, and then wringing it out and collecting it in a glass jar. This would be topped up every day, and for the whole year would sit in the sunlight by a suitable window.

  Every few days the concoction would be purified by carefully straining off the water so as to leave behind any sediment, dirt, or other impurities. And so, after nearly a year in which the freshest of fresh waters was imbued with sunbeams, it could be splashed on the face! Dr. Boate’s book opined, “The dew, thus thoroughly purified, looketh whitish, and keepeth good for a year or two after.”

  The distillation was at its most powerful if applied before sunrise on 1 May, and in an age when we consider it beneficial to rub avocado extract into our hair or spread unmentionable products over our skin to prevent wrinkles, who is to say that a spot of early morning dew water is not just as magical in its properties?

  The practice gave rise to the riddle:

  I washed my face in water

  That had neither rained nor run,

  And I dried it on a towel

  That was neither woven nor spun.

  The answer lay in the fact that having washed your face in dew, you always allowed it to dry in the fresh air—you would hardly go to all that trouble and then wipe it off afterwards!

  This custom was by no means limited to the uneducated country poor—it was also favoured by ladies of fashion and has in some cases been transported, and lives on in at least one household in the United States. One woman tells a story that goes back several generations of how in one particular family the girls always set their alarms for six in the morning on May 1 so that they could run outside and rub their faces in the morning dew on the lawn!

  Among the anticipated benefits of applying dew to the face (or even better, naked dew rolling!) was that it would prevent freckles, sunburn, and wrinkles. It could prevent headaches, and even walking barefoot through the dew would ease bunions and callouses as well as preventing corns! For some reason it also enabled the person concerned to have greater dexterity in untangling nets, ropes, or freeing knots from string and thread. (Memo to self: get up early 1 May and roll around in the buff on the neighbour’s lawn—I don’t have a lawn, so his will have to do!)

  Ireland, in particular, had many other May Day traditions, including cutting down a thorn-bush and putting it up outside your house and decorating it with ribbons. Another custom was to keep the brightly coloured egg-shells left over from Easter, and then string them together as a loop to hang around the tree.

  But tree-rustling was such a problem that a law was passed in the reign of George III (1775) stating:

  every person who shall put up any Maybush opposite or near to his or her house or suffer any Maybush to be so put up or to remain for the space of three hours opposite or near to his or her own house…not being a person lawfully possessed of trees or woods or not having lawfully obtained the same…shall forfeit and pay such sum not exceeding forty shillings [two pounds—the equivalent today of perhaps $220].

  Another tradition was putting up a Maypole at a crossroads. The tallest was reputedly at the Strand in London, near the present St. Mary-le-Strand Church. It was erected shortly after the Restoration of the Monarchy in 1660 (all such practices having been banned under Cromwell’s Protectorate) and was over 130 feet tall. It stood there until a storm blew it down twelve years later.

  The tradition of putting up maypoles caused our legislators to impose controls (presumably because of the risk of serious injury to road users from collapsing poles). An Act of Parliament dated 1792 was passed to “Improve and keep in repair the Post roads of the Kingdom”. Amongst other things it stated that “If any person…shall erect any sign-post or maypole or maybush on any part of the said roads…every person so offending shall forfeit the sum of twenty shillings.”

  The Irish had a similar tradition of putting up maypoles at cross-roads, but whereas the English seemed content to tie ribbons round the poles and dance around them, the Irish came up with some splendid alternatives. There were two famous crosses in Dublin at Harold’s Cross and Finglas, and they would be smothered in soap until slippery. A succession of prizes having first been tied to the pole, the young men would then be challenged to climb the slippery pole and claim the prize—a hat, a pair of breeches, or an old watch.

  It was also often an occasion for dancing and carousing, as well as traditional activities such as sack races, gurning (making contorted facial expressions through horse collars), wrestling, chase-the-pig, and so on. In Tralee in 1785, an eccentric landowner called Miss Cameron introduced the custom of men racing each other with sacks of coal or flour draped around their necks—a spectacle giving rise to much rejoicing and revelry.

  Some of the traditions date from the fact that May Day in Ireland was the traditional day for hiring agricultural labourers. It was also the day when rent was due. In some places such as Limerick, it was customary for the farm workers to parade through the main streets of the town, complete with ploughs, scythes, and other agricultural implements.

  In England many of the celebrations are limited to a specific town or village. Padstow in Cornwall has its hobby horse (or rather, “obby-oss”), while many places reckon that May Day is the start of the Morris Dancing season (cue much waving of hankies and banging together of stout poles). Across the country there may be people rushing into the North Sea, or attending festivals, or jumping off bridges! And that is quite apart from those who regard the day as International Workers’ Day.

  800 Years of Christmas in England

  by Katherine Ashe

  Christmas trees, Santa Claus, and heaps of presents: none of what we now take for Christmas traditions are indigenous to old England. The indoor, decorated tree is German, appearing first at the Georgian Court and in noble English households as a branch of yew set with candles, introduced by Queen Charlotte. By 1800 Charlotte had enlarged her display to a whole potted yew, and aristocratic families were starting to imitate the beloved queen’s custom.

  Yet the popularization of the Christmas tree dawdled until 1840 when Prince Albert’s decorated trees were much lauded in the contemporary press. These first English yew boughs and trees had candles and paper cones filled with candies for the children. And small presents were set out beneath them. But there was no Santa Claus or Father Christmas.

  Santa, in his quasi-Lappish outfit with his reindeer sleigh and predilection for chimneys, is purely American, birthed in the lovely poem The Night Before Christmas, credited to Clement Moore bu
t now thought to have been written by Henry Livingston, Jr. Santa is a demigod of Plenty, like the Roman Ops, fat and opulent and merry, and a total stranger to ancient Christmas ways.

  There was of course, Saint Nicholas, Bishop Nicholas of Myra, in what is now Turkey, whose feast day is December 6. He is famed for giving a great gift, but what he gave had nothing to do with Christmas: it was bags of money to provide three virtuous but penniless sisters with dowries. During the Reformation, as the interest in saints waned, Sinter Klaas remained a favorite in Holland, filling children’s shoes with sweets and toys on Christmas Eve. It is this Dutch manifestation that has become Santa Claus. If he arrived in England with William and Mary, he seems not to have taken root, but in New York, where the old Dutch families still reigned in Society in the 19th century, he inspired the shy Mr. Livingston with his icon-making verse.

  Christmas gift giving, in old English tradition, has neither to do with Saint Nicholas nor even Christmas day. It recalled the gifts the three Magi brought to the Christ child, and the proper day was Epiphany or Twelfth Night, January 6.

  If all we do is really not so very old, how was Christmas celebrated in times long gone by?

  Christmas, in well-to-do households, from the twelfth into the nineteenth centuries, was the time of liveries: the giving of clothes to the servants. In noble establishments the liveries would be new and in the lord’s heraldic colors. And the clothes given at Christmastide were to last all year. In poorer homes, the clothes would be the master and mistress’ used garments, presumably their every-day ones. Their finer clothes would be turned, cut up, and reused as long as there was any use left in the fine fabrics.

  Children, parents, spouses, and lovers exchanged gifts at Epiphany in recollection of the gifts the Magi brought to the Christ child.

  Washington Irving, traveling in England on business in 1814-15, bemoans the loss of the ancient customs, Protestant solemnity, which by his time, had long since been replaced by urbane carousing in the cities. Dancing, feasting, winter revels such as those in which Lady Caroline Lamb cavorted wildly to attract young, beautiful, lame George Gordon, Lord Byron, were far too heady for an old church holiday still tainted with Calvinist sobriety.

  In the countryside, Irving writes of the survival of the ancient traditions. Fiction or not, his Old Christmas is redolent of how Christmas was celebrated in English noble households from the Middle Ages onward to last flickers in the 19th century.

  The oldest customs centered upon the church and the fief. In convents, ancient lullabies, sung by nuns for their own joy, celebrated the birth of the Christ child, who was husband to them all in the mystical wedding of their vows. A few churches developed reenactments of the arrival of the shepherds and the Three Kings. Caroling grew—contrapuntal, melismatic, rondelled or in simple chant.

  From convents and the choirs of high clergy to country churches where villagers with the best voices were pressed to serve, the music of Christmas moved from the church loft into the roadway, and caroling from door to door became a custom to be met with hot cider, milk punch, and cakes. In cities, the poor turned caroling into a means of earning a pittance in the cold and holy season when charity, Dickens tells us, was most meet.

  And on the fiefs? In the village church, during the modest twelfth and thirteenth centuries, the villeins attended a very early Mass, then went to the lord’s hall, where a great feast, the high point of the year, was held, with beef and braun and beer for the folk, a boar’s head, wine, and dainty dishes for the noble family at the table on the dais. Music, by strolling trouveres, or a talented tutor in the lord’s household, or a villager with a flare for song with simple flute or drum, was the entertainment, with round dances for the young.

  Until the dance was interrupted by the Bean King. As in the ancient Roman Lupercalia, Christmastide was a time for reversal of roles: villein became master, maid became man, man became housewife, and clergy became…able to tell ribald jests. And over all ruled the Bean King: king for a day, since he or she had found—and nearly broken a tooth upon—the hard, dry bean baked in the cake. The finder reigned in a topsy turvy world of merriment.

  When the dancing and buffoonery waned from tiring spirits and beer befuddled brains, it was time for the story teller: the wandering trouvere intoning his tales of Arthur, Tristan, or more recent heroes to the plucked rhythms of his harp; or the village reeve or witten recounting the more humble doings of Wayland and a threatening fairy land. Finally, sodden with beer and overspent spirits, the villagers one by one crumpled to the lordly hall’s floor, to sleep a snoring, whickering, dream-filled sleep in a deep litter of hay scented with mint and lady’s bedstraw.

  Feasting, though simple and hearty for the commoners, was remarkably elaborate for the table on the dais. Kitchen labor was abundant, and Christmas preparations could take many days. Minced meats with fruit and spices were baked in pastry coffers—ancestors of mincemeat pie. Not only was sweet and tart a favored combination, but also sweet and salt. Since Roman times for health’s sake high cuisine observed a balance of the “humors.” Thus meat could be stuffed with fruit.

  Turkey, an American bird, was Scrooge’s Christmas present to the Cratchets, though goose was the more common bird for feasts, and at grand tables swan was served, or peacock pie enrobed with the bird’s brilliant feathered skin and tail, the noble head wired erect.

  But what of the mummers and the Morris dancers, you say. Mumming seems to have a divided history: holiday enactments by masked courtiers can be traced to the fourteenth century, developing into professional performances by the sixteenth. Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night might be considered a prime mumming, with its Lupercalian reversal of roles, its typical counterpoint of virtuous (Viola, Olivia, and the Duke) and base motivation (Sir Toby, Sir Andrew, Malvolio) and its theme of miraculous resurrection (Sebastian and Viola saved from the sea)—a perfect model of the themes of early mummings.

  Mumming as it has more recently come to be known in Britain, where villagers in costumes and disguises would beg fees for their performances, is a late arrival to Christmas, first appearing, so far as documentary evidence can reach, only in the eighteenth century. Here the chief characters are usually Saint George, the Turk, and the Doctor who resuscitates Saint George. These plays would appear to have more in common, in regard of text, with the paladin puppet plays of Italy than old English enactments. Some scholars hold that mumming of this sort springs from very ancient folkways in Ireland.

  Less organized and more common perhaps were “mummings” such as Washington Irving portrays when he has the children of Bracebridge Hall raiding the attics for the finery of ancestors and appearing costumed in antique garb, declaring themselves to be Dame Mince Pie or the lord and lady of a long past chivalry. There is no play per se in this spontaneous “mumming,” but a striking of attitudes and much dance.

  And the Morris Dancers? Those hearkeners back to Robin and Maid Marion who leap and batter with staves? They too are not so very old—so far as current scholarship can tell. “Morris” is a term used as early as the mid-fifteenth century but, in the way of non-standardized spelling, may refer to the Spanish moresca, which seems to have something to do with Moors.

  Is the Morris Dance perhaps a survival of a pre-Christian ritual? Possibly, as Robin Hood may have been a member of the triumvirate of Cunningman, lady-in-white and dying god, according to the researches of archeologist Margaret Murray, but modern scholarship likes neither Margaret Murray nor the notion of the survival of pre-Christian customs, and certainly not at Christmas time.

  Teams or “sides” of Morris Dancers are a part of present day British Christmas celebrations and derive from the work of Cecil Sharp who, in 1899, viewed a traditional Morris Dance at Headington and set about recording and reviving the custom. Washington Irving knew the Morris Dance as well. But between the 19th century and the old Spanish sword dance said to have been performed for F
erdinand and Isabella to celebrate their conquest of the Moors, there are wide gaps. How did a Spanish sword dance come to be associated with Robin Hood, or choreographed combat with staves come to keep company with Christmas?

  As Santa and reindeer, trimmed trees and stuffed turkeys, Morris Dances and mumming are our present ways to celebrate, so the biblical gifts of the Magi, the legend of the medieval Jongleur de Notre Dame who, having nothing but his song and dance, offered those to the Christ child, form a slowly changing continuum in the spirit of giving what we can give, in Christianity’s celebration of the birth of Jesus.