CHAPTER XII

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.