John Keble's Parishes

the benefit of pilgrims. Thus he became the patron of anchor forgers, and thence of smiths in general. Charles Dickens, in Great Expectations describes an Essex blacksmith as working to a chant, the refrain of which was 'Old Clem.' I have heard the explosions at Hursley before 1860, but more modern blacksmiths despise the custom. At Twyford, however, the festival is kept, and at the dinner a story is read that after the Temple was finished, Solomon feasted all the artificers except the blacksmiths, but they appeared, and pointed out all that they had done in the way of necessary work, on which they were included with high honour.

St. Thomas's Day, 21st December, is still at Otterbourne held as the day for 'gooding,' when each poor house-mother can demand sixpence from the well-to-do towards her Christmas dinner.

Christmas mummers still perambulate the villages, somewhat uncertainly, as their performance depends on the lads willing to undertake it, and the willingness of some woman to undertake the bedizening of them with strips of ribbon or coloured paper; and, moreover, political allusions are sometimes introduced which spoil the simplicity. The helmets are generally made of wallpaper, in a shape like auto-da-fé caps, with long strips hanging over so as to conceal the face, and over the shirts are sewn streamers.

Thus tramp seven or eight lads, and stand drawn up in a row, when the foremost advances with, at the top of his hoarse voice:

Room, room, brave gallants, room,

I'm just come to show you some merry sport and game,

To help pass away

This cold winter day.

Old activity, new activity, such activity

As never was seen before,

And perhaps never will be seen no more.

(Alas! too probably. Thanks to the schoolmaster abroad.)

Then either he or some other, equipped with a little imitation snow, paces about announcing himself:

Here comes I, Old Father Christmas, Christmas, Christmas,

Welcome or welcome not,

I hope old Father Christmas

Will never be forgot.

All in this room, there shall be shown

The dreadfullest battle that ever was known.

So walk in, St. George, with thy free heart

And see whether thou canst claim peace for thine own part.

So far from 'claiming peace,' St. George waves (or ought to wave) his wooden sword, as he clumps forth, exclaiming:

In comes I, St. George, St. George, that man of courage bold,

With my broad sword and spear I won the crown of gold,

I fought that fiery dragon,

And drove him to the slaughter,

And by that means I won

The King of Egypt's daughter.

Therefore, if any man dare enter this door

I'll hack him small as dust,

And after send him to the cook's shop

To be made into mince-pie crust!

On this defiance another figure appears:

Here comes I, the Turkish knight

Just come from Turkey land to fight;

I'll fight thee, St. George, St. George, thou man of courage bold,

If thy blood be too hot, I'll quickly make it cold.

To which St. George responds, in the tone in which he would address a cart-horse:

'Wo ho! My little fellow, thou talk'st very bold,

Just like the little Turks, as I have been told,

Therefore, thou Turkish knight,

Pull out thy sword and fight,

Pull out thy purse and pay,

I'll have satisfaction, or thou guest away.

Turkish Knight.

Satisfaction, no satisfaction at all,

My head is made of iron, my body lined with steel,

I'll battle thee, to see which on the ground shall fall.

The two wooden swords clatter together till the Turkish knight falls, all doubled up, even his sword, with due regard to his finery; and St. George is so much shocked that he marches round, lamenting:

O only behold what I have been and done,

Cut and slain my brother, just the evening sun.

Then, bethinking himself, he exclaims:

I have a little bottle, called elecampane,

If the man is alive, let him rise and fight again.

The application of the elecampane so far restores the Turkish knight that he partly rises, entreating:

O pardon me, St. George, O pardon me, I crave,

O pardon me this once, and I will be thy slave.

Very inconsistently with his late remorse, St. George replies-

I never will pardon a Turkish knight,

Therefore arise, and try thy might.

The combat is renewed, and the Turkish knight falls prostrate, on which the Foreign King comes forward, shouting:

St. George, St. George, what hast thou done,

For thou hast slain mine only son!

But, after marching round the fallen hero, he cries:

Is there a doctor to be found,

That can cure this man lies bleeding on the ground?

In response, the doctor appears:

O yes, there is a doctor to be found,

That can cure this man lies bleeding on the ground.

The anxious father asks:

Doctor, doctor, what is thy fee?

The doctor replies:

Ten guineas is my fee,

But ten pounds I'll take of thee.

The king answers:

'Take it, doctor, but what canst thou cure?'

The doctor's pretensions are high, for he says:

I can cure the ague, palsy, and the gout,

And that's a roving pain that goes within and out;

A broken leg or arm, I soon can cure the pain,

And if thou break'st thy neck, I'll stoutly set it again.

Bring me an old woman of fourscore years and ten,

Without a tooth in her head, I'll bring her young again.

The king observes: