FullReads

In Spain, and then in France, and then in London, the dance was secular. But perhaps I ought not to have said that it was `not explicitly religious’ in the English countryside. The cult for Robin Hood was veritably a religion throughout the Midland Counties. Rites in his honour were performed on certain days of the year with a not less hearty reverence, a not less quaint elaboration, than was infused into the rustic Greek rites for Dionysus. The English carles danced, not indeed around an altar, but around a bunt pole crowned with such flowers as were in season; and one of them, like the youth who in the Dionysiac dance masqueraded as the god, was decked out duly as Robin Hood–`with a magpye’s plume to hys capp,’ we are told, and sometimes `a russat bearde compos’d of horses hair.’ The most famous of the dances for Robin Hood was the `pageant.’ Herein appeared, besides the hero himself and various tabours and pipers, a `dysard’ or fool, and Friar Tuck, and Maid Marian–`in a white kyrtele and her hair all unbrayded, but with blossoms thereyn.’ This `pageant’ was performed at Whitsun, at Easter, on New-Year’s day, and on May-day. The Morris, when it had become known in the villages, was very soon incorporated in the `pageant.’ The Morris scarves and bells, the Morris steps and figures, were all pressed into the worship of Robin Hood. In most villages the properties for the `pageant’ had always rested in the custody of the church-wardens. The properties for the Morris were now kept with them. In the Kingston accounts for 1537-8 are enumerated `a fryers cote of russat, and a kyrtele weltyd with red cloth, a Mowrens cote of buckram, and four morres daunsars cotes of white fustian spangelid, and two gryne saten cotes, and disarddes cote of cotton, and six payre of garters with belles.’ The `pageant’ itself fell, little by little, into disuse; the Morris, which had been affiliated to it, superseded it. Of the `pageant’ nothing remained but the minstrel and the dysard and an occasional Maid Marian. In the original Morris there had been no music save that of the bells. But now there was always a flute or tabor. The dysard, with his rod and leathern bladder, was promoted to a sort of leadership. He did not dance, but gave the signal for the dance, and distributed praise or blame among the performers, and had power to degrade from the troupe any man who did not dance with enough skill or enough heartiness. Often there were in one village two rival troupes of dancers, and a prize was awarded to whichever acquitted itself the more admirably. But not only the `ensemble’ was considered. A sort of `star system’ seems to have crept in. Often a prize would be awarded to some one dancer who had excelled his fellows. There were, I suppose, `born’ Morris-dancers. Now and again, one of them, flushed with triumph, would secern himself from his troupe, and would `star’ round the country for his livelihood.

Such a one was Mr. William Kemp, who, at the age of seventeen, and in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, danced from his native village to London, where he educated himself and became an actor. Perhaps he was not a good actor, for he presently reverted to the Morris. He danced all the way from London to Norwich, and wrote a pamphlet about it– `Kemp’s Nine Dajes’ Wonder, performed in a daunce from London to Norwich. Containing the pleasures, paines, and kind entertainment of William Kemp betweene London and that Citty, in his late Morrice.’ He seems to have encountered more pleasures than `paines.’ Gentle and simple, all the way, were very cordial. The gentle entertained him in their mansions by night. The simple danced with him by day. In Sudbury `there came a lusty tall fellow, a butcher by his profession, that would in a Morice keepe me company to Bury. I gave him thankes, and forward wee did set; but ere ever wee had measur’d halfe a mile of our way, he gave me over in the plain field, protesting he would not hold out with me; for, indeed, my pace in dauncing is not ordinary. As he and I were parting, a lusty country lasse being among the people, cal’d him faint-hearted lout, saying, “If I had begun to daunce, I would have held out one myle, though it had cost my life.” At which words many laughed. “Nay,” saith she, “if the dauncer will lend me a leash of his belles, I’le venter to treade one myle with him myself.” I lookt upon her, saw mirth in her eies, heard boldness in her words, and beheld her ready to tucke up her russat petticoate; and I fitted her with bels, which she merrily taking garnisht her thicke short legs, and with a smooth brow bad the tabur begin. The drum strucke; forward marcht I with my merry Mayde Marian, who shook her stout sides, and footed it merrily to Melford, being a long myle. There parting with her (besides her skinfull of drinke), and English crowne to buy more drinke; for, good wench, she was in a pittious heate; my kindness she requited with dropping a dozen good courtsies, and bidding God blesse the dauncer. I bade her adieu; and, to give her her due, she had a good eare, daunst truly, and wee parted friends.’ Kemp, you perceive, wrote as well as he danced. I wish he had danced less and written more. It seems that he never wrote anything but this one delightful pamphlet. He died three years later, in the thirtieth year of his age–died dancing, with his bells on his legs, in the village of Ockley.