England was merry England then, and whatever may be thought of the utility of attempting to revive the ancient sports and amusements of the people, it is undeniable that when the old customs and games went out of vogue, they left behind them a void which seems without any immediate prospect of being filled. We have no doubt gained in many ways by changed habits of life and modes of thought, but it must not be forgotten that at the same time life has lost much of its old picturesqueness and variety. These simple, hearty festivals of old, in which our ancestors so much delighted, served to light up the dull round of the recurring seasons, and to mark with a red letter the day in the calendar appropriate to their celebration. It was these that gained for our country in mediæval times the name of “Merrie England.” The purpose of this chapter, however, is not to compose a dirge on the departed { 233} glories of our English merry-makings, but rather to give in short limits some account of the principal feasts and ceremonies in which the national beverage, personified by the familiar name of John Barleycorn, figured as a constant and well-tried friend, a provocative to mirth and good feeling, to jollity and hearty enjoyment. The principal merry-makings of old England were associated with certain special days of the year, or with various events, important in the life of the people, which though not fixed to any particular day in the calendar, were from their nature connected with certain seasons. May Day and Christmas Day, New Year’s Eve and Twelfth Night, the Harvest Home, the Sheep-shearing Supper, and many another minor festival, all served to make the labourer’s lot seem an easier one, and to vary the monotonous round of toil. Herrick thus alludes to the number and variety of the sports and pastimes incidental to the country life in his day:—
Thy wakes, thy quintals, here thou hast, Thy maypoles too with garlands graced, Thy morris dance, thy Whitsun-ale, Thy shearing feasts which never fail, Thy harvest home, thy wassail bowl, That’s tossed up after fox-i’-th’ hole,[53] Thy mummeries, thy twelfth-tide kings And queens, thy Xmas revellings, Thy nut-brown mirth, thy russet wit, And no man pays too dear for it.