ttering in the Manhood Peninsula, a little village on which
the sea has hostile designs, is still performed at Christmas a
time-honoured play the actors of which are half a dozen boys or men
known as the Tipteers. Their words are not written, but are transmitted
orally from one generation of players to another. Mr. J. I. C. Boger,
however, has taken them down for the S. A. C. The subject once again, as
in some of the Hardham mural paintings, is the life of St. George, here
called King George; and the play has the same relation to drama that the
Hardham frescoes have to a picture. I quote a little:--

_Third Man--Noble Captain:_
In comes I, the Noble Captain,
Just lately come from France;
With my broad sword and jolly Turk [dirk]
I will make King George dance.

_Fourth Man--King George_ [_i.e._, Saint George]:
In comes I, King George,
That man of courage bold,
With my broad sword and sphere [spear]
I have won ten tons of gold.
I fought the fiery Dragon
And brought it to great slaughter,
And by that means I wish to win
The King of Egypt's daughter.
Neither unto thee will I bow nor bend.
Stand off! stand off!
I will not take you to be my friend.

_Noble Captain:_
Why, sir, why, have I done you any kind of wrong?

_King George:_
Yes, you saucy man, so get you gone.

_Noble Captain:_
You saucy man, you draw my name,
You ought to be stabb'd, you saucy man.

_King George:_
Stab or stabs, the least is my fear;
Point me the place
And I will meet you there.

_Noble Captain:_
The place I 'point is on the ground
And there I will lay your body down
Across the water at the hour of five.

_King George:_
Done, sir, done! I will meet you there,
If I am alive I will cut you, I will slay you,
All for to let you know that I am King George over Great Britain O!
[FIGHT: _King George wounds the Noble Captain._]

Until the close is almost reached the West Wittering Tipteers preserve
the illusion of mediaeval mummery. But the concluding song transports us
to the sentiment of the modern music hall. Its chorus runs, with some
callousness:--

"We never miss a mother till she's gone,
Her portrait's all we have to gaze upon,
We can fancy see her there,
Sitting in an old armchair;
We never miss a mother till she's gone."

[Sidenote: GRANDM