Tag: Tradition

The past is another country

I’ve recently written about a couple of events that are, by any reckoning, traditional – steps into the past, glimpses of an old England. But, as LP Hartley wrote in The Go-Between, ‘The past is another country: they do things differently there.’ There is no rule that says we can never change the way things are done. So what is tradition, and what is it for?

Certainly it’s a glue that holds together societies and groups that media commentators like to call ‘closely knit’. Try this, the opening chorus from Fiddler on the Roof, which sets the tone for the whole show:

Who, day and night, must scramble for a living,
Feed a wife and children, say his daily prayers?
And who has the right, as master of the house,
To have the final word at home?
The Papa, the Papa! Tradition!

Who must know the way to make a proper home,
A quiet home, a kosher home?
Who must raise the family and run the home,
So Papa’s free to read the holy book?
The Mama, the Mama! Tradition!

At three, I started Hebrew school. At ten, I learned a trade.
I hear they’ve picked a bride for me. I hope she’s pretty.
The son, the son! Tradition!

And who does Mama teach to mend and tend and fix,
Preparing me to marry whoever Papa picks?
The daughter, the daughter! Tradition!

This is some of the glue that holds together – obviously central to the survival of groups who, like the community in that powerful musical, were subjected to savage oppression and injustice. Equally, I remember the former politician Edwina Currie, talking about the faith she was born into, quoting with admiration a rabbi who told her that her faith was her home, not her prison: tradition in its best sense, I would say.

Politicians and moralists love to appeal to tradition. The trouble is, where’s the consensus about what it means? Traditional family values? Like the Victorian ones where incest and prostitution were rife in Britain? Like the ones from the dawn of time that treated daughters as the father’s property, to be disposed of at will, barely pubertal?

What is tradition, and what is it for?

Tradition ist Schlamperei, Gustav Mahler said: Tradition is sloppiness – an exclamation provoked by what he found when he took charge of the Vienna Court Opera in 1897, and decided (against his own interests) to scrape as many barnacles as he could off that listing ship. Following tradition can, of course, be a lazy substitute for stopping to think.

But plenty of traditions are entirely benign, harmless and make people happy. Staying on the Vienna music scene, no one seriously objects when the traditional New Year’s Day concert ends with the (supposedly unscheduled) Blue Danube Waltz and the Radetzky March. There would be riots if it didn’t. Is it a problem if, the night before, we link arms and sing Auld Lang Syne – even if most of us don’t have the faintest what some of the words mean? Or if people go on dressing up to go to the opera at Glyndebourne? Or the Worshipful Company of Carmen go on year after year with the purely ceremonial marking of carts in the Guildhall Yard?

These are things that make people happy, and the world would not be a better place if we stopped them just because they are old. My best friend, in many ways a much more conservative thinker than me, is a passionate republican. My view is that the monarchy just happens to work – maybe, to develop Winston Churchill’s famous remark, democracy with a constitutional monarch is the worst way to run a country – apart from all the others. Royalty with its barely changing traditions just makes people happy, provides a purely symbolic headship and is, for all practical purposes, harmless. In any case, what happens when a country elects a President? Look around you.

Plunging into another round of Christmas traditions, there’s no harm in just deciding what works for you, and doing it. Those sad people who think it’s clever to say I’ll be glad when it’s all over wouldn’t dream about not doing it at all! They love being slaves. Christmas though, because inevitably it reaches back deep into childhood, gives a decent clue about what tradition really is.

It was Napoleon, no less, who said If you want to understand a person in authority, think of the world as it was when they were 20 or 21. As far as I can see, appeals to tradition (think of politicians talking about supposed family values, Sunday trading, nationalism, constitutional arrangements …), usually boil down to one central thought: if we’re honest, when someone speaks noisily of tradition, what they usually mean is:

What things were like when I was growing up

Christmas

The Cultivation of Christmas Trees
T.S. Eliot

There are several attitudes towards Christmas,
Some of which we may disregard:
The social, the torpid, the patently commercial,
The rowdy (the pubs being open till midnight),
And the childish – which is not that of the child
For whom the candle is a star, and the gilded angel
Spreading its wings at the summit of the tree
Is not only a decoration, but an angel.

The child wonders at the Christmas Tree:
Let him continue in the spirit of wonder
At the Feast as an event not accepted as a pretext;
So that the glittering rapture, the amazement
Of the first-remembered Christmas Tree,
So that the surprises, delight in new possessions
(Each one with its peculiar and exciting smell),
The expectation of the goose or turkey
And the expected awe on its appearance,

So that the reverence and the gaiety
May not be forgotten in later experience,
In the bored habituation, the fatigue, the tedium,
The awareness of death, the consciousness of failure,
Or in the piety of the convert
Which may be tainted with a self-conceit
Displeasing to God and disrespectful to children
(And here I remember also with gratitude
St.Lucy, her carol, and her crown of fire):

So that before the end, the eightieth Christmas
(By “eightieth” meaning whichever is last)
The accumulated memories of annual emotion
May be concentrated into a great joy
Which shall be also a great fear, as on the occasion
When fear came upon every soul:
Because the beginning shall remind us of the end
And the first coming of the second coming.

Being in the mood to write about traditions lately, I was going to write something about Christmas traditions – in other words (as there’s no consensus) what I/you/he/she grew up with.

But TS Eliot – intense, intellectual, difficult, dry, serious, reactionary, opinionated and low on humour – says here everything which seems to me important. In this simple little poem, written in 1954 at the age of 66, he reaches back across the years in which he sought, in revolutionary language and intense personal depth, to find truth and meaning in human thought and experience. Having reached back, his quest ends in simple, childlike wonder.

If it ever puzzles you why Christmas carries a special magic for huge numbers of people, why it is such a special time, the poem says it all. You don’t have to be religious like Eliot, and I’m certainly not these days, to identify the awe and wonder and feel it acutely. I’m not a literary critic, but even if I were I can’t see any reason to comment further on the poem. I certainly can’t add to it.

Writing today, with the tree up and ready to be decorated, listening to Trinity College Choir sing O little one sweet by my beloved JS Bach, which we sang at primary school, planning a trip to the butcher to order some specials for the coming feast, getting ready to visit the National Gallery to see their new display of Maino’s Adoration of the Magi, looking at the lovely home made card now bearing the names of three grandchildren, and musing on Eliot’s penetratingly simple poetry, the tears prick in my eyes. It’s a special time, and I defy anyone to prove me wrong.

And if you think all this – and the poem for that matter – is a bit on the mawkish side, stop and examine yourself. You do buy into it, don’t you? And if you pretend you don’t:

  1.    I don’t believe you.
  2.    You are denying yourself the pleasure and the privilege of being a child.
  3.    You are a miserable old sod.

Let yourself go!

HAPPY CHRISTMAS.

Putting the Horse before the Cart

What does a – well, this – regulator do on his day off? Apart from writing blog posts of course, which come to think of it I haven’t done much of lately.

Earlier in the summer I spent an agreeable day off on what you might call a busman’s holiday. Or, rather, a carman’s holiday. Let me explain.

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London’s Guildhall Yard – the setting

The cart marking ceremony is the largest annual civic event in the City of London, barring only the Lord Mayor’s Show. It is on the eve of its 500th birthday and continues the tradition begun in 1517 – long enough ago for King Henry VIII still to be married to his first wife. Liverymen of the Carters’ Company paid five shillings (25p) a year for the right to ply for trade within the City. Now the Worshipful Company of Carmen, they were originally the Fraternity of St Katherine the Virgin and Martyr of Carters. St Kate herself would be proud to see the tradition so richly honoured: she will have been floating around somewhere, looking down and smiling benignly.

For their five shillings the Liverymen got a simple ceremony for a registration number to be branded onto a wooden plate mounted on the outside of their carts. This entitled them to use the vehicle to deliver goods and services until the ceremony came round again a year later. It was the first form of vehicle registration and therefore an early and respectable example of – wait for it – regulation.

My schoolfriend Mike, who has spent his career in and around the railways, doubtless spent more than five shillings on treating me and two others to the Worshipful Company’s splendid hospitality, so later we drank his health vigorously and, being English, ribbing him mercilessly. The ceremony itself is in the open air and free to all, and consists of a parade of beautifully looked after historic vehicles, including a couple of very new ones that should (for their eco-friendliness if nothing else) find a place in history.

The vehicles come round slowly in turn, each pausing in front of the tent which is amply stocked with important-looking people, some of them in Tudor-looking robes. There, amid much bowing, nodding and doffing of caps, the Master or one of his party is handed a branding iron which is then applied ceremonially to the wooden plate fixed to the vehicle.

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The Master does the deed

Much applause, clouds of smoke, more cap doffing, excellent photo opportunities, and the driver moves off to general applause as the next one heaves into view.

It’s all very splendid and shot through with honour for the vehicles themselves, their proud owners and drivers, the history they represent, the memories they evoke and civic pride in the glorious City itself. And celebration of the noble traditions of this and all the livery companies which not only promote continuity by keeping these symbolic traditions alive but are also there to secure proper standards of professionalism among their members.

(If I were a professional regulator I would go off here into a riff on my view that education and training in trades and professions is best achieved within a ‘guild’ of this kind – individuals learning their craft, their traditions, their standards and their ethics from well-policed role models. If I say such a view is mediaeval, I mean that as a compliment, and hold it with pride. But I won’t bother you with all that today.)

A bit like the Trooping of the Colour, the slow walking pace of the ceremony is followed by a faster drive-through of all the same vehicles again – more cheering, doffing, photos …

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The worthies – being worthy

… and we all move off into the Guildhall for a packed bunfight with drinks followed by a fine lunch with the Loyal Toast, decently short speeches and much merriment around and about. Company at the table was very agreeable* and we ended in high spirits, dispersing to get lost in the streets around Bank station which, Londoner though I am, always appear to have been moved since the last time I was there.

What a good day out. The rain held off till we were safely indoors and the Guildhall Yard looked a picture. I walked away with a souvenir programme, a satisfied grin on my face, a store of memories and a camera full of photos that I was looking forward to sharing with my old uncle whom I was seeing the following day. He was stirred, of course.

*Those of you who know me well know that this is among my highest terms of praise.