Chapter VII: Appendix: A. St Piran—Perran Zabuloe, 287 (6)

Joseph was the favourite son of his mother, and her anxiety evidently increased. Eventually, starting from her chair, the old lady exclaimed, “Oh, here he is; now I’ll see about the tea.”

With a pleased smile on her face, she left the room, to return, however, to it in deeper sorrow.

The mother expected to meet her son at the door—he came not. Thinking that he might possibly have been wetted by the sea, and that he had gone round the house to another door leading directly into the kitchen, for the purpose of drying himself, or of changing his boots, she went into the dairy to fetch the basin of clotted cream,—which had been “taken up” with unusual care,—to see if the junket was properly set, and to spread the flaky cream thickly upon its surface.

Strange,—as the old lady subsequently related,—all the pans of milk were agitated—“the milk rising up and down like the waves of the sea.”

The anxious mother returned to the parlour with her basin of cream, but with an indescribable feeling of an unknown terror. She commanded herself, and, in her usual quiet way, asked if Joseph had been in. When they answered her “No,” she sighed heavily, and sank senseless into a chair.

Neither Joseph nor the servant ever returned alive. They were seen standing together upon a rock, stooping to gather oranges as they came with each wave up to their feet, when one of the heavy swells—the lingering undulations of a tempest, so well known on this coast—came sweeping onward, and carried them both away in its cave of waters, as the wave curved to ingulf them.

The undertow of the tidal current was so strong that, though powerful men and good swimmers, they were carried at once beyond all human aid, and speedily perished.

The house of joy became a house of mourning, and sadness rested on it for years. Day after day passed by, and, although a constant watch was kept along the coast, it was not until the fated ninth day that the bodies were discovered, and they were then found in a sadly mutilated state.

Often after long years, and when the consolations derivable from pure religious feeling had brought that tranquillity upon the mind of this loving mother,—which so much resembles the poetical repose of an autumnal evening,—has she repeated to me the sad tale.

Again and again have I heard her declare that she saw Joseph, her son, as distinctly as ever she saw him in her life, and that, as he passed the parlour windows, he looked in upon her and smiled.

This is not given as a superstition belonging in any peculiar way to Cornwall. In every part of the British Isles it exists; but I have never met with any people who so firmly believed in the appearance of the phantoms of the dying to those upon whom the last thoughts are centred, as the Cornish did.

Another case is within my knowledge.

A lady, the wife of an officer in the navy, had been with her husband’s sister, on a summer evening, to church. The husband was in the Mediterranean, and there was no reason to expect his return for many months.

These two ladies returned home, and the wife, ascending the stairs before her sister-in-law, went into the drawing-room—her intention being to close the windows, which, as the weather had been warm and fine, had been thrown open.

She had proceeded about half way across the room, when she shrieked, ran back, and fell into her sister-in-law’s arms. Upon recovery, she stated that a figure, like that of her husband, enveloped in a mist, appeared to her to fill one of the windows.

By her friends, the wife’s fancies were laughed at; and, if not forgotten, the circumstance was no longer spoken of.

Month after month glided by, without intelligence of the ship to which that officer belonged. At length the Government became anxious, and searching inquiries were made. Some time still elapsed, but eventually it was ascertained that this sloop of war had perished in a white squall, in which she became involved, near the Island of Mitylene, in the Grecian Archipelago, on the Sunday evening when the widow fancied she saw her husband.

THE WHITE HARE.

It is a very popular fancy that when a maiden, who has loved not wisely but too well, dies forsaken and broken-hearted, that she comes back to haunt her deceiver in the shape of a white hare.

This phantom follows the false one everywhere, mostly invisible to all but him. It sometimes saves him from danger, but invariably the white hare causes the death of the betrayer in the end.

The following story of the white hare is a modification of several tales of the same kind which have been told me. Many, many years have passed away, and all who were in any way connected with my story have slept for generations in the quiet churchyard of ——.

A large landed proprietor engaged a fine, handsome young fellow to manage his farm, which was a very extensive as well as a high-class one. When the young farmer was duly settled in his new farmhouse, there came to live with him, to take the management of the dairy, a peasant’s daughter. She was very handsome, and of a singularly fine figure, but entirely without education.

The farmer became desperately in love with this young creature, and eventually their love passed all the bounds of discretion. It became the policy of the young farmer’s family to put down this unfortunate passion, by substituting a more legitimate and endearing object.

After a long trial, they thought they were successful, and the young farmer was married.

Many months had not passed away when the discharged dairy-maid was observed to suffer from illness, which, however, she constantly spoke of as nothing; but knowing dames saw too clearly the truth. One morning there was found in a field a newly-born babe strangled. The unfortunate girl was at once suspected as being the parent, and the evidence was soon sufficient to charge her with the murder. She was tried, and, chiefly by the evidence of the young farmer and his family, convicted of, and executed for, the murder.

Everything now went wrong in the farm, and the young man suddenly left it and went into another part of the country.

Still nothing prospered, and gradually he took to drink to drown some secret sorrow. He was more frequently on the road by night than by day; and, go where he would, a white hare was constantly crossing his path. The white hare was often seen by others, almost always under the feet of his horse; and the poor terrified animal would go like the wind to avoid the strange apparition.

One morning the young farmer was found drowned in a forsaken mine; and the horse, which had evidently suffered extreme terror, was grazing near the corpse. Beyond all doubt the white hare, which is known to hunt the perjured and the false-hearted to death, had terrified the horse to such a degree, that eventually the rider was thrown into the mine-waste in which the body was found.

THE HAND OF A SUICIDE.

Placing the hand of a man who has died by his own act is a cure for many diseases.

The following is given me by a thinking man, living in one of the towns in the west of Cornwall:—

“There is a young man in this town who had been afflicted with running tumours from his birth. When about seventeen years of age he had the hand of a man who had hanged himself passed over the wounds on his back, and, strange to say, he recovered from that time, and is now comparatively robust and hearty. This incident is true; I was present when the charm was performed. It should be observed that the notion appears to be that the ‘touch’ is only effectual on the opposite sex; but in this case they were both, the suicide and the afflicted one, of the same sex.”

This is only a modified form of the superstition that a wen, or any strumous swelling, can be cured by touching it with the dead hand of a man who has just been publicly hanged.

I once saw a young woman led on to the scaffold, in the Old Bailey, for the purpose of having a wen touched with the hand of a man who had just been executed.

THE NORTH SIDE OF A CHURCH.

A strong prejudice has long existed against burying on the northern side of the church. In many churchyards the southern side will be found full of graves, with scarcely any on the northern side.

I have sought to discover, if possible, the origin of this prejudice, but I have not been able to trace it to any well-defined feeling. I have been answered, “Oh, we like to bury a corpse where the sun will shine on the grave;” and, “The northern graveyard is in the shadow, and cold;” but beyond this I have not advanced.

We may infer that this desire to place the remains of our friends in earth on which the sun shines, is born of that love which, forgetting mortality, lives on the pleasant memories of the past, hoping for that meeting beyond the grave which shall know no shadow. The act of planting flowers, of nurturing an evergreen tree, of hanging “eternals” on the tomb, is only another form of the same sacred feeling.

POPULAR SUPERSTITIONS.

It is, or rather was, believed, in nearly every part of the West of England, that death is retarded, and the dying kept in a state of suffering, by having any lock closed, or any bolt shot, in the dwelling of the dying person.

A man cannot die easy on a bed made of fowls’ feathers, or the feathers of wild birds.

Never carry a corpse to church by a new road.

Whenever a guttering candle folds over its cooling grease, it is watched with much anxiety. If it curls upon itself it is said to form the “handle of a coffin,” and the person towards whom it is directed will be in danger of death.

Bituminous coal not unfrequently swells into bubbles, these bubbles of coal containing carburetted hydrogen gas. When the pressure becomes great they burst, and often throw off the upper section with some explosive force. According to the shape of the piece thrown off, so is it named. If it proves round it is a purse of money; if oblong, it is a coffin, and the group towards which it flew will be in danger.

If a cock crows at midnight, the angel of death is passing over the house; and if he delays to strike, the delay is only for a short season.

The howling of a dog is a sad sign. If repeated for three nights, the house against which it howled will soon be in mourning.

A raven croaking over a cottage fills its inmates with gloom.

There are many other superstitions and tokens connected with life and death, but those given shew the general character of those feelings which I may, I think, venture to call the “inner life” of the Cornish people. It will be understood by all who have studied the peculiarities of any Celtic race, that they have ever been a peculiarly impressible people. They have ever observed the phenomena of nature; and they have interpreted them with hopeful feelings, or despondent anxiety, according as they have been surrounded by cheerful or by sorrow-inducing circumstances. That melancholy state of mind, which is so well expressed by the word “whisht,” leads the sufferer to find a “sign” or a “token” in the trembling of a leaf, or in the lowering of the tempest-clouds. A collection of the almost infinite variety of these “signs and tokens” which still exist, would form a curious subject for an essay. Yet this could only now be done by a person who would skilfully win the confidence of the miner or the peasant. They feel that they might subject themselves to ridicule by an indiscreet disclosure of the religion of their souls. When, if ever, such a collection is made, it will be found that these superstitions have their origin in the purest feelings of the heart—that they are the shadowings forth of love, tinctured with the melancholy dyes of that fear which is born of mystery.

One would desire that even those old superstitions should be preserved. They illustrate a state of society, in the past, which will never again return. There are but few reflecting minds which do not occasionally feel a lingering regret that times should pass away during which life was not a reflection of cold reason.

But these things must fade as a knowledge of nature’s laws is disseminated amongst the people. Yet there is—

The lonely mountains o’er,
And the resounding shore,
A voice of weeping heard, and loud lament;
From haunted spring and dale,
Edged with poplar pale,
The parting genius is, with sighing sent.

OLD USAGES.

“The king was to his palace, though the service was ydo,
Yled with his meinie, and the queen to her also;
For she held _the old usages_.”

ROBERT OF GLOUCESTER.

CUSTOMS OF ANCIENT DAYS.

SANDING THE STEP ON NEW YEAR’S-DAY.

“They say, miracles are past, and we have our philosophical
persons, to make modern and familiar things supernatural
and causeless. Hence is it that we make trifles of terrors,
ensconcing ourselves into seeming knowledge.”—_All’s Well that
Ends Well_—SHAKESPEARE.

In the rural districts of Cornwall, it is thought to be unlucky if a female is the first to enter the house on new-year’s morning. To insure the contrary, it was customary to give boys some small reward for placing sand on the door-steps and in the passage.

In many places, not many years since, droves of boys would march through the towns and villages, collecting their fees for “sanding your step for good luck.”

This custom prevails over most parts of England. I know a lady who, at the commencement of the present year, sent a cabman into her house before her, upon promise of giving him a glass of spirits, so that she might insure the good luck which depends upon “a man’s taking the new year in.”

MAY-DAY.

The first of May is inaugurated with much uproar. As soon as the clock has told of midnight, a loud blast on tin trumpets proclaims the advent of May. This is long continued. At daybreak, with their “tintarrems,” they proceed to the country, and strip the sycamore-trees (called May-trees) of all their young branches, to make whistles. With these shrill musical instruments they return home. Young men and women devote May-day to junketing and pic-nics.

It was a custom at Penzance, and probably at many other Cornish towns, when the author was a boy, for a number of young people to sit up until twelve o’clock, and then to march round the town with violins and fifes, and summon their friends to the Maying.

When all were gathered, they went into the country, and were welcomed at the farmhouses at which they called, with some refreshment in the shape of rum and milk, junket, or something of that sort.

They then gathered the “May,” which included the young branches of any tree in blossom or fresh leaf. The branches of the sycamore were especially cut for the purpose of making the “May music.” This was done by cutting a circle through the bark to the wood a few inches from the end of the branch. The bark was wetted and carefully beaten until it was loosened and could be slid off from the wood. The wood was cut angularly at the end, so as to form a mouth-piece, and a slit was made in both the bark and the wood, so that when the bark was replaced a whistle was formed. Prepared with a sufficient number of May whistles, all the party returned to the town, the band playing, whistles blowing, and the young people singing some appropriate song.

SHROVE TUESDAY AT ST IVES.

Formerly it was customary for the boys to tie stones to cords, and with these parade the town, slinging these stones against the doors, shouting aloud,—

“Give me a pancake, now—now—now,
Or I’ll souse in your door with a row—tow—tow.”

A genteel correspondent assures me “this is observed now in the lower parts of the town only.”

“THE FURRY”—HELSTONE.

This ancient custom, which consists in dancing through the streets of the town, and entering the houses of rich and poor alike, is thus well described:—

“On the 8th of May, at Helstone, in Cornwall, is held what
is called ‘the Furry.’ The word is supposed by Mr Polwhele
to have been derived from the old Cornish word _fer_, a fair
or jubilee. The morning is ushered in by the music of drums
and kettles, and other accompaniments of a song, a great part
of which is inserted in Mr Polwhele’s history, where this
circumstance is noticed. So strict is the observance of this
day as a general holiday, that should any person be found
at work, he is instantly seized, set astride on a pole, and
hurried on men’s shoulders to the river, where he is sentenced
to leap over a wide place, which he, of course, fails in
attempting, and leaps into the water. A small contribution
towards the good cheer of the day easily compounds for the
leap. About nine o’clock the revellers appear before the
grammar-school, and demand a holiday for the schoolboys, after
which they collect contributions from houses. They then _fade_
into the country, (fade being an old English word for _go_,)
and, about the middle of the day, return with flowers and
oak-branches in their hats and caps. From this time they dance
hand in hand through the streets, to the sound of the fiddle,
playing a particular tune, running into every house they pass
without opposition. In the afternoon a select party of the
ladies and gentlemen make a progress through the street, and
very late in the evening repair to the ball-room. A stranger
visiting the town on the eighth of May would really think the
people mad, so apparently wild and thoughtless is the merriment
of the day. There is no doubt of ‘the Furry’ originating from
the ‘Floralia,’ anciently observed by the Romans on the fourth
of the calends of May.”—_Every-Day Book._

MIDSUMMER SUPERSTITIOUS CUSTOMS.

If on midsummer-eve a young woman takes off the shift which she has been wearing, and, having washed it, turns it wrong side out, and hangs it in silence over the back of a chair, near the fire, she will see, about midnight, her future husband, who deliberately turns the garment.

If a young lady will, on midsummer-eve, walk backwards into the garden and gather a rose, she has the means of knowing who is to be her husband. The rose must be cautiously sewn up in a paper bag, and put aside in a dark drawer, there to remain until Christmas-day.

On the morning of the Nativity the bag must be carefully opened in silence, and the rose placed by the lady in her bosom. Thus she must wear it to church. Some young man will either ask for the rose, or take it from her without asking. That young man is destined to become eventually the lady’s husband.

“At eve last midsummer no sleep I sought,
But to the field a bag of hemp-seed brought;
I scatter’d round the seed on every side,
And three times in a trembling accent cried,—
‘This hemp-seed with my virgin hand I sow,
Who shall my true love be, the crop shall mow.’
I straight look’d back, and, if my eyes speak truth,
With his keen scythe behind me came the youth.”

_Gay’s Pastorals._

The practice of sowing hemp-seed on midsummer-eve is not especially a Cornish superstition, yet it was at one time a favourite practice with young women to try the experiment. Many a strange story have I been told as to the result of the sowing, and many a trick could I tell of, which has been played off by young men who had become acquainted with the secret intention of some maidens. I believe there is but little difference in the rude rhyme used on the occasion,—

“Hemp-seed I sow,
Hemp-seed I hoe,”

(the action of sowing the seed and of hoeing it in, must be deliberately gone through;)—

“And he
Who will my true love be,
Come after me and mow.”

A phantom of the true lover will now appear, and of course the maid or maidens retire in wild affright.

If a young unmarried woman stands at midnight on midsummer-eve in the porch of the parish church, she will see, passing by in procession, every one who will die in the parish during the year. This is so serious an affair that it is not, I believe, often tried. I have, however, heard of young women who have made the experiment. But every one of the stories relate that, coming last in the procession, they have seen shadows of themselves; that from that day forward they have pined, and ere midsummer has again come round, that they have been laid to rest in the village graveyard.

CRYING THE NECK.

Owing to the uncertain character of the climate of Cornwall, the farmers have adopted the plan of gathering the sheaves of wheat, as speedily as possible, into “arish-mows.” These are solid cones from ten to twelve feet high, the heads of the stalks turned inwards, and the whole capped with a sheaf of corn inverted. Whence the term, I know not; but “arish” is commonly applied to a field of corn recently cut, as, “Turn the geese in upon the ‘arish’”—that is, the short stubble left in the ground.

After the wheat is all cut, on most farms in Cornwall and Devon, the harvest people have a custom of “crying the neck.” I believe that this practice is seldom omitted on any large farm in these counties. It is done in this way. An old man, or some one else well acquainted with the ceremonies used on the occasion, (when the labourers are reaping the last field of wheat,) goes round to the shocks and sheaves, and picks out a little bundle of all the best ears he can find; this bundle he ties up very neat and trim, and plats and arranges the straws very tastefully. This is called “the neck” of wheat, or wheaten-ears. After the field is cut out, and the pitcher once more circulated, the reapers, binders, and the women stand round in a circle. The person with “the neck” stands in the centre, grasping it with both his hands. He first stoops and holds it near the ground, and all the men forming the ring take off their hats, stooping and holding them with both hands towards the ground. They then all begin at once, in a very prolonged and harmonious tone, to cry, “The neck!” at the same time slowly raising themselves upright, and elevating their arms and hats above their heads; the person with the neck also raising it on high. This is done three times. They then change their cry to “We yen! we yen!” which they sound in the same prolonged and slow manner as before, with singular harmony and effect, three times. This last cry is accompanied by the same movements of the body and arms as in crying “the neck.” I know nothing of vocal music, but I think I may convey some idea of the sound by giving you the following notes in gamut:—

[Music: _Very slow._

We yen! we yen!]

Let these notes be played on a flute with perfect _crescendoes_ and _diminuendoes_, and perhaps some notion of this wild-sounding cry may be formed. Well, after this they all burst out into a kind of loud joyous laugh, flinging up their hats and caps into the air, capering about, and perhaps kissing the girls. One of them then gets “the neck,” and runs as hard as he can down to the farmhouse, where the dairy-maid, or one of the young female domestics, stands at the door prepared with a pail of water. If he who holds “the neck” can manage to get into the house in any way unseen, or openly by any other way than the door at which the girl stands with the pail of water, then he may lawfully kiss her; but, if otherwise, he is regularly soused with the contents of the bucket. I think this practice is beginning to decline of late, and many farmers and their men do not care about keeping up this old custom. The object of crying “the neck” is to give notice to the surrounding country of the _end_ of the harvest, and the meaning of “we yen” is “_we have ended_.” It may probably mean “we end,” which the uncouth and provincial pronunciation has corrupted into “we yen.” The “neck” is generally hung up in the farmhouse, where it often remains for three or four years.

DRINKING TO THE APPLE-TREES ON TWELFTH NIGHT EVE.

In the eastern part of Cornwall, and in western Devonshire, it was the custom to take a milk-panful of cider, into which roasted apples had been broken, into the orchard. This was placed as near the centre of the orchard as possible, and each person, taking a “clomben” cup of the drink, goes to different apple-trees, and addresses them as follows:—

“Health to the good apple-tree;
Well to bear, pocketfuls, hatfuls,
Peckfuls, bushel-bagfuls.”

Drinking part of the contents of the cup, the remainder, with the fragments of the roasted apples, is thrown at the tree, all the company shouting aloud. Another account tells us, “In certain parts of Devonshire, the farmer, attended by his workmen, goes to the orchard this evening; and there, encircling one of the best bearing trees, they drink the following toast three times:—

‘Here’s to thee, old apple-tree;
Hence thou mayst bud, and whence thou mayst blow,
And whence thou mayst bear apples enow!
Hats full! caps full!
Bushel, bushel-sacks full!
And my pockets full, too! Huzza!’

This done, they return to the house, the doors of which they are sure to find bolted by the females, who, be the weather what it may, are inexorable to all entreaties to open them, till some one has guessed what is on the spit, which is generally some nice little thing difficult to be hit on, and is the reward of him who first names it. The doors are then thrown open, and the lucky clodpole receives the tit-bit as his recompense. Some are so superstitious as to believe that if they neglect this custom, the trees will bear no apples that year.”[54]

Christmas-eve was selected in some parts of England as the occasion for wishing health to the apple-tree. Apples were roasted on a string until they fell into a pan of spiced ale, placed to receive them. This drink was called _lamb’s-wool_, and with it the trees were wassailed, as in Devonshire and Cornwall.

Herrick alludes to the custom:—

“Wassaile the trees, that they may beare
You many a plum, and many a peare;
For more or lesse fruits they will bring,
And you do give them wassailing.”

May not Shakespeare refer to this?—

“Sometimes lurk I in a gossip’s bowl,
In very likeness of a roasted crab;
And when she drinks, against her lips I bob,
And on her wither’d dew-lap pour the ale.”

_Midsummer Night’s Dream._

In some localities apples are blessed on St James’s-day, July 25.

ALLHALLOWS-EVE AT ST IVES.

The ancient custom of providing children with a large apple on Allhallows-eve is still observed, to a great extent, at St Ives. “Allan-day,” as it is called, is the day of days to hundreds of children, who would deem it a great misfortune were they to go to bed on “Allan-night” without the time-honoured Allan apple to hide beneath their pillows. A quantity of large apples are thus disposed of, the sale of which is dignified by the term Allan Market.

THE TWELFTH CAKE.

The custom, apparently a very ancient one, of putting certain articles into a rich cake, is still preserved in many districts. Usually, sixpence, a wedding-ring, and a silver thimble are employed. These are mixed up with the dough, and baked in the cake. At night the cake is divided. The person who secures the sixpence will not want money for that year; the one who has the ring will be the first married; and the possessor of the thimble will die an old maid.

“Then also every householder,
To his abilitie
Doth make a mighty cake, that may
Suffice his companie:
Herein a pennie doth he put,
Before it come to fire;
This he divides according as
His household doth require,
And every peece distributeth
As round about they stand,
Which in their names unto the poor
Is given out of hand.
But who so chanceth on the peece
Wherein the money lies,
Is counted king amongst them all;
And is with shoutes and cries
Exalted to the heavens up.”

_Naogeorgus’s Popish Kingdom._

OXEN PRAY ON CHRISTMAS EVE.

I remember, when a child, being told that all the oxen and cows kept at a farm, in the parish of St Germans, at which I was visiting with my aunt, would be found on their knees when the clock struck twelve. This is the only case within my own knowledge of this widespread superstition existing in Cornwall. Brand says, “A superstitious notion prevails in the western parts of Devonshire, that at twelve o’clock at night on Christmas-eve, the oxen in their stalls are always found on their knees, as in an attitude of devotion; and that, (which is still more singular,) since the alteration of the style, they continue to do this only on the eve of old Christmas-day. An honest countryman, living on the edge of St Stephen’s Down, near Launceston, Cornwall, informed me, October 28, 1790, that he once, with some others, made a trial of the truth of the above, and, watching several oxen in their stalls at the above time,—at twelve o’clock at night,—they observed the two oldest oxen only, fall upon their knees and, as he expressed it in the idiom of the country, make ‘a cruel moan, like Christian creatures.’ I could not, but with great difficulty, keep my countenance: he saw, and seemed angry, that I gave so little credit to his tale; and, walking off in a pettish humour, seemed to ‘marvel at my unbelief.’ There is an old print of the Nativity, in which the oxen in the stable, near the Virgin and the Child, are represented upon their knees, as in a suppliant posture. This graphic representation has probably given rise to the above superstitious notion on this head.”

“ST GEORGE”—THE CHRISTMAS PLAYS.

The Christmas play is a very ancient institution in Cornwall. At one time religious subjects were chosen, but those gave way to romantic plays. The arrangements were tolerably complete, and sometimes a considerable amount of dramatic skill was displayed.

“ST GEORGE, and the other tragic performers, are dressed
out somewhat in the style of morris-dancers, in their shirt
sleeves and white trousers, much decorated with ribbons and
handkerchiefs, each carrying a drawn sword in his hand, if they
can be procured, otherwise a cudgel. They wear high caps of
pasteboard, adorned with beads, small pieces of looking-glass,
coloured paper, &c.; several long strips of pith generally hang
down from the top, with small pieces of different coloured
cloth strung on them: the whole has a very smart effect.

_Father Christmas_ is personified in a grotesque manner, as an
ancient man, wearing a large mask and wig, and a huge club,
wherewith he keeps the bystanders in order.

The _Doctor_, who is generally the merry-andrew of the piece,
is dressed in any ridiculous way, with a wig, three-cornered
hat, and painted face.

The other comic characters are dressed according to fancy.

The _female_, where there is one, is usually in the dress worn
half a century ago.

The _hobby-horse_, which is a character sometimes introduced,
wears a representation of a horse’s-hide.

Beside the regular drama of “St George,” many parties of
mummers go about in fancy dresses of every sort, most commonly
the males in female attire, and _vice versâ_.

_Battle of St George._

[_One of the party steps in, crying out_,—

Room, a room, brave gallant, room,
Within this court
I do resort,
To shew some sport
And pastime,
Gentlemen and ladies, in the Christmas time.

[_After this note of preparation, Old Father
Christmas capers into the room, saying_,—

Here comes I, Old Father Christmas,
Welcome or welcome not;
I hope Old Father Christmas
Will never be forgot.

I was born in a rocky country, where there was no wood to make
me a cradle; I was rocked in a stouring-bowl, which made me
round shouldered then, and I am round shouldered still.

[_He then frisks about the room, until
he thinks he has sufficiently amused the
spectators, when he makes his exit, with this
speech_:—

Who went to the orchard to steal apples to make gooseberry pies
against Christmas?

[_These prose speeches, you may suppose, depend
much upon the imagination of the actor._

_Enter_ Turkish Knight.

Here comes I, a Turkish knight,
Come from the Turkish land to fight;
And if St George do meet me here,
I’ll try his courage without fear.

_Enter_ ST GEORGE.

Here come I, St George,
That worthy champion bold;
And, with my sword and spear,
I won three crowns of gold.
I fought the dragon bold,
And brought him to the slaughter;
By that I gain’d fair Sabra,
The King of Egypt’s daughter.

_T. K._ St George, I pray, be not too bold;
If thy blood is hot, I’ll soon make it cold.

_St G._ Thou Turkish knight, I pray, forbear;
I’ll make thee dread my sword and spear.

[_They fight until the Turkish Knight falls._

_St G._ I have a little bottle, which goes by the name of Elicumpane;
If the man is alive, let him rise and fight again.

[_The Knight here rises on one knee, and
endeavours to continue the fight, but is again
struck down._

_T. K._ Oh, pardon me, St George; oh, pardon me, I crave;
Oh, pardon me this once, and I will be thy slave.

_St G._ I’ll never pardon a Turkish knight;
Therefore arise, and try thy might.

[_The Knight gets up, and they again fight,
till the Knight receives a heavy blow and then
drops on the ground as dead._

_St G._ Is there a doctor to be found,
To cure a deep and deadly wound?

_Enter_ Doctor.

Oh yes, there is a doctor to be found,
To cure a deep and deadly wound.

_St G._ What can you cure?

_Doctor._ I can cure the itch, the palsy, and gout:
If the devil’s in him, I’ll pull him out.

[_The Doctor here performs the cure with sundry
grimaces, and St George and the Knight again
fight, when the latter is knocked down, and
left for dead._

[_Then another performer enters, and, on seeing
the dead body, says_,—

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust;
If Uncle Tom Pearce won’t have him, Aunt Molly must.

[_The hobby-horse here capers in, and takes off
the body._

_Enter_ Old Squire.

Here comes I, old, Old Squire,
As black as any friar,
As ragged as a colt,
To leave fine clothes for malt.

_Enter_ Hub Bub.

Here comes I, old Hub Bub Bub Bub;
Upon my shoulders I carries a club,
And in my hand a frying-pan,
So am I not a valiant man?

[_These characters serve as a sort of burlesque
on St George and the other hero, and may be
regarded in the light of an anti-masque._

_Enter_ the Box-holder.

Here comes I, great head and little wit;
Put your hand in your pocket, and give what you think fit.
Gentlemen and ladies, sitting down at your ease,
Put your hands in your pockets, and give me what you please.

_St G._ Gentlemen and ladies, the sport is almost ended;
Come pay to the box, it is highly commended.
The box it would speak, if it had but a tongue;
Come throw in your money, and think it no wrong.

The characters now generally finish with a dance, or sometimes
a song or two is introduced. In some of the performances, two
or three other tragic heroes are brought forward, as the King
of Egypt and his son, &c.; but they are all of them much in the
style of that I have just described, varying somewhat in length
and number of characters.”—_The Every-Day Book._

Of the Cornish mystery plays which were once acted in the famous “Rounds,” it is not necessary, in this place, to say anything. The translations by Mr Norris preserve their characteristics, which indeed differ in few respects from the mystery plays of other parts.

The “Perran Round” is fortunately preserved by the proprietor in its original state. Every one must regret the indifference of the wealthy inhabitants of St Just to their “Round,” which is now a wretched ruin.

GEESE-DANCING—PLOUGH MONDAY.

The first Monday after Twelfth-day is Plough Monday, and it is the ploughman’s holiday.

At this season, in the Islands of Scilly, at St Ives, Penzance, and other places, the young people exercise a sort of gallantry called “geese-dancing.” The maidens are dressed up for young men, and the young men for maidens; and, thus disguised, they visit their neighbours in companies, where they dance, and make jokes upon what has happened during the year, and every one is humorously “told their own,” without offence being taken. By this sort of sport, according to yearly custom and toleration, there is a spirit of wit and drollery kept up among the people. The music and dancing done, they are treated with liquor, and then they go to the next house, and carry on the same sport. A correspondent, writing to the “Table-Book,” insists on calling these revels “goose-dancing.” The true Cornishman never uses the term, which is, as I have elsewhere shewn, derived from _dance deguiser_,—hence guise-dancing, or geese-dancing, by corruption.

CHRISTMAS AT ST IVES.

“THE GUISE-DANCING.”

“We doubt if there is a spot in ‘merrie England’ where
Christmas receives so hearty a welcome, and is ‘made so much
of,’ as in the old-fashioned ‘antient borough of beloved St
Ives.’ It is often said that ‘extremes meet;’ but as well
might we expect the extremities of Britain—John o’Groat’s and
Cape Cornwall—to meet, as that the frolic-loving descendants
of Albion will ever imitate the cold, mountain-nurtured
Caledonians in their observance of Christmas time. For months
previous to the merry-making time, preparations are made
for the approaching ‘carnival;’ we can assure our readers
that never were the real ‘carnivals’ ushered in with greater
festivities at Rome or Venice, in the zenith of their glory,
than is observed here at Christmas. Were many of the denizens
of our large towns to witness the making up of the scores
of ‘sugar-loaf,’ ‘three-cocked,’ and indescribable-shaped
hats, caps, bonnets, bloomer skirts, leggings, jackets, &c.,
numberless _et ceteras_ of the most grotesque and pantomimic
character, colour, and shape, which goes on in October and
November, they would imagine there was to be a _bal masque_
on a large scale, or a pantomime at ‘the theatre,’ of
metropolitan proportions. But not so, for there is not even
a singing class in the town, if we except the choirs of the
various congregations, and all ‘this wilful waste’ of long
cloth, scarlet, ringstraked, and speckled, is to do honour
to King Christmas during the twelve nights which intervene
’twixt the birth of Christmas common and Christmas proper,
which said outward manifestations of honour are known in the
neighbourhood as ‘Christmas geezze-daancing,’ or guise-dancing;
but of this presently. Not only are the ‘lovers of pleasure’ on
the alert, but the choirs of the different places of worship
strive to ‘get up’ a piece or two to tickle the ears of their
hearers on Christmas-night, and the house that boasts the best
‘singing seat’ is sure to be crammed by persons attracted by
the twofold advantage of a short sermon and a good lively tune.
A pretty brisk trade is carried on by children in the retailing
unquenched lime, in small quantities to suit the convenience
of purchasers; and few are the domiciles but have had a lick
of the lime brush, either on the wall, window-sill, door-post,
or chimney. ‘A slut, indeed,’ is she declared who refuses to
have a thorough clean out before Christmas. New shoes and
clothes are worn for the first time on the great holiday; and
woe betide the unlucky Crispin who, by some unaccountable
oversight, has neglected to make Jennifer’s bran new shoes, for
her to go and see how smart the church is on Christmas-day.
As in other parts of England, a pretty large sum is spent in
evergreens, such as holly, or, as it is called here, ‘prickly
Christmas,’ bays, and laurels. Of mistletoe and cypress there
is very little in the neighbourhood, and the windows of shops
and private dwellings, as well as the parish church, are
profusely and tastefully decorated. As to provisions there
is no lack. Many a flock of geese has been bespoken, and set
apart for private customers; whilst the ears of the grocers,
who generally do a supplementary trade in swine’s flesh, are so
accustomed to receive a month’s notice for ‘a nice bit of flea
(spare) rib,’ that they are loth to engage any of the porcine
fraternity that are not all rib. The Christmas market is not a
mean affair at St Ives; if the butchers cannot boast of many
prize oxen or ‘South Downs,’ they generally manage to make
the best of their ‘home-raised’ and well-fed cattle, and the
stalls are ‘titivated off’ nicely too. This year, however, the
inspector of nuisances, who is also market-toll collector and
police constable, sergeant, and inspector, actually refused to
clean, or allow to be cleaned, the St Ives market on Tuesday
for the Christmas-eve market, because there was no extra tolls
payable for the Christmas markets, and, as may be expected,
the epithets bestowed on him were by no means flattering
or complimentary—we did hear of a suggestion to put the
‘gentleman’ policeman in an aldermanic stall on the 5th of next
November, or maybe during the guise-dancing. Tradesmen have for
the most part ‘cacht their jobs,’ and the good housewife ‘done
her churs in season’ on Christmas-eve. In many families, a
crock of ‘fish and tatees’ is discussed in West-Cornwall style
before the ‘singers’ commence their time-honoured carol, ‘While
Shepherds,’ which is invariably sung to ‘the same old tune,’
struck by some novice in _u_ flat. There is usually a host of
young men and maidens to accompany the ‘singers;’ these are
composed of the choirs of two or three dissenting bodies, who
chiefly select the members of their respective congregations
for the honour of being disturbed from a sound nap on the
eventful morning. The last two or three years the choirs have
done their carolling amongst the most respectable of the
inhabitants on the evening of Christmas-day, after divine
service.

“On Christmas-day the mayor, aldermen, and councillors walk in
procession to church from the house of the mayor for the time
being. The church is, as we have before remarked, gaily decked
with evergreens. Two or three days after the singers make a
call ‘for something for singing,’ the proceeds, which are
pretty handsome, being spent in a substantial supper for the
choir.

“But of the ‘guise-dancing,’ which has found a last retreat
at St Ives,—this is the only town in the country where the
old Cornish Christmas revelry is kept up with spirit. The
guise-dancing time is the twelve nights after Christmas,
_i.e._, from Christmas-day to Twelfth-day. Guise-dancing at St
Ives is no more nor less than a pantomimic representation or
_bal masque_ on an extensive scale, the performers outnumbering
the audience, who in this case take their stand at the corners
of the streets, which are but badly lighted with gas, and
rendered still more dismal of late years by the closing of the
tradesmen’s shops after sunset during this season, on account
of the noise and uproar occasioned, the town being literally
given up to a lawless mob, who go about yelling and hooting in
an unearthly manner, in a tone between a screech and a howl,
so as to render their voices as undistinguishable as their
buffoon-looking dresses. Here a Chinese is exhibiting ‘vite
mishe’ and ‘Dutch dops;’ there a turbaned Indian asks you if
you ‘vant a silver vatch.’ A little further on you meet with a
Highlander with ‘dops to cure the gout.’ The home-impoverishing
packman, or duffer, has also his representative, urging to be
allowed just to leave ‘a common low-price dress at an uncommon
high price, and a quartern of his 6s. sloe-leaves, of the
best quality.’ Faithless swains not unfrequently get served
out by the friends of the discarded one at this time, whilst
every little peccadillo meets with a just rebuke and exposure.
About eighteen years ago, a party of youngsters, to give more
variety to the sports, constructed a few nice representations
of elephants, horses, and—start not gentle reader—lifelike
facsimiles of that proverbially stupid brute, the ass. For
several seasons it was quite a treat to witness the antics
of the self-constituted elephants, horses, and asses, in the
thoroughfares of this little town. On the whole, the character
of the guise-dancing has degenerated very much this last
twenty years. It was formerly the custom for parties to get
up a little play, and go from house to house to recite their
droll oddities, and levy contributions on their hearers in
the form of cake or plum-pudding. Wassailing, as far as I can
learn, never obtained much in this neighbourhood. Old Father
Christmas and bold King George were favourite characters. It
is not uncommon to see a most odiously-disguised person with
a bedroom utensil, asking the blushing bystanders if there
is ‘any need of me.’ Some of the dresses are, indeed, very
smart, and even costly; but for the most part they consist of
old clothes, arranged in the oddest manner, even frightfully
ugly. It is dangerous for children, and aged or infirm persons,
to venture out after dark, as the roughs generally are armed
with a sweeping brush or a shillaly. The uproar at times
is so tremendous as to be only equalled in a ‘rale Irish
row.’ As may be anticipated, these annual diversions have a
very demoralising influence on the young, on account of the
licentious nature of the conversation indulged in, though
we really wonder that there are not many more instances of
annoyance and insult than now take place, when we consider
that but for such times as Christmas and St Ives feast, the
inhabitants have no place of amusement, recreation, or public
instruction; there being no library, reading-room, institution,
literary or scientific, or evening class; and unless there is
one at the National School-room, not a night school or even a
working-men’s institution is in the town.

“We should not omit that one of the old customs still observed
is the giving apprentices three clear holidays (not including
Sunday) after Christmas-day, though we hear of attempts being
made to lessen this treat to the youngsters. If we don’t wish
success to these efforts, we do desire those should succeed who
will endeavour to impart to our rising population a thorough
contempt for guise-dancing and all such unmeaning buffoonery.
There is one thing which must not be overlooked—viz., the few
drunken brawls that occur at such times. Cases of drunkenness
certainly occur, but these are far below the average of towns
of its size, the population being in 1861 (parliamentary
limits) 10,354.”—_St Ives Correspondent._

LADY LOVELL’S COURTSHIP.

By the especial kindness of one who has a more abundant store of old Cornish stories than any man whom I have ever met, I am enabled to give some portion of one of the old Cornish plays, or guise-dances. Many parts are omitted, as they would, in our refined days, be considered coarse; but as preserving a true picture of a peculiar people, as they were a century and a half or two centuries since, I almost regret the omissions.

SCENE 1.—_The Squire’s Kitchen—Duffy sitting on the
chimney-stool—Jane, the housekeeper, half drunk, holding fast
by the table._

_Jane._ Oh, I am very bad, I must go to bed with the wind in my
stomach. You can bake the pie, Duffy, and give the Squire his
supper. Keep a good waking fire on the pie for an hour or more.
Turn the glass again; when the sand is half down, take the fire
from the kettle. Mind to have a good blazing fire in the hall,
for the Squire will be as wet as a shag. The old fool, to stay
out hunting with this flood of rain! Now, I’ll take a cup of
still waters, and crawl away to bed.

_Duffy._ Never fear, I’ll bake the pie as well as if you were
under the kettle along with it; so go to bed, Jane.

[_As soon as Jane turns her back, Huey Lenine
(Lanyon) comes in with_,—

_Huey._ What cheer, Duffy, my dear? how dost aw get on, then?

_Duffy._ Never the better for thee, I bla, Huey. What do bring
thee here this time of night?

_Huey._ Why, thee art never the worse, nan, I’m sure. Nor thee
cussent say that the lanes are longer than the love neither,
when I’m come a-courting to thee with this rainy weather.

[_Huey places himself on the chimney-stool, at
a good distance from Duffy._

_D._ Why doesn’t aw come a little nearer then, Huey?

_H._ Near enuff, I bla.

_D._ Nearer the fire, I mean. Why doesn’t aw speak to me then,
Huey?

_H._ What shall I say, nan?

_D._ Why, say thee dost love me, to be sure.

_H._ So I do.

_D._ That’s a dear. Fine pretty waistcoat on to you, man, Huey.

_H._ Cost pretty money too.

_D._ What did it cost, man?

_H._ Two-and-twenty pence, buttons and all.

_D._ Take good care of en, man.

_H._ So I will.

_D._ That’s a dear.

[_The Squire is heard calling the dogs._

_D._ Dost aw hear? there’s the Squire close to the door. Where
shall I put thee? Oh, I’m in such a fright. Wouldn’t for the
world that he found thee here this time of night. Get in the
wood-corner, quick, out of sight, and I’ll cover thee up with
the furze.

_H._ No.

_D._ Then jump into the oven. A little more baking will make
thee no worse.

[_Duffy pushes Huey back into the oven with the
fire-prong, till he gets out of sight, when the
Squire comes in, calling_,—

_Squire._ Jane, take the hares and rabbits; be sure hang them
out of the way of the dogs.

_D._ Give them to me, master; Jane is gone to bed. The wind
from her stomach is got up in her head, at least so she said.

_S._ Why, who is here, then? I heard thee speaking to some one
as I opened the door.

_D._ I was driving away a great owl, master, that fell out of
the ivy-bush on the top of the chimney, and came tumbling down
through the smoke, perched hisself there on the end of the
chimney-stack; there he kept blinking and peeping, like a thing
neither waking nor sleeping, till he heard the dogs barking,
when he stopped his winking, cried out, “Hoo! hoo!” flapped his
wings, and fled up the chimney the same way he came down.

_D._ Now, master, you had better go up in the hall; you will
find there a good blazing fire.

[_The Squire examines his legs by the
fire-light._

_S._ Well, I declare, these are the very best stockings I ever
had in my life. I’ve been hunting, since the break of day,
through the bogs and the brambles, the furze and the thorns, in
all sorts of weather; and my legs,—look, Duffy, look—are still
as dry and sound as if they had been bound up in leather.

_D._ Then take good care of them, master; for I shall soon have
a man of my own to knit for. Huey and I are thinking to get
married before the next turfey season.

_S._ You think of having a man! a young girl like you! If I but
catch the boy Huey Lenine here, I’ll break his neck I declare.
I can never wear old Jane’s stockings any more. Why, thee dust
ought to be proud to know that the people from all over the
parish, who were never to church before in their lives, come,
and from parishes round, that they may see my fine stockings.
And don’t I stop outside the church door—ay, sometimes two
hours or more—that the women may see thy fine work? Haven’t
I stopped at the cross till the parson came out to call the
people in, because he and the clerk, he said, wanted to begin?