Chapter IX: Part 9

Here, in old times, Scandinavians generally seem to have been called Danes; and from the prevalence, in some families of this parish, of the fiery-hued hair ascribed to those northern marauders, the inference is obvious, and the vulgar nickname accounted for which was given in ages past, and “originated with kind and discriminating neighbours.”

No doubt the neighbouring witches, just mentioned, kindly performed their share of the nicknaming.

The stories referring to the “red-haired Danes’” incursions seem to be handed down from a time more remote than that of King Olof’s conversion at the Scilly Islands, and much of what they say is confirmed by Snorri Sturluson in his Heimskringla.

SANTUST FUGGANS AND MORVAH CHICK-CHACKS.

St. Just people do not seem to have had one of long standing, but they are favoured with two at present.

Many called them “Santust Fuggans,” and others “Red-tailed Drones.” The former is given them from the heavy-cakes (fuggan) which they take to “ball” for a stay-stomach; and the latter from their red working dress dyed with tin-stuff.

One may remark that what we country folks call “drones” are large wild bees with orange-coloured or red tails, and never the large male bees of the hive. When a slice of meat is baked on a “fuggan” it then becomes a “hoggan.”

Perhaps these peculiar words are old Cornish. A haws is also called a “hoggan,” but that may be from the Saxon.

It is uncertain how Morvah folks acquired the sobriquet of “Chick-chacks.” It is very general: consequently one may suppose it to be of ancient date. Some say it was given because the gabble of old Morvah people sounded like the chatter of birds commonly called Chick-chacks, from their cry or note. Morvah Devils is also a common nickname.

NANCLEDREA RATS AND ZENNOR GOATS.

Nancledrea folk owe their nickname of “rats” to their mill, or rather to their millers. This may be understood by such scenes as the following, which often occurred:—The “loader” (miller’s boy) having brought the grist to a farmhouse, the good wife would “peze” (weigh by hand) the sacks of flour, bran, &c.—looking very wise, or sour the while,—then relieve her mind by saying, “Look here, thou ‘pilyack’ (good-for-nothing rascal), thee hast broft me up ‘tummals’ enow to be sure, but more than hafe of en es secands and brand, that a es; and what thee hast broft for brand es most of am barley hulls and ‘ishan’ (corn husks and dust,) but thee dosn’t care. The cunan old Nancledrea rats have eat the best flour agen and left all the secands and brand. Dost a hear me, you? I spose, too, that after the sacks had been twice tull’d, the millar’s old wife dipped in her dish agen, for doubtan that they hadn’t ben tull’d enow before.”

The loader, very unconcerned, lets the dame talk on, and she continues:—

“Now, tell the old rat from me—dost a heer me?—ef a don’t sarve me better next time, I’ll carry my corn to ‘four parishes round’ before I’ll be cheated so; that I will; the devil take the hungry old rat and his wife too.”

After some rough talk the boy was generally dismissed with a good slice of bread thickly spread with cream and treacle.

It is said that Zennor people obtained their nickname of “Goats” from the great number of these animals which were formerly kept on the high rocky hills, amongst them Carn Galva (goat’s carn), on the western side of this parish.

It was also said that Zennor people would contrive, by their thrifty habits, to live like goats, where other animals and ordinary human beings would starve. “As careful as Zennor people” was a common saying in neighbouring parishes. Yet their care or stinginess was often mistaken for economy, when their rearing cattle, and working beasts as well, were so badly fed in winter that they came to “heaving” time, if not before, in the spring.

It was what we call “funny but whist” to see, of a morning, men or women, out in their “crafts” (where such cattle were usually wintered) helping a poor, half-starved beast to rise, and holding on to its tail until it could stand steady enow to devour the little jerffel (armful) of straw, put before it. Yet, when they contrived to keep alive their poor yearlings until summer, these hardy young cattle, then turned to lanes, would often wander away for miles and get at the grass, or any crop to be found on a remarkably fertile strip of land between the wild hills and the sea-shore, in spite of all their spanning or steeping (tying the head down to a leg), or “mopping,” by a piece of board hung before the eyes.

On this strip of land, forming the morrab of Zennor, the principal farms of this parish are situated.

TOWEDNACK CUCKOOS AND ST. IVES HAKES.

Towednack people were nicknamed “Cuckoos” from the institution of what was called their “Cuckoo Feast.” The story runs that, in old times, “Towednackers” fretted themselves very much because the winters were so long “up there” in that bitter cold country; besides, they grieved all the more on account of their having no feast, as in parishes round.

They owed this grievance either to their not having had a patron saint, or he had ceased to be commemorated by an annual festival, if he ever were thus honoured. At length the principal people of the parish agreed to meet at the public-house that they might lay their heads together and, by their united wisdom, devise some plan for bettering their condition in both respects. Abundance of strong drink and some eatables were provided for the occasion. They met on the last week of April, and, after a long deliberation, one of the wisest proposed to hedge in a cuckoo, if ever she came there again, which was a rare occurrence.

One and all declared that nothing could be better; they would go the very next day and begin to hedge in a place on Cold Harbour Downs, and leave a gap in the enclosure through which she could be driven into it. They stayed together a week rejoicing over their schemes, and singing the old refrain,—

“The cuckoo is a pretty bird,
And sings as she flies;
And brings us fine weather,
And tells us no lies.”

They would have remained longer but their drink ran short.

The story doesn’t say if they commenced hedging or not. They were so well pleased, however, with the joyous way in which they had passed a week together that all of them determined, henceforward to meet every year, at the same date, to hold a feast, and to invite their friends from other parishes to come there and be entertained.

The good folk kept their resolution, held a feasten week in a jovial way, and their winters seemed shorter to them ever after. There are other versions of this old droll, all of them intended to ridicule simple folk for confounding cause and effect; all show, too, that there was something unusual in the establishment of Towednack feast.

This feast was also called “Crowder feast,” from an old custom which was there kept up at “the tide,” long after it had fallen into disuse in other parishes.

On the feasten-Sunday morning, the people, with their “feasters” (visitors from other parishes) met in Churchtown, at or near the inn. Whilst the bells rung, they arranged themselves to form a kind of procession; when the bells ceased calling them, the fiddler struck up a lively tune on his “crowd” (fiddle) and led them on to the Church door.

After service they again formed in order on leaving the Church, and headed by the “crowder,” fifers, and others playing a cheerful strain—whilst the bells rung,—as was their wont at “the tide,”—they marched together three times round or through the village before they dispersed and took their various roads home.

This custom was regarded, by good people, as natural enough in more simple and sociable times, when it was “Merrie England.”

There is a saying that calves are christened at Towednack Quay Head. One would like to know how this arose?

St. Ives people are known as “hake whippers,” the tradition running that upon one occasion they flogged the hakes out of the bay, which accounts for none having been seen there since. But at St. Ives they will tell you that the Hake flogged was a man of that name, and that he well deserved it.

A CORNISH DROLL: BETTY TODDY AND HER GOWN.

(RE-PRINTED BY DESIRE.)

We almost every day hear the saying “As gay as Betty Toddy’s gown.” Yet few know anything more of Betty, or her gown, although both were rather remarkable in their way and day. Betty’s right name was Elizabeth Williams. There were four, if not five families of this name in St. Just about a hundred years ago; when Betty flourished in all her glory. To distinguish one of them from another, each family had a nickname, by which they were better known than by their proper name, as Bibbs, Cobbler, Toddy, &c. The family to which Betty belonged gained their queer name by some old granny of theirs giving the children toddy (spirit and water) with their bread and butter, instead of the usual milk, or pillas-porridge. When the old folks “went round land,” Betty and her brother Jacob were left with a little holding in or near Churchtown. They had ground enough to keep a cow or two, raise a little pease, barley, pillas, or naked oats, which were very much used then before the murphies came into the country: the everlasting pease porridge, broth and herby-pies, with milk instead of tea (only then used by the gentry) was the every day fare. Jacob worked to bal, and brought home his gettings to provide the few articles that their little quilletts didn’t supply. Betty had all the profit of what she could spare to sell from her cows and poultry—not much, for Jacob could eat as much as half-a-dozen men, and do as much work as half-a-score of those going now, who have their inside washed out with tea and stuffed with potatoes. The Toddy’s had been people of consequence in their time, and many rich and queer articles of old-fashioned dress came to Betty from grandmothers and great-mothers, in which she would appear in state at Church on Sundays, decked out in all sorts of worn-out finery, put on any how, over the humblest of working-day clothing; as a black silk mantle over a bed-gown, check apron, and quilted petticoat so patched that it was hard to tell which was the first piece; high-heeled velvet shoes, with silver buckles, over sheep-grey stockings; fan, rings, beads, pointed hat, lace ruffles hanging from her elbows to her knees; all the odds and ends of old-fashioned grandeur would be pitched on any how. But Betty was not the only one in the parish then who dressed just in the same way. Betty determined (when nearly out of her teens) that she would have a brand new gown, the smartest in the parish. After saving her money for years—sometimes half starving Jacob on “bread and scrape,” that she might have the more butter to sell, allowing him no more than half-a dozen eggs with his breakfast and so on—she thought that, by the Feast, surely she would have money enough to buy as gay a gown as “heart could wish.”

So Hallan Thursday, Betty started off with her basket of three weeks’ butter, and the money she had been saving for years tied up in her pocket. Betty was so proud that day that, when any found fault with the grey look of her butter, she said they were fools and buckas not to know that the butter was always that colour from a black-and-white cow.

The grey butter was sold at last. Betty went up to Mr. Pidwell’s shop, called out to the old gentleman before she got down the steps into the shop, “Mr. Pidwell, here I am look’e, and I do want as strong a piece of dowlas as you have got in your shop to make a smock, for I must have something that will stand plenty of wear, besides a piece of something brave and smart to make a new gownd against the Feast.” Dowlas for the smock was soon cut out. After, Mr. Pidwell turned over all his gayest prints and chintz, but nothing could be found smart enough to please Betty, when she happened to spy some bed furniture, covered with trees and flowers of all colours, birds singing in the branches, cows couranting, with more sorts of beasts than ever entered the ark—birds and beasts all as gay as the flowers. “Dear lord, Mr. Pidwell, there’s the very thing I do want to have, but I suppose you do think that’s too smart for me; that’s the sort of stuff for the ladies of the town to deck themselves in on Sundays and high Holy-days; or else that I havn’t money enough to pay for’n. What es et a yard than?” “Two and twenty pence,” says Mr. Ben. “No, don’t ye believe et, I arn’t going to be taken in like that, for mammy only gave two and a grate (groat) for her best gownd.” Mr. Pidwell let her have it at her own price, and made up the difference, without taking the poor soul in. All the way home from Penzance to Church-town, Betty and her comrades never tired of admiring the red and blue sheep, goats and deer, rabbits and hares, horses, bulls, and such animals as were never born nor created. By the Feasten Eve, the mantua-maker had made the precious gown to Betty’s mind. They contrived to cut the stuff so as to have one of the red sheep on each shoulder, and a blue bull on the back.

In these good old times, everybody kept up the Feast as they ought. Jacob had killed the pig for Winter’s use that week, and a fine fat calf (none of your “staggering bob,” three weeks old, but something worth calling veal, more than two months in this world), a noble piece of beef, to cut and come again, hares and rabbits, geese and ducks, enough that all the cousins and old acquaintances (not a few) expected to come to Feast might have a good “blow-out.” Don’t ye believe it, that they went short of plenty of good drink in these roaring times, when there was none of your cussed boat-men sneaking about—trying to hinder one, but they can’t, from having plenty of good brandy from France.

The feasten day, Betty was up in the morning early. The morning work was soon done; the great crock put on with the beef, calf’s head, and dumpling; not more water than just enough to cover them, as Betty said “She wouldn’t make dish-wash for Feasten broth; no not she;” rabbit pie, veal and parsley pies, with the figgy-puddings, all were put to bake, and the chimney full of turfey-fire, all in a glow from end to end, when a poor half-witted fellow called Bucca, [24] who thought himself Betty’s sweetheart, came in to watch the cooking, that Betty might dress in time to go to church to shew her new gown.

When Betty came out in her new gown, with all the rest of her faldelals, Bucca said she was a grander lady, by ever so much than Madam down to Pendeen even, leave alone the little gentry and many others thought the same, when Betty stopped at the cross, where they waited long after the parson had gone into Church that they might see all the beauty of Betty’s gay new gownd.

The feasters, from the other parishes, were not expected to arrive much before dinner time. Jacob had started off to meet some cousins from Sancrass on the road. Betty told Bucca, be sure to keep the crock to boil, and when the broth was ready to take up some and a dumpling or two for himself. The basins were breaded on the table, ready for the feasters to help themselves as soon as they came in, according to custom.

The sermon was begun before Betty entered the church door. Then the parson stopped preaching, and everybody stood up to see Betty’s smart gown, and she was brave and proud to stand up that they might see it. At last the parson went on again. Betty and the rest had scarcely seated themselves, when Bucca tore into church crying out “Betty! Betty! make haste home; the calf’s head have eat the dumplings all but one, and es chasing that round the crock like mad, and the feasters are all come too!” The parson now stopped for good, and all went out of church as fast as they could tumble, to get a sight of Betty Toddy’s gay gown, and such a gay gown has never been seen in Church-town from that day to this. As might be expected, Bucca found the dumplings so good that he eat them all but one and put the fault on the calf’s head. No matter. The feasters didn’t lack good cheer.

Best part of the Sunday afternoon was passed in doing justice to the good cheer. Towards night, Jacob and the men went round to see their old comrades; then one and all went to the public-house for a spell. Betty and her female friends remained at home, that they might have a good chance of talking by themselves of what they never get weary—their sweethearts. By the time they had told each other about all the youngsters who were fighting for them, or getting drunk because they had been slighted by them, supper being cooked in the meantime, all came in, and found the board laid with as substantial a meal as they had for dinner, and plenty of nice kick-shaws besides. About midnight, after taking eggy-beer and brandy, the old folks went home. The youngsters remained to see, and join in, the games of the feasten week.

Monday morning early, all the men were off to the wrestling. The ring was in a field near Church-town. All the standards had been made before; they had only then to contend for the prizes, which were given by the ladies of the parish, and usually consisted of a pair of spurs for the first prize, a laced hat or waistcoat for the second, and a pair of gloves for the third. The sports of the wrestling-ring and plan-an-guare (the round) which was given up to the boys for their games at quoits, were kept up from daylight till dark night, when all went home for a hasty meal and to take the girls to the public-house, where the fiddle and fife in every room put life into the legs of the dancers; but they seldom found fiddles enough, and many a merry jig and three-handed reel was kept agoing by the tune being sung to such old catches as

“Here’s to the devil,
With his wooden-spade and shovel,
Digging tin by the bushel,
With his tail cocked up;”

or to “Mall Brooks is gone to the wars,” with a rattling chorus to suit the measure. The end to another old catch to which they shoot their heel and toe was

“A guinea will sink and a note will float,
Better is a guinea than a five-pound note.”

Sometimes they merely sang hal-an-toe (heel-and-toe) to keep the mill a-going. At the same time the sober old folks would be below stairs singing their “three-men’s-songs.” At last, when all had danced and drunk so much that they could dance or drink no more, it was “hurrah for home, comrades, to be up for the hurling-match in the morning.”

Tuesday morning you would hear the noble old hurling cry of “Guare wheag y guare teag” (fair play is good play) when the silver ball, with this motto engraved on it, was thrown up from the cross. At the feast the match was usually between St. Just and Burian or Sancreed; or Sennen and St. Levan together were regarded as a fair match for St. Just. The run was often from Church-town to the stone marking the boundary of the four parishes, but when Pendeen was kept up in its glory then the goal was down to the green-court gate, where the noble old squire would have a barrel of strong beer, with abundance of other good cheer, to treat all comers.

Pendeen didn’t look wisht and dreary then, with the place crowded with ladies, decked in all that was rich and rare, to see the hurling-ball brought in. You should have been there to see all the beautiful chimney-stacks of the grand old house sending out the turf-smoke, to note the clouds coming out of that noble hall-chimney, just beside the door; doesn’t it tell one of the comfort and free heart of all within? What is it that makes that old building look so noble? Is it the angle at which the roof is pitched, the exact proportion and variety of the chimney-stacks, or the just proportions and correspondence of the whole, that makes the old mansion so pleasing to the eye as well as interesting?

Whilst we are admiring the house, all the hurlers are drinking health and a happy long life to the squire and all his family. If the old stories may be credited there was always good store of something stronger than “old October” no farther off than the Vow, which the squire, being a justice, was supposed to know nothing about. They say that when a cargo from France was expected to be run into the Cove, the ladies would contrive to send the good old squire from home, or keep him indoors till the liquor was safe in the Vow—the silks and laces in the ladies’ chests.

Few were so curious as to venture near the Vow by night, scarcely by day, as all said the place was haunted by the spirit of a lady which had often been seen coming out of the cavern in the depth of Winter, dressed all in white, with a red rose in her mouth; and woe betide the person who had the bad luck to see the ghost—misfortune was sure to follow. We know now that great part of the ghosts which were said to haunt many old mansions in the west were mere creations of the smugglers’ brains, to scarce away the over-curious from the convenient hiding-places furnished by these old houses in their vaults, caverns, secret closets behind or beside the chimneys, with many other contrivances for the concealment of persons and property.

The hurlers from the other parishes, whether they lost or won, were made to go back to church-town or home with our St. Tusters to be treated. If the strangers would neither eat or drink with them they would soon have to fight with them, and all in friendship too. They would like enough be asked, “Dost thee think thyself too good to eat or drink with me then? If that’s the case, come let’s see which is the best man of us.” When they had half-killed each other, and had been only parted by their comrades to save their lives, then they would shake hands, and say “Well thee art worth having for a comrade; thee art just as good a man as myself,” and be the best friends in the world ever after; and the night would be passed in dancing and other fun till morning.

When the feast was over with many, yet others would turn out for slinging matches, on the Wednesday. This sport, if it may be called so (often more like a battle), is as ancient as wrestling, or hurling, and has no doubt been in vogue as a pastime ever since the sling was regarded as next in importance, as an offensive arm, to the bow and arrow. The stories about the giants slinging rocks at each other on Morvah Downs is proof enough of the antiquity of the sport. In the time of Betty and Jacob, the boys and girls, by constant practice with the sling, were so dexterous in its use that they could hit a mark at a very great distance. The men of St. Just, and many of the women too, liked the sport so well that they would often draw for sides. The two parties place themselves on the burrows of old tin works at a convenient distance, and sling stones at each other, for dear life; they didn’t mind a few cut heads, for the fun of the thing.

We have said nothing about Jacob, Betty and their feasters this good while, but then, you must know, they took their share in all the games that were going on, the same as the rest.

When Wednesday came, which is known as servy-day, when all the odds and ends of the feast are served up, early in the afternoon the feasters return home. It wasn’t come to servy-day either with Jacob and Betty; but as they intended to hold the “Little Feasten Day” (for some visitors who could not come the feasten week) they didn’t press the cousins to stay any longer.

On Thursday, Betty thought they might as well return to the ordinary fare of pease-porridge, and save the joints of meat for next Sunday’s visitors. Jacob went to bal, just for the saying of the thing. Nobody thought of doing much before the next week, as it takes days to tell all the news about the feast, the news brought to the parish by the strangers, and to get to rights, as we say. The crock, with water to boil a gallon or so of peas for Jacob’s supper, was only put on in the afternoon, as he was sure to be late home. Betty placed some coals of turf fire under the crock, and enough (as she thought) of fursey-turves round the brandes (trivet) to keep peas to boil: then she went out to “coursey” a bit.

Besides the feasten news, there was then, and always had been, a never-ending subject for them to talk of in their constant fears of some foreigners or other landing in Whitsand Bay or Priest’s Cove. Who they were to be, they couldn’t tell exactly. Only they knew that the red-haired Danes [25] were to come again, when Vellandruchar [26] mill would again be worked with blood, and the kings would dine on Table-māyon (mēn) for the last time (as the world was to come to an end soon after). This they still firmly believe may take place any day, because Merlin uttered a prophecy to that effect more than a thousand years ago. As the time of Betty Toddy’s glory was about the commencement of the American war of independence, when the French took sides with cousins over the water, the greatest fear then was that the French would land some night and carry off the tin; they didn’t fear much for what the French would do in the way of fighting, so they said. Betty and the rest passed the evening, or night rather, in going round Churchtown to hear the news and drinking confusion to the French in almost every house. Long before Betty came in, Jacob came home pretty well slewed (tipsy) and very hungry, but the peas were just as hard as when put in the crock; for soon after Betty went out, the fire went out. However, Jacob ate about a gallon of the peas, ready or raw, and, that he mightn’t have the mully-grubs, took an extra glass of brandy; and was in bed snoring, grunting, groaning, and tossing like a porpoise, when Betty came in. We know that ill-boiled peas are very indigestable, so one may guess how they troubled Jacob, among the beer and brandy, half raw as they were. Betty could hear all Jacob’s uneasiness, as there was only a screen of thin boards between their chambers, but she little heeded Jacob’s groaning, having enough to do (as she wasn’t very steady in the head) to get into bed, to sleep herself sober.

Towards the morning part of the night Betty awoke in a terrible fright. She had lost all recollection of Jacob’s groans, as she went to bed, and, when she was fairly sensible now, his roars were frightful. Her first thought was of the French! Without staying to dress, she tore out of the house, roused all the neighbours from their beds, by crying out at everybody’s door as she went tearing, half-naked, round Churchtown “Get up! Get up! You’ll be murdered alive, the French es landed. I heard some of ’em in our house!”

In a few minutes after, half the women in Churchtown were racing round the place, crying “Fire!” and “Murder,” “Blood and Thunder; you’ll all be killed in your beds and be buried alive; the French es landed, get up! get up!” The bells were set ringing in the tower. Will Tregear fired the furze on the Biccan (Beacon). The Biccan hills were soon all a blaze from St. Just to Plymouth, where the nearest troops were stationed then. Whilst the bells were still ringing, and women screeching in Churchtown, trumpet and drum sounded reveillé in Plymouth garrison. The troops in red-hot haste got under arms, and were marching Westward ho! Jan Trezise was sent off, fast as horse could go, to meet the troops and guide them to St. Just. There were relays of horses kept in all the principal towns on the road to Plymouth, ready saddled as soon as the Biccan fires gave notice of the enemy landing in the West.

They say that Jan didn’t ride very fast after he passed Penzance, for the pack-saddle he took in his hurry to ride on so galled him that he could hardly sit on the horse’s back when he arrived at Crowlas, sitting sidelong for more ease. The landlady took pity on him, gave him the best pillow she had in the house to make a softer seat for him, and a good dram of course; then on he went as best he could for Redruth, cussing the French all the way.

When Betty had alarmed all the town she came in and waked up her brother, but Jacob only cussed the peas, the French, and Betty too; then snored away again. Betty, knowing that the smugglers brought the silks, laces, and other smart things from France, and that the French greatly admired dress and fashion, donned her gay gown, with all her trinkets and trappings; placed bread, cream, and honey on the board, that the French officers, whom she expected to see every minute, might take her for a grand lady of the land, and treat her with great respect. So she seated herself on the chimney-stool ready to rise and make her curtsey, and thinking what she should say when the French Captain came in. There leave her.

At last, when daylight came to dispel the fears of the people of Churchtown, they traced all the alarm spread by Betty to the indigestible peas eaten by Jacob for supper. Yet they seem never to have thought of the consequences of the false alarm, and of having the troops quartered on them for nothing, till the parson hearing of it in Penzance (where he lived) came out the Saturday to see what was the matter. To make sure that no Frenchmen were lurking about, all the creeks and coves were searched, the hills and carns inspected. When satisfied that all the fuss was for nothing they had the sense to send off countermanding orders by the parson’s man.

The troops left Plymouth, and came on West in uncertainty as to where the enemy had landed, Jan Trezise having lost his road, and got down to Gweek, where he was found a month after in clover, for Gweek people treated him like a gentleman for bringing them the news (there was no fear of the French finding them, yet they liked to know what was going on in the rest of the world).

The parson’s courier found the troops wandering about in a fog on the Four-burrow downs, not knowing what way to steer. When told of the false alarm they were glad enough to turn tail and cut off home again.

There are plenty more queer things told about Betty Toddy, and others who lived about this time in St. Just, but they are such wild rants that one don’t like to mention them now, in these precise times, for fear the prim, sour folks who call themselves enlightened may accuse one of romancing like an Old Celt. Not that any one need care anything about their grimace; least of all an Old Celt.

[Perhaps this story may be somewhat embellished or exaggerated through the volant fancies of the Drolls; yet, from all that we have heard about the matter, there is good reason for believing that a false alarm of the French having landed in St. Just occurred, as stated above, on the Feasten week, when they were so muddle-headed that they didn’t think of, nor care about the consequences of signalling to Plymouth for troops. “They might all come to Feast, if they would; and welcome.” In some versions of the story the troops are said to have arrived in Market-jew, without knowing where they were wanted; yet the alarm had spread, from seeing the Beacons blazing, that the French had landed in various parts of the county.]

THE GHOST-LAYER.

There need be no difficulty about getting a ghost laid. We have just heard of a local preacher, living in the district between Camborne and Helston, who, according to his own account, has put many troublesome spirits to rest, generally by settling for them their mundane affairs, about which they were troubled, by reasoning with and advising them to stay below, bear their punishment with a good heart, make the best of a bad matter, and hope for better times. He allowed that sometimes he was merely deluding the ghosts; yet, no matter, the end sought was attained—anything to get rid of them!

As he had a rather uncommon adventure in laying one ghost, we give an account, somewhat abridged, of this enterprise.

From some trifling cause the spirit got back again to its late abode, before the mourners had quitted the public-house, in Churchtown, where, as is customary, they stopped awhile to treat and take leave of their friends, who had come to the funeral from a distance.

The ghost became, at once, so annoying, that none could rest in the house with it, and, a few nights after the burial, the family of the deceased, not knowing what to do to obtain any rest, fetched the preacher, who was believed to possess extraordinary knowledge of spiritual matters and power over the ghostly world and its inhabitants. He entered the haunted house alone. After many hours passed in prayer and expostulation with the obstinate spirit, it at last consented to return to its grave and stay there, if the exorcist and preacher would accompany it to the churchyard to see it landed there.

And now happened the most remarkable part of this affair. About midnight, the ghost layer bound the spirit with a piece of new rope, and fastened the other end of it round his own waist, that the spirit mightn’t give him the slip. The spirit, gentle as a lamb, was then led out of the house; but it had no sooner crossed the door-sill than the dwelling was surrounded by a pack of yelping hounds, of which the town-place was full, and the old one riding up the lane in a blaze of fire.

The spirit, to save itself from being caught by hounds and huntsman, mounted high up in the air, taking the man (hanging by the middle) with it. Away they went, over trees, hills, and water. In less than a minute they passed over some miles, and alighted in the churchyard, close by the spirit’s grave, which the man saw open, and blue sulphurous flames issuing therefrom, and he heard, coming from below, most horrid shrieks and moans.

The ghost, knowing it was no use to contend with the man of faith, only stopped to say farewell, and then descended into its grave, which immediately closed. The man—overcome, by being borne, with lightning speed, through the air, or by the infernal fumes rising from the open grave,—fell down in a fit, from which he didn’t recover till daybreak, and then he was scarcely able to leave the churchyard. When near the town-place, which he had left with the spirit, in the branch of a tree he found his hat, that must have fallen from his head on first mounting through the air.

The most probable solution of this story (told in good faith and firmly believed) is that the ghost-layer, after taking too much spirit in the public-house, rambled into the churchyard, there fell asleep, and dreamed the rest.

CORNISH DIALOGUE BETWEEN TWO OLD MEN.

Job Munglar.

Loard! uncle Jan Trudle, dost a hire the news How belike we shall stompey in temberan shoes? For the Franchmen and Spangars be coaming, they saey, For to carry us ale from ould Inglant away!

Jan Trudle.

Hould tha toang, tha’ great toatledum pattick of Newlyn, What becaze the old wemmen be dwailing and druling, And fright’ning one tother with goblins and goastes, And a squaling “The Franchmen be got ’pon the coastes!” Shoar thee beestu’n sich a whit-liver’d saft-bak’d Tim-doodle As to think they’ll titch ground this ’em side of the poodle. Noa—drat’em! they weant bring thick noashion to bear, While there’s bould Coarnish curridge to give ’em a cheer. And trust me, Job Munglar, I’ll weage me ould hat! They have too much of slydom to venture ’pon that. Besides ef they shud, as a body may saeya, Dust a think that we’d let ’em goa deancing aweay? Noa—Faith! thof I stand here so ould as thy vaather, And thee and thy bastards ale reckon’d togeather; Thof I’m lame in my click-hand, and blind ’pon one eye, Yet by Gambers! Jan Trudle would scoarn to fight shy, Or stand gogling for gapes, like an owl at an eagle, Or yowling just ain like a Jany Tregeagle! Noa—dost hire ma! Job Munglar, cheeld veane! dest a hire? There’s no mortal can saey I’m afeard to stand fire. And thee knawst et for sartin, as how, and so be, When the marchants wor sheppin the bearley, dest see, And we run’d off to Padsta to nack their purceedings; Ded I mind the riat-act-man and ’es readings? Noa, I called out the Hubbar—soa hard as I cud, And cried, stand to et boys! tes for bearly or blood! And when ale the soadgers ded loady their guns, I made the purpoashals to dost ’an weth stoans. Soa we cobb’d et away jest like lyants and tygars Till we made am at laste fale a snapping the trigars. And drat ’em! Job Munglar! I’m bould for to saey That I steev’d down three rud-coats so ded as a daey. But I scorn to stand speeching braggashans and soa, As ale round the Bal here do very well knoaw. Yet in caze, ef so be, as the Papishes coame, For to roust us ale out from our houzen and hoam, I’ll be cut up in slivers for meat for the crowas, Ef I doant slam this tamlyn souse into their joaws. Thof I’ve been ever sence that I noozled the nepple, Durk as pitch a won side, and a hafe of a crepple; Yet I’ve heart’s-blood enow if we chance to fale too’t, For to murder five Franch and a Spangar to boot! But et es noa moar likely to coam unto pass, Than thick moyle to fale talkeing like Balaamses ass!

Job Munglar.

Well! that maey be thickey suppoashal’s o’ thine; But fath! ’tis noa mazedish condudle o’ mine! Noa—soa sartin as thickey there place es Kearn Braey, The Franchmen be coaming to car us awey. They’ve five hundred great sheps, and mashes of men, And sich powars of cannons, as ever was sen! But the worstest of ale (sez a man cum’d from Famuth), They have swared to burn ale from Tol Ped’n to Plemuth; And to force ale the people, boath Chrestians and Jews, For to live upon quilkins and pagetopooes; And moar too than thickey, they’ll hitch in a roap Every soual that weant pray to the Devel and Poap! Thof I beant quite soa rich-like in cuyn as a squire, Yet I’ve soam little cob-shans, Jan Trudle! dedst hire? Soa for doubting, cheeld lookey! I’ve steev’d et, oak farm, And “fast bind it, fast find it,” weant do one noa harm. Soa for doubting cheeld vean! (as I tould tha afoar) I’ve squadg’d et down ninety good fathoms and moar, In a drang, where ould scratch, ef ha ever inclin’d et, Might sclau ale his claws off afoar he wud find et. For the outlandish Pagans, in caze they do landey, Will go drifting for cuyn, like excise-men for brandey; But ef ever they smill out the pleace where I’ve poat et, May my corps like a pelchard be saleted and goated!

Jan Trudle.

Why then zounds! let ’em coam, ef soo be they’ve a mind Thee hast shanks for to skeyce with thy fardle behind. Thee maeyest scamp wi’ the wemmen and cheldren, thee goose! And the oather gret gaukums that take the same coose. And may ale the [27]big thunder-bolts up in the clouds Tumble down ’pon my body, and squat ’em to jouds, May I broyle like grain-tin in a blowing-house fire, ’Tell I’m rud as the smith makes the pieces of ire; Ef I weant be shut ded, afoar enny soap-meagar, Shall slavify me like a blackey-moor negar, And make me ate quilkins and pagetepooes, And worship the Devel and wear woaden shoes! [28] Noa fath! by the sperit and soal of my body, I’d rather be toarn’d to a hoddymandoddy! Doan’t stand, tha’ great lutterpooch! chewing tha thumb; For they’ll get a mayn dousting when ever they coam!

A DIALOGUE BETWEEN GRACEY PENROSE AND MALLY TREVISKY.

Gracey.

Faith and trath then, I b’leve, in ten parishes round, Sickey roage, sichey vellan, es nat to ba found!

Mally.

Whot’s tha fussing, un Gracey! long wetha, cheel vean?

Gracey.

A fussing aketha! od splet es ould braeane! Our Martin’s cum’d hum, cheeld, so drunk as a beast, So cross as the gallish from Perranzan veast, A kicking, a tottering, a cussin, and swearing, So hard as the stomses a tarving and tearing.

Mally.

Naver mind et, un Gracey!—cheeld, put en to bed: Aal slepe ale the lecker away from hes head.

Gracey.

I wudden go neast an to fang the King’s crown; For a swears, ef I speke t’un, aal cleave my skull down. Thee never in aal thy born days, fath and shoar, Dedst behould sickey mazegerry pattick afore. Why a scatt all to midjans and jouds for the nons A cloam buzza of scale milk about on the scons; And a catch’d up a shoul for to steve me outright; And I run’d away ready to fainty for fright. Loard! tell ma, un Mally! what shall I do by an— For zountikins! death! I’m affeared to go nigh an.

Mally.

I know what I’d gee’n, ef sa bee ’twor my caze: I’d scatt the ould chacks an, I’d trem an, un Grace!

Gracey.

I’m affear’d a ma life to go nigh the ould vellan, Else, please father, I bleve I should parfectly kell an, But I’ll never no more be so bauld and abus’d: My arms here like bazam the roage have abruis’d! I made for hes supper a muggetty pye; But a shant clunk a croom ate, I wish a may die!

Mally.

I tould thee, afore that the job was adone, That theedst find out tha odds ate so sure as a gun: But thee wusent hark to me for doubting, for why, Becase thee didst know en much better than I? But I know’d the trem aan before thee hads got an, And tould thee a mashes of stories about an. But thee answered so toytish, and skrink’d up tha noze, A gissing ’twas gret stramming lyes I suppoze. There’s one of es pranks I shall always remembar, (’Twill be dree years agon come the ighth of Novembar), I’d two purty young mabyers as eyes cou’d behould, So fat as the butter, just ighteen weeks ould: They were picking about in town-place for meat: So I hove down some pellase among mon to eat; When who but your man cum’d a tottering along, So drunk that I thoft he wud fale in the dung: Aleft fale hes hoggan-bag jest by the door; So I caal’d to the man (as one would to be sure) Says I: “Martin! dust hire, cheeld? cum take up tha bag;” “Arra, (sezza) for what art a caleing me dog!” An a run’d forth, tha roage, an nar better nar wus, Nact the mabyers both stef with a geart maur of fusse. Like anow ef I eadnt got hasty’s away, He’d adone as a ded by Jan Rose t’other day; When a got in his tantrums, a wilful ould devil, And slam’d the poor soal in the head with a kebbal.

Gracey.

When the cyder is run’d away every drap, ’Tis too late to be thinkene of plugging the tap: And marriage must go as the Loard doth ordain: Yet ef I’d know’d the coose aan, un Mally, cheel vean? Ef I’d known the coose aan but nine weeks ago I’d never ha had the ould vellan, I know. But a vow’d and a swared that ef I’d be hes wife, I never should want all the days of my life; And a broft me a nakin and corn-save from Preen— En ma conscience, thoft I, I shall live like a Queen! But tes plagy provoking, adsplet hes ould head! To be pooted and slopt so! I wish a were dead! Why a spent half hes fangings last Saturday night: Like anow, by this time, tes gone every dyte. But I’ll tame the ould deval afore et es long— Ef I caant wa ma vistes I will wa ma tonge!

CHRISTMAS CAROLS.

Some of us remember when it was a custom, in the parishes of West Cornwall, for a few elderly persons to meet in Church, late on Christmas Eve, and sing till after midnight, a good number of cheerful, quaint old carols, which were quite different from the solemn Christmas hymns that have supplanted them.

The favourite carols, for the most part contained such legends as are preserved in the Mysteries, or Old Miracle Plays, which continued to be performed in the western parishes, on Sunday afternoons, down to Elizabeth’s reign or later. Others may have been derived from the Apocryphal Gospels.

Such, for instance, are the circumstances referred to in the Cherry-tree carol, beginning with

“Joseph was an old man, an old man was he,
When he wedded Mary, in the land of Galilee,
When Joseph and Mary walked in the garden good,
There were cherries and berries as red as the blood.”

And the Holy-well, which thus begins:—

“As it fell out, one May morning,
And upon one bright holiday,
Sweet Jesus asked of His dear mother,
If He might go out to play.”

Many other examples might be given of these legendary pieces, which are now almost forgotten.

We were delighted, however, last Christmas, to hear a few youngsters singing in Penzance streets the pleasant one called the Sunny Bank, or the Three Ships, which is also very old.

Among those of special interest may be noticed “In those Twelve Days,” “The Joys of Mary,” and “Man’s Duty.” Slightly different versions of these are common here and in Wales; and according to Mr. W. Sandys, there is a Breton song, as old as the fifth century, in the dialect of Cornouaille, called “Ar Rannou,” or “Les Series,” arranged as a dialogue between a Druid and his disciple on their ancient maxims and rites, which is similar in idea and construction to “In those Twelve Days,” or “What is that which is but one?”

The early missionaries engrafted on this ancient Armorican poem a Latin hymn, in the same form, where the series of twelve subjects is connected with the Christian religion and agrees with those of the carol,

“What is that which is but one?”

At the end of each verse in the Druid’s Song, the Latin hymn, and the three last-mentioned carols, all the previous subjects are repeated in the style of “The House that Jack built.” The whole piece can be constructed from the last verse. That of “In those Twelve Days,” is given as an example:—

“In those TWELVE days, and in those twelve days, let us be glad,
For God of His power hath all things made.

What are they that are but twelve?
Twelve Apostles Christ did choose
To preach the Gospel to the Jews.
And in those twelve days, &c.

Eleven thousand virgins did partake,
And suffered death for Jesu’s sake.

Ten commandments God hath given,
Use them well, and go to Heaven.

Nine degrees of angels high,
Which praise God continually.

Eight beatitudes are given,
Use them well, and go to Heaven.

Seven days in the week have we,
Six to work and the seventh holy.

Six ages this world shall last,
Five of them are gone and past.

Five senses we have to tell,
God grant us grace to use them well.

Four Gospels written true—
John, Luke, Mark, and Matthew.

Three persons in the Trinity,
The Father, Son, and Ghost Holy.

Two Testaments, as we are told,
The one is New, the other Old.

We have but One God alone,
In Heaven above sits on His throne.
And in those twelve days,” &c.

Old country folk may still be often heard chanting this ancient effusion, with all its repetitions. It is more frequently, however, recited or taught to children as a kind of pious exercise for their memories at Christmastide.

Cornish people have been famous for their carols from an early date. Scawen says:—“They had them at several times, especially at Christmas, which they solemnly sung, and sometimes used in their churches, after prayers, the burthen of them being ‘Nowell, Nowell, good news, good news, of the Gospel.’”

These old joyful Christmas songs have long held their own—thanks to their wonderfully interesting legends and their lively tunes, that seem like the echoes of merry peals of bells.

ANCIENT MIDSUMMER CUSTOMS.

Our bonfires, torches, and tar-barrels, with the peculiar hand-in-hand dance around the blazing piles, remind us of ancient times when similar customs were regarded as sacred rites by our forefathers; and it would seem as if some vestiges of these time-honoured religious notions were still connected with Midsummer bonfires in the minds of old-fashioned people, living in remote and primitive districts, where the good folks still believe that dancing in a ring over the embers, around a bonfire, or leaping (singly) through the flames, is calculated to ensure good luck to the performers, and to serve as a protection from witchcraft and other malign influences during the ensuing year.

Many years ago, on Midsummer’s eve, when it became dusk, very old people in the West country would hobble away to some high ground, whence they obtained a view of the most prominent hills, such as Bartinney, Chapel Carn-brea, Sancras Bickan, Castle-an-dinas, Trecrobben, Carn Galvar, St. Ann’s Bickan, and many other beacon hills far away to north and east, which vied with each other in their Midsummer’s blaze. Some of them anxiously watched for a sight of the first fire. From its position, with respect to them, they drew a presage of good or bad luck. If first beheld in the east it was a good sign. There are now but few bonfires seen on the western heights; yet we have observed that Tregonan, Godolphin, and Carn Marth hills, with others away towards Redruth, still retain their Baal fires. We would gladly go many miles to see the weird-looking yet picturesque dancers around the flames on a carn, or high hill top, as we have beheld them some thirty years ago.

We are sorry to find that another pleasing Midsummer’s observance, which also appears to be ancient, has almost died out. Yet within the memory of many who would not like to be called old, or even aged, on a Midsummer’s eve, long before sunset, groups of girls, of from ten to twenty years of age, neatly dressed and decked with garlands, wreaths, or chaplets of flowers, would be seen dancing in the streets.

One favourite mode of adornment was to sew or pin on the skirt of a white dress, rows of laurel-leaves, often spangled with gold leaf. Before Midsummer small wooden hoops were in great demand, to be wreathed with green boughs and flowers for garlands, to be worn over one shoulder and under the opposite arm. Towards sunset, groups of graceful damsels, joined by their brothers, friends or lovers, would be seen “threading the needle,” playing at “kiss-in-the-ring,” or simply dancing along, every here and there from Chyandour to Alverton, from the Quay to Caunsehead, as the upper part of the town used then to be called, perhaps with more propriety than Causewayhead.

And here, at Caunsehead, this innocent pastime was most generally observed and lingered longest.

THE “HILLA.”