Part 19

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.