Part 10

Whilst he was still muttering something about a fool of a woman, Mary stepped back from the window and said to Jackey, just behind, “Aw, what fools we were to hurry away so early; there’s nobody down yet any where in town that I can see but the bakers; we arn’t expected, I suppose.” “Fools, sure enough,” returned Jackey, “instead of hearing the organ we are come to hear Dick snoaring, but I don’t think he was awake. Knock again, and speak to’n; he’ll know your voice.” Over a few minutes she tapped on the shutter again. “Why I’ve told thee,” said Dick, “that I don’t want to rise yet; go along home.” “Why, hav’e forgotten that you asked me to feast?” said Mary, in a tremulous voice. “Asked ’e to feast, ded I, perhaps I ded,” replied Dick; “I’ve asked scores, I bla, merely for the sake of asking, and that they might have it to say they feel proud to tell their neighbours how they have been invited to Penzance to feast, but you ought to know ’tes manners to ask and manners to refuse.” “There now, think of that for a change,” said Mary to her husband, “lev us begone home again. The little cake I brought in will serve us for a stay-stomach till we get to New Bridge and have something more.” “We’ll do no such thing,” returned he; “I am’at without a few shillings in my pocket; lev us begone to the old public-house where we always put up and leave there this couple of rabbits that I’ve brought in for Dick.” “No, no, le’s begone before the people throng the streets. I’d rather be on the top of Dry Carn than in the best house in this town.” “Sa, sa,” said Jackey, “I’ve a good mind to try again mysel and make sure that he’s awake; he may be just like I am sometimes of a Sunday morning, after a drop too much of a Saturday night: the third time may be lucky.”

Saying this he gave some thundering blows with his stick on the shutter, and bellowed out “Dick, art a wakean yet, my sonny? Get up and see who’s here, or, by golls, I’ll smash thy confounded shutter.” “Lord help me, as I’m a sinner,” cried Dick, “why that’s Jackey’s voice; I’ll be down in a jiffy, my son; where’s Mary? Open the court door and come in.” “We tried that door first and found’n barred,” replied Jackey.

By the time the feasters reached the yard-door they heard Dick shouting “I’m coming, Mary,” whilst hurriedly washing face and hands.

Dick unbarred the door, and welcomed them heartily.

“I deserve a sound kolpan (beating with rope’s end) for laying a bed so late,” said he, “and forget it’s Feasten Sunday, and that you would be in early.” “Here, take these instead,” said Jackey, laying the rabbits across Dick’s shoulder; “hang them up and they will keep for days, as they were killed only yesterday.” “Take a dram and cake, first thing,” said the delighted host, putting a bottle of rum, some cake, and glasses on the table, to make them drink and eat whilst lighting his fire.

Tea being made, and bread, butter, and cheese placed on the table, Dick took a jug and said “I’m going to the ‘Golden Lion’ (inn) for milk; it’s always taken up there for me; the landlady is a good woman as ever lived; she’s just such another as her sister out in your Churchtown.”

When Dick’s back was turned, Mary put the cake she brought for him into his cupboard and told him nothing about it. Shortly he returned with milk and a large plate, heaping full of boiled ham. “The dear mistress cut this ham herself,” said he, “on my telling her that I’d feasters from St. Just. Now you must turn to and make a hearty breakfast.” “I’ve slept late, sure ’nuf, this morning,” said Dick, “though a woman, in going to milky, called me, as usual with her on week day mornings; but I slept soundly again till Jackey roused me out of bed. The bakers will have their oven hot shortly, and I must take our dinner there to be cooked; that bake-house is a blessing to people living near it. Making sure you’d be in, I got a pair of ducks and a piece of beef, and we’ll have a rabbit-pie too.”

“Then keep the ducks or beef till another day,” said Mary, “we don’t want three dishes unless you expect more feasters.” “We’ll have them all three,” returned Dick, “and eat what we like best; I don’t expect anybody else.”

An hour or so before noon the pie was made, ducks and beef, with potatoes to roast, were put on tins all ready for the oven, when Dick and his two feasters marched off to the bake-house, each one taking a dish.

The feasters wondered to see so much to be cooked, and however the bakers would contrive to dress all the geese, ducks, and other things, as Mary remarked on their return. “Now arn’t they good fellows, to work so hard on a Sunday, that we poor folks may have a holiday then?” said Dick. “Nearly all the neighbours who haven’t the new-fashioned contrivances, called slabs, send their meat to the bakehouse, though they say of some bakers, but not of ours, that

‘They cut the meat both ready and raw, Skim the fat, and pinch the dough;’

and one can’t blame them if they take a little, now and then, for working so hard of a Sunday.”

“They well deserve it, poor fellows,” said Jackey, “I’d rather work to bal for my part.”

Public ovens being heated with furze, bakers had a very laborious occupation; and, almost all their customers having ducks or geese at Madrontide, made it much harder at that particular season.

The old bachelor, anxious to entertain his visitors handsomely, was “as busy as a hen with one chick,” and his restlessness made them uncomfortable. On coming in he placed on the table tobacco and new long pipes; then, thinking he ought to have a pudding, he proceeded to get the materials for making one, till Mary stopped him by saying he should do nothing of the sort, as what they had taken to the bakehouse would be a capital dinner without it.

“Sit thee down, mate,” said Jackey, “and touch pipe a bit; lev Mary do the rest about dinner.”

At last he sat down for a few minutes, and Jackey said, “This es a comfortable little place, large enough for one man and a cat; it’s like a town house on this side; looking downwards you see plenty of walls and roofs, with a glimpse of sky, and have the morning sun, when there’s any going; that’s as much as one can expect in town; and, on ’tother side, it’s like being in the country with green fields all the way up from Leskenack, and trees growing on the hedge and overhanging the lane.”

“Aye, I’m better off here by far,” replied the happy occupier of two small rooms, “than hundreds who live in other parts of the town where the old gardens and courts are built on with dwellings for poor people, who are glad to get under a roof anywhere near their work.”

When Dick thought his dinner ready, he and his guests fetched it from the bakehouse, each bearing a dish.

Vegetables had been boiled and ale fetched in the meanwhile. Having good appetites they enjoyed their dinner and praised the bakers.

Whilst drinking their toddy, and the men smoking, in the afternoon, Dick asked, between puffs, if Mary knew how Conny Trevail’s pig was come? “Why I never heard there was anything amiss with n,” replied she, “and I saw long-legged Conny, as we call her, yesterday, gadding about from house to house, as usual, to hear and tell the news, her clothes all in ‘skethans’ (strips), and one would think she liked them so, for she’ll never sew up a ‘skate’ (rent) so long as the pieces hang together; and her stockings (never darned) have the holes dragged together, tell their tops won’t reach her garters. But what made you ask about her pig?” In reply Dick told the story which follows, somewhat abridged.

“On the last Thursday Conny came into the druggist’s shop, in great ‘stroath’ (fussy haste), her hair all hanging about her face, her bonnet tied down weth a ‘nackan’ (handkerchief) and cloak all on one shoulder.

“Going to the master, she asked if he could give her anything to do her pig good. ‘What’s the matter weth n?’ asked he in return. ‘Es like a thing bewitched,’ said Conny, ‘a’ll neither live nor die, and the best mait I can give n es all muzzled out of the ‘traff’ weth n, and es gone to skin and bone. I knaw a was begrudged to me when I was in price for n. I was in two minds when I left home whether a was best to go to the ‘pellar’ or come to you, but now I’m here I’ll try what you can do.’

“‘You can have something that may bring the pig to an appetite,’ said the druggist, ‘ef you give it as I’ll direct ’e.’

“Having put up some powders, he told Conny she must thoroughly clean the pig’s trough, wash it out, and have it sweet; then give the pig fresh food, and a little of the powders, two or three times a day. ‘The medicine comes to sixpence.’

“‘Gracious me; es a lot of money,’ said she, ‘and are ’e sure a’ll do the pig good.’ ‘I can tell ’e as truly as if I’d been a conjuror,’ answered the druggist, ‘that if you do as I’ve told ’e, by next Thursday this time your pig will either be better or worse, or much the same.’ ‘Aw, thank’e sar,’ said Conny, ‘I’ll pay the money with a good heart, now you’ve told me that.’

“The druggist having taken the money went into the house. Now Dick had been at the mortar all the time, but pounding easily, that he might hear what passed, and get in a word if he found the chance.

“Conny turned to leave the shop, but, seeing Dick, she came over to him with the drugs in her hand, and said, ‘Dost a think, you, that this ‘trade’ ‘ll do any good at all? I wish I’d gone to the pellar, for his work es sure, ef a do charge three shellans before he’ll do anything to stop the witchcraft.’

“‘Well, you heard what master said,’ replied Dick, ‘and I firmly believe him.’

“‘Now I’ll tell thee what I’ll do before I’m a day older,’ said she, ‘to serve out that strollop who begrudged me the pig, and ef her ill wishes have fallen upon am I’ll make her suffer torments. The conjuror can’t tell me any more than I know about that. I’ll bury the bottle of water before night ef I can; she shall come to me and beg, and pray, and promise never to ill-wish anything belongan to me agen, she shall.’ Dick told her to make haste home, and let him know how the pig got on the next time she came to town.”

“Aw the old fool,” said Jackey, when the story was ended. “But she is no worse than scores of others who put more faith in the conjuror than in a doctor. She’s too lazy to clean the pig’s trough, or mend her clothes, yet she’d go a score miles or more to consult the pellar. There are many that might be expected to know better than old Conny who will visit the pellar and pay him well to have what they call their protection renewed in a few months more. This is done when the sun is coming back and getting strong—the wise-man has more power then—about the end of March, so they believe; and soon after the time of visiting the pellar, old Tammy, his wife will ride round the West Country, bringing the ‘protection’ to such as are unable to go for it. Old bedlyers have it put into their pillows; others wear it on the breast.”

An hour or so before sunset, Jackey becoming tired of being shut up in Dick’s bird-cage of a dwelling, and wishing to breathe sweet country air, said to his wife, “Es time for us to be jogging home along.”

“You must have tea first,” said Dick, “then I’ll go part of road wh’y.”

“Take your hat and pipe and come now,” replied Jackey; “we don’t want tea, and Mary had a cup after dinner; she can get home before we want any more.”

They started—all three—and went down along joyfully; and so ended their Penzance feast.

On taking leave of Dick, a mile or two from town, Mary told him to search his cupboard when he got home,—she never told him of the cake she’d put there for him. They were satisfied on the whole, yet glad to get home, and never wished to go again.

Fifty years ago, and longer, Madron Feast was dying out. The principal people were strangers there, who cared nothing for the parish feast, and had no sympathy with the old inhabitants or their customs.

There is no remembrance or tradition of Madrontide ever having been kept heartily, by “One and all,” like St. Just feast, nor of any holiday-games on their Feasten Monday, such as wrestling, hurling, throwing quoits, &c. The old game called “kook” was a trial of casting quoits the farthest and nearest to goal. This is all but forgotten. As for hurling, it is now unknown, in every place west of Hayle, except at St. Ives, and there only in the mild form of hurling to the goal. On the feast their silver ball is aired for a short time on Permester Sand.

What is here known as a pellar’s “protection” is usually two or three inches of parchment inscribed with planetary and other signs or cabalistic words. It is a mystery how these inscriptions were first acquired, as they are not found in any books which were likely to have come into the hands of our wise-men; and the words are quite unlike charms for the cure of many ailments. These are grounded on Christian legends, but the Pellar’s “protections” have nothing Christian in their construction. They are probably of greater antiquity than the said charms.

As an example, here is the only one I have met with which can be given in type. The others have all, more or less, signs and figures which would require woodcuts to show them.

R O T A S O P E R A T E N E T A R E P O S A T O R

This magic square may be read four ways the same; beginning at the top, it must be read from right to left as Sator, Arepo, &c. This is the case with some others of the Pellar’s talismans. Our wise-men (call them conjurors if you please, but they do not like the term) have no knowledge whence their formulæ were obtained, nor what the name of “pellar” means. Yet it is probably a corruption of the old Cornish word “pystryor” which means a conjuror or magician. The name of wizard is unknown here amongst old folk who have no book-learning.

ZENNOR HEARTHSIDE STORIES.

“And each, in turn, would some fond theme relate; Not of perplexing plans to mend the State, But seriously renew some oft-told tale, Or ancient legend of some spectre pale, Or wondrous deeds by their good fathers done, And stories strange, long passed, denied by none.”

John Williams.

Being on the road to Zennor with a stranger to Cornwall, who wished to see all he could of the place and people, we had the good luck to fall in with a very intelligent old miner, returning to his home from Ding Dong. He at once entered into conversation with that ease and candour for which the true Cornish have ever been remarkable.

Our destination for the night being Zennor churchtown, and his cottage not being far out of our road, we gladly accepted his invitation to accompany him home and rest awhile; the more so as we were soon sensible that our companionship was mutually agreeable.

Our comrades’ constant flow of joke and story, told in the quaint way so peculiar to Droll-tellers of the West, made the time pass unobserved, until we found that night was closing around us as we sat by his fireside, when (wishing to retain some of the tinner’s peculiar words, old proverbs, and the novel points of some rare drolls) the stranger produced pencil and paper. The writing materials seemed to suggest

‘A chield’s amang ye, taking notes, And faith he’ll prent it,’

as our very communicative friend ‘fought shy’ all at once. After we had assured him that nothing of what he told us should be published without his consent, he gave the reason for his sudden reticence; which, as he no longer objected to taking notes, I will give in his own language.

My old friend began by saying, “The reason I felt a dislike to your writing down any of the foolish drolls I have been telling is because many have lately published stories pretended to be Cornish which would make strangers think us void of common sense, and that our lingo is such a gibberish as was never jabbered in this world nor any other. They should remember the old saying about foul birds dirting their own nests. True, I remember the time when many used more old Cornish words, and spoke broader than we do now; as, for example, in St. Just, where I was born and bred. In the ‘daddy,’ ‘mammy,’ and ‘porridge’ days we called the cape the caape; and the hall we called the hale. Then, over a while we got a good schoolmaster among us, and came to ‘father,’ ‘mother,’ and ‘broth.’ We learned to say the ‘cape’ and ‘hall,’ just like other folks. At last, what they called good times came, and, would ye believe it? many of the St. Tusters,—the ‘red-tailed droans,’—got so rich and proud that nothing would do but they must send their boys and girls away to boarding school. When they came back it was nothing but ‘pa,’ ‘ma,’ and ‘soup,’ and ‘will you take a walk down to the keep?’ The poor old ‘hale’ was then refined into ‘hele,’ with their confounded mincing, unless they called it a ‘parlour.’ A ‘parlour,’ forsooth. It was but the old hale, make the most of it. Besides, I was rather shy when the paper came in sight, because we have many manners and customs which appear singular to strangers, when they first come among us, although we, who are raised in the midst of them, think all our ways quite natural, and that it must be the same everywhere else. Faith, before a spell of bad times came, and sent me and a good many other Cousin Johneys off to the Lakes and Mineral Point for a time, where I believe many of us would have stopped and sent home for our families if it were not for the cursed kick-up the Yankies made about their darkies, and old Virginia’s shore. Well, before we crossed the herring-pool I was as bad as the old woman down in St. Ives, who was four score and had never been over the hill farther than the top of the Stennack, before Whitfield came one Sunday to preach on Trecroben, when all the town went to hear him. The old dame, among the rest, reached the top of the hill, and looking round, declared she never thought the world was half so large before, and supposed the hills she could see far away must be in France, or Spain, or perhaps some of the foreign countries she had read of in the Bible.

“I found when I came back from Yankee-land that a lot of our Cousin Johneys who had learned to read and write a little had been telling what they called Cornish stories to enlighten strangers; but, the traitors, they have been telling such a lot of stuff as is only likely to turn their own country and comrades into ridicule. Those who try to make fun of their mates for the amusement of strangers, or for the sake of showing off their own fancied superiority, should have their windpipes slit, or their bread-bags ripped up, the dastardly crew.”

When we were about to leave, our old friend said “My dears, if you must go to Zennor churchtown for the night, let me beg of ye don’t take the people you may meet with there for a fair sample of Cornish folks; that’s the only place in the County where the cow ate the bell-rope and no wonder the poor half-starved thing should have gone into the belfry and eaten the straw rope that’s fixed to their old crazy kettle, for their cattle are half-starved in winter and when they die off in spring they are sure to think they were bewitched, and off they go to the pellar to know who the old crone is that owes them a grudge? The church is well worth seeing, if they have not destroyed the curious old carved-work that used to be there. You need not be surprised if they have, as they but lately allowed one of their largest quoits (cromlechs) to be broken up and carried off.

“In the next parish, where they live on fish and potatoes every day, with conger-pie for a change on a Sunday they arn’t much better.

“Towednack people say that the devil would never let them raise their tower any higher—a good thing to have some one to put the fault on, if it’s only Old Nick; but, whatever he should get up a storm and blow the stones down for, if they only attempt to place pinnacles on their stumpy tower, it’s hard to say; yet such is the story Towednack folks will tell ye.

“About St. Ives, too, the less said the better. I wouldn’t advise you to go there, unless you can bear the sight and smell of all that’s filthy, without having your stomach turned.

“But, Lord, what can one expect of the people who whipped the hake round the market? When you come round to Lelant you will get among civilized people again, and it’s well worth going farther to see Trecroben hill and its giant’s castle, with the giant’s chair on Trink hill, and many other places, which you have no doubt heard of.” We passed a few days, however, very pleasantly amongst Zennor folk; and gleaned the following stories, &c., of this section from them.

We reached Zennor churchtown about eight o’clock, and found very fair accommodation at the public-house; as good, indeed, as one might expect in such a retired district.

By the kitchen fire, were seated four elderly men, who appeared to be well pleased with their ale and each others company. The chief talker of these four old cronies was the captain or manager of Zennor tin-stamps.

He said much about the witches and tin-streamers who lived in Trewey or Trewey-bottom, long ago; and of Kerrow and other ancient hamlets, with the people who dwelt there in days of yore.

During the evening, Cap’n Henny, as they called him, spoke of a retired seaman who had been much troubled by a shipmate’s ghost, until he plucked up courage and spoke to his old comrade’s spirit. One story brought up another, till it was near midnight, when the company left for their homes.