Part 12

At a little distance, in hollows, between sand-banks, he saw glimmering lights, and persons like gaily dressed dolls skipping about and whirling round. Going nearer, he beheld, perched on a pretty high bank in their midst, a score or so of little old-looking chaps; many of them blew in mouth-organs (Pan’s pipes); some beat cymbals or tambourines; whilst others played on jew’s-harps, or tweeted on May whistles and feapers.

Tom noticed that the little men were rigged all in green, except their scarlet caps (small people are so fond of that coloured head-gear that they used to be nick-named “red-caps.”) But what struck him and tickled his fancy most was to see the little, old, grave-looking pipers with their long beards wagging.

In moving their mouths over the reeds, stuck in their breasts, they looked more like buck goats than anything human, so Tom said; and that for the life of him he couldn’t forbear shouting—“Will ’e be shaved— will ’e be shaved old red-caps?”

He hailed them twice, and was about to do so again when all the dancers, with scores and hundreds more than he noticed at first sprang up, ranged themselves in rank and file; armed themselves in an instant with bows and arrows, spears and slings; then faced about, looking like vengeance. The band being disposed alongside, played a quick march, and the troops of “spriggans” stamped on towards Tom, who saw them getting taller as they approached him. Their threatening looks were so frightful that he turned tail and ran down to his comrades, and roused them, saying, “Put to sea for your lives. There’s thousands of small people and bucca-boos ’most on our backs! They’ll soon surround us!”

Tom made off to the boat, and his comrades followed close at his heels; but, on the way, a shower of pebbles fell on them, and “burned like coals ’o fire wherever they hit them.”

The men pulled many fathoms from shore before they ventured to look up, though they knew themselves safe when on the sea, because none of the fairy tribe dare touch salt water.

At length, casting a glance landward, they saw, ranged along the shore, a company of as ugly-looking creatures as they ever beheld, making threatening gestures and vain endeavours to sling stones at them.

When a furlong or so from land, the men rested on their oars, and kept watching their assailants, till near daybreak; then horses being heard galloping along the road from Market-jew, the small people retreated to the sand-banks and the smugglers rowed to land. Tom again shouted to the retiring host, “We’ll shave ’e all, and cut your tails off, ef you ever show here any more.” But the fairies disdained to notice his impudence and presently disappeared.

The other smugglers, who were now on the beach with plenty of help, on seeing their mates leaving the boat, inquired if the riding-officer had hove in sight. In such a case smugglers usually took to sea that they might not be known; they didn’t mind his seeing the goods, for the most valuable would be secured before the king’s men came to take them.

After spileing an anker (tapping a keg) and treating all the neighbours who came to help or purchase, or both, Tom related how they had to run for their lives and take to sea in order to escape an army of small-people. Some could scarcely believe it, though others thought the story likely enow. All blamed Tom for mocking the fairies, and said bad luck would cross his path, ere long, for that night’s work. Aye, and their forebodings were verified before another summer came round. However, without further mishap for that night, the goods were quickly disposed of—the greater part in Market-jew, and the rest left at an old tin work, near the Marsh, till wanted.

We have not heard of fairies having been seen on the Eastern Green since they were thus shamefully derided by Tom Warren.

“They’re never was a better pare (company) of fair-traders than Tom and his mates,” continued the landlord, “and they found good customers in the old well-to-do farmers of Zennor, who dearly loved their toddy, the Lord rest them.”

THE LAST THREATENED INVASION: COMMOTION AND FALSE ALARM IN THE WEST.

The landlady had told her husband, when he came in from his work, that their stranger-guest much wished to hear our old drolls and songs; and to see the remarkable places round about. That was the chief reason why the master of the house was so desirous that the company might tell something, of native growth, which a stranger might deem noteworthy.

Having told the fairy-tale, our host, addressing his wife, said “now Jenny, I’ve told that story to please thee, tell us how Betty Stags was served by a kindlier sort of spriggans (sprites).”

“When I’ve cleaned up a bit, perhaps I may,” replied she, “and Uncle Honney (Hanibal) may sing us a song that while ef he will be so good.”

“That I wed, weth all my heart,” said an old man belonging to the stamps, “ef we had one worth singan; but there’s none known, in these parts, good for anything. Such cheerful songs and rare old ballads as we used to sing, to lighten our labour, are all condemned now, and the singer cried down as ‘carnal-minded.’ In place of them we hear nothan but revival hymns, and I for one can’t make out any sense in them.”

“You have worked in bals up along as far as Dolcoath, or farther,” said our host, “and I have surely heard ’e tell a song or an old ballad that you had heard up that way long ago.”

“But the west es I can’t tell enough of’n to make out the rhymes,” replied the old man; “I only remember that when I was a youngster workan on the floors in Dolcoath, about the time that Boney was expected to invade, and that his troops wed be landed here in the West; et might be on Market-jew Green, or Gwenvor Sand, in Whitsand Bay, out westward. Boney had flat-bottomed boats made, to be sent with the transport ships, and in such boats his troops cud come ashore in shallow water.”

“I only jest remember that time,” said another old man, “there was much alarm amongst the farmers; the ‘guides’ were called out, and the cattle branded on horns and hoofs, that they might be known to their owners, when all the stock belongan to a neighbourhood, should be herded together, and drivan away up along, as it was expected they wed, that the enemy should not come at them.”

“Don’t ’e mind, too,” resumed Uncle Honney, “how notices were put upon Church doors, and other places, forbiddan any bonfires to be made at Midsummer, lest they might be mistaken for bickan-fires, [9] and give a false alarm, like Santusters ded, when they thoft the French had one night landed on Gwenvor Sand, where the Danes used to come ashore and pillage the country round. There were trusses of dry furze kept upon all the bickan-hills, ready for firan; it was the women in Santust ’Chtown who raised the alarm and caused the bickans to blaze from Chapel Carn Brea to Plymouth; troops were dispatched from garrison, but they didn’t know where to take to, lost their way west of Falmouth, and were found down in Gweek, a week after ‘jousters’ and other market-folk had brought news of this false alarm to Falmouth. About that time it was when this song was often singed by tinners around Redruth.

“I don’t remember how the words were broft into rhymes mind ’e. Et said how Englishmen had beaten the French over and over again; taken countries they once ruled over, had them still, and meant to keep them too. Ef Boney’s men landed upon Cornish shores, we wed beat them to bruss. Then it was said how the French were a ‘heap of poor pelyacks’ [10] who, at home, had neither decent meat nor clothes; but were glad to catch quilkans, [11] bullhorns, [12] and padgy-paws; [13] and to stampy about in temberan shoes.

“The burden, or running verse, that came in at every four lines was this:—

‘They shall not eat of our good meat, Our pelchers and petates.’”

“There was an old Cornish Dialogue in verse, too,” said another old man, “which gave much the same account.”

“I should dearly like,” said the visitor, “to get copies of that song and dialogue, or of as much as is known of them.”

“That old piece Uncle Honney spoke of es forgotten among us,” replied our host, “but I know another, not so old, that’s often told for Christmas pastime, in place of a Guise-dance of St. George and the Turkish Knight; we’ll get’n up for ’e now, the same as we do at Christmastide; ef Jenny will be Mal Treloar, I’ll take the part of Sandry Kemp.”

“That I will,” said our hostess, “and Uncle Honney can give me the word when I may forget et, jest as he do to youngsters actan a Christmas play; he’ll speak for the Cap’n, too, and say other bits requiran a third speaker.”

The company having placed themselves as the landlady directed, gave the following Cornish Dialogue:

MAL TRELOARE AND SANDRY KEMP KISS AND BECOME GOOD FRIENDS AGAIN: OR BACKBITING CRULL OUTWITTED.

’Twas Kendle teenan, when jung Mal Treloare Trudg’d hum from Bal, a bucken copper ore; Her clathing hard and ruff, black was her eye, Her face and arms like stuff from Cairn Kye. Full butt she mit jung Sandry Kemp, who long She had been token’d to, come from Ding Dong; Hes jacket wet, his faace rud like his beard, And through his squarded hat hes heer appeared. She said, “Oh Kemp, I thoft of thee well leer, Thees naw that daay we wor to Bougheehere, That daay with ale and cakes, at three o’clock, Thees stuff’d me so, I jist neen crack’d me dock: Jue said to me, ‘Thee mayst depend thee life I love thee, Mal, and thee shust be ma wife.’ And to ma semmen, tes good to lem ma naw Whether the words were aal in jest or no.”

Sandry.—Why, truly, Mal, I like a thing did zay That I wud have thee next Chewiden daay. But zence that time I like a thing ded hear Thees went wi’ some one down, I naw where; Now es that fitty, Mal? What dost think?

Mal.—Od rat tha body, Sandry, who said so? Now, faath and traath, I’ll naw afore I go; Do lem ma naw the Gossenbary dog.

Sandry.—Why, then, Crull said jue wor down to Wheal Bog With he and Tabban, and ded play some tricks By dabben clay at jungsters makan bricks; Aand that from there jue went to Aafe-waye house, Aand drink’t some lecker. Mal, now there’s down souse. Aand jue to he, like a think ded zay, Jue wed have he, and I mait go away.

Mal.—I tell the lubber so! I to Wheal Bog! I’ll scat hes chacks, the emprent, saucy dog. Now hire me, Sandry Kemp, now down and full, Ef thee arten hastes, the shust hire the whole. Fust jue must naw, tes true as thee art theere, Aant Blanch and I went to Golsinney feer. Who overtookt us in the dusty road, In common hum but Crull, the cloppen toad. Zes he to Aant, “What cheer? Aant Blanch, what cheer? Jue makes good coose, suppose jue ben to feer.” “Why, hiss,” zes Aant, “ben there a pewer spur; I wedn’t a gone ef nawed ed ben so fur. I bawft a pair of shods for Sarah’s cheeld.” By this time, lock! we cum jist to the field. We went to clember up the temberen style, (Haw keept his eye upon me all the while.) Zes haw to Aant, “Then whos es thees braa maide? Come tha wayst long, dasent be afraid.” Then mov’d by my side, like a thing, Aand pull’d my mantle, and jist touch’d my ching. “How arry, jung woman?” zes haw. “How dost do?” Zes I, “Jue saucy dog, what’s that to jue? Keep off, jung lad, else thees have a slap.” Then haw fooch’d some great big doat figs in me lap, So I thoft, as haw had ben so kind, Haw might go by Aant Blanch, ef haw had a mind. Aand so haw ded, aand tookt Aant Blanch’s arm. “Areah!” zes haw, “I dedn’t mane no harm.” So then Aant Blanch and he ded talk and jest Bout dabbing clay and bricks at Perran feast.

Sandry.—Ahah then, Mal, ’twas there they dabbed the clay?

Mal.—Plaase Faather, Kemp, tes true wot I do saay. Aand hire me now, pla-sure, haw dedn’t budge From Aanty’s arm tell jest this side Long Brudge. Aand then zes he to Aant, “Shall we go in To Aafe-way house, and have a dram of gin Aand trickle mixt. Depend ol do es good, Taake up the sweat and set to rights the blud.” So Aant ded say, “Such things she dedn’t chuse,” Aand squeeze my hand, aand loike a thing refuse. So when we passed along by Wheal Bog moor, Haw jumpt behind, and pok’t us in the door. Haw caal’d for gin, aand brandy too, I think. He clunk’d the brandy, we the gin ded drink. So when haw wish’d good night as es the caase, Haw kiss’t Aant Blanch, and jist neen touch’d my faace. Now, Sandry Kemp, there’s nothing shure in this, To my moinde, then, that thee shust taake amiss.

Sandry.—No fath, then Mal, ef this es all, aand true, I had a done the same ef I was jue.

Mal.—Next time in any house I see or hear am, I’ll down upon the plancheon, rat am, scat am, Aand I will so poam am,—

Sandry.—Our Kappen’s there, just by thickey bush. Hush! now Mally, hush! Aand as hes here, so close upon the way I wedent wish haw nawed what we ded zay, Aand jett I dedent care, now fath and soul, Ef so be our Kappen wor to hire the whole. How arry Kappen? Where be going so fast? Jure goin’ hum, suppose, juse in sich haste.

Kappen.—Who’s that than? Sandry, arten thee ashamed To coosy so again? Thee wust be blamed Ef thees stay here all night to prate wi’ Mal! When tes thy cour, thee wusten come to Bal. Aand thee art a Cobbe, I tell thee so. I’ll tell the owners ef thee dosent go.

Sandry.—Why, harkee, Kappen, don’t skoal poor I, Touch pipe a crum, jue’ll naw the reason why. Coozen Mal aand I ben courtain bout afe a year. Hould up tha head, Mal; don’t be ashamed, dost hire? Aand Crull one day made grief ’tween I and she; But he shall smart for it now, I swear by G——. Haw told me lies, as round as any cup. Now Mal and I have mit, we’ve made it up; So, Kappen, that’s the way I stopt, I vow.

Kappen.—Ahah! I dedent giss the caase jist now. But what dost think of that last batch of ore?

Sandry.—Why pewer and keenly gossen, Kappen sure; I bleeve that day, ef Franky’s pair wornt drunk, We shud had pewer stuff too from the sump. But there, tes all good time, as people saay, The flooken now, aint throw’d us far away; So hope to have bra tummalls soon to grass. How ded laast batch down to Jandower pass?

Kappen.—Why, hang thy body, Sandry, speed, I saay, Thees keep thy clacker going till tes day. Go speak to Mally now, jue foolish toad, I wish both well, I’ll keep my road.

Sandry.—Good nightie, Kappen, then I wishee well. Where artee, Mally? Dusten haw hire me, Mal? Dusent go away, why jue must think of this, Before we part, shure we must have a kiss.

She wiped her muzzle from the mundic stuff, And he rubb’d his, a little stain’d with snuff.

Now then, there, good night Mal, there’s good night; But, stop a crum.

Mally.—Good night.

Kappen.—Good night.

Kendle teenan, candle lighting. Squarded hat, broken or cracked hat. Lem ma knaw, let me know, tell me. Wheal Bog, wheal, or, correctly spelt, huel, is old Cornish, and signifies a mine or work. Doat figs, broad figs. A Cobbe, a simpleton, a bungler. Bra tummalls, brave heaps, large piles of ore.

The guest, for whose entertainment the old men had furbished up their memories, said, “that piece is a capital one, and it seems all the better from the way in which you have told it. Your dialect is pleasant to hear; it is softer and more musical than that of most other parts of England.

“Many Cornish drolls remind me of Irish stories, which show similar traits of character. I have seen a piece by Tregellas, a St. Ann’s man, I suppose, as he says much about people in that parish and its neighbourhood.

“There is one story of his which shows how prone Cornish people are to stretch a point or two, as you call it. I mean that story of a boy telling his mother there are scores and hundreds of cats caterwauling upon the roof; his mother reproves him for making such an unreasonable stretch, and sends him out to see how many are there; he returned, and, condescending to tell the truth at last, says that he could ‘only see grammar’s cat and ours.’

“An Irish story, called ‘The Three Geese,’ shows the habit of augmenting the number of things, and of obstinacy in sticking to the words said.

“I’ll tell the Irish story, if you’d like to hear it, as it’s told by my old friend Patrick Kennedy.”

“We should all be delighted to hear et, I’m sure,” said the host.

“Then let us have a good large jug of toddy—half-a-gallon or so—that all the company may drink together of the same, and make the story seem less dry,” said the Irish gentleman.

A jorum of hot grog having been brought and served, all the company wished the guest health, happiness, and a long life; and “may your shadow never grow less,” added our host.

Then the following Irish story was told in native style.

THE THREE GEESE.

Oh, dear! O, dear! what headstrong crathers the womankind is! The more you want them to do any thing that’s right, the surer they are not to do it, unless the advice is given to a young girl by a gay deludher of a young man something above her station, or to a mistress of a family by some tay-dhrinking, gossiping, cabin-hunting, idle sthra that does nothing but go about pretending to knit a stocking, and she does knit it at the rate of four rounds in the day. It reminds me of the tailor and his wife that were not satisfied without bringing trouble into their cabin, when it pleased Providence not to be sending any. The poor man was sitting contentedly on his board stitching away (I’m sure I wish I knew how a tailor manages to keep his thraneens of legs the way he does for so long), and his wife that was cabin-hunting may be, bawled out, just as she was darkening the door, “Ah, you idle sthronshuch! there you are sitting at your aise, and a hundred geese trampling down our little oats; get up, you lazy drone, and drive them away.” “Musha, I think,” says he, “you’re more at leisure yourself; but rather than have a scolding match, here we go.” So getting up, he went out, and when he looked to the field, “Arrah, woman,” says he, “what’s on your eyes at all? I see but two geese.” “Two geese, inagh! purshuin’ to the goose less than fifty there, any way.” “Fifty? I wish I was as sure of fifty guineas as that there is only two in it.” “Ah! goodness help poor creatures of women with their tyrants of husbands! I tell you up to your teeth, there is forty geese there destroying the oats, as sure as there is one.” “Well, well, two, or forty, or a hundred, I had better drive them off.”

When dinner came she poured out the potatoes, and laid his noggin of milk and plate of butter out for him; but went and sat in the corner herself, and threw her apron over her head, and began to sob. “Arrah, Judy acushla,” says he, “what’s this for? come over and take your dinner, and let us be thankful, instead of flying in God’s face.” “N-n-n-no indeed, I w-w-w-will not. To say such a thing as that there was only two ge-ge-ge-geese there when I reckoned a whole score!” “Oh! to Halifax with them for geese: let them go and be shot, woman, and come over to the table.” “Indeed and I will not till you own to the truth.” Well not a bit did she eat; and when night came, she make a shake down for herself, and would not gratify the poor tailor by sleeping in her own good high-standing bed. Next morning she did not rise; but when her husband spoke kindly, and brought some breakfast to the bedside, she asked him to go for her mother and relations till she’d take leave of them before she’d die, as there was no use living any more, when all love was gone from him. “But, Judy dear, why do you go on in this way? what have I done?” “Don’t you say there was only two geese there, and at the very lowest there could not be less than a dozen. Can’t you acknowledge the truth, you obstinate pig of a man, and let us be at peace again?”

Instead of making any answer, he walked over to her mother’s house, and brought her over, with two or three of her family; and they laid siege to the wife, but they might as well be preachin’ to a stone wall; and she almost persuaded them that her husband was to blame. “Now call him,” says she, “and I’ll insense you who is wrong. Darby, on the nick of your soul, and if you don’t intend to send me to my grave, speak the truth like a Christian, and don’t be heapin’ sins on your miserable head. I’ll leave you no back door, for I’ll only insist on three geese, though I’m sure there was six at the very least; wasn’t there three geese in the field when I called you out!” “Och, Judy asthore? never mind: let there be three-and-thirty if you like, but don’t let us be idlin’ and tormentin’ our people here. Get up in the name of goodness and eat a bit.” “But wasn’t there three geese there, I say, Darby?” “Ah, dickens a one but two if you go to that.” “Oh, Vuya, Vuya! isn’t this a purty story? Go home, go home, all of yez, and bid Tommy Mulligan prepare my coffin, and bring it over about sun-down, and just give me one night’s dacent waking: [14] I won’t ax the two, for I don’t wish to give so much trouble to the neighbours, and indeed I think I couldn’t stand the ungratitude and conthrāriness of them that ought to know better, and feel for a body; and after all that I done and slaved for him, and gave up Neddy Brophy for him, that was six inches taller, and a carpenter besides.”

Well, thinking it might give her a fright, they went and brought a coffin that was ready made at the time, and some fresh shavings in the bottom; and the women of the town, that gathered as soon as the coffin came, ordered out the men till they’d wash the corpse.