Part 19

This modernized name conveys the idea that Camborne boys are much inclined to frolicsome fooling. Some old folks, however, still call them Merry-sicks or Merry-sickers. No doubt they acquired their nickname from their patron, St. Meriasek, who, according to his legend, as given in the old Cornish Mystery-play, was one of the most noted wonder-workers in this land of saints.

Camborne folks, of three centuries or so ago, must have highly appreciated this rare old “Guary Miracle” of St. Meriasek, if only for the way in which they are lauded in it. Redruth Plan-an-Guary must have rung with applause when it was performed there during Queen Elizabeth’s reign, and probably much later.

With regard to Marazion people’s appellation of “Crows,” it is said that, until a little while ago, a remarkable variety of party-coloured crows frequented this ancient town and its neighbourhood from very remote times. The saying of “All black and white, like a Market-jew crow,” is still frequently heard; as well as that of “Like the Mayor of Market-jew, sitting in his own light.”

LUDGVAN HURLERS AND GULVAL BULLS.

Ludgvan folks got the name of “Hurlers,” because they were wont to beat all-comers at their favourite game of hurling. They are still proud of their name.

Gulval people obtained their nickname of “Bulls” long ago when they had a custom of bringing their young bulls (mostly yearlings) together to fight. The cattle were always matched according to their ages. Often heavy bets were staked on the extent and result of their prowess, and the strongest was preferred as a sire for the future herd. Strength was then more desirable than now, since most of the team-labour on the land was done by oxen, and it was desirable that they should be tough and muscular. Feasten Monday was the usual time for this bovine trial of strength.

MOUSHAL CUT-THROATS AND NEWLYN BUCKAS.

We will now follow the sun’s course, for good luck, and pass over the Bay to Moushal and its “Cut-throats.”

Shortly after the Spaniards burnt this old town, many young men of Paul and the adjacent parishes—eager to retaliate on the Dons—went privateering. Some of them joined the Jamaica buccaneers, a few turned pirates, and all of them scoured the Spanish Main. One and all of the West Country men hailed from Moushal, which was then a noted place, and the chief port west of Market-jew.

When the adventurous rovers returned home, laden with gold and treasures, envious land-lubbers, out of spite, dubbed them “Moushal’s Cut-throats.” Old folks used to say that, a century or so ago, the head proprietors of Paul and some of Buryan were the descendants of Buccaneers and “Madagascar Birds.” Those old families are, for the most part, become extinct in this neighbourhood, though two or three of them are flourishing elsewhere.

Our old privateering stories always speak of Moushal as the general rendezvous of western sea-rovers; thus this bad-sounding nickname was acquired

“In the days we went a pirating, A long time ago.”

One needs go no farther than Moushal to learn how Newlyn people got the name of “Buccas.” What old folks say is to the effect that the fishermen of that place (within the remembrance of persons yet alive) were accustomed, on their return to shore, to make a propitiatory offering to a spirit (Bucca) by placing for him a fish, just within high-water mark, in order that the spirit might ensure them good luck in their fishing. It was believed that Bucca came at night and took away the fish. Those who continued to observe this remnant of an old religious rite were derided by their more “enlightened” neighbours of recent times, and by them nicknamed “Buccas.”

SANCRAS PIGS AND BURYAN BOARS.

Old folks say that the inhabitants of Sancreed were called “Sancras Pigs” because, formerly, pork from that inland parish was preferred to what was raised elsewhere in this neighbourhood.

All the other parishes west of Hayle have some part of their boundaries on the seaboard: consequently, from the abundance of fish and the want of any but the home market for it, until recently, much good fish was cast on manure heaps, in places near fishing-coves; and the great, long-sided, razor-backed swine, then foraging at their pleasure in lanes and hamlets, ate so much fishery offal that it communicated a bad flavour and worse smell to their meat. Much pork was then sold to the “jousters” (retailers from the eastward) as “Sancras Pigs” that never saw Sancras parish; and the natives of that favoured place might be heard all over the Market-house calling out, “Come ’e here, my dears, look at this, ah es a Sancras pig, born and reared; see the fat ov en es as white as a crud (curd); no fear ov en beean trainey, like Paul and Sennen-cove trade, that have lived upon fish all their time.”

At length these inlanders’ brag procured them the nickname of “Sancras Pigs,” which they still retain.

We must pass over Buryan, for there seems to be no satisfactory account as to how the swinish nickname bestowed on the natives of that important parish originated.

ST. LEVAN WITCHES AND SENNEN ——.

St. Levan people are said to have acquired their remarkable name of St. Levan Witches from the belief—once general—that the inhabitants of that remote parish were, in days of yore, much addicted to the practice of necromancy, particularly witchcraft. Old folks held that all the West Country witches used to meet and hold their revels in Castle Trereen; until they mounted to the Castle Peak, and, bestriding their brooms or ragwort stalk, thence took their departure for Wales, Brittany, and even to Spain. Most nights, however, they merely went over and got a good “blow out” (feast) on the milk of Taffy’s cows. At times, too, Tol-pedn-penwith was their place of assembly, whence they started to wreck ships and perform other deviltry.

If old traditions may be relied on, the unseemly nickname of Sennen —— originated in a somewhat remarkable way. They say that it was given long ago, owing to the Danish blood inherited by a few families who lived on the shore of Whitsand Bay.

Many Land’s End folks have still a strong antipathy to what they regard as marks of descent from northern pirates, who ravaged the West more than a thousand years ago.

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.