Part 20

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.