Part 9

Yet Mary Ann thought to curry favour weth the crazy old thing by speakan with scorn of such as the other would term upstarts, when none of her kindred, to get knittan or spinan done for her.

Now, when Jenefer do have a tiff with anyone, she’ll rake up all the old defaming stories she ever heard, turn them upside down or inside out, till she can make them fit to her mind, and then fix them on any one disliked by her.

That story of a woman scaldan her own painted pig, and her boys chasan of’n into a peeth was told about a spiteful woman before Mary Ann was born or thought of. ’Tes merely an old droll, such as used to be told of winters’ nights. When such stories were in vogue people regarded them as fables, by which none but fools would be deceived; and from them much worth rememberan was learnt. Now I’ll tell ’e the old droll, told in other parishes, of the poor tinner’s feast, that you may see the changes made by Miss Jenefer.

“Yet they are no greater,” continued the old dame, after taking a pinch of snuff, “than were purposely made by old story-tellers, and looked for by their hearers, when the same drolls were often repeated of winters’ nights.”

Having told An Polly that I would much like to hear more of the old ladies of Kellinack, as I’d often heard them spoken of, but never by any one who remembered them well. “Ef I once begin to talk about these old dears,” said she, “I shall never know where to stop; ask Uncle John Williams, the old man of Dowran, you know am very well, and he can tell more about them than anybody else. Uncle John, when a youngster, used to keep their garden in order, plant their beds of peppermint, sow summer savory; and often go with them to collect herbs for distillan and makean ointments.

“They much liked to doctor their neighbours, and themselves too; though there was nothing in the world amiss with them. Yet they were very skilful, and made better [5]skawdower ointment than one cud get anywhere else. That salve, of their makean, was better than any doctor’s stuff for curean a skin disease which was very common in their time, when people lived more on salt pork and fish than they do now, and had but little greens, or any other garden sass. Often enow then ef poor people hadn’t fish, it was

“Pease-porridge hot, pease-porridge cold, Pease-porridge in the crock nine days old.”

“They made an excellent eye-salve, too, with cellandine, that growed about on their old garden walls; and people came from miles away to get a bit of it for sore eyes.

“The old dears left Miss Jenny a great oak chest full of grand old fashioned cloathes, more than she can ever wear out ef she shud live to be as old as Methuselah.

“They are much too fine for common use, and only fit for one who may sit down all day long like

“The King up in his chamber, countan of his money, Or the Queen in her parlour eatan bread and honey.”

“Why didn’t ’e invite Miss Jenny to take a cup of tea too?” I asked. “She tea! she can’t abide’n,” replied An Polly; “that’s one of her whimsies, some people say; she’s very welcome, I’m sure.

“Nearly all her diet is gerty-milk. She will trot away miles to get a few gallons of pillas, [6]—over along to Morvah, or Zennor, because few people grow et now in St. Just. She do manage et the same as olk folk always ded. Two or three quarts of the grain es damped, weth her, at a time; then put into a small tray; kept a purpose, till its beginning to ‘cheeny’” (to show signs of being ready to sprout.) “The tray es put upon her chimney-stool, where et may have a little warmth. As soon as there’s the least sign of the pillas bean ready to throw out a shoot it’s put into a ‘baker’ on a slow fire, and stirred all the time till well dried and ‘scroched’ a little. Roastan of pillas es a very nice job, that but few can be trusted to do; yet it’s worth all the labour. The change made in the grain, for the better, wedn’t be believed by anybody not acquainted weth it.

“It must be left to ‘cheeney’ only till the grains become sweet and ‘plum’ (soft) enough to crush between one’s finger and thumb. When roasted and spread out on a cloth to cool Miss Jenny’s plan es to put a handful or two at a time into as pretty a little moorstone traff (trough) as ever eyes ded see and pound’n till crushed fine enow—the ‘crusher’ es a handy ‘bowl’ (pebble) picked up from the sea-shoar.

“You ought to see her beautiful little pillas-traff; et will only hold about a gallon; es as smooth as a basen inside and out; and es so light that one can move ’n about with ease. Miss Jenny had’n boft from Kellinack, where et had been used for hundreds of years for the same purpose. Old people used to take much the same plan weth their pillas; they are too lazy now, and buy oatmeal from shops, or thicken their milk with barley-flour; yet neither of them is half so good as the pillas-gerts that used to be grown by most everybody here who had a few acres of land. There was much other good food made with pillas, the gerts, mind ’e, always prepared as I’ve told ’e; et made a nicer baked puddan than flour or rice. Above all, a little ov’n was often used to help out malt, when good old housewives wanted to have their ale extra strong.

“At length—and that was jest as far back as I can remember—the cussed excisemen interfered with old women puttan their pillas to ‘cheeney.’ I’ve heard Miss Jenefer say that her Aunts and others detested them more than they ded the press-gang. Excisemen were all ‘foreigners’ (strangers to the county) then, for no West Country man wed belong to such a crew. They wed come about, every now and then, mostly when the men were away to bal, and rummage every hole and corner in search of bay salt, [7] liquor, and other goods, brought from over sea by the poor men, at the risk of their lives; and ef they found ever so little pillas-gerts, et was seized and a fine threaten’d, for they caled’n malt.

“Besides, I’m afraid that we shan’t have a little coarse salt brought here again, by the fisher-women, at a reasonable price for a long time; the excisemen have found out that there are trap-hatches in the floors of nearly all dwellans where the fisher folk live—over cellars. When the way was clear, the fisher-women drawed up salt with bags and lines. Now ‘all the fat es in the fire;’ a heedless harum-scarum fool of a woman hurred away to meetan without takan care to see that the hatch-boards were down snug upon the beams. Whilst she was out, the exciseman, going his rounds, entered the cellar and saw the contrivance. On puttan hes head up through the hatch, he saw that all the sand, with which the floor had been covered, was swept away and a good lot of salt left on the floor. On examinan other dwellans, over fish-cellars, he found trap-hatches in nearly all of them. There’s ben the devil of a row amongst them ever sence; all the other women are ready to kill that thoughtless fool; and—serve her right. I pray to goodness that they may soon find some other way to fool the plague of an exciseman, I do.

“You know seine-owners are allowed what salt they require to cure their fish, duty free. They seldom use all their stock and know what es——”

“Mother! Mother!” cried Lovey, “stop do, tellan about the excisemen; never fear but the Bay women will be a match for them yet. You are gettan all crankey because we have but little ‘fair-trade’ now; yet live in hopes that times will mend, and tell us the old droll that Miss Jenny twisted into her story of Bill’s feast.”

Over a while An Polly became more tranquil and told us the following story, which she called “a mere bam of a Droll.”

AN OLD DROLL ABOUT A POOR TINNER’S FEAST.

What the miller’s wife said of the old “droll” about a tinner’s feast was to the following effect:—

A poor tinner was determined to keep his parish feast as well as he could, that he mightn’t be looked down on, and sneered at by his comrades. He killed his pig before it was as fat as it should be; sold one side in Hallantide market; and left the other home to be put in the “kool” against winter. A piece of beef and other things were bought to keep a decent feast. The tinner whilst stopping at the Market Cross, in the Green Market, fell in with a Zennor man who had been an old comrade. The Santuster asked him into the public-house to take a pint, and they had pint upon pint, all at the tinner’s cost; the other never once offered to stand treat; yet the tinner was so glad to have met his old mate that he invited him over to feast, and the other said he’d come, with a half a word of asking.

The tinner’s wife put all the pork left at home in salt, except the “leans,” and saved them to make a good pie the Feasten Sunday. She made the “hinges” (liver and light) and other things serve them till then.

On Feasten Day the beef was boiled with such vegetables as were liked in broth; and dumplings made of great Hallan apples; a good “leans of pork pie” and “figgy” pudding baked. She had made a good cake on Feasten Eve; and that, when cold, had been placed upon a shelf over the window, just opposite the table.

They waited a good bit after their usual dinner-time, and, no feaster having arrived, the tinner began to think he might have promised to come on the Monday (he didn’t remember clearly what passed between them in the public-house;) so his wife laid by the beef, the pie, and the pudding till next day, in case the feasters might then come, so as to be provided for them. They made their own dinner, and a very good one too, of broth and the apple dumplings.

When she was going to take the table-cloth off, in came the Zennor man and his wife. The tinner thought then he must have asked his old mate to bring her. Next came in half-a-dozen or more children. “Thusey (these) arn’t all mine,” said the feaster; “some of ‘themey’ are her sisters cheldran” pointing to his wife; “but they cried to go to feast too, as their cousins were goan.”

The tinner’s wife said nothing, and the children took the window-seat, without telling, that being their place at home.

All the tinner’s children had gone away out to play with their companions. The feaster and his wife being seated on the form outside the table, the beef, pork-pie, and such vegetables as were then in use were placed on the board.

“You needn’t cut away the beef for the cheldran,” said the Zennor man, “give them a basin of brath a piece.”

“No, we waan’t have brath,” cried the youngsters, “for we’ll have flesh too.”

In short, beef and pie were soon served out and devoured. The tinner’s wife had, happily, kept her pudding in the spence out of sight, when she found that her feasters would neither eat bread nor vegetables with their meat. On turnips, carrots, and cabbage being offered them, “No, no, thank ’e, all the same,” said they, “for we’ve plenty of ‘themey’ home: we can eat the fat with the lean, and the whole will go down together, honey sweet.”

There was nothing left on the table, in the way of meat, but the beef-bones, almost bare.

The pie was all eaten, and the children were licking out the dish, as they did at home, when in came an old couple and seated themselves on a bench at the lower end of the board.

“We arn’t come to feast,” said the old man, “for we wern’t asked, and we’ve had dennar hours ago; but granny couldn’t rest for thinkan about the cheldran, fearan they might run into shafts and other dangerous places over this way. After you have all finished your dennar, we’ll sing to ’e, for I and the old oman both belong to our Church choir.

“You know, I spose, that Zennor people have always been famous singers, and et must be long ago when a meremaid left the sea, changed her shape, and came to Church, dressed like a lady, all to hear our singers. She ‘comed,’ Sunday after Sunday, and singed so sweet herself that she, at last, enticed away a young fellow called Mathey Trewella, son to the church’warn, and neither of them have ever ben sen sence—that es, upon land, for I waan’t tell ’e a word of a lie and know et. You’ve heard, I spose, that in rememberance of this meremaid, her form, as sen in the sea, or of another like her, was carved on the bench-end on which she sat and singed so sweet right opposite Trewella up in the singan-laft (gallery); and even our cheldran are born singers, as you shall hear bem by, you shall.”

“We want more flesh, granfer, we do,” cried the young singers.

“And seeman to me, I cud eat a mouthful of beef, too,” said granny; “ef you cud cut a little off themey bones. I like to pick the bones, for you know we say the nearer the bone the sweeter the flesh.”

The tinner placed a pewter platter, with all that remained of the beef, before this dear old couple: then the old man took from his pocket a clasp knife and scraped the bones, when the youthful singers again cried, “We want more flesh, granny, we haan’t had half enough.”

The old grandame, in her eagerness to clutch the scrapings, got her fingers cut, and slapped the old man’s face with her bloody hand. The tinner’s wife had a tender heart, poor woman; and, being grieved to hear the children crying, put a “baker” on the “brandes,” took from the bussa (earthen crock) a piece of nice streaky pork, and fried it for them.

Just then it was that the younger Zennor woman, in looking about for something more, spied the feasten cake, on a shelf over the window.

“Whatever ded ’e put that cake there, right in my sight for?” cried she, turning round to the tinner’s wife, and then said to her own husband, sitting beside her; “Hold my hands behind my back, do, that I mayn’t touch myself anywhere in sight till I’ve had a piece of that cake; for fear I mark the cheeld weth that cake. I’m in as bad a condition now as the poor oman who langed for treacle, and dipped the twopenny loaf she had in her hand, into a barl of tar, and dedn’t find out her mistake till she had eaten nearly all the bread,—her mind was so runan upon treacle, poor dear oman.”

The cake was at once taken down and cut up. The feasters all, young and old, wanted a piece, and nothing of it was left—not even the “bruyans” (crumbs.) Then the youthful singers cried again because their bellies ached.

“Don’t ’e cry, my dears,” said their granny, “the ‘quaffan’ (fulsomeness) will pass away when on the road home; hush dears, we shan’t stop much longer.”

When they had sat to eat, drink, and “squat” (stuff themselves) till they were ready to burst, they all straddled away as fast as they were able with the heavy loads they bore in their stomachs, and without so much as once asking the tinner to their own feast in return.

“Now, any one with a grain of gumption may see,” said the old miller’s wife, “how Jenefer made up her story out of this old ‘bam,’ just like the actors in a guise-dance changing parts. The passon do say that our drolls and guise-dances are hundreds of years old, and well worth preserving.”

It appeared, from what the old miller’s wife afterwards said that Miss Jenefer was crazy on the subject of her kindred, and that she had none so near as to be called relations. If any persons crossed her, when mounted on this hobby, she would go at them, “full tilt,” like she did at the poor woman who spoke scornfully of a “planched” parlour, or of its owners, whom the crazed old damsel claimed as her kinsfolk.

Yet most people liked the old maid very well and humoured her whims, as far as they could remember them.

Like a true Santuster she’ll never bear a “coresy” (a grudge, or ill-will) against anybody for long, but have it out and be friends. Besides she’s just as good a story-teller as the old blind droll teller and ballad-singer, Anthoney James, who takes a turn round the county every summer, and passes the winters in Plymouth, with other old pensioners. When living there he is often fetched to gentlemen’s houses where there is company who like to hear him tell his “Drake Droll,” and sing old ballads all about Sir Francis and privateering.

The arrival of An Polly’s big happy-looking son put an end to her stories, for the time.

A MADRON FEAST OF FIFTY YEARS AGO.

It may be remembered that Dick Rostram, on taking leave of Mary Angwin and her husband, on his return from St. Just feast, asked them to come to feast with him at Madrontide; and be sure and come early, that they might go to Church and hear the organ. Mary knew where he lived in Back Lane, as she had often noticed his little dwelling when going to Mr. Luke’s brewery for barm. But Dick saw nothing of them in the three weeks between the two Tides. Jackey and Mary had expended more money in providing for their feast than would have served them a month, in their usual frugal way of living; and Christmas being near, bringing with it bills to be paid, they lived very carefully, in the interval, buying the few groceries they wanted in Churchtown.

Dick, too, was much occupied and busier than he needed to have been, owing to his conceit that unless he had a hand in almost every kind of work going on in the establishment to which he belonged it would be badly done. When the warehouses were arranged to his mind he would go into the shop, to see if he were wanted there; if there was nothing else to do he would take a bundle of Moore’s Almanacks, containing his master’s advertisements, and away out in the market, calling them. But this was more an excuse for talking with any one who came in his way than anything else. If Dick met nobody to chat with, he would talk to himself for hours together, practising crabbed questions and answers.

Then, before the time of wholesale drug-millers, every druggist made his own preparations, and his apprentices had often something like real work, in using the pestle and mortar, if there were no other person to do it.

Dick, from long practice, had great dexterity in using the pestle and thought the young men of the shop spoiled the drugs by their irregular action and feebleness of arm; and the youngsters encouraged a conceit which led to their own ease.

Dick felt proud when pounding things that might kill or cure, and thought himself an important member of the medical profession. In working up resinous gums he would beat slowly, at first, that they might’n warm by the friction, repeating to himself the words “linger and live” to keep time. The sticky substances being pounded and mixed with dryer things, he’d sing a lively old ballad and keep time with the pestle. Getting louder as he proceeded, the chemist’s big bell-metal mortar would be heard ringing merrily all over the Market-place, as he hammered away and sung until the drugs were sufficiently worked.

Dick’s mouth always kept in motion with the pestle, just like a fiddler’s with his bow. The master humoured his cranky ways when not too troublesome, and, in return, he always confirmed what his master said, though he knew nothing whatever about the matter; but that only made it the more generous of this old jewel of a servant, by showing his undoubting faith in his master’s words.

Madron Feasten Eve was, as usual, a very busy time in shops, and the one to which Dick belonged dealing in groceries and other articles, as well as drugs, customers kept coming until very late, and, by the time he got home, had drunk a small bottle of porter, which was his custom of a Saturday night, and went to bed, it was past midnight. “But never mind,” said Dick, in closing an outside shutter to his bedroom window, “this blessed shutter will keep out the daylight, and I’ll have a good long snooze in the morning.” The ground making a rapid descent from Back-lane to Market-jew-street, Dick’s bedroom window was only a few feet above the road, and his bed near it.

An hour or more before most working men in Penzance are accustomed to rise of a Sunday morning, Dick was disturbed by a knocking on his window-shutter. “Hallo, you stupid thing,” cried he, “hast a forgotten the day of the week? Go thee way’st to ‘milky,’ I don’t want to rise for hours yet.” He thought, or dreamt, that the noise was made by a girl going to milk the cows, kept in a shed near, and who was in the habit of rousing him on week days, by his request, as she passed if the shutters were closed.