Chapter IV: Part 4

In the meantime Jackey had placed on the embers a faggot of furze, and on it a few heathy turves, to keep in the flames and gradually kindle the whole. Then a high-backed settle was brought to the hearth from the stair-rail against which it usually stood. The settle-back could be turned down to rest on the ends, so as to form a table if wanted. Mary sat back by the table, feeling too warm, with all her moving about, to sit nearer the fire; and looked around with pride on her dresser-shelves, full of rare old earthenware (the queer faces in her old clome jugs grinned with joy in the warm firelight;) then on her bright brass warming-pan, candlesticks, pewter flagons, and other things on the chimney-piece, and she was not less pleased to see the white “valance,” called the chimney-cloth, which hung along the “cravel” (mantel-stone or tree.) Old housewives were just as careful to have clean chimney-cloths as caps. They kept everything about their fire-places as clean as if they venerated the hearth as an altar.

Come to Mary’s house at any time, you would always find this room dry and comfortable. All sloppy work was done in a pretty large room at the back, under a lean-to roof all the length of the dwelling.

At one end of this scullery, or back kitchen, a portion was screened off for a dairy. Over this, and projecting a few feet, was a “talfat” (loft) where some of the children’s beds were placed. At the other end, a few feet were taken up with a spence; near which was an outer door opening to a court, with the peeth, large stone-trough, fuel-ricks, &c.

Shortly after the old Sancras “pigs’” departure, in came two sturdy young fellows,—one from the north of St. Just, the other from Morvah.

“Will ’e have a cup of tea? We’ve only just finished” asked Mary. “They don’t care for the women’s drink,” Jackey answered for them; “make a jug of toddy.” “They had no business to come yet,” said that talking elder sister, “we shan’t go yet for a good while.” “But Tom and I must go early,” said Hannibal, that sister’s sweetheart; “Tom to be up early and after the rabbits. I must work the first core to bal or be spaled (fined.) Es hard that a worken man can’t have a day or two once a year, to hold the Feast, when those we work for have a feast every day, all the year round. Besides, we’ll all be here early to-morrow evening that we may dance altogether. Perhaps it’ll be the last time for many years.”

“My dear Nanny,” said Tom to the younger sister, as she laid her head on his shoulder and wept, “what art a-cryan for? Thinkan about beean far away from father and mother, next year this time? Cheer up, my darling, for we shall soon have a comfortable home there and they will come to us, perhaps, before next Feast; who can tell? Older folks than they are going away to their children every day, and taking much longer voyages too. Come now, when over there thy Tom may hunt better game than any here, without so much as askan leave or licence, and you will make venison pasties instead of dry ‘fuggans’ or ‘hoggans.’”

“Catch thy dears first,” said the teasing elder sister.

“Well, Nelly,” replied he, “west a believe what Simon Mitchell wrote home? He’s only been there about two years and he said that he wouldn’t be home agen for the fee of Boscarn, and that workan men there may, and do, have turkeys on their tables oftener than we can get rabbits. Now I’ll tell thee, sister Nell,” continued he, rising and taking Nanny to the door, “ef I’d been in thy Honny’s place I’d jest say ef thee westn’t go thee may’st stay, and then we should hear another tune.”

“Never mind her, Tom,” replied Hannibal, “es only that I may court her the more.”

Soon after they had settled on a place to meet next morning with Jackey, the blooming damsels and their lovers left, with a promise to come again early to-morrow evening.

Shortly after the young peoples’ departure Dick got out of his warm corner on the chimney-stool and said “Es time for me to be goan, for I’ve further to go than any of your other feasters.”

“No, no,” said Mary, “stop over to-morrow and till servy day” (Feasten Wednesday) “if you will, and go with me and Grace to the fiddler, for I can shake my shoes in a three-handed reel yet and shall for years to come, I hope.”

“I trust thee west,” said Jackey, “for my old grandmother danced of a Feasten Monday till she was eighty-two, and a better woman there never was. Now do ’e stop,” said he to the guest, “and keep a ‘Mazed Monday’ for once. Master won’t mind et. Whilst I’m after the rabbits, only for a few hours, early in the morning, the boy will go with you to see the youngsters’ games. To be sure they arn’t kept up now like in old times when there was hurling and wrestling, and all the gentle folks of the parish came to see, or join in the sports; a hundred years ago there were many of their old family seats occupied by the owners (one may count five or six of them now, let as farm houses, at no great distance from the road leading through St. Just, from Sennen to Morvah, beginning with Brea and ending with Pendeen.) The prize-wrestling was left till Feasten Monday, the standards having been all made many weeks before hand. Though the weather was often bad and grass wet and slippery, the youngsters in their well barked canvas jackets, didn’t mind a trifle of mud, and the ladies encouraged their lovers’ or brothers’ manliness.

“I’d like to stay and see anything like it now,” said Dick; “but our people have been expectan goods for a long time. Only yesterday the Furley came in and Captain Hosking es goan to have the cargo broken out to-morrow. So I must be home to stow our things in the warehouses; else I shall find everything in a ‘migle-cum-por’ (confusion or mess.) You see the weight of the business es upon my shoulders. How shud’na be, for I’ve ben weth our people all my life-time—, weth my present master’s father first, when I was no bigger than your boy Jackey; so I must love ’e and leave ’e, and you will be sure to come in and see me Madron Feasten Sunday won’t ’e Mary? You shall go to our grand Church and hear the organ. Lots of people go a purpose to hearn, and you’ll see grand folks and things sure nuf.”

“Well, thank ’e,” said Mary, “I’d like to go very well, but don’t see how I can leave Jackey; he’d be like a fish out of water of a Sunday, home without me.”

“Jackey must come too,” replied Dick, “and little Mary and John, ef you will.”

“The four younger ones,” said Mary to her husband, “might be left with their grandmother, the same as to-day, ef she’ll be troubled weth them agen so soon, for I should dread to leave them here weth anybody but myself. They will be always playan weth the fire when they arn’t ploshan in the water, and our wood-corner is a dangerous one.”

“Now I’ll tell ’e how you can manage et,” said Grace. “The Sunday I’ll come over early, to see that you are all to-rights, and the children shall go home weth me; then you can put out the fire, turn down the brandes on the bakan-ire, cross the fire-hook and prong, sweep up the hearthstone, put on it a basin of spring water, for the ‘Smale People (fairies) and good luck,’ like as the old folks ded, and some do still before leaving their houses shut up, then touch the cravel before crossing the drussel, lock the door, and away to Feast. I’ll come and see that you are all smart and tidy to go to Penzance Church and hear the organ. I’ll come over very early and titevate ’e off, for the credit of the parish, before you go to Penzance Feast to see grand people and things; and I’m sure you’ll be made very welcome weth Mr. Rostram.”

“Oh cuss ’e,” cried Dick, “that esn’t my name; that’s a nickname some blackguards put upon me, years ago, and fools keep it up still. I’d as soon hear thunder.”

“Oh laws,” sighed Gracey, “I ded’n know that, and have ben thinkan all day what a pretty name that es and how I shud like to be called by’n.”

“Then take’n and welcome,” said Dick, going outside the door.

“Stop a minute,” said Mary “for me to put on my bonnet and shawl; Jackey and I will go along wh’y to the North Road or farther.”

They didn’t offer a parting dram, knowing that he had taken enough for his old crazy head to bear, nor try to detain him, lest Gracey might shoot more fools’ bolts. Among other talk, by the way, Dick remarked that the elder Morvah damsel seemed unwilling to leave home with the rest.

“That’s only her way of teazing those best liked by her,” Mary replied, “ef Honney were less eager to go with Tom and Nancy then the other would urge him to go, for she likes her sister, and the two men have always been the same as twin brothers.”

“And capital fellows they are,” said Jackey, “to get on in any land where their native tongue is known. Hannibal es as good a man for underground work as may be found; besides, he can do any rough carpenters’ work better than many who served a time to learn the trade, and can make a strong wall in the old fashion by laying the stones to bind each other, without mortar, like they were in our old castle walls, such as Choon; and Tom, besides beean a good miner es very handy with blacksmiths’ tools and so well acquainted with a fire-engine that he’s often trusted to work her, in place of the regular engineman. There’ll few be found in Yankey-land to beat them. And their intended wives can turn their hands to any kind of work fit for women.”

“Well ef I’m never married in this world, I’ll never have old snuffy Gracey,” said Dick to himself. “How can one after seean such dear Morvah maidens?”

“We’re on the great road now to Penzance,” said Jackey, “and I think, mate, that you’ll get home very well ef you don’t try to make any short cuts across the fields. The longest way round is often the shortest way home.”

“Good night, and I wish ’e well,” said Dick. “You’r coman in to Madron Feast, and be sure you come early one and all of ’e.”

After parting, Dick called back several times, “Be sure to come early Madron Feasten Sunday.”

MILL STORIES.

SUPPLEMENTARY TO HALLANTIDE.

I remember being down in Uncle Oliver Pooley’s Mill, in Nancherrow Bottom, one afternoon about the time Dick Rostram went to St. Just feast. Two women were there awaiting their turn to serge their barley-meal. In making remarks about a new house that a neighbour of theirs had just built for himself, one of the women said to the other, “What do ’e think, cheeld-vean? They’ve got a planchan put down in the little room, t’other side of the ‘entry,’ and they cal’n a pare-lar, forsuth; why a es but a good hale and make the most of n. Aw, the pride of some folks who have jest got a sturt! Es enough to make one sick to think o’ them, cheeld-vean.” “Now hold thy clack: thee art sick with envy,” replied the one addressed in such endearing terms. “They have always minded their own business and ben careful enough to save the money to build a new house weth a planched parlour. Thee west like to have one thyself, I suppose. I shud, and hope I may one day, planched parlour and all. Then I’ll have a carpet for’n, to be comfortable in my old years. Now go and mind thy flour; es nearly all down. Thee west dearly like to be a witch,” continued the outspoken dame, “to put a spell of ill luck on thy neighbours and blast both man and beast, but thou artn’t crafty enow yet; but live in hopes that the devil will teach thee some day, for a es of women like thee that witches are made.”

The woman thus reviled, then took her meal with no other sifting than what it had in the jigger, and went away without making any reply.

Then the angry out-spoken one, turning towards An Polly, the old miller’s wife, said, “Ef that faggot hadn’t stopped her jaw I’d a chucked her, by asking her how the little pig was gettan on that her boys, weth their dog, chased into the peth t’other night, thinkan a belonged to somebody else. Have ’e heard the story, An Polly?”

“No, nor I waant,” replied she, “for you are all alike in backbitan one another, and as great as inkle makers sometimes when you’ve got another woman to tear to pieces among ’e. I wish, for my part, that old Oliver could bear the mill-dust, and play the fiddle to set ’e all a dancing, while you’re waiting, like he used to, and like the mellar of Pendeen Mill do still, for you can’t be quiet a minute, and a es better to pass the time dansan than slanderan one t’other.”

Lovey (Loveday) the daughter, came down from the mill-bed, as her mother went into the house. “Do tell me, An Jenny,” said she, “what a es about the pig.” “That woman,” replied An Jenny, “jest gone es as full of spite as an egg es full of meat. She didn’t know, or perhaps forgote, that those she sneered at were cousins to me; a good wey off to be sure they are, but blood es thicker than water, and when fourth cousins get well off they seem nearer than poor first cousins, or others. Well, I was goen to tell ’e how a neighbour’s pig can’t show es nose near her door, but a es sure to be scalped by havan a kettle full of boilan water thrown over am; and her ashes’ pile, close to her door, es always covered weth pieces of sour half-sooked barley fuggans, left to go sour and vinneyed; with fish and other things left to go stale and stinkan. Pigs have good noses, poor things, and when out to lanes will come and muzzle-up the ashes to get at any offal. One night last week a neighbour’s boys, whose pig had often ben ill-used,—sometimes burnt over head and ears weth a showl full of turfey fire, when she had no water boilan,—watched to find the way clear when she was gone out to ‘coursey’ until et was time for her to get supper for Bill and the two boys when they come home from bal. The boys whipped into the crow where Bill’s little white pig had a few days before been put to feed agenst wenter, and they so smeered et with gudgeon gress [4] and soot that a looked jest like one of the new sort of black pigs. Soon after, when they saw light in Bill’s house, they turned his pig out and bolted the crow door. A few minutes after the boys who painted Bill’s pig heard’n screechan and seed’n tearan round the town-place like mad, till he got between his crow and the turf-rick and there stopt. P’raps you dont know what a trap Billy’s peeth es, and more dangerous than before a hedge was made close to one end ofn; the broad, flat stone in which the winze-‘millar’ do work es built into this new hedge, and the hook-handle on another broad stone weth the peeth between, only half-covered weth a few loose, broken pieces of old bal tember. After the poor pig had been there a few minutes Bill’s boys, as ugly as their mother, came home, and their snappish cur found the pig and gave chase to’n; it run’d slap up agen the hedge and tried to turn, but, bean nearly ef not quite blind, and the dog bitean es hinder parts, tha poor little thing in tryan to scramble over the peeth fell into’n. Now they were for life to get ropes, and a ladder to take up the pig lest they got into trouble; they were hours in bringen the pig to grass, and dedn’t find out tell next day that it was their own!

“Whatever An Polly may say,” continued Jenny, after pausing a moment to take snuff, “I never say anything but the truth about anybody. I pity them sometimes, from my very heart, and when I go to meetan pray that the Lord may give them grace to turn from their wicked ways; and I can’t help pittyan Billy even now that I think what a wisht feast a had last year, and don’t suppose he’ll have any this.”

“Stop a minute,” said Lovey, “I must turn off the water from the mill-wheel.”

“Now tell us about Billy’s feast,” said Lovey, on seating herself, “and we won’t interrupt ’e.”

“You know both of ’e and everybody else here-abouts,” said An Jenny, “than ef a San Juster don’t keep up the feast in some way jest as a can he’s looked down on and jeered at.”

A POOR TINNER’S FEAST.

Bill killed his pig, which wasn’t half fat,—not so good to kill as many running the lanes. He took one side to market and left the other hanging in his kitchen. Now Halan Market es the west (worst) in the year for sellan pork; so many Santusters’ poor lean trash are there that they keep down the price, and people who want good pork seldom come to that market. Bill made a few shillans, laid out a trifle in a bit of beef, and kept the rest to pay off a little of his long score at the shop in churchtown, that he might be trusted agen. In the Green Market he met a Zennor man who had been an old comrade of his. He invited him over for feasten Sunday. He didn’t wait to be asked twice before he promised to come early.

Whilst Bill was away, Mary Ann began upon the side of pork, hanging up in the kitchen; cut off a sliver from the back, put the baker upon the brandes, and fried away. Before she was satisfied, there was a great hole made in the side. Then, when the boys came home from bal, they fried again; and, believe me, they weren’t satisfied before nearly half the side was cut off, except the bones. Then, when Bill came home, she had to cut into the leg to have a little for his supper. By Saturday night there was nothing left of the pig but thin flaps of belly-pieces, one shoulder, and pile of bones. She was puzzled to contrive a feasten dinner out of that for a hungry Zennor man, who would eat the bit of beef and look over his shoulder for more! At length she determined to make a pie of all the odds and ends she sould scrape off the bones, the thin bits of skin from the belly, and other scraps.

Now, you know, one may make a pie of a’most anything and pascen off for what one will. If she could have got plenty of parsley she might have passed’n off for a veal-and-paasley pie, she thought; because Zennor folks never get any better veal than “staggering bob” (a calf killed before it can stand steady.) The pie was baked, bit of beef cooked, and plenty of petates boiled (whether there was cabbage or turnips I can’t say;) when two Zennor men arrived and were ready for dinner.

“This es my cousin Mathey,” said the man invited, pushing the other forward; “he’s come for company to me, and he’s one of our best singers. Es late now for church, I spose, but he will sing to ’e after denner, for we’ve none better than Mathey for singan that pretty psalm about the precious ointment runnan down from Aaron’s beard to the skirts of his coat, or t’other pretty one about a timmersome bird.” Bill said nothing, for he knew that Zennor men think themselves welcome to feast or funeral, for the sake of their singing.

They soon finished the bit of beef; then Mary Ann helped them to pie; and even these goats of Zennor men, whose diet when home es fish and potates every day of the week and conger-pie of a Sunday for a change, turned up their noses at the mess of “glit” she put on their plates; then they tried the pie-crust, and found that too dry and hard, though they arn’t particular, as they get nothing but conger-fat put in their cakes and pie-crust at home; that will make them eat short enuf ef somewhat nasty. They stopped to have a cup of tea, but that was hardly coloured, except with the scaled milk and brown sugar; and the cake she made with scroves (remains of lard which has been melted), the only fat left. How she could ever manage to bake anything so as to know when et was ready I can’t tell, I’m sure, for she hadn’t so much as a hour-glass to keep time.

Well, the two feasters couldn’t be without seean what a bad plight Bill was in, and all through his wife’s bad management; they took pity upon am, and, when passan the Square on their way home, asked him into “The Kings Arms,” and treated am to a glass or two of beer.

So much for Bills feast last year, and this they’ll have none at all.

An Jenny took the meal, which the miller’s daughter had serged for her, and brought it to the door. On her coming into the light I noticed that her dress was different from that usually worn by working women. Instead of a bed-gown, skirt, and check apron, or a “towser,” she was attired in a long-waisted gown and kirtle over a quilted petticoat, all of some dark stuff. Her abundant grey hair was turned back over a pad, or cushion, which was crossed by her cap-border, also turned back on a broad ribbon around her head; and a small silk hat, fixed jauntily on one side, finished her head-dress. She also wore a necklace of curious, old-fashioned green and red flowered beads, coated with clear white glass, and large hooped-shaped earrings.

Her figure was remarkably tall, slim, and upright, and her face what is usually called long-featured, with a high forehead, straight nose, and pointed chin.

“Polly would like to set the mill-women a dancing,” said she; “and I han’t forgotten all my steps yet, as you shall see.” Holding out her dress she then showed off several dancing steps with much liveliness, and was preparing for others when the dame of the mill opened the door from her dwelling, and called out, “Come ’e along in, do, like a good boy, I’ve had a cake baked and tea made this ever so long.” The sprightly old damsel then took her bag of meal and went away.

Young Oliver, being gone to buy corn of the neighbouring farmers, and having to await his return, I was glad to pass the time with An Polly. The dwelling-room, entered from the mill, was a long one, with a large open fireplace at the inner end; a small side window near it. All the room was either in strong light or deep shadow, and this old building of the mill and dwelling together, both within and without, afforded good subjects for an artist.

“Well, I should think you liked Miss Jenefer (Genevere) and her stories better than tea; for I’ve called ’e ever so many times. What had she to say about Mary Ann’s boys chasean a pig into a peeth?”

Having told An Polly what Jenefer said about it, and of Bill’s poor feast, “May the Lord forgive the old faggot!” said she, “I never can. Only to think she should make out that one of her parish wed ever be treated by a Zennor man in his own Churchtown, and on the Feasten Sunday too. No, Bill wed eat’s hat rather than suffer such a disgrace as that. Her whole story es made out of an old ‘bam’ told in other parishes about poor tinners tryan to keep up the feast as best they cud. Can ’e tell whose new house they were talkan about when she got into her ‘fegary’ weth the poor woman she abused so?”

“I didn’t hear any name mentioned,” I replied; “they were talkan about a planched parlour when I entered the mill; yet, from what Jenny afterwards said, it’s one of her relations.”

“Her relations,” returned An Polly, “she han’t got a near one in the world, nor has she ever had one since she was left an orphan when quite a child. Then the nearest she had were the two old ladies of Kellinack, who took her as their own; they were only her grandfather’s sisters; and then, when she was about thirteen, with those old ladies she must have heard scores of such stories. Where she could find any kindred near enow to be called relations when her great aunts died, I can’t tell. Yet if you believe her, all the old families of the parish are her kindred; most of them poor folks, whose forefathers owned lands in the parish; there are such sudden ups-and-downs here that some of the Ellises may have made a sturt and be building a house. By her account, and theirs as well, they are all from the same family as the owner of Brea. She says too that the Veals, now all very poor, once owned much lands in this parish and Sancras; so they must be her cousins, of course.

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.

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.