Christmas receives so hearty a welcome, and is ‘made so much
of,’ as in the old-fashioned ‘antient borough of beloved St
Ives.’ It is often said that ‘extremes meet;’ but as well
might we expect the extremities of Britain—John o’Groat’s and
Cape Cornwall—to meet, as that the frolic-loving descendants
of Albion will ever imitate the cold, mountain-nurtured
Caledonians in their observance of Christmas time. For months
previous to the merry-making time, preparations are made
for the approaching ‘carnival;’ we can assure our readers
that never were the real ‘carnivals’ ushered in with greater
festivities at Rome or Venice, in the zenith of their glory,
than is observed here at Christmas. Were many of the denizens
of our large towns to witness the making up of the scores
of ‘sugar-loaf,’ ‘three-cocked,’ and indescribable-shaped
hats, caps, bonnets, bloomer skirts, leggings, jackets, &c.,
numberless _et ceteras_ of the most grotesque and pantomimic
character, colour, and shape, which goes on in October and
November, they would imagine there was to be a _bal masque_
on a large scale, or a pantomime at ‘the theatre,’ of
metropolitan proportions. But not so, for there is not even
a singing class in the town, if we except the choirs of the
various congregations, and all ‘this wilful waste’ of long
cloth, scarlet, ringstraked, and speckled, is to do honour
to King Christmas during the twelve nights which intervene
’twixt the birth of Christmas common and Christmas proper,
which said outward manifestations of honour are known in the
neighbourhood as ‘Christmas geezze-daancing,’ or guise-dancing;
but of this presently. Not only are the ‘lovers of pleasure’ on
the alert, but the choirs of the different places of worship
strive to ‘get up’ a piece or two to tickle the ears of their
hearers on Christmas-night, and the house that boasts the best
‘singing seat’ is sure to be crammed by persons attracted by
the twofold advantage of a short sermon and a good lively tune.
A pretty brisk trade is carried on by children in the retailing
unquenched lime, in small quantities to suit the convenience
of purchasers; and few are the domiciles but have had a lick
of the lime brush, either on the wall, window-sill, door-post,
or chimney. ‘A slut, indeed,’ is she declared who refuses to
have a thorough clean out before Christmas. New shoes and
clothes are worn for the first time on the great holiday; and
woe betide the unlucky Crispin who, by some unaccountable
oversight, has neglected to make Jennifer’s bran new shoes, for
her to go and see how smart the church is on Christmas-day.
As in other parts of England, a pretty large sum is spent in
evergreens, such as holly, or, as it is called here, ‘prickly
Christmas,’ bays, and laurels. Of mistletoe and cypress there
is very little in the neighbourhood, and the windows of shops
and private dwellings, as well as the parish church, are
profusely and tastefully decorated. As to provisions there
is no lack. Many a flock of geese has been bespoken, and set
apart for private customers; whilst the ears of the grocers,
who generally do a supplementary trade in swine’s flesh, are so
accustomed to receive a month’s notice for ‘a nice bit of flea
(spare) rib,’ that they are loth to engage any of the porcine
fraternity that are not all rib. The Christmas market is not a
mean affair at St Ives; if the butchers cannot boast of many
prize oxen or ‘South Downs,’ they generally manage to make
the best of their ‘home-raised’ and well-fed cattle, and the
stalls are ‘titivated off’ nicely too. This year, however, the
inspector of nuisances, who is also market-toll collector and
police constable, sergeant, and inspector, actually refused to
clean, or allow to be cleaned, the St Ives market on Tuesday
for the Christmas-eve market, because there was no extra tolls
payable for the Christmas markets, and, as may be expected,
the epithets bestowed on him were by no means flattering
or complimentary—we did hear of a suggestion to put the
‘gentleman’ policeman in an aldermanic stall on the 5th of next
November, or maybe during the guise-dancing. Tradesmen have for
the most part ‘cacht their jobs,’ and the good housewife ‘done
her churs in season’ on Christmas-eve. In many families, a
crock of ‘fish and tatees’ is discussed in West-Cornwall style
before the ‘singers’ commence their time-honoured carol, ‘While
Shepherds,’ which is invariably sung to ‘the same old tune,’
struck by some novice in _u_ flat. There is usually a host of
young men and maidens to accompany the ‘singers;’ these are
composed of the choirs of two or three dissenting bodies, who
chiefly select the members of their respective congregations
for the honour of being disturbed from a sound nap on the
eventful morning. The last two or three years the choirs have
done their carolling amongst the most respectable of the
inhabitants on the evening of Christmas-day, after divine
service.
“On Christmas-day the mayor, aldermen, and councillors walk in
procession to church from the house of the mayor for the time
being. The church is, as we have before remarked, gaily decked
with evergreens. Two or three days after the singers make a
call ‘for something for singing,’ the proceeds, which are
pretty handsome, being spent in a substantial supper for the
choir.
“But of the ‘guise-dancing,’ which has found a last retreat
at St Ives,—this is the only town in the country where the
old Cornish Christmas revelry is kept up with spirit. The
guise-dancing time is the twelve nights after Christmas,
_i.e._, from Christmas-day to Twelfth-day. Guise-dancing at St
Ives is no more nor less than a pantomimic representation or
_bal masque_ on an extensive scale, the performers outnumbering
the audience, who in this case take their stand at the corners
of the streets, which are but badly lighted with gas, and
rendered still more dismal of late years by the closing of the
tradesmen’s shops after sunset during this season, on account
of the noise and uproar occasioned, the town being literally
given up to a lawless mob, who go about yelling and hooting in
an unearthly manner, in a tone between a screech and a howl,
so as to render their voices as undistinguishable as their
buffoon-looking dresses. Here a Chinese is exhibiting ‘vite
mishe’ and ‘Dutch dops;’ there a turbaned Indian asks you if
you ‘vant a silver vatch.’ A little further on you meet with a
Highlander with ‘dops to cure the gout.’ The home-impoverishing
packman, or duffer, has also his representative, urging to be
allowed just to leave ‘a common low-price dress at an uncommon
high price, and a quartern of his 6s. sloe-leaves, of the
best quality.’ Faithless swains not unfrequently get served
out by the friends of the discarded one at this time, whilst
every little peccadillo meets with a just rebuke and exposure.
About eighteen years ago, a party of youngsters, to give more
variety to the sports, constructed a few nice representations
of elephants, horses, and—start not gentle reader—lifelike
facsimiles of that proverbially stupid brute, the ass. For
several seasons it was quite a treat to witness the antics
of the self-constituted elephants, horses, and asses, in the
thoroughfares of this little town. On the whole, the character
of the guise-dancing has degenerated very much this last
twenty years. It was formerly the custom for parties to get
up a little play, and go from house to house to recite their
droll oddities, and levy contributions on their hearers in
the form of cake or plum-pudding. Wassailing, as far as I can
learn, never obtained much in this neighbourhood. Old Father
Christmas and bold King George were favourite characters. It
is not uncommon to see a most odiously-disguised person with
a bedroom utensil, asking the blushing bystanders if there
is ‘any need of me.’ Some of the dresses are, indeed, very
smart, and even costly; but for the most part they consist of
old clothes, arranged in the oddest manner, even frightfully
ugly. It is dangerous for children, and aged or infirm persons,
to venture out after dark, as the roughs generally are armed
with a sweeping brush or a shillaly. The uproar at times
is so tremendous as to be only equalled in a ‘rale Irish
row.’ As may be anticipated, these annual diversions have a
very demoralising influence on the young, on account of the
licentious nature of the conversation indulged in, though
we really wonder that there are not many more instances of
annoyance and insult than now take place, when we consider
that but for such times as Christmas and St Ives feast, the
inhabitants have no place of amusement, recreation, or public
instruction; there being no library, reading-room, institution,
literary or scientific, or evening class; and unless there is
one at the National School-room, not a night school or even a
working-men’s institution is in the town.
“We should not omit that one of the old customs still observed
is the giving apprentices three clear holidays (not including
Sunday) after Christmas-day, though we hear of attempts being
made to lessen this treat to the youngsters. If we don’t wish
success to these efforts, we do desire those should succeed who
will endeavour to impart to our rising population a thorough
contempt for guise-dancing and all such unmeaning buffoonery.
There is one thing which must not be overlooked—viz., the few
drunken brawls that occur at such times. Cases of drunkenness
certainly occur, but these are far below the average of towns
of its size, the population being in 1861 (parliamentary
limits) 10,354.”—_St Ives Correspondent._
LADY LOVELL’S COURTSHIP.
By the especial kindness of one who has a more abundant store of old
Cornish stories than any man whom I have ever met, I am enabled to give
some portion of one of the old Cornish plays, or guise-dances. Many parts
are omitted, as they would, in our refined days, be considered coarse;
but as preserving a true picture of a peculiar people, as they were a
century and a half or two centuries since, I almost regret the omissions.
SCENE 1.—_The Squire’s Kitchen—Duffy sitting on the
chimney-stool—Jane, the housekeeper, half drunk, holding fast
by the table._
_Jane._ Oh, I am very bad, I must go to bed with the wind in my
stomach. You can bake the pie, Duffy, and give the Squire his
supper. Keep a good waking fire on the pie for an hour or more.
Turn the glass again; when the sand is half down, take the fire
from the kettle. Mind to have a good blazing fire in the hall,
for the Squire will be as wet as a shag. The old fool, to stay
out hunting with this flood of rain! Now, I’ll take a cup of
still waters, and crawl away to bed.
_Duffy._ Never fear, I’ll bake the pie as well as if you were
under the kettle along with it; so go to bed, Jane.
[_As soon as Jane turns her back, Huey Lenine
(Lanyon) comes in with_,—
_Huey._ What cheer, Duffy, my dear? how dost aw get on, then?
_Duffy._ Never the better for thee, I bla, Huey. What do bring
thee here this time of night?
_Huey._ Why, thee art never the worse, nan, I’m sure. Nor thee
cussent say that the lanes are longer than the love neither,
when I’m come a-courting to thee with this rainy weather.
[_Huey places himself on the chimney-stool, at
a good distance from Duffy._
_D._ Why doesn’t aw come a little nearer then, Huey?
_H._ Near enuff, I bla.
_D._ Nearer the fire, I mean. Why doesn’t aw speak to me then,
Huey?
_H._ What shall I say, nan?
_D._ Why, say thee dost love me, to be sure.
_H._ So I do.
_D._ That’s a dear. Fine pretty waistcoat on to you, man, Huey.
_H._ Cost pretty money too.
_D._ What did it cost, man?
_H._ Two-and-twenty pence, buttons and all.
_D._ Take good care of en, man.
_H._ So I will.
_D._ That’s a dear.
[_The Squire is heard calling the dogs._
_D._ Dost aw hear? there’s the Squire close to the door. Where
shall I put thee? Oh, I’m in such a fright. Wouldn’t for the
world that he found thee here this time of night. Get in the
wood-corner, quick, out of sight, and I’ll cover thee up with
the furze.
_H._ No.
_D._ Then jump into the oven. A little more baking will make
thee no worse.
[_Duffy pushes Huey back into the oven with the
fire-prong, till he gets out of sight, when the
Squire comes in, calling_,—
_Squire._ Jane, take the hares and rabbits; be sure hang them
out of the way of the dogs.
_D._ Give them to me, master; Jane is gone to bed. The wind
from her stomach is got up in her head, at least so she said.
_S._ Why, who is here, then? I heard thee speaking to some one
as I opened the door.
_D._ I was driving away a great owl, master, that fell out of
the ivy-bush on the top of the chimney, and came tumbling down
through the smoke, perched hisself there on the end of the
chimney-stack; there he kept blinking and peeping, like a thing
neither waking nor sleeping, till he heard the dogs barking,
when he stopped his winking, cried out, “Hoo! hoo!” flapped his
wings, and fled up the chimney the same way he came down.
_D._ Now, master, you had better go up in the hall; you will
find there a good blazing fire.
[_The Squire examines his legs by the
fire-light._
_S._ Well, I declare, these are the very best stockings I ever
had in my life. I’ve been hunting, since the break of day,
through the bogs and the brambles, the furze and the thorns, in
all sorts of weather; and my legs,—look, Duffy, look—are still
as dry and sound as if they had been bound up in leather.
_D._ Then take good care of them, master; for I shall soon have
a man of my own to knit for. Huey and I are thinking to get
married before the next turfey season.
_S._ You think of having a man! a young girl like you! If I but
catch the boy Huey Lenine here, I’ll break his neck I declare.
I can never wear old Jane’s stockings any more. Why, thee dust
ought to be proud to know that the people from all over the
parish, who were never to church before in their lives, come,
and from parishes round, that they may see my fine stockings.
And don’t I stop outside the church door—ay, sometimes two
hours or more—that the women may see thy fine work? Haven’t
I stopped at the cross till the parson came out to call the
people in, because he and the clerk, he said, wanted to begin?
[_The Squire places himself beside Duffy on
the chimney-stool. The devil comes out of
the wood-corner, and ranges himself behind
them. Whenever the Squire is backward, the
devil tickles him behind the ear or under the
ribs. His infernal highness is supposed to be
invisible throughout. Huey shews a wry face now
and then, with clenched fist, through the oven
door._
The following portion, which is the Squire’s courtship of Duffy with the
help of the devil, is a sort of duet in the old play. I don’t remember
the whole, yet sufficient, I think, to give some idea of the way it is
intended to be carried out:—
_S._ No; I’ll marry thee myself, rather than Huey Lenine
Shall ever wear stockings the equal of mine.
Thou shall have the silk gowns, all broider’d in gold,
In the old oak chest; besides jewels and rings,
With such other fine things,
In the old oak chest, as thee didst never behold.
_D._ I’d rather work all the day by any young man’s side,
Than sit in the bower, and be an old man’s bride.
_S._ Thou shalt have silver and gold, and riches untold.
_D._ I’ll buy my true love his shirt, rather than your silver and gold,
With one like yourself, both feeble and old.
_S._ You must say I’m old; though I’m near sixty,
I’m stronger still than many a man of twenty.
Thou shalt ride to church behind me, upon a new pillion,
As grand as Madam Noy, or Madam Trezillian.
_D._ O master, hold your flattering tongue;
I’m very foolish, and very young.
But——
[_Here the devil tickles the Squire sharply
under the ribs, when the Squire attempts to
hug and kiss Duffy, who takes the fire-prong
and brandishes it in the Squire’s face. The
devil tickles them both._
Stand off, keep your distance, and none of your hugging;
No man shall kiss me till he takes me to church;
I’ll never cry at Michaelmas for Christmas laughing,
Like the poor maid left in the lurch.
Look, the sand is all down, the pie is burn’d black,
And the crust is too hard for your colt’s teeth to crack;
Up to the hall now, and take your supper.
[_Here Duffy pushes the Squire off the stool.
The Squire jumps up and begins to dance,
singing the old dancing tune, “Here’s to the
devil, with his wooden pick,” &c. Duffy and the
devil soon join in the dance, and cut all sorts
of capers, till the Squire dances off to the
hall, followed by the devil; when Huey crawls
out of the oven, Duffy opens the kitchen,
drives Huey out, saying_,—
Now take thyself outside the door,
And never shew thy face here any more;
Don’t think I’d have a poor pityack like thee,
When I may marry a squire of high degree.
[_Then takes up the pie, and dances away.
During the old pitch-and-pass dance, they beat
time with the fire-prong and hunting-staff._
SCENE 2.—_The first appearance of Lady Lovell (Duffy) after the wedding.
She is seen walking up and down the hall dressed in all sorts of
ill-assorted, old-fashioned finery, that might have been forgotten in the
old oak chest for many generations of Lovells. The high-heeled shoes,
train, fan, ruff, high tete. All sorts of rings on her fingers, and in
her ears are de rigeur. Then she sings something like the following_:—
Now I have servants to come at my call,
As I walk in grand state in the hall,
Deck’d in silks and satins fine;
But I grieve all the day, and fret the long night away,
To think of my true love, young Huey Lenine.
Many a weary long hour I sit all alone in my bower,
Where I do nothing but pine,
Whilst I grieve all the day, and fret the night away,
To think of my true love, young Huey Lenine.
Would the devil but come at my call, and take the old Squire, silks,
satins, and all,
With jewels and rings so fine;
Then merry and gay I’d work all the day, and pass the night away,
Kissing my true love, young Huey Lenine.
Another Cornish “Droll” is preserved, in part, as an example of the kind
of doggerel verse in which many of those stories were told.
Bet of the Mill tells the Squire and company that, one Christmas night,
all the inmates of Trevider House were gone off to a guise-dance, except
Madam Pender and herself, and that they agree to spin for pastime:—
“One Christmas night, from Trevider Hall,
They were off in a guise-dance, big and small;
Nobody home but Madam Pender and I.
So to pass away time we agreed to try
Which would spin the finest yarn,
The length of the hall,
While the holly and bays
Deck’d window and wall.
“We took the rushes up from the floor,
From up by the chimney down to the door.
When we had the wool carded, ready to spin,
It came into our heads, before we’d begin,
We’d have a jug of hot-spiced beer,
To put life in our heels, our hearts to cheer.
So we drank to the healths of one and all,
While the holly and bays
Look’d bright on the wall.
“The night was dark, the wind roar’d without,
And whirl’d the cold snow about and about.
But the best part of that night,
By the bright fire-light,
While the Christmas stock did burn,
We danced forth and back as light as a feather,
Spinning and keeping good time together,
To the music of the ‘turn.’[55]
And we never felt weary that night at all,
While the holly and bays
Hung so gay on the wall.
“We pull’d out the yarn as even and fine,
As a spinner can spin the best of twine:
All the length of the hall,
From window to wall,
From up by the chimney
Down to the door,—
Full a dozen good paces and more;
And never felt weary at all,
While the holly and bays
Were so green on the wall.
At the turn of the night,
Old Nick, out of spite,
To see the log burn,
And to hear the gay ‘turn,’
Made my yarn to crack;
And I fell on my back,
Down the steps of the door.
I thought I was dead, or, twice as bad,
Should never be good any more.
If I had broken my bones on the cursed hard stones,
’Twas no wonder.
But, worst of all, with the force of the fall,
My twadling-string burst asunder.
...
Old madam was seized with frights and fears,—
She thought the house falling about her ears;
And, to save herself, she tore up-stairs,
Where they found her next morning under the bed,
With the brandy-bottle close to her head.”
Bet is found in a similar plight, and all is attributed to spinning;
however, the Squire orders that Madam Pender shall spin no more,—
“And dance, one and all,
With the holly and bays so bright on the wall.”
THE GAME OF HURLING.
The game of “Hurling” was, until a recent period, played in the parishes
to the west of Penzance on the Sunday afternoon. The game was usually
between two parishes, sometimes between Burian and Sancreed, or against
St Leven and Sennen, or the higher side of the parish played against the
lower side.
The run was from Burian Cross in the Church-town, to the Pipers in
Boloeit. All the gentry from the surrounding parishes would meet at
Boloeit to see the ball brought in.
“Hurling matches” are peculiar to Cornwall. They are trials of skill
between two parties, consisting of a considerable number of men, forty
to sixty a side, and often between two parishes. These exercises have
their name from “hurling” a wooden ball, about three inches in diameter,
covered with a plate of silver, which is sometimes gilt, and has commonly
a motto, “Gware wheag yeo gware teag,” “Fair play is good play.” The
success depends on catching the ball dexterously when thrown up, or
_dealt_, and carrying it off expeditiously, in spite of all opposition
from the adverse party; or, if that be impossible, throwing it into the
hands of a partner, who, in his turn, exerts his efforts to convey it to
his own goal, which is often three or four miles’ distance. This sport,
therefore, requires a nimble hand, a quick eye, a swift foot, and skill
in wrestling; as well as strength, good wind, and lungs. Formerly it was
practised annually by those who attended corporate bodies in surveying
the bounds of parishes; but from the many accidents that usually attended
that game, it is now scarcely ever practised. Silver prizes used to be
awarded to the victor in the games. A correspondent at St Ives, writes:—
Hurling the Silver Ball.—This old custom is still observed at St Ives.
The custom is also kept up at St Columb and St Blazey, on the anniversary
of the dedication of the church. St Ives’ feast is governed by the
Candlemas-day, it being the nearest Sunday next before that day. On the
Monday after, the inhabitants assemble on the beach, when the ball,
which is left in the custody of the mayor for the time being, is thrown
from the churchyard to the crowd. The sides are formed in this way,—
Toms, Wills, and Jans,
Take off all’s on the san’s—
that is, all those of the name of Thomas, John, or William are ranged
on one side, those of any other _Christian_ name on the other; of late
years the odd names outnumber the Toms, Wills, and Jans. There is a pole
erected on the beach, and each side strives to get the oftenest at the
“goold,” _i.e._, the pole; the other side as manfully striving to keep
them out, and to send their opponents as great a distance from the pole
as possible. The tradition is, that the contest used to be between the
parishes of Ludgvan, Lelant, and St Ives,—St Ives then being part of
the _living_ of Ludgvan,—and that they used to have a friendly hurling
at Ludgvan, and that afterwards the contest was between Lelant and St
Ives. A stone near to Captain Perry’s house is shewn, where the two
parishes used to meet at the feast, and the struggle was to throw the
ball into the parish church, the successful party keeping the ball, the
unsuccessful buying a new one. St Ives is said to have outnumbered the
Lelant folks, so that they gave up the contest, and the ball was left
with St Ives. Thus much is certain—that the feasts of St Ives, Lelant,
and Ludgvan fall properly on one Sunday, though a misunderstanding has
arisen, Lelant claiming to be governed by the day before Candlemas-day,
which will alter the three every seven years.
The game of hurling is now but rarely played, and the Sabbath is never
broken by that or by any other game.
SHAM MAYORS.
I.—THE MAYOR OF MYLOR.