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.”