(RE-PRINTED BY DESIRE.)
We almost every day hear the saying “As gay as Betty Toddy’s gown.” Yet
few know anything more of Betty, or her gown, although both were rather
remarkable in their way and day. Betty’s right name was Elizabeth
Williams. There were four, if not five families of this name in St.
Just about a hundred years ago; when Betty flourished in all her glory.
To distinguish one of them from another, each family had a nickname, by
which they were better known than by their proper name, as Bibbs,
Cobbler, Toddy, &c. The family to which Betty belonged gained their
queer name by some old granny of theirs giving the children toddy
(spirit and water) with their bread and butter, instead of the usual
milk, or pillas-porridge. When the old folks “went round land,” Betty
and her brother Jacob were left with a little holding in or near
Churchtown. They had ground enough to keep a cow or two, raise a little
pease, barley, pillas, or naked oats, which were very much used then
before the murphies came into the country: the everlasting pease
porridge, broth and herby-pies, with milk instead of tea (only then
used by the gentry) was the every day fare. Jacob worked to bal, and
brought home his gettings to provide the few articles that their little
quilletts didn’t supply. Betty had all the profit of what she could
spare to sell from her cows and poultry—not much, for Jacob could eat
as much as half-a-dozen men, and do as much work as half-a-score of
those going now, who have their inside washed out with tea and stuffed
with potatoes. The Toddy’s had been people of consequence in their
time, and many rich and queer articles of old-fashioned dress came to
Betty from grandmothers and great-mothers, in which she would appear in
state at Church on Sundays, decked out in all sorts of worn-out finery,
put on any how, over the humblest of working-day clothing; as a black
silk mantle over a bed-gown, check apron, and quilted petticoat so
patched that it was hard to tell which was the first piece; high-heeled
velvet shoes, with silver buckles, over sheep-grey stockings; fan,
rings, beads, pointed hat, lace ruffles hanging from her elbows to her
knees; all the odds and ends of old-fashioned grandeur would be pitched
on any how. But Betty was not the only one in the parish then who
dressed just in the same way. Betty determined (when nearly out of her
teens) that she would have a brand new gown, the smartest in the
parish. After saving her money for years—sometimes half starving Jacob
on “bread and scrape,” that she might have the more butter to sell,
allowing him no more than half-a dozen eggs with his breakfast and so
on—she thought that, by the Feast, surely she would have money enough
to buy as gay a gown as “heart could wish.”
So Hallan Thursday, Betty started off with her basket of three weeks’
butter, and the money she had been saving for years tied up in her
pocket. Betty was so proud that day that, when any found fault with the
grey look of her butter, she said they were fools and buckas not to
know that the butter was always that colour from a black-and-white cow.
The grey butter was sold at last. Betty went up to Mr. Pidwell’s shop,
called out to the old gentleman before she got down the steps into the
shop, “Mr. Pidwell, here I am look’e, and I do want as strong a piece
of dowlas as you have got in your shop to make a smock, for I must have
something that will stand plenty of wear, besides a piece of something
brave and smart to make a new gownd against the Feast.” Dowlas for the
smock was soon cut out. After, Mr. Pidwell turned over all his gayest
prints and chintz, but nothing could be found smart enough to please
Betty, when she happened to spy some bed furniture, covered with trees
and flowers of all colours, birds singing in the branches, cows
couranting, with more sorts of beasts than ever entered the ark—birds
and beasts all as gay as the flowers. “Dear lord, Mr. Pidwell, there’s
the very thing I do want to have, but I suppose you do think that’s too
smart for me; that’s the sort of stuff for the ladies of the town to
deck themselves in on Sundays and high Holy-days; or else that I havn’t
money enough to pay for’n. What es et a yard than?” “Two and twenty
pence,” says Mr. Ben. “No, don’t ye believe et, I arn’t going to be
taken in like that, for mammy only gave two and a grate (groat) for her
best gownd.” Mr. Pidwell let her have it at her own price, and made up
the difference, without taking the poor soul in. All the way home from
Penzance to Church-town, Betty and her comrades never tired of admiring
the red and blue sheep, goats and deer, rabbits and hares, horses,
bulls, and such animals as were never born nor created. By the Feasten
Eve, the mantua-maker had made the precious gown to Betty’s mind. They
contrived to cut the stuff so as to have one of the red sheep on each
shoulder, and a blue bull on the back.
In these good old times, everybody kept up the Feast as they ought.
Jacob had killed the pig for Winter’s use that week, and a fine fat
calf (none of your “staggering bob,” three weeks old, but something
worth calling veal, more than two months in this world), a noble piece
of beef, to cut and come again, hares and rabbits, geese and ducks,
enough that all the cousins and old acquaintances (not a few) expected
to come to Feast might have a good “blow-out.” Don’t ye believe it,
that they went short of plenty of good drink in these roaring times,
when there was none of your cussed boat-men sneaking about—trying to
hinder one, but they can’t, from having plenty of good brandy from
France.
The feasten day, Betty was up in the morning early. The morning work
was soon done; the great crock put on with the beef, calf’s head, and
dumpling; not more water than just enough to cover them, as Betty said
“She wouldn’t make dish-wash for Feasten broth; no not she;” rabbit
pie, veal and parsley pies, with the figgy-puddings, all were put to
bake, and the chimney full of turfey-fire, all in a glow from end to
end, when a poor half-witted fellow called Bucca, [24] who thought
himself Betty’s sweetheart, came in to watch the cooking, that Betty
might dress in time to go to church to shew her new gown.
When Betty came out in her new gown, with all the rest of her
faldelals, Bucca said she was a grander lady, by ever so much than
Madam down to Pendeen even, leave alone the little gentry and many
others thought the same, when Betty stopped at the cross, where they
waited long after the parson had gone into Church that they might see
all the beauty of Betty’s gay new gownd.
The feasters, from the other parishes, were not expected to arrive much
before dinner time. Jacob had started off to meet some cousins from
Sancrass on the road. Betty told Bucca, be sure to keep the crock to
boil, and when the broth was ready to take up some and a dumpling or
two for himself. The basins were breaded on the table, ready for the
feasters to help themselves as soon as they came in, according to
custom.
The sermon was begun before Betty entered the church door. Then the
parson stopped preaching, and everybody stood up to see Betty’s smart
gown, and she was brave and proud to stand up that they might see it.
At last the parson went on again. Betty and the rest had scarcely
seated themselves, when Bucca tore into church crying out “Betty!
Betty! make haste home; the calf’s head have eat the dumplings all but
one, and es chasing that round the crock like mad, and the feasters are
all come too!” The parson now stopped for good, and all went out of
church as fast as they could tumble, to get a sight of Betty Toddy’s
gay gown, and such a gay gown has never been seen in Church-town from
that day to this. As might be expected, Bucca found the dumplings so
good that he eat them all but one and put the fault on the calf’s head.
No matter. The feasters didn’t lack good cheer.
Best part of the Sunday afternoon was passed in doing justice to the
good cheer. Towards night, Jacob and the men went round to see their
old comrades; then one and all went to the public-house for a spell.
Betty and her female friends remained at home, that they might have a
good chance of talking by themselves of what they never get weary—their
sweethearts. By the time they had told each other about all the
youngsters who were fighting for them, or getting drunk because they
had been slighted by them, supper being cooked in the meantime, all
came in, and found the board laid with as substantial a meal as they
had for dinner, and plenty of nice kick-shaws besides. About midnight,
after taking eggy-beer and brandy, the old folks went home. The
youngsters remained to see, and join in, the games of the feasten week.
Monday morning early, all the men were off to the wrestling. The ring
was in a field near Church-town. All the standards had been made
before; they had only then to contend for the prizes, which were given
by the ladies of the parish, and usually consisted of a pair of spurs
for the first prize, a laced hat or waistcoat for the second, and a
pair of gloves for the third. The sports of the wrestling-ring and
plan-an-guare (the round) which was given up to the boys for their
games at quoits, were kept up from daylight till dark night, when all
went home for a hasty meal and to take the girls to the public-house,
where the fiddle and fife in every room put life into the legs of the
dancers; but they seldom found fiddles enough, and many a merry jig and
three-handed reel was kept agoing by the tune being sung to such old
catches as
“Here’s to the devil,
With his wooden-spade and shovel,
Digging tin by the bushel,
With his tail cocked up;”
or to “Mall Brooks is gone to the wars,” with a rattling chorus to suit
the measure. The end to another old catch to which they shoot their
heel and toe was
“A guinea will sink and a note will float,
Better is a guinea than a five-pound note.”
Sometimes they merely sang hal-an-toe (heel-and-toe) to keep the mill
a-going. At the same time the sober old folks would be below stairs
singing their “three-men’s-songs.” At last, when all had danced and
drunk so much that they could dance or drink no more, it was “hurrah
for home, comrades, to be up for the hurling-match in the morning.”
Tuesday morning you would hear the noble old hurling cry of “Guare
wheag y guare teag” (fair play is good play) when the silver ball, with
this motto engraved on it, was thrown up from the cross. At the feast
the match was usually between St. Just and Burian or Sancreed; or
Sennen and St. Levan together were regarded as a fair match for St.
Just. The run was often from Church-town to the stone marking the
boundary of the four parishes, but when Pendeen was kept up in its
glory then the goal was down to the green-court gate, where the noble
old squire would have a barrel of strong beer, with abundance of other
good cheer, to treat all comers.
Pendeen didn’t look wisht and dreary then, with the place crowded with
ladies, decked in all that was rich and rare, to see the hurling-ball
brought in. You should have been there to see all the beautiful
chimney-stacks of the grand old house sending out the turf-smoke, to
note the clouds coming out of that noble hall-chimney, just beside the
door; doesn’t it tell one of the comfort and free heart of all within?
What is it that makes that old building look so noble? Is it the angle
at which the roof is pitched, the exact proportion and variety of the
chimney-stacks, or the just proportions and correspondence of the
whole, that makes the old mansion so pleasing to the eye as well as
interesting?
Whilst we are admiring the house, all the hurlers are drinking health
and a happy long life to the squire and all his family. If the old
stories may be credited there was always good store of something
stronger than “old October” no farther off than the Vow, which the
squire, being a justice, was supposed to know nothing about. They say
that when a cargo from France was expected to be run into the Cove, the
ladies would contrive to send the good old squire from home, or keep
him indoors till the liquor was safe in the Vow—the silks and laces in
the ladies’ chests.
Few were so curious as to venture near the Vow by night, scarcely by
day, as all said the place was haunted by the spirit of a lady which
had often been seen coming out of the cavern in the depth of Winter,
dressed all in white, with a red rose in her mouth; and woe betide the
person who had the bad luck to see the ghost—misfortune was sure to
follow. We know now that great part of the ghosts which were said to
haunt many old mansions in the west were mere creations of the
smugglers’ brains, to scarce away the over-curious from the convenient
hiding-places furnished by these old houses in their vaults, caverns,
secret closets behind or beside the chimneys, with many other
contrivances for the concealment of persons and property.
The hurlers from the other parishes, whether they lost or won, were
made to go back to church-town or home with our St. Tusters to be
treated. If the strangers would neither eat or drink with them they
would soon have to fight with them, and all in friendship too. They
would like enough be asked, “Dost thee think thyself too good to eat or
drink with me then? If that’s the case, come let’s see which is the
best man of us.” When they had half-killed each other, and had been
only parted by their comrades to save their lives, then they would
shake hands, and say “Well thee art worth having for a comrade; thee
art just as good a man as myself,” and be the best friends in the world
ever after; and the night would be passed in dancing and other fun till
morning.
When the feast was over with many, yet others would turn out for
slinging matches, on the Wednesday. This sport, if it may be called so
(often more like a battle), is as ancient as wrestling, or hurling, and
has no doubt been in vogue as a pastime ever since the sling was
regarded as next in importance, as an offensive arm, to the bow and
arrow. The stories about the giants slinging rocks at each other on
Morvah Downs is proof enough of the antiquity of the sport. In the time
of Betty and Jacob, the boys and girls, by constant practice with the
sling, were so dexterous in its use that they could hit a mark at a
very great distance. The men of St. Just, and many of the women too,
liked the sport so well that they would often draw for sides. The two
parties place themselves on the burrows of old tin works at a
convenient distance, and sling stones at each other, for dear life;
they didn’t mind a few cut heads, for the fun of the thing.
We have said nothing about Jacob, Betty and their feasters this good
while, but then, you must know, they took their share in all the games
that were going on, the same as the rest.
When Wednesday came, which is known as servy-day, when all the odds and
ends of the feast are served up, early in the afternoon the feasters
return home. It wasn’t come to servy-day either with Jacob and Betty;
but as they intended to hold the “Little Feasten Day” (for some
visitors who could not come the feasten week) they didn’t press the
cousins to stay any longer.
On Thursday, Betty thought they might as well return to the ordinary
fare of pease-porridge, and save the joints of meat for next Sunday’s
visitors. Jacob went to bal, just for the saying of the thing. Nobody
thought of doing much before the next week, as it takes days to tell
all the news about the feast, the news brought to the parish by the
strangers, and to get to rights, as we say. The crock, with water to
boil a gallon or so of peas for Jacob’s supper, was only put on in the
afternoon, as he was sure to be late home. Betty placed some coals of
turf fire under the crock, and enough (as she thought) of fursey-turves
round the brandes (trivet) to keep peas to boil: then she went out to
“coursey” a bit.
Besides the feasten news, there was then, and always had been, a
never-ending subject for them to talk of in their constant fears of
some foreigners or other landing in Whitsand Bay or Priest’s Cove. Who
they were to be, they couldn’t tell exactly. Only they knew that the
red-haired Danes [25] were to come again, when Vellandruchar [26] mill
would again be worked with blood, and the kings would dine on
Table-māyon (mēn) for the last time (as the world was to come to an end
soon after). This they still firmly believe may take place any day,
because Merlin uttered a prophecy to that effect more than a thousand
years ago. As the time of Betty Toddy’s glory was about the
commencement of the American war of independence, when the French took
sides with cousins over the water, the greatest fear then was that the
French would land some night and carry off the tin; they didn’t fear
much for what the French would do in the way of fighting, so they said.
Betty and the rest passed the evening, or night rather, in going round
Churchtown to hear the news and drinking confusion to the French in
almost every house. Long before Betty came in, Jacob came home pretty
well slewed (tipsy) and very hungry, but the peas were just as hard as
when put in the crock; for soon after Betty went out, the fire went
out. However, Jacob ate about a gallon of the peas, ready or raw, and,
that he mightn’t have the mully-grubs, took an extra glass of brandy;
and was in bed snoring, grunting, groaning, and tossing like a
porpoise, when Betty came in. We know that ill-boiled peas are very
indigestable, so one may guess how they troubled Jacob, among the beer
and brandy, half raw as they were. Betty could hear all Jacob’s
uneasiness, as there was only a screen of thin boards between their
chambers, but she little heeded Jacob’s groaning, having enough to do
(as she wasn’t very steady in the head) to get into bed, to sleep
herself sober.
Towards the morning part of the night Betty awoke in a terrible fright.
She had lost all recollection of Jacob’s groans, as she went to bed,
and, when she was fairly sensible now, his roars were frightful. Her
first thought was of the French! Without staying to dress, she tore out
of the house, roused all the neighbours from their beds, by crying out
at everybody’s door as she went tearing, half-naked, round Churchtown
“Get up! Get up! You’ll be murdered alive, the French es landed. I
heard some of ’em in our house!”
In a few minutes after, half the women in Churchtown were racing round
the place, crying “Fire!” and “Murder,” “Blood and Thunder; you’ll all
be killed in your beds and be buried alive; the French es landed, get
up! get up!” The bells were set ringing in the tower. Will Tregear
fired the furze on the Biccan (Beacon). The Biccan hills were soon all
a blaze from St. Just to Plymouth, where the nearest troops were
stationed then. Whilst the bells were still ringing, and women
screeching in Churchtown, trumpet and drum sounded reveillé in Plymouth
garrison. The troops in red-hot haste got under arms, and were marching
Westward ho! Jan Trezise was sent off, fast as horse could go, to meet
the troops and guide them to St. Just. There were relays of horses kept
in all the principal towns on the road to Plymouth, ready saddled as
soon as the Biccan fires gave notice of the enemy landing in the West.
They say that Jan didn’t ride very fast after he passed Penzance, for
the pack-saddle he took in his hurry to ride on so galled him that he
could hardly sit on the horse’s back when he arrived at Crowlas,
sitting sidelong for more ease. The landlady took pity on him, gave him
the best pillow she had in the house to make a softer seat for him, and
a good dram of course; then on he went as best he could for Redruth,
cussing the French all the way.
When Betty had alarmed all the town she came in and waked up her
brother, but Jacob only cussed the peas, the French, and Betty too;
then snored away again. Betty, knowing that the smugglers brought the
silks, laces, and other smart things from France, and that the French
greatly admired dress and fashion, donned her gay gown, with all her
trinkets and trappings; placed bread, cream, and honey on the board,
that the French officers, whom she expected to see every minute, might
take her for a grand lady of the land, and treat her with great
respect. So she seated herself on the chimney-stool ready to rise and
make her curtsey, and thinking what she should say when the French
Captain came in. There leave her.
At last, when daylight came to dispel the fears of the people of
Churchtown, they traced all the alarm spread by Betty to the
indigestible peas eaten by Jacob for supper. Yet they seem never to
have thought of the consequences of the false alarm, and of having the
troops quartered on them for nothing, till the parson hearing of it in
Penzance (where he lived) came out the Saturday to see what was the
matter. To make sure that no Frenchmen were lurking about, all the
creeks and coves were searched, the hills and carns inspected. When
satisfied that all the fuss was for nothing they had the sense to send
off countermanding orders by the parson’s man.
The troops left Plymouth, and came on West in uncertainty as to where
the enemy had landed, Jan Trezise having lost his road, and got down to
Gweek, where he was found a month after in clover, for Gweek people
treated him like a gentleman for bringing them the news (there was no
fear of the French finding them, yet they liked to know what was going
on in the rest of the world).
The parson’s courier found the troops wandering about in a fog on the
Four-burrow downs, not knowing what way to steer. When told of the
false alarm they were glad enough to turn tail and cut off home again.
There are plenty more queer things told about Betty Toddy, and others
who lived about this time in St. Just, but they are such wild rants
that one don’t like to mention them now, in these precise times, for
fear the prim, sour folks who call themselves enlightened may accuse
one of romancing like an Old Celt. Not that any one need care anything
about their grimace; least of all an Old Celt.
[Perhaps this story may be somewhat embellished or exaggerated through
the volant fancies of the Drolls; yet, from all that we have heard
about the matter, there is good reason for believing that a false alarm
of the French having landed in St. Just occurred, as stated above, on
the Feasten week, when they were so muddle-headed that they didn’t
think of, nor care about the consequences of signalling to Plymouth for
troops. “They might all come to Feast, if they would; and welcome.” In
some versions of the story the troops are said to have arrived in
Market-jew, without knowing where they were wanted; yet the alarm had
spread, from seeing the Beacons blazing, that the French had landed in
various parts of the county.]