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 [74]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 [75]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 [76]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.

The feasters wondered to see so much to be cooked, and however the bakers would contrive to dress all the geese, ducks, and other things, as Mary remarked on their return. “Now arn’t they good fellows, to work so hard on a Sunday, that we poor folks may have a holiday then?” said Dick. “Nearly all the neighbours who haven’t the new-fashioned contrivances, called slabs, send their meat to the bakehouse, though they say of some bakers, but not of ours, that

and one can’t blame them if they take a little, now and then, for working so hard of a Sunday.”

“They well deserve it, poor fellows,” said Jackey, “I’d rather work to bal for my part.”

Public ovens being heated with furze, bakers had a very laborious occupation; and, almost all their customers having ducks or geese at Madrontide, made it much harder at that particular season.

The old bachelor, anxious to entertain his visitors handsomely, was “as busy as a hen with one chick,” and his restlessness made them uncomfortable. On coming in he placed on the table tobacco and new long pipes; then, thinking he ought to have a pudding, he proceeded to get the materials for making one, till Mary stopped him by saying he should do nothing of the sort, as what they had taken to the bakehouse would be a capital dinner without it.

“Sit thee down, mate,” said Jackey, “and touch pipe a bit; lev Mary do the rest about dinner.”

At last he sat down for a few minutes, and Jackey said, “This es a comfortable little place, large enough for one man and a cat; it’s like a town house on this side; looking downwards you see plenty of walls and roofs, with a glimpse of sky, and have the morning sun, when there’s any going; that’s as much as one can [77]expect in town; and, on ’tother side, it’s like being in the country with green fields all the way up from Leskenack, and trees growing on the hedge and overhanging the lane.”

“Aye, I’m better off here by far,” replied the happy occupier of two small rooms, “than hundreds who live in other parts of the town where the old gardens and courts are built on with dwellings for poor people, who are glad to get under a roof anywhere near their work.”

When Dick thought his dinner ready, he and his guests fetched it from the bakehouse, each bearing a dish.

Vegetables had been boiled and ale fetched in the meanwhile. Having good appetites they enjoyed their dinner and praised the bakers.

Whilst drinking their toddy, and the men smoking, in the afternoon, Dick asked, between puffs, if Mary knew how Conny Trevail’s pig was come? “Why I never heard there was anything amiss with n,” replied she, “and I saw long-legged Conny, as we call her, yesterday, gadding about from house to house, as usual, to hear and tell the news, her clothes all in ‘skethans’ (strips), and one would think she liked them so, for she’ll never sew up a ‘skate’ (rent) so long as the pieces hang together; and her stockings (never darned) have the holes dragged together, tell their tops won’t reach her garters. But what made you ask about her pig?” In reply Dick told the story which follows, somewhat abridged.

“On the last Thursday Conny came into the druggist’s shop, in great ‘stroath’ (fussy haste), her hair all hanging about her face, her bonnet tied down weth a ‘nackan’ (handkerchief) and cloak all on one shoulder.

“Going to the master, she asked if he could give her anything to do her pig good. ‘What’s the matter weth n?’ asked he in return. ‘Es like a thing bewitched,’ said Conny, ‘a’ll neither live nor die, and the best mait I can give n es all muzzled out of the ‘traff’ weth n, and es gone to skin and bone. I knaw a was begrudged to me when I was in price for n. I was in two minds when I left home whether a was best to go to the ‘pellar’ or come to you, but now I’m here I’ll try what you can do.’

“ ‘You can have something that may bring the pig to an appetite,’ said the druggist, ‘ef you give it as I’ll direct ’e.’

“Having put up some powders, he told Conny she must thoroughly clean the pig’s trough, wash it out, and have it sweet; then give the pig fresh food, and a little of the powders, two or three times a day. ‘The medicine comes to sixpence.’

“ ‘Gracious me; es a lot of money,’ said she, ‘and are ’e sure a’ll do the pig good.’ ‘I can tell ’e as truly as if I’d been a conjuror,’ answered the druggist, ‘that if you do as I’ve told ’e, by next Thursday this time your pig will either be better or worse, or much [78]the same.’ ‘Aw, thank’e sar,’ said Conny, ‘I’ll pay the money with a good heart, now you’ve told me that.’

“The druggist having taken the money went into the house. Now Dick had been at the mortar all the time, but pounding easily, that he might hear what passed, and get in a word if he found the chance.

“Conny turned to leave the shop, but, seeing Dick, she came over to him with the drugs in her hand, and said, ‘Dost a think, you, that this ‘trade’ ‘ll do any good at all? I wish I’d gone to the pellar, for his work es sure, ef a do charge three shellans before he’ll do anything to stop the witchcraft.’

“ ‘Well, you heard what master said,’ replied Dick, ‘and I firmly believe him.’

“ ‘Now I’ll tell thee what I’ll do before I’m a day older,’ said she, ‘to serve out that strollop who begrudged me the pig, and ef her ill wishes have fallen upon am I’ll make her suffer torments. The conjuror can’t tell me any more than I know about that. I’ll bury the bottle of water before night ef I can; she shall come to me and beg, and pray, and promise never to ill-wish anything belongan to me agen, she shall.’ Dick told her to make haste home, and let him know how the pig got on the next time she came to town.”

“Aw the old fool,” said Jackey, when the story was ended. “But she is no worse than scores of others who put more faith in the conjuror than in a doctor. She’s too lazy to clean the pig’s trough, or mend her clothes, yet she’d go a score miles or more to consult the pellar. There are many that might be expected to know better than old Conny who will visit the pellar and pay him well to have what they call their protection renewed in a few months more. This is done when the sun is coming back and getting strong—the wise-man has more power then—about the end of March, so they believe; and soon after the time of visiting the pellar, old Tammy, his wife will ride round the West Country, bringing the ‘protection’ to such as are unable to go for it. Old bedlyers have it put into their pillows; others wear it on the breast.”

An hour or so before sunset, Jackey becoming tired of being shut up in Dick’s bird-cage of a dwelling, and wishing to breathe sweet country air, said to his wife, “Es time for us to be jogging home along.”

“You must have tea first,” said Dick, “then I’ll go part of road wh’y.”

“Take your hat and pipe and come now,” replied Jackey; “we don’t want tea, and Mary had a cup after dinner; she can get home before we want any more.”

They started—all three—and went down along joyfully; and so ended their Penzance feast. [79]

On taking leave of Dick, a mile or two from town, Mary told him to search his cupboard when he got home,—she never told him of the cake she’d put there for him. They were satisfied on the whole, yet glad to get home, and never wished to go again.

---

Fifty years ago, and longer, Madron Feast was dying out. The principal people were strangers there, who cared nothing for the parish feast, and had no sympathy with the old inhabitants or their customs.

There is no remembrance or tradition of Madrontide ever having been kept heartily, by “One and all,” like St. Just feast, nor of any holiday-games on their Feasten Monday, such as wrestling, hurling, throwing quoits, &c. The old game called “kook” was a trial of casting quoits the farthest and nearest to goal. This is all but forgotten. As for hurling, it is now unknown, in every place west of Hayle, except at St. Ives, and there only in the mild form of hurling to the goal. On the feast their silver ball is aired for a short time on Permester Sand.

What is here known as a pellar’s “protection” is usually two or three inches of parchment inscribed with planetary and other signs or cabalistic words. It is a mystery how these inscriptions were first acquired, as they are not found in any books which were likely to have come into the hands of our wise-men; and the words are quite unlike charms for the cure of many ailments. These are grounded on Christian legends, but the Pellar’s “protections” have nothing Christian in their construction. They are probably of greater antiquity than the said charms.

As an example, here is the only one I have met with which can be given in type. The others have all, more or less, signs and figures which would require woodcuts to show them.

This magic square may be read four ways the same; beginning at the top, it must be read from right to left as Sator, Arepo, &c. This is the case with some others of the Pellar’s talismans. Our wise-men (call them conjurors if you please, but they do not like the term) have no knowledge whence their formulæ were obtained, nor what the name of “pellar” means. Yet it is probably a corruption of the old Cornish word “pystryor” which means a conjuror or magician. The name of wizard is unknown here amongst old folk who have no book-learning. [80]