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 [162]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 [163]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,1 who thought himself Betty’s sweetheart, came [164]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 [165]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

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

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 [166]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,” [167]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 Danes2 were to come again, when [168]Vellandruchar3 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, [169]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, [170]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.] [171]