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Christmas Memories
CHRISTMAS OF THE YESTERYEARS
IF you are travelling
on the A30 road towards Okehampton, after leaving Launceston you
carry on the road until you leave a milk factory on your right.
About a hundred yards further on, the road has a right hand
branch. If you followed this road, you would find after a while it dwindled into a lane. After half
a mile you reach a farm-gate across
the road. This ended our neighbour's farm and began ours, with
a gate to prevent the cattle straying. This is about half-way, and the
lane gets rather muddy and rough at the end. As you reach the courtyard
gate, the road goes right through the yard, with another gate at
the bottom. The square house stands beside the road; the outhouses form
either side, and a well at the bottom make the square courtyard. This was the isolated
childhood home of my three brothers, three sisters and
myself, and my eldest sister still lives there, after bringing her family up there. Christmas began for us
in October. The traveller from the Grocers into
Launceston would be reeling out by memory, "Any salt, sugar, syrup,
Ma'am?", when the magic words "mixed nuts, dates, spices, mixed
peel" would creep in. Mother would order the extras, sometimes not delivered
for two or three weeks, at such a busy time. A sack of flour would
come from the Bakers and be emptied into the flour bin. We loved
unpacking the groceries, to feel and smell the Chrismassy items. Each evening now was
spent in stoning the raisins. We sat around the long kitchen
table, with the permanent bench running around two sides of it. Occasionally we
would pop a raisin in our mouth, but Dad would make us whistle or sing
to put a stop to this. Soon our basins, half full of warm water, would
contain most of the sticky pips, whilst the fruit was put in the large
cooking bowl. The butcher calling once a week would bring
large lumps of suet, and these would chop up very finely, to have enough
for the mincemeat as well; some
things would go through the mincer. Mother would get out
the largest milkpan, and the mixing of the puddings would begin. Each of
us would solemnly have a complete stir, making a secret wish as
we did so, and Dad would be brought in from whatever he was doing, to
have his stir as well. All the basins were filled, and Mum, who had been
hurriedly wrapping up something, pushed these small articles into the
largest pudding basin. The copper was boiling. Now the pudding cloths
were scalded and tied over the top of each basin, the ends in a knot for
a firm grip, then all put in the copper to bubble away all day with
the lovely smell seeping all through the house. Dad would start
building up the woodrick with faggots of wood and sawing the larger and thicker branches.
One of us bigger ones would give a hand with the saw, and a good pile
would be stored up against either side of the big hearth fire. "The
holly with the most berries this year is down the branch lane, through
the copse, by the river", Dad announced, and he and the boys, armed
with a forked stick and a hook, would collect a large bundle, and the
ends would be pushed in the earth in the front garden. The sprig that
had the largest number of berries on was carefully put aside to go in
the top of the Christmas pudding. It was all covered with dried grass
and flower stalks, to keep the birds from eating the berries. Now we brought out evenings our coloured
rolls of crepe paper, cut them in strips and made into rings, pasted
together with the flour paste we had made. Sometimes we heard of other
ideas for our paper chains, and made them as well; the chains were put
away until Christmas Eve. The old lady who lived up around the corner
and took some of our butter and eggs to Plymouth Market, told Mum the
cases of oranges were in. They worked out at 1d. each. "Only one
box, mind", Mother would say, but there would be a gross in the
box, so we knew there would be plenty. We had a grand day's shopping into
Launceston now. Sometimes Dad would drive us in with the pony and
trap; sometimes we would catch the train in. Mother had given us our
spending money, and we each bought a present for all the family and Mum
and Dad, but not on any account telling each other what we had got, and
when we reached home we would hide them or pass them to Mum and Dad, who
locked them away. The next Monday, Dad announced the poultry
was ready. We all put on our wrapper aprons, tied something over our
hair, made up a huge hearth fire in the back kitchen, and picking
commenced. Everyone. down to the smallest, sat around in a half
circle, with large galvanised baths for the feathers and down. Dad
kept us supplied with the birds that were killed. In those days, it was
many more geese than turkeys. Chicken would come last of all—huge
yellow-fleshed Indian Game chicken specially fattened. Mother, after the first bird was picked,
would stay in the other kitchen, drawing and trussing them. An apron of
fat would be laid over each goose and duck, whilst the crops would be
blown up with air to finish off their plump succulent appearance, and
each bird laid around the stone slate slabs in the dairy. The picking went on each and every day. The
down from the geese clung like snowflakes everywhere. You were covered
from head to toe and a white trail led from the shed to the house. It
took two to three weeks to get through, but at last we were finished,
and all the small feathers and down carefully put in clean sacks to be used for
pillows and feather-beds later on. The end joint of each wing was
chopped off, and the wings used as brushes for the large black stove.
The giblets were scalded and peeled and put one set beside each goose.
Our own goose was put aside and the giblets made into rich soup for
winter evenings. The regrators now arrived in their pony
and trap, with large market baskets lined with spotless white cloths.
The poultry was packed and covered with the cloths and taken out to the
trap. Mum would glance proudly at Dad as she took the roll of notes for
the hard work done. It was the last week to Christmas now.
Our Chapel choir met to plan the carol singing. Four of us were in the
choir, and we tramped miles around most evenings, collecting for a
children's home. Our limelight was the squire's house not far from the
village. We would go in the mile long drive, stand on the lawns
underneath the huge house where the windows were lit, and sing our
hearts out. The windows would be opened, and the squire would throw us a
large handkerchief with the money tied inside and wish us a "happy
Christmas". We would call back "the same to you", sing
another carol, then linking arms (there were about thirty of us) we
would go out the drive and on to the village. Each night it would be a different area.
One night they would sing on the cobbled stones around our own back
door, then on to other farms, but the last farm would always be the same
one. Here they had prepared supper for us. The joy and the warmth was so
welcome. As we trampled home in the frosty moonlight nights, we could
see across to the distant hills. The stars were so thick in the sky. We
hummed the everlasting lovely old carols. We could easily picture the
angels singing in the far away distance, everything waiting for the
birth of the Holy Child. At last we reached Christmas Eve. We put
up all our decorations, the holly went behind the pictures in the
sitting-room, which was only used at Christmas. We got Mother to turn
out all her long stockings and off we went to bed, hanging our stockings
on the corner of the rails at the bottom of the bed. All those
mysterious parcels the postman had been bringing would soon be
disclosed. Somehow we never saw Father Christmas, but we
always managed to wake long before daylight, crawl to the bottom
of the bed. Our stockings were full and parcels on the bottom of the
bed. We lit our candles and soon shouts of delight would follow, as we
ran from room to room to show each other and Mum and Dad. Soon we got busy. The goose was stuffed,
the pudding bubbling away on the stove, mincepies were made, the extra
special batch of saffron cake had been made the day before. All was now ready. Dad sat at the head of
the table and carved. The sprig of holly put in the Christmas pudding.
We nearly burst having a second helping of pudding to get one of those
mysterious lumps in it. Sometimes we had sixpence or even a shilling but
most times a button or thimble, when our brothers would say we
"would be an old maid”. The washing-up over, we would all troop
to the sitting-room, where a huge fire had been burning. The gramophone
was wound up. We played—mostly carols interspersed with `Uncle Tom
Cobley' and "Tavistock Goosey Fair”. We played with our new toys,
cracked nuts, roasted chestnuts, opened a coconut, boxes of figs, dates,
chocolates, etc. and ate our orange from the toe of our Christmas
stocking. It was a late tea that day. Dad would play
games with us all the evening. He taught us all the card games, and
Draughts, and Dominoes. Then he would bring in a choice basket of apples
from the granary, put aside for the day, and we would help ourselves. I don't think we had a special Christmas
cake in those days, but the table was covered, the best bone china used.
The little ones played with their dolls, the boys with their trains,
until it was finally bedtime. We were so sleepy, we could hardly go up
the stairs, but our last drowsy thought before we fell asleep would be,
tomorrow would be another holiday. Oh, the magical, wonderful, beauty of
Christmas!
If
there is one experience more joyous than returning home at Christmas it
is to be there to welcome a loved one after a long absence. I close my
eyes and see my brother and two sisters and myself racing to meet my
father home from his ship. Memory revives the fresh sea-scent he brought
with him for, as Kipling says, Smells are surer than sounds and sights
to make the heart-strings crack.” Once more he had arrived for
Christmas in time to make for us the Cornish Bush an old custom,
depicted in Mordon’s drawing. The Bush, known much earlier than the
Victorian Christmas tree, was made by interlinking two wooden hoops at
right angles and tying them firmly together; the hollow globe of four
curves thus formed was covered in twists of red crinkled paper and
decorated along the staves with holly, ivy or other evergreens. I do not
recollect mistletoe, though I have heard it called The Kissing Bough.”
Fruit such as red apples and oranges was added, and the sparkling
shining balls unknown in earlier days. Our presents also adorned the
dainty structure which was hung in a window. One red candle inside at
the base was lit after dark, and I recall this once caused a
near-tragedy by setting the whole thing ablaze—no candle after that! I
believe we thought the light welcomed the Infant Christ on his way to
Bethlehem. When I returned to my native county I made
one of these bushes “ and was asked ironically if it signified RIP.
the Spirit of Christmas! “ Another I made for a church bazaar was
received with curiosity and interest. I shall place Mordon’s beautiful drawing
with other nostalgic treasures—the naval button, the wisp of my
mother’s dark hair, with no trace of grey, cut on her golden wedding,
the dried scrap of Cornish heather. . . I now embalm them all afresh
with this recollection of a happy childhood.
"I knew Captain Dick Trevithick
very well; he and I were born in the same year. I was a cooper by trade,
and when Captain Dick was making his first steam-carriage I used to go
every day into John Tyack's blacksmiths' shop at the Weith, close by
here, where they put her together. "The castings were made down at
Hayle, in Mr. Harvey's foundry. There was a deal of trouble in getting
all the things to fit together. Most of the smiths' work was made in
Tyack's shop. " In the year 1801, upon
Christmas-eve, coming on evening, Captain Dick got up steam, out in the
high-road, just outside the shop at the Weith. When we see'd that
Captain Dick was agoing to turn on steam, we jumped up as many as could;
may be seven or eight of us. 'Twas a stiffish hill going from the Weith
up to Camborne Beacon, but she went off like a little bird. " When she had gone about a quarter of a mile,
there was a roughish piece of road covered with loose stones; she didn't
go quite so fast, and as it was a flood of rain, and we were very
squeezed together, I jumped oft She was going faster than I could walk,
and went on up the hill about a quarter or half a mile farther, when
they turned her and came back again to the shop. Captain Dick tried her
again the next day; I was not there, but heard say that some of the
castings broke. Recollect seeing pieces of the engine in the ditch years
afterwards, and suppose she ran against the hedge." From
“The Life of Richard Trevithick”.
John Burton was the proprietor of the Old
Curiosity Shop Falmouth. JOSEPH BURTON, of Stockport, Lancashire,
came, for what reason is unknown, to Cornwall in 1830, and set up a
china and glass shop at Bodmin; and married at Launceston a Miss Clemo. Old Joseph was a sturdy Radical and
Nonconformist. He was a vigorous and loud supporter of the Ballot
Society, the Liberation Society, and the United Kingdom Alliance. He was
also a vehement and "intemperate" teetotaller. He died at
Bodmin 19th July, 1876. John was one of a whole string of children, and
as the cloam
" shop did not bring in a large profit, and John was one among
many, he had to go into life very inefficiently equipped with education.
But he had inherited from his father it masterful spirit, and had his
own independent views, and it was soon a case between them of flint and
steel, and sparks flew out. John and his brother Joe were sent round
the country hawking pots and glass. " I well remember the 24th
December, 1853," said John Burton. " Myself and brother Joe
(who afterwards became a well-known auctioneer) rose at five o'clock in
the morning, fed the horse, and made a start at 5.45 a.m. with a
wagon-load of goods. The morning was dark, and when we came to Callywith
turnpike gate it was closed. We knocked Henry Mark, the toll-keeper, up
to let us through. He looked out of the window and at first refused to
let us pass until daylight. We firmly told him that we would certainly
un-hang the gate and pass through without paying the toll. This fetched
the old man down, with his long coat, knitted nightcap, with horn
lantern in his hand. He opened the gate and told us, ' You Burtons ought
to be poisoned for breaking a man's rest.' A lot we cared for his
curses. Fairly on the road, we were as happy as sand boys. Having
delivered the goods, and fairly on the way home, we stopped at the
Jamaica Inn, where the old mail-coaches used to change their horses, to
feed our horse, not forgetting ourselves. After giving old Dapper his
feed of oats, we went into the inn kitchen, where we ordered a hot meal.
The landlady asked, what would you like?' She suggested a hot squab pie,
which she took out of a huge kitchen range well loaded with burning
turf, the odour of which increased our appetite considerably. We
polished off the pie and pocketed the crust to eat on the moors when
homeward bound." The Jamaica Inn is in the midst of the
Bodmin Moors. In the time of the mail-coaches from London by Exeter to
Falmouth it was a house of great repute. But when the trains ran, and
coaches were given up, it fell from its high estate, was converted into
a temperance house, was far from clean, harboured innumerable fleas, and
did little business. Of late it has entirely recovered its credit. It
stands nine hundred feet above the sea. There are now there at Bolventor
a church and a school. A bleak, wind-swept moor all about it. Dozmare
Pool, haunted by Tregeagle, is near by—and in June the meadows around
are a sheet of gold from the buttercups. But to return to John
Button's reminiscences.
Why, drat you boys, whativer have 'ee
done with the pie?' Why, ate'n, misses. Do'y think its
called the horse in to help us, or what?' No,' she smartly replied, 'I should 'a
thawt you had the Bodmun Murlicha (Militia) here to help 'ee out. I
never seed such gluttons in my life.' " When we asked what we had got to
pay, she said, 'Sixpunce for the crist, threepunce for the suite, ninepunce
for the gibblets, and eightpunce for apples, onions, spice, currants and
sugar, and fourpunce for baking 'un ; two dishes of tay, tuppunce ;
that'll be two and eightpunce altogether, boys.' All right, missus, here's the posh.' "She asked its out of bravado if we
could eat any more. We said, 'Yes, we could do with some Christmas
cake.' 'She politely told us that she shouldn't
cut the Christmas cake until the next day. ' But you can have some zeedy
biscays, if you like.' All right.' And in she brought them,
which we also polished of. Afterwards she demanded fourpence for them. All right, misses, the fourpunce charged
for baking the pie will pay for the biscuits, so us'll cry quits,' which
joke the old woman swallowed with a good laugh."
John Burton proceeds to describe the
Christmas merry-making at the inn that night. Jamaica Inn had not then
become a temperance hotel. The moormen and farmers came in, the great
fire glowed like a furnace. The wind sobbed without, and piped in at the
casement—''the souls on the wind," as it was said, the spirits of
unbaptized babes wailing at the windowpane, seeing the fire within,
and condemned to wander on the cold blast without. To the red fire, and to the plentiful
libations, songs were sung, among others that very favourite ballad of
the " Highwayman "‑ I went to London both blythe and gay, My time I squandered in dice and play, Until my funds they fell full low, And on the highway I was forced to go.
Then after an account of how he robbed Lord Mansfield and Lady
Golding, of Portman Square
I shut the door, bade all good night, And rambled to my hearts delight. After a career of riot and robbery, the
Highwayman at length falls into the toils of Sir John Fielding, who was
the first magistrate to take sharp and decisive measures against these
pests of society. Then the ballad ends :— When I am dead, burns to my grave, A gallant funeral may I have; Six highwaymen to carry me, With good broadswords and sweet liberty. Six blooming maidens to bear my pall Give them white gloves and pink ribbons all; And when I'm dead they'll say the truth, He was a wild and a wicked youth. One of the local characters who was
present on that Christmas Eve was Billy Peppermint. As he was overcome
with drink, the young Burtons conveyed him from the Jamaica Inn about
ten miles, and then turned him out of their conveyance, and propped him
up against the railings of a house in Bodmin, as he was quite unable to
sustain himself. That night the carol singers were making
their round, and as they came near they piped forth : " When
shepherds watched their flocks by night, all seated on the ground, an
angel of the Lord appeared, and--" Whereon Billy roared
forth‑ When I am dead they'll say the truth, I was a wild and a wicked youth. and rolled over and fell prostrate on
the ground.
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