TWELFTH NIGHT by Arletta Dawdy

      The custom of Twelfth Night celebrations spread throughout the British Isles since the Middle Ages, adapting to local color and habits. Some Arthurian enthusiasts believe that King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table gathered in Cornwall and honored the drinking of the apple flavored ale in days of old. Surely the use of a special bowl may well have graced the table and made its round  

no doubt refilled many times over. 

In BISBEE’S GLORY, my work-in-progress, Glory’s father relates the story of Cornwall’s experience of Twelfth Night and its adaption in the new land. It is January 6, 1887, twelve days after Christmas.

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            “Da, I hear some singing! Can it be the carolers? Oh, it must be them.” Glory ran and flung open the door of the tiny cabin they’d called home since her father’s horrible mine accident left him crippled the previous summer.

            “Who’s to care,” the ornery patient grumbled. He pulled the patchwork quilt over his head and turned as best he could to the stonework wall

“Ah, me dad, listen to the sound of them. Ain’t it wonderful.”  Moving to the hook on the wall, she grabbed her thick blue shawl and whipped it around her shoulders. Then, standing in the open doorway, she listened to the words and felt the joy of harmonizing voices.

 “Da, it’s your old choir boys. The ones you led all these years past. They’ve come to sing special for you!

. Here we come a-wassailing
Among the leaves so green;

 The chorus of strong male voices rang out, as if to challenge their old leader to take part.

             “Go off and away with you!” David yelled in response and continued to cover his ears against memories as much as the present. “Have ya no caring for this old man? No honor for what is done and gone?’ His voice faded at the last.

                                                            Here we come a-wand'ring
                                                                    So fair to be seen. 

                                                            Love and joy come to you,

And to you your wassail too;
And God bless you and send you a Happy New Year
And God send you a Happy New Year*

Glory looked back to see that her father lowered the quilt from his ears and face as the voices rose higher. A light smile caressed his cheeks, a sight not often seen of late. She looked out into the night sky, radiant with the glitter of so many stars. The hillsides of Bisbee appeared rolling and gentle in the moonlight and the gleaming of so many home side fires and lamps. Their little world rang with sounds of celebration that even the thundering stampmill couldn’t blot out.

 “My mother is here now, Da. She and Mrs. Cragen are passing out drinks and  cookies to all who have gathered. Will I get you some?”  

 Not waiting for an answer, Glory skipped out the door and took the offerings from the women, giving her mother a wink and a kiss on the forehead. Voices called out to Glory and her father with wishes for a Happy New Year. None made a wish for Health to come, knowing the futility of such a wish for their former leader of song and deep mining.

Glory watched as the chorus and Mrs. Cragen’s boarders left to resume their celebrations elsewhere. She welcomed her mother with a deep hug and found the woman shedding tears. The unspoken fear for their husband and father was always at the surface of their thoughts and actions. Even so at the celebration of Twelfth Night.

While Brita rushed about to get David’s hot super ready, Glory pulled a stool close to her father’s bed. His eyes searched her face and he reached inside himself to tell her a story as had become their habit of an early evening.

“You know the wassailing goes back aways in the old country. Even to the days of the King Arthur. ‘Course that could only be legend.”

“But what a fine legend!” Glory conjured up visions of the moors, the rugged coastline and the smattering of villages and farmlands. ..and the many copper wheals scattered around the countryside. The same mines that had given out in the mid-nineteenth century, sending families like hers from its shores.

 

                                   CORNISH MINING WORLD HERITAGE SITE**

“In Bodmin, there’s the story of the wassailing bowl rumored to have been given to the townsfolk around 1624, and still in use...at least, when we left.”  He turned pensive and Glory thought he’d become lost in sad memories.                                       

   “What’s the meaning of the wassailling?” the girl asked.

“There’s some customs tha’ve come down to modern days tho’ I’m hard pressed to say if they belong to New Year’s or Twelfth Night. There’s blessing of the apple harvest by taking a drink of the Wassail. Or the sanding of the doorstep, allowing the first over it to set the family’s fortunes for the following year.”

“I’m not sure I’d care for that one.” Glory thought back to the last New Year’s Eve when friends carried her father home drunk as all get out.

Bodmin  Wassail Cup***

“Tell her the story of the Wassail Saint.” Brita put the large cup of potato and bacon soup on a tray and placed it near her husband, the easier for him to drink from it. She sat down at the small table close by his cot.

“Now that is a mysterious one, for sure.” He slurped his soup and winked at his wife. “Seems there’s a saint who’s barely known or understood. Most don’t even know if it’s male or female. But me, I see her as a young maiden with the blackest of black hair flowing down her back, like your Ma! She’s said to sit at the fount of perpetual youth.”  He took another big sip of his meal.

“And what did this saint do?” Glory looked to her mother and then back to her father who continued to drain his cup. She tapped her foot, wanting him to get on with the story.

“Well, now, seems the saint made promises never kept but must be fulfilled on St. Tibb’s Eve.”

“Never heard of a St.Tibb  or the eve! When is it?”

“Don’t you know, it’s the one falls between the old and the new year!”  

 David roared with laughter seldom heard of late. Glory looked to her mother and saw her big smile and trembling shoulders. Happiness engulfed Glory with love for her parents and the sense that all would come out right as she prayed for her father's better health in the New Year.

                                                               
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References:

 

*   The “WASSAIL SONG” is an English carol from about 1850, adapted by other groups     to fit their locale and custom; no credit is given for the original composer or lyricist

**   CORNISH MINING WORLD HERITAGE SITE, www.cornish-mining.org.uk/news/merry-christmas-and-happy-new-year,

***  Bodmin Wassail Cup, date unknown; replacement for the original by potter John Webb of Lostwithiel, http://cornishculture.co.uk,.

                                                            *****************

Arletta Dawdy is the California based author who writes Historical Fiction of Southeast Arizona Territory in THE HUACHUCA TRILOGY comprised of HUACHUCA WOMAN, BY GRACE AND ROSE OF SHARON. In 2019, look for BISBEE'S GLORY, a tale of danger, familial and romantic love in a rough and ready mining town; follow Glory to nursing school in the East and service in the Spanish American War, only to wend her way back home.

HAPPY NEW YEAR - 1818 By Cheri Kay Clifton

As we wish our family and friends a Happy 2018, I thought it would be interesting to look back on everyday life in 1818. Like many of our Sweethearts, as an American historical western author, I’ve researched a plethora of facts and information about lifestyles in 19^th Century.

Some might say their simpler life could be envied compared to our fast-paced, technical-driven, media-saturated world of today. Still, in 1818, life, though slower, was much harder. Below are a few reminders of what American home life was like back then.

In many of the regions of the country, especially on the frontier, folks lived in a one-room cabin with dirt floor, fireplace for warmth and cooking, homemade pinewood table and chairs, straw mattresses, and candles for lighting. Not until later in the 1820’s did some have the luxury of cast iron cookstoves.

Housewives preserved foods by drying, salting and smoking. It wasn’t until the 1860’s that home canning came into use. A tin smith from New York by the name of John L. Mason invented a glass jar with a threaded lip and a reusable metal lid – the Mason Jar. Ice boxes didn’t enter kitchens until mid-1800’s.

 Typical foods were available at the general stores in town including salt, spices, sugar, molasses, raisins, fruits, vegetables, cheese, eggs, butter, salted meats, wine and chocolate.

Common pastries like oatmeal cookies, crackers, gingerbread, apple, cherry & pumpkin pies and even doughnuts were eaten throughout the 19^th century. Drinking tea was preferred over coffee until after the Civil War.

Local saloons and taverns offered all kinds of alcohol. Hard cider was a favorite in the North, while corn liquor was favored in the South. Cocktails were offered at social gatherings and in some homes. However, men imbibed far more often than women.

Electricity came late in the century, as did telephones. Without electricity, women did all their chores by hand … the cooking, the cleaning, the washing, and the sewing. Until the 1840’s, when clothing became more available in stores, Americans wore hand sewn clothes.

With no built-in bathtubs until the second half of the century, the typical family used a round, wooden or tin tub filled with hot water from the fireplace. All their water was hauled or pumped from a cistern or well. Toothbrushes became available in country stores by the 1820’s, though few used or realized their importance.

As far as filling their leisure time, the entertainment and amusements we take for granted today wasn’t in their world yet. No televisions, no radios, no stereos. No bicycles, no baseball, no basketball, no golf, no tennis, no football yet. But they enjoyed such games as cards, checkers, chess and billiards and sports like bowling and horse racing. Children played with homemade dolls, blocks and other simple toys. (I wrote two in-depth blogs, Childhood Toys of Yesteryear, posted last year in February & March on SOTW.)

Music, singing and musical instruments provided entertainment in churches, taverns and at home. Fiddles and violins were most frequent at socials and dances. Harmonicas and banjos were often enjoyed. The piano was owned by a few in the middle class and young women were taught how to play from 1800 on.

On New Year’s Day, 1818, the 3-volume novel, Frankenstein, by Mary Shelley was published; the next year Rip Van Wrinkle by Washington Irving. The popular classics by James Fenimore Cooper, Leatherstocking Tales and The Last of the Mohicans would be published in 1823 & 1826.

Saturday Evening Post first appeared on August 4, 1821, making it the oldest magazine in U.S. history. Not until 1830 was Godey’s Lady Book published, becoming one of the most popular women’s magazines.

 It’s hard not to compare our way of life with all the inventions and technical luxuries we have now to living without them in 19^th Century America. But I would imagine folks in 1818 were content with their everyday life. After all, “they wouldn’t miss what they never had.” 

Bobby Slaughter’s Half Million Dollar Ride

By Paisley Kirkpatrick

On a night in 1881, Colonel C. C. Slaughter, the cattle king of Texas, awakened his ten-year-old son Bobby in the cold darkness of a Dallas hotel room. He told his son to hurry and dress in his lightest outfit and leave off the jacket. Bobby jumped out of bed and did as his father asked. The Colonel took his son to a nearby livery stable and roused the proprietor. He made a quick deal for a thoroughbred mare and a light English riding saddle. After lifting the small boy upon the horse, he placed a canvas sack in the saddle bag and handed the lad a slim envelope.

Patting the boy’s knee, he said, “Bobby, I’ve got a job, a mighty important one that only you can do because of your size. You’ve got to ride to the Long S ranch without stopping except to change horses. You must beat the Englishmen who left here three days ago. When you arrive, give this envelope to my foreman. He will know what to do. There’s $500 in gold in your saddle bag to buy fresh mounts. You can do it son, you’ve got to -- or we lose the Long S and half a million dollars. Your mother and I will start tomorrow and we’ll meet you at home in a few days.”

“Sure I can do it,” Bobby answered. “I can ride like a real hand now and I can even help break horses.” Flicking his spurs against the sides of the mare, Bobby was off in a flurry of hoof beats that rang out shrilly in the silent darkness of the winter night. The chill air hit his thinly clad body like a spray of ice water but the small boy galloped on.

Five days before the fateful night, the Colonel had sold his ranch, the Long S near Big Spring, to a group of men, one who claimed to be of the nobility representing an English syndicate and had taken a British bank draft for a half a million dollars in full payment for the land and all holdings thereon. After giving the Englishmen a written order to his foreman to transfer the Long S, slaughter had rented a carriage and dispatched the new owners toward the ranch at his own expense.

When Colonel Slaughter presented the draft to the Texas Land & Mortgage company, a Dallas branch office of an English loan corporation, the firm refused to hand over the cash without an investigation. A cablegram was sent to England and the loan company manager, suspicious of the English “lord” and his party, remained open that night awaiting the answer. His doubts proved correct. The answering cablegram revealed the men were imposters and the draft quite worthless. Slaughter, who had started on a shoe string and built the Long S into a mighty cattle empire, felt a stab of naked hopelessness. He had been taken to the tune of half a million dollars.

He came up with a hair-brained idea, but if it worked he wouldn’t lose everything. He’d send his son…the only chance he had.

Bobby galloped through the cold dark night. It wasn’t yet dawn when he reached Fort Worth where he watered the mare at a public drinking trough. The thoroughbred kept up a steady running gait into Weatherford, her slick coat was lustrous with foam and sweat. Bobby hastily bought a fresh mount. On and on bobby rode over the austere Palo Pinto Mountains, heading ever westward to Clear Fork near Phantom Hill. He stopped only for water over the weary miles through the unmarked, rough country.

His horse started to limp. He headed toward the next ranch and when the horse near collapsed he ran by foot to the ranch. The only horse they had available was a mustang that had been ridden only once. Bobby told them he had to go on and asked them to head the horse in the right direction and put him on the horse’s back. The hands roped the rearing horse, blinded him, headed him west and threw the saddle upon his back. Bobby leaped in the saddle. The mustang reared and bucked, but Bobby stayed on. Then the animal bolted, running westward with the speed of the wind. Gradually the animal became accustomed to his light burden. He began to move with such exactness and precision that he lapped up the miles and sent the endless prairie whirling behind him. By dark Bobby found himself in the foothills of Taylor County.

Darkness dropped and with it came the cold. He hunched low over the mustang’s neck to absorb what warmth he could. At dawn he headed toward Rock Springs which he knew was near a river bed. He and the mustang desperately needed water. Bobby’s heart sank when he found the Englishmen camped at the river. He hastily skirted the camp and pushed his weary animal on toward the Long S. Now it was with the greatest effort that he held his eyes open. At noon he realized he was within the boundaries of his father’s ranch. He was so tired that the countryside began to blur. He wrapped his arms about the neck of the mustang and urged him on.

At two o’clock that afternoon a Long S line rider saw a thin veil of dust on the far horizon. As it moved slowly nearer, he saw that it was preceded by a moving dot which gradually emerged into the shape of a slowly moving horse with a prone figure on its back. He summoned the ranch foreman and together they rode out to meet the mount and its burden. They found Bobby unconscious with his hands clasped tightly around the mustang’s neck, so sound asleep they couldn’t rouse him. But, the foreman found the envelope with Colonel Slaughter’s orders in the lad’s shirt pocket.

Leaving the lone rider to bring in the tired horse, the foreman gathered Bobby in his arms and galloped post haste to the ranch where he sent out a call for the entire Long S crew to assemble at the ranch house.

In the late afternoon, the Englishmen drove up with a flourish. Haughtily the bogus “lord” demanded the Long S. Suddenly the coach was surrounded by the grim faces of the ranch crew. The foreman spoke only a few words, but the Englishmen realized their lives were in danger and immediately left the ranch. A few days later colonel Slaughter and his wife arrived by carriage. They found their ten-year-old son fully recovered from the long ride and the Long S sill Slaughter domain.

Written for the November,1961 Real West publication by Louise Cheney