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Title: Stories and folk-lore of West Cornwall. Third Series
Author: William Bottrell
Illustrator: Joseph Blight
Release date: April 5, 2025 [eBook #75799]
Language: English
Original publication: Penzance: Printed for the Author by F. Rodda, 1880
Credits: Jeroen Hellingman and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net/ for Project Gutenberg (This file was produced from images generously made available by Cornell University Digital Collections)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STORIES AND FOLK-LORE OF WEST CORNWALL. THIRD SERIES ***
STORIES AND FOLK-LORE
OF
WEST CORNWALL
BY
WILLIAM BOTTRELL.
“The proper study of mankind is man.”—Pope.
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY MR. JOSEPH BLIGHT.
THIRD SERIES.
PENZANCE
PRINTED FOR THE AUTHOR BY F. RODDA.
1880.
(Right of Translation reserved.)
PREFACE.
The publication of the present work has been attended by circumstances
of pathetic interest. It is to be feared that it will be the last
literary testament of its author, who, before the whole was completed,
was stricken by a severe stroke of paralysis, which has incapacitated
him from holding a pen in his hand. He must, therefore, claim the
indulgence of the critics and the public in this third series of
Cornish tales.
The whole subject of folk-lore, however, is at this moment of such
general interest, that still it is hoped that this little addition to
the stores now being gathered from every nation under heaven, may be
acceptable to the literary world. The publication of Melusine, a
periodical solely devoted to folk-lore subjects, at Paris, was followed
in England by the formation of the Folk-lore Society in 1878, which
promises to take an important position among the learned societies of
the English nation, and whose publications have already reached the
third volume. The valuable collections of this society have doubtless
done much to systematize the work already done, and to encourage the
labours of collectors of folk-lore throughout the world.
The poet truly says,—
“The proper study of mankind is man.”
and so the folk-lore student, in collecting the myths, the proverbs,
the traditions, the customs of the peasants of many lands, is doing an
important work in accumulating facts bearing on the history of mankind;
not the mere records of the wars and doings of kings and generals, but
of the beliefs, aspirations, thoughts and feelings of the working
classes of various nations.
In this work the author has done some valuable service, and it is to be
hoped that this addition to his former labours may be found of value,
seeing that it deals not with the traditions of the peasantry of
distant and foreign lands, but with the legends and traditions of the
country folk of one of the most romantic and interesting counties of
“Merrie England.”
CONTENTS.
PAGE
Legends of Ladock 1
The Prize Wrestler and Demon 3
The Feathered Fiend 12
The Ghosts of Kenegie 21
Laying Wild Harris’s Ghost 26
Cornish Castles 37
The Haunted Lawyer 39
Hallantide: or a St. Just Feast fifty years ago 48
Mill Stories 60
A Poor Tinner’s Feast 62
An old Droll about a Poor Tinner’s Feast 69
A Madron Feast of fifty years ago 73
Zennor Hearthside Stories 80
The Seaman’s Ghost 84
The Old Woman’s Ghost 88
The Mutton Feast of St. Ives 89
The Witch of Kerrow 91
Fairies on the Eastern Green 92
The last Threatened Invasion: Commotion and False Alarm
in the West 95
Mal Treloare and Sandry Kemp kiss and become good friends
again: or Backbiting Crull outwitted 97
The Three Geese 100
The Earl of Stairs’ Son 105
From Penzance to Carn Galva: Noteworthy objects by the way 114
Madron 114
Madron Well 115
Madron Chapel 117
Lanyon Quoit 117
Lanyon Town Place and House 119
The Crick-stone 119
Men Scryfa 121
The Four Parishes 121
The Giant of Carn Galva 122
The Penzance of our Grandfathers 126
The Old Market-House and its surroundings 126
The Battle of Architectural Styles 128
The Self-taught Architect 128
The Bustle of a Market Day 129
Madam Trezillian’s Head-Dress 130
The Ancient Fish-Women of Penzance 131
The School-days and Home of Pellew 131
The Western approach to Penzance 133
Parson Spry and his Wooden Horse and Dog “Sport” 133
The Rev. James Bevan 137
Country Clerks and Country Choirs 138
Old Christmas Carols 138
Ancient mode of conducting Funerals 139
Former means of information among the people 140
The Astrologers of the West 141
Conjurors and their Spells 142
Old Justice Jones 143
The Vingoes of Treville 143
Pellew and his Cornish crew 144
Ancient Games 144
Old methods of Conveyance—Riding Pillion 145
Popular Songs of the times, Marlbrook, and Sentimental
Ditties 145
Green Lanes and Footpaths 148
Pack-Saddles, &c. 148
Going to Town on Market-day 149
Early part of this Century 150
An old-fashioned greeting 151
The Ghosts of Chapel-street and St. Mary’s Chapel-yard 152
Local Nicknames 155
Merry-geeks and Market-Jew Crows 155
Ludgvan Hurlers and Gulval Bulls 155
Moushal Cut-throats and Newlyn Buckas 156
Sancras Pigs and Buryan Boars 156
St. Levan Witches, &c. 157
Santust Fuggans and Morvah Chick-chacks 158
Nancledrea Rats and Zennor Goats 158
Towednack Cuckoos and St. Ives Hakes 159
A Cornish Droll: Betty Toddy and her Gown 161
The Ghost-layer 171
Cornish Dialogue between two old men 173
A Dialogue between Gracey Penrose and Mally Trevisky 175
Christmas Carols 177
Ancient Midsummer Customs 179
The “Hilla” 181
The Ancient Cornish Language in the Colonies 183
According how et may drop 184
Cornish words in use 185
Cornish observances with regard to the Sun and Moon 187
Cornish Conjurors’ Charms against Witchcraft 190
All on one side, like Smoothy’s wedding 192
Piskies 193
Old Cornish Words 195
Glossary of Local Words 197
Subscribers’ Names 199
LEGENDS OF LADOCK.
“A good man there was of religioun,
That was a poure persone of a toun:
But riche he was of holy thought and werk,
He was also a lerned man—a clerk.
And though he holy were and vertuous,
He was to sinful men not despitous,
Ne of his speche dangerous ne digne (proud),
But in his teching discrete and benigne.”
Chaucer.
A little more than a century ago the Rector of Ladock was the Rev. Mr.
Wood, who was a most zealous churchman even in the days of misty
prejudice, when churchmen in general looked upon nonconformists as
scabbed sheep in their fold, and held that no schismatics were to be
tolerated. From having unwavering faith in the grace conferred by his
ordination, he was endowed with remarkable powers as an exorcist and
ghost-layer. The reverend gentleman was also an adept in astrology and
other occult sciences, which enabled him to perform wonders. The simple
folk of that secluded place, believing that their good parson possessed
more knowledge than is attributed to ordinary members of the three
learned professions combined, sought his aid in their physical
infirmities and social disturbances, as well as for their spiritual
wants. These simple, honest people were not much troubled in regard to
the latter. In those tranquil times they were comparatively temperate
in religious matters. There were many traits in the secular side of Mr.
Wood’s character for which he was much liked and respected. If any
dispute arose between his parishioners the matter was referred to him;
and, such was their confidence in the justice of his award, that they
always abided by his decision. If they had difficulties in parish
business the parson explained the law on the subject, and the matter
was settled accordingly. With the youngsters, too, he was a great
favourite. He encouraged them to keep up the old games of wrestling,
hurling, and other manly sports. The silver hurling-ball was left in
the parson’s care, and at the Tides, when he gave it to the young men,
he would say to them, “Now, my boys, be on your honour with each other,
and let it be your pride to behave according to the legend engraved on
your ball, in old Cornish, which means, as you know, that ‘Fair Play is
Good Play!’ Be sure, too, that One and All observe the ancient laws of
your games, which I will explain to ye if there should be any
uncertainty.” Mr. Wood mostly gratified the youngsters by being a
spectator of their games, and, unless he appeared on the Green, some of
them went to request his presence.
He would often say to the men, “A knowledge of the science of wrestling
is as necessary as that of boxing to give one a ready means of self
defence. Besides, it is a respectable exercise from its antiquity. Old
chroniclers say that the hero Corineus (or Corin) with his Trojan
hosts, by their faculty of wrestling subdued the Giants by whom this
Western Land was possessed when he and Brutus, with their followers,
landed at Totnes.” He told them how Corin threw the Giants’ king,
Gogmagog, on Plymouth Hoe, and then cast him headlong into the sea over
the cliff ever since called Langomagog, or the Giant’s Leap.
“For which the conquering Brute, on Corineus brave
This horn of land bestowed, and marked it with his name,
Of Corin, Cornwall call’d, to his immortal fame.”
“Soon after this,” Mr. Wood used to say, “the rest of the giants died
for grief. The remembrance of Corin’s exploit was also preserved by the
figures of the wrestlers being cut out in the turf on Plymouth Hoe.
These were renewed as they were worn out. The Cornish should be proud
to excel in this exercise, for the remembrance of the great Corineus
from whom they are said to derive their pedigree! So shew yourselves
like brave Trojans, my boys—equally ready to fairly fight and then to
feast with their opponents, using no cunning wiles or tricks to betray.
They were good hurlers, too, as well as wrestlers. Besides this, our
old heroic games, and the chase, which may be classed with them, afford
such wholesome excitement as serves to dispel melancholy thoughts,
which, if they be brooded over, are apt to render people crazy,
especially when they lead such solitary lives as most country-folk
must. The wisest of eastern sages has said that there are proper times
for joyous diversions as well as for labour. Such old romances, too, as
are related around the winter’s hearth, serve the same good purpose in
that dreary season.”
It seems that, formerly, in spite of all the subtle disguises that the
devil assumed, he was mostly known when ranging abroad; and Mr. Wood
was always able to detect and conquer him, if he ventured within his
jurisdiction. The parson changed the Evil One into the shape of an
animal, and then belaboured the infernal beast lustily with his
hunting-whip, until it ran away, howling like Tregagle. When walking,
Mr. Wood usually carried a stout ebony stick. On its massive silver
head was engraved a pentacle, or Solomon’s seal, and on a broad ring or
ferrule, just below the knob, were planetary signs and mystical
figures. This staff was regarded with curiosity and awe. It was said
that, by means of it, “he ruled the planets, controuled evil spirits,
repelled witchcraft, and performed supernatural work generally.”
The following stories are still told by the winter’s fireside in Ladock
and adjacent parishes. As usual there are various versions, which
differ in detail, because our old droll-tellers claimed a free flight
for fancy in such portions of their stories as admitted of it.
THE PRIZE WRESTLER AND DEMON.
There was a famous wrestler of Ladock, called John Trevail, though more
generally known among his comrades as “Cousin Jackey,” from the common
practice of thus styling favourites who may be no relation. One
Midsummer’s day Jackey went into a neighbouring parish and threw their
champion wrestler. In his pride, he said, as he swaggered round the
ring, “I am open to a challenge from any man, and wouldn’t mind having
a hitch with the Devil himself, ef he’d venture!”
After the wrestling he passed a few hours with his comrades in the
public house. On his way home, alone, about the “turn of night,” he
came to a common called Le Pens Plat, which is two miles or more from
Ladock Churchtown. As he was going on slowly, from being somewhat
tired, and not very steady in the head, he was overtaken by a gentleman
dressed like a clergyman, who accosted him in gentle tones, saying,
“I was at the wrestling to-day, and I think you are the prize wrestler.
Am I right?”
“Yes, sir, I won the prize that I now carry,” replied Trevail, who felt
very uneasy at meeting there such a strange, black-coated gentleman at
that time of night, though a full moon and clear sky made it almost as
light as day.
“I am very fond of wrestling myself,” resumed the stranger; “it’s an
ancient, manlike exercise, for which we Cornishmen have always been
renowned; and, as I want to learn more science in my play, I should
much like to try a bout with you; say for your gold lace hat and five
guineas, which I will stake.”
“Not now, sir, for I’m tired,” Jackey replied, “but I’ll play you after
dinner-time if you please, when I’ve had a few hours rest—say two or
three o’clock, if it will please you.”
“Oh no; it must be at midnight, or soon after, now the nights are
short,” said the stranger; “it would never do for one in my position to
be seen here wrestling with you, high by day; it would scandalize my
cloth in these particular and gossip-loving times.”
Trevail hesitated, and thought of the wild words he had uttered in the
ring. He had then challenged the Devil, and he felt persuaded that he
was now face to face with his enemy, in this lonely spot. Thinking it
best, however, to be as civil as possible, he agreed to the stranger’s
proposal to meet him there at midnight, or soon after; they shook hands
to the bargain, and the gentleman gave him a purse with five guineas in
it for his stake, saying at the same time—
“You are well known to be an honest fellow, I’ve no fear of your not
bringing the money and your prize won to-day; and if, by any mischance,
I shouldn’t come, the money is yours; but there’s little doubt of my
being here sharp upon midnight.”
He then wished Jackey good morrow, and went away over the common by
another path leading northward. The poor fellow felt, as he trudged
along homeward, that he had sold himself to the Old One. In looking
down, when he said good morrow (he couldn’t bear the stranger’s eye) he
saw what he believed to be a cloven foot peeping from beneath his long
black skirts. Poor fellow! he felt as bad as gone, unless he could be
rescued some way. But he could devise no plan by which to avoid his
fate.
Dragging himself along, as best he could, afraid to look behind him, he
got to his dwelling about three o’clock in the morning. His wife, on
hearing the door opened, came downstairs. Seeing Jackey’s haggard looks
she refrained from “jawing” him as usual, when he came home late, and
the want of her rough talk made him feel worse than ever. Jackey took
from his pocket the bag of guineas, and threw it into the tool-chest,
among a lot of lumber, saying, “Molly, my dear, doesn’t thee touch that
shammy leather bag for the world! ’Tes the Devil’s money that’s in am!”
Little by little he told her what had happened on the common, and
concluded by moaning out,
“Oh Molly, my dear, thee hast often wished that Old Neck would come and
take me away bodily, and now et do seem es ef thy prayers are to be
answered.”
“No, no, Jackey my son, never think of et,” sobbed she; “whatever I
said was only from the lips outwards, and that’s of no effect, my
darlin. I can’t afford to lose thee yet for awhile. As the sayan es,
‘Bad as thee art it might be wes (worse) without thee.’ Go the wayst up
to bed, my son, et mayn’t come to that for awhile: I’ll this minute put
on my cloak and hat, and away to the passen. No good for thee, nor all
the world, to say no, for he only can save thee.”
On her way to beg Mr. Wood’s assistance she called up a croney with
whom she was on pretty fair terms just then.
“Arrea! soas; what’s the matter?” exclaimed the gossip, looking from
her chamber-window. “Have anybody cried out that you’re in such
‘stroath’ (hurry) at this untimely hour.”
“Come along to the passen’s,” replied Molly. “I’m so ‘flambustered’
(worried) I can hardly speak. Somethan dreadful have happened to our
Jackey; and you mustn’t drop a word to anybody, for your life, of what
I’ll tell ’e on the road.”
The reverend gentleman, being an early riser, was standing at his door,
looking out in the grey of the morning, when he saw the two women, in
much agitation, coming towards him. Ere he had time to speak, Jackey’s
wife, with her apron to her eyes, sobbed out, “Oh, your reverence, I be
a poor woman ruined and undone, that I be; for our dear Jackey have ben
and sold hisself to the Old One, and will be carried away bodily the
very next night ef you don’t save am! That a will.”
After some questions Mr. Wood got an inkling of the case, and said to
Molly,
“Make haste home, my good woman, and tell Jackey, from me, to cheer up;
I’ll see him presently and tell him how to act, and I’m pretty sure the
Devil will meet his match, with my assistance.”
Shortly after sunrise Mr. Wood entered the wrestler’s dwelling, and
found him stretched on the chimney-stool, sound asleep. When Jackey
knew the wise step his wife had taken—the only one indeed of any use
under the circumstances—he became tranquil, and, worn out as he was
with great exertion of body and mind, he soon forgot his troubles. Mr.
Wood roused him and said,
“Why, Jackey, is there any truth in what your wife has just told me, or
did you fall asleep on the common and have an ugly dream? The
chamois-bag that Molly spoke of may contain nothing more than
wart-stones that bad luck cast in your way; but tell me what happened
from first to last, and let’s see the bag.”
Trevail related his adventures, and concluded by saying,
“’Tes all like an ugly dream, sure enow, your reverence, and I wish it
were nothing else, but the Old One’s money es there in my tool-chest,
and I remember every word that passed; besides I should know him again
among ten thousand,—such fiery eyes I never beheld in any other head,
to say nothan of the glimpse I had of his cloven foot.”
Then Jackey brought the bag, holding it at arm’s length with a pincers,
as he might a toad. Urged on, he opened it and turned out five pieces
of glittering gold.
The parson, having examined them, said,
“The sight of these spade guineas, with what you have told me, leave no
doubt that you bargained to wrestle with the Devil; for he it is; you
could get this gold no other way; I’m certain you wouldn’t use unfair
means to obtain it. The money seems good enough, whatever mint it might
have been coined in. Yet take courage, you must be as good as your
word, and to-night meet the Old One, as you call him. Don’t fail to be
at the appointed place by midnight, and take with you the stakes, as
agreed on.”
Jackey looked very dejected on hearing this; intimated that he didn’t
like to go alone, and that he had trusted to have Mr. Wood’s company.
“You must keep your word with the Devil,” continued the parson, “or he
may come and fetch you when least expected. I shall not go with you,
yet depend on it I’ll be near at hand to protect you against unfair
play.”
Whilst saying this Mr. Wood took from his pocket-book a slip of
parchment, on which certain mystic signs and words were traced or
written.
“Secure this in the left-hand side of your waistcoat,” said he, in
giving it to Jackey; “don’t change your waistcoat, and be sure to wear
it in the encounter; above all, mind ye—show no fear, but behave with
him precisely as you would with any ordinary wrestler, and don’t spare
him, or be fooled by his devices.”
Jackey’s wife now came in. She had been “courseying” (gossiping) on the
road, to ease her mind. Mr. Wood left the dwelling; and Trevail, now in
pretty good heart, went with him some distance.
On parting the parson cautioned him to keep the matter private.
“That I will be sure to do,” replied Jackey; “I havn’t told a living
soul but my wife, and she can keep a secret first-rate—for a woman.
There’s no fear now of my showing a white feather, thanks to your
reverence.”
At the appointed time our prize-wrestler went boldly to Le Pens Plat
Common and waited near the spot agreed on. At midnight the gentleman in
black arrived by the same path he took in the morning. They looked hard
at each other for some minutes without speaking, till Trevail said,
“I’m come in good time you see, and there are the prizes on that rock.
You know the rules of the game, I suppose, that one must lay hold above
the waist; whichever makes three falls in five bouts wins the prize; it
belongs to you, as the challenger, to take the first hitch.”
Still the stranger made no reply, and kept his gleaming eyes on the
wrestler, who, feeling uncomfortable under his persistent stare, looked
towards the rock, where the prizes lay, and said, “Then, if you won’t
wrestle, take your money, and no harm done.”
That instant Trevail felt himself seized, all unawares, by his
waistband and lifted clear off the ground. It seemed to the man as if
the Old One rose with him many yards above the earth; and its
“far-re-well to all the world with me now,” thought Cousin Jackey to
himself.
During a desperate struggle in the air, however, the man got his right
arm over his opponent’s shoulder, and grabbing him on the back with a
good holdfast, took a crook with his legs. In the encounter the
wrestler’s breast, or rather his waistcoat, touched the Evil One, who
on the instant lost his hold, fell flat on his back, as if knocked
down, and writhed on the ground like a wounded snake. The wrestler
pitched to his feet as he came down, never the worse, but his temper
was now raised to such a point that he was ready to fight or wrestle
with any man or devil.
The other rose up with fury in his countenance, and exclaimed, “You
have some concealed weapon about ye that has wounded me; cast off that
waistcoat.”
“No, by golls,” replied Jackey, “that I wont, to please ye; feel my
jacket if you like; there’s no blade in am, not even a pin’s point, but
’tes you that show the queer tricks; catch me off my guard again ef you
can.”
Saying this he clenched the Old One like a vice; but they had a hard
struggle for more than five minutes, pushing and dragging each other to
and fro at arm’s length. The Old One seemed afraid to close in. Jackey
felt all out of sorts with the blasting gleams of the other’s evil
eyes, and couldn’t get a crook with his legs. At last, making a
desperate plunge, he freed himself from the Devil’s grasp; took him
with the “flying-mare,” and threw him on his back with such a “qualk”
as made him belch brimstone fumes.
The devil quickly sprung up, looking very furious, and said, “I’m
deceived in you, for your play is very rough, and I desire you to
request Parson Wood to go home. I am confused and powerless whilst he
is looking on.”
“I don’t see Mr. Wood, nor anybody else but you,” returned Jackey.
“Your sight mayn’t be so good as mine,” replied the other. “I can only
just see his eyes glaring on me from between the bushes on yonder
hedge, and I hear him mumbling something too. If I’m foiled again it
will be all owing to your confounding parson. I hope to serve him out
for this some day.”
“Never mind our passon, he can wrestle very well himself,” said Jackey
in a cheerful tone, “and do like to see good play; so come on, at it
agen.” Saying this he grasped his opponent in a “Cornish hug,” with
more vigour than ever, laid him on his back as flat as a flounder, and
said, “There, you have had three fair falls; but if they don’t satisfy
’e, I’ve more science to teach ’e yet.” The wrestler kept a sharp eye
on the prostrate one, intending to give him another thumping qualk the
instant he rose, unless he asked for quarter. During the half minute or
so that he watched the demon crameing on the ground like a serpent, the
sky became overcast, and the moon obscured with gathering clouds, which
seemed bursting with thunder. Looking closely, in the dim light, at the
gentleman in black, Jackey was frightened to see that, in a twinkling,
his feet and legs had become like those of a huge bird; his skirts
changed to a pair of wings; and his form was still changing to that of
a dragon, when he flew away, just skimming the ground at first, and
leaving in his wake a train of lurid flame; then soared aloft and
entered the pitch black clouds, which, on the instant, became all
ablaze with lightning, and thunders roared, echoing all around from
hill to hill. As the black cloud ascended, with a whirling motion, it
appeared like an immense wheel revolving in the air, flashing lightning
and shooting thunder-bolts from all around its border.
The demon’s sudden change and flight, with the noxious vapours spread
around, so confused and stupefied Jackey, that for a minute or so he
lost sight of all above and below. Whilst still like one in a trance,
gazing on the sky, now clear overhead, he felt a hand on his shoulder,
and heard Parson Wood say, in cheery tones, “Well done, my boy; I was
proud to see thy courage and good play. See, there’s the devil’s
battery,” continued he, pointing to a small black cloud so far away as
to be almost lost to view; and casting a glance round he noticed, on a
rock, Jackey’s gold-lace hat and the bag of money.
“Come, my son, rouse thee,” said he, “take up thy prizes and let’s be
off homeward.”
The wrestler took up his hat, but looked askaunt on the bag of guineas,
as if unwilling to touch it.
“Take the money,” urged Mr. Wood. “It’s fairly won; but some old
sayings are passing in thy mind such as ‘A guinea of the devil’s money
is sure to go, and take ten more with it.’ ‘What’s gained over the
fiend’s back will slip away under his belly;’ and other old saws of the
like meaning, which don’t refer to such money as that; but to unfair
gains gotten by those thieves in heart who are too greedy to be honest.
Yet even such often hold fast the cash for themselves and theirs, when
the devil cries quits by taking them all at last.”
Trevail took up the bag, and, as he pocketed it, a flash of light drew
their attention to the fiend’s retreat, now so high that it appeared a
mere dot in the clear sky. They saw a streak of fire leave it, and,
descending like a shooting star, fall in a neighbouring parish.
“Mark that, Jackey!” exclaimed Mr. Wood, “for it’s no other than your
wrestling devil, or one of his company, who has come down amongst St.
Endor witches; and it strikes me that we havn’t seen the last of him
yet.”
“There’s a hut on a moor just where he dropped,” said Jackey, “in which
a number of hags meet every now and then; and when they have agreed on
the mischief they are to work, about midnight they fly away on their
brooms or ragwort stalks. In the small hours of morning they are often
seen beating homewards in the shape of hares. Many old hags over that
way get what they like for the asking. If any one of them hap to be
refused she’ll shake her bony finger at the one who denies her, and
say, ‘You will wish you had,’ and sure enow, from the fear of some ill
wish falling on them or theirs, the old witch is pretty sure to get all
she looked for.”
On their way home Jackey thanked the parson most heartily for his
protection, and told him that in the first bout he thought all was over
for him in this world, when the Old One rose with him off the earth
“ever so high.”
“You are mistaken in that, my son,” replied Mr. Wood, “it was only your
fright on being seized unawares and suddenly lifted off the ground that
made ye think so; for, to give the devil his due, he never tried to fly
away with you. I saw it all, and precautions had been taken to guard
against foul play on his part, if any tricks were attempted, as you
will understand by-and-bye, when I tell you of my night’s work.”
Jackey didn’t contradict the reverend gentleman, but he was of the same
opinion still; and whenever he told the story in after years, always
asserted that on his first hitch he was taken up “towers high,” and
still getting higher, until he came to close quarters with the Old One.
“I have had a busy time of it,” continued Mr. Wood. “Long before
midnight I was on the ground—which I knew from your description to be
the place of your encounter,—and summoned thither many powerful
spirits, who attended with pleasure to see such a wrestling. They
hadn’t, of late, beheld the like, though, in days of yore, contests
between men and demons were not unfrequent. The one you have conquered
is a devil of high rank. He came attended by a great number of lower
degree; and precautions were taken to place around ye a ring of my true
and valiant spirits, who made your opponent’s attendant fiends remain
in an outer circle.
“Besides, there were crowds of vagrant spirits wandering to and fro, on
the earth and in the air, as is their custom from midnight to
cock-crowing; all of them stopped to witness your contest. They were
all visible to me, though by you unseen; and well for ye it was so,
because a sight of such beings would be sure to shock ye or any other
unprepared mortal. Many in the crowd were very ghastly in appearance.
Your demon’s retainers were in their usual form, which suits them for
air or earth.
“Many bets were made between the spectators in both circles and
overhead; and a great many of the demon’s backers are bound to serve
the winners for ages. They don’t much mind that, however. Time hangs
heavy on their hands; and of all spirits, fallen ones are the most
restless, as it goes against their grain to do mortals a good turn. For
the sake of some change in their wearisome existence they rise
tempests, serve the evil behests of witches, and perform other acts of
deviltry, such as we often hear of; yet they are a melancholy set that
one might pity.”
The wrestler expressed his wonder at what the parson related; yet, from
what he had heard of devils’ doings, wasn’t much surprised.
Over a while Mr. Wood resumed, “I am somewhat chagrined though all has
gone well on the whole; for I was watching to see thee give three fair
falls, intending then to rush on the devil and shame him, if possible,
with a lusty thrashing with my hunting-whip, it’s fastened round my
waist; but, as bad luck would have it, in getting hastily over the
hedge my skirts caught in brambles, and I dropped my ebony staff. That
instant, whilst it lay on the earth, the demon took a form which used
to be common amongst the infernal brood. At his signal the attendant
fiends formed a thunder-cloud to receive their chief. The guardian
spirits, well pleased, only quitted their charge when my hand was laid
on your shoulder; all the rest you saw.”
“I have often heard,” said Jackey, “of a dragon that burned Helston,
was that a devil too?”
“Very likely, or something as bad,” replied Mr. Wood. “The tradition
handed down simply says that, in old times, before there was a bar
formed at the Loe, and when the tide flowed past the site of St. John’s
Mill, a dragon often came from over sea and burnt the ancient town. Yet
the dragon which visited Helston might only have been a northern
pirate’s ship known by that name.
“I was going to tell you that I owe this wrestling devil a grudge. Who,
indeed, in my place wouldn’t be vexed with the beast for taking the
disguise he so impudently assumed? Decked as he was in a three cocked
beaver and black garments, he might easily pass himself off for a
clergyman, without a close scrutiny.”
“I thought sure he was,” said Jackey, “he wore a white neck-cloth too;
and one could hardly make out if he had a cloven foot or no.”
From walking slowly home it was broad day when they arrived at the
parsonage. Mr. Wood gave the wrestler a substantial breakfast of cold
beef, bread, and ale. After a hearty meal, Jackey said, “I should be
glad to serve your reverence at any hour by day or by night, for I owe
you more than life.”
“Not so, my son,” the parson replied, “for I have only done my duty in
guarding from the wolf a wild and thoughtless one of my flock.”
The money, however, did the wrestler but little if any good, and it was
the cause of quarrels between him and his wife, and of both with their
neighbours. Jackey soon learnt how it was rumoured all around that he
had sold himself to the Old One to have his wishes gratified for a few
years, with the usual consequences to follow. Now he had told nobody
but his wife—of course, Mr. Wood’s prudence was not to be
suspected,—and she had only spoken of her trouble to her crony, who
went with her to the parson. Accordingly, dame Trevail accused her
gossip of having spread many falsehoods round the parish, and abused
her for the breach of confidence.
The crony retorted by saying, “Fool that thee art, however cust (canst)
thee expect me, or anybody else, to keep thy secrets, when thee cusn’t
keep them thyself? And what do I care; I han’t had any share of thy
dirty money; by golls! I wedn’t touchen weth a peer of tongs; I han’t
got a spoon long enow to sup weth thy old gentleman. All the neighbours
do say that of late, since thee hast had thy new rig out, from top to
toe, thee art become so huffish and toit (uncivil in reply) that they
can’t venture to say ‘What cheer,’ or give thee the ‘time o’ day’; and
that poor Cousin Jackey han’t got a minute’s peace in his own house
with thy constant ballarggan (abuse) and naggan that will fret am to
death before long. Then thee mayst wring thy hands and cry ‘bad as
Jackey was, a es wes (worse) to live without am.’ Well, soase! my
bedgownd and towser (large coarse apron to come all round and tie
behind) es good enow for me or any other honest workan woman. They say
that thee wert decked out like a lady in church a Sunday, with thy new
covertail (kirtle) gownd, who but thee forsooth! A clean bedgownd,
check-apron, and quilted-petticoat do more become thee. ’Tes no wender
people do gibe thee for thy pride; and ’tes as good as an old ‘merable’
play to hear what they do say about thee. Now, go thee wast along home,
and think over what I’ve told thee.”
For many years after this Jackey continued to be the champion wrestler
of his neighbourhood; and the story of his midnight adventure took the
form of a droll just like the above.
Shortly after Mr. Wood gave the wrestler his ghostly aid, the reverend
gentleman had much fiendish annoyance on that account, as will be seen
in the sequel to this story.
One may remark that many old folks often compare a droll subject to an
old miracle play, though they have but a misty idea of what it was. The
other day an elderly man of Newlyn, in speaking of old droll-tellers
meeting together and spinning their yarns, said, “It is as good as an
old miracle-play to hear them.” On my asking what an old miracle play
was, he replied that he couldn’t say exactly, but from what he had
heard, he thought it was much the same as an old guise-dance. He wasn’t
much out, as “St. George and the Dragon” was the guise-dance he had in
view.
THE FEATHERED FIEND.
Ladock men were famous ringers of old; but from a few weeks before
their champion’s victory over the demon-wrestler, the fine old bells of
their church had been silent because their ropes were quite worn out,
and other gearing connected with them required repairs to be used with
safety. Shortly after Trevail’s victory, an evil spirit, in the form of
a very large bird, with coal-black plumage, and fiery eyes, but of a
kind unknown to Ladock folks, was seen perched on the tower for several
nights in succession, where it remained for hours jumping from one
pinnacle to another, and making an unnatural clamour, which was heard
far away. Shortly after it came by day, and even during Divine Service.
The pastor and his flock were distracted by its croaking and cawing, as
if in derision.
When the clerk, with five or six other elderly men and two women, who
formed the choir, quavered through the psalms—which they sung in parts,
much in the mode of old “three-man-songs,”—this feathered fiend, just
over their heads, on the tower, would utter such infernal noises as to
make sad discord of the old men’s music. The clerk seldom used a book,
as he knew pretty well, by heart, the three or four psalms they usually
sung; but sometimes he would commence with a verse from one, and then
give out portions of others; and now his memory was so confused by
irritation that one Sunday he concluded by giving,—
“And now may Heaven amend us all,
And into bliss us bring!”
Happily the two female singers discovered his mistake as he was going
to finish the verse with—
“This was the hunting of the Cheviot:
God send us all good ending!”
Every now and then the accursed thing would mimic all sorts of familiar
but jarring sounds; sometimes it screeched “like a pig caught in a
gate;” then quickly changed its note to imitate the cry of hounds in
full chase; or the cackling and scolding of old women. By such noises
coming down from the elevated site, many of the congregation were
constrained to burst out in roars of laughter, which, like yawning, is
very catching. Prim folks, who put great restraint on themselves in
order to retain a solemn demeanour, suffered such pains that they had
to leave Church and give vent to their pent up feeling.
Mr. Wood was nonplussed; the Evil One was too high up to be reached
with his hunting-whip, and the methods by which he had formerly
exorcised demons now failed. From this one’s position, he could not
comply with all the prescribed formulas, such as enclosing him in a
magic circle, &c. The reverend gentleman felt his fame as an exorcist
was at stake. He told his people that the accursed thing was no other
than a mean mocking devil sent thither by the demon-wrestler to torment
him, out of revenge for his aid to their champion, whereby Jackey’s
victory and the Evil One’s discomfiture were assured.
The increasing vexation continued for many weeks, until Mr. Wood was
struck with an idea which he turned to good account; and which should
be recorded for the benefit of others who may ever have to encounter
the like difficulties.
One Sunday, after evening service, when the congregation had
dispersed—the clerk and sexton waiting in the porch,—the parson came
out of the Church sighing, “Oh! for how long is this grevious trial to
endure;” and, turning to his clerk, said, “We and the people might as
well have stayed at home for all the benefit derived by them from
either the service or the sermon this afternoon. I could not help
observing that their attention was more given to the horrid noises
which reached them from the tower than to my instructions from the
pulpit.”
“It’s a very hard tryal for you, to be sure,” replied the clerk, “but,
as for me, I’ve more than once had a great mind to smash my bass-viol
and rush out of Church; ’tes always hard work for me to keep our
singers in time and tune; and now, with this screechan devil on the
tower, we are always in confusion, and might as well sing ‘Chevy Chace’
for all the words anybody can hear; et wed try the patience of Job ef
he, like me, had a ‘pare’ of singers to lead, and the devel makan such
a ‘drilzey’ (irritating noise) over hes head; it wed be wes for am than
havan to listen to hes conceited com——”
“Pray thee leave Job and his comforters for the time,” exclaimed Mr.
Wood. “The good man, like many another, might well say, ‘Save me from
my friends.’ I noticed, too, that many strangers come from a great
distance, more and more every Sunday, drawn hither by curiosity. I have
tried all authorised means for expelling demons that the position taken
by this one admits of; but I find the truth of what has long been said,
that, of all devils, those of the mocking kind are the most difficult
to subdue; they may be likened unto hairbrained, self-conceited fools
amongst mortals, who can only be ruled by the rod, and this fiend keeps
too high up to be reached by my whip. Yet sometimes, indeed, when I
read to the fiend at the utmost pitch of my voice, he remained so still
that I hoped he was being subjected to my will; but the conjuration or
incantation ended, he always hopped upon a pinnacle, cocked his tail,
danced round, and cried caw, caw, as much as to say it’s all a farce,
and I like to hear your voice.”
“Now only to think of es emperance,” murmured the clerk.
“I have heard, too,” continued Mr. Wood, “that some thoughtless
youngsters have proposed to try on him the virtues of powder and lead.
I am glad to learn, however, that they have been better advised; the
result of such temerity would, probably, be something awful for them. I
now come to the particular matter I wish to speak with you about.
“During a long pause I had to make in my sermon this afternoon, whilst
the plumed devil took his turn, a thought occurred to me which I hoped
might be a happy inspiration.”
“Goodness grant et,” cried the impatient clerk; “do ’e tell me what et
es, and hear the devil screaman now.”
“You know what is said in Holy Writ respecting little children,”
resumed Mr. Wood. “You likewise know that sage old folks have a saying,
‘the Evil One can’t endure the sight of an innocent child,’ and——”
“Aye, verily,” interrupted the clerk; “bless me, sure ’tes a wender I
dedn’t think of that before, why old people—who are the only ones that
know anything—say a babe in a house es more use to keep evil sperats
out of en than a five-pointed star (pentagram) cut on the drussell
(door-sill), and any number of hos shoes nailed to the lentran
(lintel). Besides, we all know the rash lawyer who summoned the sperat
of that unjust stewart, Jan Tregagle, into Court, by sayan, ‘ef
Tregagle seed the money paid, may Tregagle appear and declare et.’ By
the time the words were well out of hes mouth, the enraged sperat stood
before am, sayan,—‘Thee hast found et easy to bring me here, but thee
west find et harder to put me away agen;’ and the enraged Tregagle wed
ha torn the lawyer lem from lem, ef he hadn’t snatched a little child
from a woman’s arms and held et in hes own. Weth that protection he
defied the wild sperat—who was jest the same as a devil, from beean
weth them so long,—drove am into a corner and pinned am there, while
all the other people tore out of Court, for their lives, except the
cheeld’s mother and the judge. As a was ’sizes there happened to be
many passens in town (Bodmin), and they, on hearan of et, went all
together to lay Tregagle. You know what trouble they had nearly all
night, and couldn’t quell the sperat till the Rector of Roach came
among them and——”
“Ho!” exclaimed the parson, “west thee keep me here all night with thy
endless fables about Tregagle, that we have all heard from our
childhood. Listen to what I was about to say regarding the means
whereby I hope to expel this fiend from Ladock.
“I suppose there are several unbaptised children in the parish, as many
women have been in childbed, I know, since last Ladock-tide (the parish
feast), but none of their children have been christened.”
“Haif a dozzen, or more, have ben in the straw,” replied the old man,
“and all their children are kept tel next feasten-tide, to be
christened then, accordan to custom, that the same treat may serve for
witnesses (sponsors) and feasters; that et may be ‘the more the
merrier,’ for feasten-time; and some of them are nearly ready to tumble
in agen before they’ve returned thanks for their last deliverance. I
was gwean to say just now,” continued the clerk, as Mr. Wood was about
to speak, “that ef you had only been in the world in Tregagle’s time,
and qualified for a sperat-queller and devel-driver as you are now,
that Evil One, who es more like a devel than a mortal’s sperat, wedn’t
ha been left to carry on, in the way he ded, for many years; after
sweepan the sand from one West country cove to another, in a crack,
when they were miles asunder; stoppan up the Loo, and so changan
Helston from a seaport to an inland town; then back again for another
job, and frightnan people out of their lives almost, with the devel and
hes hounds chasan am round and round Gosmoor and about, tryan to keep
am from the Chapel on the rock, where Tregagle always took refuge.
Happely passons fixed am, at last, to team out Dosmery. There he’ll
have to stay, for ever and ever and aye. He mait as well try to dip the
ocean dry weth hes leaky croggan (limpet shell) as that bottomless
pool, which as a part of the sea, they say, as et do fall and rise with
the ebb and flow of the tide; and for a few minutes after the tide’s
turn to ebb, there’s a whirlpool in the meddle of en, when bushes and
other light things floatan near are sucked down, and sometime
afterwards they rise agen in Falmouth Harbour or St. Austell Bay, I
forget which,—some say the one and some ’tother. I wanted to ax ’e
somethan about ’n, fearan I shud forget, but——”
“Stop, for goodness sake,” cried the parson, “leave Dosmery and
Tregagle to the charge of Old Nick and be—be attentive to what I have
farther to say regarding our own devil, and the means to be essayed for
driving him; and when we have happily concluded, we will—on some
winter’s night—overhaul these old stories, to see if there be a few
grains of truth underlaying the mass of fables.
“Now, as I take it that recently baptised children have the greatest
power to drive away evil spirits, I wish you to go round the parish
to-morrow, and request all prudent women who have lately undergone the
pains and perils of childbirth, to come and be churched next Sunday
afternoon, if they are able, and to bring their babes to be christened
at the same time. If a goodly number can’t be got to come next Sunday,
let it be on the following week, but arrange with the mothers that they
all come at the same time.”
“I’ll do the best I can, accordan to your wishes,” replied the clerk,
“but they won’t be willan to come before the feast, because poor people
don’t care to make two treats when one would do.”
“Tell them to give the sponsors cake and ale, for the time,” replied
Mr. Wood, “and put off their chief entertainment till the tide, when
we’ll have a merry time of it. The feasten week I’ll go round and visit
them all; and you, being fiddler-in-chief, shall have enough to do.
Call at my house when you come back to tell me how you have got on, and
that we settle on the number, and other matters to be observed.”
Whilst talking they had walked slowly towards the parsonage. The clerk
having agreed to Mr. Wood’s proposals, they wished each other good
night and separated.
Early on the following morning Clerk Courtney, as he was called, began
his journey round the parish to ask the mothers of all unbaptized
children to bring them to be christened the next Sunday afternoon.
After stating the urgent reason for his request, the women replied to
the effect that they would have preferred leaving their christenings
till the feast, for the sake of economy; yet being desirous, above all
things, to please their good parson, they promised to attend, as
required, and thought it nothing strange that they should be wanted for
such an occasion, as they knew the trouble the devil had given, and the
prevalent belief in the power of young children to rout evil spirits.
Few of the good dames were provided with wheaten flour, as barley-bread
was the “staff of life” then in all labourers’ and most small farmers’
households. They told the clerk, however, that if they couldn’t get
wheat to take to mill, in time for making a christening cake, they
would buy a few penny worth of biscuit, so as to have white-bread for
offerings on their way to be “uprose.” They would on no account neglect
this old custom of giving to the first person met on the way to be
churched a good slice of cake or wheaten bread of some sort; it was
believed to bring good luck to the giver, receiver, and child.
The mother also drew a presage, from the first person by whom met or
overtaken on leaving her threshold. She regarded encountering boy or
man as a good omen that her next born would be a boy. Such was the
dislike of many mothers to meeting another woman that they often left
the path, or, if they saw no way for avoiding a meeting, the poor woman
passed the omen of ill-luck on the right hand, as she would a witch,
and appear not to see her. Yet their most general plan was to turn back
home, if not far from it, and touch the “cravel” (mantle-stone across
the head of an open chimney) with her forehead, and cast into the fire
a handful of dry grass, or anything picked up, on the way back, that
would burn; then start again, hoping for better luck.
The practice of resorting to the hearth and touching the “cravel” [1]
with the head, is regarded as the most effectual means of averting any
impending evils of a mysterious nature.
The reasons for their preference of boys to girls may be found in the
old sayings:—“While the boy is away his bread winning, the maid is home
doing nothing but spinning.” “Boys can take care of themselves, but
maidens can’t.”
The dames would all get a “half-a-strike” of wheat each and take it to
mill if they could. They liked going thither to “serge” (sift) their
flour to their liking, and hear the latest gossip from the miller’s
wife, or other women who brought their grist. Mills were so noted as
places for scandal, that any slanderous tale used to be called a “mill
story.” The mill, too, was the usual place of rendezvous for young
folks of summers’ evenings, when they generally had a dance, to music
from the miller’s fiddle,—all the old millers could play dance tunes.
If the miller hadn’t leisure, some of the merry company either beat up
the time on a “crowd” (sieve-rind with a sheepskin bottom, used for
taking up corn, flour, &c.), or they sung verses of old ballads which
suited the measure. We will no longer linger over our pleasing old
customs.
As most of the sponsors were courting couples, living in the parish,
the clerk gave them timely notice, too, that the young women might get
up their best rig-out, as he called it, against the grand occasion.
Some of the mothers, poor dears, who were so earnest that there should
be no “hitch” in the matter, accompanied the clerk to houses where they
apprehended finding any difficulty, to help him over it. They had no
occasion, however, for the women, without exception, agreed they could
go through “fire and water” to please their good parson. “Bless hes
heart,” said they, “hes door es always open to a poor body in want;
he’d give the shirt from hes back to any one in much distress; and he
esn’t a bit sticked up, though wise man as he es, he might well be
proud of his learnan.”
“’Tes never his way,” said another, “to be like the old priest of the
fable, who was ever ready weth hes blessan, but wed never bestow a
farthan; as for our passon, he wed have us all be merry and glad tell
the end.”
“Aye, we all know there esn’t his equal round about,” said the clerk.
“Moreover, et will be something for ’e all to remember weth pride; and
your cheldren’s cheldren may well feel exalted to hear how their
‘grammars’ help’t to rout the devil from Ladock.”
Before night the old man was assured by as many mothers as he thought
sufficient that they would bring their babes to be christened the next
Sunday. On his way home he called in at several farm-houses, in all of
which he was made welcome with something substantial to eat, and good
strong ale to help him on. The folks were always glad to have him and
his violin at their merry-making times, such as “gulthise”
(harvest-feast) weddings, christenings, feasten tides, &c., although he
had no great variety of dance tunes.
Soon after day-down he arrived back to the parsonage, not a bit the
worse for liquor, because he had taken little else than good wholesome
home-brewed. Having told Mr. Wood how he had succeeded, the reverend
gentleman, after a pause, said, “You have done well, better in fact
than I expected; the number of women to be depended on amounts to
eight, though you thought them more. Now everything is significant. It
was held by wise men of yore, and is by many of the present day, that
peculiar virtues belong to particular numbers, representing the signs
of planetary and other powers; indeed, a magic square is as powerful
for controlling demons as the impress of Solomon’s seal, which you call
the five-pointed star. So to neglect nothing which might tend to our
success, we will have a fortunate, or what you would call a lucky
number of children. You know everybody hereabouts use nine in all their
charms and many other matters. They also call old stone circles
‘nine-maidens,’ though they are, for the most part, formed of many more
than nine stones. The latter part of this name, however, is a double
corruption, first from the old Cornish men (stone) into medn (just as
pen is changed to pedn); thence it became Saxonised to maiden, which,
in turn, suggested foolish legends about dancing-maidens turned to
stones to account for this unmeaning name. The general use of nine
seems to indicate that the ancient inhabitants regarded it as a sacred
number. According to eastern sages, twelve is the best of all, because
it contains the number of signs on the sun’s yearly circuit, and for
various other reasons.
“So we will make up a round dozen with four of the youngest christened
last year. You can go and select them to-morrow; the mothers will make
no difficulty, as they have nothing to provide; and here, take this,”
said Mr. Wood, placing in the other’s hand a good sum in silver, “and
give it amongst the poor women, that they may buy biscuit for their
offerings, and not want to ask for trust.”
The clerk, having supped heartily, promised to find the additional
number on the morrow, and went home well content, particularly so
because “the master,” as he called the parson, had given him money for
the poor mothers.
Next Sunday afternoon a dozen matrons came with their infants and the
sponsors. There were many strangers as well as the regular
congregation, and the devil on the tower, making his usual disturbance.
There were nine women churched; and as many children christened, after
service; when the parson walked out of Church, followed by twelve
mothers, with their babes in their arms, and the godfathers and
godmothers, in a procession, marshalled by the clerk. They were all
arranged in lines, five deep, the mothers in front, opposite the belfry
door. Mr. Wood directed each mother to pass her child from one of its
sponsors to the other, the last handing it to him.
He then held it up awhile, that the devil might behold it, and returned
it to its mother.
All the babes having been thus passed from hand to hand, their mothers
held them aloft, whilst the parson walked to and fro, before them,
reading and cutting the air, in various figures, with his ebony staff.
He read and read for a long spell, in loud tones, yet the infernal
being still remained,—pretty silent, however,—“clutted in” close by a
pinnacle, on the tower’s eastern edge, where he seemed quite heedless
of the important proceedings below.
At last some of the children, becoming tired, perhaps, began to cry,
the others followed suit, and the twelve blessed babes, each one and
altogether, seemed trying their utmost to scream the loudest; whilst
the parson read or recited with increased vehemence. Then it was that
the fiend hopped over on to the western parapet, and stretching his
neck glanced down on the good folks.
The effect of what he heard and saw was magical; at least it seemed so
to the spectators.
Giving a prolonged scream, which was heard for miles around, he darted
straight up, to the height of a bow-shot, or more; then, shaping his
course towards St. Ender, he quickly disappeared.
Many of the spectators said they saw sparks and blue flames thrown off
with every flap of his huge wings; but all of them agreed that his
display of fire was nothing like what they had expected to behold when
a devil takes his departure. Over a while, when it was found that he
didn’t return, there was great rejoicing in Ladock; and he has
nevermore been seen there from that time to this. The bells were put in
order without delay, and their frequent joyous peals kept all such
fiends at a distance.
Note.—The clerk spoken of in the foregoing story was much respected by
his neighbours on account of his ancient lineage; he was a descendant
of the Courtneys who long owned Tretnurf, in Ladock, and lived there
for many generations.
THE GHOSTS OF KENEGIE.
Old folks of Gulval say that, in their grandparents’ time, the ancient
mansion of Kenegie and its grounds were constantly haunted by three
“sperats,” and, on some nights by many more.
The following stories respecting them were told by an aged tinner of
Lelant, as they had been often related to him by his mother, who had
lived for many years in service at Kenegie, previous to her marriage,
about fourscore years ago; some incidents are also taken from other
versions.
The first ghost, of whom there is any remembrance, and the one which
remained longest, was the spirit of a thrifty old Harris, who made
great additions to the house and walled-gardens, and was most unwilling
to die and leave them. This spirit, however, gave but little trouble.
He merely came on a certain night in every year—which was known to his
descendants—to review the place in which he had taken so much delight;
and only required that, on the night of his accustomed visit, the
principal entrance door should be left open, as well as one opposite,
opening into a paved court surrounded by offices.
At that time the grand entrance was approached by a straight, stately
avenue, flanked by a bowling green, with a picturesque two-storied
summer-house or “look-out” at its further end.
It was believed that any negligence in leaving open these doors, at the
stated time, would be a cause of misfortune to the Harris family, or a
token of its decline.
Consequently, this custom was duly observed from farther back than
there is any remembrance, until within a few years of the time when the
last Harris of Kenegie disposed of his ancestral home. ’Tis said that
when the spirit came and found the doors closed—through some mistake,
it is supposed,—he made much unearthly wailing, till cock-crowing, then
went moaning away and never returned.
It is surmised that when the old family residence, in which he so much
delighted, came into the possession of strangers, he neither desired to
see it nor to hear of it again; and that he has, ever since, shut
himself up in his family vault, where he has plenty of company, as one
may judge from the great number of monuments in Gulval Church,
recording the virtues of his descendants. Before that unlucky time,
crickets were heard chirriping around the hearths of their old home all
night long; but afterwards not one was heard or seen,—sure token of
impending misfortune.
The next ghostly visitor, and a more troublesome one, had been
housekeeper and a great favourite with a later Squire Harris, much to
the prejudice of his son and heir. The very night after her funeral,
disturbances began; the whole household were annoyed by this husey of a
ghost prancing along stone-paved passages, from one room to
another—doors clashing and banging behind her,—till she entered the
kitchen, where she would next be heard winding-up the great
roasting-jack,—one of the old fashioned noisy clock-work machines, kept
in motion by a heavy weight passing through the chamber floors, and
attached to a rope or chain working over screeching pullies, fixed
somewhere in the upper regions of the mansion.
After an interval of scolding, shrieking, and the other accessories of
a row, she would beat the table or dresser-bed with a rolling-pin, and
make the pewter-plates rattle, by way of announcing, as she was wont to
do, that the roast was ready, and to summon the servants to dish it up.
Between the thumps, she screeched “Quick, come quick!” and another
voice replied “Anon, anon!” Then the parlour furniture would be
shifted, as if preparations were in progress for entertaining a large
company. At length the inmates were glad to hear her high-heeled shoes
patting over stairs and along the gallery, until they stopped at her
late master’s bed-chamber door, which was usually the conclusion of her
noisy exploits for the night.
The shadowy figure of this old woman, in a long-bodied gown and kirtle,
was frequently seen passing quickly through the court. Now and then it
happened that a new servant, wishing to get ahead with her work—on
washing days especially,—and not hearing any disturbance, ventured
downstairs in the small hours of the morning; but, on entering the
kitchen, her light was almost always blown out, and she got a slap in
the face, from an invisible hand, that “made her see fire before her
eyes;” and, on turning to leave the room, received a kick behind which
made her remember to stay abed till cock-crowing.
This housekeeper was “put to rest,” however, many years before the
Harrises left their old home, and bound to perform such a task as she
richly deserved. There are no particulars known of the way in which
this was done; it is only stated that some powerful
exorcists—neighbouring clergymen, who were then supposed to possess
power over ghostly visitants—succeeded, after much conjuration, in
quelling her, in some measure; but, as she absolutely refused to leave
the place, they compromised matters by confining her to a small room,
on the eastern or northern side of the mansion; with her were placed a
fleece of black wool, a pair of cards, a “pole and kiggal” (distaff and
spindle) and knitting needles. With these she was required to card the
black fleece until it became white, and then to spin it and knit
stockings of the yarn. Her closet door is walled up or plastered over,
so that few know exactly where it is situated, though old folks who
served the Harris family say they have often heard the clicking of
cards in some remote part of the buildings, and that there was always a
little hole, such as sparrows might nest in, through and through the
wall; if filled up, it was sure to be opened over night, without being
touched by mortal hands.
Whether this old jade’s ghost still gives signs of her presence, is
best known to the inmates. One would gladly dismiss her, but we shall
have to mention her again in connection with “Wild Harris,” who next
came back and haunted the place, down almost to recent times.
The last Ghost of Kenegie—at least of whom there is any trustworthy
tradition—was that of a spendthrift heir, known as “Wild Harris,” who
is best remembered, because ordinary parsons’ collective power was
found insufficient to lay him. He extended his walks all over the
grounds and far away down in the “bottom” towards the mill. He was also
often seen on horseback, chasing with one hound, on Kenegie Downs and
elsewhere.
Belated market folks and others dreaded to pass Kenegie Gate, for they
frequently saw the “Squire’s sperat” standing in an alcove, just over
this grand entrance. The ghost mostly wore a steeple-crown and feather,
hunting-coat and riding-boots, or a long, black gown and flat cap, with
lace and plume.
He usually stood beside his family coat-of-arms, which may still be
seen, and glared down on the road with a look as immovable as that of
the lions carved in stone, that, on either hand, then guarded the gate.
Sometimes, too, he was beheld seated beside the churchway-stile, a few
yards further up the hill. Often on approaching this spot, people were
made aware of the spirit being near, though invisible, by a sulpherous
smell which pervaded the place.
On winter nights, the Squire’s ghost, with a dozen or more of his “old
comrades,” or such-like spirits, would assemble in the bowling-green
summer-house, where they might be seen and heard from the mansion even,
talking, singing, swearing, and shouting, in a state of uproarious
mirth. Altogether, Kenegie must have been a lively place of nights,
with the old housekeeper reacting scenes of her former rule within, and
“Wild Harris’s” nocturnal carouse in the “look-out.” Few servants,
however, lived there long; they didn’t relish such ghostly merriment,
in which they had no other share than to be kept awake and terrified
all night.
No satisfactory account is handed down as to why these troublesome
spirits could not or would not rest; there are, however, fragments of
misty traditions which throw a little light on the subject.
Of the old improving gentleman, who delighted in building, no more
seems to be known than what has been stated. The other unresting Harris
is said to have been an eager sportsman, with much wild-oats in his
composition, who cared for little else but his hunter and hounds,
except a young lady, a poor relation, dependent on his family, with
whom she lived much like a fish out of water, being regarded as too low
for the parlour on grand occasions; and, at all times, as too high for
the kitchen, where she was treated as an intruder by the housekeeper
and her creatures.
This unfortunate damsel passed much of her time in the pleasant upper
room of the summer-house with old maiden ladies of the family, who here
wrought everlasting tapestry, fine lace, or embroidery, varying their
labours by spinning, to stretch their legs, and by doing much other
useful and ornamental work,—then regarded as necessary accomplishments.
Here, too, the ancient dames sipped choice cordials of their own
distilling or compounding; perhaps, in latter days, enjoyed their tea
and gossip; and, from the balcony-like outer stair-landing, have
watched the gentlemen’s healthy exercise and sports on the
bowling-green. This choice retreat was finished with decorative wood
and plaster-work; over the fireplace may yet be seen the family
coat-of-arms; a broad window, opposite the entrance, commanded a
delightful view over miles of rich pasture, orchards, and gardens; the
western hills, with several parish churches; St. Buryan tower, standing
boldly out, like a lofty landmark, against the sky. In the ground
apartment, which also contains a fireplace, gentlemen, after their
exercise on the bowling-green, rested and partook of refreshments with
more enjoyment than—
“A party in a parlour,
Cram’d as they on earth are cram’d.”
When the poor gentlewoman was in her bloom, “Wild Harris’s” father was
a widower, in his dotage, and too much influenced by his housekeeper,
who had been, during his wife’s lifetime, and was still, a special
favourite with him. The old faggot, may she never cease carding, and
her wool never become white! She ever disliked her young master, and
detested the poor orphan lady, of whom she was jealous, fearing lest
she might supplant her one day in governing the household. The dame was
a malicious spy on the lovers, who frequently met in the summer-house
and retired walks down the vale. Their interviews were all the sweeter
for being stolen; yet soon, alas, they resulted in sorrow to the young
lady.
The old gentleman was much prejudiced against his poor cousin by being
persuaded that, only for this unfortunate attachment, his son would
have wedded a rich heiress, whose lands lay near the Harrises’
“up-country” property. He declared that the day his son married his
cousin, he would wed his housekeeper, so that she should still rule the
roost. In spite of all opposition, however, the young man would have
made an “honest woman” of his betrothed, but was hindered by the malice
of the old dame and his father until too late; for the poor damsel,
distracted with grief, wandered away one night, she knew not whither,
and next morning was found, by her lover, drowned in a mill-pond.
Shortly after this tragic event the old Squire died, and “Wild Harris”
found himself master of Kenegie, but disinherited of much other
property, bequeathed to his brothers in the army or navy. He had some
satisfaction, however, in turning to doors the old mischief-making
minion, but not much; she soon fretted herself to death, and was hardly
laid in her grave ere she was back again, making such a din, out of
mere spite, as hindered the inmates from getting a wink of sleep during
the dead hours of night.
The master of Kenegie became more reckless than ever; his days were
spent in hunting, or holding games on the bowling-green; and his nights
were passed in revelry.
He kept open house, for rich or poor, who chose to partake of his
hospitality. One and all were cordially welcomed. With all his faults,
he had an open heart and hand; but, in a few years, he came to an
untimely end, whilst still in his prime, by a fall from his horse when
hunting on the Castle Downs. It is said that his horse was startled by
a white hare that often followed him, and was believed to be the
unfortunate lady’s spirit.
He was borne to Gulval Church and laid in the vault at night, as was
the fashion then with some of our old families. His burial was attended
by many friends; and when some of them—who remained late at the funeral
supper—came down the avenue to return home, they beheld him, as
natural, seemingly, as life, standing by the summer-house steps,
arrayed in his hunting-dress, and, by his side, a favourite old dog
that had died when his master breathed his last.
LAYING WILD HARRIS’S GHOST.
The following account of this ghost-laying is given as related by the
old tinner, [2] except where his dialect might be unintelligible to
general readers. It is curious that he made the spirit-queller address
the ghost by the uncouth word “Nomine domme,” which he thought a proper
name. One cannot doubt that the expression used by the original
story-teller was (In) nomine Domini, which became corrupted, as above,
by the usage of more ignorant droll-tellers of recent times.
On asking my venerable gossip what the term signified, he replied to
the effect that it would take a conjurer to tell. He had heard it was a
magical word, very likely the spirit’s name among spirits, for old
folks held that they acquire new ones quite different from what they
bore when in mortal bodies; that persons, knowing and using these
secret names, obtained power over spirits, whether black or white; by
this means conjurers controlled them, and witches summoned fiends to
work their wicked will for a time. According to old belief, the
infernal gentry were fond of wandering incog., just like mortals of
high rank, that they might not have too many witches to work for. That
strange word was the only one remembered of the parson’s conjuring
formulary; “the others,” said he, “were as long as to-day and
to-morrow, not like ours, for none but a parson, or some such learned
body, could utter them.”
When speaking of evil spirits, he called them “Bukkaboos,” which is a
recent corruption of “Bukka-dhu” (black spirit,) as old folks, who knew
anything of Cornish, pronounced it. Within the writer’s remembrance,
“Bukka-gwidden” (white spirit) was also in frequent use, though there
was great latitude allowed to its signification. All good spirits,
including, “small people” (fairies) were thus termed, except Piskey; he
was regarded as “something between both,” like St. Just Bukka said he
was, on seating himself between a mine-captain and a “venturer,” who
asked him if he were a fool or a rogue?
If Piskey threshed poor old people’s corn and did other odd jobs for
them by night, he was just as ready to lead them astray and into bogs,
for mere fun; to ride the life out of colts; dirt on blackberries; and
do other mischievous pranks. A precocious child, one “too wise to live
long,” who bothered old folks by asking awkward questions, was called a
“Bukka-gwidden,” as well as a poor simple, innocent, harmlessly insane
person, or near to it. My old west-country schoolmaster, of a little
more than fifty years ago, often applied this name to his scholars.
Persons who have been acquainted with our old droll-tellers know that
they gave free rein to fancy, provided they had an audience to their
mind; being well aware that, for the most part,
“A jest’s prosperity lies in the ear
Of him that hears it.”
It is often remarked by strangers that the Cornish don’t understand a
joke; but, if one may judge by the grotesque scenes and adventures of
our old stories, that was not the case in past times, when there was
less affectation and Puritanism than at present.
Some of the incidents related seem absurd enough, yet, as they may
dimly shadow forth some old belief, it was thought best to give them,
for better for worse, as consistency is not expected in very old
stories, such as follow:—
The housekeeper was confined to her task, as already stated, long
before the family succeeded in getting “Wild Harris” laid. Many
ineffectual attempts were made, which only resulted in harm, by raising
tempests which destroyed crops on land and life at sea; besides, after
these vain trials of parson’s power, the ghost became more troublesome,
for awhile, than he was before their interference with his walks.
Fortunately, however, the Rev. Mr. Polkinghorne, of St. Ives, acquired
the virtue whereby he became the most powerful exorcist and
“spirit-queller” west of Hayle.
From the little that is known of this gentleman, one may infer that he
wasn’t, by any means, such as would now be styled a “pious character.”
He is said to have been the boldest fox-hunter of these parts, but he
would never chase a hare; any attempt to kill one would make him swear
like a trooper. He kept many of these innocent animals—the
hares—running about his house like cats; foolish people said they were
the parson’s familiar spirits or witches he found wandering in that
shape. He was a capital hurler, and encouraged all kinds of manly
games, as he said they produced a cordial “one and all” sort of feeling
between high and low. The parson was mostly accompanied by his horse
and dog, which both followed him. When he stopped to chat, Hector, his
horse, came up and rested his head on his master’s shoulder, as if
desirous of hearing the news too. If he called at a house, both his
attendants waited at the door, his horse never requiring to be held. He
made long journeys with his steed walking alongside or behind him, the
bridle-rein passed round its neck and the stirrups thrown across the
saddle. Wonderful stories are also told about the high hedges and rocky
ground that the parson’s horse would take him safely over, when after
the hounds; and how the birds, which nestled undisturbed in his garden,
and other dumb creatures seemed to regard him as one of themselves.
On being requested to do his utmost in order that “Wild Harris’s” ghost
might rest in peace, or be kept away from Kenegie, the reverend
gentleman replied that he hoped to succeed if it were in the power of
man to effect it.
Other clergymen, hearing of what was about to be attempted, expressed a
wish to be present at the proceedings. Mr. Polkinghorne replied that he
neither required their assistance nor desired their presence, yet, any
of his reverend brethren might please themselves for what he cared.
Moreover, he charged them that, if they came to Kenegie on the
appointed night, not to intermeddle in any way, whatever might happen.
A night in the latter end of harvest was appointed for this arduous
undertaking. Several clergymen being anxious to see how the renowned
spirit-queller would act with a ghost that had baffled so many of them,
about an hour before midnight four from the westward of Penzance, a
young curate of St. Hellar (St. Hilary), and another from some parish
over that way, arrived at Kenegie, and waited a long while near the
gate, expecting Mr. Polkinghorne. At the turn of night, a terrific
storm came on, and the six parsons, drenched to their skins, took
refuge in the summer-house. Candles had been lit in the upper room of
this building, as it was understood that the spirit-quelling operations
would be performed there. They waited long, but neither Polkinghorne
nor Harris’s ghost appearing, the curate of St. Hellar—impatient of
inaction—took from his breast a book, and read therefrom some conjuring
formulas, by way of practice, or for mere pastime. As he read, a
crashing thunder-clap burst over the building, shook it to its
foundations, and broke open the window. The parsons fell on the floor,
as if stunned, and on opening their eyes, after being almost blinded by
lightning, they beheld near the open door a crowd of “Bukka-dhu”
grinning at them, and then partially disappear in a misty vapour, to be
succeeded by others, who all made ugly faces and contemptuous or
threatening gestures. “It was enough to make the parsons swear,” if
they hadn’t been so frightened, to see how these jeering “Bukkas”
mocked them.
The reverend gentlemen crawled to the window and looked out, to avoid
the sight of such ugly spectres, and to get fresh air,—that in the room
smelt worse than the fumes of brimstone. Presently, an icy shiver ran
through them, and they felt as if something awful had entered the room.
On glancing round, they beheld the apparition of a man standing with
his back to the fireplace, and looking intently towards the opposite
wall. His eyes never winked nor turned away, but seemed to gaze on
something beyond the blank wall. He wore a long black gown or loose
coat which reached the floor; his face appeared sad and wan, under a
sable cap, garnished with a plume and lace. He seemed unconscious of
either the black spirits’ or parsons’ presence. Over a while, he turned
slowly round, advanced towards the window, with a frowning countenance,
which showed the parsons that he regarded them as intruders; and they,
poor men, trembling in every limb, with hair on end, pressed each other
into the open window, intending to drop themselves to the ground, and
risk broken bones and an ugly “qualk” (concussion), for they were most
of them fat and heavy.
Meanwhile, scores of “Bukkas” continued to hover behind the ghost,
grimmacing as if they enjoyed the parsons’ distress. Every minute
seemed an hour to the terrified gentlemen; but, as some of them got
their legs out through the casement, the tread of heavy boots was heard
on the stone stairs, and Polkinghorne bounced into the room, when the
ghost, turning quickly round, exclaimed, “Now Polkinghorne, that thou
art come, I must be gone!” The conjurer quietly holding out his hand
towards the ghost, quietly said “In nomine Domini, I bid thee stay;”
then he turned to the black spirits, made a crack with his
hunting-whip, said, “Avaunt, ye Bukkadhu,” and off they went, at his
word, howling and shrieking louder than the tempest. The ghost stood
still; Polkinghorne uttered long words in an unknown tongue whilst he
drew around it, on the sanded floor, with his whip-stick, a circle and
magical signs, with a “five-pointed star” (pentagram) “to lock the
circle.” He continued speaking a long while without pausing, and his
words sounded deep and full, as if, at once, near and afar off, like
the “calling of cleaves” and surging of billows on a long stretch of
shore, or thunder echoing around the hills.
At length the spirit felt the able conjuror’s power, crouched down at
his feet, holding out his hands, as if praying him to desist.
Mr. Polkinghorne, whilst still saying powerful words, unwound, from
around his waist, a few yards of new hempen “balsh” (cord), leaving
much more of it attached. Having made a loop at the end, he passed it
over the ghost’s head and under his arms; then, addressing him, said,
“In nomine Domini, I bid thee stand up and come with me.” On saying
this, he lifted from the floor, with his whip-stick, the spirit’s
skirts, and under them nothing was seen but flaming fire.
When Polkinghorne had the spirit standing beside him, with his eyes
fixed and limbs motionless, like one spell-bound, he exclaimed, “Thank
the Powers, it’s all right so far.”
Casting a glance towards the other parsons, and seeing a book on the
floor, he took it up, opened it, and speaking for the first time to his
reverend brethren, said, “You, too, may thank your lucky stars that I
came in the nick of time to save ye from grievous harm.” Holding it
towards the St. Hellar curate, he continued, “This belongs to you, my
weak brother; strange such a book should be in your possession! The
penmanship is beautiful; it must have cost a mint of money, yet it is
worse than useless,—nay, it’s perilous to such as you. By good luck,
you read what merely brought hither silly ‘Bukkas’; one can’t properly
call them demons, though no others were known here in old times; they
now mostly keep to old ruined castles, ‘crellas,’ and ‘fougoes,’ yet
they are always abroad in such a night as this. But, if you had chanced
to have pronounced a word, that you don’t understand, on the next leaf,
you would have called hither such malignant fiends, flying in the
tempest this awful night, as would have torn ye limb from limb, or have
carried ye away bodily. Perhaps, becoming tired, they might have fixed
ye on St. Hellar steeple. For my part, I wish you were there, lest a
greater evil befall ye this night.
“You ought to have known, as any old ‘pellars’ (conjurors) would have
told ye, if you had deigned to talk with such without preaching to
them, that the secret of secrets, the unwritten words which make this
book of use, are the names of powerful and benevolent spirits, by whose
aid fiends are expelled. These secret names, by which alone they may be
invoked, are only taught, by word of mouth, to the few who are
initiated, after long probation, mental and bodily, and a more severe
examination, by nine sages, than the likes of you would ever pass.
Many, to their sorrow, have been presumptuous to make the essay. Sages
hold that if these sacred names were written they would lose their
magic power.
“The mystic signs, necessary for obtaining mastery over some spirits,
are only traced in sand, or other substance from which they are readily
effaced when those deemed worthy have this knowledge imparted. Not so
very long ago, the learned in occult science met, at stated times, on
the lonely downs, and at the same places in which sages were wont to
confer in days of yore for the examination of such as sought admission
into their fraternity, and for the preservation of their mystic lore.
Novices were principally examined as to their proficiency in the
science of extension, and in making such reckonings as are required for
constructing a planetary scheme at any given time. Not that these
sciences had much connection with the more mysterious subjects treated
of in this manuscript; but, it was justly considered that the person
having a mind capable of comprehending geometrical problems, and of
making abstruse astrological calculations, was worthy to be admitted
into the brotherhood of sages, and, in time, to their higher
mysteries.”
After a pause, in looking sadly at the ghost, who seemed to listen with
attention, he continued, addressing the gentlemen of St. Hellar, “I
suppose you have heard the old saying, ‘Women and fools can rise
devils, but it takes wise men to lay them.’ Indeed, tradition says
that, in ancient times, fair young witches first obtained this dread
knowledge from their demon lovers, to summon them whenever they
desired; old hags soon pried into the secret—as they will into all
kinds of deviltry,—and quickly communicated from one to another, until
witches became numerous in all Christian lands; thousands of them were
burnt as a warning, but their burning didn’t deter others from the like
evil practices.
“The demons became disgusted of witches continually crying after them,
to wreck their vengeance on innocent man and beast, and did their best
to evade them. Much more may be said on the subject, but time presses.
I have still arduous work to perform, so only another word, my
over-curious brother,—burn this book of magic in the first convenient
fire.”
Saying that, he cast down the book; spoke a few words, which the others
didn’t understand; drew his foot over a mystic sign that “locked” the
charmed circle; and, turning towards the spirit, said, “In nomine
Domini, come thou with me,” and “Wild Harris’s” ghost was led away,
quiet as a lamb.
Mr. Polkinghorne, having reached the outer gate, took his horse, which
he had left there. The poor beast trembled, though this ghost was not
the first, by many, that had been near it. Having mounted, he gave the
ghost more rope, and bade him keep farther from Hector. A minute
afterwards the four west-country parsons, without as much as saying, “I
wish’e well, till we meet again,” took down hill as fast as their
horses could “lay feet to ground;” it was “the devil take the hindmost”
with them.
In passing up Kenegie lane, the parson’s horse was very “fractious;” it
jumped from side to side, tried to leap over hedges, and screeched like
a child; yet it became pretty quiet at last, when the spirit kept off
to the end of his tether. Few bleaker places are to be found than the
old road to St. Ives, passing over Kenegie downs. When they got there,
the wind seemed to beat on them from all points at once; rain and
thunder never ceased; the Castle-hill seemed all ablaze with lightning;
at times, too, when a more violent blast than usual whirled around
them, clouds of fiends hovered over them like foul birds of prey; the
sky was pitch black, and demons were only seen by the forked lightning
that burst from their midst. The ghost, as if seeking protection, came
nearer the parson; then his horse’s terror became painful to witness,
until a few magical words and a crack of his whip sent the devils
howling away, and the ghost to the end of his rope. At last they came
within a stone’s cast of a few dwellings called Castle-gate, and
leaving the highway took a path on the left that wound up the hill to
Castle-an-dinas.
We leave them for awhile to look after St. Hellar curate and his
friend.
One might think that the two parsons from eastward would have taken
their nearest way home, over Market-jew-green; but no, St. Hellar
curate thought he would rather go many miles out of his way than miss
this opportunity of seeing a spirit put to rest, and his friend was
afraid to go home alone; so they both started after the ghost-layer,
keeping sufficiently near to see him on horse-back, leading the spirit,
as they ascended the hill. The lightning was almost continuous,
otherwise the night was very dark. On reaching the open downs, however,
they found it impossible to keep their saddles, even by holding on with
both hands to their horses’ manes. Their hats were blown away, and
their cloaks flying from their necks like sails in a hurricane rent
from the yards. They alighted and trudged along, in single file,
dragging their unwilling steeds behind them, for the horses wanted to
take their accustomed road home, and didn’t like the ghostly company
ahead.
When Mr. Polkinghorne reached the hamlet, called Castle-gate, and
entered a narrow lane leading up to Castle-an-dinas, they were so far
behind as not to see his departure from the highroad; and, on coming
near the lonely cottages, decided to stay there, if they could find
shelter; but, on a closer view, the dwellings appeared to be deserted;
the thatch was stripped from their roofs, leaving bare rafters on all
but one of them.
On approaching that dwelling, they heard Mr. Polkinghorne’s Hector
neigh from the downs; their horses replied, and there was more
whinnying from Hector, which showed the direction taken, and set St.
Hellar parson all agog, to follow the ghost-layer. As they crossed the
road and paused a moment, a whirlwind passed over the house, where they
thought of seeking shelter, and took up a bundle of spars (small rods,
pointed at both ends, and used for securing the thatch) which a
thatcher, who had been repairing the roof, had left there, pinned to
the work with a broach, that he might find them to hand when he
continued his thatching. The bundle being taken high up and whirled
about, its bind broke, and one of the devil-directed spars pierced St.
Hellar curate’s side, just above his pin-bone, (hip-joint) like an
arrow shot from a bow. He fell on the ground like as if killed, and his
companion, in drawing the spar out of his friend’s side, had his hand
burnt, just as if he had grasped red-hot iron.
Presently, the black clouds rolled away westward, and the wind lulled.
Then the spar-wounded man was raised by his companion; lifted on to his
horse; and laid across the saddle, like a sack of corn. They went
slowly on and reached Nancledery about daybreak. Having rested a few
hours at the Mill, it was found that the St. Hellar curate was still
unable to sit on horseback, and he was taken home in a cart.
The reverend gentleman was, ever after, lame; and bore to his grave
marks of his spar-shot wound; that’s the last we heard of him.
We now return to Mr. Polkinghorne. At the time of this ghost-laying
there were, around the Castle-hill, extensive tracts of open heath,
which are now enclosed; and the highway is skirted by hedges, where it
was then open downs, there being several more small dwellings built at
Castle-gate.
The parson’s Hector was well acquainted with the lay of the country all
around, as he had often crossed it following the hounds; and, after
scrambling through the narrow lane, tried his utmost to take away down
over the moorland to a smith’s shop in Halangove, where he had often
been shod. By a firm hand on the bridle-rein his master kept him
up-hill for a furlong or so, when they came to an old gurgie (ruined
hedge) that once enclosed a fold. On one side there was a bowjey
(cattle or sheep-house). A dwelling and outhouses have since been
built, and a few quillets (small fields) enclosed near this spot. Mr.
Polkinghorne alighted, turned his horse into the old “shelter,” and
bade the ghost approach.
They walked on in silence until they came to the Castle’s outer
enclosure, which screened them from the blast. Then the reverend
gentleman said, “Now that we are alone, and not likely to suffer any
more intrusion, tell me, my unhappy brother, what it is that disturbs
thy rest? Be assured, my desire is to procure thee peace.”
The spirit replied to the effect that, at the time of his decease, he
was much troubled, because he owed several sums to work-people and
others, fearing they wouldn’t be paid by his successor. Moreover, he
related how he had walked about for years, hoping some honest body
would speak to him; how the longer he was left unspoken to the more
uneasy and troublesome he became; and when his relations brought the
parsons to lay him, who were unqualified for that office, he was much
exasperated, and he determined never to leave Kenegie.
“Yet, it gave me some pleasure,” said the ghost, “to make those who
came and read long curses, as if exorcising an evil spirit to “cut and
run” and nevermore return, by only advancing a step towards them.
Though spirits seldom speak until first addressed, I couldn’t help
exclaiming, as I did, and wished to escape when you surprised me by
entering the summer-house; but I am now satisfied to be in your power,
trusting you will procure me rest.”
“Be assured, my son,” replied the parson, “that I will see all thy
debts paid.”
“That will relieve me of much,” said the spirit, “yet there are other
subjects that trouble me; but you must promise me never to divulge
them, ere I make a clean breast of them.”
“My profession obliges secrecy in such cases,” replied his adviser,
“therefore speak on without reserve.”
The poor ghost having unburthened himself, Mr. Polkinghorne gave him
words of comfort, and concluded by saying, “think no more about your
little faults and failings, for if, when in mortal life, you had more
of what we call the devil in ye, you would have overcome your
opponents, and much grief would have been spared to yourself and
others.
“Besides, my son,” continued he, “from your simple, honest, and
confiding disposition, you were unable to cope with sly, mercenary
hirelings.”
Then the parson took the cord off, saying, “This is no longer required
to protect ye from evil spirits, for they have all departed with the
tempest they raised, and the sky is now serene.”
As they ascended the hill the moon shone bright on the old fort’s inner
enclosing wall, which was then almost intact. The upper enclosure is
nearly oval in outline, and they entered it at its south-eastern end.
Stopping a minute on the hill-top, Mr. Polkinghorne said to the ghost,
“There is no cure for a troubled spirit equal to constant employment,
and I shall allot you an easy task, which, with time and patience, will
procure ye repose; but I must first make the whole of this enclosure
secure against infernal spirits.”
Mr. Polkinghorne then used a form of exorcism, which, as far as it
could be understood by the old story-teller’s account, was something
like the following:
Having placed the ghost on his right hand side, he passed with him
three times around the enclosed hill-top, going from east to west, or
with the sun, and keeping close to the wall. At the first round, he
merely counted the number of paces; at the next, he uttered, in some
ancient eastern tongue, such exorcisms and adjurations as serve to
expel infernal spirits; at the last circuit, he made, near the bounding
wall, twelve mystic signs, at equal distances. He then passed through
the middle of the ground to its north-western end, “cutting the air”
with his whip, and tracing on the earth more magical figures. Being
arrived at the end opposite the entrance, he drew a line with his whip
stick, from a large stone in the wall, on one side, to another
opposite, and told the spirit to remember them as bound-stones. The
space thus marked off might be three or four “laces” of pretty even
grass-covered ground, with a few furze bushes and large stones
scattered over it.
The reverend gentleman rested a while on the ruined wall, which rose
some ten feet above a surrounding foss, and three or four from the
inner ground.
“Now, my son,” said he, turning towards the ghost, who stood near, “all
within the Castle’s upper walls is as safe for ye as consecrated
ground; and here is your task, which is merely to count the blades of
grass on this small space, bounded by the wall and a straight line from
stone to stone, that you can always renew or find.
“You must reckon them nine times, to be sure that you have counted
right; you needn’t set about it till I leave, there’s plenty of time
before ye.
“Whilst at your work, banish from your thoughts all remembrance of past
griefs, as far as possible, by thinking of pleasant subjects. There is
nothing better for this purpose than the recollection of such old world
stories as delighted our innocent childhood, and please us in mature
age.”
The spirit looked disconcerted and said something—the old tinner didn’t
know his words exactly,—to intimate that he thought the assigned task a
vain one, as it produced nothing of lasting use. He would rather be
employed in repairing the Castle walls, or some such job.
“No, my dear son,” replied the parson, “it would never do for ye to be
employed on anything that would be visible to human eyes; the unusual
occurrence would draw hither such crowds of gazers as would greatly
incommode ye. No more need ye trouble yourself on the score of its mere
use, in your sense; for if restless mortals employed themselves solely
in such works of utility as you mean, the greater part of them would
find nothing to do, and be more miserable than ghosts unlaid.”
The poor ghost assented to the greater part of what the parson said,
and the reverend gentleman resumed his discourse, which was enough of
itself to “put spirits to rest” one might think.
“Believe me, gentle spirit,” said he, “the world is just as much a show
as our old Christmas ‘guise-dance’ of St. George; for a great number
pass their lives in doing battle with imaginary dragons; others in
racing about on their hobby-horses, to the great annoyance of quiet
folks. There are numerous doctors, too, both spiritual and physical,
for ever vaunting of their ‘little bottles of elecampane,’ as sovereign
cures for all ills but their own; whilst the motley crowd is bedizened
in fantastic rags and tinsel, just like ‘guiseards.’ Indeed, except
honest husbandmen, simple artisans, and a few others, the rest might
just as well pass their time in spinning ropes of sand, counting blades
of grass, or in any other ghostly employment, for all the good they do,
unless it be to tranquilize their restless minds.”
The ghost made no reply, but seemed “all down in the mouth,” which
expression of sadness the parson remarked, and said, “Don’t ye be out
of heart, brother, but have patience, and you will find that, with
constant work, years will pass away like a summer’s day. Then you will
wonder how your mortal crosses ever had the power to trouble ye. All
remembrance of them will fade like a dream, and you will rest in peace.
“When you have a mind to pause awhile—say after each time of
counting,—you can go around the hill-top and enjoy the extensive
prospect, as all within this higher rampart is a charmed circle for ye,
where fiends dare not enter. There are other pleasant sights which you
will often behold; for the small-people (fairies) still keep to the
Castle-hill and hold their dances and fairs, of summer nights, within
these ramparts. On May-day, in the morning, they are frequently seen
around the spring, just below, or going up and down the steps which
lead to it, by young men and maidens who come at early dawn to clean
out the Castle-well, and to deck it with green boughs and blossoming
May, as is their wont. These gay beings are the spirits of old
inhabitants who dwelt—it may be thousands of years ago—in the
‘Crellas,’ at Chysauster.
“There is something more which will serve to divert ye; people from far
and near often come here to enjoy the charming prospect; you may learn
by their talk what is going on in the country round, if you care to
hear anything about it. Perhaps some of the neighbours may speak of you
and your family, and say things neither pleasant nor true; but let me
beg of ye, however much you may be vexed to hear their slander, for
goodness sake, don’t ye contradict them, nor show yourself; for your
apparition, in its rich but antiquated garb, would frighten poor
weak-minded mortals into fits.”
The poor ghost seemed “dumbfoundered,” and said not a word: so the
parson went on as if in his pulpit. At length he stood up and said,
hastily, “One might mention more of what will make your abode pleasant,
but it’s high time for you to become invisible and for me to leave ye.
The cocks will soon be crowing; see how fast the light increases on
Carn Marth, Carn Brea, and other noble hills that were giants’ dwelling
places in days of yore, and stand out against the grey sky like
sentinels over this favoured Western Land.”
The parson, pointing to the eastern sky, told the spirit to put off his
form. In a minute or so the apparition became indistinct, and faded
gradually away, like a thin wreath of smoke dissolving in air.
Mr. Polkinghorne said farewell, and, as he turned to leave the spirit
to his task, he heard a hollow voice say, “Good friend, do thou
remember me, and visit me again.”
When the reverend gentleman entered the old “bowjey,” the joy that his
horse showed at his approach was like recalling him from death to life.
As Mr. Polkinghorne slowly wended his way homeward, he was grieved to
see the wreck made by the preceding night’s tempest. In Nancledry,
low-lying as it is, dwellings were unroofed, and trees, which had
withstood the storms of centuries were all uprooted. On higher ground
“stones were blown out of hedges,” arish mows laid low, and the corn
whirled around fields.
About sunrise, St. Ives folks, standing at their doors, were surprised
to see their beloved parson, coming down the Stennack, looking so sad
and weary, and that he didn’t give them “the time of day” (a greeting
suitable to the time, as good morning, &c.,) with his accustomed
cheerful tone and pleasant smile. Neither Mr. Polkinghorne nor his
steed were again seen in the street for several days after their
ghostly night’s work.
CORNISH CASTLES.
It is not generally known to strangers that what are called Castles in
Cornwall are little more than simple entrenchments, consisting of large
and small stones built up about ten or twelve feet high and held
together by their own weight, without any cement. These embankments are
surrounded by a ditch, formed by excavating the soil which fills the
ramparts. A well is always found within the Castle’s enclosure.
Traditions, which have been handed down by old stationary folks, such
as freeholding farmers—whose families have long dwelt near these
primitive strongholds—say that they were constructed by the ancient
inhabitants, as places of refuge where their cattle and other property
might be protected from the “red-haired Danes,” who frequently marauded
the country in days of yore. Near the outer entrenchment of Treen Dinas
stood a barn, where there is now a dwelling called Caer Keis. This barn
was inconveniently situated for farming purposes, and old proprietors
of Treen held that it was used in old times for storing hay and corn,
which might be wanted for cattle when they were placed in the Castle to
be safe from northern pirates who were accustomed to land at
Parcurno,—then free from sand.
It is a matter of regret that such interesting examples of primitive
fortifications, as Castle-an-Dinas and others, should have been almost
destroyed of late years, when they have been resorted to as to
quarries, and the stones removed for building huts and hedges.
Some years ago, a bad example was shown by the proprietor of Trazza,
who was lord of the land on which Castle-an-Dinas stands, by his having
a good portion of the inner entrenchment demolished at its
south-eastern end, and the stones taken to construct, on the brow of
the hill, a nondescript object, which looks best at a distance.
In looking at the few fragments of “dry walling” that remain, one can
but admire the thoughtful way in which the stones were laid—perhaps
thousands of years ago—so as to “break the joints” and bind each other.
The Castle Well, near the summit of the hill, used to be regarded as
one of the curiosities of this old fort. The water was reached by
descending ten or a dozen steps when the spring was low.
From the upper entrenchment may be surveyed one of the most extensive
and varied prospects west of Carn Brea. The rugged brown hills on the
northern side offer a striking contrast to the beautiful bay and rich
land, cultivated almost to the water’s edge, on the other side.
Eastward, the view is only bounded by hills which rise beyond St.
Austell and stretch northward, Roughtor and Brownwhilly being in this
range.
Looking westward the hills of Sancreed and St. Just, hide the Land’s
End; yet, with a clear atmosphere, Scilly Isles may be descryed, on the
horizon’s verge, like clouds resting on the ocean.
The fine tower of Buryan Church is a very conspicuous object, and it
reminds one that near it, in Buryan parish, are the ancestral, but
forsaken, homes of some who have made their mark in England’s history;
and of others whose names live in romance and hearthside story, as
Boscawen, Noy, Tresillian, Vivian, Le Velis, &c.
The more immediate objects in the landscape are familiar to us all, yet
the kind of bird’s-eye view obtained from this elevated site gives a
novel appearance to the scene scarcely to be expected.
One may find a pleasant walk from Penzance to Castle-an-Dinas, nearly
all the way through fields, by taking the Churchway path from Gulval to
Angarrack; thence across two or three small fields the heath-covered
hill is reached, and one is soon on its summit.
THE HAUNTED LAWYER.
A little while ago an aged native of Gulval spoke of another ghost that
haunted Kenegie, but only for a short time. Whether it was the “spirit”
of a Harris or an Arundel he couldn’t say, because it was so long past,
but it was all in the same family; for a Harris, he believed, changed
his name for that of Arundel; then, over a generation or two, the
family resumed their former name. People round about always called them
Harrises, and this one was spoken of as the proud squire of Kenegie. He
always rode a high horse. If he met people in the narrow lanes (and
there were but few broad ones in his time) they had to get out of his
way, by leaping hedges sometimes, else he’d ride over them.
They say that the only person who wouldn’t make way for him was an old
Rogers of Treassowe. On Castle Downs there was a wide piece of ground
left for horse-tracks where the road to St. Ives passed, so that when
one path was too much worn another might be taken, on the turf. In some
places the principal paths were divided by rocks or brakes of furze;
and in a little way the branches united again, or crossed others, in a
bewildering maze. ’Tis said that if Rogers, when on a heavy horse,
could make out at a little distance, the track which would lead to that
on which Harris rode, he would be sure to take it; if a deep one all
the better; and so they would both ride up, “full butt,” against each
other, like Æsop’s two goats crossing the brook on a plank, and either
have a “scruff” or a slashing fight with their whips. Yet they were
good friends, at times; hunted together over each other’s lands; and
visited one another on ceremonial occasions.
This burly gentleman-farmer of Treassowe, however, has nothing to do
with the story about to be told; yet thoughts of him occur in
connection with the proud Harris from his being so often spoken of as
his opponent. He was, also, a fair sample of “Ludgvan Hurlers” of old,
who were noted as sturdy “sticklers” for their rights, with a trifle
more from those inclined to domineer, as well as for their devotion to
the manly game which procured them their honourable nickname—still
retained, though for many years past they had never strengthened their
muscles and minds as they were wont to do in days of yore, by hurling
their silver ball, for miles, forward and backward along Market Jew
Green, then a common of great extent, or away inland “to the country.”
The game on the Green was called Hurling to the Goal.
Now, when Harris the proud was on his deathbed he sent a man to
Penzance for a lawyer, because he wanted to make an addition to his
will. “Take the fleetest horse in my stable,” said he to his servant,
“ride for thy life,—for thy life; stop not for anything in thy road;
tell him to take thy horse and hasten away if his own be unsaddled.”
On a chest, near the squire’s bed, sat his son John, rocking himself to
and fro, and crying bitterly. “What art thou crying for, my son?” asked
his father. “Because you are going to die, father,” replied the boy.
“Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do?” And he went on crying more and
more. “Stop crying, my son,” said his father, “thou wilt do very well,
for I am going to give thee Trengwainton; and Castle Horneck, to look
at; don’t cry any more, my son, for I’m very weak and want to sleep, my
son.”
The lawyer having arrived at the squire’s bedside, and writing
materials being ready, asked what must be added to the will? The
squire, when propped up with pillows, gasped out, “I wish, I wish,”
several times, until he became exhausted, and fell back in bed. After
resting awhile he made signs to be raised again, and then only repeated
the same words, “I wish, I wish,” until the lawyer told him to stop a
moment and then say what it was that he wanted to have written. “That
my son John shall have Trengwainton,” gasped the dying man.
The lawyer, who had also been the squire’s steward for a long time, was
quite confounded. In a minute or two he said, “I don’t know what you
mean; how can your son have Trengwainton? The place doesn’t belong to
you, I can’t understand ’e at all.” The little blood in Harris’s body
seemed to rush into his face and turn blue; then he became pale, and
cried, as hard as he was able, “Thou fool of a lawyer not to know how,
when”——unable to say any more he fell back in bed, more exhausted than
before.
Then he began twitching at the bedclothes, and kept on murmuring “I
wish, I wish,” lower and lower, and slower and slower, until he
breathed his last, with the words on his lips.
The lawyer returned homeward, feeling very sad and much perplexed. He
and the deceased had been constant friends from their boyhood. Of late
years his connection with Harris was mainly as steward of his estate,
and in that character we have to speak of him. The late squire had
undertaken many improvements of his farm, then in progress, as well as
alterations in his premises by his advice; and the steward took just as
much interest in his friend’s family and estate as if they had been his
own. He was, also, the only solicitor of note then in Penzance. People
of that time did not run for legal advice to settle trifling matters in
dispute; they were often a law unto themselves, rough and ready, as
well as warm-hearted; though far less hypocritical then than now.
The unsatisfied dead man was laid in the family vault, when the
customary time for keeping people of his quality above ground had
expired. On the night of his funeral, towards the morning, doleful
sounds were heard proceeding from the late squire’s bedroom, with
plaintive cries of “I wish, I wish,” followed by agonising moans and
groans.
Next day the steward came over to arrange some business that required
his presence on the place; old greyheaded servants of the family soon
told him of the ghostly sounds heard in the ancient mansion, only a few
hours past. The strong-minded man of law ridiculed them, and said it
was only their fearful fancies, followed by disturbing dreams, which
had caused all their dread of their old master’s return. The old
servants followed the lawyer to the outer gate, begging him to stay at
the house over night. “No, no, I’ve other fish to fry,” replied he,
“go’e to rest before you’re all tipsy, and let the squire come if he
will or can.”
The steward proceeded slowly down the hill, thinking of his deceased
friend. As he passed a churchway stile, a little below the principal
entrance gate, a gentleman came over and walked close beside him,
keeping pace with his horse. Neither spoke. The steward didn’t even
give the customary greeting of “Good night,” so usual here when people
meet in country lanes. The strange gentleman’s broad brimmed hat and
drooping plume so shaded his face that his features could not be
distinctly seen; but his tall figure was attired in a dress precisely
like that which had been usually worn by Harris, and which was of too
grand a mode for anybody else in the immediate neighbourhood. The horse
showed signs of great terror by rubbing his rider against the hedge,
and by trying to run off at a gallop; yet, however the steed altered
his paces, the stranger kept alongside, with such an easy motion as if
he floated in air, until, passing the stream which flows to Ponsandane,
when this strange companion disappeared,—there was no knowing whither.
Having crossed the water, and the road ascending for a little way, the
rider let his steed take its course; then it went off at a furious
rate, and only ceased its race when near the watering-trough at the top
of Market-jew Street, opposite the “Star” Inn. After slaking its
thirst, it went down a lane, now built on, and called New Street, which
led to a yard, stable, and garden, at the back of the lawyer’s house,
on the eastern side of Chapel Street (formerly called Our Lady Street)
and a little above the end of Vounder Ver.
It is not known whether the lawyer surmised or not that the companion
of his ride down Kenegie Hill was his late friend’s ghost, which it
was: for he, like most of his profession, could keep his own counsel,
especially in doubtful cases.
Next day, however, when he was expected by the family at Kenegie to
settle such business as could only be arranged with his help, he begged
for delay, on the plea of illness, and took to his bed, which he did
not quit for some days.
Night was dreaded in the old mansion at Kenegie. Even the decline of
day made its inmates shudder with apprehensive terror. The slamming of
doors, rattling of furniture, and other disturbances commenced earlier
and continued later into the morning than they did at first; and the
spirit’s cries of “I wish, I wish,” seemed to be uttered in anger
rather than in grief. During all the family’s trouble the steward was
unable, or unwilling, to come near them. Yet, almost daily, one or
other of Harris’s old servants came in to enquire after the lawyer’s
health, and told his family how their late master’s ghost had been seen
and heard before candle-lighting time in a court behind the house; and
that it was intended, over a few nights, to try what “spirit-quellers,”
as ghost-layers were called, could do in order to give the troubled
spirit rest.
The steward was still far from well, when one night, about a week after
his last visit to Kenegie, and just after he heard an eight-day clock
on his stair-landing strike two, whilst he was listening for the
town-clock, five minutes slower than his own, he heard a loud knocking
at his front door. Shortly afterwards his housekeeper came to his
bedroom door, and asked, “Are ’e waking, master?” Having spoken to her,
she said, “There’s an old clergyman, from over Hayle way, below; I’ve
seen him here before; he must speak with you, he says: he has a message
of the utmost importance to you.” The steward told her to strike a
light and show the parson up at once, as he was an old acquaintance who
didn’t stand on ceremony with him.
The old dame sat on her three-legged stool, hammering away with flint
and steel, in making vain endeavours to kindle the tinder, which wasn’t
touched by a spark, for the box had overturned in her lap without her
knowing it; her skirts being huddled on in a hurry she hardly knew
where to find her knees to steady the tinder-box between them. There
was a glimmer of light coming through the diamond-shaped lead lights
from a ghostly-looking bit of a morning moon, when the venerable
gentleman told her to take no more trouble; as he was well acquainted
with the house and her master he could find the way to his room without
a candle and alone; his business was too urgent for any farther delay.
The reverend gentleman, on entering the lawyer’s bedroom, drew back the
window curtains, and said, whilst shaking hands, “I hope to be excused
for calling at this unseasonable hour on account of the message I
bring; the importance of which, to you, will be best understood when I
tell ye of this night’s occurrences.” Now, the lawyer was impatient to
learn this urgent business, but it would seem as if the parson were in
no hurry—such good men take things easy. For he went to the window,
opened a casement, and looked out, as if to recollect his thoughts. It
was too obscure then for him to enjoy the extensive prospect, as seen
by day—only bounded by distant eastern hills. Returning to the lawyer’s
bedside, the reverend gentleman seated himself and continued thus:—“I
calculate, by the stars now rising, as well as by the altitude attained
by others, that it is now two hours and forty-five minutes since I,
with four other clergymen of our neighbourhood, by a request of the
deceased squire’s family, assembled on the Bowling Green, at Kenegie,
in order to give rest to the unquiet spirit which quitted Proud
Harris’s mortal tenement a fortnight since. Having marked on the turf a
circle, and placed on its circumference three lighted candles, to mark
the points of an equilateral triangle, within which a ghost is as safe
as in consecrated ground—the devil and his hounds are always on the
watch for vagrant spirits, roaming from churchyards—we formed ourselves
in line, facing south and behind the lights, in order of precedence, my
station being at the right hand of all. Then a reverend gentleman, who,
like myself, has much knowledge of planetary influence and other occult
sciences, as well as great ability in laying obdurate spirits, spoke a
form of citation. Not a dozen words of this solemn summons were uttered
when Proud Harris’s ghost, in winding-sheet and shroud came before us,
and, with a frowning countenance and angry gestures, abruptly said,
‘Begone about your own business, if you have any, for you have none
whatever here; and learn, vain mortals, that I will not leave this
place for anything you can do or say, until it pleaseth me to do so.’”
“Ah, I see,” said the steward, “it’s the same resolute spirit still
that always animated my deceased friend, for he never liked those of
your cloth; in fact he couldn’t abide to see men feathered all in black
and white; he used to say, ‘They are like Market-jew crows.’” “Well,
well, let that pass,” replied the reverend gentleman, “You have not yet
heard the matter of importance to you. On my commencing a powerful form
of conjuration the spirit approached me and said, ‘Dear old friend of
my youth, for the sake of those many happy days that we have passed
together in the hunting-field, do thou go from me, and at once, to that
accursed lawyer and steward of mine; tell him that unless he comes
here, and that shortly, to mind his business, I will go to him. Aye,
you see that thin rim of the waning moon; if he be not here, attending
to his duty to me and mine, ere that moon be renewed, I will appear
before him when least expected, whether he be in his office, his
bed-chamber, or elsewhere, alone.’ On my assenting to convey his
message the ghost vanished, and I at once came hither with such speed
as my three-score and six years permit.”
The parson paused a moment, but, the lawyer remaining silent, he
continued: “I advise you as a friend, go, as desired, before you are
three days older, for by that time this moon’s diminished horns will
have recommenced their growth. As I have now faithfully delivered the
spirit’s message, I bid you adieu, hoping you will have grace to follow
my advice.”
“I intend going to Kenegie,” replied the lawyer, “before another night
comes round. Stay and take breakfast; you must need rest after such
trying work.”
“No, I must be gone,” said the parson, “though I have neither eaten nor
slept since my leaving Ruan yesterday morn.”
“Then if you won’t stop, I wish ’e well,” said the steward, “hoping
never more to see ye here with a message from the dead. Farewell.”
After this unpleasant interruption to his night’s rest, the steward lay
awake and turned out of bed before his accustomed time of rising, with
the intention of going to Kenegie without delay. Yet, from feeling very
much out of order, when partly dressed, he returned to bed and sent for
a medical man.
The doctor felt the lawyer’s hot forehead and rapidly-throbbing pulse,
whilst the sick man told him that he could neither get tranquil sleep
nor take his food with any appetite.
“My good friend,” replied the doctor, “you are working yourself to
death, in trying to grapple with your extensive practice. Now, you must
not think of entering your office for a month at least. Go away to the
country; when you are able, for the sake of getting rid of business
cares; your clients must have patience until you get well. If they
won’t, let them go to Old Nick for advice. His counsel will please the
greater part of them much better than the advice of an honest
attorney.”
The patient then said, “I am most anxious first to go over and arrange
some business in Kenegie which requires my presence there.”
“All right,” replied the doctor, “you can do nothing better, when well
enough, mind you, than ride over there daily; but don’t stay long in
the house, and say but little about professional matters. After taking
some light refreshment, ride away up to Castle-an-Dinas, or, at least,
as far as the hamlet called Castle Gate, and ride easily forth and
back, over the stretch of level road on that high ground. When there
you will breathe the sweet air of the hills, mingled with ocean’s
breezes, which will do you more good than any amount of drugs. You
must, however, take a small dose at once, in order to procure tranquil
sleep. Never mind your appetite, that will return when you are able to
take daily rides over the hills, and you will be able to eat like a
horse, as the saying is.”
The doctor having sent for medicine, and seen his patient take the
same, went downstairs, charged the household to keep still, and on no
account to let their master be disturbed with business callers. “If he
should sleep for 24 hours, let him,” said the doctor, “and I’ll call
again shortly.”
The steward said nothing of his having been accompanied by Harris’s
ghost in his ride down Kenegie Hill, nor of the spirit’s message, well
knowing that his medical friend had no faith in supernatural
appearances; and the ailing man himself had but slight belief in such
matters until the evidence of his own eyes, as well as the reverend
gentleman’s words, convinced him, in spite of his reason.
The “doctor’s stuff” had its desired effect. The steward slept soundly
through the night, and until nearly noon next morning, when he took
breakfast in bed, then more medicine, and slept again. About two
o’clock the doctor called and asked the housekeeper how her master was.
“I suppose,” said she, “that he’s going on as well as can be expected,
for he slept well last night, ate a good breakfast for a sick man, and
is sleeping again. A few minutes since I went into his room, and saw
his eyes were shut, and didn’t speak to him, as you told me not to, but
I talked a little to myself, and he didn’t ask me what I was grumbling
about, as he mostly does if I speak a few words to, myself.
“A precious nurse you are,” said the doctor, “can’t you keep your
tongue still when in your master’s room?”
The lawyer had the same tranquil rest on the following night; got up at
his usual time, and soon after an early dinner, took horse for Kenegie.
The steward arrived at the old mansion about three or four o’clock.
Having stayed a few hours with the bereaved family, and said all he
could to comfort them, he recollected that there were alterations, or
repairs, going on down at the mill, which he ought to see. The
lengthening shadows warned him that it was time for his departure, that
he might see the mill on his way home. Having sent his horse down, by a
servant, he took a pathway which made a short cut thither across some
fields. This was always a favourite walk with him and the late squire,
because it afforded delightful views over land and sea. When on the
clear ground, and in sight of Rosemorran, he saw the sunbeams still
shining through a few leafless trees on the hill, but the valley was
all in shadow. On coming to a high-hedged and narrow lane, near the
mill, the gentleman went on slowly, with eyes cast down, musing on
times past. Glancing upwards, when his reverie ended, he beheld, at the
distance of ten or a dozen paces, the late squire, looking as formerly,
and slowly approaching him. The steward, though much terrified at
first, noticed that the garb taken by the apparition was, from
looped-up hat to silver spurs, exactly like that which Harris had
usually worn when following his hounds. At a glance the steward saw the
same bright and unsullied attire for which the late owner of Kenegie
had been distinguished. There were the same untarnished gold-lace and
buttons on his bright scarlet coat; and the boots, with their tops just
touching, without hiding, the jewelled knee-buckles of his nether
garment. Yet, for all this brightness of dress, the ghostly face, as
seen by the terrified man on coming nearer, made his blood run cold.
The eyes were like the unclosed eyes of the dead; and the other
features were pale and motionless as those of a marble image lying on a
tomb. The lawyer had heard, like everybody else here, that one should
never turn back from a ghost, but speak, if only a single word, as a
spirit is powerless to impart its wishes till spoken to; and if long
delayed the person is in danger of receiving bodily harm, and will be
haunted to death if he speak not before. The poor man forced himself,
as it were, to advance with his eyes cast down, for he couldn’t bear to
see the ghastly countenance. When near he could only murmur, “What
shall I do for ’e?”
“I am rejoiced that thou hast come to meet me here, and spoken in time,
for on the morrow I should have gone to thee. The anger I felt at thy
delay hath passed; why shouldst thou fear me, frail mortal that thou
art, when, ere long, thou wilt be as I am, and then seek me with a
greater desire to meet me than thou hast now to shun my company?
Besides thou knowest I always liked thee for thy honesty, and thy
regard to me and mine, as well as for thy doing justice to thy poorer
clients—as far as unjust laws and judges would allow thee. Now, with
regard to my son John,” continued the ghost, looking sorrowfully on his
faithful steward, “Death, as thou knowest, cut short my efforts to
explain how my wishes were to be accomplished touching Trengwainton.
Thy eyes are cast on earth; dost thou attend to what I say?”
“I do my best to,” replied the poor steward like one in a waking dream.
“Well, as thou knowest, there is much money owing to me on the place;
no interest has ever been paid, and more cash is wanted. Do thou supply
more and more until the place be indebted to nearly its value. Our boy
John is now about fourteen. Before he will be of age, foreclose the
mortgage, as the place by that time will be burthened to nearly its
full value. If the estate be offered for sale there will be no
purchaser; everyone hereabouts has enough to do to keep the land he
has. All landowners here are much embarrased to hold what they have.
Yet if the place be worth anything more than its encumbrance, pay over
the balance on putting my son in possession. The management of my
family’s property will be entirely on thy hands for many years, and
thou wilt still be my trusty steward. Now understand me clearly, of a
Harris it must never with truth be said that he got his lands unfairly.
Mark the little more I have to say, that I may depart for good, and no
more have to revisit this miserable world. Look up now, that I may know
thou attendest to my words, and learn that unless my wishes be
accomplished none of my family, nor of thine, will be known in this
part of the country for half the time they have flourished here, nor
have an inch of land more than their graves occupy. Behold those aged
trees which my forefathers planted. Ere they return to dust our ancient
homes will know us no more, if my last wishes be disregarded.”
Before the lawyer could reply—if he had anything to say—Harris’s ghost
had vanished.
The servant, who awaited the lawyer at the Mill, became uneasy when it
was almost night and the gentleman had not arrived; knowing him to be
unwell and that he was a man who would never “say die whilst there was
a shot in the locker,” as the saying is (everybody liked the steward
for his pluck and kindly disposition.) He rode slowly up the lane by
which he expected the steward to arrive, and, at last found him sitting
on a bank beside the road, seeming all bewildered and stupid, like a
person recovering from a trance or just come out of a fit. The servant
roused him up, as he said, but the steward didn’t speak, even when he
mounted his horse, and rode slowly homeward, with the servant following
to his own door, where the doctor was anxiously awaiting his patient’s
return. We heard no more of the good lawyer, but hope he rode out no
more until perfectly recovered.
Harris’s ghost, satisfied with having told the lawyer how its wishes
were to be carried out, has never more been seen nor heard in Kenegie,
from that day to this.
HALLANTIDE: OR A ST. JUST FEAST FIFTY YEARS AGO.
“The Saint’s Feast is kept upon the Dedication Day, by every
householder of the parish, within his own dores, each entertaining such
forrayne acquaintance as will not fayle, when their like turne cometh
about, to requite them with the like kindness.”—Carew’s Survey of
Cornwall.
Many persons of Penzance and its neighbourhood, whose memories take
them back fifty years or more, may recollect an aged man, usually
called Dick Rastram, who for some weeks before Christmas, and after it,
used to be heard calling around the market,—
“Moore’s almanacks new,
Some lies and some true.”
The almanacks he sold were supplemented with advertisements of patent
medicines and other special articles kept by his master.
On the whole Dick must have been a good servant, or his master would
never have had the patience to bear with his provoking ways for so many
years as he did. Dick was very fond of arguing the point as to the best
mode of doing any job he was set about, and the time wasted in settling
the matter was more than would have sufficed to do the work many times
over; but he would exert himself with double vigour when allowed to
have his own way. Sometimes, however, the master becoming tired of his
man’s pig-headedness, would say “do the work as thou art told to;
whether right or wrong no blame will rest on thy shoulders.” Then Dick
would keep a sharp look-out for a mistake, and if his master made any,
by a “slip of the tongue,” he would be sure to execute it to the very
letter.
One morning this precious man-servant was sent to the bake-house in
Back Lane, for a twopenny loaf of the proper age for mixing with other
ingredients in making pills. In a few minutes he returned, placed the
pence on the counter, and said “there’s no bread there stale enough;
where must I go next?” Then he was told some other place, and as often
returned without bread, asking each time where he was to go next? So he
dawdled away great part of the forenoon, when everyone knew that if he
had a mind he would find a suitable loaf in some shop best known to
himself, in a few minutes. The last time he returned with the two-pence
and asked, “Where must I go next?” his master, provoked beyond measure,
said go to —, naming a place said to be very hot; and to soften the
angry expression, added the word “stone” in a lower voice; but the man
heard this cooling word, took up the pence, and went out to get the
bread, it was supposed from some shop of his own choice. Night came,
however, but no Dick; and the following day passed without his having
been seen or heard of in Penzance.
A little after the usual closing time Mr. Harvey was in his shop with a
few of his neighbours, wondering what had become of his man, and
getting rather uneasy at not having had any tidings of him, and was
about to have his shop closed, when Dick entered, put a two-penny loaf
on the counter, and said, “Here’s a loaf that’ll please ’e I ’spose.
I’ve ben where you told me to go for ut. You will, of course, pay me
for what it cost me in lodgings in Helston last night, and for meat and
drink on the road. I went as cheap as I cud; ’tes only two and twenty
pence; seeman to me you have kept the shop open very late, and all the
lamps burnan, when every shop round the market es shut up except the
two grocers’ that are always the last.”
Dick then put up the shutters, turned down all the lamps except one
near his master’s desk, and asked if there was anything more for him to
do that night. “If there esn’t,” said he, “I’d like to go home and go
to bed at once, that I may rise early in the mornan.”
Dick’s master being one who always saw the humourous side of a
matter—and who had a keen relish for it, couldn’t, for his life, keep a
stern look when he replied, “go into the kitchen and get thy supper and
don’t let me see thee any more to night.”
Yet, with all the man’s deviltry, he was extremely proud of his
master’s repute as a skilful chemist and a clever man; as well as of
the old-established business, to which he regarded himself as a most
important adjunct.
The warehouses where Dick reigned supreme, as far as he could, were
extensive and somewhat scattered. The shop was a large one for those
times, with groceries on one side and drugs on the other. Grocers’
kitchens were then the usual places in which their regular country
customers left their baskets when their marketing was finished; and
there, too, boiling water was kept that country-folks might make
themselves tea, after which the warehouseman helped them take their
marketing to the inn-yard, at which their horses were left
(market-carts were but few then.) All were anxious to keep in with
Dick, to have his assistance, for he was as “ugly” as sin with some who
gadded about to new shops, that they might pick up things sold cheap as
a draw for a short time.
Amongst the old regular customers, to whom Dick paid much attention,
was Mary Angwin, or Chygwin, the wife of a well-to-do miner in St. Just
Churchtown, who also cultivated a few acres of land, in his spare time.
A few weeks before Hallantide [3] Mary invited Dick to come out the
Feasten Sunday, and he promised to come.
On Feasten Eve, Mary and Jackey, her husband, were both in Penzance, to
get meat and other things for the feast. They didn’t want to kill their
pig for winter’s store before it was fat, and sell one side of it on
the Thursday before the Feast, as many did that they might buy beef and
other good things for the Tide. “Be sure you come early, in time to go
to Church,” said Jackey, when his wife had reminded Dick of his promise
to come. St. Just folks, and others in Feasten time, were proud to show
a goodly number of visitors in Church. “And now, Dick,” said she, when
ready to leave the shop, “if you will take one side of the basket, with
me, Jackey will shoulder the sack of meat. The basket is heavy with
Hallan apples, the largest I could get, and with other things; the old
mare will groan and grunt at some rate, all the way home, as she always
do, the creature, when there’s a few pounds more than usual on her
back.”
After Mary had jogged away, seated on a bow-pad, with the heavy basket
on her knees and the sack across the beast, Jackey stayed awhile
waiting for some comrades who were going to tramp it home as well as
himself. “You can find our house, mate, without any trouble,” said he
to his expected feaster, “’tes nearly the first you will come to on
entering Churchtown by the Penzance road; and you will know et by the
largest turf-rick you’ll see close to the end of et, and ’tes sure to
be sanded all about, from the door to the turf-rick and pigs’ crow.
I’ve ben along to Percurnow on purpose for a load; none else will
please Mary, for the Feast, but the sand from that Cove; and I brought
home ‘gard,’ (decomposed granite) from the Tinpit Hill, in St. Levan,
too, that she may scour the life out of tembran things,—the dairy door
and all, as well as the benches; she’s a capital wife, she es. Now good
night, and be sure to come early.”
By 10 o’clock Dick arrived, and was treated to a dram, first thing,
whilst Mary laid before him a substantial breakfast. The only one there
before, except those belonging to the house, was an old maid, a
mantua-maker of Kelynack; she was a staid old dear, yet not out of
hopes of getting married. Hearing that Dick Rostram was expected she
had invited herself to come and help Mary cook the feasten dinner; and
it was funny to see this dry old creature “setting her cap” at old Dick
all the time he was there. Next came an elderly couple from Sancras;
then two blooming damsels, sisters, from Morvah. And when all those
expected were come, Mary said, “Jackey, my son,” (though speaking to
her husband) “es time for thee to take our Feasters to Church, for I
and Cousin Gracey want all the room to cook dinner. You’ll stop a spell
in the public-house as usual, and all will be ready to place on the
board by the time you come in.”
Though late for service in Church they had one comfort, as Jackey said,
“they would be out as soon as the rest.”
About two o’clock the feasters came home and found the big crock lifted
off the brandes (trivet) on to the hearth. In the large vessel were
boiled a rump of beef, a couple of fowls, and a nice piece of streaky
pork to eat with them; as well as turnips, carrots, and other
vegetables, all in kipps (net-bags) to keep them separate and for
convenience in taking up. The vegetables were placed to drain on bars
called “kipp sticks,” placed across the crock; the beef was dished up
on a round pewter platter; the fowls had melted butter and parsley—some
of the butter poured on them, the rest served in a boat. A rabbit-pie
was steaming on the chimney stool; and a baked figgy (plum) pudding was
on the dresser, turned out of the baker on to another pewter platter,
and powdered over with white sugar. On one end of the hearth, over a
few embers, stood a little pot, the very model of the larger vessel but
not more than a tenth of its size, containing choice red-apply
potatoes, steaming under a cloth, all the water having been poured off.
At the sight of this Dick clapped his hands and cried “what a dear
little crock!”
When the female guests came down, with their dresses pinned up, that
they mightn’t be foust (soiled or rumpled) they found dinner served.
Mary took from the dresser pewter flagons, which shone like silver and
were only used on grand occasions, to serve the ale. If the feasters
didn’t make a good dinner it was from no fault of their entertainers,
for it was “cut and come again” till all declared they were “choke full
and ready to burst.” Then they had a nip of brandy all round, to settle
their stomachs. Jugs of hot toddy were next placed on the board, with a
little tray of shag tobacco and long pipes. Crocks and pans put away,
the fire was gathered to one end of the hearth; fresh turves put on;
and the chimney-stool put back to its place on the other end of the
roomy hearth, that those who liked best to smoke in the chimney corner
might sit there. The men being made comfortable as their hearts could
desire, Mary and her female friends went upstairs to have a cosy chat
to themselves; and there they had a bottle of old sweet-drink (mead)
which had been kept for the feast. Didn’t their tongues go, two or
three together, talking over the births and marriages that had lately
taken place or were likely soon to occur amongst their acquaintances;
the new dresses seen in Church; and scores of other matters dear to
female hearts.
When weary of being without the men, down they came to have a look
round the “hale” (hall?) Jackey asked if they,—the two blooming
ones—would like to have a run down to the Cape? “No thank ’e, Jackey
dear,” said the elder, “’tes too cold a place this time of the year,
but well enow in summer. After we have warmed ourselves a bit we want
to see the pretty things in your hale, brought home, from over sea, by
your cousin, Tom Hattam.” “You shall, my dears, and take a glass of hot
toddy to warm ’e all through. I spose your sweethearts will be here
soon?” “No not yet, for hours,” said the elder again; “es time enow for
them to come here when we want to be going home, and that won’t be yet
awhile. But I shouldn’t wonder if Nanny’s Tom es here before long to
know where he shall meet you and some other San Tusters to-morrow to go
rabbit shooting. You must come over to Morvah, he said, for he can tell
you where a hare’s likely to be found and rabbits in plenty. Her boy,
Tom es roving mad sometimes to get married and be off over sea to a
place where many of his comrades went some years ago, and are doing
well there, so Tom says. What’s the place called Nancy, that thee art
always dreaman about?” “Dodgeville,” replied the younger; “es near
Mineral Point.”
Jackey having set the Morvah girls a-talking about their sweethearts,
and the subject of their discourse being of little interest to any but
themselves, the Sancras man, taking Jackey’s two elder children, went
to visit some relatives of his and theirs in another part of
Churchtown. His wife was asleep on Mary’s bed, being tired after her
walk from Trannack and a hearty meal. At last when the girls paused a
moment they and the rest went to look at the pretty things in Mary’s
hale.
Whether Jackey Angwin’s best room be called a hale or a parlour, it was
a very neat little place,—almost too bright and nice and full of
nick-nacks for one’s eyes to rest on anything.
The mantel-shelf was so crowded with china cattle, chiefly cows and
sheep, with a shepherd and shepherdess under a tree, taking care of
them, that they had scarcely room either to lie or to stand amidst
crystals of quartz, or Cornish diamonds, and other choice specimens,
and foreign shells. There were also two circus horses, red and white
ones, rearing on their hind legs, on either end of the shelf, and ready
for a spring down on the floor.
Hanging on the walls over the mantel was that red-hot picture of
Vesuvius and the Bay of Naples, which seamen so often bring home from
some Levantine port to let their friends know something of the wonders
they have seen. “Come here, Dick, and the rest of ’e, and tell us about
this picture and other foreign things that Cousin Jack brought home on
his return from his first voyage abroad.” Dick looked at the picture
and said, “This is the same that one may see in almost every house in
Capens Row, and in many on Sandy Bank. Sailors all tell a story about
it and say that a long while ago, a vessel was becalmed for three days
and two nights within sight of that burning mountain. About one
o’clock, or earlier, on the third night, they heard a loud voice,
coming from that mountain, say, ‘the hour es come, but the man esn’t
come.’ Lookan to windward just after, the sailors saw a black cloud
rising from out over the sea and coming straight towards them. When
just over the main-tops they saw plainly that what they had taken for a
cloud was a company of infernal spirits, carrying off among them a man
they had known. He was a Barbary pirate whose vessel they had sunk with
all on board not long before. The men heard dreadful cries as the
infernal spirits bore the pirate away right to the mountain that had
only ben smoakan for days before; but as the infernals approached and
took the man down et blazed up and roared like thunder. Then a gale
sprung up and brought the ship into port—thereabouts, where you see the
red-lookan housen,” said Dick pointing to Naples.
[This sounds much like an old kmonish legend, and it probably is one
adapted from the ancient myth which tells of Etna and Vesuvius being
the chimney-tops of Tartarus.]
“Can that story be true?” asked Gracey, looking at the picture as if
she expected to see the cloud of infernals. “I don’t know I’m sure,”
Angwin replied, “for Jack told us the same; but sailors spin such queer
yarns, and so besmeared with their tarbrush, that one can’t ever tell
what’s in them of truth. Now when Jack brought us this picture (and
other things we’ll see bem by) Granny was here. She put on her
spectacles to have a good look, but couldn’t make out what it was. When
Jack told her et was a burnan mountain she said ‘Hold thy tongue; I’ll
never believe that; es a bad picture of a house a fire I spose.’ ‘Well,
old dear,’ replied he, ‘you won’t credit me weth haven sen many things
that you havn’t. You wan’t believe praps that when on the Red Sea
shores I seed the axle-trees of Pharoah’s chariots stickan out of the
sand weth the linch-pins still in them. The wheels and the other tember
was rotten and washed away.’ ‘Perhaps I may believe that,’ said she.
‘An old ship-mate of mine,’ continued Jack, ‘who had ben a long way
inland told me he had sen Lot’s wife turned into rock-salt. ’Tes still
standan in that dry climate, and he cracked off the little finger of
her right hand. It’s grown again: fingers and toes shoot out, or sprout
anew, during a flowing tide.’ ‘Why what is become of the finger?’ asked
she. ‘That, at the bottom of the sea, now,’ replied he, ‘weth many
other strange things, such as Eve’s apples, very fair to see but all
full of ashes within jest like ‘colebrands’ (smutty ears of wheat.) His
ship was sunk with a blow from a whale’s tail, and he wed a ben
drowned, ef by good luck he hadn’t a got hold of a dolphan, which he
mounted when sinkan, and the good fish, always friendly to sailors,
bore him safe to shore.’ ‘Now I wan’t heer any more of thy stories,’
said Granny, ‘for one can’t tell what to believe of them.’”
When Jackey ceased talking the company passed on towards a large table,
with turned-down leaves, which stood against the wall opposite the
window. Resting on this table and supported by the wall was an oval
mahogany tea tray of the old fashion, and above it pictures of the four
Evangelists, seemingly painted on glass. The saints’ raiment was of as
deep a dye as the lurid flames of Vesuvius or the purple waters of
Naples Bay. In front of the tea tray was a pile of books, and at either
end a large foreign shell, so turned as to show the delicate pink of
its inner surface. “Put one of these to your ear, my dear,” said Dick
to the younger Morvah damsel, “and you will hear waves surging on the
shores from which they were brought, and that’s over the water which
you expect soon to cross.” Nancy having placed a shell to her ear and
listening, said, “I surely hear it murmuring as if in grief to be taken
from its old home and companions. What do you hear, sister?” “Much the
same, I think,” replied the other sister. “Oh, what a lot of things you
townsmen know,” said Gracey; “I should dearly love to live in Penzance;
one can hear and see so much more there than in the country.” “Come and
live with me then, my dear,” said Dick; “I’ve a lot of pretty things to
show ’e and we’re a suitable couple,—just of a height,” continued he,
taking Gracey’s arm in his, whilst she looked down and simpered in a
way she thought would seem modest.
Leaving the table, all Mary’s guests came to a corner-cupboard or
“buffet,” as it was usually called. About a third of its height was
closed with doors; over which were three open shelves. On the lower
shelf, or cupboard-bed, was a rare old china punch-bowl, turned on its
mouth, with old china plates lining the sides, and around the bowl,
basins and small cups, without handles, all of rare old India china. On
the middle shelf was a china tea-set. On the upper one many curious old
glasses, some of them coloured, with high twisted stems, and patterns
cut on their inner surfaces. Whilst looking over these, Gracey spoke of
her feet being cold, and the gallant Dick led her to the kitchen fire.
When they had passed out Mary opened the cupboard doors and took out a
variety of such trifles as sailors usually bring home from foreign
parts; and these were, most of them, either from Quebec or South
American ports, to which ships in the timber trade resort. Amongst the
former were moccasons and pouches of curious patterns, worked by the
squaws of Indian Lorrett, about ten miles from Quebec; strings of those
rare seeds called Indian shot, the product of Canadian plants. (The
larger ones, looking like bits of pear-shaped porcelain, and just as
hard, are often strung for rosaries: although so hard that their sides,
when dry, cannot be pierced with steel, they have a natural cavity from
end to end, running lengthwise, through which a fine needle and thread
may be passed.) Next a clear broad-mouthed bottle, full of smaller
foreign products, was taken out and brought to the window, when Mary
noticed that the day was darkening, and, looking up at the old
eight-day clock, which stood beside the fireplace, was surprised to
find it so late, and said she must be off to get tea, opened the door a
little, then closed it, and came back and said to Jackey, “I be hanged
ef old Gracey and Dick ain’t upon the chimney-stool sitting as close as
they can get, head to head, courtan. Who but they! She’s ben tryan all
she cud do in that way ever since Dick es here.”
Mary then went to the dairy to make a cake. The window being darkened
by many choice plants, chiefly roses, they brought the bottle of
wonders up to the kitchen table and turned out its contents.
One may remark, before going farther, that the clock was made by
Matthew Wearne, of St. Erth, early in the last century. Many of them
are still in this neighbourhood, keeping good time.
Suspended from a beam, near the middle of the room, was a
silvered-glass globe reflecting objects around. Against vacant places
on the walls were placed the usual six chairs and two armed ones, all
furnished with neat, patch-work covered cushions. The bottle being
emptied on the table, there were found various small tropical shells
and seeds, strung together like necklaces; also some of those
bean-shaped seeds frequently picked up on our sands, and on all shores
laved by the Gulf Stream. In the West Country these have no particular
name that we know of, but they were often perforated, strung, and hung
from children’s necks to make them cut their teeth easily; and were
worn as amulets for preventing diseases. It is pretty well known that
those seeds of tropical trees being found on many shores of Europe, and
not being those of any known trees in the Old World, learned men
concluded before the time of Columbus, that they must be produced in
lands either in, or beyond, the Atlantic; consequently, they had
something to do with the discovery of America.
The bottle repacked and put away tea was ready and all the guests
assembled.
Besides the heavy cake just baked,—black with currants, and too rich
with cream for any one to eat much of, there were risen cakes; and
apple-cakes, baked on Saturday; with bread, cream, and honey.
Tea being over, the old Sancras couple left. They wern’t much missed,
for they were a dull old pair, who passed nearly all their time either
eating, drinking, or sleeping. The old man had walked down to
Nancherrow, ’tis true, but then he went to visit an old acquaintance,
were he was sure to have more drink; yet he tasted every thing on the
table at tea-time, finishing with bread and honey, as he said the cream
was too “quaffing” (luscious) to eat with honey.
In the meantime Jackey had placed on the embers a faggot of furze, and
on it a few heathy turves, to keep in the flames and gradually kindle
the whole. Then a high-backed settle was brought to the hearth from the
stair-rail against which it usually stood. The settle-back could be
turned down to rest on the ends, so as to form a table if wanted. Mary
sat back by the table, feeling too warm, with all her moving about, to
sit nearer the fire; and looked around with pride on her
dresser-shelves, full of rare old earthenware (the queer faces in her
old clome jugs grinned with joy in the warm firelight;) then on her
bright brass warming-pan, candlesticks, pewter flagons, and other
things on the chimney-piece, and she was not less pleased to see the
white “valance,” called the chimney-cloth, which hung along the
“cravel” (mantel-stone or tree.) Old housewives were just as careful to
have clean chimney-cloths as caps. They kept everything about their
fire-places as clean as if they venerated the hearth as an altar.
Come to Mary’s house at any time, you would always find this room dry
and comfortable. All sloppy work was done in a pretty large room at the
back, under a lean-to roof all the length of the dwelling.
At one end of this scullery, or back kitchen, a portion was screened
off for a dairy. Over this, and projecting a few feet, was a “talfat”
(loft) where some of the children’s beds were placed. At the other end,
a few feet were taken up with a spence; near which was an outer door
opening to a court, with the peeth, large stone-trough, fuel-ricks, &c.
Shortly after the old Sancras “pigs’” departure, in came two sturdy
young fellows,—one from the north of St. Just, the other from Morvah.
“Will ’e have a cup of tea? We’ve only just finished” asked Mary. “They
don’t care for the women’s drink,” Jackey answered for them; “make a
jug of toddy.” “They had no business to come yet,” said that talking
elder sister, “we shan’t go yet for a good while.” “But Tom and I must
go early,” said Hannibal, that sister’s sweetheart; “Tom to be up early
and after the rabbits. I must work the first core to bal or be spaled
(fined.) Es hard that a worken man can’t have a day or two once a year,
to hold the Feast, when those we work for have a feast every day, all
the year round. Besides, we’ll all be here early to-morrow evening that
we may dance altogether. Perhaps it’ll be the last time for many
years.”
“My dear Nanny,” said Tom to the younger sister, as she laid her head
on his shoulder and wept, “what art a-cryan for? Thinkan about beean
far away from father and mother, next year this time? Cheer up, my
darling, for we shall soon have a comfortable home there and they will
come to us, perhaps, before next Feast; who can tell? Older folks than
they are going away to their children every day, and taking much longer
voyages too. Come now, when over there thy Tom may hunt better game
than any here, without so much as askan leave or licence, and you will
make venison pasties instead of dry ‘fuggans’ or ‘hoggans.’”
“Catch thy dears first,” said the teasing elder sister.
“Well, Nelly,” replied he, “west a believe what Simon Mitchell wrote
home? He’s only been there about two years and he said that he wouldn’t
be home agen for the fee of Boscarn, and that workan men there may, and
do, have turkeys on their tables oftener than we can get rabbits. Now
I’ll tell thee, sister Nell,” continued he, rising and taking Nanny to
the door, “ef I’d been in thy Honny’s place I’d jest say ef thee
westn’t go thee may’st stay, and then we should hear another tune.”
“Never mind her, Tom,” replied Hannibal, “es only that I may court her
the more.”
Soon after they had settled on a place to meet next morning with
Jackey, the blooming damsels and their lovers left, with a promise to
come again early to-morrow evening.
Shortly after the young peoples’ departure Dick got out of his warm
corner on the chimney-stool and said “Es time for me to be goan, for
I’ve further to go than any of your other feasters.”
“No, no,” said Mary, “stop over to-morrow and till servy day” (Feasten
Wednesday) “if you will, and go with me and Grace to the fiddler, for I
can shake my shoes in a three-handed reel yet and shall for years to
come, I hope.”
“I trust thee west,” said Jackey, “for my old grandmother danced of a
Feasten Monday till she was eighty-two, and a better woman there never
was. Now do ’e stop,” said he to the guest, “and keep a ‘Mazed Monday’
for once. Master won’t mind et. Whilst I’m after the rabbits, only for
a few hours, early in the morning, the boy will go with you to see the
youngsters’ games. To be sure they arn’t kept up now like in old times
when there was hurling and wrestling, and all the gentle folks of the
parish came to see, or join in the sports; a hundred years ago there
were many of their old family seats occupied by the owners (one may
count five or six of them now, let as farm houses, at no great distance
from the road leading through St. Just, from Sennen to Morvah,
beginning with Brea and ending with Pendeen.) The prize-wrestling was
left till Feasten Monday, the standards having been all made many weeks
before hand. Though the weather was often bad and grass wet and
slippery, the youngsters in their well barked canvas jackets, didn’t
mind a trifle of mud, and the ladies encouraged their lovers’ or
brothers’ manliness.
“I’d like to stay and see anything like it now,” said Dick; “but our
people have been expectan goods for a long time. Only yesterday the
Furley came in and Captain Hosking es goan to have the cargo broken out
to-morrow. So I must be home to stow our things in the warehouses; else
I shall find everything in a ‘migle-cum-por’ (confusion or mess.) You
see the weight of the business es upon my shoulders. How shud’na be,
for I’ve ben weth our people all my life-time—, weth my present
master’s father first, when I was no bigger than your boy Jackey; so I
must love ’e and leave ’e, and you will be sure to come in and see me
Madron Feasten Sunday won’t ’e Mary? You shall go to our grand Church
and hear the organ. Lots of people go a purpose to hearn, and you’ll
see grand folks and things sure nuf.”
“Well, thank ’e,” said Mary, “I’d like to go very well, but don’t see
how I can leave Jackey; he’d be like a fish out of water of a Sunday,
home without me.”
“Jackey must come too,” replied Dick, “and little Mary and John, ef you
will.”
“The four younger ones,” said Mary to her husband, “might be left with
their grandmother, the same as to-day, ef she’ll be troubled weth them
agen so soon, for I should dread to leave them here weth anybody but
myself. They will be always playan weth the fire when they arn’t
ploshan in the water, and our wood-corner is a dangerous one.”
“Now I’ll tell ’e how you can manage et,” said Grace. “The Sunday I’ll
come over early, to see that you are all to-rights, and the children
shall go home weth me; then you can put out the fire, turn down the
brandes on the bakan-ire, cross the fire-hook and prong, sweep up the
hearthstone, put on it a basin of spring water, for the ‘Smale People
(fairies) and good luck,’ like as the old folks ded, and some do still
before leaving their houses shut up, then touch the cravel before
crossing the drussel, lock the door, and away to Feast. I’ll come and
see that you are all smart and tidy to go to Penzance Church and hear
the organ. I’ll come over very early and titevate ’e off, for the
credit of the parish, before you go to Penzance Feast to see grand
people and things; and I’m sure you’ll be made very welcome weth
Mr. Rostram.”
“Oh cuss ’e,” cried Dick, “that esn’t my name; that’s a nickname some
blackguards put upon me, years ago, and fools keep it up still. I’d as
soon hear thunder.”
“Oh laws,” sighed Gracey, “I ded’n know that, and have ben thinkan all
day what a pretty name that es and how I shud like to be called by’n.”
“Then take’n and welcome,” said Dick, going outside the door.
“Stop a minute,” said Mary “for me to put on my bonnet and shawl;
Jackey and I will go along wh’y to the North Road or farther.”
They didn’t offer a parting dram, knowing that he had taken enough for
his old crazy head to bear, nor try to detain him, lest Gracey might
shoot more fools’ bolts. Among other talk, by the way, Dick remarked
that the elder Morvah damsel seemed unwilling to leave home with the
rest.
“That’s only her way of teazing those best liked by her,” Mary replied,
“ef Honney were less eager to go with Tom and Nancy then the other
would urge him to go, for she likes her sister, and the two men have
always been the same as twin brothers.”
“And capital fellows they are,” said Jackey, “to get on in any land
where their native tongue is known. Hannibal es as good a man for
underground work as may be found; besides, he can do any rough
carpenters’ work better than many who served a time to learn the trade,
and can make a strong wall in the old fashion by laying the stones to
bind each other, without mortar, like they were in our old castle
walls, such as Choon; and Tom, besides beean a good miner es very handy
with blacksmiths’ tools and so well acquainted with a fire-engine that
he’s often trusted to work her, in place of the regular engineman.
There’ll few be found in Yankey-land to beat them. And their intended
wives can turn their hands to any kind of work fit for women.”
“Well ef I’m never married in this world, I’ll never have old snuffy
Gracey,” said Dick to himself. “How can one after seean such dear
Morvah maidens?”
“We’re on the great road now to Penzance,” said Jackey, “and I think,
mate, that you’ll get home very well ef you don’t try to make any short
cuts across the fields. The longest way round is often the shortest way
home.”
“Good night, and I wish ’e well,” said Dick. “You’r coman in to Madron
Feast, and be sure you come early one and all of ’e.”
After parting, Dick called back several times, “Be sure to come early
Madron Feasten Sunday.”
MILL STORIES.
SUPPLEMENTARY TO HALLANTIDE.
I remember being down in Uncle Oliver Pooley’s Mill, in Nancherrow
Bottom, one afternoon about the time Dick Rostram went to St. Just
feast. Two women were there awaiting their turn to serge their
barley-meal. In making remarks about a new house that a neighbour of
theirs had just built for himself, one of the women said to the other,
“What do ’e think, cheeld-vean? They’ve got a planchan put down in the
little room, t’other side of the ‘entry,’ and they cal’n a pare-lar,
forsuth; why a es but a good hale and make the most of n. Aw, the pride
of some folks who have jest got a sturt! Es enough to make one sick to
think o’ them, cheeld-vean.” “Now hold thy clack: thee art sick with
envy,” replied the one addressed in such endearing terms. “They have
always minded their own business and ben careful enough to save the
money to build a new house weth a planched parlour. Thee west like to
have one thyself, I suppose. I shud, and hope I may one day, planched
parlour and all. Then I’ll have a carpet for’n, to be comfortable in my
old years. Now go and mind thy flour; es nearly all down. Thee west
dearly like to be a witch,” continued the outspoken dame, “to put a
spell of ill luck on thy neighbours and blast both man and beast, but
thou artn’t crafty enow yet; but live in hopes that the devil will
teach thee some day, for a es of women like thee that witches are
made.”
The woman thus reviled, then took her meal with no other sifting than
what it had in the jigger, and went away without making any reply.
Then the angry out-spoken one, turning towards An Polly, the old
miller’s wife, said, “Ef that faggot hadn’t stopped her jaw I’d a
chucked her, by asking her how the little pig was gettan on that her
boys, weth their dog, chased into the peth t’other night, thinkan a
belonged to somebody else. Have ’e heard the story, An Polly?”
“No, nor I waant,” replied she, “for you are all alike in backbitan one
another, and as great as inkle makers sometimes when you’ve got another
woman to tear to pieces among ’e. I wish, for my part, that old Oliver
could bear the mill-dust, and play the fiddle to set ’e all a dancing,
while you’re waiting, like he used to, and like the mellar of Pendeen
Mill do still, for you can’t be quiet a minute, and a es better to pass
the time dansan than slanderan one t’other.”
Lovey (Loveday) the daughter, came down from the mill-bed, as her
mother went into the house. “Do tell me, An Jenny,” said she, “what a
es about the pig.” “That woman,” replied An Jenny, “jest gone es as
full of spite as an egg es full of meat. She didn’t know, or perhaps
forgote, that those she sneered at were cousins to me; a good wey off
to be sure they are, but blood es thicker than water, and when fourth
cousins get well off they seem nearer than poor first cousins, or
others. Well, I was goen to tell ’e how a neighbour’s pig can’t show es
nose near her door, but a es sure to be scalped by havan a kettle full
of boilan water thrown over am; and her ashes’ pile, close to her door,
es always covered weth pieces of sour half-sooked barley fuggans, left
to go sour and vinneyed; with fish and other things left to go stale
and stinkan. Pigs have good noses, poor things, and when out to lanes
will come and muzzle-up the ashes to get at any offal. One night last
week a neighbour’s boys, whose pig had often ben ill-used,—sometimes
burnt over head and ears weth a showl full of turfey fire, when she had
no water boilan,—watched to find the way clear when she was gone out to
‘coursey’ until et was time for her to get supper for Bill and the two
boys when they come home from bal. The boys whipped into the crow where
Bill’s little white pig had a few days before been put to feed agenst
wenter, and they so smeered et with gudgeon gress [4] and soot that a
looked jest like one of the new sort of black pigs. Soon after, when
they saw light in Bill’s house, they turned his pig out and bolted the
crow door. A few minutes after the boys who painted Bill’s pig heard’n
screechan and seed’n tearan round the town-place like mad, till he got
between his crow and the turf-rick and there stopt. P’raps you dont
know what a trap Billy’s peeth es, and more dangerous than before a
hedge was made close to one end ofn; the broad, flat stone in which the
winze-‘millar’ do work es built into this new hedge, and the
hook-handle on another broad stone weth the peeth between, only
half-covered weth a few loose, broken pieces of old bal tember. After
the poor pig had been there a few minutes Bill’s boys, as ugly as their
mother, came home, and their snappish cur found the pig and gave chase
to’n; it run’d slap up agen the hedge and tried to turn, but, bean
nearly ef not quite blind, and the dog bitean es hinder parts, tha poor
little thing in tryan to scramble over the peeth fell into’n. Now they
were for life to get ropes, and a ladder to take up the pig lest they
got into trouble; they were hours in bringen the pig to grass, and
dedn’t find out tell next day that it was their own!
“Whatever An Polly may say,” continued Jenny, after pausing a moment to
take snuff, “I never say anything but the truth about anybody. I pity
them sometimes, from my very heart, and when I go to meetan pray that
the Lord may give them grace to turn from their wicked ways; and I
can’t help pittyan Billy even now that I think what a wisht feast a had
last year, and don’t suppose he’ll have any this.”
“Stop a minute,” said Lovey, “I must turn off the water from the
mill-wheel.”
“Now tell us about Billy’s feast,” said Lovey, on seating herself, “and
we won’t interrupt ’e.”
“You know both of ’e and everybody else here-abouts,” said An Jenny,
“than ef a San Juster don’t keep up the feast in some way jest as a can
he’s looked down on and jeered at.”
A POOR TINNER’S FEAST.
Bill killed his pig, which wasn’t half fat,—not so good to kill as many
running the lanes. He took one side to market and left the other
hanging in his kitchen. Now Halan Market es the west (worst) in the
year for sellan pork; so many Santusters’ poor lean trash are there
that they keep down the price, and people who want good pork seldom
come to that market. Bill made a few shillans, laid out a trifle in a
bit of beef, and kept the rest to pay off a little of his long score at
the shop in churchtown, that he might be trusted agen. In the Green
Market he met a Zennor man who had been an old comrade of his. He
invited him over for feasten Sunday. He didn’t wait to be asked twice
before he promised to come early.
Whilst Bill was away, Mary Ann began upon the side of pork, hanging up
in the kitchen; cut off a sliver from the back, put the baker upon the
brandes, and fried away. Before she was satisfied, there was a great
hole made in the side. Then, when the boys came home from bal, they
fried again; and, believe me, they weren’t satisfied before nearly half
the side was cut off, except the bones. Then, when Bill came home, she
had to cut into the leg to have a little for his supper. By Saturday
night there was nothing left of the pig but thin flaps of belly-pieces,
one shoulder, and pile of bones. She was puzzled to contrive a feasten
dinner out of that for a hungry Zennor man, who would eat the bit of
beef and look over his shoulder for more! At length she determined to
make a pie of all the odds and ends she sould scrape off the bones, the
thin bits of skin from the belly, and other scraps.
Now, you know, one may make a pie of a’most anything and pascen off for
what one will. If she could have got plenty of parsley she might have
passed’n off for a veal-and-paasley pie, she thought; because Zennor
folks never get any better veal than “staggering bob” (a calf killed
before it can stand steady.) The pie was baked, bit of beef cooked, and
plenty of petates boiled (whether there was cabbage or turnips I can’t
say;) when two Zennor men arrived and were ready for dinner.
“This es my cousin Mathey,” said the man invited, pushing the other
forward; “he’s come for company to me, and he’s one of our best
singers. Es late now for church, I spose, but he will sing to ’e after
denner, for we’ve none better than Mathey for singan that pretty psalm
about the precious ointment runnan down from Aaron’s beard to the
skirts of his coat, or t’other pretty one about a timmersome bird.”
Bill said nothing, for he knew that Zennor men think themselves welcome
to feast or funeral, for the sake of their singing.
They soon finished the bit of beef; then Mary Ann helped them to pie;
and even these goats of Zennor men, whose diet when home es fish and
potates every day of the week and conger-pie of a Sunday for a change,
turned up their noses at the mess of “glit” she put on their plates;
then they tried the pie-crust, and found that too dry and hard, though
they arn’t particular, as they get nothing but conger-fat put in their
cakes and pie-crust at home; that will make them eat short enuf ef
somewhat nasty. They stopped to have a cup of tea, but that was hardly
coloured, except with the scaled milk and brown sugar; and the cake she
made with scroves (remains of lard which has been melted), the only fat
left. How she could ever manage to bake anything so as to know when et
was ready I can’t tell, I’m sure, for she hadn’t so much as a
hour-glass to keep time.
Well, the two feasters couldn’t be without seean what a bad plight Bill
was in, and all through his wife’s bad management; they took pity upon
am, and, when passan the Square on their way home, asked him into “The
Kings Arms,” and treated am to a glass or two of beer.
So much for Bills feast last year, and this they’ll have none at all.
An Jenny took the meal, which the miller’s daughter had serged for her,
and brought it to the door. On her coming into the light I noticed that
her dress was different from that usually worn by working women.
Instead of a bed-gown, skirt, and check apron, or a “towser,” she was
attired in a long-waisted gown and kirtle over a quilted petticoat, all
of some dark stuff. Her abundant grey hair was turned back over a pad,
or cushion, which was crossed by her cap-border, also turned back on a
broad ribbon around her head; and a small silk hat, fixed jauntily on
one side, finished her head-dress. She also wore a necklace of curious,
old-fashioned green and red flowered beads, coated with clear white
glass, and large hooped-shaped earrings.
Her figure was remarkably tall, slim, and upright, and her face what is
usually called long-featured, with a high forehead, straight nose, and
pointed chin.
“Polly would like to set the mill-women a dancing,” said she; “and I
han’t forgotten all my steps yet, as you shall see.” Holding out her
dress she then showed off several dancing steps with much liveliness,
and was preparing for others when the dame of the mill opened the door
from her dwelling, and called out, “Come ’e along in, do, like a good
boy, I’ve had a cake baked and tea made this ever so long.” The
sprightly old damsel then took her bag of meal and went away.
Young Oliver, being gone to buy corn of the neighbouring farmers, and
having to await his return, I was glad to pass the time with An Polly.
The dwelling-room, entered from the mill, was a long one, with a large
open fireplace at the inner end; a small side window near it. All the
room was either in strong light or deep shadow, and this old building
of the mill and dwelling together, both within and without, afforded
good subjects for an artist.
“Well, I should think you liked Miss Jenefer (Genevere) and her stories
better than tea; for I’ve called ’e ever so many times. What had she to
say about Mary Ann’s boys chasean a pig into a peeth?”
Having told An Polly what Jenefer said about it, and of Bill’s poor
feast, “May the Lord forgive the old faggot!” said she, “I never can.
Only to think she should make out that one of her parish wed ever be
treated by a Zennor man in his own Churchtown, and on the Feasten
Sunday too. No, Bill wed eat’s hat rather than suffer such a disgrace
as that. Her whole story es made out of an old ‘bam’ told in other
parishes about poor tinners tryan to keep up the feast as best they
cud. Can ’e tell whose new house they were talkan about when she got
into her ‘fegary’ weth the poor woman she abused so?”
“I didn’t hear any name mentioned,” I replied; “they were talkan about
a planched parlour when I entered the mill; yet, from what Jenny
afterwards said, it’s one of her relations.”
“Her relations,” returned An Polly, “she han’t got a near one in the
world, nor has she ever had one since she was left an orphan when quite
a child. Then the nearest she had were the two old ladies of Kellinack,
who took her as their own; they were only her grandfather’s sisters;
and then, when she was about thirteen, with those old ladies she must
have heard scores of such stories. Where she could find any kindred
near enow to be called relations when her great aunts died, I can’t
tell. Yet if you believe her, all the old families of the parish are
her kindred; most of them poor folks, whose forefathers owned lands in
the parish; there are such sudden ups-and-downs here that some of the
Ellises may have made a sturt and be building a house. By her account,
and theirs as well, they are all from the same family as the owner of
Brea. She says too that the Veals, now all very poor, once owned much
lands in this parish and Sancras; so they must be her cousins, of
course.
Yet Mary Ann thought to curry favour weth the crazy old thing by
speakan with scorn of such as the other would term upstarts, when none
of her kindred, to get knittan or spinan done for her.
Now, when Jenefer do have a tiff with anyone, she’ll rake up all the
old defaming stories she ever heard, turn them upside down or inside
out, till she can make them fit to her mind, and then fix them on any
one disliked by her.
That story of a woman scaldan her own painted pig, and her boys chasan
of’n into a peeth was told about a spiteful woman before Mary Ann was
born or thought of. ’Tes merely an old droll, such as used to be told
of winters’ nights. When such stories were in vogue people regarded
them as fables, by which none but fools would be deceived; and from
them much worth rememberan was learnt. Now I’ll tell ’e the old droll,
told in other parishes, of the poor tinner’s feast, that you may see
the changes made by Miss Jenefer.
“Yet they are no greater,” continued the old dame, after taking a pinch
of snuff, “than were purposely made by old story-tellers, and looked
for by their hearers, when the same drolls were often repeated of
winters’ nights.”
Having told An Polly that I would much like to hear more of the old
ladies of Kellinack, as I’d often heard them spoken of, but never by
any one who remembered them well. “Ef I once begin to talk about these
old dears,” said she, “I shall never know where to stop; ask Uncle John
Williams, the old man of Dowran, you know am very well, and he can tell
more about them than anybody else. Uncle John, when a youngster, used
to keep their garden in order, plant their beds of peppermint, sow
summer savory; and often go with them to collect herbs for distillan
and makean ointments.
“They much liked to doctor their neighbours, and themselves too; though
there was nothing in the world amiss with them. Yet they were very
skilful, and made better [5]skawdower ointment than one cud get
anywhere else. That salve, of their makean, was better than any
doctor’s stuff for curean a skin disease which was very common in their
time, when people lived more on salt pork and fish than they do now,
and had but little greens, or any other garden sass. Often enow then ef
poor people hadn’t fish, it was
“Pease-porridge hot, pease-porridge cold,
Pease-porridge in the crock nine days old.”
“They made an excellent eye-salve, too, with cellandine, that growed
about on their old garden walls; and people came from miles away to get
a bit of it for sore eyes.
“The old dears left Miss Jenny a great oak chest full of grand old
fashioned cloathes, more than she can ever wear out ef she shud live to
be as old as Methuselah.
“They are much too fine for common use, and only fit for one who may
sit down all day long like
“The King up in his chamber, countan of his money,
Or the Queen in her parlour eatan bread and honey.”
“Why didn’t ’e invite Miss Jenny to take a cup of tea too?” I asked.
“She tea! she can’t abide’n,” replied An Polly; “that’s one of her
whimsies, some people say; she’s very welcome, I’m sure.
“Nearly all her diet is gerty-milk. She will trot away miles to get a
few gallons of pillas, [6]—over along to Morvah, or Zennor, because few
people grow et now in St. Just. She do manage et the same as olk folk
always ded. Two or three quarts of the grain es damped, weth her, at a
time; then put into a small tray; kept a purpose, till its beginning to
‘cheeny’” (to show signs of being ready to sprout.) “The tray es put
upon her chimney-stool, where et may have a little warmth. As soon as
there’s the least sign of the pillas bean ready to throw out a shoot
it’s put into a ‘baker’ on a slow fire, and stirred all the time till
well dried and ‘scroched’ a little. Roastan of pillas es a very nice
job, that but few can be trusted to do; yet it’s worth all the labour.
The change made in the grain, for the better, wedn’t be believed by
anybody not acquainted weth it.
“It must be left to ‘cheeney’ only till the grains become sweet and
‘plum’ (soft) enough to crush between one’s finger and thumb. When
roasted and spread out on a cloth to cool Miss Jenny’s plan es to put a
handful or two at a time into as pretty a little moorstone traff
(trough) as ever eyes ded see and pound’n till crushed fine enow—the
‘crusher’ es a handy ‘bowl’ (pebble) picked up from the sea-shoar.
“You ought to see her beautiful little pillas-traff; et will only hold
about a gallon; es as smooth as a basen inside and out; and es so light
that one can move ’n about with ease. Miss Jenny had’n boft from
Kellinack, where et had been used for hundreds of years for the same
purpose. Old people used to take much the same plan weth their pillas;
they are too lazy now, and buy oatmeal from shops, or thicken their
milk with barley-flour; yet neither of them is half so good as the
pillas-gerts that used to be grown by most everybody here who had a few
acres of land. There was much other good food made with pillas, the
gerts, mind ’e, always prepared as I’ve told ’e; et made a nicer baked
puddan than flour or rice. Above all, a little ov’n was often used to
help out malt, when good old housewives wanted to have their ale extra
strong.
“At length—and that was jest as far back as I can remember—the cussed
excisemen interfered with old women puttan their pillas to ‘cheeney.’
I’ve heard Miss Jenefer say that her Aunts and others detested them
more than they ded the press-gang. Excisemen were all ‘foreigners’
(strangers to the county) then, for no West Country man wed belong to
such a crew. They wed come about, every now and then, mostly when the
men were away to bal, and rummage every hole and corner in search of
bay salt, [7] liquor, and other goods, brought from over sea by the
poor men, at the risk of their lives; and ef they found ever so little
pillas-gerts, et was seized and a fine threaten’d, for they caled’n
malt.
“Besides, I’m afraid that we shan’t have a little coarse salt brought
here again, by the fisher-women, at a reasonable price for a long time;
the excisemen have found out that there are trap-hatches in the floors
of nearly all dwellans where the fisher folk live—over cellars. When
the way was clear, the fisher-women drawed up salt with bags and lines.
Now ‘all the fat es in the fire;’ a heedless harum-scarum fool of a
woman hurred away to meetan without takan care to see that the
hatch-boards were down snug upon the beams. Whilst she was out, the
exciseman, going his rounds, entered the cellar and saw the
contrivance. On puttan hes head up through the hatch, he saw that all
the sand, with which the floor had been covered, was swept away and a
good lot of salt left on the floor. On examinan other dwellans, over
fish-cellars, he found trap-hatches in nearly all of them. There’s ben
the devil of a row amongst them ever sence; all the other women are
ready to kill that thoughtless fool; and—serve her right. I pray to
goodness that they may soon find some other way to fool the plague of
an exciseman, I do.
“You know seine-owners are allowed what salt they require to cure their
fish, duty free. They seldom use all their stock and know what es——”
“Mother! Mother!” cried Lovey, “stop do, tellan about the excisemen;
never fear but the Bay women will be a match for them yet. You are
gettan all crankey because we have but little ‘fair-trade’ now; yet
live in hopes that times will mend, and tell us the old droll that Miss
Jenny twisted into her story of Bill’s feast.”
Over a while An Polly became more tranquil and told us the following
story, which she called “a mere bam of a Droll.”
AN OLD DROLL ABOUT A POOR TINNER’S FEAST.
What the miller’s wife said of the old “droll” about a tinner’s feast
was to the following effect:—
A poor tinner was determined to keep his parish feast as well as he
could, that he mightn’t be looked down on, and sneered at by his
comrades. He killed his pig before it was as fat as it should be; sold
one side in Hallantide market; and left the other home to be put in the
“kool” against winter. A piece of beef and other things were bought to
keep a decent feast. The tinner whilst stopping at the Market Cross, in
the Green Market, fell in with a Zennor man who had been an old
comrade. The Santuster asked him into the public-house to take a pint,
and they had pint upon pint, all at the tinner’s cost; the other never
once offered to stand treat; yet the tinner was so glad to have met his
old mate that he invited him over to feast, and the other said he’d
come, with a half a word of asking.
The tinner’s wife put all the pork left at home in salt, except the
“leans,” and saved them to make a good pie the Feasten Sunday. She made
the “hinges” (liver and light) and other things serve them till then.
On Feasten Day the beef was boiled with such vegetables as were liked
in broth; and dumplings made of great Hallan apples; a good “leans of
pork pie” and “figgy” pudding baked. She had made a good cake on
Feasten Eve; and that, when cold, had been placed upon a shelf over the
window, just opposite the table.
They waited a good bit after their usual dinner-time, and, no feaster
having arrived, the tinner began to think he might have promised to
come on the Monday (he didn’t remember clearly what passed between them
in the public-house;) so his wife laid by the beef, the pie, and the
pudding till next day, in case the feasters might then come, so as to
be provided for them. They made their own dinner, and a very good one
too, of broth and the apple dumplings.
When she was going to take the table-cloth off, in came the Zennor man
and his wife. The tinner thought then he must have asked his old mate
to bring her. Next came in half-a-dozen or more children. “Thusey
(these) arn’t all mine,” said the feaster; “some of ‘themey’ are her
sisters cheldran” pointing to his wife; “but they cried to go to feast
too, as their cousins were goan.”
The tinner’s wife said nothing, and the children took the window-seat,
without telling, that being their place at home.
All the tinner’s children had gone away out to play with their
companions. The feaster and his wife being seated on the form outside
the table, the beef, pork-pie, and such vegetables as were then in use
were placed on the board.
“You needn’t cut away the beef for the cheldran,” said the Zennor man,
“give them a basin of brath a piece.”
“No, we waan’t have brath,” cried the youngsters, “for we’ll have flesh
too.”
In short, beef and pie were soon served out and devoured. The tinner’s
wife had, happily, kept her pudding in the spence out of sight, when
she found that her feasters would neither eat bread nor vegetables with
their meat. On turnips, carrots, and cabbage being offered them, “No,
no, thank ’e, all the same,” said they, “for we’ve plenty of ‘themey’
home: we can eat the fat with the lean, and the whole will go down
together, honey sweet.”
There was nothing left on the table, in the way of meat, but the
beef-bones, almost bare.
The pie was all eaten, and the children were licking out the dish, as
they did at home, when in came an old couple and seated themselves on a
bench at the lower end of the board.
“We arn’t come to feast,” said the old man, “for we wern’t asked, and
we’ve had dennar hours ago; but granny couldn’t rest for thinkan about
the cheldran, fearan they might run into shafts and other dangerous
places over this way. After you have all finished your dennar, we’ll
sing to ’e, for I and the old oman both belong to our Church choir.
“You know, I spose, that Zennor people have always been famous singers,
and et must be long ago when a meremaid left the sea, changed her
shape, and came to Church, dressed like a lady, all to hear our
singers. She ‘comed,’ Sunday after Sunday, and singed so sweet herself
that she, at last, enticed away a young fellow called Mathey Trewella,
son to the church’warn, and neither of them have ever ben sen
sence—that es, upon land, for I waan’t tell ’e a word of a lie and know
et. You’ve heard, I spose, that in rememberance of this meremaid, her
form, as sen in the sea, or of another like her, was carved on the
bench-end on which she sat and singed so sweet right opposite Trewella
up in the singan-laft (gallery); and even our cheldran are born
singers, as you shall hear bem by, you shall.”
“We want more flesh, granfer, we do,” cried the young singers.
“And seeman to me, I cud eat a mouthful of beef, too,” said granny; “ef
you cud cut a little off themey bones. I like to pick the bones, for
you know we say the nearer the bone the sweeter the flesh.”
The tinner placed a pewter platter, with all that remained of the beef,
before this dear old couple: then the old man took from his pocket a
clasp knife and scraped the bones, when the youthful singers again
cried, “We want more flesh, granny, we haan’t had half enough.”
The old grandame, in her eagerness to clutch the scrapings, got her
fingers cut, and slapped the old man’s face with her bloody hand. The
tinner’s wife had a tender heart, poor woman; and, being grieved to
hear the children crying, put a “baker” on the “brandes,” took from the
bussa (earthen crock) a piece of nice streaky pork, and fried it for
them.
Just then it was that the younger Zennor woman, in looking about for
something more, spied the feasten cake, on a shelf over the window.
“Whatever ded ’e put that cake there, right in my sight for?” cried
she, turning round to the tinner’s wife, and then said to her own
husband, sitting beside her; “Hold my hands behind my back, do, that I
mayn’t touch myself anywhere in sight till I’ve had a piece of that
cake; for fear I mark the cheeld weth that cake. I’m in as bad a
condition now as the poor oman who langed for treacle, and dipped the
twopenny loaf she had in her hand, into a barl of tar, and dedn’t find
out her mistake till she had eaten nearly all the bread,—her mind was
so runan upon treacle, poor dear oman.”
The cake was at once taken down and cut up. The feasters all, young and
old, wanted a piece, and nothing of it was left—not even the “bruyans”
(crumbs.) Then the youthful singers cried again because their bellies
ached.
“Don’t ’e cry, my dears,” said their granny, “the ‘quaffan’
(fulsomeness) will pass away when on the road home; hush dears, we
shan’t stop much longer.”
When they had sat to eat, drink, and “squat” (stuff themselves) till
they were ready to burst, they all straddled away as fast as they were
able with the heavy loads they bore in their stomachs, and without so
much as once asking the tinner to their own feast in return.
“Now, any one with a grain of gumption may see,” said the old miller’s
wife, “how Jenefer made up her story out of this old ‘bam,’ just like
the actors in a guise-dance changing parts. The passon do say that our
drolls and guise-dances are hundreds of years old, and well worth
preserving.”
It appeared, from what the old miller’s wife afterwards said that Miss
Jenefer was crazy on the subject of her kindred, and that she had none
so near as to be called relations. If any persons crossed her, when
mounted on this hobby, she would go at them, “full tilt,” like she did
at the poor woman who spoke scornfully of a “planched” parlour, or of
its owners, whom the crazed old damsel claimed as her kinsfolk.
Yet most people liked the old maid very well and humoured her whims, as
far as they could remember them.
Like a true Santuster she’ll never bear a “coresy” (a grudge, or
ill-will) against anybody for long, but have it out and be friends.
Besides she’s just as good a story-teller as the old blind droll teller
and ballad-singer, Anthoney James, who takes a turn round the county
every summer, and passes the winters in Plymouth, with other old
pensioners. When living there he is often fetched to gentlemen’s houses
where there is company who like to hear him tell his “Drake Droll,” and
sing old ballads all about Sir Francis and privateering.
The arrival of An Polly’s big happy-looking son put an end to her
stories, for the time.
A MADRON FEAST OF FIFTY YEARS AGO.
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 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 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 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
‘They cut the meat both ready and raw,
Skim the fat, and pinch the dough;’
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 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 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.
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.
R O T A S
O P E R A
T E N E T
A R E P O
S A T O R
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.
ZENNOR HEARTHSIDE STORIES.
“And each, in turn, would some fond theme relate;
Not of perplexing plans to mend the State,
But seriously renew some oft-told tale,
Or ancient legend of some spectre pale,
Or wondrous deeds by their good fathers done,
And stories strange, long passed, denied by none.”
John Williams.
Being on the road to Zennor with a stranger to Cornwall, who wished to
see all he could of the place and people, we had the good luck to fall
in with a very intelligent old miner, returning to his home from Ding
Dong. He at once entered into conversation with that ease and candour
for which the true Cornish have ever been remarkable.
Our destination for the night being Zennor churchtown, and his cottage
not being far out of our road, we gladly accepted his invitation to
accompany him home and rest awhile; the more so as we were soon
sensible that our companionship was mutually agreeable.
Our comrades’ constant flow of joke and story, told in the quaint way
so peculiar to Droll-tellers of the West, made the time pass
unobserved, until we found that night was closing around us as we sat
by his fireside, when (wishing to retain some of the tinner’s peculiar
words, old proverbs, and the novel points of some rare drolls) the
stranger produced pencil and paper. The writing materials seemed to
suggest
‘A chield’s amang ye, taking notes,
And faith he’ll prent it,’
as our very communicative friend ‘fought shy’ all at once. After we had
assured him that nothing of what he told us should be published without
his consent, he gave the reason for his sudden reticence; which, as he
no longer objected to taking notes, I will give in his own language.
My old friend began by saying, “The reason I felt a dislike to your
writing down any of the foolish drolls I have been telling is because
many have lately published stories pretended to be Cornish which would
make strangers think us void of common sense, and that our lingo is
such a gibberish as was never jabbered in this world nor any other.
They should remember the old saying about foul birds dirting their own
nests. True, I remember the time when many used more old Cornish words,
and spoke broader than we do now; as, for example, in St. Just, where I
was born and bred. In the ‘daddy,’ ‘mammy,’ and ‘porridge’ days we
called the cape the caape; and the hall we called the hale. Then, over
a while we got a good schoolmaster among us, and came to ‘father,’
‘mother,’ and ‘broth.’ We learned to say the ‘cape’ and ‘hall,’ just
like other folks. At last, what they called good times came, and, would
ye believe it? many of the St. Tusters,—the ‘red-tailed droans,’—got so
rich and proud that nothing would do but they must send their boys and
girls away to boarding school. When they came back it was nothing but
‘pa,’ ‘ma,’ and ‘soup,’ and ‘will you take a walk down to the keep?’
The poor old ‘hale’ was then refined into ‘hele,’ with their confounded
mincing, unless they called it a ‘parlour.’ A ‘parlour,’ forsooth. It
was but the old hale, make the most of it. Besides, I was rather shy
when the paper came in sight, because we have many manners and customs
which appear singular to strangers, when they first come among us,
although we, who are raised in the midst of them, think all our ways
quite natural, and that it must be the same everywhere else. Faith,
before a spell of bad times came, and sent me and a good many other
Cousin Johneys off to the Lakes and Mineral Point for a time, where I
believe many of us would have stopped and sent home for our families if
it were not for the cursed kick-up the Yankies made about their
darkies, and old Virginia’s shore. Well, before we crossed the
herring-pool I was as bad as the old woman down in St. Ives, who was
four score and had never been over the hill farther than the top of the
Stennack, before Whitfield came one Sunday to preach on Trecroben, when
all the town went to hear him. The old dame, among the rest, reached
the top of the hill, and looking round, declared she never thought the
world was half so large before, and supposed the hills she could see
far away must be in France, or Spain, or perhaps some of the foreign
countries she had read of in the Bible.
“I found when I came back from Yankee-land that a lot of our Cousin
Johneys who had learned to read and write a little had been telling
what they called Cornish stories to enlighten strangers; but, the
traitors, they have been telling such a lot of stuff as is only likely
to turn their own country and comrades into ridicule. Those who try to
make fun of their mates for the amusement of strangers, or for the sake
of showing off their own fancied superiority, should have their
windpipes slit, or their bread-bags ripped up, the dastardly crew.”
When we were about to leave, our old friend said “My dears, if you must
go to Zennor churchtown for the night, let me beg of ye don’t take the
people you may meet with there for a fair sample of Cornish folks;
that’s the only place in the County where the cow ate the bell-rope and
no wonder the poor half-starved thing should have gone into the belfry
and eaten the straw rope that’s fixed to their old crazy kettle, for
their cattle are half-starved in winter and when they die off in spring
they are sure to think they were bewitched, and off they go to the
pellar to know who the old crone is that owes them a grudge? The church
is well worth seeing, if they have not destroyed the curious old
carved-work that used to be there. You need not be surprised if they
have, as they but lately allowed one of their largest quoits
(cromlechs) to be broken up and carried off.
“In the next parish, where they live on fish and potatoes every day,
with conger-pie for a change on a Sunday they arn’t much better.
“Towednack people say that the devil would never let them raise their
tower any higher—a good thing to have some one to put the fault on, if
it’s only Old Nick; but, whatever he should get up a storm and blow the
stones down for, if they only attempt to place pinnacles on their
stumpy tower, it’s hard to say; yet such is the story Towednack folks
will tell ye.
“About St. Ives, too, the less said the better. I wouldn’t advise you
to go there, unless you can bear the sight and smell of all that’s
filthy, without having your stomach turned.
“But, Lord, what can one expect of the people who whipped the hake
round the market? When you come round to Lelant you will get among
civilized people again, and it’s well worth going farther to see
Trecroben hill and its giant’s castle, with the giant’s chair on Trink
hill, and many other places, which you have no doubt heard of.” We
passed a few days, however, very pleasantly amongst Zennor folk; and
gleaned the following stories, &c., of this section from them.
We reached Zennor churchtown about eight o’clock, and found very fair
accommodation at the public-house; as good, indeed, as one might expect
in such a retired district.
By the kitchen fire, were seated four elderly men, who appeared to be
well pleased with their ale and each others company. The chief talker
of these four old cronies was the captain or manager of Zennor
tin-stamps.
He said much about the witches and tin-streamers who lived in Trewey or
Trewey-bottom, long ago; and of Kerrow and other ancient hamlets, with
the people who dwelt there in days of yore.
During the evening, Cap’n Henny, as they called him, spoke of a retired
seaman who had been much troubled by a shipmate’s ghost, until he
plucked up courage and spoke to his old comrade’s spirit. One story
brought up another, till it was near midnight, when the company left
for their homes.
The hostess said, that Jackey (her husband) was gone over to Trevidja
to gulthise [8], if he should be home to-morrow, he would tell us some
stories she believed to be true, because her husband knew the people
the stories were told of; “but as for Uncle Henny’s,” said she, “they
are all, or nearly all, about people who lived so long ago that one
don’t know whether they’re true or no.”
The schoolmaster referred to, Mr. John Davey, was well versed in
various branches of mathematics, and took good care that his pupils
should be thoroughly grounded in the most practically useful problems.
Many young miners of St. Just acquired such a taste for geometry about
this time that the boards, &c., near mine-workings were often found
covered with diagrams from Euclid. They hit on the Chinese method of
demonstrating the famous 47th problem, 1st book, by drawing the diagram
to a scale, producing the squares of the three sides, dividing them
into small squares by scale, thus proving that the sum of the squares
of the two lesser sides was equal to the square of the larger. With
many other problems of the same class, they took similar practical
means of demonstration and were not slow to see their application. Mr.
Davey and his pupils also took great pride in answering mathematical
queries proposed in the ‘Ladies and Gentlemen’s Diary,’ and other
magazines of this period. Nor did he neglect general literature for the
more practical subjects, as an anecdote, which was told me by a pupil
of Mr. Davey, will prove:—This young man was much addicted to spending
his evenings in public-houses for the sake of having company and
excitement more than from any love of drink.
Being in Penzance Market, and seeing some curious old books,
illustrated with rare engravings, and knowing that Mr. Davey was fond
of such works, he bought two or three volumes for the sake of
gratifying the old gentleman, not attempting to understand them
himself. One was an odd volume of Shakespeare, containing some of the
historical plays; another Spenser’s Faerie Queene; the other
Goldsmith’s poems and plays. Mr. Davey pointed out the most beautiful
passages in the plays of the royal Henrys, and explained the history of
the time of these dramas, helping him at the same time to enjoy the
beauties of Fairy-land and all its revelries. The young miner no longer
wanted public-house amusements. Before the winter was over, with a
small portion of the money he would have wasted, but for the delight he
had in reading the old volumes over and over again, he bought complete
editions of Shakespeare, Spenser, &c., and soon acquired a good
acquaintance with many of the best English authors.
A few years afterwards he received a hurt at the mine, which disabled
him for hard work, when he opened a school in Buryan Churchtown, which
procured him a comfortable maintenance, and his greatest pleasure
seemed to be to speak of his old master with love and gratitude.
No doubt much of the superior intelligence of St. Just men of the
present time is owing to the training of the excellent old
schoolmaster, who was altogether a remarkable man for the time and
place. We want more such schoolmasters and fewer preachers in the West.
THE SEAMAN’S GHOST.
James Botterell, one of the St. Just family of that name, after having
served many years aboard a privateer when he was a young man, in
Bonaparte’s time, settled in Zennor, about fifty years ago. Shortly
after he left sea, he was much troubled with a drowned shipmate’s
ghost. Towards the morning part of a stormy winter’s night, he was
aroused by three loud raps on his chamber window; and, on raising his
head, he saw standing by his bedside the apparition of one John Jones,
who had been his favourite comrade—looking pale and sad, and,
apparently, dripping wet. In a few minutes it disappeared with the
misty light which surrounded it.
Next day James tried to persuade himself that the vision might be
merely a troubled dream, but the apparition continued to come on each
succeeding night, stopping longer than at first. There was also much
noise and disturbance in and around his dwelling, by day as well as by
night.
Over a week or so the ghost, often casting an angry look at the man,
followed him about in broad daylight, so that James became weary of his
life. His friends advised him to speak to the ghost and have
confidence, as they had always been good friends; they told him that a
spirit would never speak until spoken to; and they believed that his
shipmate merely wanted him to do something that the ghost was unable to
perform. Moreover, they warned him that there was danger to be
apprehended when a spirit was angered by delay in speaking to it.
At length James plucked up courage, and one day, being at work in a
field, when his old mate’s ghost stood by him—as usual, looking sad and
angry by turns—he spoke, and said, “Tell me, John Jones, what shall I
do to give thee rest?” The spirit replied, “It is well thou hast
spoken, for I should have been the death of thee if thou hadst much
longer refused to speak! What grieved and vexed me most was to see that
thou seemedst to fear thy old comrade, who always liked thee the best
of all his shipmates.”
“I no longer fear thee, Jack,” replied James; “and wish I could grasp
that hand of thine as in times gone by.” Indeed, he now felt no more
dread of his messmate’s ghost than if he were still a living man. The
spirit, looking pleased, said, “Now I see thee art like thyself again,
staunch and true to thy comrade in life and death. Listen and learn why
I am come to seek thy aid. The other stormy night, a few minutes before
I first appeared at thy bedside, I was on board a good ship in the Bay
of Biscay, with a strong gale and a rolling sea. In clewing up a
topsail, the ship gave a lurch: I lost my hold, fell overboard, and was
drowned before anybody noticed my mishap. When sinking I thought of
thee. Now much of my prize-money is in a chest, left in Plymouth at a
public-house well-known to thee—the one we used most to frequent, when
everything was in common between us. My son, I want thee to go thither;
take my chest to another house; pay what I owe to various people in
Plymouth, and keep what remains for thyself. I’ll meet thee there and
direct thee how to act.”
Jim having promised to do all that was required, Jack’s ghost looked
happy, and a moment after said, “I wish thee well, mate, till we meet
again,” and disappeared.
Early next morning James took a strong young horse and rode away to
Plymouth. It was after candlelighting of the second night when he
arrived there, and put up at an inn—a short distance from the one where
the chest was left.
Whilst he lay awake, thinking how he should proceed on the morrow,
Jones appeared by his bedside, and, as if knowing what passed in the
man’s mind, said, “Don’t ’e think, my son, that the landlady will make
any difficulty about taking away the chest, for she don’t know, d’ye
see, that it contains valuables, nor that I shipped aboard an Indiaman
and got drowned a few weeks ago. But she remembers how—not long
since—we wore each other’s clothes and shared each other’s rhino, just
as brothers should. Tell her I’m in town and will see her before I
leave! To-morrow bring here the chest and I’ll direct ’e how to deal
with my creditors; and now good night, mate.” Saying this he vanished.
The landlady was very glad to see James, and more so to have the
sailor’s chest taken out of her way; told him to give her love to
Captain Jones (as she called him), and to say she hoped he wouldn’t
fail to call before he left port. The chest being opened, there was
nothing to be seen in it but the seaman’s best clothing; for all the
money was concealed in secret drawers of the skibbet, and under a false
bottom. The ghost accompanied James—though invisible to others—all the
time, until the business was settled. Then it left him—without saying
good bye, however.
James went over to Dock. Whilst he was there admiring the shipping, on
turning around he saw Jones close beside him. If he had been visible to
other people they would have taken him for an able seaman in his prime,
for he appeared rigged out in brand new sailor’s garb and looked hale
and hearty as when alive. “I’ve just passed by the old inn,” said he,
“showed myself as I now appear, and kissed my hand to our old hostess,
who was at her work near an open window; but, before she could reach
her door to welcome home the man she used to admire, lo! I’m here. So
you see it’s convenient to be a ghost!”
James didn’t think so, however; and they walked on in silence till they
came near a fine ship ready to sail on a long voyage. Then the spirit
stopped, and, looking sorrowfully in the man’s face said, “My dear Jim,
I will now bid thee farewell. I’m off to sea again, for, with an
occasional trip to the Green, I know no way of passing the time that
better suits me. Thou wilt nevermore see me whilst thou art alive, but
if thou thinkest of me at the hour of thy death we shall meet, as soon
as the breath leaves thy body. My poor clay lies deep in the Bay of
Biscay, and when thine is laid in Zennor churchyard we will rove the
seas together. A truehearted tar has nothing to fear, and now my son
adieu.” A moment after James saw him glide aboard the ship, and in the
twinkling of an eye he vanished.
James returned to the inn, feeling very wisht, and his sadness
continued till he came in sight of Zennor Hills. Then he felt in pretty
good heart; and well he might, for hadn’t he brought home a bundle of
capital clothes that he found in his comrade’s chest and many more
pounds in his pocket than when he left Zennor? But the horse was never
fit for anything again, from having been ridden to and from Plymouth in
less than a week.
Sailors say that ships are often haunted with drowned seamen’s ghosts,
and they believe that such vessels are seldom wrecked, for the friendly
spirits give warning of approaching tempests, and tokens of other
dangers to their craft.
Cornish Sailors’ Isle of Avalon. — It is known to most persons who have
mixed much with Cornish sailors that they often speak of the “Green,”
which they frequently call Fiddler’s Green amongst themselves. They
describe this place as an “Isle of the Blest,” in which honest Tars,
after the toils of this life, are to enjoy unmixed bliss with their old
comrades and favourite fair ones. In orchards of fruit, ever ripe, they
are to be entertained with music, dancing, and everything else in which
they delighted in their lifetime. The idea of this Fairy Land is
probably derived from Celtic mythology, as well as that of
“The island valley of Avilion,
Where falls not hail, or rain, or snow;
Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies
Deep-meadow’d, happy, fair with orchard lawns,
And bowery hollows crown’d with summer seas.”
Thither King Arthur was wafted in a barge with three fair queens when
his table, man by man,
“Had fallen in Lyonness about their Lord.”
Breton and Welsh sailors have similar notions.
THE OLD WOMAN’S GHOST.
Not long since there lived at Trewey, in Zennor, a poor and aged woman,
who much loved her neighbour’s little girl, and, when dying, bequeathed
to her a shawl, which was all she had to leave of any value.
The departed woman’s wish, however, was disregarded; and a few evenings
after her funeral, the child would burst out in shrieks. On being asked
what made her screech so, “Oh! there’s An Katty,” cried she, “with her
face tied up in a white nackan and nothing on her but a sheet!” Thus
the old woman’s ghost continued to haunt her; until one evening a
strong man, of great faith, took the child and carried her out of
doors, when, over a while, the little girl exclaimed, “Oh, there she es
again.” Then the man saw the spirit too, and said to her, “In the name
of goodness I command thee to tell me why thou art come back to trouble
this cheeld?” The spirit answered, “Because the shawl isn’t given to
the cheeld, I cannot rest.” Then the man said he would see her wish
complied with, bade her depart in peace, and told her that if she
hadn’t been “an old fool of a sperat, she would have scared the ones
who kept the shawl and have left the cheeld alone!” By that, the ghost
had vanished, without saying another word.
The same night the shawl was given to the cheeld, and Trewey folks
thought that all was then settled with the old woman; but, in the
course of two or three evenings, the little girl, being out in the
town-place with her playmates, was taken up over the furze-ricks by
invisible means, and borne away out of sight in a minute. The other
children ran home frightened.
She often stayed out in neighbours’ houses for hours together, so her
mother didn’t miss her till bedtime. Then, as the woman was going to
look for her, in she came, with only one shoe on.
Being questioned as to where she had been to lose her shoe, the child
answered that she didn’t know—only that she was taken up over the
“housen” and carried away as easy as if she had been rocked in a cradle
to a Churchtown with lots of trees in it, and laid in the churchyard on
a new grave; she saw nobody, but heard like singing around her;
somebody kissed her; then she shivered with cold, and was again carried
up over the trees and back to her own town-place. She believed that her
shoe was loosened as she skimmed the tree-tops, but where it dropped
she couldn’t tell.
From what the child said, all Trewey people thought she had been taken
to Ludgvan, where the old woman was buried; and it was put beyond doubt
next day, when her missing shoe was found on the old woman’s grave.
There it was left; for the old woman “might want something belonging to
the child, to put her to rest,” and nobody would risk bringing her back
again for the sake of a shoe.
And she has “kept quiet” from that day to this.
The stranger, by the way of applauding this story, or the droll-teller,
exclaimed, “Hear, hear, and cheers!” “Iss, they’re all in rags and
tatters,” said the landlady, who was laying the table, “es the
confounded children’s work; they’re always pullan the heer (hair) out
of the cheers, od drat tham.” When the gentleman explained that no
allusion was made to her chairs, the jolly dame laughed heartily at her
mistake, and speaking to the story-teller said, “Cap’n Henny, don’t ’e
tell any more stories about sperats, lev es have the St. Ives mutton
feast, or somethan cheerful.”
Then the man who had told the two preceding drolls recited the
following verses.
THE MUTTON FEAST AT ST. IVES.
An old tradition says that a flock of sheep were blown from Gwithian
sands into St. Ives Bay, and that St. Ives fishermen caught them,
believing them to be a new variety of fish, either with their nets, or
with hook and line, and brought them ashore as their night’s catch.
About eighty years ago, Mr. Fortescue Hitchins wrote the following
verses on this tradition.
Sometime ago in days of yore,
On Cornwall’s northern sandy shore,
A borough town, as some folks say,
Stood on the margin of a bay;
And through all the country round
Its folks for wisdom were renowed.
East of this famous borough’s bay
A barren, sandy common lay,
Where the farmers naught could keep,
Except some flocks of half-starved sheep.
One dusky night the wind blew high,
Black, lowering clouds obscured the sky:
With furious sway the eastern blast
Swept all before it as it past;
Storm-driven stores of frighted sheep
Were hurried down the sandy steep;
Nor could they face the sweeping sway,
Which sent them headlong into sea.
Bad are the winds, as all must know,
That never good to any blow;
Since two or three, at dawn of day,
Wreck-hunters ranging round the bay,
With joy beheld the fleecy flock
Lie dead around on sand and rock.
They, with good Ammon, when they spied,
Opened their throats and “heava!” cried.
This well-known sound aroused them all,
And out they tumbled great and small:
Fish-bulkers, chimney-sweepers, sailors,
Parson, clerk, tinkers, and tailors,
Coopers, crabpot-makers, cobblers,
Hewers, hake-whippers, and hoblers,
Boat-menders, seiners, and warp-hawlers,
And all the gape-mouth heava bawlers.
With joy they see the mutton store,
And “heava” sound from shore to shore:
So counting honestly the sheep
A God-send from the stormy deep,
All hands turned-to, with wonderous pain,
To share the unexpected gain;
Brought home of mutton such a store
Which lasted them ten days or more;
And from each hide made shift to pull
Almost a pound-and-half of wool.
Now, mutton roasted, mutton boiled,
And mutton fried, and baked, and broiled,
Which, savoury, smoaking from a dish,
Had almost drowned the smell of fish.
Five days they watched the foaming tide,
Hoping more sheep might yet be spied.
And now and then their longing eyes
With joy salute the mutton prize;
And when, at length, a heavy sea
Has fairly thrown them in their way,
Surrounded like a flock of crows,
Which carrion want to fill their maws.
Now those who have to feed on fish
Ten minutes took to enjoy that dish;
An hour now to dinner linger,
To pick the bones and lick their fingers.
These thankful folks were heard to say—
“O blessed was that happy day
That brought such stormy sway to sweep
Into our Bay such flocks of sheep!
O might such storms, ten times a year,
Send such good store of such good cheer!
O that the storm would also bring
A few good ankers from the sling,
Buried by smugglers in the sea,
And throw them plump into our Bay!
Then we lazy lubbers all
Might lean our backs against the wall,
And thankfully enjoy the sun,—
That would be glorious lazy fun!”
“Heava” is shouted from the high ground on which a watch is kept for
pilchards as soon as the “huers” signal their approach. These signals
are made to seiners in the boats, by the means of bushes, or
wire-frames covered with white cloth.
The cheering sound of “heava” no sooner reached St. Ives than it
resounded from street to street, and soon reached the country.
It has been said that this word “heava” was either a contraction of “we
have them, or here they are;” but its origin is uncertain.
THE WITCH OF KERROW.
About seventy years ago, Sir Rose Price often started a hare near
Kerrow, in Zennor. His dogs would run it into the village, where it
would always escape by entering a “bolt” (drain) that ran from a pool
up under a house, not far from the pool. At last, one day the hunters
loaded their guns to hinder it from escaping by that strange way.
Having started the hare it took the usual course, when one of the
guards shot at it, but didn’t kill it, for it went up town and entered
the bolt as usual. Sir Rose lifted the latch and, followed by some
others, entered the dwelling to ask leave to open the bolt, when lo!
there, sitting on the hearthstone, they beheld an old woman of the
house, much bleeding about her head and face, with her hair all hanging
down. Beside her, on the chimney-stool, sat a monstrous big black cat,
with his back up and eyes like coals of fire, showing his teeth as if
ready to spring at the intruders, who turned tail and went away,
without speaking a word, when they saw how they had hunted and shot a
witch. And not one of these hunters ever prospered after! At least so
runs the legend.
FAIRIES ON THE EASTERN GREEN.
Returning somewhat late on the following evening, from a long ramble to
see remarkable places in the neighbourhood, we found the manager of
Zennor stamps and the other old cronies seated in their accustomed
places by the fireside.
Shortly after the landlord came in from his work. He was a sturdy
fellow of fifty or thereaway, burnt as brown as a berry. Most of his
time was passed at work on his farm; he had a good size one for that
part of Zennor, and the public-house was left to his wife’s management.
During the evening, after much coaxing, our host told the story which
his wife had spoken of as a true one: telling how a company of
smugglers, of his acquaintance, had been driven away from Market-jew
Green by small-folks (fairies.)
There is some hope that all the fairy-folk have not yet entirely
forsaken this neighbourhood, as there are persons now living who have
seen them dancing and holding their revels on the Eastern Green within
the last fifty years. At that time, however, there were many acres of
grass-grown sandy banks there; and a broad belt of soft green-sward,
which skirted the carriage road, afforded a pleasant walk from
Chyandour to Market-jew bridge.
Great part of this green has now been swept away by the waves, and much
of what the sea spared has been enclosed by the grasping owners of
adjacent land, though their right to this ancient common is very
questionable.
The following fairy adventure was told to me a short time since by a
grave elderly man who heard it related by the principal person
concerned in it.
Tom Warren, of Paul, was noted as one of the boldest smugglers round.
On a summer’s night, about forty years ago, he and five other men
landed a boat-load of smuggled goods at a short distance from Long
Rock. The brandy, salt, &c., having been taken above high-water mark,
two of the men departed for Market-jew, where their best customers
lived, and one went over to Newtown to procure horses that the goods
might be secured before daybreak.
Tom and the other two, being very tired, lay down by a heap of goods,
hoping to get a doze whilst their comrades were away. They were soon
disturbed, however, by the shrill “tweeting” of “feapers” (slit quills
or reeds, which give a shrill note when blown in.) Besides there was a
constant tinkling, just like old women make by rattling pewter plates
or brass pans to frighten their swarming bees home, or to make them
settle.
The men thought this noise might be from a company of young folks
keeping up a dance on the Green till a very late hour. Tom went to see
who they were and to send them home, for it wasn’t desirable for
everybody to pry into the fair traders’ business. Having passed the
beach, he mounted a high sand-bank to have a look round, as the music
seemed very near him.
At a little distance, in hollows, between sand-banks, he saw glimmering
lights, and persons like gaily dressed dolls skipping about and
whirling round. Going nearer, he beheld, perched on a pretty high bank
in their midst, a score or so of little old-looking chaps; many of them
blew in mouth-organs (Pan’s pipes); some beat cymbals or tambourines;
whilst others played on jew’s-harps, or tweeted on May whistles and
feapers.
Tom noticed that the little men were rigged all in green, except their
scarlet caps (small people are so fond of that coloured head-gear that
they used to be nick-named “red-caps.”) But what struck him and tickled
his fancy most was to see the little, old, grave-looking pipers with
their long beards wagging.
In moving their mouths over the reeds, stuck in their breasts, they
looked more like buck goats than anything human, so Tom said; and that
for the life of him he couldn’t forbear shouting—“Will ’e be shaved—
will ’e be shaved old red-caps?”
He hailed them twice, and was about to do so again when all the
dancers, with scores and hundreds more than he noticed at first sprang
up, ranged themselves in rank and file; armed themselves in an instant
with bows and arrows, spears and slings; then faced about, looking like
vengeance. The band being disposed alongside, played a quick march, and
the troops of “spriggans” stamped on towards Tom, who saw them getting
taller as they approached him. Their threatening looks were so
frightful that he turned tail and ran down to his comrades, and roused
them, saying, “Put to sea for your lives. There’s thousands of small
people and bucca-boos ’most on our backs! They’ll soon surround us!”
Tom made off to the boat, and his comrades followed close at his heels;
but, on the way, a shower of pebbles fell on them, and “burned like
coals ’o fire wherever they hit them.”
The men pulled many fathoms from shore before they ventured to look up,
though they knew themselves safe when on the sea, because none of the
fairy tribe dare touch salt water.
At length, casting a glance landward, they saw, ranged along the shore,
a company of as ugly-looking creatures as they ever beheld, making
threatening gestures and vain endeavours to sling stones at them.
When a furlong or so from land, the men rested on their oars, and kept
watching their assailants, till near daybreak; then horses being heard
galloping along the road from Market-jew, the small people retreated to
the sand-banks and the smugglers rowed to land. Tom again shouted to
the retiring host, “We’ll shave ’e all, and cut your tails off, ef you
ever show here any more.” But the fairies disdained to notice his
impudence and presently disappeared.
The other smugglers, who were now on the beach with plenty of help, on
seeing their mates leaving the boat, inquired if the riding-officer had
hove in sight. In such a case smugglers usually took to sea that they
might not be known; they didn’t mind his seeing the goods, for the most
valuable would be secured before the king’s men came to take them.
After spileing an anker (tapping a keg) and treating all the neighbours
who came to help or purchase, or both, Tom related how they had to run
for their lives and take to sea in order to escape an army of
small-people. Some could scarcely believe it, though others thought the
story likely enow. All blamed Tom for mocking the fairies, and said bad
luck would cross his path, ere long, for that night’s work. Aye, and
their forebodings were verified before another summer came round.
However, without further mishap for that night, the goods were quickly
disposed of—the greater part in Market-jew, and the rest left at an old
tin work, near the Marsh, till wanted.
We have not heard of fairies having been seen on the Eastern Green
since they were thus shamefully derided by Tom Warren.
“They’re never was a better pare (company) of fair-traders than Tom and
his mates,” continued the landlord, “and they found good customers in
the old well-to-do farmers of Zennor, who dearly loved their toddy, the
Lord rest them.”
THE LAST THREATENED INVASION: COMMOTION AND FALSE ALARM IN THE WEST.
The landlady had told her husband, when he came in from his work, that
their stranger-guest much wished to hear our old drolls and songs; and
to see the remarkable places round about. That was the chief reason why
the master of the house was so desirous that the company might tell
something, of native growth, which a stranger might deem noteworthy.
Having told the fairy-tale, our host, addressing his wife, said “now
Jenny, I’ve told that story to please thee, tell us how Betty Stags was
served by a kindlier sort of spriggans (sprites).”
“When I’ve cleaned up a bit, perhaps I may,” replied she, “and Uncle
Honney (Hanibal) may sing us a song that while ef he will be so good.”
“That I wed, weth all my heart,” said an old man belonging to the
stamps, “ef we had one worth singan; but there’s none known, in these
parts, good for anything. Such cheerful songs and rare old ballads as
we used to sing, to lighten our labour, are all condemned now, and the
singer cried down as ‘carnal-minded.’ In place of them we hear nothan
but revival hymns, and I for one can’t make out any sense in them.”
“You have worked in bals up along as far as Dolcoath, or farther,” said
our host, “and I have surely heard ’e tell a song or an old ballad that
you had heard up that way long ago.”
“But the west es I can’t tell enough of’n to make out the rhymes,”
replied the old man; “I only remember that when I was a youngster
workan on the floors in Dolcoath, about the time that Boney was
expected to invade, and that his troops wed be landed here in the West;
et might be on Market-jew Green, or Gwenvor Sand, in Whitsand Bay, out
westward. Boney had flat-bottomed boats made, to be sent with the
transport ships, and in such boats his troops cud come ashore in
shallow water.”
“I only jest remember that time,” said another old man, “there was much
alarm amongst the farmers; the ‘guides’ were called out, and the cattle
branded on horns and hoofs, that they might be known to their owners,
when all the stock belongan to a neighbourhood, should be herded
together, and drivan away up along, as it was expected they wed, that
the enemy should not come at them.”
“Don’t ’e mind, too,” resumed Uncle Honney, “how notices were put upon
Church doors, and other places, forbiddan any bonfires to be made at
Midsummer, lest they might be mistaken for bickan-fires, [9] and give a
false alarm, like Santusters ded, when they thoft the French had one
night landed on Gwenvor Sand, where the Danes used to come ashore and
pillage the country round. There were trusses of dry furze kept upon
all the bickan-hills, ready for firan; it was the women in Santust
’Chtown who raised the alarm and caused the bickans to blaze from
Chapel Carn Brea to Plymouth; troops were dispatched from garrison, but
they didn’t know where to take to, lost their way west of Falmouth, and
were found down in Gweek, a week after ‘jousters’ and other market-folk
had brought news of this false alarm to Falmouth. About that time it
was when this song was often singed by tinners around Redruth.
“I don’t remember how the words were broft into rhymes mind ’e. Et said
how Englishmen had beaten the French over and over again; taken
countries they once ruled over, had them still, and meant to keep them
too. Ef Boney’s men landed upon Cornish shores, we wed beat them to
bruss. Then it was said how the French were a ‘heap of poor pelyacks’
[10] who, at home, had neither decent meat nor clothes; but were glad
to catch quilkans, [11] bullhorns, [12] and padgy-paws; [13] and to
stampy about in temberan shoes.
“The burden, or running verse, that came in at every four lines was
this:—
‘They shall not eat of our good meat,
Our pelchers and petates.’”
“There was an old Cornish Dialogue in verse, too,” said another old
man, “which gave much the same account.”
“I should dearly like,” said the visitor, “to get copies of that song
and dialogue, or of as much as is known of them.”
“That old piece Uncle Honney spoke of es forgotten among us,” replied
our host, “but I know another, not so old, that’s often told for
Christmas pastime, in place of a Guise-dance of St. George and the
Turkish Knight; we’ll get’n up for ’e now, the same as we do at
Christmastide; ef Jenny will be Mal Treloar, I’ll take the part of
Sandry Kemp.”
“That I will,” said our hostess, “and Uncle Honney can give me the word
when I may forget et, jest as he do to youngsters actan a Christmas
play; he’ll speak for the Cap’n, too, and say other bits requiran a
third speaker.”
The company having placed themselves as the landlady directed, gave the
following Cornish Dialogue:
MAL TRELOARE AND SANDRY KEMP KISS AND BECOME GOOD FRIENDS AGAIN:
OR BACKBITING CRULL OUTWITTED.
’Twas Kendle teenan, when jung Mal Treloare
Trudg’d hum from Bal, a bucken copper ore;
Her clathing hard and ruff, black was her eye,
Her face and arms like stuff from Cairn Kye.
Full butt she mit jung Sandry Kemp, who long
She had been token’d to, come from Ding Dong;
Hes jacket wet, his faace rud like his beard,
And through his squarded hat hes heer appeared.
She said, “Oh Kemp, I thoft of thee well leer,
Thees naw that daay we wor to Bougheehere,
That daay with ale and cakes, at three o’clock,
Thees stuff’d me so, I jist neen crack’d me dock:
Jue said to me, ‘Thee mayst depend thee life
I love thee, Mal, and thee shust be ma wife.’
And to ma semmen, tes good to lem ma naw
Whether the words were aal in jest or no.”
Sandry.—Why, truly, Mal, I like a thing did zay
That I wud have thee next Chewiden daay.
But zence that time I like a thing ded hear
Thees went wi’ some one down, I naw where;
Now es that fitty, Mal? What dost think?
Mal.—Od rat tha body, Sandry, who said so?
Now, faath and traath, I’ll naw afore I go;
Do lem ma naw the Gossenbary dog.
Sandry.—Why, then, Crull said jue wor down to Wheal Bog
With he and Tabban, and ded play some tricks
By dabben clay at jungsters makan bricks;
Aand that from there jue went to Aafe-waye house,
Aand drink’t some lecker. Mal, now there’s down souse.
Aand jue to he, like a think ded zay,
Jue wed have he, and I mait go away.
Mal.—I tell the lubber so! I to Wheal Bog!
I’ll scat hes chacks, the emprent, saucy dog.
Now hire me, Sandry Kemp, now down and full,
Ef thee arten hastes, the shust hire the whole.
Fust jue must naw, tes true as thee art theere,
Aant Blanch and I went to Golsinney feer.
Who overtookt us in the dusty road,
In common hum but Crull, the cloppen toad.
Zes he to Aant, “What cheer? Aant Blanch, what cheer?
Jue makes good coose, suppose jue ben to feer.”
“Why, hiss,” zes Aant, “ben there a pewer spur;
I wedn’t a gone ef nawed ed ben so fur.
I bawft a pair of shods for Sarah’s cheeld.”
By this time, lock! we cum jist to the field.
We went to clember up the temberen style,
(Haw keept his eye upon me all the while.)
Zes haw to Aant, “Then whos es thees braa maide?
Come tha wayst long, dasent be afraid.”
Then mov’d by my side, like a thing,
Aand pull’d my mantle, and jist touch’d my ching.
“How arry, jung woman?” zes haw. “How dost do?”
Zes I, “Jue saucy dog, what’s that to jue?
Keep off, jung lad, else thees have a slap.”
Then haw fooch’d some great big doat figs in me lap,
So I thoft, as haw had ben so kind,
Haw might go by Aant Blanch, ef haw had a mind.
Aand so haw ded, aand tookt Aant Blanch’s arm.
“Areah!” zes haw, “I dedn’t mane no harm.”
So then Aant Blanch and he ded talk and jest
Bout dabbing clay and bricks at Perran feast.
Sandry.—Ahah then, Mal, ’twas there they dabbed the clay?
Mal.—Plaase Faather, Kemp, tes true wot I do saay.
Aand hire me now, pla-sure, haw dedn’t budge
From Aanty’s arm tell jest this side Long Brudge.
Aand then zes he to Aant, “Shall we go in
To Aafe-way house, and have a dram of gin
Aand trickle mixt. Depend ol do es good,
Taake up the sweat and set to rights the blud.”
So Aant ded say, “Such things she dedn’t chuse,”
Aand squeeze my hand, aand loike a thing refuse.
So when we passed along by Wheal Bog moor,
Haw jumpt behind, and pok’t us in the door.
Haw caal’d for gin, aand brandy too, I think.
He clunk’d the brandy, we the gin ded drink.
So when haw wish’d good night as es the caase,
Haw kiss’t Aant Blanch, and jist neen touch’d my faace.
Now, Sandry Kemp, there’s nothing shure in this,
To my moinde, then, that thee shust taake amiss.
Sandry.—No fath, then Mal, ef this es all, aand true,
I had a done the same ef I was jue.
Mal.—Next time in any house I see or hear am,
I’ll down upon the plancheon, rat am, scat am,
Aand I will so poam am,—
Sandry.—Our Kappen’s there, just by thickey bush.
Hush! now Mally, hush!
Aand as hes here, so close upon the way
I wedent wish haw nawed what we ded zay,
Aand jett I dedent care, now fath and soul,
Ef so be our Kappen wor to hire the whole.
How arry Kappen? Where be going so fast?
Jure goin’ hum, suppose, juse in sich haste.
Kappen.—Who’s that than? Sandry, arten thee ashamed
To coosy so again? Thee wust be blamed
Ef thees stay here all night to prate wi’ Mal!
When tes thy cour, thee wusten come to Bal.
Aand thee art a Cobbe, I tell thee so.
I’ll tell the owners ef thee dosent go.
Sandry.—Why, harkee, Kappen, don’t skoal poor I,
Touch pipe a crum, jue’ll naw the reason why.
Coozen Mal aand I ben courtain bout afe a year.
Hould up tha head, Mal; don’t be ashamed, dost hire?
Aand Crull one day made grief ’tween I and she;
But he shall smart for it now, I swear by G——.
Haw told me lies, as round as any cup.
Now Mal and I have mit, we’ve made it up;
So, Kappen, that’s the way I stopt, I vow.
Kappen.—Ahah! I dedent giss the caase jist now.
But what dost think of that last batch of ore?
Sandry.—Why pewer and keenly gossen, Kappen sure;
I bleeve that day, ef Franky’s pair wornt drunk,
We shud had pewer stuff too from the sump.
But there, tes all good time, as people saay,
The flooken now, aint throw’d us far away;
So hope to have bra tummalls soon to grass.
How ded laast batch down to Jandower pass?
Kappen.—Why, hang thy body, Sandry, speed, I saay,
Thees keep thy clacker going till tes day.
Go speak to Mally now, jue foolish toad,
I wish both well, I’ll keep my road.
Sandry.—Good nightie, Kappen, then I wishee well.
Where artee, Mally? Dusten haw hire me, Mal?
Dusent go away, why jue must think of this,
Before we part, shure we must have a kiss.
She wiped her muzzle from the mundic stuff,
And he rubb’d his, a little stain’d with snuff.
Now then, there, good night Mal, there’s good night;
But, stop a crum.
Mally.—Good night.
Kappen.—Good night.
Kendle teenan, candle lighting.
Squarded hat, broken or cracked hat.
Lem ma knaw, let me know, tell me.
Wheal Bog, wheal, or, correctly spelt, huel, is old Cornish, and
signifies a mine or work.
Doat figs, broad figs.
A Cobbe, a simpleton, a bungler.
Bra tummalls, brave heaps, large piles of ore.
The guest, for whose entertainment the old men had furbished up their
memories, said, “that piece is a capital one, and it seems all the
better from the way in which you have told it. Your dialect is pleasant
to hear; it is softer and more musical than that of most other parts of
England.
“Many Cornish drolls remind me of Irish stories, which show similar
traits of character. I have seen a piece by Tregellas, a St. Ann’s man,
I suppose, as he says much about people in that parish and its
neighbourhood.
“There is one story of his which shows how prone Cornish people are to
stretch a point or two, as you call it. I mean that story of a boy
telling his mother there are scores and hundreds of cats caterwauling
upon the roof; his mother reproves him for making such an unreasonable
stretch, and sends him out to see how many are there; he returned, and,
condescending to tell the truth at last, says that he could ‘only see
grammar’s cat and ours.’
“An Irish story, called ‘The Three Geese,’ shows the habit of
augmenting the number of things, and of obstinacy in sticking to the
words said.
“I’ll tell the Irish story, if you’d like to hear it, as it’s told by
my old friend Patrick Kennedy.”
“We should all be delighted to hear et, I’m sure,” said the host.
“Then let us have a good large jug of toddy—half-a-gallon or so—that
all the company may drink together of the same, and make the story seem
less dry,” said the Irish gentleman.
A jorum of hot grog having been brought and served, all the company
wished the guest health, happiness, and a long life; and “may your
shadow never grow less,” added our host.
Then the following Irish story was told in native style.
THE THREE GEESE.
Oh, dear! O, dear! what headstrong crathers the womankind is! The more
you want them to do any thing that’s right, the surer they are not to
do it, unless the advice is given to a young girl by a gay deludher of
a young man something above her station, or to a mistress of a family
by some tay-dhrinking, gossiping, cabin-hunting, idle sthra that does
nothing but go about pretending to knit a stocking, and she does knit
it at the rate of four rounds in the day. It reminds me of the tailor
and his wife that were not satisfied without bringing trouble into
their cabin, when it pleased Providence not to be sending any. The poor
man was sitting contentedly on his board stitching away (I’m sure I
wish I knew how a tailor manages to keep his thraneens of legs the way
he does for so long), and his wife that was cabin-hunting may be,
bawled out, just as she was darkening the door, “Ah, you idle
sthronshuch! there you are sitting at your aise, and a hundred geese
trampling down our little oats; get up, you lazy drone, and drive them
away.” “Musha, I think,” says he, “you’re more at leisure yourself; but
rather than have a scolding match, here we go.” So getting up, he went
out, and when he looked to the field, “Arrah, woman,” says he, “what’s
on your eyes at all? I see but two geese.” “Two geese, inagh! purshuin’
to the goose less than fifty there, any way.” “Fifty? I wish I was as
sure of fifty guineas as that there is only two in it.” “Ah! goodness
help poor creatures of women with their tyrants of husbands! I tell you
up to your teeth, there is forty geese there destroying the oats, as
sure as there is one.” “Well, well, two, or forty, or a hundred, I had
better drive them off.”
When dinner came she poured out the potatoes, and laid his noggin of
milk and plate of butter out for him; but went and sat in the corner
herself, and threw her apron over her head, and began to sob. “Arrah,
Judy acushla,” says he, “what’s this for? come over and take your
dinner, and let us be thankful, instead of flying in God’s face.”
“N-n-n-no indeed, I w-w-w-will not. To say such a thing as that there
was only two ge-ge-ge-geese there when I reckoned a whole score!” “Oh!
to Halifax with them for geese: let them go and be shot, woman, and
come over to the table.” “Indeed and I will not till you own to the
truth.” Well not a bit did she eat; and when night came, she make a
shake down for herself, and would not gratify the poor tailor by
sleeping in her own good high-standing bed. Next morning she did not
rise; but when her husband spoke kindly, and brought some breakfast to
the bedside, she asked him to go for her mother and relations till
she’d take leave of them before she’d die, as there was no use living
any more, when all love was gone from him. “But, Judy dear, why do you
go on in this way? what have I done?” “Don’t you say there was only two
geese there, and at the very lowest there could not be less than a
dozen. Can’t you acknowledge the truth, you obstinate pig of a man, and
let us be at peace again?”
Instead of making any answer, he walked over to her mother’s house, and
brought her over, with two or three of her family; and they laid siege
to the wife, but they might as well be preachin’ to a stone wall; and
she almost persuaded them that her husband was to blame. “Now call
him,” says she, “and I’ll insense you who is wrong. Darby, on the nick
of your soul, and if you don’t intend to send me to my grave, speak the
truth like a Christian, and don’t be heapin’ sins on your miserable
head. I’ll leave you no back door, for I’ll only insist on three geese,
though I’m sure there was six at the very least; wasn’t there three
geese in the field when I called you out!” “Och, Judy asthore? never
mind: let there be three-and-thirty if you like, but don’t let us be
idlin’ and tormentin’ our people here. Get up in the name of goodness
and eat a bit.” “But wasn’t there three geese there, I say, Darby?”
“Ah, dickens a one but two if you go to that.” “Oh, Vuya, Vuya! isn’t
this a purty story? Go home, go home, all of yez, and bid Tommy
Mulligan prepare my coffin, and bring it over about sun-down, and just
give me one night’s dacent waking: [14] I won’t ax the two, for I don’t
wish to give so much trouble to the neighbours, and indeed I think I
couldn’t stand the ungratitude and conthrāriness of them that ought to
know better, and feel for a body; and after all that I done and slaved
for him, and gave up Neddy Brophy for him, that was six inches taller,
and a carpenter besides.”
Well, thinking it might give her a fright, they went and brought a
coffin that was ready made at the time, and some fresh shavings in the
bottom; and the women of the town, that gathered as soon as the coffin
came, ordered out the men till they’d wash the corpse.
She said nothing till the men were outside; but then she gave tongue,
and asked how dare they think that she wanted washing! It might do well
enough for a real dead body, but she was thankful it hadn’t come to
that with her yet, and if she chose to die it was no concern of theirs;
and if any one attempted to lay a drop of water on her skin, she’d lay
the marks of her ten nails on their face. Well, she was got some way
into the coffin, and a clean cap and frill put round her face; and, as
she was not pale enough, a little girl shook some flour on her cheeks.
Before the men and boys were let in, she asked for a looking glass, and
when she saw what a fright she looked with the flour, she got a towel
and rubbed every bit of it off again.
She bid her husband be called in, and gave her sister and mother
charge, in his hearing, to be kind and attentive to the poor angashore
after she was gone: at any rate till he’d get a new wife, which she
supposed would not be very far off; for though he was unkind and
conthrāry, thank goodness she knew her duty, and she supposed he could
not help his nature, and it was better as it was, before they’d grow
old, and she might get peevish and lose her temper, and they might
become a gazabo to the neighbours by fightin’ and scoldin’. “I’ll
engage now, after all is said and done, he won’t give way an inch, nor
acknowledge the three geese.” Well, the moment the geese were
mentioned, he put on his hat without a word, and walked out.
So evenin’ came, and the candles were lighted, and the tobacco and
pipes were all laid out, and the poor dead woman had to listen to a
good deal of discourse not at all to her liking; and the talk went on
in this way. “Musha, neighbour, doesn’t the corpse look mighty well?
When did she die, poor woman? What ailed her, did you hear?” “Indeed I
believe it was Gusopathy, as Tom K. the schoolmaster called it just
now; something with ‘goose’ in it any way: you know the way the skin
does be in a sudden cold, with little white risings on it, they call it
a goose’s skin. May be she had it very bad, and her husband could not
bear it, and so she died of grief.” “Poor man, he’ll feel her loss for
a week or two, she was a careful woman.” “Ah, but hadn’t she a bitter
tongue of her own?” “Troth I think Darby will bear her loss with
Christian patience. He is a young man for his years; he doesn’t look
forty, he’ll be getting his choice of wives. I think poor Judy was
careful and laid by a few guineas; won’t the new wife feel comfortable,
and may be soon put wind under the money!” “To my notion, Judy was in
too great a hurry to die. From her looks there, she might bury two
tailors yet, and may be get a big bodagh of a farmer for her third
husband. Well, it can’t be helped, but I would not like to be warming a
bed for the best woman in the townland if I was Judy. She is at peace
at last, poor woman; and mighty hard she found it to keep the peace
with her neighbours while she was alive. Who is that you said used to
be walking with Darby of odd Sunday evenings before his marriage? If
ghosts are allowed to take the air on Sunday evenings, poor Judy’s will
have something to fret her in a few weeks.”
Well, all this time, the poor dead woman’s blood was rushing like mad
through her veins; and something was swelling in her throat as if she
was going to be choked, but still the divel was so strong in her that
she never opened her eyes nor her mouth. The poor broken-hearted
husband came up after some time, and leaning over her face he
whispered, “Judy, acushla, isn’t it time to be done with this foolery?
Say but one reasonable word, and I’ll send all these people about their
business.” “Ah, you little-good-for crather, you havn’t the spirit of a
man, or you would never bear all they have been saying of your poor
neglected wife these two hours past. Are the three geese there?” “Not a
goose but two if you were to be waked for a twelvemonth;” and off he
went and sat in a dark part of the room till daylight.
He made another offer next morning, just as the led was puttin’ on the
coffin, and the men were goin’ to hoise it on their shoulders; but not
a foot she’d move unless he’d give in to the three geese.
So they came to the churchyard, and the coffin was let down in the
grave, and just as they were preparing to fill all up, poor Darby went
down, and stooping to where he had left some auger holes in the lid, he
begged of her even after the holy show she made of himself and herself,
to give up the point, and come home. “Is the three geese there?” was
all he could get out of her, and this time his patience got so
thread-bare, and he was so bothered by want of sleep, and torment of
mind, that he got beside himself, and jumped up, and began to shovel
the clay like mad, down on the coffin.
The first rattle it made, however, had like to frighten the life out of
the buried woman, and she shouted out, “Oh, let me up! I’m not dead at
all: let there be only two geese, Darby asthore, if you like.” “Oh, be
this and be that,” said Darby, “it is too late: people have come far
and near to the funeral, and we can’t let them lose their day for
nothing: so for the credit of the family, don’t stir,” and down went
the clay in showers, for the tailor had lost his senses. Of course the
by-standers would not let the poor woman be buried against her own
will; so they seized on Darby and his shovel, and when his short
madness was checked, he fell in a slump on the sod. When poor Judy was
brought to life, the first sight she beheld was her husband lyin’
without a kick in him, and a wag of a neighbour proposed to her to let
Darby be put down in her place, and not give so many people a
disappointment after coming far and near. The dead woman, by way of
thanks, gave him a slap across the face that he felt for two days; and
not minding the figure she cut in her grave-clothes, fell on poor
Darby, and roared and bawled for him to come to life, and she’d never
say a conthrāry word to him again while she lived. So, some way or
other they brought the tailor round; but how her and him could bear to
look each other in the face for a while, I don’t know. May be as there
was a good deal of love under all the crossness, they found a way to
get into their old habits again, and whenever she felt a tart answer
coming to her tongue, she thought of the rattling of the clay on the
coffin, and of the three geese that were only two after all; and if
they didn’t live happy——but that’s the end they put to lying fairy
stories, and as this one is so true and moral, it can afford to do
without a tail.
When the applause and remarks occasioned by this story had somewhat
subsided, our hostess spoke a few words in her husband’s ear; she might
have meant to whisper, but the guest asked what she said about trouble.
“That she and the rest,” replied our host, “wed beg and pray for ’e to
tell them another story, but they were afraid to trouble ’e.”
“It will give me much pleasure,” said the Irish gentleman, “to tell
another, of quite a different sort,” and he presently told the
following story of a brave Irish boy’s luck.
THE EARL OF STAIRS’ SON.
The father was called the Earl of Stairs, because his little house was
just on the side of Black Stairs, looking towards Puck’s Bridge. One
eave rested on the side of the rock, and the walls were good strong
stone walls (there is no scarcity of stones in them parts), and the
roof was as snug as scraws and heath could make it. The Earl enclosed
as much land off the common as he could till; so there was no scarcity
of oaten bread, or potatoes, or eggs, or goats’ milk; and small thanks
to him for keeping up a good fire, for the turf bog was within a hen’s
race of his castle. Both he and his wife were of old respectable
families; and so, as they had the good drop of blood, and some larning,
and were mighty genteel in their manners, they were called Lady Stairs
and the Earl of Stairs. One day, an ignorant omadhaun of a mountaineer
came in on some business, and he sat down, and kept looking at a bunch
of keys that was hanging from a table-drawer, and says he, after a long
pause, “Ma’am,” says he, “do you sell kays here?”
Well, when the little boy was about fifteen years old, and knew more
nor any school-master within ten miles of him, he was so eager after
the learning, that he set out over the mountain, and through Carlow,
and Kilkenny, and whatever lies at the back of them, till he came to
Munster. He got into a capital school there, and learned all them
branches I mentioned while ago, ay, and grammar along with them; I
forgot the grammar. A Mr. Blundell teached in that school about twenty
years ago, but I don’t know the name of the young Earl’s master who
lived long before that time. He paid nothing for his knowledge, but
helped the master now and then; and the farmers’ children going to the
school were glad to take him home at night, as he was so ready to share
his knowledge with them. No wonder he should find it so easy to pick up
learning in Munster, where they say the little boys minding the cows
converses with one another in Latin.
At last and at long, he returned home, a fine genteel young man; and
did not his poor mother cry with joy, when she heard him talking to the
priest the next Sunday, after Mass, and conversing with him in Latin,
and French, and Portugee.
Well, there was nothing to hinder him now from being a priest himself,
if he chose, as the old people had some guineas laid up in the thatch
in an old stocking; but though he was pious enough in his own way, he
said he had no vocation; and that any one becoming a priest without a
vocation, would be only endangering his own soul and the souls of his
flock. Every week he used to get an invitation to some great farmers’
house for tay and hot cake, and wherever the priest had a station, he
was sure to be there. The girls had an eye on him, but though he was
polite enough, he paid no particular attention to any one; and then
they began to find out that his parents were below their own rank in
life, and that his geese were all swans in his own eyes, and that the
concait of some people was astonishing. He used to ramble about the
rocks with a book in his hands; and though he was ready enough to help
the Earl at his work, the deuce a hand would the old fool let him lay
to a single thing.
At last as they were sitting round the fire on a winter’s night, the
young fellow up and told the old couple, that he was tired of doing
nothing and having nothing to do, and that he would set out on his
travels, and that he hoped he would have something pleasant to write
home about before long.
The poor old people were sad enough at this; but after doing all they
could to persuade him to stay at home, and marry, and take a farm, or
open a shop in Newtownbarry (it was only Bunclody then), or
Enniscorthy, or New Ross, he still held out, and one fine day he set
forward to Dublin, and took ship there, and tale or tidings were not
heard from him for two years, except one letter that he sent them from
Paris about five months after he set sail; and in this letter he said
he was well off teaching English to a merchant’s children.
A last one fine summer afternoon, a fine looking gentleman with a
foreign appearance, and speaking English in a queer style, and
travelling in a post-chaise, stopped at the inn at the cross of
Rathduff, and put up there till next day; but said he wanted a guide to
show him the way to the Earl of Stairs’ castle. The people knew the
nickname well enough, and after he got some refreshment, a boy was sent
to show him the way. When they came nigh the cabin which was on the
open common, and near the ending of a lane that came up straight
through the enclosed fields, they heard a great grunting and squeeling,
and there they saw two stout two-year old pigs with their noses to the
half-door, shrovellin’ at it with all their might, and only for the
rings in their snouts they’d have it down in less than no time; and the
squeelin’ they kept up all the time was enough to vex a saint. A
puckawn [15] and eleven meenshogues [16] were surnadin’ along the ridge
of the roof, and cantherin’ round the bawn, and givin’ a puck now and
then to the musicianers at the door to quicken the tune a bit. Well,
the gorsoon got through the goats and gave a welt or two to the pigs,
and got them out of the way, and then he bawled out, “Earl of Stairs,
are you within if you please, sir? Here’s a gentleman from foreign
parts come to see you.” So with that the Earl came and opened the
half-door, and requested the gentleman to walk in. There was as fine a
dish of white eyes on their little table as you could wish to see, and
a couple of noggins of boiled goats’ milk by the side of it, and a
plate of butter, and the moment the gentleman entered, they pressed him
to sit down and join them; and Lady Stairs filled out a mug of milk,
and laid a knife and a pat of butter for the stranger.
He thought to explain his business at once, but they would not hear a
word till he would first eat and drink. So he hung his hat on a peg,
and taking the knife in his hand, he cut one of the potatoes in two,
and watched to see how the master and mistress managed theirs. And he
was so polite that he laid down his knife, and began to peel off the
potato skins with his fingers. Well, he did not relish that way of
going to work much, so he took up the knife again and dispatched a
couple of potatoes, and took a pull at the milk which I’m sure was good
enough for a queen. Well, the table was small, and the mistress
thinking that the potatoes were not much to their visitor’s taste, took
down a wooden bowl, filled with good home-made cakes; and laying it on
her lap, as the little table was crowded, she buttered a good slice,
and asked him to try it if he pleased. He done his best to seem to
relish every thing, and the Earl holding a lighted dipped rush in one
hand, pressed him to make a hearty supper.
When the cloth was off the table, the Earl wiped his hands on a wisp of
straw in the corner: you will know by and by, why I mention this straw,
and the other things. When he was done with it he threw it into the
blaze, and it was burnt. Now, don’t forget the dish held on the lady’s
lap, nor the rush in the Earl’s hand, nor the straw.
At last says the Frenchman in broken English, as soon as they would let
him speak, “Madame, the mistress of the house, havn’t you a son that
left you about two years ago?” The poor woman got into such a tremble,
that some of the cakes fell out of the bowl, and the father opened his
eyes and his mouth, but couldn’t say a word. “Oh sir, dear,” says the
mother, “have you seen our poor boy!” “Yes,” says he, “I have seen him,
and he is alive and well, and well to do, and likely to be better.”
“And when is he coming home, and why didn’t he write, and how does he
look, and why didn’t he come with you?”
“As I can’t speak the English very easily, you may better let me tell
my story in my own way,” says the Frenchman, for a Frenchman he was: “I
am the head man of business to a merchant in Paris; and about a year
and half ago, a young genteel looking Irishman was engaged by my
employer to teach his children English. There was something so mild and
engaging about the young fellow, that the children and the elder people
got very much attached to him, and the young lady their eldest daughter
began to like him better than the others. Your son, for so he was,
never took any airs on himself, and the young lady seeing that he paid
no particular attention to her, began to mope and be dismal, and at
last took to her bed, and was sick in earnest. The mother, by some
means, found out what ailed her, and let her husband know; but he was
very angry, and indeed herself was not much better, but still the girl
was ailing without making any complaint. The young teacher made a great
many mistakes in the lessons from the first day he missed the young
lady from her place; and some of the servants remarked him several
nights in the street at late hours, and looking up at the light of one
of the windows. At last, fearing that they would lose their daughter
altogether, the mother began to question the young Irishman about his
family at home. He made no boast, except that he was descended from
good old Irish families on both sides; and that the lands belonging to
his forefathers were taken from them, because they would not renounce
their religion nor their king; and he mentioned that his own father and
mother were still called in jest, Earl and Lady Stairs.
“Well they had no great occasion to ask him what he thought of their
daughter, for one of her young brothers happening to call one day at
his lodging, and stepping in on tiptoe, and peeping over his shoulder,
he found him sobbing and kissing a little picture which he had made of
his sister, unknown to any body.
“So the old gentleman at last gave his consent, on condition that a
person he’d send over to Ireland, to his father’s place, would be able
to give a satisfactory account of the state of things here. I think he
expected that by getting time, and leaving the lady to herself, she
might change her mind; especially as there is no end to the balls and
entertainments going on, and as all the young gentlemen of their
acquaintance are invited to the house, night after night. Miss Mary is
a very lively, rattling young damsel, with dark sparkling eyes; and we
all wondered how she was so taken with your son, who is very quiet in
his manner, and used to say so little. My master hopes from the
briskness of her character, that she will get tired of his quietness;
but I am sure he will be mistaken; and now a good deal depends on the
news I am to send home in a day or two.”
“Oh dear,” says the poor mother, “what will you be able to say about
such humble people as we, to make your employer think well of the
match?”
“At all events,” says the stranger, “I can say of you, that before you
knew anything of my business, you shared the best you had with me, and
what more could you do if you were a real lady? Now if you have any way
for me to sleep, I’ll let my guide go back and bring up my
dressing-case from the inn; and we will take to-morrow to go to the top
of this mountain here, and walk about, and settle how every thing is to
be; and next day I’ll write home.”
Well, then, he pulled out a letter from their son; and, between
laughing and crying, they read, how at first he wrote after getting
into business, and then when the trouble came, he did not wish to send
any letter till he would have something pleasant to say. He put in
everything to make them cheerful; and now and then something about the
young lady would slip out, and her mother’s kindness, and the love he
had for the little brothers, and what a charitable good young lady she
was, etc. So when the evening got late, Mounseer was put to rest in a
snug little room where their son had his bed long ago, and well he
might sleep too, for there was a feather pallet, with a nice dry mat
under it; and the fresh air of the mountain got in through chinks and
crannies, and did not let the place feel too close; and the sheets were
clean and well aired, and the quilt had all the beautifulest flowers in
the world cut out on it in the neatest patterns.
Lady Stairs going in and out took notice that he spent a good deal of
time about his razhurs and other dressing implements; but if he passed
any time on his kness, it was a mighty short one entirety. Next morning
they contrived to give the Frenchman a decent breakfast of tay, and
white bread, and butter, though them things didn’t often get so high up
in the mountains; and they say that the French don’t use tay at
breakfast; and after that he walked in his thin boots along with the
Earl, to the very top of Blackstairs. I’m sure they had a delightful
view from it, over the castles and demesnes of Mr. Colclough, Mr.
Blacker, Mr. Carew, and all their plantations, and the woods of
Kilaughrim, and Tombrick, and the Slaney flowing along, and the towns
of Enniscorthy and New Ross looking so small, and all the snug farmers’
houses down in the county Carlow, with the green paddocks around them,
and the bogs here and there, and the dry stone fences to the fields,
and the town of Carlow, and the fine broad Barrow flowing off towards
Graigue and New Ross. If they turned around to the sunrise, they could
enjoy the view of Mount Leinster, and the Wicklow hills, and Ferns, and
Corrig Rua, and the far-off sea beyond all.
Well, that evening he pulled out his letter paper, and his pen, and
ink-horn; and began a letter to the merchant in Paris, and this is the
way a part of it was wrote.
“Most respected sir,
“I write these few lines to you, hoping they shall find you in
health as it leaves me at present, thanks, etc., etc., and the
mistress, and Miss Mary, and the young Irish gentleman, and the
other children. This country is very different from France; land is
so cheap and plenty that they cut away a great deal of every field
to make a big dyke, and they build up a great big ditch with the
clay and stones they take out. The people are cheerful, and
hospitable, and obliging; but they are too fond of staying in their
chapels, and saying long prayers. Our young gentleman was rather
modest in speaking of his father’s rank and possessions. I can
hardly make a guess at the extent of the demesne that spreads round
his mansion for miles and miles, without hedge or ditch, and the
sheep and cattle that graze on it are beyond counting. When I drew
nigh to the castle, up an avenue half a mile long, it was in the
evening, and the Earl and his Lady were at their supper. There were
two musicianers stationed before the hall-door, and they played
during the whole time, such music as you never heard in your life
at any entertainment, no nor the King of France himself. Twelve
halberd-men were drawn up in front by way of royal guard; so
venerable as they looked, and such beards as they had! and while
they were on duty they would not return a salute, nor answer a
question to the King nor the Lord Lieutenant himself. Though the
Earl and his Lady were at their supper in state, they showed me the
greatest respect, when they heard from where I came. Will I ever
forget the splendour of that supper! The side table could not be
valued by the owner at less than fifty thousand pounds; and I am
sure that the Earl would not part with the chief candlestick that
gave light to the feast for ten thousand any way.
“After supper, the nobleman dried his hands on a towel with gold
fringes, at least they looked very like gold; and so little regard
had he for it that when he was done he thrune it into the fire.
Moreover, he need not go out of his own demesne for firing for a
hundred years to come; and by the end of that time, I’m sure you
would hardly miss the trees that would be cut down. Such is the
wonderful splendour of every thing here that I can hardly believe
my own account of it; and I’m sure the young Earl when he came to
Paris, and ever since, pretended to be poor, that he might find
some good young lady who would marry him for his own sake, and not
for his rank nor his riches.
“I will take a look at Dublin, and the Wicklow and the Welsh
mountains on my return; and I hope to see my young mistress with
the ring on her hand when I get home.
“I am, etc., etc.”
Well, the clever Frenchman was asked to the priest’s house to take tea
that evening, and two or three of the gentlemen-farmers met him there.
He was very glad to get in company with the priest, as he spoke French
well, having studied at a place abroad called Louvain, and he told him
the sort of letter he was sending home. The clergyman wondered at it,
you may be sure, but he said that the young lady would be thankful for
the invention; and that her mother was won over already; and that the
father only wished to make the thing look well in the eyes of their
acquaintance; and so the letter would satisfy everybody; and from all
he could hear of the young man from his old neighbours, his young
mistress would never meet a better husband; for he had good manners and
a good appearance, and was a good scholar, and what few young Paris
gentlemen were, he was a good Christian into the bargain.
Well to make my long story short, the Earl of Stairs soon made an
addition of two rooms to his castle, a parlour and a bed-room, and the
next year, there was joy and merriment in his house, for his son and
his beautiful black-eyed bride came home; and they brought only a boy
and a girl to wait on them; and the servants were harder to please than
their master and mistress; and the merry young lady ran about among the
heath and rocks, and her serious young husband and she were as fond as
fond could be of one another; and she laughed till the tears ran down
her cheeks at the notion of the halberd-men, and the musicianers, and
the demesne, and the side table, and the candlestick, and the towel
with the gold fringes; and she was as serious and devout at the little
chapel as the poorest person there. They came to spend a part of every
summer at Blackstairs during the life of the old people; and if they
didn’t live happy, THAT WE MAY!”
“These stories,” continued the guest, “are pretty fair examples of such
as are still related at Irish hearths.”
“We once had stories told here,” said the host, “which were full of
action and adventures, but they are forgotten now. Instead of such old
tales, we have now mere quibbles on words, or modern anecdotes, with
but little in them worth remembering. As Henny Quick said, years ago,—
“Our Cornish drolls are dead, each one.
The fairies from their haunts have gone;
There’s scarce a witch in all the land,
The world has grown so learn’d and grand.”
“Henny wrote many short pieces,” continued our host, “had them printed,
and he sold them, with his mother’s help; yet what Henny called his
copies of verses were on very doleful subjects when there was any new
matter in them.
“There was also a rhymster in Sancras, called Billy Foss, who would
talk for ever so long in doggerel verse, but the greater part of it was
very abusive; this es what he said of Boslow:—
“As I traversed Boslow
I saw an old cow,
A hog, and a flock of starved sheep;
Likewise an old mare,
Whose bones were so bare
They made her old master to weep:
A few acres of ground
As bare as a pound,
An old house just ready to fall;
Beside, there was no meat
For the people to eat,
And that was the worst thing of all:
No grass for the flocks,
But a carn of dry rocks,
Which afforded a horrible sight;
If you chance go that way,
You must do so by day,
For you’d smash out your brains in the night.
No crock, pan, nor kettle;
No goods, much nor little,
Was there to be found in the house;
No tables nor chairs,
No bedding upstairs—
Not so much as to cover a mouse.”
“There are rhymes enough in that,” said the guest, “and whether there’s
any reason you may best know.”
About this time the Cap’n of the tin-stamps and other old men rose and
came to wish us good night, saying, “we must love ’e and leave ’e my
dears, for we haave to get to work early; the time es gone quickly, es
past our landlord’s hour for closean; ef you are goan away to-morrow we
wish ’e well, and hope you may come to ‘Sennor’ agen soon.”
We were glad to get sleep too, having had a long ramble in the morning,
and expecting a tiresome walk back to Penzance before the next night.
In Zennor church we noticed, on a bench-end, the curious carving of a
mermaid, which has probably given rise to a legend [17] well known in
the neighbourhood.
The following epitaph on a mural tablet, in the same church, is also
somewhat remarkable:—
Here rest the Mortal part of
John Quick, of Wicka, Yeoman.
He was hospitable, sociable, peaceable, humble,
honest, and devout in manner.
HE EXCELLED HIS EQUALS.
In piety he was their example.
He met death with composure.
Sept. 12th, 1784, aged 74.
“The Memory of the Just is Blessed.”
FROM PENZANCE TO CARN GALVA: NOTEWORTHY OBJECTS BY THE WAY.
The past is slipping from our hold, as shadowy as dreams,
The dim, mysterious, lifeless past,—how faint, unreal it seems.
But here and there we come across some waif upon the shore,
Thrown landward by the waves of time, for man to ponder o’er.—J. B.
Having the day before us, we take our course to Madron, and only pause
when near the village to turn round and admire the splendid landscape.
MADRON.
Madron Church is interesting to the archæologist: the east end is said
to be that of the original early English Church of about 1260. Among
the objects worthy of notice in the interior, are the font, sedile, and
piscina, and also several mural monuments.
On one old tomb may be seen the following matter-of-fact inscription:—
“Belgium me birth, Braitaine me breeding gave,
Cornwalle a wife, ten children, and a grave.”
Observe also the inscription on the brass of John Clies, in which the
place now called Penzance is spelt Penzour; and the north-west end
window, recently presented to this Church by the Rev. M. N. Peters, the
Vicar. There are many quaint inscriptions on the old tombs, besides
that to George Daniel.
At Landithy farm house, near at hand, note the ancient doorway, which
formed a portal to the preceptory of the Knights’ Templars; a
considerable portion of the college of these warrior monks, with some
of the rooms adorned with curious portraits, supposed to be those of
the early kings and queens of England, was standing until a few years
ago, when the interesting old building was taken down and a farm-house
erected on its site.
From the old portal of Landithy college, we pass up the road north of
the Church; at the corner of the Union garden, take the path across the
fields; at the bottom of the lane leading out of the third field, turn
down through the moors on the right, and a path over soft grass and
camomile brings us to a stile, which takes us into the moor where are
St. Madron’s Well and Chapel.
MADRON WELL.
To find the Holy Well, on entering the lower enclosure, pass down
across the moor at a right angle to the hedge, and a minute’s walk will
bring us to the noted spring, which is not seen until very near, as it
has no wall above the surface, nor any mark by which it can be
distinguished at a distance. Much has been written of the remarkable
cures effected by these holy waters, and the intercession of good St.
Madron. This was when Madron Well was so famous that the maimed, halt,
and lame made pilgrimages from distant parts of the country to the
heathy moor.
The water is still resorted to on the first three Wednesdays in May by
some few women of the neighbourhood, who bring children to be cured of
skin diseases by being bathed in the Well water. And its old repute as
a divining fount has not yet quite died out, though young folks come
here now to drop pins or pebbles into the spring, more for fun and the
pleasure of each other’s company, than through any belief that the
falling together, or separation of pins or pebbles, will tell how the
course of love will run between the parties indicated by the objects
dropped into the spring; or that the number of bubbles which rise in
the water, on stamping near the well, mark the number of years, in
answer to any question of time; but there was not such want of faith in
the virtues of this water half a century ago.
A few weeks before the Excursion, we took a ramble through Boswarva,
Bosullow, and some other ancient hamlets on the higher side of Madron,
to see if we could glean anything from the old inhabitants about the
rites formerly practised at the Crick-stone, Madron Well, and
elsewhere.
An elderly dame, who had lived the best part of her time near Lanyon,
gave us the following account of the doings at the Well about fifty
years ago. “At that time, when she lived in Lenine, scores of women
from Morvah, Zennor, Towednack, and other places, brought their
children to Madron Well to be cured of the shingles, wildfires,
tetters, and various skin diseases, as well as to fortify them against
witchcraft and other mysterious ailments.
“An old dame, called An (aunt) Katty, who then mostly lived about in
the Bosullows, or some place near, and who did little but
knitting-work, picked up a good living in the spring of the year, by
attending at the Well, to direct the high country folks how they were
to proceed in using the waters.
“First she had the child stripped as naked as it was born; then the
creature was plunged or popped three times through the water against
the sun; next, the child was passed quickly nine times round the
spring, going from east to west, or with the sun; then the babe was
dressed, rolled up in something warm, and laid to sleep near the water;
if the child slept and plenty of bubbles rose in the water, it was a
good sign.”
We enquired if a prayer, charm, or anything was spoken during the
operations? “Why, no, to be sure,” the dame replied, “there mustn’t be
a word spoken all the time they are near the water, or it will spoil
the spell; and a piece rented off from some part of the clothes worn by
the child or any other person using the Well, must be left near the
water for good luck, ever so small a bit will do; this is mostly placed
out of sight, alongside of the stream, which runs from the Well.
“Whilst one party went through the rites at the spring, all the others
remained over the stile, in the higher enclosure, or by the hedge, till
they came up from the water, because if a word were spoken by anyone
near the well, during the dipping, they had to come again. The old
woman, An Katty, was never paid in money, but balls of yarn, or
anything else she wanted, were dropped on the road, outside the
Well-moors, for her. This old dame also got good pickings by
instructing the young girls how to try for sweethearts at the Well.
“Scores of maidens” (the dame’s words) “used, in the summer evenings,
to come down to the Well, from ever so far, to drop into it pins,
gravel, or any small thing that would sink. The names of the persons
were not spoken when the objects, which represented them, were dropped
into the water; they were only thought of, and as they remained
together or separated, such would be the fate of the couple. It was
only when the spring was working (rising strongly) that it was of any
use to try the spells; it was always unlucky to speak when near the
Well at such times.”
Such is the substance of what the dame told us. She never heard that
any saint had anything to do with the water, except from somebody who
told her there was something in a book about it; nor had she or anybody
else heard the water called St. Madron’s Well, except by the new
gentry, who go about giving new names to the places, and think they
know more about them than the people who have lived here ever since the
world was created.
We enquired if the people ever went to the old chapel to perform any
ceremony? Not that she ever heard of; Morvah folks, and others of the
Northern parishes who mostly resort to the spring pay no regard to any
saint or to any body else, except some old woman who may come down with
them to show how everything used to be done. We were also informed that
there is a spring in some moor in Zennor, not far from Bosporthenes,
which is said to be as good as Madron Well, and that children are often
taken thither and treated in the same way.
The silent proceedings were altogether new to us, because we had often
gone to other Wishing Wells with parties of young folks who always kept
noise and fun enough; yet the old dame regarded the proceedings as a
very solemn matter.
In answer to the questions of “What was the reason for going round the
Well nine times? leaving the bits of rags? following the sun?” &c.; it
was always the same reply, “Such were the old customs, and everybody
knew it was unlucky to go, or to do anything, against the course of the
sun; no woman, who knew anything, would place pans of milk in the
dairy, so as to have to unream them against the sun.”
MADRON CHAPEL.
By following down the brooklet from the Well, in a minute’s space we
came to the Chapel. In the southern wall may be noticed an opening for
letting the water from the Well-brook flow into a baptistry in the
South-western corner of the Chapel. Entering by a door-way, on the
northern side of the Chapel, we see that this simple font appears to
have been arched over, after the manner of the bee-hive huts, by one
row of stones projecting over the other. The table-slab of the altar
(which still remains at the east end) has a square pit, worked in the
centre to mark the place on which an image, or the monstrance, was
probably placed. There is a step to mark the division between the
little nave and the sacrarium, and remains of the stone seats which
were carried all round against the walls. A rare and beautiful little
plant, the Cornish Money-wort, may be found among stones beside the
Well-brook.
LANYON QUOIT.
We return to the highway, and continuing on the Morvah road, pass a
broken cross, which once served to direct the pilgrim to the Holy Well
and shrine, or to the Templar’s roof. A little farther on, a church-way
path through fields makes a short cut across the hill; from the road at
the foot of this hill, on the Lanyon side, one gets the most striking,
though not the first view of the Quoit. From this low ground, the mass
of rock (more than eighteen feet long and nine abroad) is seen looming
against the sky like a gigantic tripod. When near it, we find that its
height from the ground is only from five to six feet; yet Dr. Borlase
says, that in his time it was high enough for a man to sit under it on
horseback.
In 1816, the cap-stone of the cromlech was thrown down by a violent
storm, and a large piece of one supporting stone broken off. In 1824,
after the Logan Rock was replaced, the powerful machinery brought into
the country for that purpose, was used for raising the Quoit; and,
preparatory to replacing it, the other two uprights were sunk several
feet. One may speculate on the means first employed to raise the
ponderous mass, which has been beaten by the storms of more than twice
ten hundred years. Few can view “this lonely monument of times that
were” without joining in the prayer of the following beautiful lines:—
* * * “Let no rude hand remove,
Or spoil thee; for the spot is consecrate
To thee, and thou to it; and as the heart
Aching with thoughts of human littleness
Asks, without hope of knowing, whose the strength
That poised thee here.”
It does not seem likely to be soon decided whether these weird-looking
monuments on our silent hills were giants’ altars, kist veans, or the
tombs of giants who have left the marks of their footsteps on all our
granite cairns and hills. Our mythic giants may not be altogether
fabulous, and it seems beyond dispute that gigantic remains have been
found under cromlechs when first denuded of the barrows with which
many, perhaps all, were formerly covered.
Another idea, in connection with them, may be suggested by what we have
farther to state. A Cornish gentleman, [18] who resided many years in
various parts of India, and to whom we are grateful for much exact and
curious information on various antiquarian subjects, informs us that he
has, in many remote parts of India (where the most ancient and simple
forms of Hindooism prevail), seen huge monuments of unhewn stone so
like some of our cromlechs in their construction, that they always
reminded him of our giants’ quoits, and his distant home on the Cornish
hills. He says that in the granite districts, they were precisely
similar in plan to our cromlechs; and in the slate districts the slabs
were thinner and the construction more regular.
In all, an opening was left on one side. Between the supporting stones
and within the recesses of these rude structures sacred lamps were
always kept burning. The priesthood, who attended these sacred fires,
were so much opposed to Christians coming near their sacred places,
that the gentleman referred to had no means of ascertaining whether
these Hindoo cromlechs were regarded as altars, tombs, or shrines. They
might have been all three combined, as it has been usual, in all times,
for the sacredotal hierarchy of all gloomy creeds to make the most of
the bones of the dead to impress the minds of the living with awe for
the unearthly mystery with which they ever aim to invest priestly
functions. At last, by the gloomy creeds and rites of these mysterious
religions, they make a personification of death their deity.
We must leave it for our learned antiquaries to decide whether this
huge Quoit was a giant’s tomb, or anything else which was ever applied
to any mortal use, except to make us feel that the ancient Cornish who
could raise such ponderous masses, high enough for a man to sit under
on horseback, were no despicable race.
LANYON TOWN PLACE AND HOUSE.
As we proceed on the Morvah road toward Lanyon, the rugged top of Carn
Galva is seen rising over the northern hills. The first sight of this
huge carn, piled up against the sky, suggests the thought that the good
old giant who lived there in ancient times could not have selected a
better place for his stronghold. We now approach the town-place of
Lanyon, Lanion, or rather Lanine, for every one here calls the place by
the latter name, as well as the family, who probably took their name
from this, their ancient home. If you enquire of any person hereabouts
for Lanyon, they will wonder where you came from, and it is not at all
easy for a stranger to get any information out of our good folk by
abrupt questioning, which they detest. The best way is to tell them
frankly what you want. Then, they will do their utmost to gratify your
wishes. So now we are here, we shall always speak of the place as
Lanine, and tell a yarn to get two in return.
Many fanciful meanings have been given for the name of Lanyon or
Lenine; yet there appears to be little doubt that the name is a
contraction of Lanython, which is composed of Lan, an enclosure, and
Ython, or Eithin, furze (the adjective comes after the noun in
Cornish); or the name may be simply the plural form of Lan. This word
Lan (often contracted into la) enters into the construction of many
names of ancient places, as Landithy, Lamoran, Lamorna, &c. In Wales
and Brittany, names are equally common, which are formed of Llan or
lan, followed by some qualifying word; and as some of the oldest
settlements or enclosures were the first places in which Churches were
erected, the word Lan came to be regarded as designating the Church. In
Lamorna and other similar words the n is dropped, from a natural
disposition to avoid the exertion which the pronunciation of certain
combinations of consonants entails on the speaker. The strongly-built
dwelling-house of Lenine shows that Madron masons of the last century
were good craftsmen. Note the sturdy strength of the broad
chimney-stacks, which seem determined to put a hard face on all the
fierce blasts they encounter in this unsheltered place. The sturdy
expression of this simple building harmonises well with the bleak
character of surrounding scenery.
THE CRICK-STONE.
Another noteworthy object, on this site of ancient enclosures, is the
remarkable group of three stones called by antiquaries the men-an-tol,
and by country folk the crick-stone, from the old custom (not yet
extinct) of “craming” (crawling on all fours) round the centre stone,
and of creeping through the hole in the same (when the person was thin
enough) for the cure of lumbago, sciatic, and other “cricks” and pains
in the back.
This mysterious monument is situated in a croft to the right of the
Morvah road, about half-a-mile in a northerly direction from Lenine
town-place. Our antiquaries are as much at variance with respect to the
purpose for which this remarkable group was erected as they are about
the real purpose of the cromlech. Some hold that it is a sepulchral
monument, as well as the Men Scryfa (written stone) farther on, because
there is a tradition that in Gendhal, or Gednhal moor, a little below,
there was once a battle so great that the moor “ran with blood.” Others
suppose it to have been used for some druidical ceremonies similar to
those not long since practised there; and by a great number it is
conjectured that this mysterious monument served for the computation of
time. Among those who think that the object of its erection was
probably astronomical is Professor Max Müller. This gentleman, in the
Quarterly Review for August, 1867, after stating that the three stones
are in a line bearing nearly east and west, says:—
“This men-an-tol may be an old dial, erected originally to fix the
proper time for the celebration of the autumnal equinox, and, though it
may have been applied to other purposes likewise, such as the curing of
children by dragging them several times through the hole, still its
original intention may have been astronomical.”
In another place, after speaking of the Mên-heers, or long stones
(which, being mostly found in pairs bearing nearly east and west, he
thinks served the same purpose), he continues:—
“If their astronomical character could once be firmly established, it
might even be possible, at least approximately, to fix the time of
their erection. If we suppose that the shadow of the stones on each
side of the men-an-tol was intended to fall through the hole on the day
of the autumnal equinox, then, if there is any slight deviation at
present, and that deviation in the direction demanded by the precession
of the equinoctial, points of difference might be calculated, and
translated into years, and we should thus be enabled to fix, at least
with a margin of a century or two, the time when that time piece was
first set up on the high plains of Cornwall.”
In concluding his notice of the Holed-stone of Lanine, he says:—
“A mere shepherd, though he had never heard the name of astronomy,
might have erected such a stone for his own convenience, in order to
know the time when he might safely bring his flocks out, or take them
back to their safer stables. But this would in no way diminish the
interest of the men-an-tol. It would still remain one of the few relics
of the childhood of our race; one of the witnesses of the earliest
workings of the human mind in its struggle against, and in its alliance
with, the powers of nature; one of the vestiges in the first
civilization of the British Isles.”
Less than half-a-mile over the downs, in a northerly direction, brings
us to the
MEN SCRYFA (WRITTEN STONE.)
The safest plan for a stranger to take, in order to find this
interesting monument, is to return to, and proceed on, the Morvah road
until nearly opposite Bosullow, where a path will be found, on the
right hand, leading to this ancient inscribed pillar, which is one of
the most important monuments in the west country, if not in the
kingdom. One side of the stone will be found inscribed with the words
Rialobran-Cunoval Fil, signifying that Rialobran, the son of Cunoval,
was here buried. The tradition of the country folks says that a king
slain in the battle of Gendhal moor, was buried here with all his arms
and treasures; and that the king stood nine feet high, which was found
to be the length of this pillar monument, when about half a century ago
an old curmudgeon of the neighbourhood upset the tombstone of
Rialobran, the son of Cunoval, in searching for the crock of gold,
which he, in common with many others, believed to be buried there. It
is not known whether he found any treasures by his digging, but he
caused the stone to fall face downward, in which position it remained,
little heeded, until 1862, when it was replaced by the Antiquarian
Society over the warrior’s grave.
A large tract of ground covered with furze and heath, surrounding this
monument, used to be called “Goon-men-scryfa” (inscribed stone downs.)
THE FOUR PARISHES.
At a short distance to the northward of Men-scryfa, there is a large
flat stone, with a cross cut on it, to show that the four parishes of
Madron, Gulval, Morvah, and Zennor meet there. There is a tradition
that some Saxon kings dined on this stone in days of yore.
According to another tradition, when Prince Arthur and four British
kings were on their way to drive the Danes from Penwith, they rested on
this rock.
Then, on their way down along towards the Land’s End, Prince Arthur and
the four kings collected the native Cornish, who fought the Danes, and
under guidance of the royal personages, conquered them, in the battle
of Vellan-drucchar (wheel-mill) moor; where the Danes were nearly all
killed, and so great was the slaughter, that “the mill was worked with
blood,” so old folk said.
From Goon-men-scryfa, the bold and curious pile of Carn Galva (goats’
carn) is a very striking object in the view, standing out as it does
near the sea, and six hundred feet or more above the sea level.
From Men-scryfa, we take a northerly course, over the downs, to Carn
Galva.
One can’t fail to pass a pleasant time, should the weather be fine,
among the rocks and glades of Carn Galva. Above all, if we ramble
hither through the ferns, heath, and furze, in the whortleberry season,
we may pick the rich fruit, roll in the shade, or bask in the sun, on
the beautiful green patches of turf, as soft as velvet, to be found
everywhere; or one may ramble in and out, and all around, playing
hide-and-seek, through the crellas between the carns, whence the good
old Giant of the Carn often sallied forth to protect his Morvah and
Zennor people and their cattle against the incursions of the giants of
other carns and hills. Those of Trink and Trecrobben were the most
troublesome, because they lived near in castles strong and high.
Now they say that when the Trecrobben giant once got the cattle, or
tin, into his stronghold, he would defy all other giants in the
country. By the traditions, still preserved in Morvah and its
neighbourhood,
THE GIANT OF CARN GALVA
was more playful than warlike. Though the old works of the giant now
stand desolate, we may still see, or get up and rock ourselves upon,
the logan-stone which this dear old giant placed on the most westerly
carn of the range, that he might log himself to sleep when he saw the
sun dip into the waves and sea-birds fly to their homes in the cleeves.
Near the giant’s rocking-seat, one may still see a pile of cubical
rocks, which are almost as regular and shapely now as when the giant
used to amuse himself in building them up, and kicking them down again,
for exercise or play, when alone and he had nothing else to do. People
of the northern hills have always had a loving regard for the memory of
this giant, because he appears to have passed all his life at the carn
in single blessedness, merely to protect his beloved people of Morvah
and Zennor from the depredations of the less honest Titans who then
dwelt on Lelant hills. Carn Galva giant never killed but one of the
Morvah people in his life, and that happened all through loving play.
The giant was very fond of a fine young fellow, of Choone, who used to
take a turn over to the Carn, every now and then, just to see how the
old giant was getting on, to cheer him up a bit, play a game of bob, or
anything else to help him pass his lonely time away. One afternoon the
giant was so well pleased with the good play they had together, that
when the young fellow of Choone threw down his quoit to go away home,
the giant, in a good-natured way, tapped his playfellow on the head
with the tips of his fingers. At the same time he said, “Be sure to
come again to-morrow, my son, and we will have a capital game of bob.”
Before the word “bob” was well out of the giant’s mouth, the young man
dropped at his feet. The giant’s fingers had gone right through his
playmate’s skull. When, at last, the giant became sensible of the
damage he had done to the young man’s brain-pan, he did his best to put
the inside workings of his mate’s head to rights and plugged up his
finger-holes, but all to no purpose; for the young man was stone dead
and cold, long before he ceased doctoring his head.
When the poor giant found it was all over with his playmate, he took
the body in his arms, and, sitting down on a large square rock at the
foot of the carn, he rocked himself to and fro; pressing the lifeless
body to his bosom, he wailed and moaned over him, bellowing and crying
louder than the booming billows breaking on the rocks in Permoina.
“Oh, my son, my son, why didn’t they make the shell of thy noddle
stronger? A es as plum (soft) as a pie-crust, dough-baked, and made too
thin by the half! How shall I ever pass my time without thee to play
bob and mop-and-heede? (hide-and-seek.)”
The Giant of Carn Galva never rejoiced any more, but, in seven years or
so, he pined away and died of a broken heart.
So Zennor people say, and that one may judge of the size of their giant
very well, as he placed his logan-rock at such a height that, when
seated on it, to rock himself, he could rest his feet comfortably on
the green turf below.
Some say that he gathered together the heap of square blocks, near his
favourite resting-place, that he might have them at hand to defend his
people against the giants of Trecrobben and Trink, with whom he fought
many a hard battle. Yet when they were all on good terms they would
pass weeks on a stretch in playing together, and the quoits which
served them to play bob, as well as the rocks they hurled at each other
when vexed, may still be seen scattered all over this hilly region.
Surely a grateful remembrance of this respectable giant will ever be
preserved by the descendants of those he protected in the northern
hills.
We have often heard the high country folks relate this legend of their
giant in a much more circumstantial manner than we can attempt, because
we do not, like the good Morvah folk, give implicit credence to all the
traditions of Carn Galva. Yet this romantic region makes us feel that
“Surely there is a hidden power that reigns
Mid the lone majesty of untamed nature,
Controlling sober reason.”
DING-DONG, WHEAL MALKIN, AND PUSSER HOSKING’S MOILS.
On our return from Carn Galva we may visit Ding-Dong. The works of
Ding-Dong both “at grass” and under ground, are very near our road to
Carn Galva, and much of the former visible nearly all the way from
Men-scryfa. It is one of the most ancient and extensive mines in the
County. There are traditions (if not more trustworthy records) that
part of this old bal, called by a somewhat similar name (Din-an-doyng,
if I remember rightly), and other ancient workings known as Wheal
Malkin, which are now united to Ding-Dong, were wrought by the Jews in
the time of King John.
Little more than half a century ago, Wheal Malkin portion of this rich
old mine was solely in the hands of four or five adventurers. All of
them, but one, held large shares in Ding-Dong. They wished the two
speculations to be united, as they might, it was thought, be thus
worked to greater advantage. But Mr. Hosking, of Lanyon, the only one
of the owners of Wheal Malkin who had no share in Ding-Dong, being
averse to this arrangement, his co-adventurers proposed that he should
either sell his share, or buy theirs. Mr. Hosking became the purchaser
of the whole of Wheal Malkin. Some say that a device, sometimes
resorted to in similar transactions, was put in practice by a working
miner, to induce him to close with the dear bargain. However that may
have been, it is well known that he continued to work this property
more to benefit the public than himself.
This worthy gentleman was generally known as Captain Hosking, from
having been for many years captain of the Mount’s Bay Yeomanry Cavalry,
or the Guides, as they were often styled, but his most popular
designation in the part we are now rambling over was the Pusser
(purser) Hosking; and this latter title seems likely to be long
preserved, as well as some remembrance of the “Pusser’s” moils, in one
of our odd every-day sayings.
After Mr. Hosking built the sturdy-looking house we still see in
Lenine, he resided there for some years, and held the farm in hand. For
the purpose of taking his tin to smelting house, the captain kept a
great number of mules (here called moils) on the extensive
furze-grounds of Lanyon. Some of the tinners, in passing over the
downs, to and from their work, often tried to get a ride on the
“Pusser’s moils” and others, for fun’s sake or out of pure wantonness,
took great pleasure in tormenting these sedate-looking animals; but the
Pusser’s moils, to show how they disapproved of practical joking, often
imprinted the marks of their hoofs and teeth on their tormentors; and,
at last, they, one and all, took to give chase to every person who
ventured on their ground, except, indeed, the boys who brought them out
straw or hay, now and then, in winter, and their well-known driver, Mr.
Hosking’s Ralfey, who was as fond of the moils, and they of him, as if
they had been brothers.
If one only pointed a finger, in derision, at these testy animals, and
called them by their names, in a tone which they didn’t like, when they
were filing along the lanes with sacks of tin on their backs, they
would at once leave their ranks and show fight in spite of all Ralfey
could do to soothe them. From these mulish traits of inordinate
self-esteem and combativeness in Mr. Hosking’s cattle originated the
common saying, often applied to a teasy person, “He’s like Pusser
Hosking’s moils—waant bear jestan.”
Near Ding-Dong there are some ancient barrows, and the remains of what
is supposed to have been a Druidic circle called the Nine Maidens.
THE PENZANCE OF OUR GRANDFATHERS.
THE OLD MARKET-HOUSE AND ITS SURROUNDINGS—BATTLE OF ARCHITECTURAL
STYLES—THE SELF-TAUGHT ARCHITECT OF THE LAND’S END—BUSTLE OF A MARKET
DAY—MADAM TREZILLIAN’S HEAD-DRESS—THE ANCIENT FISH-WOMEN OF
PENZANCE—NEW MANSIONS IN THE NEIGHBOURHOOD—THE SCHOOLDAYS AND HOME OF
PELLEW—THE WESTERN APPROACH TO PENZANCE (ALVERTON LANE)—PARSON SPRY,
THE CURATE OF SENNEN AND ST. LEVAN, HALF-A-CENTURY AGO, AND HIS WOODEN
HORSE AND DOG “SPORT”—“SPORT’S” BEHAVIOUR AT CHURCH AND IN
CHURCHYARD—THE REV. JAMES BEVAN—COUNTRY CLERKS AND COUNTRY CHOIRS—OLD
CHRISTMAS CAROLS—ANCIENT MODE OF CONDUCTING FUNERALS—FORMER MEANS OF
INFORMATION AMONG THE PEOPLE—ASTROLOGERS OF THE WEST—CONJURORS AND
THEIR SPELLS—OLD JUSTICE JONES AND CHEAP LABOUR—THE VINGOES OF
TREVILLE—THE JUSTICE’S PUNISHMENT—PELLEW AND HIS CORNISH CREW—THE
ANCIENT GAMES OF HURLING AND WRESTLING—OLD METHODS OF CONVEYANCE—RIDING
PILLION—POPULAR SONGS OF THE TIME, MALBROOK, AND SENTIMENTAL
DITTIES—GREEN LANES AND FOOTPATHS—PACK-SADDLES, OX-BUTTS, AND THE FIRST
CARRIAGE—GOING TO TOWN ON MARKET-DAY—PENZANCE IN THE EARLY PART OF THIS
CENTURY, &c.—Written September, 1867.
Dim, dream-like forms! Your shadowy train
Around me gathers once again,
The same as in life’s morning hour,
Before my troubled gaze you pass’d:
Oh! this time shall I have the power—
Shall I essay to hold you fast?
—Goethe’s Faust, Filmore’s Translation.
THE OLD MARKET-HOUSE, AND ITS SURROUNDINGS.
The completion of Penzance Public Buildings forms an epoch in the
history of the place, and an elderly person cannot help contrasting the
present appearance of the town with what it was three score years, or a
century, ago; as we know it to have been from well-remembered vestiges
of the old time, and from the accounts of our grandparents, who, if
they revisited the glimpses of the gaslight in our town at the present
time would be much surprised, and not over well pleased, at all the
changes which have taken place during the last hundred years, many of
which are alterations without improvement, nay often wanton destruction
of what can never be restored, however regretted. Who that remembers
the picturesque and interesting old market-house, with the
corresponding buildings surrounding or near it, such as the house in
which Sir Humphry Davy was born, the cosy nook under the balcony of the
‘Star’ Inn, where often of an evening he held his youthful comrades
spellbound by the wonderful stories that his poetical imagination
inspired, can help regretting removal and loss? I can’t understand, nor
can many others, what was the inducement to remove the old balcony from
this inn, and other houses throughout the town. They were no
obstruction to the footpath, and the very aspect of these appropriate,
cosy-looking entrances to the old inns infused a feeling of comfort and
seclusion that one misses very much in the glaring lantern-like modern
hotels. Besides, as an interesting memorial of our most illustrious
townsman, it is ten thousand pities it should have been destroyed. The
picturesque scene is gone, never to be restored, which was formed by
the projecting balcony, with its rustic pillars and casemented lights,
combined with the high gables, mullioned and labled windows, with the
penthouse-like projections of the old market-house. It is much to be
regretted that, when the old building was taken down, its site should
have been occupied by any structure more massive than an elegant
monument to Sir Humphry Davy—suppose it had been a fountain, of an
antique Gothic pattern, surmounted by the statue of Sir Humphry, with
niches in the basement for memorials of other celebrities connected
with the town, or its vicinity, as Pellew, Davies Gilbert, &c., &c. The
first mistake was to build on the site at all; the second to adopt the
Italian style for a building to be erected in such a confined space. It
must be apparent to anyone who has studied the matter that the Gothic
or old English style, with its acute gables, pinnacles, pendants,
balconies, oriels, and other projecting appendages for use or ornament,
which that style admits, is felt to be more suitable to a confined
space, because any imitation of the classical styles is very
unsatisfactory, unless it has sufficient breadth and massiveness to
produce the impression of grandeur, as well as just proportion, which
cannot be appreciated, however just it may be, unless there is
sufficient space around to allow the spectator the choice of a station
from which the whole facade of the building may be taken into the view.
In the old English, on the contrary, one does not look for breadth,
massiveness, and correspondence in the various portions of the
structure, but rather to that lightness and variety which is even more
interesting when seen only in such broken portions, and from such
points of sight as would spoil the effect of the regular styles.
Besides, perhaps from being accustomed to meet with the picturesque old
style in ancient walled towns, where the streets are always narrow, it
never seems out of place in a confined space, if the surrounding
buildings are of a simple or corresponding style, or at least are not
such as to produce a violent contrast.
Any small building, designed after classical examples, looks naked and
poor, and particularly mean, unless the building-materials are of the
best description and finish, and is quite unsuitable for the houses of
a narrow street, which must necessarily be small and irregular, where
the frontages range only from about 20 to 40 feet, and where the
adjoining houses belong to different proprietors, who delight to
display their independence of each other and common sense, by each one
building on his 20 or 30 feet frontage according to his own caprice,
and desire to show off his own originality of conception.
THE BATTLE OF ARCHITECTURAL STYLES.
If our beautiful old English style (which is the most suitable for the
climate and everything else) cannot be again restored, the next best is
the Venetian, which may be defined as the Saracenic (or what the French
call the Grec-Arab) engrafted on the Italian. The Venetian, like our
old English (or domestic Gothic, if you will), admits of great
irregularity, and of great variety in the ornamentation. French
architects have shown their appreciation of the peculiar suitableness
of this variety for irregular and comparatively narrow streets, from
their having adopted it in many of the old narrow streets abutting on
the Seine, as may have been noted by some of our townsmen, who have
recently visited the Exhibition and the gay capital generally.
THE SELF-TAUGHT ARCHITECT OF THE LAND’S END.
As pretty fair examples of the adaptability of the old English to all
the exigencies of modern comfort and refinement, and to prove that one
may do whatever one likes with this pliable style, we have the Abbey,
the Marine Retreat, some small cottages in Back Lane, also two or three
pairs of semi-detached cottages near the Catholic Church. There are
also some caricatures and abominable shams about, which throw discredit
on the style. As interesting looking, therefore pleasing, villa
residences we have Pendrea and Trewidden. Farther afield, there is an
excellent example of picturesque simplicity and variety in the
parsonage-house near Halsetown. This house is well worth the study of
builders for its convenient arrangement on a square plan, for the
variety of pleasing forms in the doorways, windows, and
well-proportioned chimney-stacks and gables, as well as the ornamental
slate-work with which some of its gables are dressed, as being more
durable than ordinary barge-boards, which soon decay, whereas the slate
is everlasting. Nothing can form more picturesque groupings than this
parsonage, and its church of corresponding style. As another example to
show how our old English seems at home and at its ease everywhere,
observe how well the addition made to the “First and Last,” becomes its
site. This portion of the ancient inn at Sennen, and the cottages in
Back Lane, Penzance, were designed by a self-taught architect, born and
bred in Sennen, Mr. Charles Hutchens, who resided many years at
Torpoint, constructed many buildings in Devonport, in the Three Towns
generally, and in other parts of the country, of which any architect
might be proud. The nephew of this gentleman, Mr. Thomas Hutchens, of
Sennen, is now Mr. Gilbert Scott’s right-hand man; and, like his
master, his whole heart and soul is devoted to Gothic architecture.
In the opinion of many persons of taste, the quaint old market
house—low, irregular, and devoid of all pretentions to ornament—when
surrounded by houses of as simple a mode, was a more pleasing object
than the present insipid, silly-looking structure, which, when first
seen from Market-jew-street, looks like a heavy wall to support a
portico and dome to which there is no body of building. A grand
entrance, to which one cannot see the means of access, and which
apparently leads to nothing. This end is the more faulty, because the
most pretentious.
The old French chateau style, with its steep pitched roofs, turrets,
galleries, balconies, &c., (of which we have a fair example in the
Queen’s Hotel) is far better adapted for a private residence in our wet
and windy climate than the naked, cold-looking Italian, with its flat,
low-pitched roof, ashamed to be seen, and such other appurtenances as
are only suitable for a temple, or other large public building, in a
sunny clime.
THE BUSTLE OF A MARKET DAY.
We cannot think of the old market-house without remembering the
animated scene around it of a market day. On the higher side, at the
corn-market steps, opposite the ‘Golden Lion,’ the jolly farmers and
their buxom wives would be seen arriving, seated each on two or more
sacks of grain, with a basket of butter and eggs on the dame’s arm, and
probably a basket of poultry on that of her lord. The crowing,
squalling, laughing, and scolding, showed a sound heart and lungs, and
that the old folks were neither ashamed nor afraid to be seen to do
their own work; and the appetizing steam which ascended through the
open kitchen window of the cosy hostel, at the foot of the stairs, told
them, as the screeching, hard-labouring, roasting-jack, as plainly as
jack could speak, that plenty of good substantial fare would soon be
ready for their equally substantial appetites. There is no mistake
about it; there was less nonsense about people then than now. At that
time the ladies of squires, merchants, and farmers, did their own
marketing, aye and often such dames as Mesdames Noye, Trezillian,
Ustick, Pender, in the west country, and others of equal rank in town,
would ride to mill on sacks of corn and bolt the meal themselves. The
sturdy butchers—to be seen in the meat market then—were mostly
occupiers of land near the town, and cultivated many of the farms of
Madron. The crooks with which the transverse bars (between the stalls
and overhead in all parts of the house) were armed, sometimes caught in
the ladies’ towering head-dresses.
MADAM TREZILLIAN’S HEAD-DRESS.
There is a story told of a gay Madam Trezillian, of Raftra, who outdid
all other ladies in the west country in the breadth of her hoops and
the height of her tete, as the tower of cushions, ribbons, lace, and
hair was called with which the heads of the dames were surmounted.
Against one St. Levan feast a barber was had out from Penzance to dress
the lady’s head-piece in the most approved mode of the town. It must be
understood that when the heads of these ancient belles were put en
grande toilette they were not taken down at night, often for weeks
together.
That these monstrous head-pieces might not be deranged, the bedsteads
were made a foot or two longer than the ordinary affair of the present
day. During the feasten week, having company to entertain all the time,
madam’s tete of course was not disturbed, nor for a week or two after,
when she was engaged in visiting, until she felt such a head-ache that
she was obliged to send for Dr. Maddron, from St. Just, that he might
see what ailed her noddle. Still the precious mass of wool, pomatum,
&c., remained undisturbed on the outside, when the doctor arrived, and
insisted on having it taken down and opened. Then they say that he
found a nest of mice had been littered in the greasy pads which raised
the lady’s hair, besides any quantity of fly-blows in their different
stages of growth. No doubt, the old mother mouse came every night to
nurse her interesting tender brood of young ones. Madam’s head was in
such a state that she was obliged to have it shaved. The hair was
carefully saved and made up into a false head-dress (one could hardly
call it a wig) against Madron-tide, when she came to pass the feast
with Squire Daniel at Alverton. The feasten eve, in walking through the
market house with Madam Daniel, the bows of her towering tete caught on
the crooks. Still, on she walked the whole length of the market, when
she discovered her loss by the uproar of laughter with which the lady’s
bald pate and her suspended head-dress were greeted by the butchers and
their boys, and by their wives as well.
THE ANCIENT FISH-WOMEN OF PENZANCE.
One can’t take leave of the old market without some notice of the
handsome fisherwomen, in their picturesque old costume of short scarlet
cloaks and broad felt hats, which well became their coal-black eyes and
hair, and heightened the oriental cast of their countenances. Then
their tongues, loud and musical, hailing every one who passed the
street:—“Wount ’e buy some nice fresh fish to-day, my dear?” “Cheeld
vean; why you shall have en for nothan; do come here!” As well as their
chaffing and slack jaw at each other and all the world besides. Above
all, the shoemakers, who kept their stalls near by, came in for a good
share of their gibes. People had a heart to laugh then, and were all
the better friends even for a little rough talk, before so much
organised hypocrisy, whining cant, and morbid feeling became the
fashion, which seems, if possible, to be increasing in intensity and
stupidity in Penzance.
The buildings surrounding the Market Place, Green-Market, and many
other parts of the town, were mongrelized about the time of the
erection of the new structure by taking the mullions out of the windows
of many houses, lowering the pitch of their roofs, erecting useless
unmeaning parapets, covering walls of dressed granite and ornamental
slate work with plaster and other shams, until the surrounding
buildings were changed into worse-looking objects if possible than the
centre piece. A specimen of the true appreciation of just proportion
which seems to have been intuitive with old masons may yet be seen in
the dressed chimney-stacks, with embattled mouldings, belonging to an
old house at the north-western corner of the market-place. In the
premises, more examples of the old style will be found. When this old
house was first built, it was said to have been the grandest mansion in
Buriton, as a good part of what is now included with old Penzance was
then named,—all around the Market Place.
THE SCHOOL-DAYS AND HOME OF PELLEW.
Near the Alverton entrance to Fox’s gardens is an old thatched cottage
[19] which ought to have been regarded with much interest, as it was
the home of Pellew (Admiral Lord Exmouth) during his boyish days. Here
he lived with his aged grandmother, Madam Woodhouse, until he left to
commence his career of usefulness and glory that added much to the
renown of the British nation. I have heard many anecdotes of the hero’s
boyish days from an old lady of the West Country (the daughter of a
gentleman farmer of Sennen) who, when a girl in her teens, was sent to
Penzance to reside with her uncle and aunt, that she might attend a
better school than was to be found in the West Country.
At that time boys and girls often went to the same school until they
were much older than it would be considered decorous for them to remain
together in these thin-skinned, fastidious times.
Young Pellew went to the same school as the girl from the Land’s End,
who, being two or three years older than the boy, called for him at his
grandmother’s house; but the country girl always had a hard task to get
him to school, and often, in spite of all she could do, and threats of
the old lady’s cane, young Pellew would take off to the Quay, whither
the girl had to follow, as, if she was known to have let him escape,
she would get a sound thrashing from her own aunt, who was a great
friend of the boy’s grandmother and paid the same attention to the boy
Edward Pellew as to her own children. As soon as the boy reached the
pier he would spring into the first boat he found afloat, cast off the
painter, and away to sea, without staying to notice if there were oars
in the boat or not.
His companion and guardian in petticoats would remain on the Battery
rocks, or pier, with her knitting or needle-work, that she might signal
to Pellew when it was time for him to come in, to return home to
dinner.
Often the fishermen and sailors at the Quay, who all loved the daring
boy and kept a watch over him, would go out in another boat and help
him to come ashore in time to save his bacon. Sometimes one or both of
the old ladies would find out the truants, come to the Quay after them,
and beat them both home to Alverton lane, where Pellew would take
refuge with old Mr. Boase, who always took the boy’s part, as well as
that of his niece (the west country girl) in spite of all the old
ladies and the schoolmaster might say.
To make amends for the beatings the Sennen girl got for letting Edward
Pellew escape from school (which she liked to do very well herself now
and then) and for doing his sums for him (whilst he occupied himself in
making boats and ship’s gearing under the desk), he would often drive
her uncle’s cows from the Weeths (the ground that is now Mr. Bolitho’s
lawn) down to Alverton to water, or bring them home to their yard in
Alverton lane—the site of which was near where our worthy Mayor’s (Mr.
Francis Boase) garden now stands—to be milked of an evening.
As he was soon taught to be a famous boxer by his friends the sailors
of the Quay, who would always have him with them if they could, he
wanted to put his science in practice by thrashing any boy double his
size, if they happened to offend his protectress, who, when fourscore
years of age, has often shown me a lot of trifles Pellew sent home to
his grandmother for his old school-mate; among other things a variety
of perforated foreign coins, such as sailors like to suspend from their
watch chains, a pair of ladies’ silver shoe-buckles, &c.
When Pellew went to sea the old lady, his grandmother, used often to
say, “If I could but live to see my Teddy made a captain I would die
contented.” The old lady lived long enough to see him knighted, and I
think made an Admiral, before she died.
How Sir Edward Pellew would have none, or few, but Cornish men for his
crew; how the Mount’s Bay and St. Just men would volunteer for him,
when the press gang (who wanted men, and the devil a man could they get
for other ships but his) were beaten out of Mousehole by the women, led
on by Ann St. Doyd (Ann’s right name was Pentreath), armed with a
red-hot poker, is well known. As every incident of his life, after he
went to sea, became matter of history, we cannot claim any more of it
as belonging exclusively to Penzance.
THE WESTERN APPROACH TO PENZANCE (ALVERTON LANE.)
From the house in which Admiral Lord Exmouth passed his boyish days
there was a pleasant footpath, long after that time, through the fields
to Alverton, separated from the lane by a high hedge and shady trees;
and the lane itself, from the Ellises’ Mansion (or the site of the
Western hotel) to the seat of the Daniels, in Alverton (or probably the
Jenkin’s at that time), was like a bower all the way, with the
overhanging trees, except a good strip of green extending from Mr. F.
Boase’s house down almost to the pathway leading to Alverton well. On
this green the fair was formerly held. It has but recently been removed
to a field. All the highroads at this time were pleasant green lanes.
There was no such thing as a cart West of Penzance. Here and there an
ox-butt might be found. We will return to the green lanes, and those
who jogged along them on bow-pad or pillion, when we come to take a
retrospective view of the country.
PARSON SPRY, THE CURATE OF SENNEN AND ST. LEVAN, HALF A CENTURY AGO,
AND HIS WOODEN HORSE AND DOG “SPORT.”
Before leaving this part of the town, let us cast a glance at the three
or four little cottage-like dwellings just opposite the lane leading to
the Well fields, on the higher side of the entrance to The Hollies.
These cottages were regarded as very genteel residences, half a century
ago, before the North Parade and some score of other terraces, which
now form the most pleasant portions of the town, were ever born or
thought of. Then, the cottage nearest to The Hollies’ gate was the
residence of the Rev. William Spry, many years curate of Sennen and St.
Levan. The reverend gentleman was one of those eccentric, or
independent, characters who pay no regard either to conventional modes
or to the opinion of those who have no need to trouble themselves about
their harmless whims. His dapper little figure, dressed up in the most
anti-clerical, not to say ridiculous, of costumes, must still be well
remembered by many in town and country. Notwithstanding his eccentric
vagaries, he was always a welcome guest, for the sake of his
never-failing good humour, quick repartee, and the droll stories of
which he was generally the hero. His most extravagant freaks were
mostly harmless, and always amusing, at least to the spectators (yet
with all the care taken to qualify his characteristics, we may have to
make some exceptions when the parson mounts his wooden horse.)
When in the reading-room, public library, or any other place of resort
for gentlemen of the town, the parson was always the centre of
attraction and fun. One day, in the library, Mr. Spry was, as usual,
relating some of his amusing drolls, when an elderly gent, Gen. Tench
(who very much liked to hear himself talk), finding that he could not
have the chance to get in a word edgeways even, interrupted the parson
by saying “Come, Mr. Spry, as you appear to know a great deal about
everything, be pleased to explain the difference between a major canon
and a minor canon?” “Pho! pho!” replied Mr. Spry, in his lisping
accent, “what a general! not to know the difference between a major
cannon and a minor cannon. Why a major cannon is a great gun, and a
minor cannon is a thun (son) of a cun (gun), to be thure (sure.)” The
general wheeled on his heels, and went away without firing any more of
his guns at the parson for that day.
The reverend gentleman, finding the hire of a horse to take him to the
scene of his clerical duties more than he could well afford out of his
slender income, took it into his head to have a velocipede, hoping,
with the assistance of the machine, to be able to ride out to the
Land’s End at his ease, hills excepted, when he would have to drag his
horse. He first exercised his wooden horse, by way of breaking it in,
on the descent from St. Just lane’s end to Alverton. He was very proud
of his horse, when he found it would run down the hill with so much
speed. The next market day, early in the morning, the parson stationed
himself, mounted on his horse, on the top of Tul-tuf hill, to challenge
anybody coming from, or going to the market, to try a race, always down
the hill be it understood. Plenty of the farmers desired no better fun
than to try a race with the parson on his wooden horse; but their own
nags, not knowing what to make of the parson’s queer beast, going like
the wind on three legs, in their fears and doubts about the nature of
the thing threw their riders in the ditch, and sprung over the hedges,
that they might not be overtaken by what they must have thought a most
unnatural-looking affair. So the parson won the wager, and boasted long
and loud that his horse was the best in the West; but in the last race
that Thursday morn, the three-legged Bucephalus attained such velocity
in descending the hill near Alverton that it became quite unmanageable
and fairly ran away with its gallant rider as fast as its wheels could
spin. When it came to Alverton water (there was no bridge over the
water which then worked the old factory) several market women were on
their nags, in the midst of the pooled-up water, to let their horses
drink and breathe awhile.
Whilst their heavy baskets of butter and eggs rested carelessly on
their knees to give rest to their weary arms whilst having a chat, in
dashed the parson, on his horse, in the very midst of them. He tumbled
over in the water, with the machine between his legs. All the women
were thrown off their horses, which galloped away—some home, some like
mad into the town to their accustomed yards and stables, others ran
they didn’t know where; but fancy what a wreck was there, with the
broken eggs, barm-jars, butter, and baskets on the road, or floating
down the stream! The women were so exasperated that they half-killed
the parson between them. In the heat of their passion they pelted him
with butter and eggs, then rolled him in the mud, until luckily some
gentlemen came to the rescue of the parson and his steed.
The next Sunday the reverend gentleman being unable to attend to his
duties at the Land’s End, his parishioners, as well as most of the
people of the West, who had congregated at St. Levan church and along
the roads, hoping to see the parson racing his horse, were much
disappointed. The fame of his Thursday’s adventure had spread far and
near, so that such a gathering was never seen before in the church
except at the feasten tide. Against the following Sunday the parson had
sufficiently recovered his broken skin and his courage to be off early
in the morning, for fear of disappointing his congregation again. The
people waited long about the cliff and Rospletha hill, looking out in
vain; at last, fearing some accident had happened, from seeing neither
sight nor sign of their pastor, a good number of them proceeded along
the road towards Penzance, two miles or more, when they saw the
parson’s well-known dog, Sport, coming towards them. Sport testified
his joy at seeing some of his friends, and ran back, yelping and
barking, and looking behind him to beg the people to follow him fast.
In a few minutes, on turning the corner of Cotneywilley, they found the
parson and his horse in a deep pool of mud at the bottom of the hill,
or rather the runaway steed was deep in the muddy hole. The rider had
contrived to scramble out and shake himself just as they arrived. Old
Mr. Ellis, of Trendrennen, being among the people who came to the
relief of their forlorn pastor, he was helped along to that old
gentleman’s house, which the parson usually made his resting-place.
Mr. Spry never trusted his wooden horse to make such long journeys any
more, and people of the two western parishes, who liked their parson
very much, because he was very sociable, never wearied them with
tiresome platitudes, nor bothered them with what some call deep (that
is inexplicable) dogmas and notions, were very indulgent, and never
complained whether he came early or late, or stayed away for weeks
together on account of bad weather.
“SPORT’S” BEHAVIOUR AT CHURCH AND IN CHURCHYARD.
The doings of the parson’s handsome black dog Sport added much to the
interest of the Sunday’s performances. Sport seemed to think that some
dogs belonging to his master’s parishes had not so much right to enjoy
church privileges as himself. To others—larger dogs than himself—he was
more indulgent, and even condescended to wag his tail at them, but woe
to any audacious dog of a smaller size, or a shorter tail, that
presumed to venture into the more respectable or parson’s portion of
the church East of the rud locks (rood loft.) Sport would then show the
rustic dogs the colour of his teeth and drive them into the belfry,
where the other country dogs would follow to see fair play, or perhaps
to give the town-bred puppy a bite by the sly, if they saw their own
comrade likely to get the worst of the game.
One Sunday, a dog belonging to a farmer who sat near the chancel,
seemed inclined to come nearer the parson’s ground than he liked. Both
dogs then said as plain as looks could express, “Come then, to decide
which shall look the biggest; let’s try our right, down in the belfry,
by a quiet bit of a fight.” Off walked the two dogs, began and
continued their fight without making much noise, until the parson was
in the midst of reading the second lesson. Then Sport gave some
dreadful yells, which so much alarmed his master, that he stopped
reading, bundled up his surplice under his arm, ran in all haste down
to the belfry, drove out the country dog, and shut in his own by way of
penance among the shovels, brooms, pickaxes, bell-ropes, planks, and
other lumber. When the parson returned to the reading-desk, he leaned
over towards the old clerk, and asked “Where was I, Josey?” meaning the
verse of the lesson at which he left off. Uncle Josey, the clerk, being
rather deaf, like most deaf people spoke rather loud—loud enough to be
heard all over the church—when he intended only to whisper “Where war
’e? What do ’e mean, master? Why down in the belfry, parting the dogs
to be sure!” Sport took it in high dudgeon, to be imprisoned like a
felon. When he found barking and howling of no use towards procuring
his release from durance vile, he contrived to entangle himself in the
bell-rope (left dangling up and down) by getting his head into the
running noose, made by the sexton for his foot, to assist in tolling
the great bell, which Sport set a ringing and soon rung himself out.
Another day, whilst the parson was reading the burial service over the
defunct, his dog Sport behaved himself in a very unseemly manner, for
such a solemn occasion, by kicking up a dust among the dry-bones,
howling at the mourners, catching their dresses in his mouth, and
renting off yards of the deepest affliction or crape from the young
widow, and other such like pranks. The parson, reading, with one eye on
the book, the other on his dog, at the end of every portion where the
clerk had to respond Amen, called “Sport!” and Sport replied with a
bark. At the conclusion, in the same breath with the words, “Ashes to
ashes, dust to dust, I commit this body to the ground,” the parson
called out louder than ever “Sport! Sport! Come here;” turning quickly
round at the same time as if to catch the dog and bury him.
There is much more told by good folks of the two most western parishes
about the freaks of this reverend gentleman who had the cure of their
souls half a century ago; but enough has been related to give some idea
of the greater simplicity of those times, when there certainly was not
the same sourness, and disposition to magnify faults and failings into
mortal sins, as there is now by the rampant religionists, who display
their ferocious virtue principally by circulating slander, under the
guise of pity for those who do not choose to adopt their morbid
notions, whining cant, and grimace.
A short time after the velocipede adventure, Mr. Spry removed hence to
Morwelham, and soon became as well known on the Tamar as here, for his
eccentric freaks.
THE REV. JAMES BEVAN.
A little more than sixty years ago, the Rev. James Bevan, of
Glamorganshire, died at St. Levan. This gentleman lived amongst his
parishioners, and served as curate in the two western parishes, nearly
half a century. Old folks of the West always speak with great respect
of this venerable clergyman and his family, who were regarded by the
people with as much affection as if they had been their near relatives.
A handsome tablet has recently been erected to the memory of this
gentleman in St. Levan church, as also one to Miss Thomazine Dennis.
This lady was born at Sawah, and noted for her literary and scientific
acquirements, which were the more notable in one brought up in that
remote part of the world. We hope these memorials, and many other
objects of interest in the remarkable old church, will long remain
undisturbed in spite of the contemplated destruction of one of the most
interesting monuments of ecclesiastical architecture to be found in the
county, and which is hallowed by traditions dear to the people who
properly belong to the place.
COUNTRY CLERKS AND COUNTRY CHOIRS.
In conjunction with the good parsons, we have a pleasing remembrance of
the respectable, unaffected old clerks, to be found in most of the
country churches half a century ago. In general, the clerks were small
farmers sufficiently well educated to be able to read the Bible and
church service fluently (occasionally passing over hard words); but,
from their having no other books to read in country schools than the
universal spelling-book, psalter, and Bible, they were incapable of
understanding any work of general literature (as a great part of our
agricultural population are now, in fact.)
OLD CHRISTMAS CAROLS.
Our clerks were mostly the leaders of the choir, if such a term may be
applied to the four or five old men who droned out the psalms from the
singing-loft, where every Sunday one or two psalms from the old version
were sung in parts, much after the manner of the old three-man’s-songs.
One might often hear the old clerk in Sennen give out the lines
beginning with, “My saule is like a timmersone bur-r-d-e, &c.” Then,
after he had made the pitch-pipe produce a shrieking squeak, the three
or four old souls, accompanied by their bass-viol, would quaver on,
making such shrill and startling sounds as would set your hair on end
and shake your teeth loose. Down in St. Levan, Uncle Josey, the clerk,
would always have his own way about the singing, in spite of the parson
and everybody else. His favourite psalm was all about “the precious
ointment running from Aaron’s beard down unto the skirts of his
raiment.” From the old man’s admiration of this odorous and unctuous
song of praise, one seldom had any other than what were known as the
Aaron psalm and “t’other.” In the carol singing, on Christmas eve at
night, the old men sang, and their brass buttons shone in all their
glory, when, with heart and soul, they were ringing out such joyous
strains as “Now let us be merry, and set sorrow aside,” &c.
Another favourite was an older carol, with the chorus of “Noel, noel,
noel, born is the king of Israel.” There were often sung still older
ones, which contain many such old catholic traditions as are found in
the apocryphal gospel of St. Nichodemus and Lives of the Saints, such
as one about the blessed Mary walking through the orchard, when she
longed for a red ripe apple far above her reach, “Then up spoke the
babe in blessed Mary’s womb; bow down, apple tree, bow down, apple
tree, that mother may have some.”
These simple ditties were then regarded with much reverence for their
high antiquity. Some of the old manuscript carol-books, formerly used
in churches at Christmas-tide, are still preserved with religious care
by old folks of the West.
ANCIENT MODE OF CONDUCTING FUNERALS.
At this time, and long before, the men of Zennor were noticeable for
their singing and other musical attainments, which they made a source
of pleasure and profit, to themselves at least, from their being often
asked to parish-feasts from a good distance off, especially down West
(the wise folk live t’other side) that the feasters might be gratified
by their harmonious strains in church on the Sunday, and brisk dancing
tunes on their fiddles to set their heels a-shaking on other nights of
the feasten week, besides for the sake of the new songs they often
contrived to learn from the show people in Corpus Christi fair. But
they were not often asked two years following, because when they once
got into comfortable quarters, it was no easy matter to get rid of them
until long after servy-day, [20] when they had more than eaten their
welcome. For the sake of their psalm-singing they used also to be often
asked to attend funerals round about, when the friends wished to show
more than ordinary respect to the deceased or themselves, and have the
disconsolate widows cheered. The Zennor men, with their wives and
children, never failed to come, with half a word’s asking, from miles
away, and they have the same fondness for funerals still; whether
seed-time or harvest, sunshine or rainy day, Zennor folks, old and
young, will leave their work and scamper over hills and moors miles
away to “a good buryal” (burying), where there is likely to be plenty
of toddy and tobacco, cake and biscuit, provided for all comers. But
their room is often better liked than their company; for, after the men
have smoked and pocketed up as much good shag as opportunity would
favour them to take, by stuffing into the palm of the hand instead of
the bowl of the pipe, drunk as much toddy as they could possibly
contrive to get hold of by shifting about from place to place, so as to
be always near the jug of hot liquor as it is carried round for the
people who remain outside, the women and children all push indoors that
can, to look sharp after the cake and biscuits, of which they contrive
to pocket up a good store for the children left home, and don’t forget
the toddy, believe me, even if they have a “dish of nice, sweet, strong
tea, shure enough.” After having stuffed and quaffed till near bursting
point, they will scamper away home like prall’d [21] dogs, and the
devil a finger will they lend to help take the poor defunct to his last
home, often miles away, leave alone the singing. They are often too
drunk to raise the funeral note, and make some fun, which serves just
as well, by getting into an old ballad-tune by mistake. Zennor folks
are not often asked to parish feasts for the sake of their singing now:
they may stay home and bleat to Carn Galver for what anyone cares about
the greedy goats.
FORMER MEANS OF INFORMATION AMONG THE PEOPLE.
We may here take leave of our old clerks, observing that they were in
general better educated, or at least better informed, than the rest of
the community, few of whom knew anything about what might be regarded
as the current literature of the time. Yet, with all their ignorance of
every work of fiction, except Robinson Crusoe and the Pilgrim’s
Progress (the former always regarded as literally true), the oldest of
old folks of fifty years ago knew many scraps of Grecian and Roman
lore, as well as rare legends of ordinary saints, besides all those of
our local ones. The story of the taking of Troytown was as well known
to many as the game of that name. I well remember an old farm labourer
who did not know his a, b, c; yet he would tell you much about the
principal heroes of mythic history, and acquired the nickname of Plato
from his always going about singing, when alone, the old song almost
worthy of the sage, “Says Plato, why should man be vain, since
bounteous heaven has made him great?” &c., or another about Aurora and
Flora.
How came these uneducated and poor folks to get hold of so much of the
old world lore? It may partly be accounted for by the more gregarious,
or sociable, customs of the olden times, when there was much less to do
in the winter season, before turnips were introduced into the west
country (in a great measure by the example of the late Colonel
Scobell), there being then but few cattle housed. Great part of the
winter’s day was passed in hunting, in which sport one and all joined.
After the substantial supper—no slops of tea then, but good
home-brewed, with bread and cheese, beef, mutton, or bacon—the mistress
and her maids spun, whilst the men carded the wool, song-singing and
story-telling going on all the time, or the master read from their
favourite Robinson Crusoe, or from Moore’s Almanack, which was also a
great resource, or recited some drolls which all knew by heart; yet
they never tire of hearing them repeated, with such variations and
embellishments as some recent occurrence might often suggest.
A vast amount of curious information may also be traced to the sociable
and beloved old parson, who kept up such familiar intercourse with his
flock as to sympathise with all their joys and griefs, and to join in
all their sports and pastimes during nearly half a century.
THE ASTROLOGERS OF THE WEST.
We are long lingering amongst those old folks whom we are much inclined
to regard as rude and uncouth. Yet our vaunted refinement has not
discovered anything much better to supply the loss of the honest
simplicity and the all-above board character of people of the last
century.
We may observe that the foregoing remarks, with respect to the
restricted education of the generality of people of the west, do not
apply to many who were regarded as the bettermost class of farmers, or
rather gentlemen-farmers, as they all resided on, and farmed their own
estates. Many of this class were kept long enough at a grammar-school,
in Penzance, or elsewhere, to learn a little Latin and mathematics; at
least they acquired a sufficient knowledge of mensuration to enable
them to measure their own fields. Many of those gentlemen were so much
given to the study of astrology that they were regarded as conjurors by
their domestics and more ignorant neighbours, who, seeing the
horoscopes and schemes in the gentlemen’s old books, believed these
strange-looking figures to be the secret signs of the means used for
dealing with the invisible world, or for commanding the spirits of
light and darkness, over whom it was devoutly believed that many
skilful astrologers of the west had (by means of their books) perfect
control. Among the most noted adepts in this science, the best known
were Parson Corker, of Buryan; Mr. Jenkyn, of Trezidder, or Alverton;
Dr. Maddron, of St. Just; Mr. Ustick, of Morvah; and Mr. Matthew
Williams, of Mayon.
Some of the stories still related of this gentleman will serve as
examples of the light in which he, and others of his class, were
regarded by the more ignorant:—
One Sunday morning, whilst this gentleman was in Sennen church (which
is only a few minutes’ walk from his house) he felt very uncomfortable.
Something told him that all was not right at home. He left the church
in the midst of the service, and ran home just in time to find that his
over-curious old housekeeper had taken one of the conjuring-books out
of the chest, the key of which he had missed and which she had stolen
that morning for the sake of satisfying her itching curiosity. When he
entered the room, he found her transfixed in her master’s arm-chair
looking like death in a fright, the book open before her in the place
of some of the most powerful spells for calling up the worst of evil
spirits. The woman appeared like one in a fit, without the power to
speak or move, until her master came in the very nick of time to
prevent the spirits (that she had unwittingly summoned by reading the
words, and tracing over the signs in the book with her finger) from
carrying her off bodily. Some of the spirits became visible; others
lifted her, chair and all, off the floor when she stopped reading; and
her fright made her fall into a fit. Mr. Williams read and read till
the sweat boiled from his body, before he had the power to drive the
evil spirits from the room, and the old housekeeper had to undergo a
severe penance before she could be free of all danger from them.
Another time it was found that the gentleman’s furze rick was
diminishing much faster than could be accounted for, for the
consumption of fuel in his own house. He consulted his books, and
discovered by his art that some women from the Cove made a practice of
carrying away the furze every night. The very next night, after all
honest folks should be in their beds, an old woman of the Cove came as
usual to the rick for a burn of furze. She made one of no more than the
usual size, which she tried to lift on to her back, but found that she
could not move it. Then she took out half the furze, but was still
unable to lift the faggot or so left in the rope. Becoming frightened,
she tried to get out the rope and run, but found that she had neither
the power to draw out the rope, nor move from the spot herself. Of
course, the conjuror had put a spell on her, and there she had to
remain throughout the cold winter’s night, until Mr. Williams came out
and released her in the morning from the spell, and as she was a very
poor old soul let her have a burn of furze, but she took good care
never to come any more, nor any of the rest of the women, who soon
found out how she had been served.
These puerile stories, and many more of the same class, often recounted
about Mr. Williams, and many other gentlemen comparatively well
educated for those times, are not without some significance, as they
denote the power that in all times and places may be acquired by the
learned over the minds of the ignorant, through their fears of the
mystical and unknown.
It has been said that Miss Dennis (the learned lady before spoken of)
caught the disorder, which was the cause of her slow but premature
decease, by watching the courses of the stars during cold winter’s
nights, for the sake of making calculations. This lady corresponded
with many of the learned of her time. As these old astrologers had
perfect faith in the principles of their ancient science, Astrology
with them was not such mere imposition as it is generally supposed to
have been.
CONJURORS AND THEIR SPELLS.
They were consulted, not only with regard to the fortunes of those
whose exact time of coming to light was known (the time of birth was
then carefully registered, even to a minute, to serve as data on which
to construct the horoscope), but were relied on for raising the spells
of witchcraft, and often by their hints, advice, or threats of
exposure, procured the restoration of stolen property. They were
generally believed to have the same faculty of divination as is now
assumed by the Pellar of Redruth, who is making a fortune out of the
credulity of people in our enlightened times.
We will now however leave them, and (by way of change) endeavour, after
a few more tales, to get back to town by the usual mode of travelling
in the last century.
OLD JUSTICE JONES AND CHEAP LABOUR.
As the notion of the transmigration of souls is not at all new to
Cornish people, you may imagine that, in some former state of
existence, you lived out west about the time that old Justice Jones
resided in Penrose, and was long the unquestioned tyrant of that part
of the country. In complaisance with the good pleasure of the justice,
many old men in the parish, even farmers, did the work on his farms of
Penrose and Brew, for no other payment than his worthless promise that
their sons should not be impressed and sent off to serve the king on
board a man-of-war. It seems that in the time of this ancient edition
of Colonel Peard, the magistrates were intrusted with warrants which
empowered them to draft off whomsoever they pleased for the king’s
service, and to gratify their ill-will they had only to intimate to the
press-gang that the disliked were eligible men.
THE VINGOES OF TREVILLE.—THE JUSTICE’S PUNISHMENT.
Old Jones’s usual mode of proceeding was to compel all the labouring
class to go to church every Sunday (in case of non-attendance these
guardians of the law might also fine or imprison.) The justice would be
first to leave the church, and would remain in the churchyard (where
those who feared him were collected to learn his pleasure) until he had
intimated what work he wished to have done, and by whom, during the
week. When he wanted any extra hands during the week, as was often the
case in harvest, furze-carrying, and other times of work requiring
quick despatch, he would hoist a flag on a flag-staff which used to be
placed in a large holed stone, which was perforated for that purpose,
and built into the top of the angle formed by the green court and
garden walls. It was a common saying that not to give anyone sufficient
wages was like old Jones’s payment, of a kick in the rear, which many,
who neglected their own harvest work to save the old justice’s corn,
richly deserved. But he was not long allowed to domineer over the poor
folks of the west. Many of the old families belonging to the parish,
among whom the Vingoes, of Treville, were the most prominent, did all
they could to check his proceedings. This ancient Norman family, who
had held Treville ever since the Conquest, and had been the
wine-tasters to unknown Norman chiefs for equally unknown ages,
regarded old Jones, for all his riches, as nothing but an upstart
stranger in the west; yet they did not succeed in bringing the justice
to act in a reasonable way until a smuggling crew came to their aid.
Most of the young men of the west country (many of them farmers’ sons)
belonged to this band, as well as two young men of Morvah—a Daniel and
Ustick, who were related to the Vingoes, and might be styled gentlemen.
Their head-quarters were at Priest’s Cove and Pendeen, as best suited
their convenience. One fine day in the harvest, when old Jones had
summoned folks from all over the parish to save his corn, the
smugglers, taking the law into their own hands, marched down to Penrose
well-armed, took the old justice and his man (as big a rogue as
himself) from the house, hung them head downwards to a tree in the
town-place, and gave them the bastinado until they were within an inch
of giving up the ghost; then made the old sinner give them money to
treat the men, and sent them off to pass a jovial day, “One and All,”
at the First and Last. Before the smugglers left, they told the justice
that, if he ever attempted to practice any of his old tricks again,
they would come some fine morning when he least expected, and take him
off to his cousin Davy Jones’s locker, and from this time he had such a
wholesome fear of the smugglers that he seldom left his den, nor any
more interfered in the neighbourhood.
PELLEW AND HIS CORNISH CREW.
It was not to be thought of that any of the race of those who, a few
years later, made the press-gang afraid to show their noses in the
west, would allow Justice Jones to continue to act oppressively. It was
about this time that upwards of four score men from St. Just, and
scores from other western parishes, volunteered to man the Nymph, and
went off in crowds to their Captain Pellew (whether he wanted them or
no, they wouldn’t leave his ship, unless some few of them were to go a
privateering, when he couldn’t tell what to do with all his Cornish
crew.) But this is a matter of history, that all know or ought to know:
above all, how he would never suffer any of his Cornish crew to be
flogged, and, if old men’s tales are true, he allowed them such
licence, when not in action, as the martinets of the service would now
think very irregular.
THE ANCIENT GAMES OF HURLING AND WRESTLING.
We will now start for town in good earnest, as we don’t know what fine
doings may be going on there this week, besides the wrestling-match on
the Western Green, where the best gentlemen in the land do not disdain
to try a hitch with the poorest labouring man—not for the value of the
prize, but for the honour of proving their manliness. There is also to
be a grand hurling-match on the Eastern Green between Ludgvan hurlers
[22] and any two other parishes who have a mind to accept the
challenge. There we shall see all the gentry from the eastward, who no
more think themselves degraded by joining the commontry, in the ancient
manly game, than a real old squire’s lady would think it unbecoming to
ply the spinning-wheel in the ancient hall, surrounded by her maidens
at the same work. So now we bid good morrow to the hearty old folks of
the Land’s End, and hope we shall have a pleasant journey to Penzance.
OLD METHODS OF CONVEYANCE.
RIDING PILLION.
POPULAR SONGS OF THE TIMES, MARLBROOK, AND SENTIMENTAL DITTIES.
No people in the West Country had ever yet dreamed of such things as
gigs, or any other wheel conveyance to take them to fair or market: so
we must either go on foot, or jog into town on horseback. If your horse
will carry double, you may be honoured with the company of a lady on a
pillion behind you. If possible, decline the favour, unless the lass is
young and fair; for to take one who wishes to pass for a maiden lady of
a certain age is often as great a punishment as was ever invented in
Purgatory, for the time. But if you cannot decently get rid of Miss
Priscilla, or Aunt Jenefer, pray the Lord grant you an extra dose of
patience.
First, before mounting Dobbin, you must have a handkerchief fastened
round your middle for her to grasp with her long bony fins, because she
does not think it decorous forsooth to put her arm round your waist and
hug you comfortably, like a less-affected girl might, to steady herself
on a rough road: with such a one we can jog along as happy as Darby and
Joan. Fasten the handkerchief with a bow-knot, and if Priscilla gets
too tormenting you can slip the knot and let her tumble off in going up
hill.
As soon as Dobbin begins to trot she will be working her bony knuckles
into your ribs: when she wants to take snuff or perform any other
never-ending fidgety movements, the arm will be slipped inside the
nackan, as far as her bony sharp elbow, which will be bored into the
small of your back like a spit.
The lanes, in many places, are more like rocky water-courses than
roads, and so narrow that a horse and panniers can scarcely pass
between the high furzy hedges, and so uneven that one must be
constantly on the look out to keep the nag from stumbling. However, you
will be kept pretty straight and steady, with the dame pulling on the
handkerchief behind, and the hard-mouthed horse dragging on the bridle
in front (to get his head the nearer the ground, the better to see
where he may tumble down without cutting his knees), till the girths
give away. Dobbin gives a grunt, and down you tumble, heels over head,
in going down some such rocky lane as that which crossed Trelew hill a
short time ago. Ten to one but in the tumble you will be under. There
is not the least danger of the lady being hurt, because with the
protection of her cork-rump and the long stays of leather and steel,
wood and whalebone, in which she is encased, the old girl is as safe
from harm as a lobster in its shell, or a warrior in his coat of mail.
Her first concern will be to see if the cordial bottle of
brandy-and-cloves is safe and sound among all the things in her
knapsack of a pocket; then, if her pattens or clogs are fast and firm
to the bow of her pillion.
The horse has long kicked himself clear of all the trappings, and
galloped off toward home: yet take it easy, sit ye down and drain the
bottle until you have sucked out the last drop. But hearken! There is a
regular drove of market-women, you may know by their clatter, coming
down the hill. Get up quick do, and shake yourselves straight, before
they arrive, for you don’t know what a story the old dames will make of
it before they leave the butter-market; above all, they delight to
overhaul such a precise piece of prudery as Miss Priscilla, who, by
pretending to be shocked into “high strikes” at what are most innocent
things to the simple, shows as plain as a pike-staff that something bad
is always uppermost in her thoughts.
The runaway horse is caught and brought back, by some of the market
folks; the girths mended with a piece of rope-yarn; and from the rock
at the bottom of the hill you mount again. The worst of the road being
passed, you will get on like fighting cocks, and tune your pipes for
the new song of
“Moll Brooks [23] is gone to the wars.
Vezy vazzy vumfra.
She will never return no more.
Ran tan tore, ran tan tore.”
The tender Priscilla will treat you to some such touching ballad as—
“Cold blows the wind to-day, sweetheart;
Cold are the drops of rain;
The first true love that ever I had,
In the green wood he was slain,” &c., &c.
If that does not bring the briny tears, she will try another doleful
sentimental ditty that was very fashionable in her time—
“I have been bad, since you have been gone;
Tweedle, tweedle, go twee;
If you had been out in the garden green,
You would have heard the great moans
Of me, of me, of me, of me.”
Then you may both join in singing the innocent old song of—
“There did a frog live in a well,
Close by a merry mouse in a mill.
To my rigdom bomenary kimey.
Kimé naré gildé caré,
Kimé naré caré,” &c., &c.
By the time you have got throughout this you will have arrived in town,
and be safely landed at the “Duke of Cumberland” public-house, which is
one of the oldest, and was one of the most respectable, hostels in
Penzance.
GREEN LANES AND FOOTPATHS.
Those who walked to town always found near the narrow lanes a pleasant
foot-path, which often cut off the corners and shortened the route. In
other places, where the road passed between the lands, which formerly
belonged to different proprietors, or when the adjoining land was
enclosed for different farms, broad pieces of ground were left by
ancient proprietors for the purpose of the king’s highway, that, when
one horse-track was worn impracticable, others might be found in better
condition, at the same time affording plenty of pleasant greensward for
the foot-passenger and poor man’s cow. Almost all these broad green
lanes have now been stolen from the public, by the greedy proprietors
of adjoining farms, who had no more right than you or I to the ground
which was open to the Queen’s highway. A few years ago, many such
pleasant green glades might be found in the road from Penzance to
Hayle; as, for example, where Canon’s town now stands was one of those
old broad highways which belonged to the public, and which the public
should have kept, as well as many other strips of greensward, that the
weary, worn, and footsore traveller might find some verdant spot
whereon to repose his feet and eyes.
These old green lanes were altogether distinct from the commons through
which a highway might pass. There are some portions,—few and far
between,—yet remaining of these old highways, to which the foot
passenger turns with pleasure, to get out of the way of the wheels and
dust.
PACKSADDLES, OX-BUTTS, AND THE FIRST CARRIAGE.
About four score years ago, there was no wheel-carriage for the
high-road West of Trereife. On some of the farms, there were werries,
with three solid wheels (druchars.) These things, between wheel-barrow
and cart, were used for bringing home the turf from the moors, taking
out manure on level ground, &c. Corn, hay and furze were carried in
trusses on horse-back; but horses, furnished with pack-saddles,
dung-pots, or crooks, were then generally used for conveying almost
everything we now see on some sort of wheel-carriage. Ox-butts and
wains were in use long before carts became common. One end of the axle
was fast in the wheel, and the axle was made to work in gudgeons under
the butt or wain. For building the many large mansions about in the
West, the timber had to be dogged from Market-jew, or floated to some
of the Coves near the building site. Slate, lime, laths, &c., were all
borne on the poor horses’ backs.
I have often heard that the first coach, or chariot, as the old Noah’s
arks on slings or springs were called, was the old machine still at
Trewinnard, which was constructed to take out the old Hawkins’ in great
state, if not in a state of comfort. The Hawkins’ lived in such grand
style at the time their chariot was set up (so that everything might be
in keeping with the grandeur of their land-ship) that they very much
impoverished themselves, and their descendants were consequently
obliged to live with such economy as appeared mean for persons of their
rank, which gave rise to the lines about Trewinnard:—
“Here is a grand hall, and no cheer;
A great cellar, and no beer;
A great park, and no deer;
And Sir Christopher Hawkins lives here.”
When the ladies and gentlemen of Trewinnard drove out in their chariot,
accompanied by a cavalcade of belles and beaux, with hawk and hound,
they must have thought themselves as grand and glorious as the Queen of
Sheba and King Solomon, till stuck fast in a hole, or jolted out in the
mud, when the half-a-dozen or more men by whom they were attended, with
poles and ropes, picks, spades, and led horses, contrived to set them
in motion again, at about the rate of three miles an hour, at least
where the roads were the best.
GOING TO TOWN ON MARKET DAY.
Many farmers’ wives and daughters would now think it too fatiguing to
ride on horseback ten miles or more with the marketing in all sorts of
weather. Yet I remember that the inconvenience was little felt half a
century ago; on the contrary, old and young looked with pleasure for
the market-day to come round—the young folks especially, large parties
of whom would always contrive to meet together in rain or shine, and
race along the lanes to the tune of “the devil take the hindmost,”
often jumping over hedges and ditches, to try the springing qualities
of their horses, or galloping off to fair, “three on a horse,” as is
still proverbial for Morvah fair.
Then old folks would often stop to have a chat with people working in
the fields, or with the smiling women looking out of the open doors of
their wayside cottages for the accustomed gossip of the market-day,
when they hail their cronies with something like “Alight, and come in,
my dear; how glad I am to see ’e looking so well. Fasten your horse to
the crook in the wall close by the heaping-stock, and we will soon have
something warm to drink.” Then they would soon have a merry chat, and
often coursey for an hour or two. The dear old souls were never in such
a violent hurry as we all seem to be in now: they didn’t care whether
they had to return by daylight or dark night.
Many used to go to Penzance every Thursday more for the sake of hearing
the news than on any business of importance. Besides, it was a welcome
relief from the wearying monotonous life at the Land’s End and other
remote, lonely places.
It seems to me that the market was more like a fair then, from the
crowd of people in the street, than the fair is like a market now.
Perhaps it is only a fancy; or the reason of the more crowded
appearance of the streets might be owing to the various markets being
more concentrated fifty years ago. So many alterations and improvements
have taken place during the last half century that there are scarcely
any indications remaining to show what Penzance was in the days of our
grandfathers.
PENZANCE IN THE EARLY PART OF THIS CENTURY, &C.
Yet, fortunately, Dr. Davy has given us a graphic description of the
town and country as it existed about the year 1780. “Cornwall,” the
doctor observes, “was then without roads. Those which traversed the
country were rather bridle-paths than carriage roads; carriages were
almost unknown, and even carts were very little used. I have heard my
mother relate that when she was a girl there was only one cart in the
town of Penzance, and, if a carriage occasionally appeared in the
streets, it attracted universal attention. Pack-horses were then in
general use for conveying merchandise, and the prevailing manner of
travelling was on horseback at that period, the luxuries of furniture
and living now enjoyed by people of the middle class were confined
almost entirely to the great and wealthy, and in Penzance, where the
population was about two thousand persons, there was only one carpet.
The floors of the rooms were sprinkled over with sea-sand, and there
was not a single silver fork. The only newspaper which then circulated
in the West of England was the ‘Sherbourne Mercury,’ and it was carried
through the country, not by the post but by a man on horseback
specially employed in distributing it. In the year 1761, the turnpike
road only reached as far as Falmouth. At that period the Land’s End
district must have been a sort of unknown land.”
AN OLD-FASHIONED GREETING.
We leave it for those, better qualified for the Task, to describe how
the Arduous Labour of Years, in endeavouring to obtain Public Buildings
worthy of the town has progressed until, crowned with the Success WHICH
WE UNITE IN CELEBRATING to-day with Joy and Gratitude; only hoping that
the Sun may be as bright and cheering as the open countenance of our
Indefatigable Chief Magistrate, that THE GLADSOME SOUNDS OF TRUMPET,
BUGLE, FIFE, AND DRUM MAY PENETRATE THE GLOOMY HAUNTS OF ALL THE SOUR
AND SULLEN, MAKING THEM LEAVE THEIR MOPING MELANCHOLY, AND HEARTILY
UNITE, “ONE AND ALL,” LIKE TRUE CORNISH PEOPLE, IN SHOWING THAT THEY
PARTICIPATE IN THE GENERAL SATISFACTION NOW FELT, AND SOUGHT TO BE
EXPRESSED IN THE MOST PLEASING MODE THAT AT LAST THE NOBLE BUILDING HAS
BEEN RAISED. LONG MAY IT GATHER WITHIN ITS WALLS A HEALTHY, UNITED, AND
PROSPEROUS PEOPLE.
THE GHOSTS OF CHAPEL-STREET AND St. MARY’S CHAPEL-YARD.
Little more than fifty years ago, the building in Chapel street, which
now (1867) serves as a dispensary, with the adjoining house at the
entrance to Vounderveor-lane, formed a mansion which belonged to, and
was occupied by an elderly lady, Mrs. Baines. At that time there was,
in the rear of this mansion, a large garden, or rather orchard and
garden, extending westward nearly to New-road, and bounded on the south
by Vounderveor. The south side of the lane was an open field, and at
its west end there were no dwellings.
Where the School of Art, the Methodist vestries, and other houses
stand, was all known as Mrs. Baines’s orchard. This pleasant spot, in
which the lady took great delight, was stocked with the choicest apple,
pear, plum, and other fruit trees then known. The town boys soon found
out the fine flavour of Mrs. Baines’s fruit, which was to them all the
sweeter for being stolen. When the apples were ripe and most tempting,
the mistress and her serving-man watched the garden by turns—the man
during the first part of the night, and madam would descend in her
night-dress, every now and then, to see that all was right, in the
small hours of morning.
One night Mrs. Baines, suspecting that man John was rather careless in
keeping guard, sallied forth to see if he was attending to his duty;
and, not finding him anywhere about the garden, she went to a tree of
highly-prized apples and shook down a good quantity, intending to take
them away, and thus prove to John that, through his remissness, the
fruit was stolen. But her man Jan, armed with an old blunderbus,
charged with peas and small shot, was at no great distance dozing under
a hedge. The rustling of shaken branches, and noise of falling apples,
awoke him, and, seeing somebody, as he thought, stealing apples from
their favourite tree, he up with his gun and let fly at his mistress,
exclaiming, at the same time, “Now you thief, I’ve paid ’e off for
keeping me out of bed to watch ’e! I know ’e, I do, and will bring ’e
before his worship the mayor to-morrow!” “Lord help me, I’m killed!”
cried the lady, as she fell on the ground. Jan stayed to see no more,
but, frightened out of his wits, ran away and couldn’t be found for
several days. At last he was discovered up in Castle-an-dinas, half
starved. By good luck the old lady’s back was towards her man when he
fired, and the greatest portion of the charge took effect below her
waist. Doctor Giddy was fetched, and, after some delicate surgical
operations, which the lady bore with exemplary patience, pronounced her
fright to be more than the hurt.
However, a short time after the old lady got shot, she died; and then
she kept such ward and watch over her orchard that few were so bold as
to enter, after day-down, into the haunted ground, where the ghost of
Mrs. Baines was often seen under the tree where she was shot, or
walking the grounds of her garden. Everybody knew the old lady by her
upturned and powdered grey hair under a lace cap of antique pattern; by
the long lace ruffles hanging from her elbows; her short silk mantle,
gold-headed cane, and other trappings of old-fashioned pomp.
There are many still living in Penzance who remember the time when they
wouldn’t venture on any account to pass through Vounderveor-lane after
night-fall, for fear of Mrs. Baines’ ghost. Sometimes she would flutter
up from the garden or yard (just like an old hen flying before the
wind), and perch herself on the wall: then, for an instant, one might
get a glance of her spindle legs and high-heeled shoes before she
vanished.
Her walking in the garden might have been put up with, but she soon
haunted all parts of the premises, and was often seen where least
expected both by night and at noon. The ghost became so troublesome, at
last, that no person could be found to occupy the house, where she was
all night long tramping about from room to room, slamming the doors,
rattling the furniture, and often making a fearful crash amongst glass
and crockery. Even when there was no living occupant in the house,
persons, standing in Chapel street, often saw through the windows a
shadowy form and lights glimmering in the parlours and bed-rooms.
The proprietors, driven to their wits’ end, unwilling that such
valuable property should become worse than useless, all through the
freaks of this vexatious ghost, at last sent for a parson, who was much
famed in this neighbourhood as an exorcist (we think the name of this
reverend ghost-layer was Singleton), that he might remove and lay the
unresting spirit; and he succeeded (by what means our informant knoweth
not) in getting her away down to the sand-banks on the Western Green,
which were then spread over many acres of land where the waves now
roll. Here, this powerful parson, single-handed, bound her to spin from
the banks ropes of sand for the term of a thousand years, unless she,
before that time, spun a sufficiently long and strong one to reach from
St. Michael’s Mount to St. Clement’s Isle. The encroaching sea having
swept away the sandbanks, Mrs. Baines’ ghost is probably gone with
them, as she hasn’t been heard of for some years, and, if she returns,
the present occupiers of the old abode wouldn’t mind her.
About the time that Mrs. Baines’s ghost carried on its freaks in the
mansion, an open pathway passed through St. Mary’s chapel-yard, which
was then often crossed, as it shortened the distance to the Quay; but,
for a long time, few persons liked to pass through the burial-ground by
night, because a ghostly apparition, arrayed in white, was often seen
wandering amongst the tombs, from which doleful sounds were frequently
heard. Sometimes the fearful figure was also met on the path or seen in
the chapel porch. One dark and rainy night, however, a sailor, who
neither knew nor cared anything about the ghost of St. Mary’s, in
taking the short cut through the chapel-yard, came as far as the
chapel-porch, when the ghost issued forth on the path and there stood,
bobbing its head and waving its shroudings before him.
“Halloa! Who or what are you?” said the sailor.
“I am one of the dead!” the ghost answered.
“If you are one of the dead, what the deuce do you do here above
ground? go along down below!” said the sailor, as he lifted his fist
and dealt the ghost a stunning blow over its head, which laid it
sprawling on the stones, where it remained some time, unable to rise or
descend, until a person passing by assisted it to get on its legs, and
discovered that a frolicksome gentleman, called Captain Carthew, who
then lived in the house which is now Mrs. Davy’s property, had long
been diverting himself and frightening the towns’-folk out of their
wits by personating the ghost, which was most effectually laid by Jack
Tar, and served out for its tricks on the timid and credulous.
LOCAL NICKNAMES.
CAMBORNE MERRY-GEEKS AND MARKET-JEW CROWS.—LUDGVAN HURLERS AND GULVAL
BULLS.—MOUSHAL CUT-THROATS AND NEWLYN BUCKAS.—SANCRAS PIGS AND BURYAN
BOARS.—ST. LEVAN WITCHES AND SENNEN ——.—SANTUST FUGGANS AND MORVAH
CHICK-CHACKS.—NANCLEDREA RATS AND ZENNOR GOATS.—TOWEDNACK CUCKOOS AND
ST. IVES HAKES.
The inhabitants of almost all West-country parishes and of several
villages are known by nicknames peculiar to them as natives of the
respective places. The origin of these names is for the most part
forgotten. A few, however, may be accounted for.
CAMBORNE MERRY-GEEKS AND MARKET-JEW CROWS.
Camborne people are now frequently called “Merry-geeks.”
This modernized name conveys the idea that Camborne boys are much
inclined to frolicsome fooling. Some old folks, however, still call
them Merry-sicks or Merry-sickers. No doubt they acquired their
nickname from their patron, St. Meriasek, who, according to his legend,
as given in the old Cornish Mystery-play, was one of the most noted
wonder-workers in this land of saints.
Camborne folks, of three centuries or so ago, must have highly
appreciated this rare old “Guary Miracle” of St. Meriasek, if only for
the way in which they are lauded in it. Redruth Plan-an-Guary must have
rung with applause when it was performed there during Queen Elizabeth’s
reign, and probably much later.
With regard to Marazion people’s appellation of “Crows,” it is said
that, until a little while ago, a remarkable variety of party-coloured
crows frequented this ancient town and its neighbourhood from very
remote times. The saying of “All black and white, like a Market-jew
crow,” is still frequently heard; as well as that of “Like the Mayor of
Market-jew, sitting in his own light.”
LUDGVAN HURLERS AND GULVAL BULLS.
Ludgvan folks got the name of “Hurlers,” because they were wont to beat
all-comers at their favourite game of hurling. They are still proud of
their name.
Gulval people obtained their nickname of “Bulls” long ago when they had
a custom of bringing their young bulls (mostly yearlings) together to
fight. The cattle were always matched according to their ages. Often
heavy bets were staked on the extent and result of their prowess, and
the strongest was preferred as a sire for the future herd. Strength was
then more desirable than now, since most of the team-labour on the land
was done by oxen, and it was desirable that they should be tough and
muscular. Feasten Monday was the usual time for this bovine trial of
strength.
MOUSHAL CUT-THROATS AND NEWLYN BUCKAS.
We will now follow the sun’s course, for good luck, and pass over the
Bay to Moushal and its “Cut-throats.”
Shortly after the Spaniards burnt this old town, many young men of Paul
and the adjacent parishes—eager to retaliate on the Dons—went
privateering. Some of them joined the Jamaica buccaneers, a few turned
pirates, and all of them scoured the Spanish Main. One and all of the
West Country men hailed from Moushal, which was then a noted place, and
the chief port west of Market-jew.
When the adventurous rovers returned home, laden with gold and
treasures, envious land-lubbers, out of spite, dubbed them “Moushal’s
Cut-throats.” Old folks used to say that, a century or so ago, the head
proprietors of Paul and some of Buryan were the descendants of
Buccaneers and “Madagascar Birds.” Those old families are, for the most
part, become extinct in this neighbourhood, though two or three of them
are flourishing elsewhere.
Our old privateering stories always speak of Moushal as the general
rendezvous of western sea-rovers; thus this bad-sounding nickname was
acquired
“In the days we went a pirating,
A long time ago.”
One needs go no farther than Moushal to learn how Newlyn people got the
name of “Buccas.” What old folks say is to the effect that the
fishermen of that place (within the remembrance of persons yet alive)
were accustomed, on their return to shore, to make a propitiatory
offering to a spirit (Bucca) by placing for him a fish, just within
high-water mark, in order that the spirit might ensure them good luck
in their fishing. It was believed that Bucca came at night and took
away the fish. Those who continued to observe this remnant of an old
religious rite were derided by their more “enlightened” neighbours of
recent times, and by them nicknamed “Buccas.”
SANCRAS PIGS AND BURYAN BOARS.
Old folks say that the inhabitants of Sancreed were called “Sancras
Pigs” because, formerly, pork from that inland parish was preferred to
what was raised elsewhere in this neighbourhood.
All the other parishes west of Hayle have some part of their boundaries
on the seaboard: consequently, from the abundance of fish and the want
of any but the home market for it, until recently, much good fish was
cast on manure heaps, in places near fishing-coves; and the great,
long-sided, razor-backed swine, then foraging at their pleasure in
lanes and hamlets, ate so much fishery offal that it communicated a bad
flavour and worse smell to their meat. Much pork was then sold to the
“jousters” (retailers from the eastward) as “Sancras Pigs” that never
saw Sancras parish; and the natives of that favoured place might be
heard all over the Market-house calling out, “Come ’e here, my dears,
look at this, ah es a Sancras pig, born and reared; see the fat ov en
es as white as a crud (curd); no fear ov en beean trainey, like Paul
and Sennen-cove trade, that have lived upon fish all their time.”
At length these inlanders’ brag procured them the nickname of “Sancras
Pigs,” which they still retain.
We must pass over Buryan, for there seems to be no satisfactory account
as to how the swinish nickname bestowed on the natives of that
important parish originated.
ST. LEVAN WITCHES AND SENNEN ——.
St. Levan people are said to have acquired their remarkable name of St.
Levan Witches from the belief—once general—that the inhabitants of that
remote parish were, in days of yore, much addicted to the practice of
necromancy, particularly witchcraft. Old folks held that all the West
Country witches used to meet and hold their revels in Castle Trereen;
until they mounted to the Castle Peak, and, bestriding their brooms or
ragwort stalk, thence took their departure for Wales, Brittany, and
even to Spain. Most nights, however, they merely went over and got a
good “blow out” (feast) on the milk of Taffy’s cows. At times, too,
Tol-pedn-penwith was their place of assembly, whence they started to
wreck ships and perform other deviltry.
If old traditions may be relied on, the unseemly nickname of Sennen ——
originated in a somewhat remarkable way. They say that it was given
long ago, owing to the Danish blood inherited by a few families who
lived on the shore of Whitsand Bay.
Many Land’s End folks have still a strong antipathy to what they regard
as marks of descent from northern pirates, who ravaged the West more
than a thousand years ago.
Here, in old times, Scandinavians generally seem to have been called
Danes; and from the prevalence, in some families of this parish, of the
fiery-hued hair ascribed to those northern marauders, the inference is
obvious, and the vulgar nickname accounted for which was given in ages
past, and “originated with kind and discriminating neighbours.”
No doubt the neighbouring witches, just mentioned, kindly performed
their share of the nicknaming.
The stories referring to the “red-haired Danes’” incursions seem to be
handed down from a time more remote than that of King Olof’s conversion
at the Scilly Islands, and much of what they say is confirmed by Snorri
Sturluson in his Heimskringla.
SANTUST FUGGANS AND MORVAH CHICK-CHACKS.
St. Just people do not seem to have had one of long standing, but they
are favoured with two at present.
Many called them “Santust Fuggans,” and others “Red-tailed Drones.” The
former is given them from the heavy-cakes (fuggan) which they take to
“ball” for a stay-stomach; and the latter from their red working dress
dyed with tin-stuff.
One may remark that what we country folks call “drones” are large wild
bees with orange-coloured or red tails, and never the large male bees
of the hive. When a slice of meat is baked on a “fuggan” it then
becomes a “hoggan.”
Perhaps these peculiar words are old Cornish. A haws is also called a
“hoggan,” but that may be from the Saxon.
It is uncertain how Morvah folks acquired the sobriquet of
“Chick-chacks.” It is very general: consequently one may suppose it to
be of ancient date. Some say it was given because the gabble of old
Morvah people sounded like the chatter of birds commonly called
Chick-chacks, from their cry or note. Morvah Devils is also a common
nickname.
NANCLEDREA RATS AND ZENNOR GOATS.
Nancledrea folk owe their nickname of “rats” to their mill, or rather
to their millers. This may be understood by such scenes as the
following, which often occurred:—The “loader” (miller’s boy) having
brought the grist to a farmhouse, the good wife would “peze” (weigh by
hand) the sacks of flour, bran, &c.—looking very wise, or sour the
while,—then relieve her mind by saying, “Look here, thou ‘pilyack’
(good-for-nothing rascal), thee hast broft me up ‘tummals’ enow to be
sure, but more than hafe of en es secands and brand, that a es; and
what thee hast broft for brand es most of am barley hulls and ‘ishan’
(corn husks and dust,) but thee dosn’t care. The cunan old Nancledrea
rats have eat the best flour agen and left all the secands and brand.
Dost a hear me, you? I spose, too, that after the sacks had been twice
tull’d, the millar’s old wife dipped in her dish agen, for doubtan that
they hadn’t ben tull’d enow before.”
The loader, very unconcerned, lets the dame talk on, and she
continues:—
“Now, tell the old rat from me—dost a heer me?—ef a don’t sarve me
better next time, I’ll carry my corn to ‘four parishes round’ before
I’ll be cheated so; that I will; the devil take the hungry old rat and
his wife too.”
After some rough talk the boy was generally dismissed with a good slice
of bread thickly spread with cream and treacle.
It is said that Zennor people obtained their nickname of “Goats” from
the great number of these animals which were formerly kept on the high
rocky hills, amongst them Carn Galva (goat’s carn), on the western side
of this parish.
It was also said that Zennor people would contrive, by their thrifty
habits, to live like goats, where other animals and ordinary human
beings would starve. “As careful as Zennor people” was a common saying
in neighbouring parishes. Yet their care or stinginess was often
mistaken for economy, when their rearing cattle, and working beasts as
well, were so badly fed in winter that they came to “heaving” time, if
not before, in the spring.
It was what we call “funny but whist” to see, of a morning, men or
women, out in their “crafts” (where such cattle were usually wintered)
helping a poor, half-starved beast to rise, and holding on to its tail
until it could stand steady enow to devour the little jerffel (armful)
of straw, put before it. Yet, when they contrived to keep alive their
poor yearlings until summer, these hardy young cattle, then turned to
lanes, would often wander away for miles and get at the grass, or any
crop to be found on a remarkably fertile strip of land between the wild
hills and the sea-shore, in spite of all their spanning or steeping
(tying the head down to a leg), or “mopping,” by a piece of board hung
before the eyes.
On this strip of land, forming the morrab of Zennor, the principal
farms of this parish are situated.
TOWEDNACK CUCKOOS AND ST. IVES HAKES.
Towednack people were nicknamed “Cuckoos” from the institution of what
was called their “Cuckoo Feast.” The story runs that, in old times,
“Towednackers” fretted themselves very much because the winters were so
long “up there” in that bitter cold country; besides, they grieved all
the more on account of their having no feast, as in parishes round.
They owed this grievance either to their not having had a patron saint,
or he had ceased to be commemorated by an annual festival, if he ever
were thus honoured. At length the principal people of the parish agreed
to meet at the public-house that they might lay their heads together
and, by their united wisdom, devise some plan for bettering their
condition in both respects. Abundance of strong drink and some eatables
were provided for the occasion. They met on the last week of April,
and, after a long deliberation, one of the wisest proposed to hedge in
a cuckoo, if ever she came there again, which was a rare occurrence.
One and all declared that nothing could be better; they would go the
very next day and begin to hedge in a place on Cold Harbour Downs, and
leave a gap in the enclosure through which she could be driven into it.
They stayed together a week rejoicing over their schemes, and singing
the old refrain,—
“The cuckoo is a pretty bird,
And sings as she flies;
And brings us fine weather,
And tells us no lies.”
They would have remained longer but their drink ran short.
The story doesn’t say if they commenced hedging or not. They were so
well pleased, however, with the joyous way in which they had passed a
week together that all of them determined, henceforward to meet every
year, at the same date, to hold a feast, and to invite their friends
from other parishes to come there and be entertained.
The good folk kept their resolution, held a feasten week in a jovial
way, and their winters seemed shorter to them ever after. There are
other versions of this old droll, all of them intended to ridicule
simple folk for confounding cause and effect; all show, too, that there
was something unusual in the establishment of Towednack feast.
This feast was also called “Crowder feast,” from an old custom which
was there kept up at “the tide,” long after it had fallen into disuse
in other parishes.
On the feasten-Sunday morning, the people, with their “feasters”
(visitors from other parishes) met in Churchtown, at or near the inn.
Whilst the bells rung, they arranged themselves to form a kind of
procession; when the bells ceased calling them, the fiddler struck up a
lively tune on his “crowd” (fiddle) and led them on to the Church door.
After service they again formed in order on leaving the Church, and
headed by the “crowder,” fifers, and others playing a cheerful
strain—whilst the bells rung,—as was their wont at “the tide,”—they
marched together three times round or through the village before they
dispersed and took their various roads home.
This custom was regarded, by good people, as natural enough in more
simple and sociable times, when it was “Merrie England.”
There is a saying that calves are christened at Towednack Quay Head.
One would like to know how this arose?
St. Ives people are known as “hake whippers,” the tradition running
that upon one occasion they flogged the hakes out of the bay, which
accounts for none having been seen there since. But at St. Ives they
will tell you that the Hake flogged was a man of that name, and that he
well deserved it.
A CORNISH DROLL: BETTY TODDY AND HER GOWN.
(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.]
THE GHOST-LAYER.
There need be no difficulty about getting a ghost laid. We have just
heard of a local preacher, living in the district between Camborne and
Helston, who, according to his own account, has put many troublesome
spirits to rest, generally by settling for them their mundane affairs,
about which they were troubled, by reasoning with and advising them to
stay below, bear their punishment with a good heart, make the best of a
bad matter, and hope for better times. He allowed that sometimes he was
merely deluding the ghosts; yet, no matter, the end sought was
attained—anything to get rid of them!
As he had a rather uncommon adventure in laying one ghost, we give an
account, somewhat abridged, of this enterprise.
From some trifling cause the spirit got back again to its late abode,
before the mourners had quitted the public-house, in Churchtown, where,
as is customary, they stopped awhile to treat and take leave of their
friends, who had come to the funeral from a distance.
The ghost became, at once, so annoying, that none could rest in the
house with it, and, a few nights after the burial, the family of the
deceased, not knowing what to do to obtain any rest, fetched the
preacher, who was believed to possess extraordinary knowledge of
spiritual matters and power over the ghostly world and its inhabitants.
He entered the haunted house alone. After many hours passed in prayer
and expostulation with the obstinate spirit, it at last consented to
return to its grave and stay there, if the exorcist and preacher would
accompany it to the churchyard to see it landed there.
And now happened the most remarkable part of this affair. About
midnight, the ghost layer bound the spirit with a piece of new rope,
and fastened the other end of it round his own waist, that the spirit
mightn’t give him the slip. The spirit, gentle as a lamb, was then led
out of the house; but it had no sooner crossed the door-sill than the
dwelling was surrounded by a pack of yelping hounds, of which the
town-place was full, and the old one riding up the lane in a blaze of
fire.
The spirit, to save itself from being caught by hounds and huntsman,
mounted high up in the air, taking the man (hanging by the middle) with
it. Away they went, over trees, hills, and water. In less than a minute
they passed over some miles, and alighted in the churchyard, close by
the spirit’s grave, which the man saw open, and blue sulphurous flames
issuing therefrom, and he heard, coming from below, most horrid shrieks
and moans.
The ghost, knowing it was no use to contend with the man of faith, only
stopped to say farewell, and then descended into its grave, which
immediately closed. The man—overcome, by being borne, with lightning
speed, through the air, or by the infernal fumes rising from the open
grave,—fell down in a fit, from which he didn’t recover till daybreak,
and then he was scarcely able to leave the churchyard. When near the
town-place, which he had left with the spirit, in the branch of a tree
he found his hat, that must have fallen from his head on first mounting
through the air.
The most probable solution of this story (told in good faith and firmly
believed) is that the ghost-layer, after taking too much spirit in the
public-house, rambled into the churchyard, there fell asleep, and
dreamed the rest.
CORNISH DIALOGUE BETWEEN TWO OLD MEN.
Job Munglar.
Loard! uncle Jan Trudle, dost a hire the news
How belike we shall stompey in temberan shoes?
For the Franchmen and Spangars be coaming, they saey,
For to carry us ale from ould Inglant away!
Jan Trudle.
Hould tha toang, tha’ great toatledum pattick of Newlyn,
What becaze the old wemmen be dwailing and druling,
And fright’ning one tother with goblins and goastes,
And a squaling “The Franchmen be got ’pon the coastes!”
Shoar thee beestu’n sich a whit-liver’d saft-bak’d Tim-doodle
As to think they’ll titch ground this ’em side of the poodle.
Noa—drat’em! they weant bring thick noashion to bear,
While there’s bould Coarnish curridge to give ’em a cheer.
And trust me, Job Munglar, I’ll weage me ould hat!
They have too much of slydom to venture ’pon that.
Besides ef they shud, as a body may saeya,
Dust a think that we’d let ’em goa deancing aweay?
Noa—Faith! thof I stand here so ould as thy vaather,
And thee and thy bastards ale reckon’d togeather;
Thof I’m lame in my click-hand, and blind ’pon one eye,
Yet by Gambers! Jan Trudle would scoarn to fight shy,
Or stand gogling for gapes, like an owl at an eagle,
Or yowling just ain like a Jany Tregeagle!
Noa—dost hire ma! Job Munglar, cheeld veane! dest a hire?
There’s no mortal can saey I’m afeard to stand fire.
And thee knawst et for sartin, as how, and so be,
When the marchants wor sheppin the bearley, dest see,
And we run’d off to Padsta to nack their purceedings;
Ded I mind the riat-act-man and ’es readings?
Noa, I called out the Hubbar—soa hard as I cud,
And cried, stand to et boys! tes for bearly or blood!
And when ale the soadgers ded loady their guns,
I made the purpoashals to dost ’an weth stoans.
Soa we cobb’d et away jest like lyants and tygars
Till we made am at laste fale a snapping the trigars.
And drat ’em! Job Munglar! I’m bould for to saey
That I steev’d down three rud-coats so ded as a daey.
But I scorn to stand speeching braggashans and soa,
As ale round the Bal here do very well knoaw.
Yet in caze, ef so be, as the Papishes coame,
For to roust us ale out from our houzen and hoam,
I’ll be cut up in slivers for meat for the crowas,
Ef I doant slam this tamlyn souse into their joaws.
Thof I’ve been ever sence that I noozled the nepple,
Durk as pitch a won side, and a hafe of a crepple;
Yet I’ve heart’s-blood enow if we chance to fale too’t,
For to murder five Franch and a Spangar to boot!
But et es noa moar likely to coam unto pass,
Than thick moyle to fale talkeing like Balaamses ass!
Job Munglar.
Well! that maey be thickey suppoashal’s o’ thine;
But fath! ’tis noa mazedish condudle o’ mine!
Noa—soa sartin as thickey there place es Kearn Braey,
The Franchmen be coaming to car us awey.
They’ve five hundred great sheps, and mashes of men,
And sich powars of cannons, as ever was sen!
But the worstest of ale (sez a man cum’d from Famuth),
They have swared to burn ale from Tol Ped’n to Plemuth;
And to force ale the people, boath Chrestians and Jews,
For to live upon quilkins and pagetopooes;
And moar too than thickey, they’ll hitch in a roap
Every soual that weant pray to the Devel and Poap!
Thof I beant quite soa rich-like in cuyn as a squire,
Yet I’ve soam little cob-shans, Jan Trudle! dedst hire?
Soa for doubting, cheeld lookey! I’ve steev’d et, oak farm,
And “fast bind it, fast find it,” weant do one noa harm.
Soa for doubting cheeld vean! (as I tould tha afoar)
I’ve squadg’d et down ninety good fathoms and moar,
In a drang, where ould scratch, ef ha ever inclin’d et,
Might sclau ale his claws off afoar he wud find et.
For the outlandish Pagans, in caze they do landey,
Will go drifting for cuyn, like excise-men for brandey;
But ef ever they smill out the pleace where I’ve poat et,
May my corps like a pelchard be saleted and goated!
Jan Trudle.
Why then zounds! let ’em coam, ef soo be they’ve a mind
Thee hast shanks for to skeyce with thy fardle behind.
Thee maeyest scamp wi’ the wemmen and cheldren, thee goose!
And the oather gret gaukums that take the same coose.
And may ale the [27]big thunder-bolts up in the clouds
Tumble down ’pon my body, and squat ’em to jouds,
May I broyle like grain-tin in a blowing-house fire,
’Tell I’m rud as the smith makes the pieces of ire;
Ef I weant be shut ded, afoar enny soap-meagar,
Shall slavify me like a blackey-moor negar,
And make me ate quilkins and pagetepooes,
And worship the Devel and wear woaden shoes! [28]
Noa fath! by the sperit and soal of my body,
I’d rather be toarn’d to a hoddymandoddy!
Doan’t stand, tha’ great lutterpooch! chewing tha thumb;
For they’ll get a mayn dousting when ever they coam!
A DIALOGUE BETWEEN GRACEY PENROSE AND MALLY TREVISKY.
Gracey.
Faith and trath then, I b’leve, in ten parishes round,
Sickey roage, sichey vellan, es nat to ba found!
Mally.
Whot’s tha fussing, un Gracey! long wetha, cheel vean?
Gracey.
A fussing aketha! od splet es ould braeane!
Our Martin’s cum’d hum, cheeld, so drunk as a beast,
So cross as the gallish from Perranzan veast,
A kicking, a tottering, a cussin, and swearing,
So hard as the stomses a tarving and tearing.
Mally.
Naver mind et, un Gracey!—cheeld, put en to bed:
Aal slepe ale the lecker away from hes head.
Gracey.
I wudden go neast an to fang the King’s crown;
For a swears, ef I speke t’un, aal cleave my skull down.
Thee never in aal thy born days, fath and shoar,
Dedst behould sickey mazegerry pattick afore.
Why a scatt all to midjans and jouds for the nons
A cloam buzza of scale milk about on the scons;
And a catch’d up a shoul for to steve me outright;
And I run’d away ready to fainty for fright.
Loard! tell ma, un Mally! what shall I do by an—
For zountikins! death! I’m affeared to go nigh an.
Mally.
I know what I’d gee’n, ef sa bee ’twor my caze:
I’d scatt the ould chacks an, I’d trem an, un Grace!
Gracey.
I’m affear’d a ma life to go nigh the ould vellan,
Else, please father, I bleve I should parfectly kell an,
But I’ll never no more be so bauld and abus’d:
My arms here like bazam the roage have abruis’d!
I made for hes supper a muggetty pye;
But a shant clunk a croom ate, I wish a may die!
Mally.
I tould thee, afore that the job was adone,
That theedst find out tha odds ate so sure as a gun:
But thee wusent hark to me for doubting, for why,
Becase thee didst know en much better than I?
But I know’d the trem aan before thee hads got an,
And tould thee a mashes of stories about an.
But thee answered so toytish, and skrink’d up tha noze,
A gissing ’twas gret stramming lyes I suppoze.
There’s one of es pranks I shall always remembar,
(’Twill be dree years agon come the ighth of Novembar),
I’d two purty young mabyers as eyes cou’d behould,
So fat as the butter, just ighteen weeks ould:
They were picking about in town-place for meat:
So I hove down some pellase among mon to eat;
When who but your man cum’d a tottering along,
So drunk that I thoft he wud fale in the dung:
Aleft fale hes hoggan-bag jest by the door;
So I caal’d to the man (as one would to be sure)
Says I: “Martin! dust hire, cheeld? cum take up tha bag;”
“Arra, (sezza) for what art a caleing me dog!”
An a run’d forth, tha roage, an nar better nar wus,
Nact the mabyers both stef with a geart maur of fusse.
Like anow ef I eadnt got hasty’s away,
He’d adone as a ded by Jan Rose t’other day;
When a got in his tantrums, a wilful ould devil,
And slam’d the poor soal in the head with a kebbal.
Gracey.
When the cyder is run’d away every drap,
’Tis too late to be thinkene of plugging the tap:
And marriage must go as the Loard doth ordain:
Yet ef I’d know’d the coose aan, un Mally, cheel vean?
Ef I’d known the coose aan but nine weeks ago
I’d never ha had the ould vellan, I know.
But a vow’d and a swared that ef I’d be hes wife,
I never should want all the days of my life;
And a broft me a nakin and corn-save from Preen—
En ma conscience, thoft I, I shall live like a Queen!
But tes plagy provoking, adsplet hes ould head!
To be pooted and slopt so! I wish a were dead!
Why a spent half hes fangings last Saturday night:
Like anow, by this time, tes gone every dyte.
But I’ll tame the ould deval afore et es long—
Ef I caant wa ma vistes I will wa ma tonge!
CHRISTMAS CAROLS.
Some of us remember when it was a custom, in the parishes of West
Cornwall, for a few elderly persons to meet in Church, late on
Christmas Eve, and sing till after midnight, a good number of cheerful,
quaint old carols, which were quite different from the solemn Christmas
hymns that have supplanted them.
The favourite carols, for the most part contained such legends as are
preserved in the Mysteries, or Old Miracle Plays, which continued to be
performed in the western parishes, on Sunday afternoons, down to
Elizabeth’s reign or later. Others may have been derived from the
Apocryphal Gospels.
Such, for instance, are the circumstances referred to in the
Cherry-tree carol, beginning with
“Joseph was an old man, an old man was he,
When he wedded Mary, in the land of Galilee,
When Joseph and Mary walked in the garden good,
There were cherries and berries as red as the blood.”
And the Holy-well, which thus begins:—
“As it fell out, one May morning,
And upon one bright holiday,
Sweet Jesus asked of His dear mother,
If He might go out to play.”
Many other examples might be given of these legendary pieces, which are
now almost forgotten.
We were delighted, however, last Christmas, to hear a few youngsters
singing in Penzance streets the pleasant one called the Sunny Bank, or
the Three Ships, which is also very old.
Among those of special interest may be noticed “In those Twelve Days,”
“The Joys of Mary,” and “Man’s Duty.” Slightly different versions of
these are common here and in Wales; and according to Mr. W. Sandys,
there is a Breton song, as old as the fifth century, in the dialect of
Cornouaille, called “Ar Rannou,” or “Les Series,” arranged as a
dialogue between a Druid and his disciple on their ancient maxims and
rites, which is similar in idea and construction to “In those Twelve
Days,” or “What is that which is but one?”
The early missionaries engrafted on this ancient Armorican poem a Latin
hymn, in the same form, where the series of twelve subjects is
connected with the Christian religion and agrees with those of the
carol,
“What is that which is but one?”
At the end of each verse in the Druid’s Song, the Latin hymn, and the
three last-mentioned carols, all the previous subjects are repeated in
the style of “The House that Jack built.” The whole piece can be
constructed from the last verse. That of “In those Twelve Days,” is
given as an example:—
“In those TWELVE days, and in those twelve days, let us be glad,
For God of His power hath all things made.
What are they that are but twelve?
Twelve Apostles Christ did choose
To preach the Gospel to the Jews.
And in those twelve days, &c.
Eleven thousand virgins did partake,
And suffered death for Jesu’s sake.
Ten commandments God hath given,
Use them well, and go to Heaven.
Nine degrees of angels high,
Which praise God continually.
Eight beatitudes are given,
Use them well, and go to Heaven.
Seven days in the week have we,
Six to work and the seventh holy.
Six ages this world shall last,
Five of them are gone and past.
Five senses we have to tell,
God grant us grace to use them well.
Four Gospels written true—
John, Luke, Mark, and Matthew.
Three persons in the Trinity,
The Father, Son, and Ghost Holy.
Two Testaments, as we are told,
The one is New, the other Old.
We have but One God alone,
In Heaven above sits on His throne.
And in those twelve days,” &c.
Old country folk may still be often heard chanting this ancient
effusion, with all its repetitions. It is more frequently, however,
recited or taught to children as a kind of pious exercise for their
memories at Christmastide.
Cornish people have been famous for their carols from an early date.
Scawen says:—“They had them at several times, especially at Christmas,
which they solemnly sung, and sometimes used in their churches, after
prayers, the burthen of them being ‘Nowell, Nowell, good news, good
news, of the Gospel.’”
These old joyful Christmas songs have long held their own—thanks to
their wonderfully interesting legends and their lively tunes, that seem
like the echoes of merry peals of bells.
ANCIENT MIDSUMMER CUSTOMS.
Our bonfires, torches, and tar-barrels, with the peculiar hand-in-hand
dance around the blazing piles, remind us of ancient times when similar
customs were regarded as sacred rites by our forefathers; and it would
seem as if some vestiges of these time-honoured religious notions were
still connected with Midsummer bonfires in the minds of old-fashioned
people, living in remote and primitive districts, where the good folks
still believe that dancing in a ring over the embers, around a bonfire,
or leaping (singly) through the flames, is calculated to ensure good
luck to the performers, and to serve as a protection from witchcraft
and other malign influences during the ensuing year.
Many years ago, on Midsummer’s eve, when it became dusk, very old
people in the West country would hobble away to some high ground,
whence they obtained a view of the most prominent hills, such as
Bartinney, Chapel Carn-brea, Sancras Bickan, Castle-an-dinas,
Trecrobben, Carn Galvar, St. Ann’s Bickan, and many other beacon hills
far away to north and east, which vied with each other in their
Midsummer’s blaze. Some of them anxiously watched for a sight of the
first fire. From its position, with respect to them, they drew a
presage of good or bad luck. If first beheld in the east it was a good
sign. There are now but few bonfires seen on the western heights; yet
we have observed that Tregonan, Godolphin, and Carn Marth hills, with
others away towards Redruth, still retain their Baal fires. We would
gladly go many miles to see the weird-looking yet picturesque dancers
around the flames on a carn, or high hill top, as we have beheld them
some thirty years ago.
We are sorry to find that another pleasing Midsummer’s observance,
which also appears to be ancient, has almost died out. Yet within the
memory of many who would not like to be called old, or even aged, on a
Midsummer’s eve, long before sunset, groups of girls, of from ten to
twenty years of age, neatly dressed and decked with garlands, wreaths,
or chaplets of flowers, would be seen dancing in the streets.
One favourite mode of adornment was to sew or pin on the skirt of a
white dress, rows of laurel-leaves, often spangled with gold leaf.
Before Midsummer small wooden hoops were in great demand, to be
wreathed with green boughs and flowers for garlands, to be worn over
one shoulder and under the opposite arm. Towards sunset, groups of
graceful damsels, joined by their brothers, friends or lovers, would be
seen “threading the needle,” playing at “kiss-in-the-ring,” or simply
dancing along, every here and there from Chyandour to Alverton, from
the Quay to Caunsehead, as the upper part of the town used then to be
called, perhaps with more propriety than Causewayhead.
And here, at Caunsehead, this innocent pastime was most generally
observed and lingered longest.
THE “HILLA.”
From the ideas of old folks respecting this distemper, one may
conjecture that its Cornish name meant some kind of spirit which had,
for the time, taken a material form. Forty years or more ago, an old
farmer of Sancreed, who had been a noted hurler when in his prime, told
me that in his younger days, when hurling matches came off between
Sancras and some neighbouring parish almost every Sunday afternoon, he
seldom missed a game, and if the silver ball came into his hands it
seldom left them until he brought it to Sancras churchtown. When hard
pressed, as they always were on arriving near the “gold” (goal) the cry
of “Gare teag” (fair play) “for Sancras boys” would be heard for a mile
or more from churchtown, and put them in heart for their last run;
while St. Just men would be calling “One and ale (all) for Santusters,”
as they came down round the Bickan to cut off their opponents, if they
could, as their last hope. But that they could seldom do. Then, after
resting awhile, with his comrades, he steered his course for Sellan,
where he lived with an uncle, or grandfather, one old Uter Bossence. “I
can’t say how long we stayed in the comfortable old public house, I’m
sure,” said the hurler, “for we were all so happy together and loath to
part; those from a distance just stepped in, had a drink, and away; at
such times, too, the usually quiet old inn would wake up an be all
alive for a bit. Then the ‘tenders’ (waiters) on coming into the rooms
with pewter flagons of foaming ale would sing out, ‘The bird in hand,
my dears; we can’t stay to use the chalk!’ A fluttering bird with his
legs grasped by a hand, was painted on the old signboard, and under
this picture the couplet:—
‘A bird in hand is better fare
Than two that in the bushes are.’”
The old man went on to say how every now and then, he got piskey-led on
his way home to Sellan. As sure as he missed the church-road he would
be led miles about, round and round the same field, ere he could find
it again. If he left the field he seldom knew where he was again before
the break o’ day, and then was most likely to find himself near Brane
Rings (Caer Brane) instead of on the other side of churchtown. Near the
Rings piskey would leave him, laughing like nothing else but a piskey!
When once inside the Castle enclosure, he lay down and slept soundly
till sunrise or after. For everybody knew that anywhere within the
Rings on Brane hill, the same as at Bartinney, nothing evil that
wanders the earth by night could harm them. They meant spirits of the
Bucka-boo (dhu) tribe. Small people (fairies) are friendly to man and
beast, unless interfered with, and Brane Rings was one of their haunts.
If he wanted to get home early and tried to break through the fog,
which always surrounds a piskey, he would oftener find himself in broad
daylight, down by Chappel Uny than over in Sellan. Sometimes, however,
when by bad luck the ball was carried off to another parish, he was
ready, on returning homeward, to drop down and sleep in a pool of
water. “At such times,” said he, “I tumbled into the first house I came
by, no matter where ’twas, for in these times, a Bossence was home
anywhere in Sancras or Santust either.” Just as soon as he lay
down—whether in bed, among the hay, or elsewhere,—the Hilla would be on
him and lay with such a dead weight that he could neither move hand nor
foot, nor call for help if it were to save his life, which seemed to be
almost squeezed out of him sometimes. When the Hilla left he came to
himself and found all about him wet with sweat. “And I felt as sore,”
said the old hurler in conclusion, “as if I’d ben thrashed with a
thrashal on a barn-boards; then, when I cud, I stretched myself in the
sunshine on the bare ground, for there’s nothing like the sun and earth
for healing the bruises in one’s flesh and getting the pain out of
one’s bones; and I’m sure as I’m speakan to thee, my son, that the
Hilla was nothan else but the same cussed piskey, in another form; and
older and wiser people say the same thing.”
Only a few weeks since an elderly native of St. Just told me he had
often heard his father say that people who were subject to the Hilla,
or feared it, were in the habit of taking to bed with them a couple of
forks, one of which was placed on either side within reach of the hand.
If the troubled person could stretch his or her arms, or only one arm,
and touch a fork with one finger even, that instant the Hilla would
decamp; for this sprite, like all other evil ones, feared cold iron so
much that the Hilla-ridden never had the chance to stab the thing.
The elder St. Just man did not know for certain about the Hilla’s form,
as it was never seen; yet, from the feeling on the breast, or whatever
it was, people said it was a great hairy thing which lay on them with a
dead weight that almost stopped their breathing.
The “Stag” is a lighter creature of the same class. People whose rest
has only been slightly troubled say they only had the “Stag” and not
the “Hilla,” by good luck.
THE ANCIENT CORNISH LANGUAGE IN THE COLONIES.
Cornishmen’s clannish propensities are well known and are most apparent
when they meet in foreign lands. At the gold-fields of Australia, as
elsewhere, they stand by and support each other “through thick and
thin.” Cornishmen are also preferred for many kinds of work which
require some degree of engineering skill, and they seldom undertake any
employment for which they are incompetent. Consequently, many persons
from other shires who have never been west of the Tamar try to pass
themselves off as Cornishmen, and sometimes succeed in being received
into the fellowship of “One and All.” If, however, the stranger be
suspected of “sailing under false colours,” when they are all in
familiar chat about nothing in particular, “Cousin Jackey” will take
occasion to say to the new chum “My dear; ded ’e ever see a duck klunk
a gay?” If the stranger be up to the intent of the question he will
probably reply, “Learn thy granny to lap ashes,” which is the West
Country equivalent for teaching the same venerable dame to suck eggs;
but, if ignorant of what the question means, he is given to understand
that they regard him as an interloper and will be no more deceived by
him than a duck can be made to klunk (swallow) a gay (fragment of
broken crockery.)
The proverbial saying of “nobody ever saw a duck klunk a gay”—meaning
that no one will be deceived beyond a certain point—may be puzzling to
some Cornish readers as well as to strangers; those, however, who are
country-born and bred remember that when children they often left the
table with their meals unfinished and ran out with their morsels in
their hands and their “gays” in their pockets, eager to join their
playmates in the town-place; and how the village ducks—knowing the
childrens’ custom—gathered around them to pick up the crumbs, or to
snatch the food from the childrens’ hands, and the urchins often tossed
them a “gay,” which the greedy fowl gobble up and drop, one after the
other, but never swallow. It is a comical sight to see how the ducks,
on having discovered the cheat, look askaunt at the “didjan” of broken
clome, shaking their tails and quacking in anger or scorn the while.
The Gileadites’ Shibboleth served much the same purpose in the times of
the Judges of Israel as the old proverb does to-day among Cornishmen
abroad. (Judges xii chap., 5 and 6 verses.)
The usual test above-mentioned fails sometimes, chiefly from young
Cornishmen making comrades of strangers, as they are apt to do for
short spells, in which case they have other tests for the next
opportunity, but all turn on the same idea—that of using words only
understood by themselves. One more will serve as an example.
A Cornishman will come behind the stranger who wishes to pass for a
genuine Cornubian and say, quite natural-like, “Mate! there’s a green
myryan on thy nudack.” The venomous bite or sting of a green myryan
(ant) being much dreaded, a Cornishman would either put his hand to the
nape of his neck, to brush it off, or show in some way that he
understood the meaning—looking “as dazed as a duck against (on hearing)
thunder” the while.
ACCORDING HOW ET MAY DROP.
Shortly after Jackey came a-courting, one Sunday afternoon, his
sweetheart placed on the board all she required for making a heavy
cake. Last thing, before mixing flour and cream, she took a hearty
pinch of snuff and wiped her fingers on her “touser.” Whilst making the
cake, she said to Jackey, “thee hast been courtan me now for years, off
and on, and always promised thee west marry me soon; now west a marry
me before Christmas?” Whilst the woman was talking and working up the
cake, Jackey noticed a snuffy drop quivering on the tip of her nose.
“Can’t tell thee yet,” Jackey replied, “es accordan how a may drop.” An
instant after he stamped away to the door, and turning round, called
out, “No! I’ll neither marry thee before Christmas nor after, nor eat
any more cakes of thy makean.” How it dropped was made plain enough by
Jackey’s behaviour.
CORNISH WORDS IN USE.
“SA! SA!”
The exclamation “Sa!” which is frequently heard in the country, and
sometimes in town, is probably the old Cornish word sa, “stand!” It has
continued in use, though its meaning has been forgotten. It is employed
instead of “stand still!” “hold!” “avast!” “enough!” and such-like
words, uttered in haste to arrest speech or action. Its usage, however,
will be best shown by a few familiar examples.
In all parts of the country hereabouts, it is spoken to a restless cow
to bid her be still whilst milked,—“Sa! Molly! sa!” Very likely most
words used to cattle and poultry are ancient Cornish, and had meanings,
now lost. “Sa, sa! eat petats, let the crust for supper!” is a saying
often addressed to persons who want to enjoy all their good things at
once. It is suggested by the well-known potato-pie with its substantial
roll of crust and the custom of reserving a good portion of the latter,
to serve, instead of cake for supper.
A short time ago, a butcher belonging to a western town had a horse of
an uncertain age and no remarkable qualities; yet the owner was always
“cracking it up” as the best beast in town, of its size—equally good
for saddle and harness; sure-footed, staunch to collar, and so on. He
also gave his fellow tradesmen to understand that anyone who coveted
this choice animal must pay a good sum to tempt him to part with it.
For a few days, butchers in surrounding stalls, to their surprise,
heard no mention of the famous horse; then they learnt that it had
changed owners, and for a lower price than it was expected the seller
would have accepted. Butchers in general are much given to banter, and
those of the town in question, liking this pastime very much, renewed
their jibes by telling the seller of Dobbin that if he had at first
only asked a fair price for his horse he would have got much more for
it. One of them remarked that what he had stated in favour of the beast
was as near the truth as could be expected from a jockey, and nearer
than the owner knew of. Another, who was two or three stalls off,
bellowed, “Aye by golls! [29] He nearly told the truth, for a wonder,
but all through’s ign’rance.” In short, they tried to persuade the
seller that he had made a bad bargain, though they knew the horse had
fetched its full value, or more. The jockey-butcher sat listening to
the others’ jeers with good humour, or returning them in the same vein,
till, becoming tired of their long harping on the same string he sprang
up, and shouted, “Sa! sa! lev’n go, es dry eatan” (let him go, he is
dry eating), “as the old man said for the hare.”
The (native?) fable, or story from which our jolly butcher took his apt
reply, runs thus:—
An old couple lived all alone in a little old house “out by night” (an
out-of-the-way place). The old woman was constantly in a bad temper,
because a hare got into their garden and ate the cabbages; she scolded
and tormented her old man all day long because he didn’t build the
garden hedges higher, or do something else to keep the hare out. To all
her aggravating “jaw,” he would only reply, “Sa, sa, dear, when that
hare es fat enow we’ll have a good pie.” One Saturday night,
accordingly, he set a jin among the cabbages. On Sunday morning he got
up by break o’ day, and ran out to see if the hare were “come to trap.”
There it was, a fine one, caught by a fore leg. The old man, overjoyed
by his good luck, without stopping to take up the hare, ran in, calling
to his wife all the way, “come ’e along out, my dear; be quick; and see
what a capital pie we shall have for dinner to-day.” She tore out in
great “stroath” (confused haste), slipped on her clogs, crossed the
garden, and got to the trap before her old man; but all she saw of the
hare was a fore foot in the jin, and the white of its tail passing
through a hole in the hedge, as it scampered off. The hare, on hearing
the old woman’s clogs coming clap-a-clap among the cabbages, gave a
twist, severed a bit of skin, which alone held it; the trap in closing
had broken the bone. “That’s like thee, thee old buffle-head,” screamed
she, “not to take up the hare at once and bring am in, instead of
hobblan away to bring me out, draglan through the dew to catch my death
this cold mornan, all undressed as I am; and that while, the hare,
twistan and turnan, broke’s leg and es gone.”
“Sa! sa!” said the old man, “lev’n go, es dry eatan.”
CORNISH OBSERVANCES WITH REGARD TO THE SUN AND MOON.
Only a few years ago elderly farmers of the Land’s End district
commenced the breaking of grass land with a sort of religious
solemnity, to bring it into its three years’ course of tillage. On
entering the field, the cattle, attached to the plough, were turned
towards the west; and the ploughman saying, “In the name of God let’s
begin,” proceeded with the course of the sun to “break ground” by
turning a few yards of sod in that direction; afterwards the field
might be ploughed towards any point that was convenient.
The same rite was observed by some on beginning to plough an arable
field; and when they commenced to sow a few handfuls of grain were cast
round—with the same formality—from east to west, for luck. Following
the sun’s course in several other kinds of work was also regarded as a
means of ensuring success.
Dairy-women always place their pans of milk so that they shall be
skimmed, in turn, going with the sun, or from left to right. The
scalded or clouted cream, for making butter, being placed in a shallow
tub, is stirred round with the hand, or a wooden peel, in the direction
of the sun’s course; if turned in a reverse manner, butter cannot be
properly made—so it is believed. Young people dance round the
Midsummer’s bonfire in the same order; if any of them take the wrong
course it is believed, or at least said, they will die unmarried. When
the bonfire has burned sufficiently low, old and young leap through the
flames towards the place of the setting sun.
In the spring, people visit a “Pellar” (conjuror) as soon as there is
“twelve hours’ sun,” to have “their protection renewed,” that is, to be
provided with charms; and the wise man’s good offices to ward off, for
the ensuing year, all evil influences of beings who work in darkness.
The reason assigned for observing this particular time is, that “when
the sun is come back the Pellar has more power to goodé” (do good).
In curing diseases, charms are worked against the sun to backen the
complaint. Ricketty children bathed in a holy well on the three
Wednesdays in May, are dipped thrice and taken round the spring as
often against the sun’s course. For the cure of boils or eruptions, the
afflicted crawl nine times from east to west, under a bramble, rooted
at both ends. Many other examples might be given of practices regarding
the sun, but are much to the same effect.
One may notice a remarkable belief, however, that if a person, by false
swearing, compasses the life of another, the sun is thereafter
invisible to the perjured one. This idea is so well known that to hint
at a person’s inability to behold the sun is regarded as a great
insult.
An observance with regard to the moon may be here mentioned. Most folks
are acquainted with a practice called “washing in a dry dish,” for the
cure of warts and other ailments. To get rid of warts on the hands they
are shown the moon nine times on three successive nights before full
moon; three times on the full, at intervals of three quarters of an
hour; and thrice afterwards, on three following nights. On each
occasion the patient, or rather the supplicant, looks from the moon to
his hands, and from his hands to the moon—whilst rubbing them together
as if washing them—and holds them towards the moon nine times, saying:—
“I wash my hands in this thy dish,
O, Man in the Moon, do grant my wish,
And come take away this.”
For the cure of various other ailments this charm is worked in much the
same way. The above-mentioned remnants of Zabaism are suggestive of
Phœnician tin-traders’ connection with old Bellerion.
There are many ancient beliefs and practices with respect to the moon
still lingering in West Cornwall, which seem to be almost forgotten
elsewhere. The following are a few examples amongst many.
Herbs for drying, to be used in fomentation, or for other medicinal
purposes, are gathered at the full of the moon; when winter’s fruit
should also be picked and stored, in order that it may retain its
plumpness. Elderly persons prefer to sow their garden seeds and others
during the moon’s first quarter, from the idea that they will then
germinate quicker and grow stronger than on the decrease.
Timber should be felled on the “bating” of the moon, because the “sap
is then down,” and the wood will be more durable.
When the old iron “chills” (lamps) were in general use, rushes for
making “porvans” (wicks) were cut at the full moon, because it was
believed that they were then fuller of pith and less liable to shrink
than if cut at other times.
Old gentlemen who wore their hair long behind, or in “pigtails or
queues,” and other persons as well, of that day, were very particular
about having their heads trimmed at the time of full moon, that their
hair might grow the more luxuriantly.
The first money taken of a market-day is still frequently spit on for
good luck; and if silver, kept for luck-money, to be shown to the next
new moon, and turned three times towards the person who shows it. Three
wishes were made whilst showing the money, which the wisher turned
three times from the moon towards himself.
It is considered unlucky to get the first sight of a new moon through
glass, and many persons go out of doors purposely to see her for the
first time, when they hold towards her a piece of silver to ensure
their success whilst that moon lasts. Those who offer this kind of
adoration to Luna are mostly provided with a crooked sixpence, which
they call a pocket-piece, and wear as a means to retain good luck. This
observance of showing money to the new moon is, probably, a vestige of
an ancient rite connected with the worship of Luna or Astarte.
Another belief, which still holds good, is that when a child is born in
the interval between an old moon and the first appearance of a new one,
it will never live to attain to puberty. A recent observation confirms
this as well to animals as children. Hence the saying of “no moon no
man.” Other popular notions, among old folks, are that when a boy is
born on the waning moon the next birth will be a girl, and vice versâ;
they also say that when a birth takes place on the “growing of the
moon,” the next child will be of the same sex. Many of these fancies,
however, may be astrological notions, handed down from ancient times
and common to many places. Here much of such lore has been learnt from
Sibley’s “Treatise on the Occult Sciences,” which is the oracle of our
western astrologers; though they seldom let their study of that and
similar works be known for fear of the ridicule with which it is now
the fashion to regard such pursuits.
CORNISH CONJURORS’ CHARMS AGAINST WITCHCRAFT.
The following are some of the spells supplied by West Country “Pellars”
to those who seek their protection, as stated in a notice of “Cornish
Observances with regard to the Sun.”
A strip of parchment, inscribed with the words SATOR AREPO TENET OPERA
ROTAS, is regarded as a protection from many evils when worn as an
amulet; all the more so because these magical words read the same
backwards as forwards. These words also form a magical square, and can
be read up or down, backwards or forwards, or any way—thus
S A T O R
A R E P O
T E N E T
O P E R A
R O T A S
At the time of an old lady’s decease, a little while ago, on her breast
was found a small silk bag containing various charms; among others, a
piece of parchment, about three inches square, having written on one
side of it NALGAH. Under this is a pen-and-ink drawing of a figure
somewhat like a bird, with two pairs of wings, a pair extended and the
others folded beneath them. The creature appears to be hovering, and at
the same time brooding on a large egg, sustained by one of its legs;
whilst it holds a smaller egg at the extremity of its other leg, which
is outstretched and long. Its head, round and small, is unlike that of
a bird; from the rudeness of the sketch, and its faded state, it is
difficult to trace all the outlines. Under this singular figure is the
word TETRAGRAMMATON. On the reverse, in large letters,
JEHOVAH
JAH, ELOHIM,
SHADDAY,
ADONAY,
HAVE MERCY ON A POOR WOMAN.
A Pellar of great repute in this neighbourhood tells me, however, that
this precious document is inscribed with two distinct charms—that the
Nalgah is the figure only.
The ABRACADABRA is supplied by our “white-witches” for the cure or
prevention of some diseases; the letters, arranged in the usual way,
are enclosed in two intersecting triangles.
Another potent spell is a rude draft of the planetary signs for the
Sun, Jupiter, and Venus, followed by a cross, pentagram, and a figure
formed by a perpendicular line, and a divergent one on each side of it,
united at the bottom. Under them is written, “Whosoever beareth these
tokens will be fortunate and need fear no evil.”
The charms are folded in a paper on which is usually written, “By the
help of the Lord these will do thee good,” and enclosed in a little bag
to be worn on the breast. Bed-ridden folks have them placed in their
pillows, and the conjurors visit such infirm ones yearly to “renew
their protection.”
Western Pellars are ignorant of the meaning of the above formulas, but
regard them as powerful words and signs that have been handed down from
wise men of ancient times who followed a like profession.
There is one practitioner in the vicinity of Penzance who is well
versed in Astrology, from having made this science the study of a long
life.
Besides the above-mentioned counter spells to sorcery and other
mysterious evils, persons are furnished with witch powders, to be cast
over such children or cattle as may be ill-wished, begrudged, or
“over-looked;” with regard to the latter, holding two forked (spread)
fingers towards a person that has evil eyes, is believed to be a
safeguard from their blasting influence.
A short time ago one might obtain blood-stones, milpreves, or
snake-stones, but these are become rare; the blue stone or glass rings,
in which were seen the figure of an adder, or the pattern of a snake,
were much prized, because it was believed that those who wore them were
by that means safe from being harmed by any of the serpent tribe, and
that man or beast having been stung, if given water to drink wherein
this stone had been infused, would soon recover from the poison.
Cornish folks have such confidence in their conjurors’ mysterious
science, that many go a great distance to consult them, and the mere
threat of “going to the Pellar” is often sufficient to procure the
restitution of stolen goods, or compensation for injury; and, after
all, their remedies may be as beneficial as those usually prescribed
for imaginary ailments.
Most Cornish folks are familiar with the following lines, or others of
the same import:—
Born on a Sunday a gentleman.
Monday’s child is fair in face.
Tuesday’s child is full of grace.
Wednesday’s child is sour and sad.
Thursday’s child is merry and glad.
Friday’s child is loving and giving.
Saturday’s child works hard for its living.
Another version says—
Wednesday’s child is full of woe.
Thursday’s child has far to go.
The assumed principles of astrology furnish a key to the above; as the
subject is supposed to be influenced according to the nature of the
planet or divinity after whom the day is named, and which is regarded
in medical astrology, as lord of the first house for the respective
day.
ALL ON ONE SIDE, LIKE SMOOTHY’S WEDDING.
Some eighty or ninety years ago a male member of a well-known family
was about to be married. He was a soft-spoken individual, and, in the
days when nearly every one had a nickname, he was called and known
generally as “Smoothy.” When the wedding-day came it was found that all
the invited guests were his relatives and friends—not one the bride’s.
Hence the saying.
“All on one side, like Smoothy’s wedding,” is often applied to cases of
biassed judgment, or an unfair award from a prejudiced view of the
subject.
“Smoothy” is a nickname commonly given to a double-faced, fair-spoken
hypocrite,—one who runs with the hare and holds with the hounds.
PISKIES, SPRIGGANS, SMALL PEOPLE, AND KNOCKERS.
According to the Fairy belief of the old Cornish folk, the Piskey has
seldom been seen in any other shape than that of a weird,
wizzened-looking, little old man. As such he has often been spied of
moonlight winter’s nights threshing the corn in the barns of lonely
places. Boslow and Lejarn are often spoken of as being favourite haunts
of the goblin. Another of his well-known pranks is to mount on the
necks of the colts, where he plaits his Piskey stirrups in the winter,
and rides the colts after the cows like mad in the summer. Leading the
folks into the bogs, by appearing like a person with a lantern or light
from a window, were of constant occurrence unless the night wanderer
took the precaution to turn some garment inside out, to break the
spell.
The Spriggans, quite a different class of beings, are the dourest and
most ugly set of sprights belonging to the elfin tribe; they are only
seen about old ruins, barrows, giant’s quoits and castles, or other
places where treasure is buried, of which they have the charge. They
also steal children, leaving their own ugly brats in their place, bring
bad weather to blight the crops, whirlwinds over the fields of cut
corn, and do much other mischief to those who meddle with their
favourite haunts.
The innocent Small-people, on the contrary, are always described as
being extremely beautiful by all who have had the luck to see them,
holding their merry fairs and sprightly dances on the velvety turf of
the greens, sheltered glades between the cairns, or in other secluded
pleasant places, dressed in their bright green nether garments,
sky-blue jackets, three-cornered hats on the men and pointed ones on
the ladies, all decked with lace and silver bells. They are as lovely
as the flowers of the fields. These good small folks often showed great
kindness to those people to whom they took a fancy, and have frequently
been known to come into poor cottages, divert good old bed-ridden folks
with their merry pranks and gambols, and fill the air with the
delicious odours of flowers, and such sweet melody as few but angels
ever hear and live.
The Bockles, or Knockers, can scarcely be classed as fairies; they seem
rather to be a hybrid race between ordinary ghosts and elves, as the
miners believe them to be the restless souls of the Jews who formerly
worked in the tin-mines of Cornwall. The tinners often hear them
working when underground; sometimes, these ghostly workers may be heard
even from the surface; yet they so rarely make their appearance now
that we hardly know what they are like.
There are a few other mythical beings belonging to our elvin creed, but
they have been so seldom seen of latter days, that very little is now
known of the Buccas, Browneys, Mermaids, &c. Probably the mermaids so
much dislike steam ships that the fair syrens have taken themselves
off, with all their combs and glasses, to the China seas, so as to be
out of the way of the fiery monsters of the deep.
OLD CORNISH WORDS.
Strangers are often puzzled to know what we Cornish people mean by some
of our words. Let us take some old Cornish words still in common use,
as skaw for the elder-tree; skaw-dower, water-elder; bannel, broom;
skedgewith, privet; griglans, heath; padzy-paw (from padzar, four), the
small grey lizard; muryan, the ant; quilkan, the frog (which retains
its English name when in the water); pul-cronack (literally pool-toad)
is the name given to a small fish with a head much like that of a toad,
which is often found in the pools (pulans) left by the receding tide
among the rocks along shore; visnan, the sand-lance; bul-horn, the
shell-snail; dumble-dory, the black-beetle (but this may be a
corruption of the dor-beetle). A small, solid wheel has still the old
name of drucshar. Finely pulverized soil is called grute. The roots and
other light matter harrowed up on the surface of the ground for burning
we call tabs. Guldaize, harvest feast. Plum means soft; quail,
withered; crum, crooked; bruyans, crumbs; with a few other terms more
rarely used.
Many of our ordinary expressions (often mistaken for vulgar
provincialisms) are French words slightly modified, which were probably
introduced into the west by the old Norman families who long resided
there. For instance; a large apron to come quite round, worn for the
sake of keeping the under clothing clean, is called a touser (tout
serre); a game of running romps, is a courant (from courir). Very rough
play is a regular cow’s courant. Going into a neighbour’s for a spell
of friendly chat is going to cursey (couser) a bit. The loins are
called the cheens (old French, echine.) The plant sweet-leaf, a kind of
St. John’s wort, here called tutsen, is the French toute saine (heal
all). There are some others which, however, are not peculiar to the
west, as kick-shaws (quelque chose), &c. We have also many inverted
words, as swap for wasp, cruds for curds, &c. Then again we call a fly
a flea; and a flea a flay; and the smallest stream of water a river.
Ishan is a genuine old Cornish word; it is only given to such dust as
comes from winnowing, the result of which process is husks, chaff, &c.
Refuse, consisting of defective grains, seeds, &c., on the “tail”
(leeward end) of a winnowing sheet, was, by old “winsters,” called
attal.
Harvest-time reminds one of our free-hearted old farmers and their
bountiful goolthise, at which all comers were welcome to eat, drink,
and be merry. This name for an entertainment given on the principal
corn-carrying day—generally the last—is preserved from our ancient
language.
In Scilly a harvest feast is called Nicklethise.
In addition to the above we have the following terms connected with
harvest work and the preparation of corn for mill or market. Dram, a
swathe of cut corn; croust, the afternoon’s refreshment, generally of
hot fuggans (cakes) and ale (Latin crusta).
Collebrands, defective and smutty ears, supposed to be blighted by the
fine weather lightning, called by the same name.
Pederack and brummal, arish mows. The former is conical in shape, with
the ear ends of all the sheaves turned inward and upwards; the latter,
which is also called a culver-house mow, is in shape much like an
old-fashioned, round, stone-built pigeon-house; having the part which
answers to a culver-house roof finished with the sheaves turned, ear
end, downwards and outwards. A brummal mow is the best for continued
moist weather, because the ears on a mow-top are less liable to sprout
when reversed. An ill-shaped, bulging pederack mow is said, in
derision, to be “like an old culver-house,” by those who don’t know
what the object of their comparison means.
Brummal is so much like a Gallic name for the sort of weather we call
slaggy (full of misty rain), that they are, probably, offshoots from
the same old root.
Colp, a short rope for carrying sheaves from a mow-hay to the barn;
also a blow. Keveran, a strip of hide or leather which unites the two
sticks of a “threshal” (flail) here called the “hand staff and
slash-staff.” Liners, threshed wheaten sheaves. Kayer, a coarse sieve
(probably a modern corruption of Cadar a-Chair, e.g., Cader Michel; St.
Michael’s Chair on St. Michael’s Mount). Layer, a winnowing-sheet. To
reeve, to separate with a fine sieve, small corn, seeds, &c., from the
good grain.
Most West Country folk use many other words connected with husbandry
which sound very unlike English, and are unknown in the eastern part of
the county, as Colpas, anything which serves as a prop, or an underset,
to a crowbar, or other object when used as a lever. Visgey (mutation
for Pigol), a large pick, or mattock; tubble is another name for the
same. Piggal, a beat-axe. Monger, a straw horse-collar, &c., &c.
GLOSSARY OF LOCAL WORDS.
Aree faa, exclamation: “dear me.”
Bal, a mine.
Bannel, a broom, a yellow flowering shrub.
Beety, to mend nets.
Benen-vat, a good woman.
Benkeyl, a living stream.
Ben-ma-brea, woman of my heart.
Balsh, small rope.
Boobun, wick of the “chill.”
Bowjowler, a place in the fishing-boat, to keep the foot-line.
Breal, mackerel.
Breedy, to make nets, by meshing with needle and pin-roller.
Broaze, on the point of boiling.
Broazen, briskly; the fire burns briskly.
Bruz, small furze; remnants.
Bucca-boo, a fool; a bogey.
Bussa, a salting pot for meat.
Bussa-head, a blockhead.
Caboolen, a stone used by seiners.
Caboose, portable fishing-boat’s fire-place.
Capis, very large meshes in a trammel-net.
Cavers, the darnel.
Chea, word used in calling swine to feed.
Chea-chanter, hold your tongue.
Chill, a lamp.
Clibby, sticky, like molasses.
Clomb, earthenware.
Clunk, to swallow.
Cobesta, a part of fishing tackle.
Codgy or Clidgy, adhesive; gummy.
Coits, a pile of rocks; group of stones.
Costan, straw and bramble baskets.
Cowal, fish basket, with a band for the head, carried by fishwomen.
Cowl, fish-bladder.
Cowleck, a glutton.
Cravel, mantel-beam.
Croggan, limpet-shell.
Crowse, refreshment, carried to field in hay, corn, and potato
harvests.
Crum, crooked.
Crush, shrunk with age.
Derns, a door-frame.
Didgen, a bit; a small portion.
Dien, a man.
Dowse, to throw on the ground.
Dowsing-rod, divining rod, used to discover minerals, water, &c.
Drethen, a sand-pot, a sand-area ’neath the sea.
Drizzle, small rain.
Drizzling-dour, small stream.
Enys, an island.
Flucan-courses, a term in mining; cross-courses.
Freathed out, frayed.
Friday cum-sennet, next Friday week.
Fuggan, a cake; dinner cake.
Fun, a small kind of rush.
Fusy, good.
Geek, a sly look; a peep.
Ging, to fasten a fish hook to line with wire.
Gord, a nine-feet rod to measure land.
Griglens, remains of a heath broom.
Guldize, harvest home.
Gurry, a four-handled barrow with enclosed sides.
Gwarrah, the farthest, the most distant.
Gweean, perry-winkle.
Hayl, a river.
Heevil, three-prong fork, a stable implement.
Hilla, the nightmare.
Hogan, miners’ dinner.
Huel, a mine.
Ianken, walking quickly.
Jonic, fair, straightforward.
Jsenequick, italian-iron.
Jouder, fish overboiled.
Jowdy, to walk in water with boots and stockings on.
Kanker, a small crab.
Kay-yer, a coarse winnowing machine.
Keals (quilles) nine-pins.
Keal-alley, a bowling-green.
Keddened and Cabageed, booted with mud; dirty.
Keg, a dog.
Kente-pathen-gy, wooden pins belonging to the stone anchor used in
punts.
Keygans, small refuse roots.
Kibbal, a mine bucket.
Kibbin, to steal.
Kicker, fishing boats’ small mizen sail.
Keggil, a piece of wood used by thread-spinners.
Kiskey, a rotten stick.
Kist-vaen, stone chest.
Ku-lar, to lend.
Laggen, to splash in the water.
Laister, yellow iris, or water flag.
Lasking, keep near shore, a term used by fishermen.
Lenth, shelter, cover from the weather.
Ligge, broth; soup.
Ludras, a frame for the (Killick).
Meanolas, a fire-place, a square box made of stones and clay, made by
fishermen.
Midge-go-morrah, hesitation, doubt, excuse.
Miggle-cum-par, mixed fuel—a term used in swine feeding; confusion, a
mixture.
Minch, to play truant—shun school.
Moppeneede, hide and go seek, a game.
Mowaz, a maid.
More, the root.
Muryan, an ant, emmet.
Nacken, pocket handkerchief.
Nuddick, back part of the neck.
Padger-paw, a lizard.
Pag-ae, please.
Peacher, a lure, an enticement.
Pedna-a-mean, heads and tails, a game of pins.
Pedn-borbas, cod’s head.
Pigal, a farm implement.
Piler, a farm implement, used to pound, or cut the beards from barley
in winnowing.
Pilles, naked oats (avena nuda).
Planchen, wood floor.
Podn, mine dust; tailings.
Pol, a pool.
Polyn, a stick.
Punick, a small person; a dwarf.
Purvans, shreds of cotton used in wick-making for a “chill.”
Quail, withered.
Quilken, a young frog.
Raf, refuse, waste.
Riggling, cleaning out the fire-place with the poker.
Rût, to rub; friction.
Scabby-gullion, a stew.
Scat, to knock; break to pieces.
Schecojan, call; invitation.
Scraggen, straggling.
Scrof, the refuse.
Scroggan, a worthless person.
Scud, to spill any liquid.
Scruff of the nuddick, nape of the neck.
Shong, a broken mesh.
Shethen, any thing long; a piece of hake used as bait.
Skillet, small tin saucepan.
Skubmaw, small parts; bits of wreck.
Slag, small driving rain (drizzle).
Slintrim, an incline; going down an incline.
Slotter, a sticky wet mess.
Stag’d, booted in mud.
Stroath, wild haste.
Strop, string; a piece of rope.
Swap, a wasp.
Sabs, to burn tabs,—grass tufts, raked together into piles for burning,
in preparing ground for seed.
Tabs, turf, harrowed fine.
Thurl, leary.
Timmy-noggy, a notched square piece of wood, used to support the lower
end of the Vargord.
To garm, to shout in anger; scold.
Tolyer-predu, baking-dish.
Toust, toiled or rumpled.
Towse, noise; tumult.
Towser, coarse apron.
Trantums, friskiness; wildness.
Tre, a farm.
Tubbal, double ball-pick.
Tubban, a tuft of earth.
Tummels, large quantity, applied in agriculture to crops of straw and
hay.
Tut, hassock.
Vargord, a spar, used as a foresail; bowline in fishing-boats.
Vean, little; “child vean,” little child; kerris vean, little kerris;
treveneth vean, &c.
Vezy, without; distant; away.
Vumfra, blow; a heavy slap.
Widden, white.
Widdles, nonsense; foolishness; romancing.
Whinz, mine-winch.
Zawn, a cavern.
Zelli, a conger eel.
SUBSCRIBERS’ NAMES.
Allen, C. B., Kilburn, London.
Allsop, Miss, Penzance, 3 copies.
Anderson, T., Penzance.
Andrews, William, F.R.H.S., Hull.
Barwis, J. C., Penzance.
Batten, Joseph Childs, London.
Bennett, E. G., Plymouth.
Berryman, Alexander, Penzance.
Blewett, J. P., Penzance.
Boase, Francis, J.P., Penzance, 2 copies.
Boase, Geo., Queen Anne’s Gate, Westminster.
Boase, Rev. Charles W., Exeter College, Oxford.
Bolitho, Mrs. W., Polwithen.
Bolitho, William, Jun., J.P., Ponsandine, 3 copies.
Borlase, John, Castle Horneck.
Borlase, W. C., Larrigan.
Borlase, Rev. William M., Zennor, 2 copies.
Botheras, R. Gorton, Manchester.
Brokenshire, E., Penzance.
Brooks, William, Reigate, Surrey.
Brune, Charles G. Prideaux, Prideaux Place, Padstow, 2 copies.
Carne, Henry, Penzance.
Chevely, J. C., Madron.
Chope, Rev. R. R., Wilton House, London.
Colenso, Richard, 2 copies.
Colenso, W.
Commins, Thos. T., 3, St. Paul’s Churchyard.
Cornish, Miss, Penzance.
Cornish, C. H., Skaton Chapel.
Cornish, Henry R., Penzance.
Cornish, James M., Penzance.
Cornish, Thomas, Penzance, 2 copies.
Cornish, Thomas R., Buenos Ayres.
Couch, J. Q., M.R.C.S.E., Penzance.
Coulson, J. B., Penzance.
Courtenay, James, Bristol.
Craig, Mrs. S., 11, Parliament Street, Liverpool.
Dent, Mrs., Sudeley Castle, Winchcombe.
Dingley, Mrs., Beachfield House, 2 copies.
Drake, Rev. W. N., Ruan, 2 copies.
Drew, J. E., Penzance.
Fagan, Rev. H. S., St. Just Vicarage.
Field, Thomas W., Marazion.
Fisher, Edward, Sidmouth.
Geoffroi, H. M., School of Science and Art, Penzance.
Gilbert, Hon. Mrs., Trelissick.
Green, William, 9, Cullum-street, London, E.C.
Grylls, Thos., Penzance.
Harry, R., London.
Harvey, Miss, Penzance.
Harvey, J. S., Penzance.
Hattam, Thomas, St. Anthony.
Hosking, Samuel, Bank Buildings, Hull.
Hudson, Robert S., Redruth.
James, Arthur H., St. Just.
James, John, Rosevean House, 2 copies.
James, Stephen H., St. Just.
James, Stephen H., B.C.S.
Jennings, E., Linares, Spain.
Kevern, J. T., 2 copies.
Lach-Szyrma, Rev. W. S., Newlyn.
Lanyon, J. J., Penzance.
Lea, Henry Carey, Philadelphia, U.S.
Lovell, James, Jun., Chyandour, Penzance.
Mann, Capt. Benjamin P., London.
Matthews, Robert, Penzance.
Matthews, R., Jun., Tregoose, Helston.
Mauleverer, Miss, The Mall, Armagh, Ireland.
Menneer, Miss A., 7, Trewartha Terrace, Penzance.
Michell, A. O., Marazion.
Michell, W. H., Penzance.
Millett, George Bown, M.R.C.S., Penzance.
Millett, J. N., Lelant.
Mitchell, W., “Western” Hotel, Penzance.
Montgomery, H. M., 5, Clarence Place, Penzance.
Morewood, R. D., Trinity House, London.
Müller, Professor Max, Oxford.
Nance, Capt. Francis, St. Martin’s, Scilly Isles.
Ninnis, Paul C., Linares, Spain.
Noy, W. D., London.
Paull, A., M.R.C.S.E., Truro.
Paull, Nicholas, Penzance.
Pellew, W. H., Penzance.
Pentreath, Dr. F. R., Head Master of Winborne School.
Pentreath, Capt. Wm., Pentreath Villa, Mousehole.
Pentreath, Richard, Australia Villa, Exmouth, Devon.
Pentreath, Richard, H.M.C., London, 2 copies.
Pentreath, William B., H.M. Customs, London.
Peter, Thurstan C., Redruth, 2 copies.
Preston, R. H., Penzance, 3 copies.
Price, Charles, Birmingham.
Prynne, C. M., The Republican, Springfield, Mass., U.S.A.
Ralfs, John, M.R.C.S.E., 2 copies.
Rawlings, W. J., Downes, Hayle.
Richards, Mrs., Newlyn.
Rickarby, James W. B., Brixton, S. W.
Rundle, Rev. S., Ladock.
Stewart, Henry, Penzance.
The Penzance Public Library.
Thomas, Henry, Clarence place.
Trenoweth, Captain James, Jun., London.
Trenwith, Charles, Hayle.
Trevail, Silvanus, Tywardreath.
Trowsdale, T. B., Young People’s Institute, Hull.
Uren, J. C., Penzance.
Uren, J. G., Penzance.
Victor, H., Penzance.
Wellington, R., Penzance.
White, Miss, Penzance.
White, W. N., Covent Garden.
White, R., Jun., 6, Cornwall Terrace, Penzance.
Wildman, A. C., Penzance.
Wildman, Henry E., R.N., Halifax, Nova Scotia.
Williams, Henry, Penzance.
Williams, J. H., London.
Williams, J. H., Higher Penrose Farm, near Helston.
Williams, Major, Washington, U.S.A.
Williams, T., Trinity House, London.
NOTES
[1] The once general custom of “touching the cravel” for the purpose of
averting evils foreshadowed by ill-omens, &c., seems to have almost
died out with the disuse of open fire-places for burning furze and
turf.
Some fifty years ago the practice must have been known all over the
county, and farther off. A “pellar,” called Lutey, then in great
repute, enjoined those under his “protection” to perform the rite at
stated periods, as a safeguard against witchcraft and bad luck
generally. In the spring—as soon as there was twelve hours sun—this
wise man was resorted to by people from all parts of the county, and
farther away, to have their “protection” renewed. This was always the
term used, and its meaning well understood. Great numbers came over
from the Scilly Islands, and the captains and crews of Welsh vessels
trading to Hayle often sought this conjurer’s aid.
One may hope that the pleasant old Christmas pastime of burning
ivy-leaves and rushes was still observed, last Twelfth-night, in some
outlying hamlets where the good folks are not yet so “enlightened” as
to conceive that they know much more than their grandparents.
Those who have taken part in this old observance for obtaining presages
regarding the most important events of life, know that “touching the
cravel” must be carefully complied with on leaving the hearth to gather
what they require; and the first thing on their return, before any of
them may speak, and their more interesting rites commence.
If any of the company happen to speak by the way, the charm is spoiled,
and the seeming presages will be unreliable, unless the incautious ones
return, touch the cravel, and resume the work.
One may be excused for dwelling so long on these almost forgotten
customs, as they may have some significance, interesting to antiquaries
at least. It is high time to glean the little that remains of old-world
observances; for even in such remote places as the northern parishes,
most folks, under middle age, are chary of giving any information about
them.
[2] See the Tinner, page 21.
[3] The name usually given to St. Just feast as it is the nearest
Sunday to All-Hallows.
[4] Grease which oozes out from the gudgeons of mine machinery.
[5] The herb scrophularia aquatica.
[6] Avena nuda.
[7] At that time the duty on salt was 4d. per pound; and, at the low
price for which pork was then sold, it took nearly the value of one
side of a carcase to buy enough salt to cure the other side.
[8] Literally corn-feast; the last day of corn carrying, when
neighbours usually assist each other, then have a good supper and
carouse.
[9] Beacon.
[10] Mean men.
[11] Frogs.
[12] Shell-snails.
[13] Small Lizards.
[14] Patrick Kennedy’s description of an Irish wake, may remind elderly
Cornish people of a custom generally observed in West Cornwall, at
least, in the last century; that of holding watch-night, with the
deceased, for one night, and keeping lighted candles in the room in
which the body was laid out, every night until the funeral.
All those friends of the family who intended to follow the body to its
grave, as “mourners” were expected to join the watchers. It was
customary to have a supper for them (the watchers) about midnight; and
a few hours afterwards the watching was concluded.
It was never the custom here, within our remembrance to address the
spirit, supposed to be hovering near its body, until the latter was
consigned to earth, as the Irish do at this day. In their “croneing”
the spirit is mostly spoken to in consoling or flattering words; and
often a little blarney is added also. Both in Ireland and here, it was
thought a great slight or an insult if friends, who had formal notice
of a decease, did not attend at the watch-night or wake. It is evident,
however, that these customs are remnants of the same ancient British
usage, amongst those of the Celtic race.
A pleasing picture of this ancient observance may be seen in
Cymbeline,—Act iv. Scene 2.
[15] He-Goat.
[16] She-Goat.
[17] See page 70.
[18] Mr. W. J. Henwood.
[19] Before this old building was demolished, a few months since, it
was photographed by Mr. R. H. Preston.
[20] Wednesday in Feasten week.
[21] Dogs with old tin pans, or the like, tied to their tails.
[22] A century or so ago, the people of Ludgvan were so much celebrated
for their dexterity in throwing and catching the silver ball, that they
were known far and near as the Ludgvan hurlers, and still hold in
remembrance their ancient renown by retaining it to this day as a
nickname. Formerly, they were as proud of this name as of their holy
well, and of the tradition they firmly believe—that none who have been
baptized in its waters ever have been, or ever will be, hanged.
[23] “Malbrook is gone to the wars.” This once popular ditty was a
version of the celebrated French song of
“Malbrough s’en va-t-en guerre,
Mironton, mironton, mirontaine,”
which was composed after the battle of Malplaquet in 1709, by some
French officers; who, after being defeated by the Duke of Marlborough,
consoled themselves by making the facetious song in which they imagined
“Monsieur Malbrough is dead.—
What’s more—he’s buri-ed,”
many years before he gave up the ghost and ceased to be the object of
the soldier’s admiration and terror.
The name of Marlborough having been first corrupted by the French into
Malbrough, was further changed by the English into Malbrook. Only a few
years since the old song was republished in Paris, in the collection of
“Chansons Populaires,” under the title of “Mort et convoi de
l’invincible Malbrough.” From the translation of an amusing essay,
which precedes the song in this collection, we quote the following.
Speaking of Marlborough, the writer says, “Not being able to conquer,
the enemy lampooned him, and each of his victories was followed by a
new satirical song; such verses being in France then, as in the good
times of Cardinal Mazarin, the people’s most ordinary means of taking
their revenge.”
The song was preserved only by tradition in some of the provinces,
where it had been probably left by the soldiers of Villars and de
Bufflers; but in 1781 it resounded, all of a sudden, from one end of
the kingdom to the other. It happened that when Marie Antoinette gave
to the throne of France an heir, he was nursed by a peasant named
(probably nicknamed) Madame Poitrine, who had been chosen, among other
qualifications, for her healthy appearance, and good humour. The nurse,
while rocking the royal cradle, sung Malbrough, and the dauphin, it is
said, opened his eyes at the name of the great general. The name, the
simplicity of the words, singularity of the burthen, and the touching
melodiousness of the air, interested the queen, and she frequently sang
it. Everybody repeated it after her, and even the king condescended to
quaver out the words, “Malbrough s’en va-t-en guerre.” Malbrough was
sung in the state apartments of Versailles; in the kitchens; in the
stables; it became quite the rage: from the Court it was adopted by the
tradespeople of Paris, and passed thence from town to town, and country
to country; it was wafted across to England, where it soon became as
popular as in France. It is said that a French gentleman, wishing, when
in London, to be driven to Marlborough Street, had totally forgotten
its name, but, on singing the air of Malbrough, the coachman understood
him immediately, and drove him to the proper address with no other
direction.
Goethe, who travelled in France about the same time, was so teased with
the universal concert of Malbrough, that he took a hatred to the duke,
who was the innocent cause of the musical epidemic. Malbrough made
itself heard, without ceasing. Apropos of everything, and apropos of
nothing, it gave its name to the fashions, to silks, head-dresses,
carriages, and soups—was reproduced, in short, in all manner of ways
and forms, and, nothing short of the Revolution, the fall of the
Bastile, and the Marsellaise hymn, were sufficient to smother the
sounds of that hitherto never ceasing song. The warlike and melancholy
air of the song did not, any more than its hero, originate in France,
and we have sought in vain to trace its history back from the time when
Napoleon—in spite of his general antipathy to music—roared it out
whenever he got into his saddle to start on a fresh campaign. We are
not unwilling to believe, with M. de Chateaubriand, that it was the
same air which the crusaders of Godefroid de Bouillion sang under the
walls of Jerusalem. The Arabs still sing it, and pretend that their
ancestors learned it at the battle of Massoura, or else from the
brothers-in-arms of De Joinville, who repeated it to the clashing of
bucklers while pressing forward to the cry of
“Mountjoy, Saint Denis!”
[24] This old Cornish word Bucca (still in common use) has various
significations, and none very clearly defined. It appears to belong to
the same family of words as the Irish “Pooka,” and the Welsh “Pwcca.”
As above, it is often applied to a poor, half-witted person of a
mischievous disposition—one about whom there is anything weird or
wisht—to a ghost, or any kind of frightful apparition, and by
association of ideas to a scarecrow. By Buccaboo, which is probably a
corruption of Buccadhu (black spirit) we mean Old Nick, or one of his
near relations. As an example of this, there is a story told of an old
lady who lived long ago at Raftra, in St. Levan. The old dame, when
more than fourscore, was so fond of card playing that she would walk
almost every Winter’s night, in spite of wind or weather, to the
village of Trebear, distant a mile or more, that she might enjoy her
favourite pastime with a family of congenial tastes who resided there.
The old lady’s step-daughter wished to put a stop to what she regarded
as rather scandalous vagaries, the old dame seldom arriving home before
the small hours of the morning; with this intention the young mistress
persuaded the serving-man to array himself in a white sheet, &c., so as
to personate a ghost that was accused of wandering about a lonely spot
over which old madam would have to pass. The Winter’s night was dark
and rainy, when, about midnight, the ghost seated himself on the side
of Goon-proynter stile, where he had to wait two or three hours. The
dear old lady was in no hurry to leave pleasant company as it was
Christmas time. At last the old lady passed Padz-jigga, mounted the
stile, and seated herself to draw breath opposite the ghost. Over a
while, she said, “Hallo! Bucca gwidden (white spirit) what cheer? And
what in the world dost thee do here with Bucca Dhu close behind thee?”
This cool address so frightened Bucca-gwidden that he ran off as fast
as he could lay feet to ground, the old lady scampering after, clapping
her hands and calling “Good boy, Buccadhu; now thee west catch Bucca
gwidden and take’n away with thee!” The ghost was so frightened that he
fell in a fit and was never right in the head after. Then he was a real
bucca in the sense of our Betty’s sweetheart, and the strong minded
sociable old lady enjoyed many more years of her favourite pastime with
her friends in Trebear.
Another Bucca of the mischievous class lived in St. Just but a short
time since, who gave rise to the saying “Between both,” as Bucca said.
Being, as usual, loafing about the public-house of a pay day, when
there is more than the ordinary good cheer about, Bucca happened to
look into a room where Capt. Chynolds and another gentleman were
sitting in the window-seat. The captain said to the intruder, “Which
art thee, Bucca, a fool or a rogue?” Before making any reply, Bucca
placed himself between them, then answered “I’m between both, I
believe!” Another day he was idling about a new shaft that two men were
engaged in sinking—one filling the kibbal, the other winding up the
stuff with a hand winze. The man to grass told Bucca to take hold of
the winze and wind up a few kibbals whilst he lighted his pipe. Bucca
wound up two or three all right. When the next kibbal full was near the
top of the shaft he called out “Hold on there below while I spit on my
hands a minute.” Down went the kibbal, winze and all smash, and half
killed the man below. Bucca took to his heels crying “Triz-wiz,
triz-wiz; whipper-snapper, catch me if thee cust.” (canst).
Another trick of the Bucca was to watch when the women put a nice bit
of cake to bake that they might have a comfortable cup of tea before
the good man came home from work. They would be sure to go out to
coursey (gossip) a bit while the cake was baking. Then Bucca would
steal in, carry off the cake, and place a turf under the bake-pan,
carefully covered with fire again. When the gossip came to take up the
nice bit she might be heard to exclaim “Well I never thought I’d been
out so long; my cake is burned to ashes.”
[25] The “red-haired Danes” have continued a source of terror and a
name of reproach to the present day. On the first of this month a
Longrock quarrel was the subject of a magisterial inquiry at the
Penzance town-hall, when it was proved that the defendant, Jeffery, had
called one of the complainants, Lawrence, who has rubrick hair, a
“red-haired Dane.” In Sennen Cove, St. Just, and the western parishes
generally, there has existed, time out of mind, a great antipathy to
certain red-haired families, who were said to be descendants of the
Danes, and whose ancestors were supposed, centuries before, to have
landed in Whitsand Bay, and set fire to, and pillaged the villages.
Indeed, this dislike to the Rufus-headed people was carried so far that
few families would allow any member to marry them, so that the
unfortunate race had the less chance of seeing their children lose the
objectionable tinge of hair.
[26] As the name Vellandruchar means wheel-mill, the mill which was
formerly in this place was probably one of the oldest in the West. At
no great distance from Vellandruchar is the site of another ancient
mill called Vellansager. This name is equally suggestive, as denoting
that the serging or bolting apparatus was not then common in the mills.
These old mills were situated in the lower part of Burrien, on the
stream which divides that parish from Paul. According to tradition, a
sanguinary battle was fought on the moors a little above Vellandruchar,
between Arthur and the Danes, when they say the mill was worked with
blood, and that arrow, spear and axe-heads, with the remains of other
weapons, have frequently been found in the bog-turf (peat soil) which
is cut for fuel from Vellandruchar Moors. These moors were also said to
be so much infested with adders, in old time, that cattle could not be
turned into them in Summer, until one day an adder got into a pot of
milk, which a man who was cutting turf on the moor brought with him to
drink. The man placed a turf on the mouth of the pot, and stopped the
adder in it. In a short time the imprisoned adder made a peculiar
noise, which attracted other adders round the pot. These, in turn,
seemed to call others, until from all parts of the moors the adders
were seen directing their course straight to the interesting captive.
The men cutting turf on the moors were all obliged to flee the low
grounds. Towards night, when they ventured into the moor, they found
that a mass of adders, as large as an ordinary hay-cock, had interlaced
themselves into a solid heap over and round the pot. The people then
formed a ring of dry furze, and other fuel they found ready cut, around
the mass of adders, now apparently torpid. When many scores of trusses
of furze were collected, fire was placed at the same instant to several
parts of the ring of furze. They say that the noise made by the burning
adders was frightful, and that a great number of milpreaves were found
in the ashes.
This story of the adders is also told about Trevethow Moors, the ground
now called the Hay Meadow, and many other places.
[27] At pater omnipotens adigat me fulmine ad umbras, Pallentes umbras
Erebi, noctemque profundam, &c., &c.
[28] This was nearly the language of our learned countryman, Mr. Moyle,
in “A charge to the Grand Jury at Liskeard, April, 1706.” “If France
(says he) prevails in this war, we shall be dragooned into idolatry,
slavery, and wooden shoes.”—See Moyle’s works, vol. 1, p. 163.
[29] “Golls” or “gollies” is the Phœnician name for Hercules, according
to the Rev. Mr. Hogg, in his Fabulous History of Cornwall, so that the
use of the term, vulgar as it may appear to some, connects the butcher
of our narrative with a favourite deity of the Phœnicians.
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