The Changeling of Brea Vean.
A hundred years or more ago—one afternoon in harvest time—a woman called Jenny Trayer, who lived in Brea Vean (a little out-of-the-way place at the foot of Chapel Carn Brea) gave her baby suck, rocked it to sleep, then covered up the fire, turned down the brandis, placed fire-hook and furze-prong across the hearth for good luck, and, leaving the child alone, away she hastened over to Brea to "help cut the neck." It was nearly dark when the last handful of wheat, called "the neck," was tied up and cut by the reapers throwing their reap-hooks at it. Then it took a good bit longer to cry the neck according to the old custom of the harvest-hands dividing themselves into three bands—one party calling, three times, as loud as they could cry, "We have it, we have it, we have it!" The second demanding, "What have ye? What have ye? What have ye?" And the third replying, "A neck! a neck! a neck!" Then all join, hats in hand, in a "Hip! hip! hip! Hurrah!"
The neck was then decorated with flowers and hung over the board.
Jenny, thinking about her babe all alone, didn't stop for the neck-cutting carouse, but got a good drink of beer, and her neck-cake, to take home; and hastened away. When she opened her door, she saw, by the moonlight, that the cradle was overturned. Straw and rags were on the floor, but no child was in sight.
Jenny groped round the room a long time; then, not finding any live embers among the ashes, she took the tinder-box and struck a light. "The more haste the worst speed." It was a long time before she got the porvan (rush-wick) lit in the chill (iron lamp). In searching all the holes and corners, she came to the wood-corner and there among turves, ferns, and furze, she found the "cheeld," fast asleep. Being very tired, she took up the child and went to bed. Next morning, when she looked at the babe by daylight, it seemed to her that there was something strange about it—she didn't know what—it was hearty enow, for it seemed never satisfied unless it was all the time sucking or eating; it would roar like a bull if it hadn't its will; and always wanted to be in her arms or eating pap.
The poor woman couldn't do her "chars," and had no rest of her life with the squalling, hungry brat. Yet, with all its sucking and eating, it seemed wasting to skin and bone. So it kept on all the winter—the more it ate the leaner it became. Many of the neighbours shook their heads when they saw it, and said they feared the "small people" had played her a trick that afternoon when she went to "neck-cutting." "Whether or no," said they, "you can do nothing better, Jenny, than to bathe it in the Chapel Well as soon as May comes round."
Accordingly, the first Wednesday in May she took it on her back and trudged away to Chapel Uny Well.
Three times she put it through the water from west to east, then dragged it three times round the well against the sun. Whether the bath made it any better or not she couldn't tell in one week. The following Wednesday, however, the troublesome creature seemed to expect the jaunt, and to enjoy it as it rode away on her shoulder over hill and moor to the spring, where it had the same ducking again. The third Wednesday was a wet day; yet, not to spoil the spell, Jenny took the brat, placed it astride on her shoulder, held one foot in her hand, whilst he grasped her hair to keep himself steady, as they beat over the moors against wind and rain. The thing seemed to enjoy the storm, and crowed, like a cock, when the wind roared the loudest.
They had nearly passed round Chapel Carn Brea and were coming by some large rocks, near the open moor, when she heard a shrill voice, seemingly above her head, call out,—
"Tredrill! Tredrill!
Thy wife and children greet thee well."
Jenny was surprised to hear the shrill voice and nobody in sight. When she stopped an instant to look round, the thing on her shoulder cried out in a voice as shrill and loud,—
"What care I for wife or child,
When I ride on Dowdy's back to the Chapel Well,
And have got pap my fill?"
Frightened out of her senses, to hear the miserable little object talk like a man about his wife and his child, the poor woman cast it on the ground and there it lay sprawling, until she took courage, threw it across her shoulder, and ran back as fast as she could lay feet to ground till she came to Brea town. She stopped before some houses a little below Brea mansion, threw down the thing, that clung to her neck for dear life, on to a dung-heap beside the road.
The women of Brea all ran out to see what could be the matter. As soon as she recovered her breath she told them what she had heard. "Ah," exclaimed one, "didn't I tell thee, months ago, that thee wert nussan a small body's brat, ever since the neck-cuttan night, when thy child was spirited away, and that thing left in his place."
"Shure enow," said another, "anybody of common sense might see that. Only look at the thing there, sprawling upon his back in the mud. Did one ever see a Christian cheeld like that, with his goggle eyes, squinting one way; his ugly mouth drawn another, and his pinched-up nose all a-wry too?"
"And now, Jenny," broke in the oldest crone, "'Tis lucky for 'e that I can tell 'e what you must do to get rid of this unlucky bucca, and get back thy own dear cheeld. Now there's an old way, and I don't know but it es the best; and that es to put the smale body upon the ashes' pile and beat it well with a broom; then lay it naked under a church-way stile; there leave et, and keep out of sight and hearan till the turn of night; and, nine times out of ten, the thing will be took off and the stolen cheeld put in his place. There's another plan but I never seed et tried—to make by night a smoky fire, with green ferns and dry. When the chimney and house are full of smoke as one can bear, throw the changeling on the hearth-stone; go out of the house; turn three times round; when one enters the right cheeld will be restored."
The women of Brea—resolved to try what a beating on the ashes' pile would do towards getting rid of the goblin—threw it on a heap near at hand and commenced belabouring it with their brooms. But they had scarcely touched it than it set up such a roar that it was heard in Brea mansion; and Dame Ellis came running down the town-place to see what could be the matter. She asked what they were beating in that cruel way. Being nearly dark and the wet ashes sticking to the creature she couldn't tell what gave out such a doleful noise.
"Why mistress," says Jenny, "that thing there on the ashes' pile es what was left in our house, when my dear cheeld was spirited away, by smale people, while I was reapan in your field the very day we cut the neck. All the neighbours know the trouble I've had ever since—how this thing that looked like my cheeld have ben all the time screechan, suckan, or eatan, and have never grown a bit, nor will make any use of his legs."
"But thats nothan," said she, recovering her breath, "to what happened a few hours ago, and most frightened me out of my senses. You mayn't believe at—that when, on my way to Chapel Uny Well, with that thing astride on my shoulder, somebody that couldn't be seen by mortal eyes cried out, 'Tredril, Tredril, thy wife and children greet thee well!' Then, in an instant, good lack, that thing from my back replied, 'That little cared he for wife or child when he rode on Dowdy's back (meaning me) to the Chapel Well, and had good pap his fill.' Nobody can tell the fright I was in, to hear that thing talk like a man about his wife and child."
Dame Ellis, lifting the creature from the ashes' heap, said to Jenny, "I believe that thou wert either drunk or in a waking dream when passing round the hill, and that this child, used so ill, is as truly thine as any thou hast born. Now take it home, wash it well, feed it regular, and don't thee leave it all day lying in its cradle; and, if thee canst not make it thrive, send for Dr. Madron."
Jenny and the other women at first refused to comply with Dame Ellis's advice; told her that she knew next to nothing about such matters, and related many things to prove that the creature was no mortal's child, till the lady tired with their stories, turned to go in, saying to Jenny,
"My husband shall come out and talk to thee; peradventure he may convince thee of thy error."
Squire Ellis and his wife being quakers—a sect then but little known in the West—they were thought by Brea women, and many others, to be no better than unbelieving Pagans, "who haven't the grace," said they, "to know anything about such creatures as spriggans, piskies, knackers (knockers of the mines) and other small folks, good or bad, that haunt our carns, moors, and mines; who can vanish or make themselves visible when and how they please, as all more enlightened folks know."
They well knew, however, what concerned them more—that Squire Ellis was their landlord, and that, quiet and quaker-like as he and his wife were in their talk, and demure in their looks, they were not to be trifled with; and that their will was law for all living on their estate unless they could contrive to deceive them.
Squire Ellis came down and, finding that Jenny (with her bantling and all the others) were gone into a house, where he heard them loudly talking, he had nothing to say to them; perhaps, he kept an eye on their proceedings.
Brea women, in spite of "unbelieving quakers," as they called Squire Ellis and his wife, among themselves—determined to have their own way—waited till all was dark in the great house; then Jenny, with the bantling or spriggan, and another woman, who was very knowing about changelings, passed quietly up Brea town-place, and under a stile on the Church-way path crossing a field from Brea lane, they left the creature (then asleep) that had been such a plague to them.
Jenny returned to Brea Vean, and there stayed till morning. Being fatigued and worried she overslept herself, for it was nearly daybreak when she awoke and hurried away, between hopes and fears, to the stile; and there, sure enough, she found her own "dear cheeld," sleeping on some dry straw. The infant was as clean, from head to foot, as water could make it, and wrapped up in a piece of old gay-flowered chintz; which small folks often covet and steal from furze-bushes, when it is placed there in the sun to dry.
Jenny nursed her recovered child with great care, but there was always something queer about it, as there always is about one that has been in the fairies' power—if only for a few days. It was constantly ailing and complaining, and, as soon as it was able to toddle, it would wander far away to all sorts of out-of-the-way places. The good lady of Brea often came to see it and brought it many nice things that its mother couldn't afford to buy, and when he was about nine years of age Squire Ellis took the changeling (as he was always called) into his service, but he was found to be such a poor simple innocent that he could never be trusted to work in the fields alone, much less with cattle; as a whim would take him, every now and then, to leave his work and wander away over hills and moors for days together. Yet he was found useful for attending to rearing cattle and sheep—then kept in great numbers on the unenclosed grounds of Brea. He was so careful of his master's flock in lambing time that there was seldom any lost. Forsaken or weakly lambs were often given to him by the neighbours, and he contrived to rear them so well that, in a few years, he had a good flock of his own that Squire Ellis and everyone else allowed him to pasture wherever he and his sheep choose to wander—everybody knew the poor changeling and made him welcome. When he grew to man's estate, however, he became subject to fits, and had to remain at home with his mother great part of his time.
Yet, when the fits were over, nothing could restrain his propensity for wandering, and his sheep, goats, and even calves, always followed, and seemed equally to enjoy their rambles. He often talked to himself, and many believed that he was then holding converse with some of the fairy tribe, only visible to him, who enticed him to ramble among the carns, hills, and moors—their usual haunts.
When about thirty years of age he was missed for several days; and his flock had been noticed, staying longer than usual near the same place, on a moor between the Chapel Hill and Bartinné, and there—surrounded by his sheep—he was found, lying on a quantity of rushes which he had pulled and collected for making sheep-spans.
He lay, with his arm under his head, apparently in sweet sleep, but the poor changeling of Brea was dead.
[Betty Stogs's Baby.] [4]
LITTLE more than twenty years ago, there lived in a lonely cot on a moor in Towednack a man and his wife with one child. The woman—from her slatternly habits—was known by the name of Betty Stogs; she had been married about a year and had a baby six months old or so; when, almost every day, whilst her husband was away 'to bal,' she would pass best part of the time 'courseying' from house to house in the nearest village.
The child would mostly be left in the house alone or with nothing but the cat for company. One seldom saw the colour of the bantling's skin for dirt. When anyone asked Betty why she didn't wash it oftener, "The moor es a cold place," she'd reply, "and a good layer of dirt will help keep 'n hot."
One afternoon about Midsummer she went to get milk for the child and stayed away gossiping till dusk; it was so dark when she entered her dwelling that she could scarcely see anything within it.
She went to the cradle and found it empty; the child was nowhere to be seen; nor yet the cat that always slept with it, shared its pap, and cleaned the skillet in which the 'child's-meat,' was cooked. Whilst Betty was searching about the house her husband came home from work—last core by day,—he was in a great rage with his wife and greater grief for the loss of his 'crume of a cheeld,' as he called it.
After hours spent in fruitless search Betty sat down and cried bitterly, whilst the father went away and told the neighbours what had happened.
Everybody turned out to look for the child; they examined moors and crofts for a good distance round till after daybreak without seeing sight or sign of it; but, when it was near sunrise, Betty spied the cat coming towards her, then it went back mewling into a brake of furze. She followed it and came to a plot of mossy grass, surrounded by thickets and ferns, where she saw, amongst heath and wortleberry plants, a bundle of old-fashioned chintz; she opened it and there was her child, sleeping like a nut. It was wrapped in several gay old gowns, with mint, balm, and all sorts of sweet herbs and flowers that are found on moors or in gardens; but otherwise it was as naked as when born, yet clean and sweet as a rose.
All the old folks said it was carried there by small-people, who intended to bear it away to the hills or carns; but it took them so long to clean it first that daylight surprised them ere they had done it to their mind; so they left it there meaning to fetch it the next night.
The fright, however, that Betty had undergone, did her good and the child too, for she passed less time in courseying, and took more care of her babe for fear it might be stolen again. She made lots of frocks for it out of the old chintz; and it throve so well after the small folks' cleansing that he made as stout a man as his dad, who was usually called Jan the Maunster (monster) from his bulky form.
[How a Morvah Man Bought Clothes for his Wife.] [4]
"Contented toil, and hospitable care,
And kind connubial tenderness are there."
Goldsmith.
MOST of the dwellers in the cottages scattered over the hills to the north of Penzance (like the tinners of old) work in the mines and cultivate a few acres 'out of core.' They are also remarkable for preserving many old customs which are become extinct in less remote and more populous districts, as well as for the quaint simplicity of their manners and language. A few weeks ago a tall, middle-aged man entered a draper's shop in Penzance. His blue smock-frock, corduroy trousers, ruddy with tin stuff, and the high-poled Sunday's hat, marked him for a high-country tinner. He paused in the middle of the shop and looked around as if to select some particular one of the assistants to serve him; then going over to the counter, where the forewoman was standing, he placed three little packets of money, done up in paper, before her.
"Look-e here, my dear," says he, "here's three packats of money for three things I want of 'e. Fust of all les have somethan to make a sheft for my old oman—dowlas or calico, you know the sort of stuff, and how much will do; for my old oman es of a tidy built and shaped much like you. (The blushes and titterings among the shop girls may be imagined). She told me how much, but I have forgot, only that a must cost ten-pence a yard; so cut off as much as will make a sheft for yourself, my dear, and see if you don't find the exact money for 'n in that paper, tied up with tape."
The paper opened, the money was found right to a farthing.
"Now, my dear, that's all right. Get some sort of stuff, made of sheep's clothing, I don't know what you call 'n, for to make an undercoat for the old oman. You know how much will do by your own measure; a must be two shellans a yard, and there's the money for 'n in that paper tied up with white yarn."
To make sure of the quantity wanted, the shop woman counted the cash sent, before she cut the required length of sanford. When that was adjusted,
"Now, my dear," says he, "we are getting on cappetal, sure nuf. Next let's have a pound of blue or black wostard—must be four shellans a pound and plum (soft) like yarn; there can be no mistake about that, and there es the money in the paper tied with black yarn. Now, over all these, I spose you will give me a nackan (handkerchief) for myself, waan't 'e, my darlan?"
The master of the establishment, who had been rather amused at the scene, though it was nothing new to him, left the desk and desired the shop woman to open some of good quality and neat patterns, for him to choose from.
"Why, Mr. ——, my dear, havn't 'e any smarter ones than these in your shop than?"
Some old-fashioned ones, of a gay pattern, were soon found, which pleased the customer exactly. Mr. —— gave the tinner a glass of wine besides, and asked him how he liked it?
"Well, I can't say but a wed be pure keenly stuff with a glass of gin or brandy to warm un a little."
The master replied that he had no spirit in the shop, but gave his customer six-pence to buy a dram to warm the wine, on the way home.
"God bless 'e," says our Morvah man, slapping Mr. —— on the shoulder, "but you are one of the right sort, and when my old oman do want a smock again I'll come and buy 'n for her, I don't wender now that all the women like to go to your shop, and that young woman there is pure block tin. But I spose, my dear," says he, turning towards the one he compared to pure tin, "you think me an old Molly-caudle, don't 'e, for coman here to buy the dudds for the old oman home? But 'force put es no choice,' my dear. I'll tell 'e a minute how she esn't here herself. This mornan, when I was takan breakfast to go to bal, Jenny took off a crock of petates from the brandes, that she had, to save time, boiled for the pig alongside of the tea-kettle for my breakfast. She must always be doan two or three jobs together like the milkmaid before now. She took the crock of petates out in the court to empty away the waater, and a minute before she had put a tub of calves'-meat to cool on the caunce, and the cheeld, accordan to custom, was trying to get at 'n to splash and play in the milk. The cheeld todlan round the tub, tumbled in souce, head down, Jenny left the cover slip from the crock in her fright, and out came the boilan waater and petates all over her foot.
"Then she cried, 'Come thee way'st out here Billy and take the cheeld out of the calves'-tub; see what I've done, and a es all thy fault; why disna (dids't thou not) keep the cheeld out of the way?' Ah was no good to say anything to her, my dear, because all the women, except you, will lay the blame on somebody else, for the foolish things they do. I dragged the cheeld out of the milk, left the dog to lick 'n clean, and dipped Jenny's foot in a bucket of waater. The pigs got at the crock and made some screechan when the hot petates burnt their throats. Next I put my old oman on the bed and pulled off her stockan with as much care as ef I'd ben peelan a petate. Then, by her direction, put a linan rag, spread with raw cream, all over the scald, and, without clunkan a bit more breakfast, got ready in a jiffy to run in to the doctor for a plaster, and salve, and things, and to know what was best to do.
"'Billy,' says she, 'as sure es I'm alive, I shall be laid up for weeks, and thee west have to do the work indoors and out, but I can never put away the time doan nothan. Put on thy best hat and blue coat, thy old clothes make thee look foolish in town, and go in to Mr. ——'s shop; mind what I do tell thee. I've been savan money these weeks past to buy some underclothing for winter, the next time I did go to town, and there a all es in the skibbat of the chest, in three pieces of papar, the money that each thing will come to.'
"Then she told me all about the price and number of yards, that I kept repeatan to myself all the way in till I come to the doctor's shop and there I forgot all about et. But she told me I should find a nice motherly oman in this shop just her size, and that's you my dear, who would tell me what to do ef I forgot. Jenny wanted to have something to do while her foot was healan. I told her I didn't much like to go to shop to buy her smock and undercoat; she could ask the nearest neighbour's wife to do et for her. 'No, the devil a bit,' says she, 'that I waan't! Ask Honney's boy Tom's wife, to buy the things for me! I'll go without a sheft fust, for she will go to meetan somewhere or other every night for a week that she may tell the rest of them what my things cost (and oh! the lies they will tell about et among them); besides, we shall have the house full all the time with them, makan out they are come to see how I am. Take the cheeld along weth thee down to An' Nancy Trembaa's; leave 'n there; and ask her to step up to milkey and do the rest of the mornan work for me.' When I left the cheeld down to An' Nancy's, and told her what had happened, away she went, wethout stopan so much as to put her hat on, up to keep things to rights while I'm wantan.
"Well, soas, I've done the best I could. I've got the plaster and salve in the head of my hat, with a fuggan Jenny made me take to eat on the road. A high bell-topper es as handy as a basket to stow away the lumber in; dash me ef a esn't. None of your low billycocks for me.
"Now I wish 'e all well, my dears, and ef you will come up to see us one Sunday afternoon you shall be as welcome 'One and All,' as ef you had been my own sisters. God bless 'e all; I shall be tother side of Ding Dong in less than an hour."
Neither the master nor the shop assistants saw anything to laugh at when the tinner had told his simple story. On the contrary they felt much interested, as his 'old oman' was a well-known customer.
[How a Zennor Man Choked Himself, but had his Will
in his Pocket.][4]
NOT long ago a high-country farmer, after having finished his marketing, in Penzance, treated himself to a supper at a cook-shop in Caunsehead. Being in great hunger, or haste, he thought it waste of time to cut his meat into smaller pieces than he could possibly swallow; besides, solid junks would stand by his ribs and do the more good.
He made but two morsels of a quarter of a pound of beef; and in bolting the last it stuck in his throat. In an instant he went blue in the face and fell on the floor. The landlord ran for a surgeon, and by good luck found one at home, the other side of the street. "Stand clear a bit, and open the man's trap," said the doctor. With much trouble the Zennor man's jaws were forced open, and the doctor feeling a portion of the meat pulled out a piece about six inches long.
The patient was soon restored and ready for another such meal.
Then a lawyer's clerk, who had just entered, remarked;—"Why, old boy, you ought to make your will and keep it by ye before sit down to eat beef again." "Why bless 'e so I have. I always keep my will in my pocket, and you shall see am ef you mind to. I made 'n myself—no lawyers for me. Here a es." Saying this he drew from his pocket a sheet of paper, and gave it to the doctor, telling him he might keep it, if he had a mind to see how to make a will. He intended to make another the next Sunday, because he had more things to bequeath now than when he made the testament, of which the following is a faithful copy:—
"I'll make my will while I am well. I will bestow my riches. I'll give to Ellek,[5] my eldest son, my best Coat, Jacket, and my Breeches. As for my watch et es in pawn; else Elexander should have that. Neckey shall have the courage Horse, and Jan the little Sprat. Mary shall have the milking Cow, and Lystria shall have the Heifer. Fillis shall have the flock of Sheep, and wat can I do better? Old Polly shall have the Puss[6] of goold, and that will most maintain her. Sally shall have the old brass Pan, the Bucket, and the Strainer.
"Signed, sealed, and delivered, in the presence of
"Cousin Matthew Hollow,
"Uncle Philip Eddy, and
"John Quick, the Schoolmaster."
[The Smugglers of Penrose.]
Part the First.
In winter's tedious nights, sit by the fire
With good old folkes; and let them tell thee tales
Of woful ages, long ago betid.
King Richard II.
WHAT remains of the old mansion of Penrose, in Sennen, stands on a low and lonely site at the head of a narrow valley; through which a mill-brook winds, with many abrupt turns, for about three miles, thence to Penberth Cove. So late as forty years ago, it was one of those antique, mysterious looking buildings, which most persons regard with a degree of interest that no modern structure inspires; the upper story only—with its mullioned windows, pointed gables, and massive chimney-stacks—was just seen over the ivey-covered walls of courts and gardens that surrounded it.
There was, however, a certain gloomy air about the ruinous walls and neglected gardens embowered in aged trees, which might have conduced to such unaccountable stories of apparitions and other unnatural occurrences, as were said to have taken place there.
Some three or four centuries ago, it was the property and residence of an ancient family of the same name; little more is known of these old Penroses than what can be gathered from wild traditions related by the winter's hearth. The following among many others were often recounted by old folks of the West.
About three hundred years ago, the owner of Penrose was a younger son who had been brought up to a seafaring life, which he continued to follow till his elder brothers died unmarried and left him heir to the family estate; then, preferring a life on the wave, he kept a well-armed, fast-sailing, craft for fair-trading, or what is now called smuggling; she was manned with as brave a crew as could be picked out of the West Country; most of them are said to have been the Squire's poor relations. A favourite cousin, called William Penrose—who had been his shipmate for years—was captain of the merry men all.
The Squire often took trips to France and other places, whence his goods were brought, and it is said that in his days Penrose crew were never concerned in any piratical jobs; though we know that about that time smuggler, privateer, and pirate, meant very much the same thing, whilst the two latter were then convertible terms with most of our rovers on the deep.
Penrose and his seamen passed but little time on shore except in the depth of winter; yet the board in his hall was always furnished with good substantial fare and the best of liquors, free for all comers.
Over a few years, when the good man was left a widower, with an only child—a boy about seven or eight—he seemed to dislike the very sight of land, for then, even in winter, with his little son, his cousin William, and two or three old sailors, he would stay out at sea for weeks together; leaving, as usual, the care of his farms and household to the care of a younger brother and an old reve or bailif.
In returning from one of these trips, in a dark winter's night, their boat struck on Cowloe and became a wreck. The Squire swam into Sennen Cove with his boy, and in endeavouring to save his crew got drowned himself.
The only remaining brother, known as Jan of Penrose, constituted himself sole guardian of the heir, and master of the place and property.
Now this Jan hated all whom his late brother favoured; and in consequence of his ill-will William Penrose left the West Country—for the sea it was supposed—but whither he wandered was unknown, as no tidings of him were received in the West.
The new master, however, soon got a large smuggling craft and manned her with a crew who cared but little what they did for gold or an exciting life; being well-armed they feared nothing that sailed the ocean.
Jan of Penrose never went to sea; but gave the command to a wretch—known to have been a pirate—who was cast on Gwenvor sands from his ship wrecked in Whitsand Bay, on the night that the good Squire Penrose was drowned.
This pirate-smuggler and his desperate crew boarded many a rich merchant-man going up Channel, from which they appropriated whatsoever they pleased, and sent all who opposed them to the other world by water.
There was no Preventive Service then, to be any check on our free trade. If Revenue Cutters came near our western land, their crews dreaded to fall in with Cornish fair-traders more than our smugglers feared the King's men. As for riding officers they would ride anywhere else rather than on the cliff, when beacon fires blazed from the carns of dark nights to guide fair-traders' boats into the coves.
When the rich goods and plunder were landed, and any over-curious person remarked that they were not such as seemed likely to have been purchased from our neighbours across the Channel, the jolly crew would give themselves credit for being valiant privateers, and as such be much renowned by simple country folks, and their plunder passed as lawful prize.
People came from all over the country to purchase the goods, safely stowed in vaults and other hiding places about Penrose; and in winter the crew spent much of their time there in drunken rioting with all the reckless youngsters of the neighbourhood.
After the good Squire was drowned his brother appeared to show every kindness to the orphan heir; yet it was remarked that the child seemed instinctively to avoid his uncle and the captain, who consorted much together when the smugglers were ashore.
Whenever the boy could elude the old steward's vigilance he would go away alone to the rocks in Sennen Cove where his father was drowned, or shut himself up for hours in his father's bed-room, or wander about other parts of the gloomy north wing, which was almost in ruins and seldom entered by other inmates.
One winter's day, the ground being covered with snow, Penrose's people and many others of the neighbourhood joined for a wolf-hunt. Traditions say that in those times terrible havoc was often made on flocks by these fierce beasts, and that children were sometimes carried off by them when hard pressed with hunger.
Neither John Penrose nor the captain went to the chase; when at night the game-laden hunters returned and blew their bugle-horns, they remarked with surprise that the young heir—who was a general favourite—did not, as was his wont, come into the court to meet them. The boy was sought for in every place whither it was thought he might have strayed. His uncle seemed to be much distressed, and continued the fruitless search until it was surmised that the child must have missed his way in returning from Sennen Cove, wandered out under Escols Cliff, there got drowned by the flowing tide, and carried out to sea on the ebb.
After this, Jan of Penrose, having all his own, became more riotously debauched than ever; and his gang having taken a somewhat strange aversion to their captain, he left and was no more seen in the West.
The tapestry chamber and all the northern wing was shut up, or unoccupied, as it had the reputation of being haunted. None of the servants nor even the devil-may-care smugglers would venture into it after night-fall, when unearthly shrieks would be heard there, and strange lights seen flashing through the casements till near morning. Lights were also often seen in an orchard just below the town-place when no one was there.
These unnatural occurrences, however, put no check to the excesses of Penrose's band and the lawless castaways who joined them. By way of variety to their fun, they frequently disguised themselves and made nocturnal excursions to some village within a few miles, where they would alarm the quiet folks in the dead of night, by discharging their fire-arms in a volley; and make a bonfire of a furze-rick, out-house, or thatched dwelling.
The poor villagers in their fright, would mistake these wretches for outlandish people, come again to burn and pillage as in days of yore.
They were all the more ready to think so because about this time the Spaniards had great fondness for roving round the western coasts, and often did much damage in defenceless places; it was in Jan Penrose's time, too, that a few Dons, high by day, put off from a galley in Whitsand Bay, landed on Gwenvor Sands, and destroyed Velan-dreath Mill. To return to Penrose crew, at the height of the fright and confusion they would carry off such young women as they had before agreed on; the gallants would take their fair-ones before them on horseback to Escols Cliff or the hills, where they would be left alone by daybreak, to find their way back afoot. Having carried on this sport a long time with impunity, they became so bold at last as to make an attack on Buryan Church-town; fortunately, however, Buryan men were apprised of their intentions in time to be armed and ready to give them a warm reception; in short they lay in wait for the smugglers, drove them all into a vacant place near the cross in Church-town, and there surrounded them; when thus hemmed in the band fought desperately, and till nearly every man of them was killed or disabled they continued shouting to each other, "cheer up comrades, die one, die all, and die we merrilly;" and so many of them met their end in this encounter that Penrose band was soon after broken up.
One night of the following Christmas, whilst a large company was assembled at Penrose, keeping high festival after a day's hunt, loud knocking was heard at the green-court door, and soon after a servant conducted into the hall an elderly wayfaring man who requested a night's shelter from the snow-storm.
John Penrose received the wanderer with hospitable courtesy; and charged his steward, the old reve, to provide him with good cheer; the guests continued their glee and paid but little attention to him, for begging homeless pilgrims were all too plenty here at that time.
The company was also entertained by professional droll-tellers and ballad-singers; persons of that class were then—and long after continued to be—received, as substitutes for minstrels, in gentlemen's houses of the humbler sort.
The stranger, however, regarded the company with attention, and noticed that the master of Penrose looked wretched and haggard amidst all the merriment. His scrutiny was interrupted by the steward who conducted him to another room where a well furnished board, beside a blazing fire, awaited him.
The stranger having refreshed himself, told the old steward how he had just returned from a long pilgrimage in foreign lands, and had seen many places spoken of in miracle-plays, which were acted in the Plan-an-Gware at St. Just, and how he had that morning arrived at Market-jew on board an eastern ship that traded there for tin.
He also said that he once had friends in the West Country; whether they were alive or dead he knew not, but hoped to obtain some tidings of them on the morrow.
The wanderer's voice seemed familiar to the old steward, and recalled former times; but, ere they had time for more discourse, they were invited to return to the hall and see a guise-dance, which was about to commence.
The stranger seemed interested in the quaint performance of "St. George and the Turkish Knight." A droll-teller in his character of bard, took the part of chorus; explained the intent of coming scenes; instructed and prompted the actors as well.
The play being concluded and the guisards well rewarded by the wayfarer, he withdrew and told the steward that he felt weary after his long walk though the snow and would be glad to lie down; if all the beds were occupied, he could repose, he said, in a settle by the fireside, for a few hours only, as he intended to leave early in the morning.
The old man replied that he feared any other accommodation in his power to offer was not such as he might desire,—although the house was large, with ample bed-rooms for more guests than it now contained—because a great part of the northern end was shut up for a reason that the inmates did not like to talk about. Yet as he believed the pilgrim to be a prudent man, who was, no doubt, learned in ghostly matters, he was glad to unburden his own mind and have his visitor's counsel, with his prayers for the repose of the unquiet spirits that disturbed the place.
Then he told how many of the upper rooms, though well furnished, were unused and falling to ruin on account of the unnatural sounds and sights before mentioned. To which the stranger answered that as he had a mind at ease he had no reason to dread any ghostly visitants; if the steward would conduct him to a room in the haunted wing he did not fear for his rest.
The old steward, taking a lamp, led the way to the tapestry chamber—being the best room in that part of the mansion. A faggot of dry ash-wood—already laid in the large open fire-place—was soon in a blaze, and the room well aired and somewhat comfortable.
The old man brought in bread, meat, and wine, that the guest might take more refreshment during the night, and supply his wallet in the morning if he started before breakfast. After returning with more wood and bog-turf to keep in the fire, he bade the guest good-night, sweet rest, and pleasant dreams.
Part the Second.
Blood, though it sleeps a time, yet never dies;
The gods on murd'rers fix revengeful eyes.
Chapman.
After the old steward had retired from the dreaded room, its occupant was in no haste to rest himself on the large stately looking bed; but seemed never weary of examining the old portraits and quaint figures in the arras (which might have been intended for portraits too), the massive oak furniture with bold, grotesque, carvings, ancient armour, coats of mail, and other interesting objects, which were suspended from the walls, or in hanging presses, with all of which he appeared familiar; so that it was near midnight when he sat down in the long window-seat.
The storm had ceased and a full moon, shining on newly fallen snow, made it almost as light as day. He opened the casement and looked into the court, where he saw a company of young men and women passing out singly and in silence.
The visitor, being well acquainted with West Country customs, knew—as this was twelfth night—that the object of this silent procession was to work some of the many spells, usually practised at this time, for the purpose of gaining a knowledge of their future destiny with respect to what they regarded as the most important of all events—marriage and death.
So great was the desire of many young people to obtain an insight of what the future had in store for them, that they often practised singular rites,—still well-known in the West,—which are probably vestiges of ancient magian ceremonials connected with divination.
This night, however, the young peoples' intention was simply to gather ivy leaves and pull rushes; by the aid of which, with fire and water, they hoped to discover who would be wedded, and with whom, or buried before the new year was ended. There are many instances of predictions, with regard to the latter event, conducing to accomplish their own fulfilment, from their effects on people of melancholy temperament.
The pilgrim had not sat long, looking out of the open casement, when he saw the company of young men and maidens come running back, apparently in great fright. The doors were all immediately slammed to, the noisy mirth and music suddenly ceased in the hall. The house, in a few moments, was shrouded in thick fog; all was still as death about the place for some minutes, then a noise was heard like the distant roaring and moaning of the sea in a storm.
These ocean sounds seemed to approach nearer and nearer every instant, until the waves were heard as if breaking and surging around the house. In the wailing wind was heard a noise of oars rattling in their row-locks for another instant; then as of the casting of oars hastily into a boat.
This was followed by the hollow voices of the smugglers, drowned with the old Squire, hailing their own names, as drowned men's ghosts are said to do when they want the assistance of the living to procure them rest.
All this time the green-court appeared as if filled with the sea, and one could hear the breakers roaring as when standing on a cliff in a storm.
All the buildings and trees surrounding the mansion disappeared as if sunk into the ground.
At length the surging of waves and other sounds gradually died away until they were only heard like the 'calling of cleeves' before a tempest.
The steward had told the stranger of these noises and appearances, which had become frequent of late, to the great terror of the household; but he gave little heed to the old man's tales, thinking that such visions were merely the creations of weak brains diseased by strong potions.
'Tis said that when the young folks reached the outer gate of the avenue, near which they would find the plants required for their spells, all keeping silence and taking care not to look behind them—as this or speaking would spoil the charm—a female, who was a short distance ahead of the others, saw what appeared to be the sea coming over the moors before a driving fog. She ran shrieking to join her companions, who also beheld the waves fast approaching—rolling, curling, and breaking on the heath. They all ran up to the house with their utmost speed; and some who had the courage to look behind them, when near the court door, saw the curling breakers within a few yards of them; and a boat, manned with a ghostly crew, came out of the driving mist as they rushed into the house; and, not daring to look out, they saw nothing more.
The weary wayfaring man, having a clear conscience, feared nothing evil in what appeared to him an unaccountable mystery, even in that time of marvels; and, having told his beads, he committed himself to good spirits' care.
The brave man was rather soothed than alarmed by a plaintive melody, until there was a change in the harmonious strains, which grew more distinct; and mingled with them were the tones of loved and once familiar voices, calling, "William Penrose, arise and avenge the murder of thy cousin's son!"
Casting a glance towards the window—whence the sound proceeded—he saw just within it the apparition of a beautiful boy in white raiment. A light which surrounded it showed the countenance of the lost heir of Penrose. At the same time the room was filled with an odour like that of sweet spring flowers.
The pilgrim, William Penrose, spoke to the spirit and conjured it, according to the form prescribed by Holy Church, to speak and say what he should do to give it rest.
The apparition, coming nearer, told how he had been murdered by the pirate-captain of the smugglers, on the grand hunting day; and how his uncle had given the pirate a great quantity of gold to do the bloody deed—that he had been buried in the orchard under an apple-tree, that would be known, even in winter, by its blasted appearance,—that the murderer was then in Plymouth, keeping a public-house, the situation of which was so plainly described by the spirit that William Penrose would have no difficulty in finding it, and bringing the murderer to justice by means of such proofs of his crime as would be found beneath the blasted tree.
Moreover he told William that the spirits knew he was gone on a pilgrimage for their repose; and that they all, through him, sought his aid to enable them to rest in peace.
William Penrose having promised to perform all according to the wishes of the departed, music was again heard and the spirit gradually disappeared in a cloud of light.
Then the weary man sunk into sound repose from which he only awoke at break of day.
His cousin, the good Squire, had also appeared to him in a dream, and told him that concealed in the wainscot, beneath a certain piece of tapestry, he would find a secret cabinet, in which was preserved good store of gold and jewels for the infant heir; and that the key of this hidden treasury was behind a leaf of carved foliage which ornamented the bed head. He was told to take what money he required for his journey and to keep the key.
He found everything as indicated in his dream.
Jan of Penrose had often sought for this private recess—where heirlooms and other valuables were concealed, and only made known to the heir when of age, or to a trusty guardian, if a minor—but he was deterred from further search by such an apparition as made him avoid the chamber, and of which he would never speak after his fearful fright was past.
The pilgrim arose and requested the old steward to accompany him a short distance on his journey.
Before they parted the stranger discovered himself, to the old man's great delight, to be the long-lamented William Penrose; told him that he was about to undertake a long journey for the repose of the dead; that he would return when he had accomplished his mission; and bade the steward adieu, without speaking of the apparition or the cause of disturbances in the mansion.
William Penrose, having arrived in the ancient town of Plymouth, and entered the mean public-house to which he had been directed by the apparition, saw the person he sought lying stretched by the fireside in a squalid apartment that served for kitchen, guest-chamber, and sleeping room.
The former pirate-captain looked like a deserter from the churchyard (as we say); the face of this child-murderer was the colour of one long in the tomb; with but little signs of life except in the lurid glare of his sunken eyes.
William Penrose with much difficulty induced the 'wisht-looking' object to converse; and, after a while, led him to talk of the West Country, then of Sennen. From that the pilgrim spoke of Penrose, and asked him if he knew, in Penrose orchard, a certain apple-tree, which he pointly described. He had no sooner mentioned it than the inn-keeper exclaimed, "I am a dead man."
The miserable wretch begged the pilgrim to have mercy on him and listen to his confession, in which he declared he was driven to commit the murder by his evil spirit that made him dislike the child, because he had long hated his parents, more than from any love of gold given him by Jan of Penrose, to remove the only obstacle to his possession of the estate.
William Penrose—who was still unknown to the inn-keeper—wondered what cause of ill-will he could ever have had against the good old Squire or his wife, until the former pirate told how he was the prodigal son—long supposed dead—of an ancient, respectable, but poor family, whose ancestral seat was within a few miles of Penrose—how, almost from his childhood, he had long and truly loved, and as he trusted, had his love returned by the lady who became the wife of Squire Penrose,—how that he had left his home in St. Just on a desperate privateering expedition, in hopes of soon gaining sufficient riches to make the lady's parents regard him with favour,—how, whilst he was returning with gold enough to buy the parish, Penrose had wooed and won the lady—his first and only love, for whom he had toiled and suffered every hardship during many years.
He also related how when he came home so altered, by the burning suns of the Spanish Main, that his nearest relatives knew him not, and found out the ill return his lady-love had made him, that his only solace was the hope of revenge.
Some of the gold that he had sweat blood to gain, for the sake of the faithless fair, was laid out in a fast sailing craft, which might pass for a merchant-man, privateer, or pirate, as she was all in turn during a few years that he roamed the British seas.
The vessel was manned with a desperate crew, most of them his old comrades, who would do anything to please him. The design he had formed, more through hate than love, was to carry the lady off to some foreign land.
A year or so after his return he landed one night in Whitsand Bay, accompanied by a great part of his well-armed crew, who took their way towards Penrose, where he learned ere their arrival, that his design of carrying off the lady was frustrated by her having been laid in the grave a few days before.
After this he wandered over sea and land by turns, caring nothing what became of him, until cast on Gwenvor Sands—poor and naked, as his ship foundered in deep water, when all but himself were drowned; and, as bad luck would have it, he reached the shore on some loose part of the wreck.
The worst portion of his story from this time is already told; but no one can tell, as he related, how the desire of gold—to enable him to recommence his roving life, far away from the hated sight of the land and everything else that recalled a remembrance of his blighted youthful hopes—maddening drink, and a wicked heart, farther irritated by Jan Penrose, made him murder the child that he would have given a hundred lives to restore before he received the uncle's bloody gold.
Since then he had never a moment been free from remorse. He wished for death, but feared to die. If he drank himself mad, that only increased the horror of his thoughts.
He had scarcely finished his sad tale when William Penrose discovered himself to be the well-remembered playmate of the wretched man's innocent youth; and he had only time to beg Penrose to bestow in alms his ill-got store, for the scarcely hoped for mitigation of future punishment, when he breathed his last.
When William Penrose returned to Penrose and made himself known, to the great joy of old servants and others, he found that what was thought to be merely the gloomy and morose temper of its master frequently made him shun all society, and wander about the hills or cliffs and other solitary places, for days and nights together.
No one either loved, feared, or cared enough about the surly man to pay him any regard. He was absent then in one of his melancholy moods, and William with the steward, aided by other old trusty servants, removed the child's remains from beneath the blasted tree to Sennen churchyard; and out of respect to the honourable old family, little was said or known about the sad occurrence.
Jan of Penrose was no more seen alive in the old mansion, for the same night that his nephew's remains were buried in consecrated ground, he hanged himself in the malt-house; and he haunted it long after.
Following the spirit's injunction William Penrose had still to find and remove the bodies of the old Squire and his crew. Now it was supposed that they were 'sanded'—that is sunk in the moist sand and covered by it during a flowing tide—near Gwenvor Cove, because corpse-lights had frequently been seen, and the drowned sailors had been heard there "hailing there own names," as they are still accustomed to do when requiring aid of the living.
Next day Penrose and others found the bodies of the old sailor-squire and his crew near the place where fishermen had heard the "calling of the dead," and their remains were laid to repose, with all holy rites, in an ancient burying-ground near Chapel Idné, where the wind and waves sing their everlasting requiem in music they loved well when alive:—
"Pie Jesu, Domine,
Dona eis requiem.
Amen."
William Penrose, now heir-at-law of the bartons of Penrose, Brew, and other farms in the West Country,—disliking to live in the place connected with such melancholy events—gave up his rights of heirship to another branch of the family; resumed his pilgrim's staff; and was supposed to have died in the Holy Land.
The Penroses still in the West are said to be descended from a younger branch of the ancient family of Sennen; with whom the Pendreas or Pendars were intermarried.
The family of Jones purchased the Penroses' West Country property, and it remained in their possession until the beginning of the last century.
We hear again of smugglers being kept in pay by the last Jones, of Penrose, and by others who succeeded him. From the facilities afforded by this secluded place for concealing contraband goods, it was always noted as a favourite resort for western fair-traders.
Many people about the Land's End believe the old mansion was always haunted; and it is said this was the principal reason for taking down and rebuilding a portion of it a few years since.
[Tregagle.]
In Cornwaile's fair land, bye the poole on the moore,
Tregeagle the wicked did dwell.
He once was a shepherde, contented and poore,
But growing ambytious, and wishing for more,
Sad fortune the shepherde befelle.
John Penwarne.
ONE may almost every day hear West Country folks make allusion to Tregagle; for instance, a squalling child is called a Tregagle; and to a blusterer they often say, "Hold thy bleatan, thee art worse than Tregagle roaran before a storm."
But little is known here of the living man's history—which belonged for the most part to the neighbourhood of Bodmin—all our common sayings, connected with him, refer to his troublesome ghost at Gwenvor.
Our vague traditions, however, represent him as having been a most unscrupulous lawyer; and say that he rose from low estate, by taking bribes to lose his poorer client's cases, by bearing or procuring false witnesses; forging documents relating to the bequest of property; and other nefarious transactions which resulted in his acquisition of much riches and consequent power.
He is also said to have been so cruel in his domestic relations,—by having despatched several wives, who were rich heiresses—that he is regarded as a sort of Cornish Bluebeard, who sold his soul to the devil that he might have his wishes for a certain number of years.
All our western legends agree, however, in stating that the particular business which was the cause of his being "called from the grave" was this:—
A man who resided in the eastern part of the county, lent a sum of money to another without receiving bond or note or anything for security, as the transaction was witnessed by Tregagle; for whom the money was borrowed; and who died before the money was repaid.
Soon after Tregagle's death, the lender demanded his money, and his debtor denied ever having received it.
The case was brought before the court at Bodmin assizes; and when the plaintiff said that Tregagle was the only witness, the defendant denied it with an oath, and exclaimed, "If Tregagle ever saw it I wish to God that Tregagle may come and declare it."
The words were no sooner uttered than Tregagle stood before the court, and, pointing to the man, said, "I can no more be a false witness, thou hast had the money, and found it easy to bring me from the grave, but thou wilt not find it so easy to put me away." Wherever the terrified man moved about the court Tregagle followed him; he begged the judge and long-robed gentlemen to relieve him from the spirit. "That's thy business," said they, one and all, "thou hast brought him, thou may'st get him laid."
The man returned home, but whithersoever he went Tregagle followed, and would seldom quit his side or let him rest by night or by day.
He repaid the borrowed money, gave much in alms, and sought to get rid of the spirit by the aid of parsons, conjurors, and other wise men, before they succeeded in binding it, for a while, to empty Dosmery Pool with a crogan (limpet shell) that had a hole in its bottom.
Having soon finished that task, he returned to the man that brought him from his grave, and followed and tormented him worse than before, until he procured the help of other powerful exorcists who were more astute. The first thing they did was to draw a circle, out in the town-place, and put the man to stand within it. The spirit then took the form of a black bull and tried to get at him with horns and hoofs, but the man was safe within the line traced. A parson continued reading all the time, while others kept an eye on the spirit that took many shapes. At first the holy words of power made him furious; by turns, he bellowed like a mad bull, hissed like an adder, or roared like a wild beast, that he might be heard for miles away. Yet, by degrees, Tregagle became as gentle as a lamb, and allowed the spirit-quellers to bind him with a new hempen cord; and to lead him far away to Gwenvor Cove.
There they doomed him to make a truss of sand, to be bound with ropes made of the same material, and carry it up to Carn Olva.
Tregagle was a long while at his tiresome task without being able to accomplish it, until it came to a very cold winter, when, one hard frosty night, by taking water from Velan Dreath brook, and pouring it over his truss, he caused it to freeze together and bore it in triumph to Carn Olva.
He then flew back to the man who raised him, and he would have torn him in pieces, but, by good luck, he happened to have in his arms an innocent young child, so the spirit couldn't harm him.
Without delay the terrified man sent for the nearest parson, who, however, was not able, alone, to cope with Tregagle; the most he could do was to prevent him from harming the man until other spirit-quellers were brought to his assistance; with whose aid the furious spirit was again bound, led away to Gwenvor, and required to undertake the same task, without going near fresh water.
So Tregagle was matched at last, for he is still there on the shore of Whitsand Bay vainly trying to make his truss of sand; and he is frequently heard roaring for days before a northerly storm comes to scatter it.
I well remember that when a boy, and living in Rafra, St. Levan, how elderly men would go out into the town-place, last thing before they went to bed, to "look at the weather,"—in harvest particularly,—and come in saying, "Tregagle is roaring, so we shall surely have northerly wind and a dry day to-morrow," or, "the northern cleeves are calling," by which they meant the same, and unconsciously used somewhat poetical figures of speech.
A legend which connects Tregagle's escape from Gwenvor with the sanding up of Parcurnow has been noticed (on page [140]); other stories, however, say, that job was imposed on him as a separate task, which he quickly accomplished just before he was finally settled at Gwenvor.
[West Country Superstitions.]
[Devil's Money.]
There needs no other charm nor conjurer,
To raise infernal spirits up, but fear.
Butler.
NOT long ago it was believed that Old Nick frequently appeared in the form of a bull, and that he often placed money to tempt the unwary. The following story—told us of the late Sir Rose Price's huntsman—will help to explain notions which are not yet wholly exploded.
When the huntsman was a boy his parents lived in Nancledra, and sent him daily to a school two or three miles off, till he was about thirteen years old. He had his dinner sent with him, and he often minched. One morning he wandered away over the moors in search of birds' nests and rabbits' burrows. He had a good pasty in his dinner-bag and the day passed pleasantly in birds-nesting, searching for young rabbits, and playing about a tin-stream, three miles or so up the Bottom, where he stayed till the streamers left work. Then he took his course for home, over hedges and ditches, wandering wherever his fancy led him, till almost dark, when he found himself in a large hilly field not far from Nancledra. In making a short cut for home he crossed this field, and, when near the middle of it, he heard a bull bellowing, and shortly saw a large black one making towards him with tail up and head down; sometimes it would stop to tear up the ground, and fling its horns as if to get in practice to toss the boy; who being far from any hedges, there seemed no way of escape from the field before the bull could overtake him. But, luckily, within a few yards, there was a large rock, to which he ran and climbed it, a moment only before the bull came to it.
The brute kept on, for a long time, going round and round the rock, bellowing and tearing up the turf as if in a rage, till at last, tired with his vain endeavours—as it seemed—to get at the boy, it hoisted its tail like a flag-staff, galloped off, and vanished in a minute.
The boy didn't venture from his fort for sometime after the bull left. At length he 'cramed' down over a shelving side of the rock on all fours, head foremost—it was too dark to see where to put his feet. When he touched ground with his hand he felt and took up what he thought, by the feel of it, to be a penny-piece or a large button. He ran home and saw, by light shining through a window, that he had found a penny. When the way was clear, he made a place to hide it, in a hole over the chimney-stool—the fire-place was a large open one for burning furze and turf.
Next night, about the same hour as on the preceding, he went on the rock, 'cramed' down again, and found two penny-pieces, which he hoarded in the hole; and, night after night, he visited the rock, found the money doubled each succeeding night, and picked up silver money in other places where one would the least expect to find it, till his hiding-place was nearly full in a few weeks.
How much longer this luck would have continued there is no knowing; for, one night, when he thought there was nobody about, his mother came in and found him standing on the chimney-stool so earnest about something that he didn't see her watching him, and he kept handling his money till she said,
"Whatever hast thee got there between the stones, that thee art always stealing into the chimney, whenever thee dost think nobody is noticing of thee."
"Only my buttons and marbles, mother," said he.
"I don't believe thee," replied his mother; "stand away, and I'll see for myself."
Saying this she took up the fire-hook, ran the point of it into the hole, and dragged out a lot of money.
"Now tell me, or I'll kill thee, thou lying thief," said she, "where didst thee get this money; if thee hast stole it I'll murder thee, I will."
The boy didn't much mind his mother's threats—terrific as they seem—he was used to it. Yet she made him tell how he came by the money.
"Oh! good gracious mercy on us," cried she, before he had finished telling her; "oh! thou wicked boy; thee hast frightened me out of my life. Now tell me true," moaned she, wringing her hands, "hast thee used any of the devil's money, put there to entice thee to sell thyself to him, body and soul?"
"No, mother, please sure I han't," said he, "I was savan all to buy a gun."
"Well, thank goodness," groaned his mother, "that I have found all out in time to prevent thee shuttan thyself or somebody else with the devil's gun. I should never more rejoice if I thought thee hast used a farthing of en. Know, thou plague of my heart, that what seemed to thee a bull was the Old One hisself. He placed the money there for thee, and, when the bull seemed to vanish, he only changed to an adder, a toad, or something else that suited his purpose, and he was watchan thee all the time."
Whilst talking to the boy she raked all the money on to a fire-shovel, and threw it under a brandes, around which there was a good turf-fire. In a few minutes all the money melted away, and was gone like hailstones in sunshine.
Next morning she carried out all the ashes, strewed them about the town-place, and swept the hearth nine times before she lighted a new fire. The poor woman never rested till she told old Parson Stephens. He didn't altogether believe the boy's story, but said that if it was the devil's money she did right, or she might have—brought it to him.
The boy was so terrified by what his mother said, that, for years after, he never ventured to wander by night, even when he hunted for Sir Rose, and was as stout a man as one might see of a market day; and the sight of a black bull or anything he took for such would always make him tremble.
There are many stories of this class about people having been enticed with devil's money, but few of them have so fortunate an ending as the old huntsman's relation.
[The Slighted Damsel of Gwinear.]
Trust me no tortures that the poets feign
Can match the fierce, th' unutterable pain
He feels who, day and night, devoid of rest,
Carries his own accuser in his breast.
Juvenal.
THERE is a general belief, in the western part of Cornwall, that if a greatly injured person, the last thing before death, reads or recites the 109th Psalm, usually called the "Cursing Psalm," applying its comminations to the injurer, the dying maledictions are sure to take effect.
Nearly a hundred years ago there lived in Gwinear Church-town a young man called Thomas Thomas, who for many years courted his cousin, Elizabeth Thomas, of the same place. She was much attached to the young man, who often promised to make her his wife; but, when she had shown her utmost trust in him, on some little disagreement, he slighted her and proposed to wed another damsel of the same village.
One Sunday afternoon he took his new love for a walk, passing by his old sweetheart's door, purposely to spite her.
Soon after they had passed the cot of Elizabeth's parents, the betrayed and wronged girl, who was of a very hasty temper, took a rope and a prayer book, went into a road-way field, and hanged herself near the path by which her faithless lover and his new fiance had passed, and would, probably, return.
They came home, however, by another road. On their arriving in Church-town, somebody asked them if they had seen Elizabeth, and remarked that no one knew where she had gone, as she had been sought in vain all over Church-town.
"Good God," exclaimed Thomas, "has she made away with herself? For more than once she vowed that she would if I slighted her."
Then, as if tokened by her spirit, he went, followed by others, direct to the tree on which they found her hanging and dead.
On the ground, at her feet, was her open prayer book. He took it up and found a leaf turned down at the "Cursing Psalm;" on a leaf too he read her name followed by "When this you see remember me."
Thomas then knew how she had doomed him; and he exclaimed "I'm ruined, I'm ruined, for ever and ever."
For a long while he wandered about like one distracted, working in various parts of the country, sometimes at mining, other times at husbandry, and never returned to Gwinear Church-town.
Little was seen of him, by anyone who knew him, until after some years, when he went to live in Market-jew. He would never venture to church or chapel for fear of hearing read the 109th Psalm; he dreaded even to pass near a school for the same reason.
He was several times hurt in the mines, in which he worked; and he attributed all his misfortunes and bad luck to the curse of Elizabeth, whose avenging ghost often appeared to him—as well by day as by night—with an open prayer book in her hand.
He could never sleep without a comrade in his room; and seldom even then, for, after a short slumber, when worn-out with fatigue, he would start up in bed, crying in agony, "Oh, dear Betsy, shut the book. Do shut the book."
Notwithstanding the distraction of his mind, he was still a fine, strong, lusty, man, and many of his comrades advised him to get married, saying there was nothing like a living wife to drive away the spirit of a dead sweetheart. Taking their advice, he paid his addresses to several young women of the neighbourhood and others farther away; but they, one and all, flouted him with scorn, for the history of his unfortunate first love was blown far and near. If he persisted in his suit the indignant damsels would ask him with a sneer if he wished to bring all the ill-wishes of the "Cursing Psalm" on their heads, too.
At length, however, a widow in Market-jew took pity on Thomas and consented to venture her lot with him; and Betsy's ghost ceased persecuting him—for a bit.
But on the road to St. Hilary Church—whither Thomas and the widow proceeded to get married—the weather suddenly changed; from a calm and sunshine it became a tempest, with thunder and lightning; it was harvest time, and a cloud, black as night, hung over them, and rain poured along churchway-path, whilst they saw people binding barley in the fields on either hand.
Thomas, trembling with fear, saw his sweetheart's ghost, with her open book, standing menacingly in the path before him; and he would have turned back, had not the widow urged him on, saying that she saw no ghost, and didn't mind her nor yet her book; and got him married. He lived for a few years pretty tranquilly; and his wife bore him two children. Then he was again disturbed with visits from the avenging ghost; and some misfortune or sickness always closely followed its appearance; until Thomas—worn-out in body and mind—when less than forty years of age died, and was buried in St. Hilary.
[The Wreck of Admiral Sir Cloudesley Shovel.]
WE are reminded by the above of the wreck of Admiral Sir Cloudesley Shovel's ship, the "Association," at Scilly; and of a tradition, common to the Islands, which attributes that disaster to the reading or reciting of the 109th Psalm, shortly before death, by one of Sir Cloudesley's crew, whom he unjustly condemned to be hanged.
The Admiral was returning with his fleet from Toulon, when, on the evening of the 22nd October, 1707, his ship struck on the Gilstone, about three miles and a half from St. Agnes; and in a few minutes afterwards she went down, and everybody on board perished, except one man, who saved himself by floating on a piece of timber to a rock called Hellweathers,—about two miles and a half from the Gilstone,—where he remained some days before the weather permitted any boat to approach and take him off to St. Agnes.
He is said to have stated that the day before the Admiral's ship was wrecked, one of the crew, who was a native of Scilly, and well acquainted with the channel, represented to Sir Cloudesley that the course the ship was taking would bring her on Scilly rocks. The Admiral and his officers were incensed at the man's interference; and because he persisted in affirming that the ship's way was wrong and would bring them to destruction, Sir Cloudesley Shovel—rather summarily, one might now think—condemned the man to be hanged for insubordination and endeavouring to excite a mutiny.
When the poor fellow was tied to the mast, preparatory to his being suspended by his neck, from the yard-arm, he begged, as a last favour, that a Psalm might be read before his execution. His request being granted, he selected the 109th, and repeated certain imprecatory portions of it after the reader; and the last words he uttered were to the effect that Sir Cloudesley Shovel and those who saw him hanged should never reach the land alive.
His body, shrouded in a hammock, with a shot to sink it, was cast into the deep, and but little heed paid to the dying sailor's sentence. Shortly after, however, the sky, which had been gloomy all day, became much darker; black, lowering, clouds, hung over the fleet like a funeral pall, and the gale rose to a violent tempest. Then the hanged man's curse was dreaded; and lo, to the crew's consternation, they beheld his corpse—divested of its rude winding-sheet—floating near the doomed ship, which it closely followed, with its face turned towards her,—in all her varying course, through eddying currents,—until she struck on the Gilstone; when the hanged man went down with the ship and his messmates.
At this unfortunate time there perished, besides the Admiral, several officers, and about two thousand men, belonging to the "Association" and other vessels of the fleet.
Sir Cloudesley Shovel's body was washed ashore at Porth-Hellick Bay, in St. Mary's, about eight miles from the Gilstone. It was quite naked, and on the hatch of a ship, on which he had endeavoured to save himself,—and a little dog lay by him,—when he was found by a soldier and his wife, who only knew him to be the Admiral by a diamond ring on his finger. They buried him in the sand, where a pit on Porth-Hellick Bank still marks Sir Cloudesley Shovel's grave. The pit never fills up in the greatest storms; and no grass ever grows on this blasted grave, although the ground around it is often green.
"So the hanged seaman had as sweet a bit of revenge as one could wish for," said our narrator, with a motion of his head which showed his satisfaction at the Fates' award.
Connected with this unfortunate occurrence, there is a gratifying bit of true history—we cannot say so much for all the above—which says that Lady Shovel, on having her husband's ring,—by which his body was identified,—sent her by the soldier, she gave him a pension for life; and the Admiral was deposited in Westminster Abbey, where his monument recalls the direful tale.
[A Night's Ride to Scilly.]
No repares en eso, Sancho, que como estas cosas y estas volaterías van fuera de los cursos ordinarios, de mil leguas verás y oiras lo que quisieres, y no me aprietes tanto, que me derribas; y en verdad que no sé de qué te turbas ni te espantas, que osaré jurar que en todos los dias de mi vida he subido en cabalgadura de paso mas llano: no parece sino que no nos movemos de un lugar. Destierra, amigo, el miedo, que en efecto la cosa va como ha de ir, y el viento llevamos en popa.
* * * * * * * *
Bien es verdad que sentí que pasaba por la region del aire, y aun que tocaba á la del fuego; pero que pasásemos de allí no lo puedo creer.
D. Quijote.
MANY persons, not at all given to lying, assert that they have been carried up and away by Old Nick, in the form of a horse. For the most part, they affirm that they were taken "towers high;" and, when their infernal steed descended it threw them off violently, and vanished in fire and smoke.
We know a man called Jackey—never mind his surname—who had long been a sober character, and was so particularly veracious that he prefaced all his stories by saying, "I won't tell 'e a word of a lie, and know it!" Indeed this common affirmation of his has become an every-day saying, when anything doubtful is related. Well, Jackey has often told us, and many others, that, when a young man, and not so good as he might have been, he dwelt in the north of St. Just, and courted a girl who lived in Tardinney with her parents, who either rented a few acres or some dairy cows. One Sunday afternoon he went early to see his sweetheart. Whilst she was out milking, and he with her, the old woman, her mother, made a nice heavy currant-cake for tea. All was ready on the board when they returned from milking. Jackey made a hearty tea, or supper, as we should say; but, when that was over, the old woman said, "I've made a junket for thee, Jackey, as it's the first Sunday in May; it's in the dairy, 'runn'd' by this time; I'll bring it to thee in a minute."
"Don't think I can find room for it," said he; "I'm as full as a tick."
"Hold thy tongue," said she; "go thee wayst out and take a few jumps down from the heaping-stock, and pack the tea and trade away! Junket is no fillan, any more than drink; it will only quaff (puff) one for a bit."
Jackey went out and exercised himself a few minutes, by leaping over a stile; came in and found on the table a basin of junket well spread with thick cream and honey. It was no shabby allowance either, for the bowl held a quart or more. Whilst Jackey dispatched his junket his sweetheart rigged herself in her best, and then away they went down to Sennen Church-town to Methodist meeting. There they met several of his comrades with their sweethearts. Preaching over, they all went into the "First and Last" for a drop of something to drink. Santusters are always free enough in treating the women—and everybody else for that matter—so each of the fair ones had a glass of gin-and-peppermint or of brandy and cloves, or both if they liked, and most of them did like to taste both cordials and a glass of shrub besides. The men had a few mugs of shenackrum (gin and beer) with a dram of rum all around to finish off. They were a score or more going to St. Just; and all kept together till they came to the Burying-place Downs, where they parted company, and all the Santusters went Brea way, singing snatches of some well-known revival hymns to lively song tunes, except Jackey, who had to put his sweetheart home by the other road.
It was between ten and eleven o'clock when they got to Tardinney, and found the old folks gone to bed. A glowing turf-fire burned on the hearth, and they stayed courting till about one in the morning. But before Jackey left, his kind-hearted dear had tempted him to a slight supper of half a dozen eggs that she had saved up during the week unknown to the "old 'oman," and which were boiled over the turfy-fire. Jackey ate them with some bread and butter, then he had a good piece of cold cake, left from tea, with a bowl of milk; kissed; said good-night; and started for home.
Jackey had been tramping about nearly all day. He had a tiresome walk before him of nearly four miles; and to foot it, all alone, seemed doubly wearisome. He walked on pretty fast till he came half-way over Kelynack Downs. There he sat down to rest a minute and felt tired enough to sleep in a pool of water. He couldn't help wishing, when he rose to proceed, that an old horse might come in his way,—there were generally plenty of them on the common. He hadn't gone more than a hundred yards, when he saw what appeared to be an old black horse standing stock-still, as if asleep, close by the road. Jackey untied and took the halter it was spanned (hobbled) with from its legs, placed it over its head, mounted, and did his utmost to keep it on the road. But, in spite of all he could do, it took off westward over the Downs, going slowly at first, but soon quickened its pace till it went like the wind, and he was nearly blown off sometimes, with the rush of air occasioned by their speed, for there was no wind to speak of.
The night was so clear that he saw the Longships light nearly all the time, till they came to the cliff near the Land's End, to the best of his judgment. He felt no fear to speak of. The thing he bestrode took him over cliff—not right down, but sloping away gently. It went off through the air—just skimming the sea—straight to Scilly, and arrived there very quickly:—he thought it might be in a quarter of an hour or thereaway, from the time he left the Longships behind his back till they came to St. Agnes flashing light.
There was no stay when it came to the islands; for away it went all around and across them so high up that he saw all Scilly isles spread out like a map, and so plainly that he always remembered their position. Then without any control from the rider, Jackey's steed turned tail on Scilly and brought him back—about daybreak—to Kelynack Downs again, within a stone's throw of the rock where he mounted, shook him off pretty gently, and vanished in flame and smoke—as usual.
The Devil carried Jackey easy enough; but, for nearly a week after his ride, he felt very stiff and sore all over.
If any doubting body questioned the truth of this story or hinted that perhaps he fell asleep on Kelynack Downs and had "the stag," or got "hilla-rodden," (night-mare) he would reply,
"Don't 'e believe it, my dear; not sure nuf; and, as a proof that what I tell 'e is true, if you will give me a piece of chalk I'll mark out all the islands as I seed them, and as correct as anyone who had lived there all his time. Yet I had never been to Scilly before, nor have I since that night. Bless the Lord, I had a narrow escape; but didn't stay so late a-courting any more, and a few months after that night's ride, Mally and me—we got married."
One can't see what motive Old Nick had in this case, to take such trouble, unless it were for a mere freak, because he never seemed to claim any recompense from his rider.
To be "hilla-ridden," and to have the "stag," are the only names known to old country folks for the "night-mare," which is a word one never hears among them. There is, however, some difference in the signification of our two local terms. The former means to pass the time in an agony of tormenting dreams; the latter is used for obstructed respiration, or a feeling of weight on the chest, that prevents a person from moving.
[Ancient Bridal Customs.]
With the past and with the present,
Quaint old manners still are link'd;
Olden customs, grave and pleasant,
Ling'ring still, though nigh extinct.
C. T. C.
SOME West Country folks still observe a few old-fashioned marriage usages; one of which the following sketch will explain. It was given us, as inserted, by a young man who was one of the wedding guests.
"In the winter of 1860 we were invited to a wedding at a place called the Grambler in Sancreed; with strict orders to be in time to accompany the "weddenars" to church at ten o'clock the following Saturday morning.
Not caring to take part in the ceremony, we only left Penzance at one o'clock in the afternoon. On our arriving at New Bridge we found a messenger awaiting our arrival to guide us to the bride's parents' house where the wedding was being held. He also brought a bottle of brandy which An' Nancy, the bride's mother, sent for the "strangers from Penzance to drink on the way, to keep out the cold."
On nearing the house, we heard music and dancing, when our guide hastened on before to let the party know we were come. "My dear boys," said An' Nancy, meeting us at the door, "come 'e in quick out of the cold, we've ben afeerd you woddan coman."
All the company received us with hearty kindness; being placed at the board, our host said, "We've had dennar, my dears, but there's plenty left for 'e," at the same time pitching on each of our plates a piece of roast beef of not less than four pounds, "Aet that fust," he continued, "then you shall have some more." My companion looking rather surprised at the liberal supply, An' Nancy exclaimed, "What's the matter weth thee my boy, dossena like et? Well than thee shust have somethan else;" and without waiting a reply, took away the plate of beef and replaced it with one of roast goose and a dish of boiled pudding, saying, "Now there, my dear boy, aet that, I s'ppose the beef was too tough for 'e."
Meanwhile the wedding-party—most of whom were young people—awaited us in another room; we soon joined them and found good drink and cakes in abundance. Uncle Will, the bride's father, being called upon for a toast, he gave:—
"Here's to the bridegroom and the bride,
May they stick to each other's side;
I hope their life will be of joy,
And that the fust will be a boy."
which was received with roars of laughter and stamping of feet. Aunt Nancy took from a buffet several bottles of cordials for the women and others who liked them; amongst others were poppy and blackberry syrups, sweet-drink (mead),—that had been kept some years for this happy occasion—and peppermint water, of her own distilling. Presently the fiddle struck up with a jig. "Les have the double shuffle, Uncle Will," said the young people. Up he jumped as lively as a kid, though he was near eighty, and footed it out to the delight of all.
Young Jan of Santust (St. Just) followed, making the fire fly from the heels of his boots, like flashes of lightning; and all the company were quickly whirling, in reels, without much order.
Now, whilst the gaiety was at its height, the newly-wedded couple had contrived to slip out quietly, and hasten to their new home. "They're off, they're off," cried several voices; "come on soas, or else we shall be too late; they will be in bed and lock the door." Away they all flew, like mad devils, scampering over hedges and ditches for nearly a mile. We followed—fortunately for us it was a clear moonlight night.
When we got to the house the foremost of the party were up stairs. "Come 'e up, boys," shouted they; up we went and found the bride and bridegroom in bed, with their clothes on, having had no time to lock the door even, as the wedding guests were close on their heels.
We shall long remember the scene we then witnessed; the guests were beating them in bed, with stockings, straps, braces, or anything they could lay hands on. "Give them pepper," shouted young Jan, the groom's best man; "give et them, boys," and pepper them they did right merrily. Not wishing to be behind the rest, we took off our braces and followed suit. They continued this strange sport for a good while, until the leader said, "Les go back, soas, or else we shall be all ill-wisht, for et's nearly twelve a'clock."
Away they again rushed back to the old folks' house; and each one on arriving, before speaking, touched the cravel, (lintel or head-stone of the hearth) with his or her head, for good luck.
The old couple seemed well satisfied when we returned, as it was not quite midnight.
Many elderly folks had arrived late in the evening to drink health and long life to the newly-married; they assured us that it was an old custom to tan young married people to bed, or else they would meet with bad luck all their days. The good old souls had arranged for us to stay over night; but as we deemed it best to return home, they made us take more to eat and drink, to keep out the cold and help us on the road, they said. Then amidst hearty leave-takings and promises to visit them again soon, they allowed us to depart.
Well, somehow, we arrived home about daybreak, but often wished that we had stopped at the Grambler till sunrise.
At more modish weddings the guests merely enter the bridal-chamber and throw stockings—in which stones or something to make weight are placed—at the bride and bridegroom in bed. The first one hit, of the happy couple, betokens the sex of their first-born.
It was an old custom, religiously observed, until lately, in Zennor and adjacent parishes on the north coast, to waylay a married couple on their wedding-night and flog them to bed with cords, sheep-spans, or anything handy for the purpose; believing that this rough treatment would ensure them happiness and the "heritage and gift that cometh from the Lord," of a numerous family.
[Madron Well.]
ON passing over a stile and entering the moor in which the well is situated, cross the moor at a right-angle to the hedge, and a minute's walk will bring one 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 its holy waters, and the intercession of St. Madron, or Motran; when it was so famous that the maimed, halt, and lame, made pilgrimages from distant parts to the heathy moor.
It 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 it. Its old repute as a divining fount has not yet quite died out, though young folks visit it now to drop pebbles or pins into the well, more for fun and the pleasure of each other's company, than through any belief that the falling together, or the 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 years, in answer to any question of time; but there was not such want of faith, however, half a century ago.
A short time since I visited an elderly dame of Madron, who was a highly reputed charmer for the cure of various skin ailments; I had known her from my childhood; and my object was to glean what I could about the rites practised, within her remembrance, at Madron Well, the Crick-stone, and elsewhere.
She gave the following account of the usages at Madron Well about fifty years ago. At that time, when she lived in Lanyon, scores of women from Morvah, Zennor, Towednack, and other places, brought their children to be cured of the shingles, wildfires, tetters, and other diseases, as well as to fortify them against witchcraft or being blighted with an evil eye.
An old dame called An' Katty, who mostly lived in the Bossullows, or some place near, and who did little but knitting-work, picked up a good living in May 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 it was plunged three times against the sun; next the creature was passed quickly nine times around the spring, going from east to west, or with the sun; the child was then dressed, rolled up in something warm, and laid to sleep near the water; if it slept, and plenty of bubbles rose in the well, it was a good sign. I asked if a prayer, charm, or anything was spoken during the operations? "Why, no, to be sure," my old friend replied, "don't 'e know any better, there musn't be a word spoken all the time they are near the water, it would spoil the spell; and a piece rented, not cut, from the child's clothes, or from that of anybody using the well must be left near it for good luck; ever so small a bit will do. This was mostly placed out of sight between the stones bordering the brooklet, or hung on a thorn that grew on the chapel wall.
Whilst one party went through their rites at the spring, all the others remained over the stile in the higher enclosure, or by the hedge, because, if a word were spoken by anybody 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, and other things she might want, were dropped on the road, outside the well-moors, for her; she also got good pickings by instructing 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, gravels, or any small thing that would sink." The names of persons were not always spoken when the objects which represented them were dropped into the water; it sufficed to think of them; and as pins or pebbles remained together or separated, such would be the couple's fate. It was only when the spring was working (rising strongly) that it was of any use to try the spells; and it was unlucky to speak when near the well at such times.
The old woman that I visited said she had never heard that any saint had anything to do with the water, except from a person who told her there was something about it in a book; nor had she or anybody else heard the water called St. Madron's Well, except by the new gentry, who go about new naming places, and think they know more about them than the people who have lived there ever since the world was created. She never heard of any ceremony being performed at the old Chapel, except that some persons hung a bit of their clothing on a thorn tree that grew near it. High Country folks, who mostly resort to the spring, pay no regard to any saint or to anyone else, except some old women who may come down with them to show how everything used to be done.
There is a spring, not far from Bosporthenes, in Zennor, which was said to be as good as Madron Well; and children were often taken thither and treated in the same way.
Such is the substance of what the dame related; and she regarded the due observance of ancient customs as a very solemn matter.
In answer to the questions of "What was the reason for going round the well nine times? Leaving bits of clothing? Following the sun, &c.?" It was always the same reply, "Such were the old customs," and everybody knew it was unlucky to do any such work, and many things besides, against the sun's course; no woman, who knew anything, would place pans of milk in a dairy, so as to have to unream (skim) them, in turn, against the sun, nor stir cream in that direction to make butter.
By following down the well-stream or hedge, mentioned above, we come to the Chapel. In its southern wall may be noticed an opening for letting water from the brook, which runs near it, flow into a baptistry in the south-western corner of the Chapel. Entering the doorway, on the northern side, one may remark that this primitive fount appears to have been arched over, after the manner of our old bee-hive huts, by the upper rows of stones slightly over-hanging. The altar table-slab, or mensa—still remaining at the east end—has a square pit worked in its centre, probably to mark the spot—over reliques—on which the monstrance was placed. A step makes the division between the little nave and sacrarium; there are also the remains of stone seats which were carried all around against the walls.
Let no rude hand remove,
Or spoil thee; for the spot is consecrate
To thee, and thou to it.
[The Crick-Stone, or Men-an-tol.]
IN a croft belonging to Lanyon farm, and about half a mile north of the town-place, there is a remarkable group of three stones, the centre one of which is called by antiquaries the Men-an-tol (holed stone), and by country folk the Crick-stone, from an old custom—not yet extinct—of "crameing" (crawling on all fours) nine times through the hole in the centre stone, going against the sun's course, for the cure of lumbago, sciatica, and other "cricks" and pains in the back. Young children were also put through it to ensure them healthy growth.
Antiquaries are undecided with respect to the purpose for which these mysterious stones were erected. Some hold that it is a sepulchral monument, as well as the Men Scryfa (inscribed stone) half a mile further on, because there is a tradition that a little below, in Gendhal moor, there was once so great a battle that the streams ran with blood. Others think the object of its erection was for the computation of time; among the latter is Professor Max Müller, who, 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."
He also thinks that the Menheeres (long stones) served the same purpose, as they are mostly found in pairs bearing nearly east and west.
The Tolmen, in Constantine parish, and holed stones in other parts of the county, were used the same way as Lanyon Crick-stone for curing various ailments.
To cure boils and rheumatism, persons "crame" nine times against the sun, under a bramble growing at both ends.
The notion is that going against the sun will backen a disease but in all other cases the sun's course must be followed.
[Charms.]
THERE are persons in every parish west of Hayle, and in many east of it, who charm for the cure of various ailments. The members of a family, formerly of Sennen, are believed to possess peculiar virtues as charmers, which is said to have been obtained, hundreds of years ago, from a forefather of theirs, dwelling in Escols, who found, washed in on Gwenvor sand, a very old man, almost dead, whom he took to his house, had him well cared for, so that he soon recovered and prepared to depart. Before leaving, however, he told his host that he had neither gold nor silver to pay him for his hospitality; yet he would bestow on him and his what would be of more value; and imparted to the old man of Escols most of the following charms, which a descendant of the family gave me by word of mouth; if written they are useless, and the giver of a written one thenceforth loses the power to cure by charming.
Charm for a scald, wild-fire, burn, or any other inflammatory diseases.
The person to be charmed gathers nine bramble leaves, which are put into a vessel of spring water; then each leaf is passed over and from the diseased part, whilst repeating three times to each leaf as follows:—
"Three ladies come from the east,
One with fire and two with frost;
Out with thee fire, and in with thee frost,
In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost."
A stick of fire is then taken from the hearth and passed over and around the diseased part whilst the above is repeated nine times.
Charm for a prick of a thorn, boils, kennels, &c.
"Christ was crowned with thorns,
The thorns did bleed but did not rot,
No more shall thy finger (or whatever part it may be),
In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost."
Charm for staunching blood.
"Christ was born in Bethlehem,
Baptised in the river Jordan;
There he digg'd a well.
And turn'd the water against the hill,
So shall thy blood stand still.
In the name, &c."
Charm for a tetter.
"Tetter, tetter, thou hast nine sisters.
God bless the flesh and preserve the bone,
Perish thou tetter and be thou gone,
In the name, &c."
"Tetter, tetter, thou hast eight sisters.
God bless the flesh and preserve the bone,
Perish thou tetter and be thou gone,
In the name, &c."
The charm is thus continued until it comes to the last, which is:—
"Tetter, tetter, thou hast no sister,
God bless the flesh and preserve the bone,
Perish thou tetter and be thou gone.
In the name, &c."
Charm for toothache.
"Christ pass'd by his brother's door,
Saw his brother lying on the floor.
'What aileth thee, brother?
Pain in thy teeth?
Thy teeth shall pain thee no more.'
In the name, &c."
The charmer places his or her thumb on the diseased part in all but the first charm.
Divination with a Bible and key; seeking a response to doubts from the first words the eye may glance on in letting a Bible fall open; and various other superstitious practices, common to all England, are well known here and need not be described.
[The Fairy Tribes.]
BELIEF in fairies is far from being extinct in Cornwall, though our country folks never call them by that name.
A few days since, a woman of Mousehal told me that not long ago troops of small people, no more than a foot and a half high, used—on moonlight nights—to come out of a hole in the cliff, opening onto the beach, Newlyn side of the village, and but a short distance from it. The little people were always dressed very smart; and if anyone came near them they would scamper away into the hole. Mothers often told their children that if they went under cliff by night the small people would carry them away into "Dicky Danjy's holt."
Another kind called spriggans, which simply means sprites, are believed to guard treasures buried in cliff and hill castles.
Not long since a tinner of Lelant dreamt, three nights following, that a crock of gold was buried in a particular spot, between large rocks within the castle, on Trecroben hill. The next clear moonlight night he dug up the ground of which he had dreamt. After working two or three hours he came to a flat stone which sounded hollow; whilst digging round its edges, the weather became suddenly dark, the wind roared around the carns, and looking up, when he had made a place for his hands to lift it, he saw hundreds of ugly spriggans coming out from amidst the rocks gathering around and approaching him. The man dropped his pick, ran down the hill and home as fast as he could lay foot to ground; he took to his bed and was unable to leave it for weeks.
When he next visited the castle he found the pit all filled in, with the turf replaced; and he nevermore dug for the treasure.
Piskey still leads benighted people astray; this sprite wanders alone and is always spoken of in the singular. It is somewhat remarkable that a green bug, frequently found on bramble bushes in autumn, is called by this name. After Michaelmas, it is said, that blackberries are unwholesome because Piskey spoils them then.
Places frequented by goats are believed to be the favourite haunts of fairies.
It is uncertain whether Bucka can be regarded as one of the fairy tribe; old people, within my remembrance, spoke of a Bucka Gwidden and a Bucka Dhu—by the former they meant a good spirit, and by the latter an evil one, now known as Bucka boo. I have been told, by persons of credit, that within the last forty years it was a usual practice with Newlyn and Mousehal fishermen to leave on the sand at night a portion of their catch for Bucka. Probably from this observance the common nickname of Newlyn Buckas was derived. An old rhyme says:—
"Penzance boys up in a tree,
Looking as wisht as wisht can be;
Newlyn buckas as strong as oak,
Knocking them down at every poke."
From this it appears that Newlyn boys once considered it a matter of pride to be called by the name of their ancient divinity.
The knockers of the mines—that some class among fairy tribes—are simply believed, by our tinners, to be the spirits of those who worked the 'old bals' in ancient times.
