Tom and the Knackers.
"Do let's have the droll, Uncle Bill," said I, and he related as follows,—
"From the time Tom was old enow to handle a pick and showl he had lived in Trecroben, and worked in Wheal Reath, till twenty years or so ago, when work fell slack here, and some bals were knacked (stopped). Then he went to Santust (St. Just) to look for a job and found work in Ballowal. Most people have heard of that queer old bal, that was worked before The Flood, they say. There the old men's works, weth their deep open coffans (pits) may still be seen, jest as they left them, only wash'd and run'd in a good deal one may suppose. That old bal, everybody in Santust will tell 'e, have always been haunted with knackers. And the burrows, in crofts and cleves around, are swarman with them, and weth spriggans, wherever anything belongan to the old bal was burred. There these sprites keep everlastan watch, though all the old men's tools or treasures may be gone to rust, earth, and dust. One don't often see them, 'tis true, but only break ground near them and they'll show their ugly faces, as many have known to their cost.
Tom and his eldest boy went over and worked a few weeks, to see how they liked the place and people before removing his wife and family. They liked the Santusters fust rate. They're a capital set of red-tailed drones—only give them their own way; but you will soon find out that one must either fight or be thorough friends with them 'one and all.' Tom took a house in Letcha—handy by the bal. When his family were moved, he and the boy worked together on tribute, and worked hard makan double cores. When it came near pay-day, the boy, for want of rest, gave out, and his father worked on alone.
Tom had heard the knackers workan, away at a distance, all the time he had been there, and took no notice of their noise, but now that the boy stopped home, they came nearer and nearer every day, till he cud hardly hear the sound of his own tools with the din and clatter of theirs. As far as he could judge by the sound they were only two or three yards off, in the level close behind him, carryen on all sorts of underground work. Some appear'd to be wheelan, some showlan, others boran; he could even hear them swab out their holes, put in the tampan, and shut (blast) like a pare (company) of regular tinners. Shuttan wasn't in vogue in their time, but they've learnt et.
One night—I think et was only two or three before servey-day—Tom got quite savage to hear their confoundan clatter, with their squeakan and tee-hee-an in a mockan way, if he made false strokes, or a clumsy blow; and, being a devil-may-care sort of fellow, he, without thinkan of anything, throwed back a handful of small stones, towards the spot where they seemed to be workan, and called out at the same time without stopan or lookan up, 'Go to blazes, you cussed old Jews' sperrats; or I'll scat (knock) your brains out, I will, ef you arn't gone from here.' The words were no sooner out of his mouth than a shower of stones fell upon and around him, and frightened him most out of his senses. Still, Tom resolved to work on till mornan, and, in about an hour, when his candle was burnt down and he stopped to light another, he sat down to eat the rest of his fuggan and touch pipe a few minutes. Tom had all but finished his supper, and bean hungry, could have eat more, when he heard ever so many squeakan voices sing out, from away some fathoms back in the level,—
"Tom Trevorrow! Tom Trevorrow!
Leave some of thy fuggan for Bucca,
Or bad luck to thee, to-morrow!"
Fust of all he cudn't well make out any words, but his own name. He thought of the old sayan, 'What the fool thinketh, that the bell clinketh.' He knew that sounds heard underground often seemed to be words, like Buryan bells of a weddan day ringan, 'Poor man, undone!' or 'Go thee ways't home with ragget-tail Jone!' Then he tried again if they wern't as much like some old rhymes that children sing, such as,—
"Billy Pengelley,
Got pain in his belly,
Eatan green slones for supper!"
But no, the devil a bit; for the more and closer he listened the plainer he heard the knackers, or some other sprites among them singing the same. Only when he had eaten all there was a slight change and they sung,—
"Tommy Trevorrow, Tommy Trevorrow!
We'll send thee bad luck to-morrow,
Thou old curmudgeon, to eat all thy fuggan,
And not leave a didjan for Bucca!"
And so they kept on singan, squeakan, and tee-hee-an, in going back in the end till they were out of hearan. Tom was somewhat scared; yet he felt so tired and drowsey that he could sleep in a pullan (shallow pool). The poor fellow had worked hard and been at it nearly all day and all night for the last week. When he had smoked out his pipe he leant back, thinking to take a doze for only a few minutes. But when he waked up all was quiet. He rubbed his eyes, and, lookan away in an end, where it was nearly dark, he seed scores of knackers restan on their tools. They were miserable, little, old, withered, dried-up creatures—the tallest of them no more than three foot six, or there away, with shanks like drum-sticks, and their arms as long or longer than their legs. They had big ugly heads, with grey or red locks, squintan eyes, hook noses, and mouths from ear to ear. The faces of many were very much like the grim visages on old cloman jugs, so Tom said, and more like those of brutes than Christians. One older and uglier than the rest—if possible—seemed to take the lead in makan wry faces, and all sorts of mockan tricks. When he put his thumb to his nose and squinted at Tom, all those behind him did the same. Then all turned their backs, stooped down, lolled out their tongues, and grinned at him from between their spindle shanks. Tom was now much scared. He noticed that his candle was burnt down to the clay, and knew that he must have slept nearly two hours.
"Good Lord, deliver me," said he, risan to light another candle; and all the knackers vanished by the time he was well on his legs. They seemed to melt away, one into another, changan shapes like curlan smoke. Tom, feelan hisself very stiff, tired, and cold, from havan slept so long, dressed and mounted the ladders. He was hardly able to crawl to grass. In the blacksmith's shop, where he had stopped a few minutes to change and warm hisself, he told other men who were there, putten on their underground clothes, what he had seen and heard. The old tinners told am that they warn't at all surprised, because the levels he worked in were more infested with knackers than any other part of the bal. 'Many a night,' said they, 'these troublesome sperats have ben sen whiskan round the blacksmith's shop and gwean (going) down the Buckshaft, near by, and that do enter the level thee'st work in. This shaft es so called, because a black buck-goat, or a bucca in shape of an, was seen to go down there, but never found below.'
The tinners, one and all, blamed Tom for havan anything to do or say with the knackers in an unfriendly way, and told him that as et was an old custom he might as well have left a bit of bread on the ground for good luck.
When Tom got home he went to bed at once, that he might have a good rest. His wife fed and nussed him well, with the best she cud get for am to eat or drink, in high hopes that, before many days were passed, they would take up more an twenty pound for tin.
Tom dedn't say a word about the knackers to his wife nor boy, for fear to scare them, nor dedn't think much more of the buccas.
Next mornan Tom got up like a new one, fresh as a rose. After a hearty breakfast, he and his son started for bal. Now it happened to be Corpus Chris, and the boy was loath to go—he wanted to be off to Penzance, with other youngsters, to see the fun of the fair. "Come thee way'st along, my son," said Tom, "I know thee art still tired, but cheer up a bit; Midsummer's day will soon be here; then thee shust (shalt) have a shellan and, ef we get a good sturt (start), two or three, to go to the games, and, dash my buttons; ef I too don't go down to Priest Cove, and try a hitch at the wrestlan! I could used to show as good play, and throw as fair a fall, as any man of my size." And so Tom ded—he would often show me and others how to give the hugg, play with the back crook, and so furth.
I don't see for my part why wrestlan, hurlan, and other old manlike games should be allowed to die out for a set of sports more suitable for women than men, and I hold that wrestlan es as good as boxen, and every man should know how to defend hisself. One don't know what may turn up. 'Tes all stuff and nonsense what old women say about the wickedness of such sports. I'd rather see a boy of mine with black eyes and bloody nose every day, than for am to run from one of his size.
Arrivan at the bal, first thing on entering the level, Tom noticed that some of the temberan was bulged a great deal and ready to give way. They put in new planks, and, as Tom thought, made that all secure for the time. Whilst they were at it he again heard the knackers workan away in the end, but dedn't mind them. Then to get up some tin-stuff from below, they went to work in the adit level, on the Buck lode, to secure around and repair a winze (a small shaft with windlass) that was nearly all run'd in. Whilst he put in new tembar, the boy was kept at the winze-brace (windlass and tackle). When drivan the lafts or boards, Tom plainly heard the knackers workan against him; he had to put in new tembar in the manner of spillan. The ground seemed somewhat dangerous. The longer he was workan the nearer the knackers were coman towards him, until he saw the ground move before the lafts where the sperats worked; he then called to the boy, 'Pull me up, quick, wind away for dear life, my son!' By the time he was got up to the winze-braces, the ground began to tumble in. He had the rope tied around his body. Runnan back in the adit-level, he unwound it from the winze tree, and untied it from his waist.
Yet he came very near bean killed, for he hadn't got clear of the rope five seconds before winze, rope, and all, went down with the run. Tom, poor fellow, looked around dismayed, to find that all his tin-stuff, which was put on the winze plat, with tools and all, had gone down with the rest; so he lost his tin there and below. All his labour and time was gone for nothan.
He had to live many weeks on subsist (money advanced) and went to another lode to work in an end to tut-work (piece-work), and there, too, he was most put mad with the knackers—they wed come into the level close behind, and go on with all kinds of work, and nobody could have wes (worst) luck than followed am. He went to look so wisht and felt so bad that he had to leave Ballowal; for, go wherever he might about that old bal, the knackers were for ever tormenting am, till they fairly drove 'n away, and he came back to Lelant no better off than when he left.
And here he had still bad luck doggan am for years. He had to work to the farmers for a long spell, and, as we all know, every tinner would just as soon go to the workhouse, or union; and for my part I'd rather be tied to a bull's tail, and suffer the rest, than do either one."
Having refilled his pipe, my old neighbour continued:—
"As many bals were then stopped, and a number of hands discharged from others, all the time going from bad to worse, Tom had to live, as he cud, by farm-work for three or four years. He got all out of heart, to be all the time dung-dabban, and to see his children as ragged as colts; besides he had bad speed many ways; some said he was bewitched, and advised him to see the pellar, who came round once a fortnight. Tom thought that no use, because the conjuror won't 'good 'e,' as he do call it, unless he's well paid. Tom's wife made a good bit of money by spinnan and knittan. Unknown to her husband, she took her knittan-work, and went over to the high road, one day, when the pellar, in going his rounds, visited St. Ives. She hadn't ben long in the lane before he came by.
"I'm waitan to speak wh'y," said she; "but I'm afeard et wan't be any use, because we'r very poor."
"I know," replied he, "that you have had a long run of bad luck, and it will be all the harder now to turn it, but don't be out of hopes; I'll see Tom and do what I can for 'e. I see you're a good knitster; so you can make me a few pairs of warm stockans for winter's wear."
The conjuror remained alone with Tom a good while, each time he came round. What he did to 'good 'e' esn't known, because whatever's done to hinder a run of bad luck, or to break a spell of ill wishan, must be kept secret or no cure can be effected. In two or three months, however, Tom's fortune had a turn. Several youngsters left for America and made room for other hands. Then Tom, to his great content, went to minan-work again. In a short time, instead of looking as wisht, ragged, and dirty as 'Billy-be-damned,' or 'Old Jy,' who lived in a hole in a hedge, he and his family once more got decent meat and clothan. The pellar had the credit of doing them good, whether he deserved it or no; at any rate his promises put them in better heart, and that was some help. Tom's wife was overjoyed when he went to minan again; because she always took delight when her good man came home from bal to hear him tell her and the boys what he had done that core, and about his prospect of havan lots of tin agen next pay-day. The lads were most interested when Tom worked to tut-work, drivan an end, as you'll see.
An old boryer, hammer, gads, and other tools were kept under the chimney-stool, that Tom might show them the plainer what he'd ben doan. Now you must understand that Tom believed hisself to be as good a miner as was to be found in Cornwall. He would often brag that he cud break more ground at the same cost than any other man in the bal. His mind was always so occupied about his underground work that the form of his end was always before him. And most every night, after supper and whilst smokan his pipe, he wed work his core over again with Betty, and she, to humour him, would begin with, "Well, Tom, my son; and what hast a ben doan to-day?"
"What use for me to tell 'e; I can never make thee understand anything," he'd say; "but look here boys!" At the same time he wud take the fire-hook, stick, or anything, and, quite pleased, draw out the form of his end in the back of their old-fashioned, open chimney, and all would be told to look on, say nothan, and learn. When he had marked out, to his mind, how his end stood, he would say to his wife,
"Now thee cust see the end es about square as a was this mornan, take the boryer and show me where thee west go for a hole."
"Well, I shud put down a hole there," she wed say, pointan with the boryer in the most seemly place to her.
"Now gos't away, thou great Paddy! I tell thee, Betty, thee dosen't knaw any more about such work than a Buryan man! Thee west never larn anything! Give me the tools," he'd say, and show them all, with pride sure nuf, how he'd stand and strike the boryer in the different positions ground es subject to, and so he wed keep on for hours.
One day above all, whan they lived in Santust, Tom came home highly pleased, and told his people he had done a wonderful core. After supper he lighted his pipe, as usual, took up the fire-hook, and drawed the form of his end as he found it in the mornan.
"Now, I bored a hole there," said he, pointan with his hook, "and gauv en plenty of powder, and a ripped am forth and back like a boat-cove, and tore great rocks out of am as big as housen."
"Lor, Tom, hold thy tongue cheeld; I can hardly believe thee," said Betty.
"Well, a es truth what I do tell thee. Then—now look at this, Betty—I went there, for another hole," said he pointan, "and it tord'n like mad, and left am as square as a chest, all but a piece in the bottom. Then I went down there for a side-hole, and that end now es as square as a door, I tell thee. And now, Betty, the end es squared, where west thee go for the next hole? Here, take the tools to thee; es thy turn to show one a bit now; a es hard ground, mind, none of your farmers' men can break that."
"Well, I shud put down a hole there," said she, placan the hook in the most likly place. Then Tom, with a look and voice of great contempt wed say, "I told thee there was no wale (seam) there; thee may'st shut (blast) away a ton of powder in that hole and then a wedn't heav'n, a wed make a rouse (report) hard enow to frighten away all the chalks (choughs) in Carn Glase, and then a wedn't heav'n. I tell thee again, all of the powder that went down in the Royal George wed be no good in that hole. Thee must lev'n look down more—just so, or else a wed only be a stand to waste powder in."
And so the simple contented household wed pass night after night till bed-time.
But one evenan they nearly came to grief by Tom shuttan his holes over again. He came home late in a terrible splutter, sayan he had done a very bad core—he had shut a hole three times, and a blowed away in a vug (crevice) each time.
"Et was a hole near the bottom, Jan," said he, takan the hook as usual and havan drawn the position to his own satisfaction.
"But I shud think," said the boy, "that a was a hawful bad place to come to strike et, faather."
"Thou great noddy! Doesna know that a good man can bore a hole anywhere? Hold the hook there," said he, puttan it into his hands, "and I'll show thee how to strike 'n."
Tom turned round, snatched up the hammer in a great hurry, threw it back in order to make a stroke, knocked down Betty, missed the hook, and nearly broke Jan's arm.
Betty, though on the floor, screamed to see the boy's white face, and when she saw the blood running from his arm and felt it on her own face she fainted. And Tom, seeing them both on the floor, paced up and down calling out, when he tried to rise them, "Oh my dear Betty and Jan; I'd rather shut the hole twenty times over again than kill thee and the boy; rise up do 'e, my dears."
They soon got round. The fright was worse than their hurt.
The way in which Tom and his wife amused themselves is not singular among tinners, who, as a rule, take great pride in their work, and pass hours showing their family or comrades how they worked the last cores, and what they purpose to do next."
"Well, did Tom's good luck continue?" I asked.
"Pretty steadfast; he and his sons had neighbours' fare," the old tinner replied. "When his elder boys became men they had pretty good sturts (start from a paying tribute), saved money, and went to America, and they did so well over at Mineral Point, Galena, or somewhere that way, that they sent home enough to keep the old couple in comfort, and to bring the younger boys out to them, where they, with hundreds more from here about, are making another Cornwall for "one and all.""
[Old Songs and Nicknames.]
"One would like to know," said I to the old tinner, "whether Tom heard the knackers sing what he believed he did; or if there were any old rhymes, somewhat similar, that he might, long before, have learnt and forgotten till something brought them to mind." "Never heard of any such," Bill replied. But An' Mary—who knew a rare lot of queer sayings, odds and ends of old songs and the like,—said, "In a story relating to small people (fairies), that I often heard when a child, there are some lines about leaving the buryans (crumbs) for Bucca." And one would think the tribe of small folks always made their speeches in rhymes. When I was young, it was a custom in the harvest-field, at croust (afternoon's refreshment), observed by most old folks, to pour a few drops of their liquor on the ground for good luck; and to cast a fragment of bread over their right shoulder for the same reason. Fishermen, too, were in the habit of leaving on the sand, at night, a fish for Bucca; and they were also very careful to feed and make much of their cats, to insure them good luck in their fishing. If tinners in going to bal met with a 'bulhorn' (shell-snail) in their path, they always took care to drop before it a crum from their dinner, or a bit of grease from their candle for good luck.
Our talk about old rhymes reminds me that I have known many people who become little better than fools, because of childish verses and tunes constantly running in their numskulls; one would think that their seven senses were all stuck in their ears. "Before I was tormented with Bill there," said she nodding to her husband, ""when I was sweet and twenty," as the old song goes, I lived with farmers down westward; in one place, my fellow-servant was known by the nickname of Jenny Tweedles, because she would be all day croanan over the song,—
"There was an old couple and they were poor,
Tweedle, Tweedle, go twee."
It was enough to make one crazy to hear her croanan, over and over, a line here and there, with the burden brought in after every one. I can see her old grim visage now as she maundered about the kitchen, singing in doleful tones,—
"Oh! I have been sick since you have been gone;
If you'd been in the garden, you'd heard me groan.
Tweedle, tweedle, go twee."
You may fancy I would rather hear thunder by night than be kept awake with her droaning in my ear,—
"Now I have a request to make unto thee,
Do pluck me an apple from the russet tree.
Tweedle, tweedle, go twee."
Worst of all she could never be trusted to do any work that required attention,—if scalding milk, for instance, whilst she was tweedlean, it would boil over, and the cream be in the ashes; if cooking, for the same reason, all the fat would be in the fire."
An' Mary paused, drew from her pocket a few lengths of yarn, when her husband said, "Come, Mary, keep the kibbal gwean, there's plenty of the same sort of stuff in thy bal." She continued her knitting and said, "There was a good mate for old Jenny Tweedles that used to live in the same parish, who was known by the name of Ky-me or Rigdom, because, when a boy, he was just another such fool, and would neglect, or badly do, any work he was set about whilst whistling the tune, or singing the words, of another old song,—
"There did a frog live in a well,
Close by a merry mouse in a mill,
To my rigdom, bomminare, ky-me,
Kyme-nare, gil-de-ka-re,
Kyme-nare, Ky-me." &c., &c."
"I can match these nicknames," said I, "with another instance of a grand one acquired from a song. But we must go back more than a hundred years to the time when potatoes were only grown as curious garden vegetables; peas supplied their place, and turnips, or other green crops, were unknown as winter's provision for cattle. Farmers then held, for the most part, freehold or leasehold tenements of from twenty to fifty acres of arable and pasture ground, with, in many places, twice that extent of uncultivated land or "outs" as we call it, which furnished fuel and winter's run for cattle.
Between tilling-season and harvest there was little farm work but to cut and carry furze and turf, and to save a little hay; and from the time that all was secure in the mowhay till seed-time there were long intervals of leisure. The corn was threshed as straw was wanted to be taken out to the downs or croft to keep the half-starved cattle alive. Horses, even, were seldom housed, and as there were no stall-fed beasts, little manure but ashes was made which was carefully housed to keep it dry till wanted for dressing; then it was carried in dung-pots to the ground, ploughed in, and the crop quickly sown. After rough weather everybody was on the alert watching for oarweed, which with sand constituted almost the only other substances used for manure. Everything had to be conveyed on horseback,—furze, hay, and corn in trusses, sand in sacks, oarweed in panniers or on crooks, slung over pack-saddles.
The only wheel-carriages in use were wherries, and these were drawn by horses in traces. A wherry was a square box, containing about four wheelbarrows, mounted on three solid wheels, such as we call druckshars. To empty this machine it was overturned, druckshars and all. Though there was little out-door work to be done for long spells, our old folks were seldom idle. Hares, rabbits, and wild-fowl were plentiful on moors and the great extent of uncultivated land, and hunting was pursued—less as a pastime than a matter of necessity—to procure a little change of diet, now and then, from the almost constant peas-porridge, fish, and other salt provisions.
Women, old and young, passed much time in spinning, and in almost every farm-house one found weaving-machines, as we call hand-looms, so that when there was little else to do, farmers, or some of their men, worked the treadles, and wove the yarn into blanketing, or other household cloth. The surplus of this serviceable material met with a ready sale in markets far eastward. The home-made clothing was almost everlasting. I knew a notable old farmer's wife who used, when bragging of her husband's stock of clothes, to say, "Our Honey (Hanibal) have got twelve coats, and only two of them "biden clath" (bought cloth). Sennen people were famous for being good weavers, and those of Escols, in that parish, regarded themselves as the best in the West Country. In this village there might have been threescore inhabitants, including all ages, who were so connected by inter-marriages, that few of them knew where or how their relationship began or ended. The descendants of one family who formerly lived there still retain the nickname of "Triddles," from their forefathers having worked the treadles as their chief employment.
Weavers were much given to singing at their work, to relieve its tediousness; and an old weaving farmer, belonging to the primitive community of Escols, acquired the nickname of uncle Plato, because, whenever he was overtaken by a lazy stitch in working his treadles, he would sing a rather solemn piece,—one couldn't call it a song,—which thus began,—
"Said Plato, why should man be vain,
Since bounteous heaven has made him great?"
The rest I don't remember; it's something about sceptred king's and beggar's dust coming to the same pass. But he seldom finished his favourite ditty; for if his wife happened to be within hearing, she would exclaim, "Peter! Peter! may the devil take thee and Plato too. I can hear thee droanan that dreary thing again, and the treadles gwean (going) lazier than with Billy, the weaver, croanan over Aaron's beard and the ointment. Come Peter vean, strike up—
"Thinking to lead a sober life,
One Monday morning I took a wife,"
or some other lively catch. I'll join in, and thee west make three throws of the shuttle for one." Uncle Plato's family continued to be weavers of more than ordinary ability. Some of them left Sennen, and established the first looms worked by machinery in the old factory at Alverton, and acquired considerable property in Penzance. Many of this family were also much given to study; one of them, a lady who lived in St. Levan—I don't know her exact relationship to Plato—was remarkable for her acquaintance with Greek and Latin authors, which she read in their originals, and for her proficiency in astronomy and other sciences.
During this lady's lifetime, however, her acquirements were not regarded as anything so very extraordinary as they have been recently; for in those old times, and in that remote part, there were many who would even now be considered good scholars. The old folks of our great-grandfathers' days were neither so ignorant nor so immoral as it is now the fashion to represent them; true, there were few sleek smoothies among them, and they would be too rude and outspoken for our taste perhaps.
Books, from their dearness, were comparatively scarce; but the few they had were read over and discussed around the winter's hearth, where neighbours assembled in a social way that is now not found in country villages.
The "Story of Troy-town,"—as they called some old translation of the "Iliad,"—almost everybody knew by heart. Hector was such a favourite, that the best horse was called after him; and Penelope had, in most families, a namesake (Pee) to commemorate her constancy.
They had also the "Seven Wise Masters of Greece," "Moore's Almanack," "Robinson Crusoe,"—which everyone knew by heart, and believed a true history,—and two or three herbals, besides religious books, of which they made little account on the whole. Culpepper was an especial favourite with elderly dames; stills being common, they experimented with his recipes, and often compounded precious balsams that would operate famously as evacuants. Many West Country gentlemen were practised astrologers; and in order to understand works that treated of their favourite science, they must have acquired a knowledge of Latin and mathematics.
We revert to our old country folks to remark that, for an acquaintance with classic fables, and much other secular knowledge, they were beholden to the plain Welsh, or native, parsons—then appointed to the western parishes who lived amongst, and associated with, their flocks in an easy, comfortable way. Yet the reverend gentlemen's familiarity and sympathy with their parishioners' joys and griefs caused no diminution of respect for their sacred office. For example the Rev. James Bevan, from Glamorganshire, who was more than forty years curate of Sennen and St. Levan, was always spoken of, by the few old people who remembered him, with affection and respect. This gentleman resided in Trengothal; and so far was he from discountenancing wrestling, throwing quoits, and other manly recreations of the time, that he and his family, with many principal persons of the neighbourhood, always attended at holiday games, on Penberth Green, where they danced with rich and poor, and their presence enforced decorum, and made our rural sports respectable.
Another usage—probably handed down from Catholic times—was then common. Prizes won at wrestling, or any other manly games, were either worn to church or suspended within it to a pillar near the door, on the following Sunday. This custom was particularly observed when the victory was obtained in another parish. I have often heard one who when young was a noted wrestler, and for many years champion of his parish, speak of the satisfaction with which he used to hang up a pair of spurs, gloves, yards of ribbon, lace, or whatever it might be, as a trophy in honour of old St. Levan.
A short time ago, it was usual for the winners of gold-laced hats to display them at Church, though the wearers—often gentlemen farmers' sons—looked for all the world like livery servants. "Many customs of no more than fifty years ago," said the old tinner, "would be regarded as strange now. One thing that I have just thought of, that stories which have been related by romancers, and are still repeated by others in books, about the savagery of old Cornish wreckers and smugglers, is vile slander. Who, I wonder, would have more right to dead wreck than the salvers; and success say I to the fair trade."
The old tinner was now mounted on his favourite hobby, and as his stories about smuggling were interminable, I wished him good-night.
[An Excursion to Chapel Uny Well,
With a Legend of the Changeling of Brea Vean.]
These, when a child haps to be got,
That after proves an idiot,
When folks perceive it thriveth not,
The fault therein to smother,
Some silly, doating, brainless calf,
That understands things by the half,
Says that the fairy left this aulfe,
And took away the other.
Drayton.
THOUGH the numerous visitors who resort to Penzance in autumn are rarely satiated with our fine cliff scenery, they might, with pleasure, vary their excursions by a ramble inland, where various objects of interest are found on moorlands and hills, but seldom visited.
A pleasant day, for example, might be passed by first going to Sancreed; where, in the quiet, neat, little, embowerd Church some curiously carved portions of an ancient rood-screen are worthy of notice. In the churchyard there is one of the finest crosses in the county; it is about eight feet high and ornamented with various emblematic devices, among others, the lilly of the Blessed Virgin. The old Inn, with its quaint sign "The Bird in Hand," suggestive of ready payment, was worthy of a glance, a few years ago, when some nondescript fowl of the air, trying to escape from a hand that grasped its legs, was pourtrayed on the sign-board in flaming colours by a local artist, and, underneath the captive bird, were the lines,—
"A bird in hand is better fare
Than two that in the bushes are."
From the south-eastern side of "Sancras Bickan" (Beacon) a delightful view of Mount's Bay is obtained, and on Caer Brane—commonly called Brane Rings—the next hill towards the west, may be seen the remains of an old and extensive hill-castle.
Hence, one might descend to the famous Chapel Uny Well, situated between Chapel Carn Brea and Bartine hills; the one crowned with its ruined chapel and the other with a castle. At Chapel Uny will be found a copious spring of as clear water as was ever seen. The only remains that can be identified, as having belonged to its ancient chapel, are a few dressed stones near the well. These, from their shape, would seem to have formed part of an arched door or window.
Near by there is also a large circular Fogou, or artificial cavern, walled on both sides and partly covered with long slabs of moor-stone. The Holy Well is, however, the most celebrated object in this vicinity; a few years ago, it was resorted to on the first three Wednesdays in May by scores of persons who had great faith in the virtue of its waters, which were considered very efficacious for curing most diseases incidental to childhood, and many ricketty babes are still bathed there at the stated times when the spring is believed to possess the most healing powers.
Belonging to this well and its neighbourhood there is a somewhat curious story, which we will relate just as it has often been told us by old people of the West Country.