choice, which was calculated to spread the scandal far and near. Then,
throwing off his sheet, he showed himself well armed and bade defiance
to all priests, pirates, and Tresillians, this side of a disagreeably
warm place, as he would have said, if paraphrases of gentle words and
equivocations had been the fashion then; however, he said he didn't care
a rap for any one before him, and he would fight them all one after the
other.
Black took up the challenge as soon as given, and offered to fight him
there and then, any way he chose, either with arms or naked fists. Their
partisans decided that they should fight unarmed. Black threw down his
sword and would have fought in the church had there been a clear field
for their encounter. They passed through the hundreds who were assembled
at a clear space or bowling-alley, below the cross. Ackey Carn, finding
that Black was too dexterious for him in the use of his fists, and that
he was getting the worst of it in boxing, turned the Captain over his
hip and brought him down a fair back fall; and, as often as Black rose,
the smuggler laid him down at full length, yet always with the greatest
care not to harm the man who had often treated him like a prince. Carn
only wanted to convince the Captain that he was his match one way or
another in the art of self-defence. The two men having fought and
wrestled till they were bruised black and blue, acquired the greatest
respect and admiration for each other's courage, fair play, and prowess;
and they were taken at last into the public-house and, over a bowl of
punch, the Buccaneer and smuggler Carn became sworn friends, which they
ever remained until their day of doom, when they left this world
together.
Notwithstanding the favours of country ladies and gentlemen, Black soon
became tired of what he was pleased to call a landlubber's lazy life.
Caring little for hunting, and less for farming and other sports or
occupations which make rural life glide pleasantly away, he passed much
of his time in the public-house, surrounded by a gang of loafers who
drank at his expense and applauded his stories of savage warfare, told
in such infernal language as is seldom heard except from the lips of
sea-robbers. His greatest delight was to beat everyone in hard
drinking--no easy matter in those times. An old song of that jovial age
thus describes what was deemed fair enebriation:--
"Not drunk is he who from the floor,
Can rise alone, and still drink more!
But drunk is he who prostrate lies,
Without the power to drink or rise!"
After days and nights of drunken revelry, Black, in gloomy fits, would
often wander down to the cleves and pass many days alone, in the carns
and sawns of the sea-shore, or was only seen in company with the
smuggler Carn, who, from the Sunday when they fought for the honour, or
disgrace, of the fair lady, became the Captain's favourite companion.
Yet time hung heavy on the Captain's hands, and by way of a change, he
had built from his own designs, a strong, swift-sailing, half-decked
craft, which might serve for fishing and fetching liquors and other
goods from France. There was a high duty on salt then.
When she was all rigged and ready for sea Captain Black took Carn for
his mate, and they, with a crew of such dare-devils as suited them, set
sail one Friday morn in the Fall and shaped their course for Gunwallo,
where they landed, dug up and shipped the treasures taken from the
Moorish galley some five-and-twenty years before. Thence our
free-traders bore away for their usual trading port in Brittany. They
soon procured the goods they required, then passed several days drunk
and rioting, and often fighting, with anyone they encountered, for mere
pastime. As smugglers spent abundance of money in the place, they were
allowed to do much as they pleased. At last they made sail for home with
a fair breeze, which, however, soon died away; and, for several days,
there was scarcely a breath of wind. The sky continued overcast and the
air sultry. During this heavy weather Black lay among the goods like one
worn out, and scarcely spoke or moved. After a tiresome spell of beating
about and making but little progress, the wind freshened, and one
evening, about night-fall, they sighted the Lizard. Then, suddenly,
black clouds gathered over-head, and a thunder-storm came on. With the
first flash of lightning Black sprung up and said, "Hoist all sail,
boys, for by all the devils we'll get home this night." The crew wished
to shorten sail or lay to till day-dawn, but the Captain's spirits rose
with the storm. He took the helm, and shaped his course in almost total
darkness, for Penberth Cove. The boat going before the wind, bounded
over the waves like a thing of life; the crew expected every moment to
become a wreck; they could only see the cliffs by the flashing
lightning; when Black, as if sporting with their fears, cried out,
"Bravo, devils of the whirlwind, fire away, we will give ye a salute
with our thunder;" then, giving the helm to Carn, he loaded and fired
their swivel-gun, in answer to a cannonade from the clouds. The crew
were confounded by the blasphemous talk of their commander, who, amidst
the crash and roar of wind, waves, and thunder, seemed rejoicing in his
native element. Their terror was at the utmost when, amidst the awful
tumult, he stood up and, tearing out a handful of hair, threw it away in
the blast, bellowing out, "There, fellow devils, take that; stand by me
now, and I'll be with ye soon."
That instant the lightning burst out in such bright flashes over the
cliffs, that rocks and carns were seen as plainly as at noon-day, and a
sheet of flame hung over across the cove, from Pednsawnack to Cribba
Head, till they ran safely in and the storm died away.
With the help of farmers' men and others, who had been several days and
nights watching for the smugglers' return, the goods were soon landed,
taken up to a level spot above the capstan, and covered with a
tarpauling. Then two or three kegs were broached, a fire made, and the
smugglers, with those who assisted them, sat round to enjoy the good
liquor and other things.
At the height of their carousal the Captain drew the keg he sat on close
beside the pile of blazing wood. He had not long settled himself there
to drink and smoke, when his breath appeared to be all ablaze and his
body in flames. His mate, Carn, threw himself on him, and swore he would
save his Captain or perish with him. And perish with him he did; for,
before the rest of the company had power to hinder him, both the
commander and his mate were blazing like a bonfire. They neither spoke
nor struggled. The others, in great terror at beholding their fearful
end, went off, in all haste, to Treen, there remained till morning; then
they and many others went down to the Cove, and on the spot where the
two men were burned, not a sign of them was to be seen: all their ashes,
even, were blown away.
Now, when folks came to think of Captain Black's strange career and
stranger departure, many believed that he was either an evil spirit in
human form or else a man possessed with a devil, and it remained
undecided by the people of the West, whether he was man or demon, or a
compound of both. Yet, in all probability, this strange being was only
mad at times, and his sudden exit, might have been a case of spontaneous
combustion, (if indeed, there be such a thing.) Many of those who in
former times were believed to be demoniacs, witches, or wizards, would,
if they lived and played their pranks at the present day, be simply
regarded as lunatics and most interesting cases for the medical student
rather than for the rude treatment of inquisitor, exorcist, or other
priestly operator. We hear but little more of Nelly. Her son purchased a
farm in St. Just, she removed thither with him, and ended her days in
peace. Some descendants of the rover, (whose name we have abridged) were
living in the western parishes a few years since.
About a century ago an aged dame of the family kept school in Burian
Church-town and used frequently to relate strange traditions of her
buccaneering ancestor.
[Illustration]
THE WITCH OF BURIAN CHURCH-TOWN.
These midnight hags,
By force of potent spells, of bloody characters,
And conjurations, horrible to hear,
Call fiends and spectres from the yawning deep,
And set the ministers of hell at work.
ROWE.--"_Jane Shore._"
Who rides my horse a' nights,
Who lamed the miller's boy,
Who raised the wind that blew my old barn roof down;
But I've a silver bullet ready for her that will lame her,
Hobble how she will.--_Old Song._
About the time of Captain Black's exit old Betty Trenoweth from her
superstitious usages and pretensions to mysterious science, became
notorious as a witch, and her practice of the black art was discovered
and put past doubt by some one in Church-town, against whom she had a
grudge. A man, finding when all attempts to please old Betty failed,
that his cattle still pined off their legs, and everything went wrong,
and that there was nothing but bad luck about house and land. Then he or
his wife determined to punish the witch and bring her to reason. He made
her image in clay or dough, we have forgotten which, and, when the
figure was fashioned to their mind, ran up a good long skewer through
the lower part of its body. Now, that they might know the effect of
their counter-spell, some persons in the plot, entered the witch's
dwelling, at the moment the skewer pierced her effigy, and saw her fall
suddenly on the ground, where she continued rolling, kicking, and
groaning in great agony for some minutes, when she exclaimed, "Good
Lord, what's in my body? I can hold out no longer; do run over to Dick
Angwin's and tell am I'll make et up weth am ef he will!" Fearing the
witch might die in her agony and leave her curse on them or the spell
unbroken, they hastened to make friends with Betty and destroyed the
image.
Yet this punishment didn't make the old dame desist from carrying on her
naughty tricks; for, one Thursday about the end of harvest, Betty jogged
away to Penzance, intending to buy a pig that she might fatten it for
winter's use. She was in price, and had nearly come to terms for one
which suited her fancy. There were only a few pence between her and the
seller; yet, pretending she didn't care about it, and saying she
wouldn't give a farthing more, she turned her back and went to look at
some others. That while, one Tom Trenoweth, a cousin of hers, offered a
trifle more and purchased the sow.
Tom had paid the "earnest money," when the old dame came back and said
she would have the sow. "You're too late, cousin," said Tom, "I've
bought her." "And what made thee interfeer, I'd like to know, when I was
in price for the sow?" said Betty; "ef I don't have her thee shust wish
thy cake dough, and find the sow the dearest bargain thee hast ever
had." Tom refused to give up his purchase. Betty went off mumbling
threats and curses, and shaking her bony finger at Tom.
With much ado, the man got home the sow, put her in a crow (sty), filled
the pig's-trough with wash, and firmly fastened the door. Tom rose early
next morning, and found the crow-door open, the pig's-trough full of
wash and his sow rooting in a neighbour's garden; and it took all the
men and boys in Church-town many hours to get the troublesome beast of a
sow back into her crow again; and in spite of all he could do, scarce a
night passed but she would get out, be off to lanes miles away, and do
some mischief that Tom would have to pay for.
Months passed, during which the sow had given to her corn, meal, milk,
and everything else that could be thought of to satisfy her, but all
without avail--the more she ate the leaner and more lanky she became.
One day Old Betty met the owner of the pig and said, quite
friendly-like, "well, cousin Tom, how es thy sow getting on? Will she be
fat against Christmas? I hear she is very troublesome; perhaps you had
better sell her to me. What do 'e look for her now?"
"No," Tom replied, "ef she esn't fat for seven years, in Sundays, you
shall never be the better off for begrudging her to me; old black-witch
that you are; I'll drive her to Penzance and sell her for less than I
gave, rather than you shall have her."
More months passed, during which the old woman, in spite of Tom's
rebuffs, made him various offers for the sow, but every time less than
the preceeding, as she said the pig was getting poorer and would soon be
reduced to skin and bone. Tom, finding that his sow had eaten and
destroyed more than she was worth, and all the time getting leaner,
fastened a rope to her leg and started early one Thursday morning for
Penzance, determined to sell her for anything he might be offered rather
than bring her back again. The sow went on, quiet as a lamb, till she
came to a stream running across the road in Bojew-bottom; there was no
bridge over Bojew water in Tom's time. The sow wouldn't take to the
water, nor could the man make her; he tried to put her across,
wheelbarrow fashion, holding her up by the hind legs; then he
endeavoured to drag her through the water, but she turned right around,
bolted in between his legs, upset him in the muddy stream, and the rope
slipping from his hand, she took her way up the moors, over hedges and
ditches. Tom followed her, through bogs, brambles, and furze for many
miles, till they came out in Leah lanes on the Land's End road to
Penzance and Sancreed; the sow seemingly never the worse. But Tom felt
very tired, and his clothes were torn to rags with the thickets.
The sow, now on the road to Penzance, and near Tregonebris Downs, went
along so quietly that Tom caught hold of the rope again, made a running
noose in the end of it, and (that she mightn't jerk it away again,)
passed it over his hand and reeved it round his wrist. That being done
to his mind, "Now, ah es much to me," says Tom to himself, or to the
sow, "late as et es, ef I don't get 'e to market yet." He hadn't spoken
the words a minute when a hare leaped out of a bush beside the road,
made a squeak that sounded like "chee-ah!" ran down over the moor, the
sow followed after, dragging Tom along, and never stopped, going almost
as fast as the hare, till she came to Tregonebris bridge, when in under
the road she bolted, so far as the rope would let her. The opening under
the road being little other than a drain, or "bolt," as we say, Tom
couldn't even crawl in on all-fours, his arm was almost dragged out of
joint, and the loop, reeved on his wrist, cutting through the skin; Tom
by good luck having his knife in his pocket, managed to get at it, cut
the rope, and let the sow go; but she only went as far as the middle of
the bridge, where it was narrowest, and fell to lie in the water.
Tom could neither drive nor coax his pig from under the road. He threw
all the stones he could find at her till he had nearly closed up the
bridge on one side, but she hardly noticed him with a grunt.
About noon Tom got very hungry; yet he was afraid to leave his sow and
go to the nearest house, that he might have something to eat, because
whilst he was out of sight the devil-directed pig might bolt away, no
one could tell whither. Tom sat down beside the bridge, wishing some one
might go by or heave in sight within call. He had to wait there till
near sunset, when who should come by, from Tregonebris way, but Old
Betty, with her basket on her arm and knitting-stocking in her hand. She
came on clicking her needles, knitting all the way, and looking as
demure as if "butter wouldn't melt in her mouth and cheese choke her."
When she saw Tom sitting beside the road she seemed all surprised like,
and said "Arrea! cousin, es that you? Have 'e sold the sow and got drunk
on the profit, that you have missed your way back, an soas?"
"Well, Old Betty, es that thee? I must say that thee hast beaten me
hollow," Tom replied. "The sow is under the 'brudge,' and thee dust know
it well enow; for who but thee crossed the road and went over the moor
in the shape of a hare? Thy friend, the devil, lent thee his hounds, I
suppose, to drive her in where she can neither turn, go forth, nor come
back, et seems to me."
"Well, thank the powers," said she, according to her custom, when anyone
came to grief, "I am'at the only one in trouble this day; but as you are
a cousin of my own, I'll give 'e the value of the sow still, and that es
about half of what she cost 'e, because she's now gone to skin and bone,
et will take months to get her up again."
"If you will give me something from your basket to eat, and what you
last offered, you may take her, get her out ef you can, and be d----d to
'e."
But no, the old witch stood out, and wouldn't give a farthing more than
half of what Tom paid for the sow; and he was glad at last, to get that
and a two-penny loaf which she took from her basket. Then the dame went
down to the mouth of the bridge, or bolt, only just said "Chee-ah!
Chee-ah!" and the sow came out and followed her home like a dog.
Tom took the road to Sancras Church-town, and stayed at "The Bird in
hand" as long as his money lasted. "It was no good to lay by; he might
as well spend it first as last," he said, "because every shilling of the
devil's coin will go and take nine more with it." All who heard Tom's
story agreed that what seemed a hare, to cross his path, was no other
than Old Betty in that shape, and wished they could send a silver bullet
through her. It is said here as elsewhere that lead has no effect on a
witch-hare. The old woman kept her pig many years for a store-sow and
she became the parent of a numerous progeny.
THE STORY OF MADAM NOY.
After Betty had gained her ends with Tom Trenoweth, nobody ventured to
deny her anything she coveted except Madam Noy, of Pendre. From the
little known of this lady, she seems to have been a strong-minded
close-fisted termagant. She was fond of going to law, and had always
suits on hand concerning the bounds and common rights of her lands. She
is said also to have kept the best hunter and hounds in the West
Country, and that she coursed with them daily as she rode over her
farms, across hedges and ditches, to inspect her work-people and stock.
We suppose she was a widow then, or if she had a husband he made too
little noise in his time to be remembered. She took great pride in her
poultry; above all, in her rare breed of hens with large tufts or cops
on their heads. Now Betty knew that Madam had often refused to give or
sell any eggs from her coppies to her best friends, yet one morning
early she put on her steeple-crown hat and mantle, took her basket and
stick, hobbled down to Pendre, and seated herself on a style entering
the town-place. In a few minutes she saw Madam Noy come from the barn
with a bowl of corn in her hands to feed her poultry of all sorts and
sizes. "Good morrow to your honour," said Betty, as she went up
curtseying and nodding to Madam, "Dear me, how well you are lookan,
you're gettan to look younger and younger I do declare, and what
beautiful hens, ducks, and geese, you've got! The finest in the parish I
do believe. Do 'e know, Madam dear, that I've got an old cluckan hen
that I should like to put to set, ef you would spare me a dozen eggs,
the sort of your coppies I'd like best." "Arrea! Betty, I suppose you
would," said Madam, "but I've no eggs to spare from my hens with cops
nor the ones without, while I've so many of my own clucking hens about.
And dust thee think, than, that when I've refused to sell any of my new
sort to my own sister Dame Pendar, or to my cousin Madam Trezillian,
that I would spare them to the likes of you?" "I don't care a cuss
whether you do or no," Betty replied, "but if you won't sell me some
eggs you shall wish your cake dough." "Now go thee way'st home thou
deceitful old bitch," said the lady in a rage, "and what business hast
thee here pryan about the place and covetan all thee cust spy with thy
evil eye, I'd like to know. Begone, or I'll set the dogs at thee, and
throw fire over thee, dosn't think that I'm afraid of thy witchcraft."
"I am on the church-road through the town-place," said Betty, "and here
I will stop as long as I like in spite of you and your lawyers too."
Madam Noy and Betty continued their threats and abuse until the lady
became so enraged, at the old woman's persistence to stay in her
town-place, that she snatched up a stone, threw it at Betty, and hit her
right on her noddle, with a blow that made her jaws rattle. Betty limped
to the stile mumbling to herself, "now may the devil help me and by all
that's evil here I will rest till I've curst thee to my heart's
content." Standing on the stile she pointed her finger at Madam Noy and
made the lady 'shake in her shoes;' whilst she nodded her head, waved
her out-stretched hand, and ill-wished her by saying,--
"Mary Noy, thou ugly, old, and spiteful plague,
I give thee the collick, the palsy, and ague.
All the eggs thy fowls lay, from this shall be addle,
All thy hens have the pip and die with the straddle.
And before nine moons have come and gone,
Of all thy coppies there shan't live one:
Thy arm and thy hand, that cast the stone,
Shall wither and waste to skin and bone."
Madam Noy was never well from that day, her fowls' eggs were always bad,
and all Betty's spells took effect. Before six months were past she lost
her coppies every one; for, in place of gay tufts of feathers, the
chickens' brains came out on all those hatched from her coppies' eggs.
A noted old droll-teller and clock-cleaner of Sancreed, called Billy
Foss, used to recite this, and many other stories, in a sort of doggrel,
in which he mostly half said and half sung his drolls. We remember but
little more of Billy's verse, in this story, than the few lines given
above; these are enough, however, for a sample of the kind of
composition that was much in vogue with our old droll-tellers.
'Tis said that Betty owed her proficiency in the black art to her
frequent conferences with Old Nick, (or her familiar, whatever his name
might have been,) who almost nightly took the form of An' Mally Perase's
black bull, and, under that shape, met the witch on the northern side of
Burian churchyard. Much more is related of Betty's transactions, but
nothing new in the annals of witchcraft; and enough has been stated to
serve as an example of the faith and practices in such matters long ago;
indeed, we may say that such beliefs and doings are anything but
extinct; something turns up, every now and then, to show that,
notwithstanding all the teaching and preaching, faith in witchcraft, and
other dreary superstitions, are nearly as rife as ever.
We give the following instance as just related.
A MODERN SANCREED WITCH.
Only t'other day a farmer of Sancreed had three or four dairy-cows to
let, and a woman who lived near by offered to take them, but as he
didn't altogether like this woman he wouldn't close the bargain with
her, and another neighbour soon agreed for the dairy. When the woman
heard who had been preferred, she told everybody she met with that
Jemmy--the man who took the cows--should rue the day that he ventured to
cross her path. "For if I didn't know the right hour and minute," said
she, "I would ill wish him every minute of the day till the spell was
cast." A week or so after the first cow was in milking, Jemmy and his
wife came to the farmer's house one night and said, "we believe that our
cow must be ill-wished, for her milk is all bucked and gone to cruds
(curds), with only a mere skin of cream on the pans; if you don't
believe it come and see for yourself." The farmer and some of his family
went home with the dairy-man, and found the milk like it often is in
summer when the buck (spittle-fly) is on the grass, that, so it is
believed, makes milk curdle then without becoming sour. The farmer and
his wife couldn't tell what to think of milk being in that state early
in spring; he took home the cow, however, and let the dairy-man have
another, and when she was milked by Jemmy her milk 'runned' too, like
that of the former one, which was then all right in the master's dairy.
And so it continued with all the other cows Jemmy had; it was only for a
day now and then, that any cream rose; other things went wrong with him
and his family, and the farmer was at last obliged to take back his cows
because there was no chance of his dairy-man making the rent. Meanwhile
the woman who coveted them bragged how she had served Jemmy out for
interfering.
"The very night I heard that he had took the cows," said she, "I went
on my knees under a white-thorn tree by the crossroads, and there, for
best part of that night, I called on the powers till they helped me to
cast the spells that gave old Jemmy and his family plenty of junket and
sour milk for a time." In fact she was proud to make her neighbours
believe her to be a witch.
We suppose the reason why this would-be witch chose the cross-road thorn
as a suitable place for her hellish work, was because many such trees
are said to have sprung from stakes driven into suicides' graves; also
on account of those sites being often visited by Old Nick and his
headless dogs when they take their nightly rounds to see if any spirits
have wandered from their assigned resting-places.
We may remark that, although the Black-huntsman's hounds are said to
have neither heads nor tails, yet according to our popular mythology,
they are believed to have the former appendages, with the same
lineaments they bore when they dwelt on earth in human forms, but they
make their heads invisible, to ordinary mortals, that they may not be
known.
The same applies to apparently headless coach-drivers, horses, &c., that
were frequently seen in old times.
[Illustration]
A QUEEN'S VISIT TO BARANHUAL.
At all feasts where ale was strongest,
Sat this gracious Queen the longest,
First to come and last to go.
LONGFELLOW, _slightly altered_.
There is a tradition,--that has taken the form of a droll, as it is
related by old people of Buryan,--which sayeth that when the Pendars
lived in grand style, in Baranhual, a Queen and her retinue landed from
a Man-of-war, at Moushal, for the sake of seeing the Logan Rock and
Land's End. News of the intended trip soon spread, and reached Buryan
ere sufficient horses could be procured to furnish out the cavalcade. On
the morning of the royal progress, work was at a stand still, and nearly
all who could "lift a leg" started off from house and field towards
Burian Church-town, as it was rumoured that Her Majesty intended to
inspect Buryan Church on her way. So, in the morning early, Buryan bells
were set a ringing; and Church-town folks arrayed themselves in their
best to receive the Queen with due honours.
Every soul left Baranhual except old Dame Pendar, who was rather
infirm. "My lady, the Queen," said she, "is but a woman, and make the
most of her, even if she do wear a crown on her head every day of her
life, with velvet robes all broider'd in gold, silk stockings, and
diamond-buckles on her satin shoes, with rings on her fingers and bells
on her toes, yet she's much like myself under all her fine clothes; and
it esn't worth while to leave the house alone, and all that's in it, and
go so far to see her at my time of life; besides there's the milk to
scald and many jobs to be done at all hours. No, verily," said she to
her son and his wife, "you may be off to Church-town with the
scabble-angow (rag, tag, and bob-tail), but, indeed, I'll stay home and
guard the house, and all that's in it. That shall never be left alone
whilst I draw breath."
At that time the Pendars kept a capstan in repair, and gave other aids
to the fishery at Penberth,--which is partly in Baranhual ground,--and
received for it a certain portion of fish from the owners of each boat
kept in the cove.
An hour or so after all the household, but old mistress, had started off
to behold a queen, An' Joan Taskes came up from Penberth with a cowal
full of fish, as the Squire's dues from all the boats which landed that
morning. Madam told An' Joan to take the fish to the river, and that she
would be down in a minute to help clean them. Before Joan had taken all
out of her cowal, and laid them on the stepping-stones, that stood in
the water where Baranhual bridge now crosses it, old mistress arrived,
knife in hand, ready to help clean and split her fish. They had nearly
finished their job,--the old lady standing on a stepping-stone, with her
skirts tucked up to her knees, taking the fish from An' Joan, who waded
in the stream to give them a last rinsing,--when the old fishwife, on
hearing a clatter of horses' hoofs coming down hill, looked up, turned
round, and bawled out, "Can I believe my eyes; look 'e mistress, dear;
ef I live, there's hundreds of kings and queens ridan down the hill. I
can see more than a score, and there's more a coman round the turnan;
pull down your petticoats, do! Oh, I wish to gracious I had a clean
towser on, and my best hat."
Before old Joan had ceased exclaiming, and fixing herself as tidy as she
could--though Madam Pendar, intent on the fish, didn't notice her
commotion--a score or so of ladies and gentlemen on horseback, were
within a stone's-cast. They drew reins, and a horseman started forward,
rode down into the water, accosted the old lady, enquired if Squire
Pendar lived in the house on the hill, and informed the wondering women
that Her Majesty, on her route to the Logan Rock, well remembering that
the Pendars had always been staunch friends to the royal cause, had
preferred coming that way to give him a visit, instead of seeing Buryan
Church, which Her Majesty and her attendants might have a glance at on
their return from the Land's End. Madam replied that she was very glad
to see "my lady, the Queen;" and was sorry that her son and his wife,
with all their servants, were gone to pay their respects to Her Majesty
in Church-town, as everybody said that was the intended route, and
nobody home but herself to receive them.
"My royal mistress approaches to speak for herself," said he.
Madam was still standing on a stone, knife in hand, her coats tucked
up, and kirtle drawn through her apron-string, when the Queen,
understanding that her gentleman was speaking to no less a person than
Madam Pendar, rode into the water, shook hands with her, and said, "If
all are gone to see the Queen and left 'e alone, the Queen is come to
see you; and I, and my attendants, would be glad to rest a while to have
something to eat, and to mend the rents in our clothes that are torn to
'skethans' with thorns and brambles that overhang the narrow lanes."
"The Lord love 'e, my dear lady, the Queen," exclaimed she, making a low
curtsey, and quite overcome with honour. "Do 'e put your hand, now--as
mine, on that side, is fishy and wet--into my left pocket, take out the
key of the fore-door, and my huzzey (housewife) you will find in it
needles and thread of all colours, ride up to the house, let yourselves
in, and I'll follow with the fish, and do the best we can to entertain
'e." "We should like nothing so much as some of that nice fish, draining
on the stones," said the Queen, in trying to get a key, large enow for a
church-door, out of Madam's pocket. "Bless your life, and you shall have
them," replied the old lady. "I am so flambustered (confounded) with the
honour you have done me, that I hardly know which end I stand upon. But
you will want my scissors, pieces of stuff, and other things in my
pockets, for mending," continued she, in untying the string from around
her waist, that kept up her pockets; "take them all as they are; you
will find most everything in them."
The precious pockets, like knapsacks, were handed to a gentleman who
slung them across his saddle-bow, and the Queen rode on well pleased
with Dame Pendar.
Joan stood gaping and staring, nodding and smiling, without speaking a
word, though many spoke to her; but their backs were no sooner turned
than she said, "Why, mistress, dear, can you make out their lingo? Can
that lady, who spoke to 'e, be a Queen? Why, where's her crown? It
wasn't upon her head, I'm sure." "Cease thy clack, be quick and gather
up the fish," Madam replied; "she put her crown in her pocket, I
suppose, that the thorns might'nt sweep it off her head and under the
horses' feet; thee west see her wearing of it when she's seated in the
great parlour, by and bye, eating bread and honey: I'm glad, though,
thee hast brought up a lot of nice mullett, bass, whiting-pullocks, and
other fish for pies and frying, besides good large cod and ling for
boiling."
When Dame Pendar and Joan got up to the house, they found the Queen and
her ladies in the parlour busy sewing up rents in their garments; and
the gentlemen--having stabled their horses--had made a blazing fire on
the hearth. A large brass brewing-pan was placed on a brandes (trivet);
pounds of butter and lard cast into it, and the nicest frying-fish
cooked therein.
Mullet-and-parsley pies were put to bake on the hearth; large fishes
boiled, and conger stewed, with fennel, in as many crocks and kettles as
it would contain, with other things. Ladies and gentlemen--Queen and
all--helped: some got the best pewter platters, plates, and
flagons--only used on grand occasions--out of a chest, those on dressers
and shelves, for ordinary use, wern't half enough; others peeled garlic
and hollick, chopped fennel, tarragon, and other herbs to flavour
sauces. Several tried to grind mustard, but none could give the right
motion to their knees to make the bullet spin round in the bowl, and old
mistress was obliged to grind it all, or have it spoiled. They dished up
fried and boiled fish, swimming in butter; bowls of cream were poured
into the pies; lucky, too, Madam had a batch of barley bread just baked,
hot and hot.
Two gentlemen placed a high-backed carved oak chair, with several
pillows thereon, at the head of the hall table, and Her Majesty was
seated in as much state as she desired. They ate, one and all, with such
an appetite, as if they hadn't tasted "meat" for a week, so old Joan
Taskes said. The Queen imbibed old ale from a silver goblet; her ladies
from pewter tankards and flagons; her gentlemen drank beer and cider
from black-jacks and brown-georges (leather drinking vessels), which
were often replenished.
Wasn't Dame Pendar delighted to see it all, as she bustled about to help
Her Majesty to all sorts of sauces, of her own compounding. Indeed it
was, as she said, "the proudest day of her life." She was, above all,
elated when her royal guest smacked her lips after a sip of brandy, and
swore, "by cock and pie," that "true as she was a sinner, never before,
in all her born days, had she so much enjoyed a repast."
When the Queen and her ladies returned to the parlour, Dame Pendar
placed before them white bread, cream and honey, brandy, sweet-drink
(metheglin), and other cordials, of which they all partook with great
pleasure. Having mended their garments, the ladies thought it full time
to proceed on their journey, if they were to see the Logan Rock and
Land's End that day.
But Her Majesty, bless her honest heart, was so well pleased with her
entertainment that she preferred to stay there with old Dame Pendar till
her attendants returned; so they, with her permission, rode away to
Castle-Treen.
When the Queen's suite had departed, Dame Pendar produced from her own
private cupboard, a bottle of rare old mead, and a flask of extra strong
brandy, for Her Majesty to taste; and she, liking them well, drank glass
upon glass of mead, with several sips of brandy, to keep the fish from
"flowing on her stomach," and to show their loving regard for each
other, they exchanged all the contents of their pockets for keepsakes;
yea, every item, except their crooked sixpences, which they kept for
good luck.
At length the Queen, feeling drowsy, reclined in a long window-seat,
thence rolled on the floor, where she lay puffing and snoring, unable to
rise. Dame Pendar, by so often drinking "Here's health and long life to
'e, my dear lady, the Queen," was too fuddled to help her up, so she lay
down with her for company; and old Joan, who had been sipping of all
sorts, and drinking everybody's health, was stretched under the kitchen
table.
The Queen's attendants, having passed hours in viewing the Logan Rock
and other wonders of Castle-Treen, 'couranted' about amongst the rocks,
where they found pleasant places for courting, till nearly sunset. They
then, concluding it was too late for going to the Land's End, mounted
and returned to Baranhual, that they might wait on their royal mistress,
and reach Moushal in time to be on board before dark. They galloped away
in hot haste, expecting to find Her Majesty impatiently awaiting their
return; but, sad to say, they found her--all her state forgotten--lying
helpless on the floor, beside Dame Pendar. The royal lady was hastily
lifted on her palfrey; Joan Taskes--now the least drunk of the
three--helped to fasten a giss (hempen girth) across her Majesty's lap,
to keep her safe in the saddle, and they quickly departed.
Now it so happened that Squire Pendar, his wife, and their servants,
tired waiting for the Queen, in Church-town, till near night, returned
home across the fields, Selena way, arrived at the Green-court gate just
in time to catch a glimpse of Her Majesty under the trees that darkened
the avenue. He had the merest glance of her going down hill with her
head drooping over her horse's mane, and a gentleman holding her steady;
and that's the last seen of her in Buryan. Squire Pendar, his wife, and
their servants were all rather muddled too, from having passed all day
at Church-town with hundreds of gentle and simple, in drinking "Here's
to the Queen and ourselves, comrades;" yet he and his wife expressed
great surprise and ill-humour at finding their house all in disorder.
Joan told them how they all enjoyed their entertainment. "Bad luck to
them all!" murmured he; "our cellar-floor is like mud with spilt liquor,
and not a gallon of beer or cider left in the casks. What mother said
was true enow; the Queen, for all her fine clothes, is much like another
woman, especially when drunk." Next morning he could hardly be persuaded
that Her Majesty had been there at all, till his mother showed him what
fine things she had as keepsakes. "My thimble, as thou knowest, was
brass," said she, "and my bodkin silver; but see, here's my gracious
lady's silver thimble and golden bodkin:" then, with great pride,
drawing from her pocket the Queen's huzzey, she continued "if anything
more is wanted to assure thee how I've been honoured by my gracious
lady, behold this!" She then displayed what one may conjecture to have
been a remarkable contrivance for containing many requisites of a lady's
work-box or bag, and several toilet articles besides. It was a yard long
when unfolded; every little pocket and flap of a different sort of rich
stuff, all worked in elegant designs, with gold and silver thread,
coloured silks, intermixed with pearls and precious stones, or what
passed for such. It folded into strong leather covers, fastened with
silver clasps like a book; and the upper cover was lined with a mirror.
Hundreds of people came to see it suspended, at full length, the
looking-glass at top, over the parlour fire-place, where it was kept in
remembrance of the Queen's visit.
The shell-room was built after, and some say it was intended to
commemorate that honour. This apartment was incrusted with
shells,--mostly from Parcurnow. Among other devices, a cavalier was
pourtrayed, as if pursued by robbers; and under this shell-picture, the
legend,--"This is the heir, come let us slay him, that the inheritance
may be ours."
We have frequently remarked to old persons, who related the above story,
that nothing is said in any county or other history of a Queen having
visited Baranhual. "Perhaps your history-makers never heard of it," they
reply: "no one belonging to Buryan saw her plainly, that's true, except
the two old women." Squire Pendar and his servants only had a glimpse in
the twilight of a company on horseback passing down the road, which was
then overhung with large spreading sycamores,--three rows of them on
each side,--which soon hid his royal guests. But the Pendars, even in
our time, poor as they were,--many of them labourers and fishermen,--had
always preserved something among them that the Queen was said to have
left with old Madam hundreds of years ago; and all of the name, that we
have met with, say that Pendre, Baranhual, Trevider, and other lands in
Buryan, once belonged to their forefathers.
[Illustration]
THE SMALL PEOPLE'S COW.
They are fairies; he that speaks to them shall die.
I'll wink and couch; no man their works must eye.
_Merry Wives of Windsor._
There is a story connected with the Pendars which says that, when this
family was on its wane, the owner of Baranhual had a fine red cow,
called Rosy, which gave twice as much milk as an ordinary one. She
retained her milk-yielding power all the year through, and kept in good
condition, even in winter, when other cattle on better food were reduced
to skin and bone. Rosy would yield all her morning's milk, but every
evening when much--and that the richest--still remained in her udder,
she would stop chewing her cud, cock her ears, low gently as if calling
a calf, and the "shower" of milk would cease. If the maid attempted to
renew her milking Molly would kick the bucket and gallop away to a
remote part of the field.
Dame Pendar, thinking the milkmaid didn't shake Rosy's bag and coax her
enough, tried, one evening, what she could do, but when she thought by
"visting" Molly's teats to get more milk, after the cow's usual signal
to cease, she up foot and smashed the wooden pail to pieces, tossed Dame
Pendar over her back, and, bellowing, raced away--tail on end.
Though Rosy kept in milk when all other cows were "gone to sew" (dry),
yet, because there was something strange about her and as she was always
fit for the butchers, an attempt was made, soon after the dame's
tossing, to get her to market; but all the people on Baranhual couldn't
drive her off the farm.
Over a while Rosy had a heifer calf, and when it had sucked its fill,
its dam gave her usual quantity of milk into the bucket, and then enough
remained to fill another. Stranger still, in a few weeks the calf could
eat herbage, and its dam weaned it gradually, but it could never be
separated from her.
Everything prospered with Mr. Pendar. His cattle and crops throve
wonderfully, till one Midsummer's night. His milkmaid having gone to
games held at Penberth, or some place near it, only returned when the
stars began to blink. Rosy, impatient to be milked, came to meet her in
the field, stood still, placed back her leg, chewed her cud, and
showered her milk into the bucket till she had yielded more than usual:
then she stretched herself, looked around, and gently lowed whilst the
maid, without rising from her milking-stool, pulled up a handful of
grass, rolled it into a pad and placed it inside her hat, that she might
carry her bucket the steadier. Having put on her hat she was surprised
to see hundreds of "Small People" (fairies) around the cow, and on her
back, neck, and head. A great number of little beings--as many as could
get under Rosy's udder at once--held butter-cups, and other handy
flowers or leaves, twisted into drinking vessels, to catch the shower of
milk that fell among them, and some sucked it from clover-blossoms. As
one set walked off satisfied, others took their places. They moved about
so quickly that the milkmaid's head got almost "light" whilst she looked
at them. "You should have seen," said the maid afterwards, "how pleased
Rosy looked, as she tried to lick those on her neck who scratched her
behind her horns, or picked ticks from her ears; whilst others, on her
back smoothed down every hair of her coat. They made much of the calf,
too; and, when they had their fill of milk, one and all in turn brought
their little arms full of herbs to Rosy and her calf,--how they licked
all up and looked for more!"
Some little folks, who came late, were mounted on hares, which they left
to graze a few yards from the cow.
For a good while the milkmaid stood, with the bucket on her head, like
one spell-bound, looking at the Small People; and she would have
continued much longer to admire them, but, just as some came within a
yard of her, Dame Pendar suddenly stood up on the field-hedge and called
to know how she was so long about Rosy, and had all the rest still to
milk, and how she hadn't brought in a bucket-full yet?
At the first sound of old Dame Pendar's voice, the Small People pointed
their fingers and made wry faces at her; then off galloped Rosy and the
troop of small folks with her--all out of sight in a wink.
The maid hastened in, and told her mistress, and master too, what she
had seen.
"Ah! fax, I knowed," said Dame Pendar to her husband, "and didn't I
always tell 'e something was the matter that Rosy wouldn't yield half
her milk. And surely," she continued to the milkmaid, "thou must have a
four-leaved-clover, about thee; give me the wad in thy hat that I may
look through it."
She examined it, and sure enough, found a stem of white clover, or
three-leaved grass, with four leaves on it.
The mistress asked how big the Small People were, and how dressed.
"But few of them are more than half a yard or so high," the maid
replied; "the women not so tall, yet they looked beautiful, all dressed
like gentry; the women wore gowns as gay as a flower-garden in summer;
their flaxen hair fell, in long curls, on their necks; and the men were
very smart, all like sodjers or huntsmen, so it seemed to me. But they
made frightful faces at you, and glared as if they would be the death of
'e. I shouldn't like to be in your shoes."
"Our best cow is as bad as bewitched," said Dame Pendar to her husband,
"and what shall we do to drive the plagues of sprites?"
Her husband told her not to be so greedy; for old folks said that the
Small People always brought good luck when unmolested and their doings
were not pried into by curious fools; for his part, he was content to
leave well alone. She made no reply, but--determined to have her way,
next morning, betimes, unknown to her good man--she trotted off to
Penberth, or Treen, and consulted a red-haired woman that Mr. Pendar
couldn't "abide," because she was reputed, and truly, to be a witch.
"I'll drive them from our best cow, and from Baranhual, too, if it can
be done," said Dame Pendar to the hag. "Nothing easier," replied she,
"for they can't endure the sea, nor anything that comes therefrom, and,
above all, they abhor salt; so you have only to scatter it over your
cow, wash her udder in brine or sea-water, and sprinkle it about your
place."
Dame Pendar hastened home, and, without delay, powdered Rosy with salt,
bathed her udder in brine and sprinkled it about the fields and
town-place.
In the evening, betimes, she went herself to milk her best cow, and
carried two buckets, thinking they would both be filled. Rosy, without
budging, let her be seated and milk a little; but feeling her udder
thumped, "visted," and roughly shaken, when she withheld her flow, she
kicked the pail to shivers, laid Dame Pendar sprawling, then tossed her
greedy mistress heels over head, and galloped off, "belving" like a mad
thing.
All the people in Baranhual couldn't stop her in a corner, and, from
that day, not a drop of milk did they get from her.
For days and nights she would roam about the farm, followed by her
heifer--no hedges stopped them--and both "belving," all the time, like
cows that had lost their calves. Before Christmas they became
hair-pitched, lean, and lousy; and all the other cattle on Baranhual
were as bad.
Mr. Pendar, being ignorant of what his wife had done, sought aid from,
and brought to his farm, all the most noted conjurers, pellars, and
white witches in the West Country to arrest the run of bad luck that
pursued everything belonging to him. They bled his diseased cattle on
straw, burned the straw and blood, carried flaming torches of a night,
around the folds. Fire was also borne--with the sun's course--around
sown fields. Bonfires were lit, and his cattle forced through their
flame. Other rites were performed according to old usages only known to
pellars. Even his finest calf was burnt alive. But all was of no avail.
To leave nothing undone, they cut down or rooted up all barberry bushes,
that grew about on orchard hedges and elsewhere; but Mr. Pendar's crops
were blighted all the same. In the meantime Rosy and her heifer were
seldom seen, but often heard bellowing about Pednsawnack, over
Porguarnon, or in other dangerous cleves and unfrequented places: they
couldn't be brought into the town-place to undergo spells or
counter-spells. But when more than a year had passed, and the next
Buryan fair came round, Mr. Pendar made up his mind to sell Rosy and her
heifer. All Baranhual men and boys, with many neighbours mustered, and
after much trouble, drove them on to the church-town road. But they
could neither be got to fair nor home again. After following them on
horseback till night, Mr. Pendar caught a glimpse of Rosy and her heifer
racing over Sennen Green toward Genvor Sands, and they were nevermore
seen. Dame Pendar, from the time she got kicked and tossed, was rickety
till the day of her death. The milkmaid, too, from a spanking damsel who
had her choice of sweethearts, in less than a year became a doudy that
no young man cared for or would look at. From that time everything went
wrong with the Pendars, and, in a few generations, those of the name who
remained in Buryan hadn't an inch of land to call their own.
* * * * *
There are two or three versions of this story, which differ but little
from the above, except in locating the Small People's Cow on other farms
that were dwelling-places of the Pendars in olden times.
[Illustration]
TOM OF CHYANNOR, THE TIN-STREAMER.
A WEST-COUNTRY DROLL.
Telle us swiche thing, as may our hertes glade.
Be blithe, although thou ride upon a jade.
What though thyn horse be bothe foule and lene,
If he wol serve thee, recke thee not a bene:
Loke that thyn herte be mery evermore.
Yes, hoste, quode he, so mote I ride or go,
But I be mery, ywis I wol be blamed.
* * * * *
But right anon thise gentiles gan to crie;
Nay, let him tell us of no ribandrie,
Tel us som moral thing, that we mow lere,
Som wit, and thanne wol we gladly here.
CHAUCER.
A long way back, in old times, when Parcurnow was the chief port west
of Hayle, and Treene a market town, (as it had been since the castle's
outer walls were built, 'tis said), there lived in a little
out-of-the-way place known as Chyannor, a man called Tom, with his
wife--we don't know her name, more's the pity--and their daughter
Patience. When farm-work fell scant Tom streamed for tin in moors near
his dwelling; but, the overburthen there being deep and tin scarce, he
got sick of the job, and one day, between tilling season and harvest,
knacked his bal, and took the little tin he had raised that summer down
to Treen for sale. Many woollen-weavers and ropers lived there, and
withe-weavers (basket-makers) who made cowals (creels) that pleased
fisherwomen better than any to be got elsewhere. In Treen market-place
stood a fine broad garack-zans (holy rock). It was nearly round, about
four feet high, eight feet across, and level as a table, except that in
its upper surface shallow pits were hollowed, and in these stream-tin,
brought for sale or exchange, was piled. Tom, having placed his tin in
one of the hollows of this stone, inquired the news, and asked how work
was away in the East Country, of merchants from Market-jew, who brought
goods in their vessels to Parcurnow, which was then clear of sand, and
the tide flowed in a deep channel up to an old caunse (paved road) still
to be seen. The merchants told him that streamers' work might be had in
a place called Praze-an-Beeble, a short day's journey from Market-jew.
Tom, having exchanged his tin for leather and other things, took a drink
of cider with the merchants, went home, and told his wife what he had
learned.
"One must be a fool," said he, "to stay here and starve, when two or
three days' journey will take one to a land of plenty. What do'st thee
think wife?"
"Well, good man," said she, "thee west (wilt) always have thy own way,
whatever one may say: if thee hast a mind to go eastward, to look for
work, go! I and the maid will stay and get our living here. But don't 'e
go for a day or two, that I may put thy clothes in order, and bake a
fuggan (heavy cake) for thee to eat on thy way. Long lanes and scant
entertainment thee west find, I expect?"
"It will take me some days," replied he, "to go round and wish the
neighbours well, and to get my tools to-rights before I start."
In three days Tom got his piggal (beat-axe) and visgey (pick) cossened
(re-steeled), and other tools repaired, that he intended to take with
him, and had said, "I wish 'e well, till I see 'e again" to every body
for miles round. Tom kissed the young women, and the elderly ones kissed
him, and said, "If we never see thee again we wish thee good luck for
thy courage; but take care thee doesn't get kidnapped and sperritted
away in Market-jew, as many a good man have been before now, and
nevermore heard of."
When all was ready for Tom's journey, his tools, provisions, and clothes
made a heavy load to travel with. In the morning, early, he started. His
wife and daughter went many miles on the way, carrying his things, till
they arrived at a public house where the roads meet in a place since
called Catch-all. Here they had a drop to cheer their hearts. "Be sure,
wife," said Tom, "to take care of our only child, Patience. She is but
fifteen, mind." After much kissing, crying, wishes for good luck, and a
speedy return, they parted.
Tom reached Market-jew before dark, and was much bewildered to see so
large a place and so many people. Moes-hal was the largest town he had
seen, and the farthest east he had ever been till then. As it happened
to be Whitsun market, streamers in great numbers had brought their tin
for sale or to exchange for clothing and other things. It was sold by
measure, from a pottle to a strike (bushel). Large quantities were
purchased by smelters and merchants. What with foreign traders,
market-people, pilgrims to the Mount, and pleasure-seekers, there was
noise and bustle enough. Tom, however, found lodgings in a quiet house,
a little out of the town, and was on his road, early next day, towards a
place where he was told that he might get work. Though in a strange land
he went boldly on over barren hills, across deep bottoms, overgrown with
thickets; and, nothing daunted, he waded streams of names unknown; and
indeed he felt proud, as a traveller, to think that he was going farther
east from home than but few of St. Levan had ever been. Thus trudging
along he passed over Roost Common, through Colenso and Chypraze,
traversed Godolphin hills, rested some time near Godolphin
stepping-stones, and then pursued his way through Chywhella, and over
Crenver Downs. About sunset he passed this tract of moorland, rich in
tin, and arrived at a dwelling surrounded with a court and outbuildings
that showed it was a farmer's house. This he afterwards learnt was
Penthoga.
He knocked at the door and said to the mistress, who opened it, "I have
travelled from far away in the West Country, to seek work, and would be
glad to lodge in your barn to-night."
"Come in, good man; lay down your burthen and sit at the board," said
she.
"What cheer, stranger?" exclaimed the farmer; "come here beside me, and
when supper is over we will hear the news from your country. And wife,
bring a flagon of ale; that's better drink after a journey than milk,"
continued he, whilst heaping Tom's trencher from a huge steaming pie of
hare, beef, and other meat.
Having made a hearty meal Tom turned his leg over the form and, looking
towards the farmer, said, "This is a house of plenty, master. I wish you
wanted a servant."
"Well, my son, and what work can you do?" asked the farmer.
"All sorts of husbandry or moor-work," he replied. "Give me a board like
this, to keep up my strength, and I'll turn my back for no man."
After some hours' talk about Tom's country, and other matters, the
farmer, finding him to be a simple, honest fellow, agreed to take him,
and they bargained for two pounds a year wages. Now, as Tom didn't mind
doing a trifle of work, after his day's task was done, the farmer gave
him many odd pence. After supper of winters' nights master and men told
old drolls and carded wool, whilst mistress and her maids kept their
turns (spinning wheels) going till they had each spun their pound of
yarn. The women knitted for him warm stockings, and washed and mended
his clothes. All were well pleased with Tom, and he liked his place.
When the year was ended, the farmer brought two pounds from his chest,
laid them on the board, and, showing them to Tom, who sat opposite, said
"Here are your wages, my son; but if you will give them back to me I
will teach 'e a piece of wisdom more worth than silver and gold."
"Give them here to me," said Tom, "and keep your pennyworth of wit."
"No," said his master, "give them to me, and I will tell thee."
"Well take them to thee," said Tom.
Then said his master, "_Take care never to lodge in a house where an old
man is married to a young woman._"
Then they bargained for another year, and, when that was ended, his
master brought two pounds; laying them on the table, as before, he said
"See, Tom, here are thy wages; but if thou wilt give them back to me I
will teach thee another piece of wisdom."
"No, by dad," answered he; "hand them here to me; I don't want your
pennyworth of wit."
"No," said his master, "give them to me, and I will tell thee a piece of
wisdom more worth than strength."
"Take them to thee," said Tom.
Then said his master, "_Take care never to leave an old road for a new
one._"
They bargained for another year.
Tom now thought much of his wife and daughter, and made up his mind to
return home when his time was up. Next year ended, his master brought
the two pounds, and said, "See here are thy wages; but if thou wilt give
them back again to me I will teach thee the best point of wisdom of
all."
"No bring them here; I have wit enow to find my road home again."
"No," said his master, "thou wilt need it then, more than ever. Give
them to me and I will tell 'e."
"Take them to thee," said he.
"Well now, as thee hast served me truly, like an honest fellow," said
his master, "I will tell thee two points of wisdom. First, _never swear
to any body or thing seen through glass_; second, _be thrashed twice
before content once_. This is the best point of wisdom of all."
Now Tom said he would serve no longer but leave at once and go to see
his wife and child. "No, don't go to-day," his master answered; "for my
wife is going to bake to-morrow morning; she shall make a cake for thee
to take home to thy wife, and a hoggan (a cake with meat baked on it)
for thee to eat by the way."
"Very well." said Tom, "as it's Whitsuntide, I'll wait till Tuesday."
"I am very sorry thee art going to leave us, my son," said the farmer's
wife; "and I should be glad if thee west thatch the hen's house and the
duck's crow for me, whilst I make thee a cake and hoggan; then I will
give thee a charmed stone for thy daughter, that shall be of more worth
to her than gold or jewels."
In a few hours Tom thatched all the outbuildings that required it, came
into the house, and his mistress gave him a smooth grey stone, about the
size and shape of an acorn, with a hole drilled through it, for hanging
it by a cord round the neck. "Though this appeareth only like a bit of
smooth elvan (trap rock) it is a jewel of great virtue," said the
mistress. "It will preserve any woman that weareth it from much trouble
if she but keepeth it in her mouth, with her lips closed, that it may
not drop out when her husband or any other contendeth with her. I will
tie it round thy neck, that it may'nt be lost," said she; and did so.
Tuesday morning Tom took leave, with many kind wishes and promises to
see them again. "Take this cake home to your wife, my son," said his
master, "and eat it when you are most merry together." "And what you
will find in this dinner-bag," said his mistress, "is for 'e to eat on
the road. Good luck attend thee; come to see us again; thee west be
right welcome always."
Tom trudged on for many miles a somewhat different road to that he went,
without meeting with anybody, till, having passed St. Hillar downs, he
fell in with three merchants of Treen, driving before them their
pack-horses laden with wool from Helaston fair, whither they had been
with cloth and other goods. "What cheer, Tom," cried they, "where hast
thou been, and how hast thou fared this long time? We are glad to have
the sight of thee!"
"I have been in service and am now going home to my wife; and glad I am
to meet men of my parish," said he.
"Come along with us; right welcome thou shalt be," said they.
They kept together and came to Market-jew, where the merchants proposed
to sup and stay over night in a house where they had formerly lodged.
"And come along with us, Tom, right welcome thou shalt be," said they.
And when they were come to the inn, Tom said, "I don't know about
stopping here; before settling that point, I must see the host."
"The host of the house!" they exclaimed; "what cans't thou want with
the host? Here is the hostess--young and buxom, as you may see. But if
you must needs see the host, you will find him in the kitchen."
By the kitchen fire, sitting on a three-legged stool, Tom saw a feeble,
bald-headed old man, turning the spit. "Oh! by my dearly bought wit, I
see this is never the inn for me," said Tom, "I will not lodge here, but
in the next house."
"Go not yet," said Treen merchants; "stay, take supper with us, thou art
heartily welcome."
Soon after supper the merchants saw their horses fed, well groomed, and
littered; then, being tired, they went early to bed, and Tom, on
entering the next house, was told there was no spare bed, only some
straw in a garret where lumber was mostly kept; he might rest there and
welcome, free of charge.
"I can sleep there very well," Tom answered; and the host shewed him the
place, where sweet straw was piled near a boarding that divided it from
the next house, where the Treen merchants lodged. Now the mistress of
the inn was very fond of a young fellow who sauntered about, and did
nothing for his living but court the landladies of Market-jew. The young
wife had long been tired of her old man and wished him dead, but as he
never seemed inclined to die, she persuaded the young fellow to put him
going that night, as it seemed to her a good opportunity for them to
escape suspicion of the dark deed.
A little before daybreak she ran to the mayor's house--her hair in
disorder and her clothes rent--crying when she came near it, "Vengeance!
Vengeance! Do me justice my neighbours! Help me, your worship! My sweet
handsome man, don't delay," cried she, when under his chamber window. "I
have been foully dishonoured. My money is stolen, and my dear husband
murdered, by three West Country villains, who lodged in our house last
night. They are now getting ready to start in haste."
The mayor called from his chamber window, "Go, tell the crier to sound
his trumpet through the streets, and summon the town folk to meet me in
the market place."
In a short time the townspeople assembled in the market square, where
their mayor and the hostess awaited them. Said the mayor to his
constables, "Go to this good woman's house, and bring hither three men
you will find there." Turning to the town's people he continued, "My
honest neighbours, choose a jury among ye, that we may try these West
Country rascals, right away, for robbery and murder, and hang them
before breakfast--no doubt they are guilty--and the urgency of our own
business will not admit of our wasting much time on such matters. And,
thank God, we have no lawyers in Market-jew to confound us with their
quibbles, to embarrass justice, and to hinder speedy punishment."
Before the mayor had finished speaking the three Treen merchants were
brought, handcuffed, into his presence. When they had all entered the
townhall (where the mayor, even in those days, sat with his back towards
the one window) his worship said, "Good woman, state your case."
When she stood up one might see that she was one of those who never
looked a person fairly in the face, but take one's measure with stealthy
glances. She put on a sanctified look; groaned; sighed; turned up her
eyes; and exclaimed, "Oh, blessed Saint Mary, help me to declare the
troubles I endured last night! Know, your worship and kind neighbours
all," said she, glancing round, "that, towards the morning part of the
night, these three villains came into my chamber, where my blessed
husband--God rest him!--and myself were in bed. One of them broke open
our money-chest, whilst another did a deed my modesty forbids me to
name. My dear man, in trying to defend my virtue and his money,
struggled hard. The third blackguard, to keep him quiet, grasped his
dear throat with both hands and strangled him. Then they gave me more
ill usage all three."
"That will do," said the mayor, "the case seems clear to me. Gentlemen
of the jury, what say ye?"
"We are all agreed to hang them," replied the foreman; "but our doctor,
who saw the body, has some doubts of what the woman sayeth."
"You," said the mayor, in an angry voice, "you, with your crotchets,
fears, and doubts, are always causing inconvenient delay. Yet be quick
and we will hear what you have to say."
"The old man has been strangled many hours," said the doctor, "for the
body is stiff and cold, and I want to know how the woman did not make an
alarm before."
"Woman, what hast thou to say to that?" demanded his worship.
Without hesitation she replied, "After these three black West Country
rascals, robbers, and ravishers had misused me I fainted, and remained
in a fit. I don't know how long before I awoke to my trouble and ran to
seek your worship's aid."
"Now, doth that clear your doubts?" said the mayor: "and you villains,"
speaking to the merchants, "what can ye say for yourselves that ye
should not be hanged and your heads fixed on spikes over the
prison-gate, as a warning to such as you not to murder, rob, and ravish
the virtuous people of Market-jew?"
"We are innocent," said they, "and we never saw the old man but once, in
the kitchen, where he was turning the spit. A tinner, who came with us
from St. Hillar downs, knoweth us to be men of good repute, but we know
not where to find him, and can only declare our innocence each for the
others."
"That's a kind of evidence that won't stand here," replied the mayor,
"and, not to waste more time, I sentence you to be hanged all three.
Officers," he continued, "see it done immediately, and seize their
horses and merchandise to pay costs."
Whilst the mayor of Market-jew was pronouncing sentence, Tom, in
haste, entered the court. "Hold," cried he, "and don't ye murder
three innocent men. That woman caused the death of her husband, and a
long-legged-red-haired fellow, with a pimply face, who weareth a coat of
this colour," said he, holding aloft a piece of grey cloth, "did the
foul deed."
"What can you know of this matter?" demanded the mayor.
"Give time to draw breath, and I will tell 'e," said Tom. "I was fellow
traveller with these three merchants of Treen. They asked me to lodge in
the same house with them, but having bought a piece of wit that teacheth
me to avoid the house where a young woman is wedded to an old man, I
went next door. There was no room to spare but in the garret, where I
found a pile of straw against a screen of boards between that house and
the one in which the merchants lodged. On the straw I made my bed.
Though tired, I didn't sleep, because music, singing, and dancing,
below, kept me awake. About midnight, when all was quiet, I saw, through
a hole in the screen, a light in the next house, and that woman (I know
her by her purple nose and splatty face) talking to a tall red-haired
man. Both stood near the screen. Then she said to him, 'I am heartily
sick and tired of my old fool. All he's good for is to turn the spit,
and a small dog would do that better. To-night would be a capital time
to stop his wheezing. Here's what you might do it with,' said she,
giving him a nackan (handkerchief). 'Draw it tight around his scraggy
throat; give it a good twist, just so (said she showing him how), and we
shall be no more troubled with his jealousy. Don't fear the
consequences; leave them to me; I know how to get these three jeering
West Country fellows into the scrape. If they are hanged for it, it will
be good fun for us.' The man seemed unwilling till, putting her arms
round his waist, she said, 'With all the love I have for thee, cans't
thou stick at such a trifle, my dearest Honney (Hannibal), that will
make the way clear for thee to be master here, with me and all the old
fool's money. And there it is, in the bags by the screen--all the best
of it,' said she, pointing to them; 'what's left in the chest is only
copper coins and old tokens, and his claws are too stiff and crum
(crooked) to untie the bags and see what's in them. And here, faint
heart,' said she, taking up a bottle and pouring out a cup of liquor,
'drink this brandy; go down; be quick; and do it quietly, that Treen
men, in the next room, may'nt hear thee.' The man went down with the
nackan in his hand, and in two minutes or less returned. 'Well! is all
right?' she asked. 'That it is,' he replied, 'I quickly wound the nackan
round his neck; he moved a little and murmurred in his sleep, 'Don't 'e
hug me so close, my dear.' I then drew it tight, and gave it a wrench;
he made but one squeak and all was over. And now I'll take the money and
go.' 'Don't be in such a hurry,' said she, 'one or two bags are enough
for 'e now.' 'No,' said he, getting from her and approaching the screen,
'all isn't enough for the deed I've done to please thee.' Then he
handled the bags, took two, and went away. I know it was about midnight"
(said Tom in reply to the doctor's query) "because, while the man was
below I heard the bell that shaven crowns on the Mount toll at the dead
of night."
"Well, and what next?" demanded the mayor; "if thou hast anything more
to say, be quick, and out with it."
"I have only to state," resumed Tom, "that when he stooped to pease
(weigh) the bags of money, his skirt came against the hole in the
screen. With my left hand I caught hold of the cloth; with my other
unsheathed my knife, and cut off this piece. I tried to keep awake,
knowing these men were in danger from that false woman, but I fell
asleep, I don't know how, and only waked just in time to learn they were
brought here to be tried for their lives."
"It's provoking," said the mayor, "yet this man's story may be as true
as the woman's; or truer, my men," continued he speaking to the
officers; "You know the long-legged scamp, that haunts this woman's
house and all the others in the town, where liquor and victuals can be
got for his bladder-dash. Hunt him up and bring him hither; he is likely
to be at the St. Michael's or some other public house. Get the money he
took away, and all you can find in this woman's house; bring it all here
to pay the cost."
In a short time the officers returned, dragging in the man Tom had
spoken of. They turned him round, held up his skirt, and there saw a
hole that the piece Tom held fitted exactly, and in his pockets were
found two bags of gold.
"It's a clear case now then," said the mayor, "so string them up at
once--the man and woman, I mean, ye fools. You Treen men go about your
business, and thank your luck that this tinner is as wise as a St. Levan
witch to get 'e out of the hobble."
Tom and the merchants took a hasty breakfast, loaded their pack-horses,
and started homewards, about sunrise. In passing the jail they saw the
woman and her long-legged Honney strung up. They went quickly on to
avoid the ugly sight, and the merchants made much of Tom, you may be
sure.
Two hours or so before noon, they arrived at a public house, tied their
horses to a hedge, gave them their nose-bags of corn, and eased their
backs by propping up their loads with sticks, such as were then kept at
road-side inns for that purpose. "You will dine with us, Tom, and we
will treat you to the best the house affords," said the merchants; "we
shall at least get good malt liquor and wholesome fare. We may as well
rest a few hours, now that we are just as good as home and in a part
where honest folks dwell."
The merchants being cheered with good ale said to Tom, "Comrade, we will
one and all give thee something to show how we value the good turn thou
hast done us in Market-jew. But for thee, my son, we should never more
have seen our wives and children dear, or the castle and good old town
of Treen."
"Hold your clack, my masters," Tom replied, "I am vexed with myself to
think that I should have slept and left 'e in such danger; it's only by
a mere cat's jump that you arn't hanged. But who would ever think the
mayor of Market-jew is the man to try a case so quick? Come, let us be
going. I am thinking, too, about my wife and cheeld; it was here we
parted, and I wonder how they have got on, poor dears, since I've been
far away."
"Well then, as you are so hastes we will pay the shot," replied they,
"and jog along again, and be home before sunset, if all be well."
Driving their horses at a quick pace, they went on with great glee and
arrived at the foot of Trelew Hill.
Here, since Tom went eastward, a new road had been made, that took
another direction to reach the hill-top, where it re-entered the old
one. The merchants were for going by the new road, because it was easier
for their horses.
"Friend Tom, you had better come along with us," said they, "than
scramble up the steep hill through that rocky lane."
"No, my friends, though I am loath to leave your pleasant company,"
replied he, "I shall take the old road, for I have bought another piece
of wit that telleth me never to leave an old road for a new one. Choose
for yourselves. A short way hence, where the two roads join, the first
that arrives can await the others."
The merchants went on, saying, "We shall soon meet again."
When Tom came to where the roads joined, he saw the horses jogging
homewards, without their owners. He looked along the road both ways, but
saw no merchants. Then getting on a high bank, in a minute or two he
beheld one of them coming across the downs stripped of his coat, hat,
and wallet. He saw soon afterwards the two others, coming from different
directions, almost naked.
"Halloo, my masters," said Tom, when they came near, "however are ye in
this sad plight?"
"Ah, comrade," answered they, "we wish we had been so wise as thou.
Half-ways up the hill robbers fell on us and stripped us, as you see."
"How many were they?" Tom asked.
In their confusion each merchant answering, "Three attacked me;" they
counted the robbers nine, till considering how they had separated at the
onset, each one trying to save himself, they saw that the same men,
having fallen on each one of them in turn, they were only three robbers
after all. Tom remarked, in angry tones, "One wouldn't take you for West
Country men, yet I should think it's hard to find three stouter than
you, this side of Hayle. But you forgot _One and All_; so I havn't much
pity for 'e; each one trying to save himself took to his heels and left
his comrades in the lurch; that's the way you are beaten; and serve 'e
right. My old dad always said to me, "Tom, my boy, mind _One and All_.
Fall fair, fall foul, stand by thy comrades, and in misfortune, stick
all the closer, my son." But we have no time to lose," he continued, "we
are four of us together now; they can't be gone far, and, dash my
buttons, if we don't beat them yet. You have lost your sticks, I see,
but here's what will serve your needs," said he taking up his threshal
(flail), undoing it, and putting the keveran (connecting piece of
leather) in his pocket. "One take the slash-staff, another the
hand-staff, the other of 'e take my threshal-strings, and bind the
rascals hand and foot as we knock them down. Now come on, boys! _One and
All_ mind; or the devil take the first to run."
The merchants, wishing to recover their clothes and money, readily
agreed to return with Tom in pursuit. They ran down the rocky lane. At
the bottom, near where the roads separated, they saw, on a rock, by the
side of the new road, bundles of clothes and the merchants' wallets.
Going on softly a few paces farther, they beheld the three robbers
stretched on the grass, a little off the road, counting the stolen money
and dividing their spoil. They sprang to their legs, but were scarcely
up when Tom and the two merchants knocked them down and the other
secured them.
"Ah!" said Tom, with a satisfied look, when he saw the robbers laid low,
"the buff coat and new boots on that big fellow, who looks like their
captain, will suit me, and I will take them for my Sunday's wear."
No sooner said than done with Tom. Whilst the merchants gathered up
their money, he pulled off the captain's boots and stripped him of his
buff; saying, "Now, my fine fellow, you won't be able to run very fast
over furze and stones, if you should be inclined to give chase when you
come round again."
The merchants, having well thrashed the robbers, left them stretched on
the ground, half-killed, took their own clothes, and proceeded
homewards, giving Tom much praise for his wit and valour.
They soon overtook their horses, and, without stopping, arrived at
Coet-ny-whilly. Here the nearest road to Chyannor strikes off to the
right of that leading to Treen. The merchants pressed Tom to go home and
sup with them.
"No, thank 'e, not now, some other time," he answered.
"Come along," they again urged, all three; saying, "thou art right
welcome, and we will treat thee well."
"No, not now," replied he, "but I don't doubt your welcome, though, as
my master used to say, 'It is often good manners to ask, but not always
to take.' Besides," continued he, "I am longing to get home quickly and
see my wife and cheeld."
Each party proceeded their separate ways. When Tom had passed a place
called the Crean, and was within half a mile of his dwelling, he sat
down on a bank and lingered there till dusk, that he might get home
about dark, and have a chance to look round unperceived, and thus find
out if his wife had attended to her duty. Tom had learned but little
about his family from the merchants. They merely told him that his wife
had often been to Treen with yarn to sell, and, as she was a good
spinster, they supposed the weavers gave her plenty of work. They knew
nothing of either his wife or his daughter.
When it was all but dark Tom again went on slowly, and quickened his
pace in going up the Bottom, till he approached within a stone's-cast of
his dwelling. Here he paused a moment, on hearing a man's voice inside.
Then he went softly on to a little glass window--the only one glazed in
his house--and peeped in.
On the chimney-stool he espied, by the fire-light, a man and a woman,
hugging, kissing, and seeming very fond of each other.
"Oh! but this is double damnation," groaned Tom to himself, "that I
should ever come home, after working for years far away, to be greeted
with such a sight. Where can the cheeld be? 'Tis enough to make one mad
to see her faggot of a mother there, showing more love for that
black-looking fellow than she did for me, except in our courting times
and a week or so after marriage. I'll kill the villain, and drive the
old huzzey to doors, that I will."
Whilst such thoughts of vengeance passed through Tom's mind, he
recollected his last two pounds' worth of wit, and hesitated a minute at
the door; but he was sure of what he saw; and now, hearing them laughing
and couranting (romping) in their loving play, that aggravated him all
the more. He grasped his stick and looked again to be certain, when a
voice close behind him called out to him in tones like his wife's,
"Halloo, eaves-dropper! Who art thou, and what dost thee want there
spying and listening? Thee west hear no good of thyself, I'll be bound!"
Tom looking round, saw his wife close by, with a 'burn' of ferns on her
back.
"That can never be thee, wife," said he, "unless thee art a witch; for
this instant thou wert sitting on the chimney-stool with a strange man,
and behaving in a way that don't become thee."
"Art thou come home such a fool as not to know thy own cheeld?" she
replied. "Who else should be in but our Patience and her sweetheart Jan
the cobbler. I left them there half an hour ago, when I went down in the
moors for a 'burn' of fuel. Come in, quick, and let's see how thee art
looking, after being so long away. Wherever hast a been to? We didn't
know if thee wert alive or dead. If I had been married again nobody
could blame me."
Patience, hearing her father's voice, ran out, and great was her joy to
find him come home. Tom shook hands with her sweetheart, saying, "I
could never have believed when I left thee, Jan, a mere hobble-de-hoy, I
should come back and find thee such a stout man, and the cheeld too,
grown a woman--taller than her mother."
Tom having taken his accustomed place on the bench, his wife said, "I
see thee hast got a buff coat and a pair of new high boots, fit for any
gentleman or a lord of the land to wear on Sundays and high holidays,
and I suppose you have brought home something new for me and the maid to
wear that you mayn't be ashamed of us, when rigged in your boots and
buff. Come now, Tom dear," continued she, over a bit, when they had
admired what Tom didn't tell them he took from the robber; "Come, love,
let's see what have 'e got for us?"
"I have brought 'e home myself," Tom replied, "and a charm-stone for
Patience to wear when she is married, that will be better than a fortune
of gold and lands for her and her husband. Besides, I have brought 'e a
cake," continued he, in placing it on the board.
"And is that all?" demanded his wife, looking as black as thunder at
him; "and tell us what's become of thy wages then," continued she with
increasing anger.
"I gave my two pounds a year wages," he replied, "back again to my
master for six pounds' worth of wit, and he gave me that cake for thee."
"Ay, forsooth," said she in a rage. "Thee art a wise man from the East,
that lacked wit to know his own cheeld after being three years from
home. Go the way'st away again, and take thy fuggan along with thee."
Saying this she snatched up the cake and fired it at her husband, aiming
for his head; but Tom ducked quick, the cake went smash against the
wall, broke in pieces, and out of it fell a lot of money. Silver and
gold ringled on the floor! When all was picked up and counted they found
Tom's three years' wages and many shillings over.
"Oh, my dear Tom," said his wife, "no tongue can tell how glad I am to
see thee home again, safe and sound, after being so long away in strange
countries one didn't know where. And thou didst know well enow about the
money, and only played the trick to try me."
"The devil a bit," said Tom, "but I forgive thee, and let's have
supper."
The wife gave Patience a large bottle, telling her to run quick over to
Trebeor and have it filled with the best she could get, to drink her
father's health and welcome home. Turning to Tom she said, "The sand
will soon be down in the hour-glass, and then a leek-and-pilchard pie,
put down to bake before I went out for fuel, will be ready; meanwhile
let's have a piece of thy cake; it seems very good."
When Patience and Jan had gone away for liquor, Tom's wife seated
herself on the chimney-stool, with a piece of the cake in her hand, and
said quite coaxing like, "Take thy piece of cake in thy hand, my son,
and come the way'st here alongside of me; I have something to tell
thee."
When both of them were seated on the chimney-stool, very lovingly,
eating their cake together, she continued to say, "I hope thee wesent be
vexed, Tom dear, to hear me confess the truth; and if thee art it can't
be helped now; so listen, and don't leave thy temper get the upper hand
of all thy wisdom, for I have had a young fellow living in the house
more than two years and we have slept in the same bed lately every
night. Why thee art looking very black good man, but he is very innocent
and handsome and so thee west say; he is in my bed asleep now! Come the
way'st down in the 'hale' and see him. One may see by thy looks that
thee hast a mind to murder the youngster, but have patience and come
along."
Tom sprang up, like one amazed, and followed his wife when she took the
chill (lamp) and entered the other room.
"Come softly, Tom," said his wife, as she approached the bed, turned
down the bedclothes, and showed her husband, to his great surprise, a
fine boy nearly three years old. She then told Tom how, after being many
years without children, when he left her for the East she found reason
to expect an increase to their limited family. Tom's joy was now past
all bounds. He had always wished for a boy, and hadn't satisfied himself
with kissing the child, and admiring his big-boned limbs (for one of his
age) when Patience and her sweetheart entered. Tom and the rest drank to
the boy's health, and all was now joy and content.
News of Tom's return having been quickly carried from house to house,
supper was scarcely put aside, when in came a number of neighbours. All
brought wherewith to drink his welcome home, and the night sped jovially
in hearing him recount his adventures in the East Country.
Next day, Tom and his wife, being alone together, she said to him, "Now,
whilst the maid is out, tell me, my son, what dost thee think of her
sweetheart and of their being married soon?"
"Well, wife, from what I saw when I looked through the window last
night," Tom replied, "I should say that she wouldn't break her heart,
any more than her mother before her, if she were to be married
to-morrow; but is Jan a fool, like I was, to give up a young man's life
of pleasure and wed in haste, like I did, thou knowest, that he may
repent at leisure? Yet thee wert very good looking then, just like our
Patience is now, and, with thy deceiving ways, I didn't stop to consider
that beauty is only skin deep. Jan the cobbler," Tom continued, nodding
his head very knowingly, "is hale and strong, and come of an honest
'havage' enow. I am loath to lose the maid so soon; yet my wise master
used to say to his wife, 'One that will not when he may, when he will he
shall have nay;' and it is better to have a daughter but indifferently
married than well kept; though the charm I have for Patience will make
her a prize for a lord, yet a cobbler isn't to be despised, and a good
trade is often more worth than money that may be spent; so, with all my
heart, let them be wedded when they will."
A few days after Tom's return, he and Patience went down to Treen.
Whilst they were away, his wife, curious (like most women are), took it
into her head to examine the coat Tom took from the robber. She wondered
how it was so heavy, and noticed that the body-lining of serge was
worked over very closely. She undid the cloth, and found that gold coins
were quilted in all over it, two-deep in some places, between the
woollen stuff and an inner lining. Before Tom returned she took out more
money, all in gold, than filled a pewter quart, and then there was a
good portion left untouched, for fear Tom might come home and see the
nest she had found; all in good time, the money and coat were put in an
old oak chest, of which she kept the key. When Tom and Patience came in
she could hardly conceal her joy. They wondered at her sprightly humour
yet, for a great marvel, she kept her counsel, though Tom said more than
once that evening. "I can't think, old woman, what can be the matter,
that thee art going about cackling to thyself like an old hen shot in
the head, and with as much fuss and consequence, too, as a mabyer (young
hen) searching for a nest, days before it is wanted, and finding none to
her mind, good enow to drop her first egg in. And look at her, tossing
her head," he continued, "don't she look proud, like the lightheaded
mabyer, after laying her egg?"
As Tom knew nothing of his good fortune he continued to work on
diligently, as usual.
When Feasten Monday came round Jan the cobbler and Patience were
married. Her father gave her the charm-stone privately, with
instructions for its use, as his old mistress had directed. Strangers
were not let into the secret, because all charms lose their virtue when
known to others than the charmers, who, if they give or tell it, lose
its use for ever.
When the honey-moon waned Jan would sometimes get into an angry mood.
Then his wife would, unobserved, slip the charm-stone into her mouth,
and (let him talk or fume) keep quietly about her work. In a short time
with good humour, like sunshine returned, he would again be heard
ringing his lap-stone to the measure of some lively old tune. The quiet
ways of Patience and her gentle bearing, kept love and content, with
peace and plenty, in their happy dwelling; and her charm had such power
that, over a while, she had seldom occasion to use it. Yet, indeed, some
women, living near, who liked to let their crabbed tongues run like the
clapper of a mill, would say that Patience was a poor quiet fool, and
that the more one let blockheads of husbands have their own way the more
they will take till they go to the dogs, or the devil, at last. Jan
would tell these idle cacklers, who stuck up for woman's misrule, to
mind their own affairs and that for such 'tungtavusses' as they were the
old saying held good--that "a woman, a dog, and a walnut tree, the more
you beat them the better they be." But gentle Patience, heedless of
their prate, kept on in the even tenor of her life, and retained her
husband's unabated love till the peaceful close of her days.
Now it happened about three years after Tom had returned from the East
Country, there was a large farm in St. Levan for sale. "Ah, poor me,"
said Tom one night, after a hard day's work, "I have been toiling and
moiling, like a slave, all my life long, but we shall never have an inch
of land to call our own till laid in the church-hay. Yet here are our
hunting gentry, who have more than they can make good use of, and they
can't live on that. If we could but scrape together enough to buy an
acre or two of fee, or only the corner of a croft, where one might have
a hut and a gar'n for herbs, with the run of a common for a cow or
anything else, and none to say us nay, how happy we should be. But now,"
he continued, "it is only by the lord's leave, and that I don't like to
ask of any man; and why should one who hath hands to work when there is
so much land in waste untilled?"
"Tom, my son, cheer up," his wife replied; "there are many worse off
than we are, with our few pounds laid by for a rainy day, and health and
strength to get more. Why I am afraid," said she, "that thou would'st go
crazy, or die for joy, if any one gave thee enough to buy a few acres."
"I wish to gracious somebody would but try me," Tom replied.
"Well now, suppose I were to tell thee," said she, "that we have saved
enough to buy good part, if not all, of the land for sale, as you shall
soon see."
She then brought from the chest a quart measure of gold coins, and
poured them out on the board. At the sight of the glittering gold Tom
sprung up in a fright and exclaimed, "Now I know, for certain, that thee
art a witch! I had often thought so. That money is the Old One's
coinage; don't think that I'll have any dealings with him; I wouldn't
touch with a tongs a piece of the devil's gold."
"Hold thy clack, cheeld vean, if I'm a witch thou art no conjuror,
that's clear," replied she. "Now listen, and learn that the coat taken
by thee from the robber-captain was all lined with gold, quilted in
between the serge and the leather, and what thou seest on the board
isn't all I found in it."
When Tom's surprise had somewhat abated, he counted the money and found
more than was required to purchase and stock two such farms as the one
then for sale. Over a while Tom bought a great quantity of land--many
acres might be had for a few pounds in Tom's time, when a very small
part of the land was enclosed, and much less cultivated. In a few years
he was regarded as a rich yeoman, and his sons and grandsons became
substantial farmers.
Tom's posterity may still be flourishing in St. Levan, or some place
near, for what any body can tell, as no one knows what name they took
when surnames came into use, long after Tom lived in Chyannor.
[Illustration]
THE FAIRY DWELLING ON SELENA MOOR.[3]
"Merry elves, their morrice pacing,
To aërial minstrelsy,
Emerald rings on brown heath tracing,
Trip it deft and merrily."
SCOTT.
When the ancient family of Noy flourished in Buryan there was a large
tract of unenclosed common, belonging to the farms of Pendrea, Selena,
and Tresidder, which extended from Cotnewilly to Baranhual, and branched
off in other directions. Great part of this ground was swampy and
produced a rank growth of rushes, water-flags, and coarse herbage. Many
acres were gay in summer with cotton-grass, bog-beans, cucco-flowers,
and other plants usually found in such soil. In some places were dry
rocky banks overgrown with sloe-trees, moor-withey, furze, and brambles;
these patches being surrounded by a broad extent of quaking bog or muddy
soil appeared like islands in a marsh. There were also many springs,
rivulets, and pools, that seldom froze, much frequented by wild-fowl in
winter. Great part of this moorland was then impassable; horse-tracks
leading to Baranhual, Selena, and other farms, passed over the dryest
places, and were continued by rough causeways through swamps;--they were
very bad roads at all seasons.
Most of this wilderness has long been enclosed and drained; Pendrea
portion of it is now a separate tenement called Westmoor. Near
Cotnewilly were the scattered remains of an ancient grove which, in very
remote times, extended thence to Alsia-mill.
One afternoon in harvest, Mr. Noy, with some of his men, were over to
Baranhual helping his kinsfolks, the Pendars. As more hands were
required for the next day, which was to be the gulthise (harvest home),
soon after 'croust' time he rode up to Church-town to get them, and to
invite the parson, clerk, and sexton--the latter was particularly
welcome to the harvest folk as he was generally a good fiddler and
droll-teller. With these, according to old usage, were asked the
crafts-men and others who had lent hand about the harvest work, and aged
inmates of the poor house; one and all were welcome to the gulthise
supper.
Soon after 'day-down' Mr. Noy, followed by his dogs, left the
public-house intending to return to Baranhual, but he didn't arrive
there that night nor the next. The Pendars and their people thought he
might have enjoyed himself at the _Ship_ Inn till late, and then have
gone home to Pendrea. Mr. Noy had no wife nor anybody else to be much
alarmed about him, as he was a middle-aged or rather elderly bachelor.
But next day when people from Church-town, Pendrea, and scores of
neighbours from other farms, came with their horses to help and to feast
at the gulthise, and nobody among them had seen or heard of Mr. Noy from
the time he left the inn, they got somewhat uneasy; yet they still
supposed he might have gone to some corn-carrying down the lower side of
Buryan, as was likely enow, for all the neighbours round about were just
like one family then.
As usual there was a great chase bringing home the corn in trusses;
leaders and other helpers took their flowery-milk (hasty pudding) for
breakfast, apple pies for dinner, just when and how they could, with
beer and cider whenever they felt inclined, so they might keep the
mowers always building, to have the corn under thatch before supper
time. All being secured in the mowhay scores of all ages enjoyed roast
and boiled beef, mutton, squab pies, rabbit and hare pies, pudding, and
other substantial fare, usually found at a bountiful gulthise supper;
then drinking, singing, dancing, and other pastimes, were kept up till
late. In the meantime Dame Pendar had sent messengers round to all
places where she thought Mr. Noy might have gone, and they returned,
just as the feast was breaking up, without any tidings of him.
Then everyone became anxious, and as it was near daybreak they
volunteered to disperse and search in every place they could think of
before going to bed.
So away they went, some on horseback, others afoot, to examine
mill-pools, stream-works, cliffs, and other dangerous places, near and
far away. They returned at night, but nobody had seen or heard of the
missing gentleman. Next morning horsemen were despatched to other
parishes, and as Mr. Noy was well known and liked there was a general
turn out to hunt for him; but this day, too, was passed in a like
fruitless search miles away.
On the third day, however, in the grey of the morning, a horse was
heard to neigh, and dogs were heard barking among thickets on a piece of
dry ground almost surrounded with bogs and pools, on Pendrea side of
Selena moor.
Now it happened that no one had thought of looking for Mr. Noy in this
place so near home, but when with much ado, a score or so of men
discovered a passable road into this sort of island in the bogs, there
they saw Mr. Noy's horse and hounds; the horse had found plenty of
pasture there, but the dogs, poor things, were half-starved. Horse and
dogs showed their joy, and led the way through thorns, furze, and
brambles--that might have grown there hundreds of years--till they came
to large 'skaw' trees and the ruins of an old bowjey or some such
building that no one knew of. Hunters never attempted in winter to cross
the boggy ground that nearly surrounded these two or three acres of dry
land, and in summer no one was curious enough to penetrate this
wilderness of thickets which, like all such places, was then swarming
with adders.
The horse stopped at what had been a doorway, pawed on the 'drussal,'
looked around and winneyd; the dogs, followed by several people, pushed
through the brambles that choked the entrance, and within they found Mr.
Noy lying on the ground fast asleep. It was a difficult matter to arouse
him; at last he awoke, stretched himself, rubbed his eyes, and said,
"Why you are Baranhual and Pendrea folks; however are ye all come here?
To-day is to be the gulthise, and I am miles and miles away from home.
What parish am I in? How could 'e have found me? Have my dogs been home
and brought 'e here?" Mr. Noy seemed like one dazed as we say, and all
benumed as stiff as a stake, so without staying to answer his questions,
they gave him some brandy, lifted him on horseback, and left his steed
to pick its way out, which it did readily enow, and a shorter one than
they discovered.
Though told he was on his own ground, and less than half a mile from
Baranhual, he couldn't make out the country as he said, till he crossed
the running water that divides the farms. "But I am glad," said he
"however it came to pass, to have got back in time for the gulthise."
When they told him how the corn was all carried three days ago, he said
they were joking, and wouldn't believe it till he had seen all in the
mowhay under thatch and roped down; that the loose straw was raked up,
and all harvest implements put away till next season.
Then whilst breakfast was getting ready, seated on a chimney-stool by a
blazing fire, he told his neighbours that when he came to Cotnewilly,
the night being clear, he thought he might as well make a short cut
across the moor and save nearly a mile--as he had often done before in
summer time--instead of going round by the stony bridle-path; but his
horse, that was pretty much used to finding his own way when his master
was tipsy, wanted to keep the usual road, and his rider, to baulk him,
pulled farther off towards Pendrea side of the common than he would
otherwise have done, and went on till he found himself in a part that
was unknown to him; though he had been, as he thought, over every inch
of it that man or beast could tread on, both in winter and summer.
Getting alarmed at the strange appearance of everything around him, he
tried in vain to retrace his steps, then gave the horse its head, and
let it take its own course.
Yet instead of proceeding homeward, as was dobbin's wont, it bore Mr.
Noy to a land so crowded with trees that he had to alight and lead his
steed. After wandering miles and miles, sometimes riding but oftener
afoot, without seeing any habitation in this strange place, which he
believed must be out of Buryan but in what parish he couldn't tell, he
at last heard strains of lively music, and spied lights glimmering
through the trees and people moving about, which made him hope that he
had arrived at some farm where they had a gulthise, and the
harvest-folks were out, after supper, dancing in the town-place.
His dogs slunk back, and the horse wasn't willing to go on, so he tied
him to a tree, took his course through an orchard towards the lights,
and came to a meadow where he saw hundreds of people, some seated at
tables eating and drinking with great enjoyment apparently, and others
dancing reels to the music of a crowd or tambourine--they are much the
same thing--this was played by a damsel dressed in white, who stood on a
heaping-stock just beside the house door, which was only a few paces
from him.
The revelers, farther off, were all very smartly decked out, but they
seemed to him, at least most of them, to be a set of undersized mortals;
yet the forms and tables, with the drinking-vessels on them, were all in
proportion to the little people. The dancers moved so fast that he
couldn't count the number of those that footed jigs and reels together,
it almost made his head giddy only to look at their quick and intricate
whirling movements.
He noticed that the damsel who played the music was more like ordinary
folks for stature, and he took her to be the master's daughter, as, when
one dance was ended, she gave the crowd to a little old fellow that
stood near her, entered the house, fetched therefrom a black-jack, went
round the tables and filled the cups and tankards that those seated, and
others, handed to be replenished. Then, whilst she beat up a new tune
for another set of dancers, Mr. Noy thought she cast a side-glance
towards him; the music, he said, was so charming and lively that to save
his soul he couldn't refrain from going to join the dancers in a
three-handed reel, but the girl with a frown and look of alarm, made a
motion with her head for him to withdraw round a corner of the house out
of sight. He remained gazing, however, and still advancing till she
beckoned to the same little old man, to whom she spoke a few words, gave
him the crowd to play, and leaving the company, went towards the orchard
signaling to Mr. Noy to follow her, which he did. When out of the
candle-glare and in a clear spot where moonlight shone, she waited for
him. He approached and was surprised to see that the damsel was no other
than a farmer's daughter of Selena, one Grace Hutchens, who had been his
sweetheart for a long while, until she died, three or four years agone;
at least he had mourned her as dead, and she had been buried in Buryan
Churchyard as such.
When Mr. Noy came within a yard or so, turning towards him, she said,
"thank the stars, my dear William, that I was on the look-out to stop
ye, or you would this minute be changed into the small people's state
like I am,--woe is me."
He was about to kiss her, "Oh, beware!" she exclaimed, "embrace me not,
nor touch flower nor fruit; for eating a tempting plum in this enchanted
orchard was my undoing. You may think it strange, yet it was all through
my love for you that I am come to this.
"People believed, and so it seemed, that I was found on the moor dead;
it was also supposed that I must have dropped there in a trance, as I
was subject to it. What was buried for me, however, was only a
changeling, or sham body, never mine I should think, for it seems to me
that I feel much the same still as when I lived to be your sweetheart."
As she said this several little voices squeaked, "Grace, Grace, bring us
more beer and cider, be quick!"
"Follow me into the garden, and remain there behind the house; be sure
you keep out of sight, and don't for your life, touch fruit or flower,"
said she, in conducting out Mr. Noy, who desired her to bring him a
tankard of cider too. "No, my love, not for the world," she replied,
"await me here, I'll soon return. Sad is my lot to be stolen from the
living and made housekeeper to these sprites," murmured Grace, in
quitting the garden.
Over a few minutes she returned to Mr. Noy, led him into a bowery walk,
where the music and noise of merriment didn't overpower their voices,
and said, "you know, my dear Willy, that I loved you much, but you can
never know how dearly."
"Rest yourself," she continued pointing to a stone, "on that seat,
whilst I tell ye what you never dreamt of." Mr. Noy seated himself as
desired, and Grace related how one evening, about dusk, she was out on
Selena Moor in quest of strayed sheep, when hearing him, in Pendrea
ground, halloo and whistle to his dogs, she crossed over towards the
sound in hopes of falling in with him, but missed her way among ferns
higher than her head, and wandered on for hours amidst pools and shaking
bogs without knowing whither.
After rambling many miles, as it seemed to her, she waded a brook and
entered an orchard, then she heard music at a distance, and proceeding
towards it, passed into a beautiful garden with alleys all bordered by
roses and many sweet flowers, that she had never seen the like of.
Apples and other tempting fruit dropped in the walks and hung over head,
bursting ripe.
This garden was so surrounded with trees and water--coming in every here
and there among them--that, like one 'piskey-led,' all her endeavours to
find a way out of it were in vain. The music, too, seemed very near at
times, but she could see nobody. Feeling weary and athirst, she plucked
a plum, that looked like gold in the clear starlight; her lips no sooner
closed on the fruit than it dissolved to bitter water which made her
sick and faint. She then fell on the ground in a fit, and remained
insensible, she couldn't say how long, ere she awoke to find herself
surrounded by hundreds of small people, who made great rejoicing to get
her amongst them, as they very much wanted a tidy girl who knew how to
bake and brew, one that would keep their habitation decent, nurse the
changed-children, that wern't so strongly made as they used to be, for
want of more beef and good malt liquor, so they said.
At first she felt like one entranced and hardly knew how to 'find
herself' in such strange company; even then, after many years'
experience, their mode of life seemed somewhat unnatural to her, for all
among them is mere illusion or acting and sham. They have no hearts, she
believed, and but little sense or feeling; what serves them, in a way,
as such, is merely the remembrance of whatever pleased them when they
lived as mortals,--may be thousands of years ago.
What appear like ruddy apples and other delicious fruit, are only sloes,
hoggans, (haws) and blackberries. The sweet scented and rare flowers are
no other than such as grow wild on every moor.
In answer to Mr. Noy's enquiries about small people's dietry, Grace told
him how she sickened, at first, on their washy food of honey-dew and
berries--their ordinary sustenance--and how her stomach felt so waterish
that she often longed for a bit of salt fish.
The only thing she relished was goat's milk, "for you must have often
heard," said she, "that these animals are frequently seen on moors, or
among carns and in other out-of-the-way places, miles from their homes.
They are enticed away by small people to nourish their babes and
changelings. There's a score or more of goats here at times. Those
cunning old he-ones that often come among a flock--no one knows
whence--and disappear with the best milkers, are the decoys, being small
people in such shapes. One may often notice in these venerable
long-beards, when seen reposing on a rock, chewing their cuds, a look of
more than human craftiness and a sly witch-like glance cast from the
corner of their eyes."
Looking at Mr. Noy for a moment with a melancholy expression, she sighed
and continued, "I am now getting used to this sort of life and find it
tolerable, the more so because the whole tribe behave to me with great
kindness, the elderly men above all; you observed that little fellow to
whom I spoke and who now plays the tambourine, I desired him to tell the
rest, in case they inquired for me, that I was gone to look after the
children, and he is so much attached to me as to do or say anything I
request." Seeing Mr. Noy look somewhat lowering, Grace exclaimed, "Oh!
my dear Willy, don't be such a noddy as to be jealous, for he's no other
than vapour, and what he is pleased to think love, is no more
substantial than fancy."
Mr. Noy asked if there were any children among them besides those they
stole and replaced with changelings?
"Very few indeed," she replied, "though they are fond of babies, and
make great rejoicing when one happens to be born amongst them; and then
every little man, however old, is proud to be thought the father. For
you must remember they are not of our religion," said she, in answer to
his surprised look, "but star-worshippers. They don't always live
together like Christians and turtle-doves; considering their long
existence such constancy would be tiresome for them, anyhow the small
tribe seem to think so. And the old withered 'kiskeys' of men that one
can almost see through, like puffs of smoke, are vainer than the young
ones. May the Powers deliver them from their weakly frames! And indeed
they often long for the time when they will be altogether dissolved in
air, and so end their wearisome state of existence without an object or
hope."
She also told him--but he didn't remember exactly the words she
spoke--that she was the more content with her condition since she was
enabled to take the form of any bird she pleased, and thus gratify her
desire to be near him, so that when he thought of her but little
suspected her presence; she was mostly hovering round and watching him
in the shape of some common small bird. Grace assured Mr. Noy of her
everlasting love, yet as long as nature would permit him to retain his
mortal form she would rather behold him in flesh and blood, than see him
changed to her state. She also told him, that when he died, if he wished
to join her, they would then be united and dwell in this fairy-land of
the moors.
Mr. Noy wanted to know much more about these strange beings, and was
about to enquire, when they again called, "Grace, Grace, where art thou
so long? Bring us some drink quickly." She hastily entered the house,
and that moment it came into his head that he, too, would have some
liquor, disperse the small tribe, and save Grace.
Knowing that any garment turned inside out and cast among such sprites
would make them flee, and happening to put his hand into his coat
pocket, he felt there the gloves that he had worn for binding in the
afternoon; quick as thought, he turned one inside out, put into it a
small stone, and threw it among them; in an instant they all vanished
with the house, Grace, and all the furniture. He just had time to glance
round, and saw nothing but thickets and the roofless house of an old
bowjey, when he received a blow on his forehead that knocked him down,
yet he soon fell asleep and dozed away an hour or two he thought.
Those to whom Mr. Noy related his story, said that he had learnt nothing
new from Grace, for old folks always believed of the fair people such
things as she told him, and they disliked to be seen, above all by
daylight, because they then looked aged and grim. It was said, too, that
those who take animal forms get smaller and smaller with every change,
till they are finally lost in the earth as muryans (ants), and that they
passed winter, for the most part, in underground habitations, entered
from cleves or carns. And it is held that many persons who appear to
have died entranced, are not really dead, but changed into the fairy
state.
The recovered gentleman farther informed them that he had remarked
amongst the small folks, many who bore a sort of family-likeness to
people he knew, and he had no doubt but some of them were changelings of
recent date, and others their forefathers who died in days of yore, when
they were not good enow to be admitted into heaven, nor so wicked as to
be doomed to the worst of all places. Over a while, it is supposed they
cease to exist as living beings, for which reason fewer of them are now
beheld than were seen in old times.
From the night that Mr. Noy strayed into the small people's habitation,
he seemed to be a changed man; he talked of little else but what he saw
and heard there, and fancied that every redbreast, yellow-hammer, tinner
(wag-tail), or other familiar small bird that came near him, might be
the fairy-form of his departed love.
Often at dusk of eve and moonlight nights, he wandered round the moors
in hopes to meet Grace, and when he found his search was all in vain he
became melancholy, neglected his farm, tired of hunting, and departed
this life before the next harvest. Whether he truly died or passed into
fairy-land, no one knows.
* * * * *
A story, much like the foregoing, is related of a young farmer
called Richard Vingoe, who was 'piskey-led' in Treville Cliffs.
After wandering for hours over places which appeared strange to
him, he followed a path through a rocky 'bottom' or glen into an
underground passage or cavern, from which, on emerging, he found
himself in a pleasant looking country. Walking on he heard sounds
of merry-making, and came to a place where people appeared to be
keeping feast. He noticed a great number of persons hurling, and
being fond of that game, he was about to run and seize the silver
ball, as it fell near him, when a female darted from behind a
rock--which screened her from view--and made eager signs for him to
desist and follow her, as she withdrew into an orchard near at
hand. He approached and saw that she was a damsel who had been dead
a few years. She told him how she was changed into the fairy-state
by having trespassed on the small people's domain, and that he had
narrowly escaped the same fate. She also informed him of their mode
of life, and that she was disposed to save him for the sake of
their former attachment, as in the above story.
When the hurlers and spectators of the game had all gone out of
sight, she conducted her former lover to the upper world by a
shorter road than that by which he entered; on the way she told
him that as he had engaged to be married within a few weeks, she
had no desire to detain him. She advised him, however, to defer
his wedding three years, that he might be sure he knew his own
mind. When Vingoe promised to follow her advice, they passed
through an opening in a carn, and he saw Nanjizel; his conductress
then said good-bye, and vanished. Being fatigued with his journey
he lay on the grass, near the spot where he again saw the light of
day, and there he was found asleep nearly a week after. Vingoe was
never like the same man again, for he took to hard drinking and
died unmarried.
The details of both stories are so similar that they appear to be
mere versions of the same fairy-tale.
[Illustration]
[3] This story should have preceded the "QUEEN'S VISIT," but it was not
obtained in time.
THE I'AN'S HOUSE OF TREEN.
All within is dark as night;
In the windows is no light;
And no murmur at the door,
So frequent on its hinge before.
Come away: no more of mirth
Is here, or merry-making sound.
The house was builded of the earth,
And shall fall again to ground.
TENNYSON.
Some few years ago, there might have been seen on rising ground, west of
the road which passes through Treen, the remains of a very old dwelling,
formerly known in that neighbourhood as the I'an's (pro Jan's) house.
Though neglected and ruinous it still retained some signs of its former
consequence when it was regarded as a mansion. Visitors to the Logan
Rock often stopped to look at this forlorn-looking old house, with great
part of its mullioned windows and a doorway, that had once been its
grand entrance, walled up. Its peculiar old style of masonry, the
massiveness and irregularity of the rough granite blocks with which it
was constructed, and its high-pitched thatched roof, made this old
building an object of interest, though it was neither beautiful nor
picturesque. And a few casements, still retaining their old lead-lights
of small panes in various patterns, to which age had imparted purple or
rather prismatic hues, glimmered and glanced with changing lights that
gave to the habitation a very ghostly look.
What remained had long been divided into three or four dwellings; but
one wing was mostly unoccupied, because few persons could be found so
courageous or necessitous as to live in it and have their rest disturbed
every night, and often by day, with the rumbling of a turn
(spinning-wheel) varied by wild shrieks, unearthly laughter, and other
frightful noises. There was also beyond the kitchen-court (and entered
from it) a garden, surrounded by high walls, which rendered it as
secluded as any room of the mansion. This ground was long called
Beaton's garden, even after, denuded of herbs and flowers, it was turned
into a pig's-court. This place was haunted too. In this state the old
house and appurtenances remained until destroyed by fire, about ten
years since, and it always retained the name of a family that built it
and resided there for generations, in the style of gentry, though never
very rich nor persons of much note beyond that locality.
Three or four centuries ago, from their extravagance and a run of bad
luck, the I'ans were reduced to comparative poverty. It was said that
ill fortune ever followed them from the time they broke up and removed
to Garrack-zans (holy rock) that stood in front of their mansion, and
around which a market was held in old times when Treen was an important
trading-place. However, that may have been, shortly after all the family
remaining in Treen were John I'an (or Ivan) and his sister Beatrice,
usually called Beaton, who had lost their parents when children. Young
I'an from having much family pride and but little property to support
its dignity, led a very unsettled life--mostly at sea, with a company of
reckless young men, who carried on a hazardous trade in importing
liquors, silks, salt, and other contraband goods from Roscroff; making
Penberth, or some other cove, near it, their usual landing-place. Both
brother and sister are said to have been remarkable for their tall
stature and good looks, though of very dark complexion.
They might, now and then, be seen at church--the former dressed in a
long bottle-green coat of cut velvet, and dusky crimson waistcoat (both
overlaid with tarnished gold lace,) a plush breeches, and
diamond-buckled shoes. These everlasting garments, that might have been
worn by his grandfather, were only changed in winter for home spun; and
his sturdy legs were then encased in long funnel-topped boots of French
make; and his jet black hair, that hung in curls on his shoulders, was
surmounted by a laced hat and plume. Though young I'an's state dress
appeared much the worse for wear he looked every inch a gentleman, when,
with old-fashioned courtesy, he led into church his sister, arrayed in
silks or samite, a century old or more, yet still looking rich with
their brilliant sheen, and thick enough to stand on end; point-lace
ruffles, yellow with age, hanging from her elbows, were met by
embroidered silk gloves; her hair, of darkest chestnut hue, turned back
over cushions, hung in ringlets down her neck; and a little hat was
fastened by jewel-headed pins to her high head-dress. These remnants of
old finery, contrasted with homely articles of dress that had to sustain
more wear and tear, made the I'an's poverty only too apparent; the more
so because, at that time, several well-to-do families resided in St.
Levan, and at church their old bravery and newest fashions were all
displayed and duly criticised. Beaton showed, however, what her brother
thought becoming pride, in treating with coolness or contempt all
attentions offered by such rural beaux as he thought beneath her, though
she had but slight chance, poor girl, of becoming acquainted with any of
higher rank.
I'an being seldom at home during the summer, his sister and two or three
old servants managed the farm--then but a few acres of arable land, and
a great run of common--and were sole occupants of their gloomy mansion.
The poor young lady's dreary existence was partially relieved by her
brother's presence during winter. Then, too, he often brought home with
him many of his sea-mates or hunting companions, and the old house
resounded with their reckless drunken revelry for days and nights
together.
Among I'an's comrades his favourite was an able seaman called Willy
Taskes or Trevaskes, who was a few years older than I'an--a courageous
smuggler, and mate of his fair-trader the _Mur_. Taskes was remarkably
strong built, the best wrestler and boxer in the western parishes. With
much practice he taught I'an these arts of self-defence, and trained him
to be just as good a seaman as himself. I'an, when overloaded with
drink, was often quarrelsome or rather fond of fighting, without reason,
both at home and abroad. Taskes as often belaboured him soundly to
divert his combative inclinations from dangerous antagonists; often
also, he got himself thrashed black and blue in taking I'an's part,
which he was ever ready to do against any odds. From Willy being
frequently in Beaton's company, and from the favour shown him by her
brother, she was less reserved with him than others of his crew whom she
kept at due distance.
Of an evening when he often came alone, Beaton would ask him to card
the wool that she passed great part of her time in spinning, and no one
more ready than Willy Taskes to please her. I'an frequently left them
together, little deeming that his sister--of gentle blood, poor as she
might be--could have a thought of the handsome young sailor as a lover.
Ere long, however, I'an was informed by his ugly old female
domestic--one who ever longed for but never had a lover--that her young
mistress often met Willy Taskes by night in the walled garden, Caercreis
barn, or among the Castle carns. I'an, enraged, entered his sister's
apartments--she had three rooms at her sole disposal in that portion of
the mansion known as Beaton's wing--and, after much upbraiding,
threatened to shoot Taskes if he came near the house any more, and both
of them if he caught them together. Beaton defied her brother, and
answered that if she could not see Willy Taskes there she would meet him
elsewhere, and that it only depended on Willy as to whether she should
be his wife or not. Warned of what had taken place, the lover kept
aloof, and I'an, discarding his jovial companions, remained much within
doors, moody and discontented, wishing for the company of his former
comrade, but pride forbade his making friendly overtures; and his
ill-humour was aggravated all the more because his sister had the policy
to persuade him that, after all, she didn't care anything for Willy
Taskes, nor any of his crew, and that his chagrin was all for nought.
The dreary winter past, and corn tilled, I'an and his crew prepared for
an early trip to Roscroff. Their former mate, from his quarrel with the
captain, or rather from the coolness between them, having gone to work
on land, they selected a new one and made sail.
I'an left on good terms with his sister, thinking that, though she might
have had an unbecoming affection for Taskes, yet her self-respect and
regard for the dignity of their family--which he had awakened--had
enabled her to subdue her misplaced love.
In a few weeks the _Mur_, as I'an's craft was called, returned with the
usual goods, which were soon landed and disposed of, as the most
valuable liquors, silks, lace, &c., were bespoke by the neighbouring
gentry. Farmers, and others who assisted to land and secure the cargo
soon took off what remained. There was then little or no interference
from any government officials; indeed in more recent times those paid to
check "fair-trade" were often the smugglers' friends, because they durst
not interrupt their proceedings with anything but well-understood shams
of activity, and they were always rewarded with a share of the goods if
they conducted themselves with discretion. Old smugglers say they often
wished to fall in with the revenue-cutter that their trip might be the
more exciting--they answered her shots by a loud hurrah, and a blaze
from their own swivel-gun. As for the riding-officer they didn't mind
him a straw, and of other coast-guards there were none.
All hands being ready for another trip, the evening before they intended
to start I'an told his sister he was going to meet his crew at the _Skaw
Tree_--the inn at St. Levan Church-town,--have a carouse, and sail in
the morning early. Wishing to become friends with his old mate, I'an had
requested one of his crew to tell Taskes that he would be glad of his
company at the public-house and to let all past unpleasantness be
forgotten. In I'an's happier moods a lingering regard for his former
comrade and staunch friend would get the upper hand of his prejudice and
family pride, and then he would even think of Taskes as his
brother-in-law with complacency.
From jealousy on the part of his new mate and others, his friendly
message was not delivered. I'an not guessing the reason why Taskes
didn't join them, and only thinking his offers of renewed friendship
were slighted, was in ill-humour, and what was intended to have been a
jovial night, passed unpleasantly. At length some of the fuddled crew,
vexed because of their captain's preference for his former mate, hinted
that he might be in Caercreis barn, in company he better liked, and
that, by all accounts, his sister and Willy had always been on very good
terms. I'an, tipsy as he was, understood their meaning, made imprudent
threats of the way he would be revenged on Taskes; and left the company
much earlier than was his wont on such occasions.
Very mixed feelings, and all of an irritating nature, spurred him on his
way towards an old solitary 'bowjey,' or field barn, where a cottage now
stands--five minutes' walk from Castle Treen; and he had only gone a few
yards beyond Pedny-vounder lane, when, by the dim moonlight, he spied
two persons sauntering along a sheep-track that wound among rocks and
carns below him. Approaching and seeing they were his sister and her
lover he assailed them with angry words, which soon came to blows
between the men. Taskes, finding that I'an was the worse for drink,
merely defended himself and received his blows that he might expend his
fury on him, as he had often done when they were the best of friends.
But, as bad luck would have it, Taskes, in going back, to avoid what
might have been ugly strokes, fell over a shelving rock on to a ledge
(or shelf, as we say), many feet below.
When I'an saw the young man he had once loved as a brother lying
prostrate and apparently dead, his pride and anger gave place to bitter
sorrow. He raised the wounded man, who moaned, and gasped for breath for
some minutes; then hearing I'an crying like a child, begging him to
forget and forgive the past and be friends, "I have nothing to forgive
thee, my son," Taskes replied; "it was my bad luck, and, whether I die
or live a cripple, I would rather for it to be my case than thine."
Over a while I'an and his sister helped him to stand, and one on either
side of Taskes, with his arm round the neck of each, they slowly reached
their house and placed him on I'an's bed. The servant-man was summoned,
and told to ride with all speed for a doctor. Taskes tried to speak, and
signed that he might be lifted up in bed. Supported on I'an's breast,
and holding the brother's and sister's hands, he said "I know, dear
John, a doctor can do me no good." And, looking towards Beaton, he told
her to bring the man close to the bedside, for he had something to say
before it might be too late.
The old servant approached. Taskes called him by name, and continued,
"I am dying. None but ourselves know how I came by my end. You must bear
witness for John, your master, that I declare it was all by my own
mischance that I fell over a rock, and received my deadly hurt." He
hadn't strength to say more. I'an wiped the bloody froth from the
sinking man's lips, and tried to cheer him by saying, "Thou shalt live
yet, my dear Willy, and be my brother."
Beaton, like one in a terrible dream, was unconscious of most that
passed, till Taskes, awakening from a long swoon, grasped her hand and
moaned in sad accents, "Beaton, dear Beaton; if I could but live till we
might be married, I should die more content. And my dear John," he
continued, directing his gaze towards I'an, "promise me, for all the
years we have been like brothers, to be ever kind to Beaton and to
my--to our"--he gasped for breath--with a gurgling in his throat, blood
oozed from his lips. Looking wistfully at Beaton, he grasped brother's
and sister's joined hands with a death-grip; his head sunk on I'an's
breast; and thus Willy Taskes passed away in his prime.
Beaton, distracted by sorrow, had to be forcibly taken from her lover's
bedside, and for weeks she seemed to be on the verge of madness. Her
brother scarcely less grieved, tried to find some solace for his anguish
in ordering that, in all respects, the funeral should be conducted as
for one of his kindred. It was a custom with the I'ans, and a few other
West Country families, to have their burials at night. So, a week after
the fatal encounter, and in the summer evening's twilight, Willy Taskes
was borne out of the old mansion, carried by his former comrades,
followed by I'an and by many neighbours to his last resting-place in St.
Levan Churchyard.
THE I'ANS QUIT TREEN.