"An' Pee said that she couldn't name the colours of the little ladies'

dresses, which were of all the hues of summer's blossoms. The vain

little things, to make themselves look the taller, had their powdered

hair turned up on pads and dressed with flowers, lace, and ribbons to an

extraordinary height for such dolls of things. Their gay gowns were very

long-waisted, and their skirts so distended by hoops that they looked

just as broad as they were long. Their shoes of velvet or satin, were

high-heeled and pointed at the toes. The men were much darker

complexioned than the women, yet they were all very good looking, with

sparkling dark eyes, well-shaped noses, sweet little mouths, and dimpled

cheeks and chins. Not one among them, that she saw, had a spotty face or

purple-top nose, because they drink nothing stronger than honey-dew.

Some, to be sure, appeared to be rather aged, yet, all were sprightly,

merry, and gay.

"In the dancers' ring stood a May-pole about three yards high, all

wreathed with flowers. Where they got them, that time of the year, to

make their garlands, was a wonder. The pipers, standing in their midst,

played lively old dance tunes that are now but seldom heard, and An' Pee

never felt more inclined for a dance in her life than when she heard

their cheery music; but how could she reel round among such little

beings and have a jig without kicking them down?

"'The women,' she always said, 'were the sauciest little creatures that

one ever seed; she was most ashamed to look at them--tossing up their

heels, forwards and backwards, higher than their heads, and kicking off

the men's hats, as they capered round and round.' Every now and then,

one would unlock her hands and, breaking out of the ring, take a leap

right over the men's heads, perch on the May-pole, and there spin round,

on her toe, like a whirligig.

"There were lights about in all directions--lanthorns no bigger than

gun-pop (fox-glove) flowers, hanging in rows along the standings, and

rushlights, in paper cups like tulips, shone among the gingerbread-nuts,

comfits, candied angelica, peppermint-drops, and more enticing things

that are seen in any other fair. She thought, too, that all the

glow-worms in creation had gathered together near the fair-ground, to

help to light it up. Yet, with all these lights, there was such a

shimmer over everything that the old dame got bewildered at times and

could never see anything so plainly as she wished.

"At no great distance from the dancers there was a wrestling ring, where

many little ladies were looking on, betting on their favourites and

helping them with their good wishes and applause. Farther on, some were

shooting with bows and arrows at a target. Others were playing at keals

(bowls). Every here and there the lilly-bangers (raffle-keepers) with

their tables and dice kept a great noise calling out, 'Come hither,

sweet ladies and gentlemen, and try your luck! One in, two in, three in;

who will make four in for this nice cake?' Farther off, nearly out of

sight, a great number were 'hurling to the gold' (goal). She knew what

was going on from hearing the old cry of 'Well done, Santusters, one and

all, comrades; fair play is good play' and, every now and then she saw

the little hurling-ball, as it was cast from side to side, shine like a

shooting star. By that means they contrived to hurl by night.

"All games, which used to be played at fairs and merry-makings, were

there carried on. Still, great part of the small folks diverted

themselves in parading up and down, on the green, between the standings

and dancing-ground, examining the pretty things displayed. They didn't

seem to have any money amongst them to buy anything, yet they often

bartered their trinkets and changed them from stall to stall.

"The old woman determined to have some of the pretty things glistening

before her, but, among so much that was beautiful, she couldn't make up

her mind what to take. Whilst An' Pee was considering, she saw approach

the standing a little lady, tired with dancing, leaning her head on her

partner, who with his arm round her waist supported her steps. The

gentleman taking from the hands of a little dame who kept the stall a

golden goblet of the size and shape of a poppy head (capsule) held it to

the faint lady's lips. Sipping the contents she recovered in an instant,

and, choosing a fan, made of a few goldfinch feathers stuck into a pearl

handle, her partner took a pair of diamond buckles from his knees and

placed them on the standing by way of pledge. The little couple having

tripped off again to the dance, An' Pee thought how well the bright

little buckles would look, fixed as brooches, on her Sunday's cap-ribbon

or in her neckatee, and determined to secure them at once, fearing they

might be gone with the next small body that saw them.

"As there was nothing that she could so readily turn inside-out, and

drop on them, as one of her gloves, which reached to her elbows, she

drew off one, inside-out, and dropped it, as it seemed to her, right on

the buckles. Her hand nearly touched them; but, in trying to grasp them

under her glove, a palm of pins or needles, so small that she didn't

notice them, stuck into her fingers, and she cried out, 'Oh! Cuss 'e!

You little buccas.' That instant all the lights went out, and all the

fair, and most of the small people, vanished like shadows among the

rocks or sunk into the earth, like muryans (ants) into their holes.

"Yet many of the frolicsome sprights were still about her, as she soon

found to her cost.

"Whilst she was still stooping, and groping for her glove and the

buckles, she felt a great number of the small tribe--a score or

more--leap on her back, neck, and head. At the same time others,

tripping up her heels, laid her flat on the ground and rolled her over

and over. More than once, when her face was uppermost, she caught a

glimpse of Piskey, all in rags as usual, mounted on a year-old colt, his

toes stuck in the mane, holding a rush in his hand to guide it. There he

sat, putting on the smaller sprights to torment her, making a

tee-hee-hee and haw-haw-haw, with his mouth open from ear to ear.

"When she spread out her arms and squeezed herself down, that they

shouldn't turn her over, they would squeak and grunt in trying to lift

her; but all her endeavours to hinder their game were of no use. Somehow

or other over she went, and every time they turned her face downwards

some of the small fry would jump on her back and there jig away with

'heel-and-toe' from her head to her feet. In the pitch and pass of their

three-handed reels, it was who and who should get on her stays; the

steel and whalebone in that, she supposed, served them as a

springing-board. In the finishing off of their double shuffles they

would leap more than three times their height, turn a summersault over

each others' heads, and so make the pass. An' Pee twisted her head on

one side, saw what they were at, and tried to beat them off with her

stick, but they got it from her hand, laid it across her waist, and

mounting on it astride, as many as could, bobbed up and down, singing,

'See-saw-see,

Lie still, old Peepan Pee.

See-saw-see,

Upon old Peepan Pee,

Who should better ride than we?

See-saw-see.'

"The old woman, not to be beaten with such imps, tossed back her feet to

kick them off; then they held her legs doubled back and pulled off her

shoes; some jumped up and balanced themselves on her upturned toes,

whilst others pricked at, and tickled, the soles of her feet till she

fell into fits of crying and laughing by turns.

"Pee was almost mad with their torment, when, by good luck, she

remembered to have heard that the adder-charm was powerful to drive away

all mischievous sprights. She had no sooner pronounced the words than

they all fled screeching down the hill, Piskey galloping after; they

left her lying on a bed of furze, near a large rock.

"She got on her feet, and, looking round, saw, by the starlight of a

clear frosty morning, that the place to which she had been piskey-led

was near the bottom of the Gump; that the level spot of green on which

the small people held their fair, and carried on their games, was almost

surrounded by high rocks, and was no larger over than the Green-court or

walled garden in front of Pendeen house; yet, when the fair was on it,

through the sprights' illusions, this green spot seemed like a

three-acre field.

"An' Pee only found her stick. The basket, tied to her arm, was empty

and broken to pieces. She paced the ground over and round, in hope of

finding her hat and shoes, and above all her glove, and the precious

buckles under it. Giving over at length her fruitless search, with the

help of her stick she hobbled, barefooted and bare-headed, down the hill

and reached Pendeen gate.

"'Now thank the powers,' said she, as she passed through it and slammed

it behind her, 'I shall be a-bed and sleepan in a few minutes.'

"Though An' Pee knew that Piskey had played her many tricks that night,

and she thought he might be still dogging her footsteps, yet she was so

bewildered that, until too late, it never came into her head to turn

some of her clothing inside out, and now, so near home, she defied him

to lead her astray.

"Inside Pendeen gate there is one road leading to the mansion and

another which goes down to the mill. Between them there were two or

three acres of ground, which had probably never been cleared or

cultivated, as there were several large rocks remaining on it and brakes

of furze, seldom cut, because the old Squire, or his family, had stocked

this piece of rough ground with fancy breeds of tame rabbits, and the

wild ones which came among them from not being chased or shot at, became

so tame that they continued their frisky gambols, without showing any

signs of fear when persons passed near them; and, for the pleasure of

seeing the bunnies sport, furze was allowed to grow here and there over

great part of this ground.

"In passing to the house An' Pee avoided the stony road and walked on

the green, because her poor bare feet were cut and sore.

"Now hundreds of times--drunk and sober--on the darkest nights she had

gone along the grass beside the bridle-paths, without once missing her

way to the Green-court gate. Yet, that Hallan Eve she, somehow, went too

far from the road, got in on the grassy patches between the furze, and,

before she knew that she had missed her way, found herself down by the

mill-road. She followed up that track, and in making a new attempt to

reach the house, she again got among the furze and wandered about on the

patches of green between them for hours without coming to either road.

Yet, as usual, with piskey-led persons the path appeared either before

or close beside her, until, tired out, she lay down to wait for day and

fell asleep.

"The Squire and all his household were very much concerned because of

the old woman's absence, well knowing that no ordinary matter would keep

her from home on the feasten tide. During the night the servants had

been sent to the villages round, to inquire if anyone had seen her in

Penzance or on the road, but no tidings were obtained of her. The Squire

rose by break of day and called up his servants to hunt for her. In

passing along the road towards the gate, only a few yards from the

house, he heard somebody snoring in a brake of furze bordering on the

path, and there he found his housekeeper very ragged and torn. Some say

he discovered her by finding on the road her knitting-work, with the

yarn hanging to it, and, by taking up the yarn, he went by it till he

found the dame with some of the ball in her pocket. However that may be,

he roused her with great difficulty, and, without opening her eyes, she

said,

"'I wan't turn out to please anybody till I've had my morning nap; so go

away, go, and shut my chamber door!'

"At length her master, having brought her to her senses, helped her up

and asked what made her take up her lodgings on the cold ground?

"In passing slowly along, and stopping awhile at the Green-court gate,

she told him of her mishaps.

"The Squire didn't think one half of what she said could be true; indeed

he questioned whether she had been to Penzance at all, and thought it

quite as likely that she had stayed tippling at the cove till near dark,

starting for town, had missed her way, and, wandering over the Gump, had

there, or where he found her, fallen asleep and dreamt great part of

what she told him.

"'Belike Pee,' said the Squire, as she was about to go down the

Green-court steps, 'what you took at the cove had something to do with

rising the spirits you saw.'

"'Oh! you misbelieving man,' cried she, turning round, and holding

towards him her uplifted hands, 'if I like a drop of good liquor to

cheer my heart, now and then, I never took so much as to do me harm in

all my born days; and, leave me tell 'e, that with all your learning,

and doubting, you know but little about the 'small people.' There es

more taking place in the region of spirits, as I've heard the parson

say, than you can learn from your books, and for want of faith, I fear

me you will never be enlightened. Yet as sure as my name is Penelope

Tregeer, I seed, heard, and what is more I felt, all that I now tell

'e.'

"'Go in and sleep the spirits out of thy noddle, that thou mayest be in

time to see about the feasten dinner,' said the Squire, as he turned

away, and took his favourite morning's walk to the cove.

"When he came in, after a turn round the cliff and up by the mill, he

found the old woman, never the worse for her journey, busy preparing the

feasten fare, and the ladies and gentlemen of his family, and numerous

visitors, at an early breakfast that they might have time to proceed to

church in grand state on the feasten day."

PENDEEN OF OLD.

Capt. Peter, having taken a pull from the pewter pot, continued

with--"Believe me, comrades, Pendeen didn't then look wisht at feasten

tides nor at any other time, when one saw, (and smelt, too), the sweet

scent of turf-smoke that curled up from chimney stacks, which now look

down sorrowfully on cold hearths; and one saw fair faces peering through

the casements, numbers of ladies and gentlemen walking about the garden

alleys and courts of the old mansion, or when the cry of hounds and the

winding of the horn echoeing through the house, called one and all to

the hunt at early morn. And, I can but think," he continued, "how

strangers visiting Pendeen for the first time, after riding over miles

of open downs with scarce a dwelling in sight, must have been surprised

when they caught the first glimpse of the noble old seat, which is only

seen when close at hand, and the track of rich cultivated land between

it and the sea; it must have appeared to them like a place raised by

enchantment, as we hear of in old stories. And the old masons, who took

pride in their art and did their work truly, were right to bestow such

labour on the beautiful chimney stacks of the old mansion, because they

are there first seen, and from parts where little else of the house is

visible; and the first sight, like first love, is never forgotten,

mates."

Capt. Peter paused, drained the pewter pot, which had stood foaming

before him, handed it to the cheerful old landlady to be replenished,

and took a smoke. A tinner, who sat by the fire knocking the ashes out

of his pipe, said, whilst he cut up his roll-tobacco, rubbed it in the

palm of his hand, and refilled:--

"I don't understand very well Capen what is meant by enchantment, only

that it's something strange and wonderful. Now, to my mind, the greatest

wonder about the place is the Vow. One end of it we know is within a few

yards of the mansion, but no one knows where the other is to be found.

Ef there be any truth in old traditions about that cavern, adit, fougou,

or whatever it may be called, it runs for a great distance (some say

miles), yet most people believe that the eastern end was once open at

the cove. Others will have it that old tinners, who lived before part of

the roof had fallen in, travelled in it for ten times the distance from

the house to the cove, and burned more than a pound of candles without

finding the end. They always returned frightened, and what they saw to

scare them they could never be got to tell.

"Perhaps the Spirit of the Vow, that many have seen at the entrance, in

the appearance of a tall lady, dressed in white, with a red rose in her

mouth, at all seasons of the year, may take a more fearful form within

the cavern.

"Who can tell," he continued, "but that money and treasures may have

been secreted there in troublesome times of old, and I wonder why the

Squire don't have the mystery about the Vow cleared up; there can't be

much of the roof fallen in, and, for my part, I'd willingly give all my

time, out of core for a month to help clear away the rubbish and take

the venture upon shares."

"I am very much of thy mind, my dear," Capt. Peter replied, "Ef the

Squire would give us leave we'd pitch cost as soon as the feast is over,

and I don't think we should find there many spirits to frighten us away.

I believe that many of the fearful stories about the Vow were invented

by smugglers. When the fair trade was in its glory the Vow was a

convenient place for storage, and I think that the smugglers, who didn't

want any faint hearts, with weak heads and long tongues, to come near

them, invented many fearful stories to scare such away. One never finds

any so fond of prying into other people's business as the foolish ones,

or 'Grammer's weak children,' as we say."

HOW PISKEY LEFT BOSLOW.

Tells how the drudging goblin sweat

To earn his cream bowl duly set,

When in one night, ere glimpse of morn,

His shadowy flail hath thresh'd the corn.

MILTON.

"No doubt," said the tinner after a pause, "Piskey threshed the corn and

did other odd jobs for the old man of Boslow, as long as he lived, and

they said that after his death he worked some time for the old widow,

till he took his departure from the place about three score years ago.

Some say"--

"Stop a minute, my son, I can tell 'e a story about that," said Capt.

Peter, taking the pipe from his mouth, and holding up his finger:--"One

night, when the hills were covered with snow and winter had come

severely, the old widow of Boslow left in the barn for Piskey a larger

bowl than usual of gerty milk (boiled milk, thickened with pillas, or

oatmeal). Being clear moonlight she took a turn round the town-place,

stopped at the barn-door, and looked in to see if Piskey were come to

eat his supper while it was hot. The moonlight shone through a little

window right on the barn-boards, and there, sitting on a sheaf of oats,

she saw Piskey eating his gerty milk very hearty. He soon emptied his

wooden bowl, and scraped it with the wooden spoon as clean as if it had

been washed out. Having placed the 'temberan dish and spoon' in a

corner, he stood up and patted and stroked his stomach, and smacked his

lips in a way that was as much as to say, 'that's good of 'e old dear;

see ef I don't thresh well for 'e to-night.' But when Piskey turned

round, the old woman was sorry to see that he had nothing on but rags

and a very little of them.

"'How poor Piskey must suffer with the cold,' she thought and said to

herself, 'to pass great part of his time out among the rushes in the

boggy moors or on the downs with this weather--his legs all naked, and a

very holey breeches. I'll pitch about it at once, and make the poor

fellow a good warm suit of home-spun. We all know ragged as Piskey es,

he's so proud that he won't wear cast-off clothes, or else he should

have some of my dear old man's--the Lord rest him.'

"No sooner thought than she begun; and, in a day or two, made a coat and

breeches, knitted a pair of long sheep's-black stockings, with garters,

and a nightcap, knitted too.

"When night came the old woman placed Piskey's new clothes, and a bowl

of gerty milk on the barn-boards, where the moonlight would shine on

them to show them best. A few minutes after leaving the barn she came

back to the door, opened its upper part a little, and, looking in, saw

Piskey standing up, eating his milk, and squinting at the clothes at the

same time. Laying down his empty bowl he took the new breeches on the

tip of his hand-staff, carried it to the window, and seeing what it was,

put it on over his rags, dragged on the stockings, and gartered them,

donned coat and cap, then jumped over the barn-boards, and capered round

the barn, like a fellow light in the head, singing,

"'Piskey fine and Piskey gay,

Piskey now will run away.'

"And, sure enow, run away he did; for when he came round to the door

opening into the mowhay he bolted out and took himself off without as

much as saying, 'I wish 'e well 'till I see again' to the old woman, who

stood outside the other door looking at am. Piskey never came back and

the old woman of Boslow died that winter."

AN OVERSEER AND A PARISH CLERK OF ST. JUST

ABOUT SIXTY YEARS AGO.

"It was no wonder if persons coming from Penzance to Pendeen of a dark

night should miss their way and think themselves piskey-led," said the

tinner.

"There was neither bridge nor house in the place called New Bridge

before wheel carriages were in use, and the only St. Just road from

Penzance this side of Cardew Water was a mere bridle-path or rather a

great number of horse tracks, often crossing each other and twisting

about far and wide round rocks and intervening patches of furze, over

miles of open downs and boggy moors, with no hedges near the road to

keep it within bounds. When one track was worn too deep it was never

repaired, as there was plenty of room to make a new one. Bridges then

were few, and for the most part made by placing flat slabs to rest on

the stepping-stones in some of the deepest streams, for the convenience

of foot passengers. These old foot-bridges were ugly things to cross by

night and the stepping-stones were worse."

"We have all heard about the old stepping-stones in Nancherrow Water,"

said the tinner, who finished the foregoing story, "how, after day-down,

no one could pass over them in going to Church-town without some mishap,

and no person would venture to return that way until daybreak. Shortly

before the first bridge was built there, one of the overseers was a

farmer who lived in the North of St. Just. Few persons then could either

write or read, except one here and there, who passed for a great scholar

if he could sign his name and read a chapter in the Psalter without much

spelling. The overseer not knowing how to write or cipher, kept the

accounts of his monthly disbursements on the dairy-door, in round o's

for shillings and long chalks for pence. The last Saturday of each month

he took the dairy-door on his back and carried it to Church-town, that

the clerk might enter his accounts in the parish book.

"One Saturday, in the season when days are short and streams high, the

overseer couldn't make out his accounts and reach Nancherrow Water

before dark; and, in passing, with the door on his back, over the wet

and slippery stones, he lost his balance, and fell into the stream. By

good luck the door was under, and floated him down to a place where the

water spread out shallow and there he landed, but all the accounts were

washed out. 'Tis said that the overseer's mishap was the reason why the

first bridge was built over Nancherrow Water."

"I can tell 'e another sad case," said the Capt. "We elderly folks have

all heard of Uncle Will Ben, who was the parish clerk and the best

fiddler in the parish, a little before I was born, and everybody says he

was what we call a 'peathy old fellow, with plenty of gumption.'

"One Feasten Monday Uncle Will was rather late in going to Church-town

with his fiddle, in a case, under his arm, to play during the night in a

public house. Being Feasten Monday, like enough he had stopped to take a

drop at neighbours' houses on the road; however, in crossing Nancherrow

Water, his foot slipped from the stepping-stones and his fiddle fell

from under his arm into the water, floated down the stream and in under

a high bank where it was caught in some brambles. A gentleman riding

through the water, saw Uncle Will a little below trying to get at

something with his stick, and asked what was the matter. Uncle Will told

him of his mishap. 'I pity your case,' the horseman replied, and rode

on.

"'I don't care a cuss for the case if I'd only got my fiddle,' replied

Uncle Will.

"This gave rise to the saying which is still often heard, 'I don't care

a cuss for the case, if I'd only got the fiddle,' as Uncle Will Ben

said.

"This old jewel of a parish clerk and fiddler said many other things

which are still remembered and used as every-day sayings.

"It was the custom then for the great farmers to invite the parson and

clerk to supper on goolthise (harvest-home) day, and the sexton usually

came to work and see his reverend master safe home. Often all three came

in time to lend a hand about the corn carrying. If two farmers had their

goolthise on the same day the parson and sexton favoured one and the

clerk the other. It happened, one day, when Uncle Will came alone early

in the morning to help, and to enjoy the feast, that the weather was

very lowering, and such was the fear of rain coming before the corn was

in ricks, and thatched, that the carrying was continued all day for dear

life, without stopping to take any other breakfast or dinner than such

snacks as the corn carriers could catch, when there were more trusses

round the ricks than the builders could put away for some time. The corn

was then, except on a few large farms where ox-wains were just coming

into use, all carried on the horses' backs, and the chasers, as they

called the leaders who kept the trusses steady on the horses, were fond

of coming in together that they might have a race back to the field,

made the mowers work very irregular; it was gallop and stop half the

time. That day, however, all worked with such a will that the corn was

in and thatched in good time before the rain came.

"The supper being served, the clerk, in the absence of the parson, was

asked to say grace. Uncle Will hesitated a moment; then, rising, he

said, 'Thank God we have carried all the corn and had very fine weather;

so here's grace for breakfast, dinner, and supper together.'

"Yet what is usually known as Uncle Will Ben's grace, is, 'God bless the

meat and now let's eat!'

"Another saying accredited to Uncle Will--that 'Job had patience, but

Job never had such a splat of black petates in his life'--is owing to

An' Mary, his wife, having been a parson's daughter from upwards, and

'brought up like a lady' as he was fond of saying sometimes. When Will

was a young and smart militia man, and An' Mary a girl in her teens, he

fell in love with her and she fell in love with him, and came with him

to St. Just. In their time potatoes were just coming into use; gentlemen

and some farmers planted a few in their gardens as a curious vegetable

to be used on extraordinary occasions. Will Ben, not to be behind the

fashion, had a small spot planted in his garden. When his potatoes were

high enough for hoeing Will told his wife Mary, who kept the garden in

order, to hoe the 'splat of petates,' and be sure to hoe them clean.

When William came in from his work in the fields, he said, 'Well Mary,

hast a hoed the petates?' 'Yes, William dear, and hoed them nice and

clean; just go out and look at them whilst I take up the supper.'

'William dear' went into the garden, but he saw no potatoe-plants, for

Mary had cut them all out of the ground, not knowing them from weeds.

'Dear William' came in swearing on his wife for hoeing up all the

precious petates, telling her that it had been ten times better for him

if he had wedded the sexton's dafter, as she would have made a better

farmer's wife. An' Mary (who, as I have heard say, was always a dear

gentle soul) only replied, 'Sweet William, have patience and they will

grow again. Remember Job, William dear, and think, cheeld vean, how he

had patience.'

"'Oh! d----n Job,' replied sweet William, 'don't tell me about Job. Job

never had such a splat of black petates in his life!'

"And now, my dears," said Capt. Peter, holding up a pot of foaming ale,

"here's health and luck to 'e all, my hearties, and a merry Feasten-tide

to 'one and all.' There's no sense in being miserable, and, for my part,

old as I am, I'd go ten miles this night to dance to the music of as

good a fiddler and as honest a man as Uncle Will Ben."

[Illustration]

THE FAIRY MASTER, OR BOB O' THE CARN.

Out steps some Faery, with quick motion,

And tells him wonders of some flowrie vale.

MARSTON.

Just fifty years ago, one Tom Treva lived on a small lone tenement near

the foot of Carn Kenidjack hill. He had a large family and disliked for

any of them to go in service. The boys, as they grew up, worked in the

mines, and helped about the tillage of their few acres of crofts 'out of

core.' The eldest daughter, Grace, remained at home to assist her

mother, who took pride in making her handy in doing all such simple work

as was required in their humble household. But as it was hard for them

to make both ends meet, the poor girl had no best clothes except such as

were made out of old gowns which had belonged to her grandmother. These

were very gay, to be sure, yet so old-fashioned that other maidens, who

worked at the mines and procured more modish dresses, wouldn't be seen

anywhere from home with Grace and her grammer's old gowns. She didn't

much mind their company, however. Her mother and 'the boys' (her

brothers) promised her, year after year, that against the next

Feasten-tide, if they could only lay by a few shillings, they would buy

her as smart a rig-out as any of the proud hussies could show. But, with

so many mouths to be fed, it was hard for them to save a farthing. So

tides came and went, and Grace "had nothing for bettermost wear that was

fit to be seen in Church-town or anywhere else from home," so the

bal-maidens said, and they "wouldn't be seen going to preaching or to

games with her;" yet she didn't mind it much, and seemed contented

enough to stay at home, in the evenings listening to old stories related

by her father and others who gathered round his hearth, because they,

too, were not rich or smart enow to follow the fashions then upsetting

all old customs among such Santusters as 'got a sturt to bal.' Grace

would go about her work, indoors and out, singing like a lark. She was

nearly sixteen, when a cousin of about her own age, who had been away

only a year in farmer's service, a few miles off, came to see them the

next Feast, dressed out quite like a lady, to Grace's seeming; for she

wore a blue shining dress and earrings, and necklaces of red, green, and

yellow beads that she changed more than once a day, or wore them

altogether, while the flowers in her bonnet were the admiration of all

beholders.

"I should be glad, cousin Grace," said she, "to put thee up to

Church-town to the fiddler a Monday night, and wish I had only brought

home one of my frocks for thee to wear; but really, cheeld, grammer's

old gowns would make thee a laughing-stock to the youngsters, and not

one of them would dance with us. Go thee way'st in service, cheeld, that

thee may'st get a stock of clothes fit to be seen in, and a sweetheart

that thee west soon want to have as well as other maidens! But the Lord

help thee and the young fellow who would come a courting and take thee

to Morvah Fair even in that old rorey-torey gown, with red and blue

flowers so large that the birds are nesting in them."

Grace became very dissatisfied after this vision of grandeur, and never

gave her mother any peace till she consented for her to go in service

next summer. She was the more ready to let Grace try her fortune away,

as other daughters were growing up to help her. So, during winter, she

and her mother spun and knitted for dear life that they might earn a few

extra shillings to provide changes of under clothing against she set out

to look for service.

For weeks Grace had been going round saying good-bye to the neighbours,

and she rose one fine morning and gave the last kiss, and said, "I wish

'e well, for the last time," to all the family round. Her father, on

parting, charged her not to go more than a day's journey from home, and

be sure to keep far away from Penzance or any town, for fear she should

be kidnapped, and they should nevermore see her. He told her how strange

sailors, that frequented such places, often prowled about for miles, and

no maiden was safe within their reach. Grace promised to be on her

guard, took her fardel, and started on her journey towards the southern

parishes where gentlemen farmers lived.

On her way she thought upon what her smart cousin had told her to go

over to the other side of the country, get into good farmer's service,

where she might soon qualify herself to live in a gentleman's house and

get higher wages. She had advised her not to pay much heed to what old

folks said in their fears, about conjurors, witches, small people, and

such like, that are seldom met with now-a-days. "Up here amongst the

hills you know but little of the world," said the cousin, "and your old

drolls arn't altogether to be believed." Grace couldn't help going out

of her way a little to take a last look of Carn Kenidjack, where she had

passed many happy hours, for youngsters were accustomed to meet there of

Sunday afternoons to play about amongst the rocks or listen to old

folks' stories. Then she went on with a pretty good heart till she

reached high ground, from which she could only just see the smoke

curling over the house-tops below. She turned round, took a farewell

look, her eyes blinded with tears; then she went a little farther and

sat down on a rock by the road-side, to have a good cry and ease her

heart.

She wept aloud to think she was going to an unknown country to live

amongst strangers--that she might nevermore behold her parents and old

playmates. But still, determined to go on, even if she went as far as

daylight would take her, she dried her eyes with her apron; and, looking

up, she saw standing close beside her a very nice-looking gentleman. He

wished her good morrow and asked why she wept.

"Oh, sir, I have left home," she replied, "and am on the road to a

strange country to look for service."

"Well now, good luck has directed me," said he, "for, hearing there were

tidy girls up this way, I started early this morning and am come so far

to seek one that might take care of my house and little son, and a nicer

maid than you one needn't wish to find. Indeed you look as fresh as a

rose in morning dew."

He then sat on the rock beside Grace and told her that he was left a

widower with one little boy, who had nobody but an old great-aunt to

look after him; there was little else to do but the dairy-work after one

cow, and a few poultry to take care of. "Come along home with me,

Grace," said he, rising and taking up her bundle, "you can but try, and

shall stay with me, if you don't like it, till you hear of some other

place that may suit 'e better."

Grace wondered how he came there, for she hadn't seen him coming over

the downs; and was surprised that he knew her name. Yet she said

nothing, because her mother had often told her not to ask questions but

to use her ears and eyes to learn.

The gentleman looked so handsome and spoke so kind, that, without

hesitation, she went on with him and related how her parents had a large

family, that her mother had taught her dairy-work, to cook in a plain

way, and to spin and knit. "You will do, I'm sure," said he, "and if you

had time to spare I suppose you wouldn't mind helping me weed the garden

or pick fruit in the orchard."

"There's nothing I should like better," she replied, "for the work

about one cow and a child can't be much."

He told her that his name was Robin, though most of his acquaintance

called him Bob o' the Carn, or Bobby Carn.

In such like talk they went on, down hill, towards the Low Countries;

and Grace, with her eyes fixed on her companion, didn't notice their

road, and that for some time they had been walking through green lanes,

hedged with trees; honey-suckles, and such sweet flowers as she had

never seen hung over head. The gentleman remarking her surprise, said,

"These trees and flowers are nothing to what you will see, ere long,

where I dwell; but up in your high country no trees and but few flowers

grow; that's how you think these so wonderful."

Over a while they came in sight of a large house; "Oh, sir, es that a

king's palace?" demanded she, "and see, the trees around it are higher

than church towers!"

"No, my child, there's many such dwellings down this way, and even

larger ones, but no kings reside here," answered he.

Grace hadn't ceased wondering at the grand building when they came to

where four roads met, and kept straight on, still going down hill, all

amidst spreading trees which shaded the road by the side of which were

rills of clear water, that every here and there sunk into the grass and

re-appeared. Where streams crossed their road Grace's companion lifted

her over them that she mightn't even wet her foot.

She had no notion of the distance they had gone, for he gave her cake

and cordials ever so often, and talked so pleasantly that the time

seemed as nothing, and she would have gone on with him to the world's

end.

At length they came out of the wood near a river and she saw it was

nearly sunset. "We are now all but come to my dwelling," said her

master. (We may as well call him so since she had made up her mind to

live with him).

He bore her over the stepping-stones that crossed the river near the

foot of a towering carn of grey rocks that rose amidst a wood close by

the water side. They passed up by the river a little way and entered an

orchard. Grace wondered at the trees, bending down with loads of red and

yellow apples and many kinds of fruit that she had never before seen. By

a winding alley they came to a green, all surrounded with blossoming

trees and dotted over with curious beds of sweet flowers, most of them

unknown to Grace, who, without perceiving that they left the garden,

entered what looked like an arbour and found herself in her master's

dwelling before she noticed it, hidden as it was by roses and flowering

plants which spread over its walls and roof.

Yet the kitchen was light enough for her to see rows of pewter that

shone like silver. A wood fire blazed on the hearth, though it was high

summer time; and beside it, on a chimney-stool, sat a prim sour-looking

old woman, knitting. She looked at Grace as if her eyes would bore holes

through her, when the master said, "I'm come, Aunt Prudence, with a tidy

maid that I had the good luck to meet on her way to look out for a

place."

"I see thee art come, Robin," she replied, still keeping her eyes on

Grace; "and it seems to me thee hast brought hither a young giglet that

will use her tongue more than her hands! We shall see."

"So we shall," remarked he, rather affronted with Prue's remarks, "and

when you have shown her what is to be done, you needn't take the trouble

to come here often. And where's the boy?" he asked.

"Here I am, dadda!" exclaimed a little fellow, bounding in to kiss his

father, who took him on his knee; and An' Prue, as was her wont, mumbled

to herself "we shall see."

The boy from his size appeared no more than six or seven years old, but

his face looked like a cunning old man's, and his eyes were uncommon

sharp.

Grace looked from one to the other rather confused, when her master

said, "My little Bob, here's a nurse for 'e, who will give ye your milk,

wash your face, and anoint your eyes, just like your mother used to; I

hope you will like her." "That I can't tell yet," said the urchin,

eyeing Grace for all the world just like An' Prue, and he looked then

almost as old. The master, however, without more palaver, placed on the

board, bread, cheese, apples, honey, and other things, sat down, told

Grace to do the same, and eat what she liked; and, that after

milking-time she could cook a good savoury supper. She had never before

tasted such nice white bread and other things; after making a hearty

meal, she said, "I may as well pitch to." "Rest thee till milking-time,"

said An' Prue, "a new broom sweeps clean, faix," mumbled she, in taking

another survey through her spectacles.

Over an hour or so Robin told Grace that she had only to take the pail,

pass through the orchard into a meadow by the waterside, call "Pruit,

Pruit," and the cow would come to her; she did as directed, and from

amidst the trees came a beautiful white cow, which stood with her udder

right over the bucket and showered down her milk, so that in a minute it

was full and running over. Grace rose to fetch another vessel that the

milk mightn't go to waste; but when she lifted the bucket, the cow

lowed, and, before the maiden left the meadow, disappeared in the wood.

Grace told her master how the cow was gone off with the best milk. "That

pailful will do for the night," said he; "the cow is far away by this,

but if at any time you wish to have more you may take two or three

pails, and 'Daisy'--that's her name--will fill them all, but she won't

wait for 'e to fetch more things." "She must be a jewel of a cow, for

sure, and I'll have all the pans full to-morrow," thought Grace, as she

strained the milk, and washed the strainer and bucket, and did other

jobs so handy, that even the old dame looked less sour on her. The

master went out to feed his horse--he had a beauty in the stable close

at hand--and that while Prudence said, "Now mind, Grace, you must always

put the child to bed by daylight, and as you sleep in the same room go

'e to bed then too; if your master be home, he can do without you; and

should he be away, you need not wait up for his return; you are not to

go into the spare rooms, nor to meddle with what don't concern 'e; nor

ask any questions, except about your work, and then I'll tell 'e as much

as you are required to know. And let me warn 'e, that if you enter your

master's private room, you will rue the day as long as you live. In the

mornings rise with the sun; take the child to a spring, that he can show

'e, wash him well and then anoint his eyes with this ointment,"

continued she, in showing Grace a small ivory box of a greenish unguent,

that she took from the cupboard; "a bit, the size of a pin's head or

less, is enow to be put in the corner of each eye. Then milk 'Daisy,'

and give the child this bowlfull and no more," said she, showing Grace a

china-basin that would contain a pint or so; "make flowery-milk for

breakfast, and when the breakfast things are washed away, scald the

evening's milk, and clean up the house."

Just as the precise dame had finished her instructions, the master came

in and said, "I think it's high time for 'e to go home, An' Prue, whilst

there's daylight for 'e to find your way across the water." "My room is

more welcome than my company," mumbled she, in hobbling out; "but we

shall see how they will get on without me to keep them to stays."

Grace told her master that she wasn't used to go to bed so early; he

answered, "please yourself on that score, and stay up as long as you

mind to." He then brought her a basket of fruit, and told her to eat

what she pleased of them; afterwards, he gave her a cup of cordial that

she found delicious; and by the time she had drunk it to the last drop,

she forgot her home and playmates among the hills; her brothers and

sisters, her father and mother even; she no more remembered her former

state, and only thought of her kind master and the delightful place in

which he lived; and she dreamt that night of nothing else.

In the morning Grace was up betimes; finished her work in a hour or so,

and 'looked over her shoulder for more,' when An' Prue came in, examined

the house, and seeing nothing to find fault with, she merely said, "A

new broom sweeps clean, but an old one es good for the corners," and

told Grace she might work in the garden for an hour or so, till time to

get dinner, if she had a mind to, that her master was there and he would

show her what to do.

Prudence returned to her dwelling, where she kept a school; and Grace,

glad to escape the old dame's piercing eyes, went into the garden to

look upon the more pleasing countenance of her master, who said, "You

have made a good beginning, cheeld, only hold to it, and we shall get on

very well; come now and help me weed a flower-bed, that I may show 'e

what to pull up and what to let grow." She weeded so handy and minded

her master's instructions so well, that he, to show his satisfaction,

when a bed was finished, clasped her in his arms and kissed her, saying,

"I can't tell 'e any other way how well pleased I am at your handy

work." She redoubled her efforts to please him that he might again show

his satisfaction.

Time passed so pleasantly in the beautiful garden--which Grace thought

must be like Paradise--that they forgot the dinner hour, till the boy

came home from school and ran out into the garden, shouting, "Dadda!

Dadda! I want my dinner; An' Prue always had it ready in time." "Run in

my good girl," said his father; "give him bread and honey with milk to

drink, or anything to stop his squalling, we can have apple-pie; pick a

few of the ripest from yonder tree."

Having given Bob his dinner, Grace gathered such golden apples as she

never beheld till then, indeed, she thought them too rich to cook, and

that their perfume was enough to satisfy one, for roses and

gilly-flowers were less sweet to her seeming.

Dinner over and Bob sent to school, master and maid passed a pleasant

afternoon in the garden gathering fruit. Prudence, having sent her

scholars home, took a nap, for she had talked herself sleepy over the

horn-book. She soon waked up, however, and hurried over to find that

Grace had gone a milking, and Robin was in a quillet (paddock), near by,

grooming his horse. Seeing all about the house in apple-pie order, she

looked rather sour, for the crabbed dame dearly liked to spy faults;

that's how she was so much disliked by Grace; so without a word to

anyone in the garden-dwelling, she tucked up her skirts and picked her

way back to her own house, mumbling, "It seems my room es more welcome

than my company, but we shall see how long they will get on without my

advice."

Grace found her new life so pleasant that she took no count of time;

months passed like a summer's day; she never thought of her old home or

people, for all her care was to please her agreeable master. Of a

morning he frequently rode away through the wood dressed like a

gentleman going a hunting; and Grace took delight to keep his boots

polished, and to buckle on his silver spurs that she might see him mount

and ride away in gallant style. Grace always wondered where her master

got out of the wood; she had gone a long way on the road he took, but

saw no end of the winding, shady, alleys.

He always told her to be sure not to leave his grounds; on no account to

venture outside the orchard gate during his absence; and, for her life,

not to go near the high rock, for at its foot--hidden by thickets--there

was a low hole, from which Bucca-dhus often issued, and carried away

people who were nevermore seen here. One afternoon, however, when Robin

was away and the boy at school, Grace felt weary of being so long alone

or with only the poultry--that followed her everywhere about the

place,--and went to the outer gate. On seeing a pleasant walk winding

along by the waterside, where all was shady and quiet, she passed out

and down the road till near the high rocks; she wondered whither the

bowery path led; thought she heard the sea murmuring, and had a mind to

go farther on, when all her thoughts were put to flight by hearing a

voice say, "Stop there, my sweet pretty maid; I'll soon be down by the

river-side and give thee a diamond ring." Looking up towards the place

whence the voice came, she saw, on the topmost stone, a dark man dressed

like a sailor, who then made signs for her to pass farther down the

road. Grace hastened in, followed by the screaming hens, which roused

the dogs, and their barking alarmed An' Prudence, who hurried over, gave

her a good scolding, threatened to tell Robin how, by her gadding about,

she had narrowly escaped being carried away. As Grace was still uneasy

from fear, she waited up for her master and made a pie; he seemed well

pleased to have a hot one for his supper, and the girl to pull off his

boots; seeing her disturbed, he asked what was the matter; she confessed

her fault with tears, and promised never to disobey him again. "I'll let

it pass," said he, "as it's the first time you have disobeyed;" and, to

assure her of his forgiveness, he treated her to a cordial that produced

sweet sleep and pleasant dreams.

Grace finding her master well pleased that she had waited up for him,

continued to do so in spite of all An' Prudence told her. "Now since

thou hast again scorned my counsel, I'll leave thee to thy devices,"

said she, one day; "as if Robin wanted thee, forsooth, to unbuckle his

spurs or pull off his riding boots, and to cook him a supper that he is

better without."

Contrary to the austere dame's advice, Grace continued to take her own

way, and her master seemed pleased; she wanted for nothing, yet she was

always saying to herself, "Whatever can be in that locked-up parlour and

the chambers that I am forbidden to enter?" At last, from always

thinking about what didn't at all concern her, the fool--she couldn't

rest by night or by day. One afternoon whilst An' Prue was cleaning up

the parlour,--not thinking Grace was near,--she suddenly went out and

left the door ajar; that instant the curious maiden peeped in, and

spying lots of rare pretty things, she stepped over the drussel, and saw

what she took to be conjuring implements, and trembled to behold--on

shelves, in cupboards, and elsewhere about the room--men's heads, and

heads and shoulders without arms; over the fire-place there were even

whole bodies of small ones, all turned to stone; they were whiter than

corpses and quite naked, like what she had heard of in old folks'

stories as being done by enchantment; she didn't stay to notice much

more and was leaving the room backwards when the old dame, coming

behind, thumped her head and exclaimed, "Now thou perverse strollop

since thou hast entered the forbidden room to thy cost, thou shalt work

in it for a punishment; so take the waxed cloth and rub up that piece of

furniture," continued she, in pointing to a long dark chest, that looked

to Grace like a coffin resting on a table-frame, "Rub, rub away, rub

harder and quicker till thou canst see thy poking nose in it, and stop

thy whimperan or I'll crack thy numbscull." Grace burst out crying but

still rubbed away so hard that she lifted the article off its legs or

its frame, and, falling back with a jerk, something within it gave out a

doleful sound so like a dying groan that she,--thinking it must be the

voice of a spirit or of an enchanted body confined therein--was overcome

with fright and fell down in a fit.

Prudence fearing for the consequences, pulled her out by the heels in

great haste but not before Robin was informed, by a wailing from the

chest or coffin, that something had gone wrong in his private apartment.

When Grace came to her senses he said to her, "Ignorant chit thou art

become so froward as not to regard Aunt Prudence in anything; this is

thy second act of disobedience, for the third there's no forgiveness,

and if thou any more seekest to gratify thy troublesome curiosity

against my desire thou wilt have to get a new place, so beware."

After this it was many days ere Grace's master sang to her or played

with her again, as was his wont, and she redoubled her efforts to please

him and show her regret till he again kissed her to prove that the past

was forgiven.

A sight of the forbidden appartment, however, only served to make Grace

more dissatisfied because she couldn't understand all the mysteries of

the place and its inmates. She noticed that the boy looked very knowing

for one of his age, and thinking that by means of the ointment he saw

things invisible to her, she resolved to try its effects; and, one

morning, when her master had gone away, she took double the quantity

used daily for Bob's eyes and rubbed them on her own; it made them smart

so much that she thought them to be turning inside out or bursting from

her head.

To ease their burning pain she ran down and washed them in the pool.

Looking into the water--a minute after--when her eyes ceased smarting a

little, she saw there, deep down, what looked like another world with

trees, birds, and people in great numbers; the people were so small that

many of them perched themselves on branches amongst the birds. Yet what

surprised her most was to see her master below moving from place to

place among them; he was here, there, and everywhere. Being somewhat

frightened she left the pool and soon after, on looking around the

orchard, there, too, she saw small people and amongst them her master

dressed in his hunting-suit. "Now I know for sure that this is an

enchanted place," said she to herself, "my handsome master must be a

conjuror, and in spite of their fern-seed I shall soon discover more."

Grace passed that day very uneasy and in the evening Robin came home

with several strange people bearing baskets of cakes and other dainties

such as she had never before seen; these being placed away Robin told

her to put the boy to bed and that she wasn't wanted below stairs any

more for that night.

The dissatisfied maid went to bed but not to sleep, for in a few hours

she heard the ringing of cups and glasses with other sounds which made

it known to her that a banquet was being held in the stone-people's

apartment.

Over a while she heard singing and music there; the entry and staircase

being dark she crept down, and peeping through the partly open door, saw

two smart gentlemen, besides her master, and three ladies dressed in

white trimmed with green. In their ears, round their necks, and on their

arms, the ladies wore diamonds that shone like stars; but most of her

attention was drawn to a fair haired one who sat beside the long box or

coffin, and, by thumping on it with both hands for dear life she made

the body or spirit within it give out finer music than a dozen fiddlers

all in a row could make with their fiddles playing altogether, so she

said.

From her dark corner she listened and watched till the music ceased and

the company rose to depart; then, from her chamber window, she spied

Robin in the garden kiss the ladies all round, on taking leave.

Grace cried herself asleep, but for why she couldn't tell.

In the morning she found the parlour door locked, and seeing glasses,

china, and other things, on the kitchen table, she washed and placed

them on their shelves, and did her morning work; when her master came in

and, seeing all in order, said she was a good girl, put his arm around

her and was going to show his satisfaction in his usual way. But she

repulsed him saying, "Go and kiss your little white and green ladies;

you shall touch me no more; for you arn't of common human kind, but a

changeling small-body that for nine years at a time can appear as such;

yet with all your fern-seed none of 'e can deceive me any longer by your

enchantment and what not."

"Hold thy foolish clack thou silly girl," said he, "thy head is turned

with old folks' drolls; there's nothing uncommon here, 'tis only thy

ignorance that makes thee think so. But I see," he continued with a

stern air, "that thou hast rubbed thy eyes with the green ointment, and

now as I find that nothing can lay thy impertinent curiosity, or check

thy prying into what don't concern thee, we must part. Thy last year

will be ended to-morrow, so prepare at once to leave early in the

morning, and I will take thee behind me on horseback over the hills to

the place in which I found thee, for thou wilt never be able to find the

way back alone."

Seeing that all her promises of amendment were of no avail, and that

Robin and Prudence--who was now reinstated--determined on her departure,

Grace with much grief packed up her fardel, and from what her master and

old sour Prudence had given her, from time to time, she had a good stock

of clothing. She didn't know what wages was due to her, poor fool, nor

how long she had lived there, for years had passed like a summer's day,

until she longed to know too much. She was almost heart broken to leave

the flowers that she loved like living things, the poultry she had

reared, the pigeons that nested over the wood-corner ate from her hand

and followed her over the place; the rabbits and hares that played about

the garden and in the house; above all she grieved to part with a tame

robin that kept in the dwelling and sang whenever she entered it.

Besides it fretted her to find that old sour Prudence was brought back

to be mistress of Robin's garden-dwelling.

The discreet dame, however, not knowing what might turn up, took care to

keep Chypons--as the place in which she resided was called. She was very

proud of her snug habitation, because, a little below the carn, a

foot-bridge crossed the stream close by her house and nobody lived so

near it as to interfere with her wise management.

At daybreak she crossed the river and went on as her master had

directed her; he soon overtook her, and placing her on a pillion behind

him, they cantered away through dark lanes for miles, going up hill all

the time, and Robin spoke not a word. Grace, blinded with tears, saw

nothing of the road till they came up into broad daylight and an open

country. Still the horse went like the wind, and in a few minutes she

saw Carn Kenidjack.

Robin stopped his horse, sprung from his saddle, lifted Grace down and

placed her on the rock from which he had fetched her. In answer to her

entreaties to be taken home with him again, he only said, "Prudence and

I shall try to get on without other help, yet if we can't I may come for

'e again." Grace mounted the rock and looked after him as he rode away,

but in a few minutes he was out of sight. She lay on the heath and wept

till near night ere she arose, slowly descended the downs, and reached

her parents' dwelling.

The old folks were much surprised to behold her as they had given her up

for lost or dead long ago. Her mother, however, in welcoming her home,

lost no time before she opened her bundle, and found enough good clothes

to last a lifetime, and amongst them a bag containing more money than

they had ever seen before.

Grace's story seemed strange to all the neighbours, but most of the

elderly ones concluded from all she told them that one of the changeling

small people had taken her away to his underground dwelling or into his

habitation in a wood--as such places used to be their common haunts--and

there she had lived with him nine years that seemed less than one to

her.

She could no more endure her old home--and, showing but little regard

for its inmates, loathed their homely fare and old fashioned ways.

Neither could she make up her mind to work steadily as of old, but like

one distraught wandered away almost every day to the rock where she had

first and last seen Robin of the Carn. She took but little pride in her

fine clothes and money, and people thought she would go mad or fret

herself to death. Yet, in a little less than two years, which seemed

eternal to Grace, a neighbour's wife died leaving several small

children; the widower came a courting to the distracted maiden, and,

pushed his suit so vigorously, that at length she married him, and, as

it happened, her husband had no cause to regret his venture, for the

care of his children and plenty of work so far cured her vagaries, that

in a few years she almost forgot and little regretted her life with

Robin of the Carn.

Grace may be still living; it is only a few years since we were told her

story, and then she was a hale old woman with a numerous brood of

grandchildren.

* * * * *

There is a similar story told in Zennor of one Cherry who left home to

seek service in the low country parishes, and was met on Lady Downs by a

fairy gentleman, a widower, who took her to live with him; all went

well, till, from curiosity, she disobeyed his orders and was discharged,

but not until she had become so much attached to her fairy master that

she died with grief on being taken back to her old home.

Though 'modern instances' make up these stories, we have many old

fragmentary fairy tales that contain the same fancies; the loss of

happiness through inordinate curiosity.

A TINNER'S FIRESIDE STORIES.

THE KNOCKERS OF BALLOWAL.

Blest be that spot, where cheerful guests retire,

To pause from toil, and trim their evening fire.

GOLDSMITH.

A few years ago, in talking with a Lelant miner about the sprites that

haunt many old mines, he told us the following story, which we give in

his own words, as an example of West Country dialect.

We wish to correct an error that many persons, not Cornish, entertain

with regard to the language of Cornish working people. Their mistake

originates, in many instances, from seeing in stories--misnamed Cornish,

and for the most part written by strangers to the country--such an

uncouth jargon, put into the mouths of West Country folks, which is no

more the common dialect of Cornwall than it is of Jericho. Our English

will bear comparison with that of any rural district, and, in most

cases, be found more correct, though somewhat antiquated. Many of our

peculiar words, such as agricultural or mining terms, a few names of

plants, &c., are genuine old Cornish.

"I know that strangers," said Uncle Bill, "and grand learned folks like

our passen, don't believe in the sperats we cale knackers workan in the

bals, and say that the noise, made by these old ghosts of tinners, is

caused by water oazan out of a lode and drippen into a pit; as ef the

water fallan from ever so high, could sound like hammer and boryer, or

pick and showl (shovel) workan away. But, bless us, comrade, what can

these strangers that come here--to instruct us, forsooth!--know about

such things? Yet how they will talk about what they never heard of

before they came among us, and say it es all su-per-sti-tion! Now that's

a fine word, my dear, and I mean to use et on all occasions; like An'

Betty Brea, up your way, who es twenty times a day askan 'Do 'e knaw the

sig-ni-fi-ca-tion' of some fiddle-stick's end, or other, that she may

use her one grand word, lately picked up from a local preacher.

"I've been minded lately of a story that was told me by an old

comrade--Uncle Tom Trevorrow, who's many years older than I am. When I

was a boy, workan at Trink Stamps, he was married; and he was then as

fine a man as one would meet of a long summer's day. If you'll have

patience enow I'll tell 'e the story of

TOM AND THE KNACKERS.

"Do let's have the droll, Uncle Bill," said I, and he related as

follows,--

"From the time Tom was old enow to handle a pick and showl he had lived

in Trecroben, and worked in Wheal Reath, till twenty years or so ago,

when work fell slack here, and some bals were knacked (stopped). Then he

went to Santust (St. Just) to look for a job and found work in Ballowal.

Most people have heard of that queer old bal, that was worked before The

Flood, they say. There the old men's works, weth their deep open coffans

(pits) may still be seen, jest as they left them, only wash'd and run'd

in a good deal one may suppose. That old bal, everybody in Santust will

tell 'e, have always been haunted with knackers. And the burrows, in

crofts and cleves around, are swarman with them, and weth spriggans,

wherever anything belongan to the old bal was burred. There these

sprites keep everlastan watch, though all the old men's tools or

treasures may be gone to rust, earth, and dust. One don't often see

them, 'tis true, but only break ground near them and they'll show their

ugly faces, as many have known to their cost.

Tom and his eldest boy went over and worked a few weeks, to see how

they liked the place and people before removing his wife and family.

They liked the Santusters fust rate. They're a capital set of red-tailed

drones--only give them their own way; but you will soon find out that

one must either fight or be thorough friends with them 'one and all.'

Tom took a house in Letcha--handy by the bal. When his family were

moved, he and the boy worked together on tribute, and worked hard makan

double cores. When it came near pay-day, the boy, for want of rest, gave

out, and his father worked on alone.

Tom had heard the knackers workan, away at a distance, all the time he

had been there, and took no notice of their noise, but now that the boy

stopped home, they came nearer and nearer every day, till he cud hardly

hear the sound of his own tools with the din and clatter of theirs. As

far as he could judge by the sound they were only two or three yards

off, in the level close behind him, carryen on all sorts of underground

work. Some appear'd to be wheelan, some showlan, others boran; he could

even hear them swab out their holes, put in the tampan, and shut (blast)

like a pare (company) of regular tinners. Shuttan wasn't in vogue in

their time, but they've learnt et.

One night--I think et was only two or three before servey-day--Tom got

quite savage to hear their confoundan clatter, with their squeakan and

tee-hee-an in a mockan way, if he made false strokes, or a clumsy blow;

and, being a devil-may-care sort of fellow, he, without thinkan of

anything, throwed back a handful of small stones, towards the spot where

they seemed to be workan, and called out at the same time without stopan

or lookan up, 'Go to blazes, you cussed old Jews' sperrats; or I'll scat

(knock) your brains out, I will, ef you arn't gone from here.' The words

were no sooner out of his mouth than a shower of stones fell upon and

around him, and frightened him most out of his senses. Still, Tom

resolved to work on till mornan, and, in about an hour, when his candle

was burnt down and he stopped to light another, he sat down to eat the

rest of his fuggan and touch pipe a few minutes. Tom had all but

finished his supper, and bean hungry, could have eat more, when he heard

ever so many squeakan voices sing out, from away some fathoms back in

the level,--

"Tom Trevorrow! Tom Trevorrow!

Leave some of thy fuggan for Bucca,

Or bad luck to thee, to-morrow!"

Fust of all he cudn't well make out any words, but his own name. He

thought of the old sayan, 'What the fool thinketh, that the bell

clinketh.' He knew that sounds heard underground often seemed to be

words, like Buryan bells of a weddan day ringan, 'Poor man, undone!' or

'Go thee ways't home with ragget-tail Jone!' Then he tried again if they

wern't as much like some old rhymes that children sing, such as,--

"Billy Pengelley,

Got pain in his belly,

Eatan green slones for supper!"

But no, the devil a bit; for the more and closer he listened the

plainer he heard the knackers, or some other sprites among them singing

the same. Only when he had eaten all there was a slight change and they

sung,--

"Tommy Trevorrow, Tommy Trevorrow!

We'll send thee bad luck to-morrow,

Thou old curmudgeon, to eat all thy fuggan,

And not leave a didjan for Bucca!"

And so they kept on singan, squeakan, and tee-hee-an, in going back in

the end till they were out of hearan. Tom was somewhat scared; yet he

felt so tired and drowsey that he could sleep in a pullan (shallow

pool). The poor fellow had worked hard and been at it nearly all day and

all night for the last week. When he had smoked out his pipe he leant

back, thinking to take a doze for only a few minutes. But when he waked

up all was quiet. He rubbed his eyes, and, lookan away in an end, where

it was nearly dark, he seed scores of knackers restan on their tools.

They were miserable, little, old, withered, dried-up creatures--the

tallest of them no more than three foot six, or there away, with shanks

like drum-sticks, and their arms as long or longer than their legs. They

had big ugly heads, with grey or red locks, squintan eyes, hook noses,

and mouths from ear to ear. The faces of many were very much like the

grim visages on old cloman jugs, so Tom said, and more like those of

brutes than Christians. One older and uglier than the rest--if

possible--seemed to take the lead in makan wry faces, and all sorts of

mockan tricks. When he put his thumb to his nose and squinted at Tom,

all those behind him did the same. Then all turned their backs, stooped

down, lolled out their tongues, and grinned at him from between their

spindle shanks. Tom was now much scared. He noticed that his candle was

burnt down to the clay, and knew that he must have slept nearly two

hours.

"Good Lord, deliver me," said he, risan to light another candle; and

all the knackers vanished by the time he was well on his legs. They

seemed to melt away, one into another, changan shapes like curlan smoke.

Tom, feelan hisself very stiff, tired, and cold, from havan slept so

long, dressed and mounted the ladders. He was hardly able to crawl to

grass. In the blacksmith's shop, where he had stopped a few minutes to

change and warm hisself, he told other men who were there, putten on

their underground clothes, what he had seen and heard. The old tinners

told am that they warn't at all surprised, because the levels he worked

in were more infested with knackers than any other part of the bal.

'Many a night,' said they, 'these troublesome sperats have ben sen

whiskan round the blacksmith's shop and gwean (going) down the

Buckshaft, near by, and that do enter the level thee'st work in. This

shaft es so called, because a black buck-goat, or a bucca in shape of

an, was seen to go down there, but never found below.'

The tinners, one and all, blamed Tom for havan anything to do or say

with the knackers in an unfriendly way, and told him that as et was an

old custom he might as well have left a bit of bread on the ground for

good luck.

When Tom got home he went to bed at once, that he might have a good

rest. His wife fed and nussed him well, with the best she cud get for am

to eat or drink, in high hopes that, before many days were passed, they

would take up more an twenty pound for tin.

Tom dedn't say a word about the knackers to his wife nor boy, for fear

to scare them, nor dedn't think much more of the buccas.

Next mornan Tom got up like a new one, fresh as a rose. After a hearty

breakfast, he and his son started for bal. Now it happened to be Corpus

Chris, and the boy was loath to go--he wanted to be off to Penzance,

with other youngsters, to see the fun of the fair. "Come thee way'st

along, my son," said Tom, "I know thee art still tired, but cheer up a

bit; Midsummer's day will soon be here; then thee shust (shalt) have a

shellan and, ef we get a good sturt (start), two or three, to go to the

games, and, dash my buttons; ef I too don't go down to Priest Cove, and

try a hitch at the wrestlan! I could used to show as good play, and

throw as fair a fall, as any man of my size." And so Tom ded--he would

often show me and others how to give the hugg, play with the back crook,

and so furth.

I don't see for my part why wrestlan, hurlan, and other old manlike

games should be allowed to die out for a set of sports more suitable for

women than men, and I hold that wrestlan es as good as boxen, and every

man should know how to defend hisself. One don't know what may turn up.

'Tes all stuff and nonsense what old women say about the wickedness of

such sports. I'd rather see a boy of mine with black eyes and bloody

nose every day, than for am to run from one of his size.

Arrivan at the bal, first thing on entering the level, Tom noticed that

some of the temberan was bulged a great deal and ready to give way. They

put in new planks, and, as Tom thought, made that all secure for the

time. Whilst they were at it he again heard the knackers workan away in

the end, but dedn't mind them. Then to get up some tin-stuff from below,

they went to work in the adit level, on the Buck lode, to secure around

and repair a winze (a small shaft with windlass) that was nearly all

run'd in. Whilst he put in new tembar, the boy was kept at the

winze-brace (windlass and tackle). When drivan the lafts or boards, Tom

plainly heard the knackers workan against him; he had to put in new

tembar in the manner of spillan. The ground seemed somewhat dangerous.

The longer he was workan the nearer the knackers were coman towards him,

until he saw the ground move before the lafts where the sperats worked;

he then called to the boy, 'Pull me up, quick, wind away for dear life,

my son!' By the time he was got up to the winze-braces, the ground began

to tumble in. He had the rope tied around his body. Runnan back in the

adit-level, he unwound it from the winze tree, and untied it from his

waist.

Yet he came very near bean killed, for he hadn't got clear of the rope

five seconds before winze, rope, and all, went down with the run. Tom,

poor fellow, looked around dismayed, to find that all his tin-stuff,

which was put on the winze plat, with tools and all, had gone down with

the rest; so he lost his tin there and below. All his labour and time

was gone for nothan.

He had to live many weeks on subsist (money advanced) and went to

another lode to work in an end to tut-work (piece-work), and there, too,

he was most put mad with the knackers--they wed come into the level

close behind, and go on with all kinds of work, and nobody could have

wes (worst) luck than followed am. He went to look so wisht and felt so

bad that he had to leave Ballowal; for, go wherever he might about that

old bal, the knackers were for ever tormenting am, till they fairly

drove 'n away, and he came back to Lelant no better off than when he

left.

And here he had still bad luck doggan am for years. He had to work to

the farmers for a long spell, and, as we all know, every tinner would

just as soon go to the workhouse, or union; and for my part I'd rather

be tied to a bull's tail, and suffer the rest, than do either one."

Having refilled his pipe, my old neighbour continued:--

"As many bals were then stopped, and a number of hands discharged from

others, all the time going from bad to worse, Tom had to live, as he

cud, by farm-work for three or four years. He got all out of heart, to

be all the time dung-dabban, and to see his children as ragged as colts;

besides he had bad speed many ways; some said he was bewitched, and

advised him to see the pellar, who came round once a fortnight. Tom

thought that no use, because the conjuror won't 'good 'e,' as he do call

it, unless he's well paid. Tom's wife made a good bit of money by

spinnan and knittan. Unknown to her husband, she took her knittan-work,

and went over to the high road, one day, when the pellar, in going his

rounds, visited St. Ives. She hadn't ben long in the lane before he came

by.

"I'm waitan to speak wh'y," said she; "but I'm afeard et wan't be any

use, because we'r very poor."

"I know," replied he, "that you have had a long run of bad luck, and it

will be all the harder now to turn it, but don't be out of hopes; I'll

see Tom and do what I can for 'e. I see you're a good knitster; so you

can make me a few pairs of warm stockans for winter's wear."

The conjuror remained alone with Tom a good while, each time he came

round. What he did to 'good 'e' esn't known, because whatever's done to

hinder a run of bad luck, or to break a spell of ill wishan, must be

kept secret or no cure can be effected. In two or three months, however,

Tom's fortune had a turn. Several youngsters left for America and made

room for other hands. Then Tom, to his great content, went to minan-work

again. In a short time, instead of looking as wisht, ragged, and dirty

as 'Billy-be-damned,' or 'Old Jy,' who lived in a hole in a hedge, he

and his family once more got decent meat and clothan. The pellar had the

credit of doing them good, whether he deserved it or no; at any rate his

promises put them in better heart, and that was some help. Tom's wife

was overjoyed when he went to minan again; because she always took

delight when her good man came home from bal to hear him tell her and

the boys what he had done that core, and about his prospect of havan

lots of tin agen next pay-day. The lads were most interested when Tom

worked to tut-work, drivan an end, as you'll see.

An old boryer, hammer, gads, and other tools were kept under the

chimney-stool, that Tom might show them the plainer what he'd ben doan.

Now you must understand that Tom believed hisself to be as good a miner

as was to be found in Cornwall. He would often brag that he cud break

more ground at the same cost than any other man in the bal. His mind was

always so occupied about his underground work that the form of his end

was always before him. And most every night, after supper and whilst

smokan his pipe, he wed work his core over again with Betty, and she, to

humour him, would begin with, "Well, Tom, my son; and what hast a ben

doan to-day?"

"What use for me to tell 'e; I can never make thee understand anything,"

he'd say; "but look here boys!" At the same time he wud take the

fire-hook, stick, or anything, and, quite pleased, draw out the form of

his end in the back of their old-fashioned, open chimney, and all would

be told to look on, say nothan, and learn. When he had marked out, to

his mind, how his end stood, he would say to his wife,

"Now thee cust see the end es about square as a was this mornan, take

the boryer and show me where thee west go for a hole."

"Well, I shud put down a hole there," she wed say, pointan with the

boryer in the most seemly place to her.

"Now gos't away, thou great Paddy! I tell thee, Betty, thee dosen't knaw

any more about such work than a Buryan man! Thee west never larn

anything! Give me the tools," he'd say, and show them all, with pride

sure nuf, how he'd stand and strike the boryer in the different

positions ground es subject to, and so he wed keep on for hours.

One day above all, whan they lived in Santust, Tom came home highly

pleased, and told his people he had done a wonderful core. After supper

he lighted his pipe, as usual, took up the fire-hook, and drawed the

form of his end as he found it in the mornan.

"Now, I bored a hole there," said he, pointan with his hook, "and gauv

en plenty of powder, and a ripped am forth and back like a boat-cove,

and tore great rocks out of am as big as housen."

"Lor, Tom, hold thy tongue cheeld; I can hardly believe thee," said

Betty.

"Well, a es truth what I do tell thee. Then--now look at this, Betty--I

went there, for another hole," said he pointan, "and it tord'n like mad,

and left am as square as a chest, all but a piece in the bottom. Then I

went down there for a side-hole, and that end now es as square as a

door, I tell thee. And now, Betty, the end es squared, where west thee

go for the next hole? Here, take the tools to thee; es thy turn to show

one a bit now; a es hard ground, mind, none of your farmers' men can

break that."

"Well, I shud put down a hole there," said she, placan the hook in the

most likly place. Then Tom, with a look and voice of great contempt wed

say, "I told thee there was no wale (seam) there; thee may'st shut

(blast) away a ton of powder in that hole and then a wedn't heav'n, a

wed make a rouse (report) hard enow to frighten away all the chalks

(choughs) in Carn Glase, and then a wedn't heav'n. I tell thee again,

all of the powder that went down in the Royal George wed be no good in

that hole. Thee must lev'n look down more--just so, or else a wed only

be a stand to waste powder in."

And so the simple contented household wed pass night after night till

bed-time.

But one evenan they nearly came to grief by Tom shuttan his holes over

again. He came home late in a terrible splutter, sayan he had done a

very bad core--he had shut a hole three times, and a blowed away in a

vug (crevice) each time.

"Et was a hole near the bottom, Jan," said he, takan the hook as usual

and havan drawn the position to his own satisfaction.

"But I shud think," said the boy, "that a was a hawful bad place to

come to strike et, faather."

"Thou great noddy! Doesna know that a good man can bore a hole anywhere?

Hold the hook there," said he, puttan it into his hands, "and I'll show

thee how to strike 'n."

Tom turned round, snatched up the hammer in a great hurry, threw it back

in order to make a stroke, knocked down Betty, missed the hook, and

nearly broke Jan's arm.

Betty, though on the floor, screamed to see the boy's white face, and

when she saw the blood running from his arm and felt it on her own face

she fainted. And Tom, seeing them both on the floor, paced up and down

calling out, when he tried to rise them, "Oh my dear Betty and Jan; I'd

rather shut the hole twenty times over again than kill thee and the boy;

rise up do 'e, my dears."

They soon got round. The fright was worse than their hurt.

The way in which Tom and his wife amused themselves is not singular

among tinners, who, as a rule, take great pride in their work, and pass

hours showing their family or comrades how they worked the last cores,

and what they purpose to do next."

"Well, did Tom's good luck continue?" I asked.

"Pretty steadfast; he and his sons had neighbours' fare," the old tinner

replied. "When his elder boys became men they had pretty good sturts

(start from a paying tribute), saved money, and went to America, and

they did so well over at Mineral Point, Galena, or somewhere that way,

that they sent home enough to keep the old couple in comfort, and to

bring the younger boys out to them, where they, with hundreds more from

here about, are making another Cornwall for "one and all.""

OLD SONGS AND NICKNAMES.

"One would like to know," said I to the old tinner, "whether Tom heard

the knackers sing what he believed he did; or if there were any old

rhymes, somewhat similar, that he might, long before, have learnt and

forgotten till something brought them to mind." "Never heard of any

such," Bill replied. But An' Mary--who knew a rare lot of queer sayings,

odds and ends of old songs and the like,--said, "In a story relating to

small people (fairies), that I often heard when a child, there are some

lines about leaving the buryans (crumbs) for Bucca." And one would think

the tribe of small folks always made their speeches in rhymes. When I

was young, it was a custom in the harvest-field, at croust (afternoon's

refreshment), observed by most old folks, to pour a few drops of their

liquor on the ground for good luck; and to cast a fragment of bread over

their right shoulder for the same reason. Fishermen, too, were in the

habit of leaving on the sand, at night, a fish for Bucca; and they were

also very careful to feed and make much of their cats, to insure them

good luck in their fishing. If tinners in going to bal met with a

'bulhorn' (shell-snail) in their path, they always took care to drop

before it a crum from their dinner, or a bit of grease from their candle

for good luck.

Our talk about old rhymes reminds me that I have known many people who

become little better than fools, because of childish verses and tunes

constantly running in their numskulls; one would think that their seven

senses were all stuck in their ears. "Before I was tormented with Bill

there," said she nodding to her husband, "when I was sweet and twenty,"

as the old song goes, I lived with farmers down westward; in one place,

my fellow-servant was known by the nickname of Jenny Tweedles, because

she would be all day croanan over the song,--

"There was an old couple and they were poor,

Tweedle, Tweedle, go twee."

It was enough to make one crazy to hear her croanan, over and over, a

line here and there, with the burden brought in after every one. I can

see her old grim visage now as she maundered about the kitchen, singing

in doleful tones,--

"Oh! I have been sick since you have been gone;

If you'd been in the garden, you'd heard me groan.

Tweedle, tweedle, go twee."

You may fancy I would rather hear thunder by night than be kept awake

with her droaning in my ear,--

"Now I have a request to make unto thee,

Do pluck me an apple from the russet tree.

Tweedle, tweedle, go twee."

Worst of all she could never be trusted to do any work that required

attention,--if scalding milk, for instance, whilst she was tweedlean, it

would boil over, and the cream be in the ashes; if cooking, for the same

reason, all the fat would be in the fire."

An' Mary paused, drew from her pocket a few lengths of yarn, when her

husband said, "Come, Mary, keep the kibbal gwean, there's plenty of the

same sort of stuff in thy bal." She continued her knitting and said,

"There was a good mate for old Jenny Tweedles that used to live in the

same parish, who was known by the name of Ky-me or Rigdom, because, when

a boy, he was just another such fool, and would neglect, or badly do,

any work he was set about whilst whistling the tune, or singing the

words, of another old song,--

"There did a frog live in a well,

Close by a merry mouse in a mill,

To my rigdom, bomminare, ky-me,

Kyme-nare, gil-de-ka-re,

Kyme-nare, Ky-me." &c., &c."

"I can match these nicknames," said I, "with another instance of a grand

one acquired from a song. But we must go back more than a hundred years

to the time when potatoes were only grown as curious garden vegetables;

peas supplied their place, and turnips, or other green crops, were

unknown as winter's provision for cattle. Farmers then held, for the

most part, freehold or leasehold tenements of from twenty to fifty acres

of arable and pasture ground, with, in many places, twice that extent of

uncultivated land or "outs" as we call it, which furnished fuel and

winter's run for cattle.

Between tilling-season and harvest there was little farm work but to cut

and carry furze and turf, and to save a little hay; and from the time

that all was secure in the mowhay till seed-time there were long

intervals of leisure. The corn was threshed as straw was wanted to be

taken out to the downs or croft to keep the half-starved cattle alive.

Horses, even, were seldom housed, and as there were no stall-fed beasts,

little manure but ashes was made which was carefully housed to keep it

dry till wanted for dressing; then it was carried in dung-pots to the

ground, ploughed in, and the crop quickly sown. After rough weather

everybody was on the alert watching for oarweed, which with sand

constituted almost the only other substances used for manure. Everything

had to be conveyed on horseback,--furze, hay, and corn in trusses, sand

in sacks, oarweed in panniers or on crooks, slung over pack-saddles.

The only wheel-carriages in use were wherries, and these were drawn by

horses in traces. A wherry was a square box, containing about four

wheelbarrows, mounted on three solid wheels, such as we call druckshars.

To empty this machine it was overturned, druckshars and all. Though

there was little out-door work to be done for long spells, our old folks

were seldom idle. Hares, rabbits, and wild-fowl were plentiful on moors

and the great extent of uncultivated land, and hunting was pursued--less

as a pastime than a matter of necessity--to procure a little change of

diet, now and then, from the almost constant peas-porridge, fish, and

other salt provisions.

Women, old and young, passed much time in spinning, and in almost every

farm-house one found weaving-machines, as we call hand-looms, so that

when there was little else to do, farmers, or some of their men, worked

the treadles, and wove the yarn into blanketing, or other household

cloth. The surplus of this serviceable material met with a ready sale in

markets far eastward. The home-made clothing was almost everlasting. I

knew a notable old farmer's wife who used, when bragging of her

husband's stock of clothes, to say, "Our Honey (Hanibal) have got twelve

coats, and only two of them "biden clath" (bought cloth). Sennen people

were famous for being good weavers, and those of Escols, in that parish,

regarded themselves as the best in the West Country. In this village

there might have been threescore inhabitants, including all ages, who

were so connected by inter-marriages, that few of them knew where or how

their relationship began or ended. The descendants of one family who

formerly lived there still retain the nickname of "Triddles," from their

forefathers having worked the treadles as their chief employment.

Weavers were much given to singing at their work, to relieve its

tediousness; and an old weaving farmer, belonging to the primitive

community of Escols, acquired the nickname of uncle Plato, because,

whenever he was overtaken by a lazy stitch in working his treadles, he

would sing a rather solemn piece,--one couldn't call it a song,--which

thus began,--

"Said Plato, why should man be vain,

Since bounteous heaven has made him great?"

The rest I don't remember; it's something about sceptred king's and

beggar's dust coming to the same pass. But he seldom finished his

favourite ditty; for if his wife happened to be within hearing, she

would exclaim, "Peter! Peter! may the devil take thee and Plato too. I

can hear thee droanan that dreary thing again, and the treadles gwean

(going) lazier than with Billy, the weaver, croanan over Aaron's beard

and the ointment. Come Peter vean, strike up--

"Thinking to lead a sober life,

One Monday morning I took a wife,"

or some other lively catch. I'll join in, and thee west make three

throws of the shuttle for one." Uncle Plato's family continued to be

weavers of more than ordinary ability. Some of them left Sennen, and

established the first looms worked by machinery in the old factory at

Alverton, and acquired considerable property in Penzance. Many of this

family were also much given to study; one of them, a lady who lived in

St. Levan--I don't know her exact relationship to Plato--was remarkable

for her acquaintance with Greek and Latin authors, which she read in

their originals, and for her proficiency in astronomy and other

sciences.

During this lady's lifetime, however, her acquirements were not

regarded as anything so very extraordinary as they have been recently;

for in those old times, and in that remote part, there were many who

would even now be considered good scholars. The old folks of our

great-grandfathers' days were neither so ignorant nor so immoral as it

is now the fashion to represent them; true, there were few sleek

smoothies among them, and they would be too rude and outspoken for our

taste perhaps.

Books, from their dearness, were comparatively scarce; but the few they

had were read over and discussed around the winter's hearth, where

neighbours assembled in a social way that is now not found in country

villages.

The "Story of Troy-town,"--as they called some old translation of the

"Iliad,"--almost everybody knew by heart. Hector was such a favourite,

that the best horse was called after him; and Penelope had, in most

families, a namesake (Pee) to commemorate her constancy.

They had also the "Seven Wise Masters of Greece," "Moore's Almanack,"

"Robinson Crusoe,"--which everyone knew by heart, and believed a true

history,--and two or three herbals, besides religious books, of which

they made little account on the whole. Culpepper was an especial

favourite with elderly dames; stills being common, they experimented

with his recipes, and often compounded precious balsams that would

operate famously as evacuants. Many West Country gentlemen were

practised astrologers; and in order to understand works that treated of

their favourite science, they must have acquired a knowledge of Latin

and mathematics.

We revert to our old country folks to remark that, for an acquaintance

with classic fables, and much other secular knowledge, they were

beholden to the plain Welsh, or native, parsons--then appointed to the

western parishes who lived amongst, and associated with, their flocks in

an easy, comfortable way. Yet the reverend gentlemen's familiarity and

sympathy with their parishioners' joys and griefs caused no diminution

of respect for their sacred office. For example the Rev. James Bevan,

from Glamorganshire, who was more than forty years curate of Sennen and

St. Levan, was always spoken of, by the few old people who remembered

him, with affection and respect. This gentleman resided in Trengothal;

and so far was he from discountenancing wrestling, throwing quoits, and

other manly recreations of the time, that he and his family, with many

principal persons of the neighbourhood, always attended at holiday

games, on Penberth Green, where they danced with rich and poor, and

their presence enforced decorum, and made our rural sports respectable.

Another usage--probably handed down from Catholic times--was then

common. Prizes won at wrestling, or any other manly games, were either

worn to church or suspended within it to a pillar near the door, on the

following Sunday. This custom was particularly observed when the victory

was obtained in another parish. I have often heard one who when young

was a noted wrestler, and for many years champion of his parish, speak

of the satisfaction with which he used to hang up a pair of spurs,

gloves, yards of ribbon, lace, or whatever it might be, as a trophy in

honour of old St. Levan.

A short time ago, it was usual for the winners of gold-laced hats to

display them at Church, though the wearers--often gentlemen farmers'

sons--looked for all the world like livery servants. "Many customs of no

more than fifty years ago," said the old tinner, "would be regarded as

strange now. One thing that I have just thought of, that stories which

have been related by romancers, and are still repeated by others in

books, about the savagery of old Cornish wreckers and smugglers, is vile

slander. Who, I wonder, would have more right to dead wreck than the

salvers; and success say I to the fair trade."

The old tinner was now mounted on his favourite hobby, and as his

stories about smuggling were interminable, I wished him good-night.

[Illustration]

AN EXCURSION TO CHAPEL UNY WELL,

WITH A LEGEND OF THE CHANGELING OF BREA VEAN.

These, when a child haps to be got,

That after proves an idiot,

When folks perceive it thriveth not,

The fault therein to smother,

Some silly, doating, brainless calf,

That understands things by the half,

Says that the fairy left this aulfe,

And took away the other.

DRAYTON.

Though the numerous visitors who resort to Penzance in autumn are rarely

satiated with our fine cliff scenery, they might, with pleasure, vary

their excursions by a ramble inland, where various objects of interest

are found on moorlands and hills, but seldom visited.

A pleasant day, for example, might be passed by first going to Sancreed;

where, in the quiet, neat, little, embowerd Church some curiously carved

portions of an ancient rood-screen are worthy of notice. In the

churchyard there is one of the finest crosses in the county; it is about

eight feet high and ornamented with various emblematic devices, among

others, the lilly of the Blessed Virgin. The old Inn, with its quaint

sign "The Bird in Hand," suggestive of ready payment, was worthy of a

glance, a few years ago, when some nondescript fowl of the air, trying

to escape from a hand that grasped its legs, was pourtrayed on the

sign-board in flaming colours by a local artist, and, underneath the

captive bird, were the lines,--

"A bird in hand is better fare

Than two that in the bushes are."

From the south-eastern side of "Sancras Bickan" (Beacon) a delightful

view of Mount's Bay is obtained, and on Caer Brane--commonly called

Brane Rings--the next hill towards the west, may be seen the remains of

an old and extensive hill-castle.

Hence, one might descend to the famous Chapel Uny Well, situated between

Chapel Carn Brea and Bartine hills; the one crowned with its ruined

chapel and the other with a castle. At Chapel Uny will be found a

copious spring of as clear water as was ever seen. The only remains that

can be identified, as having belonged to its ancient chapel, are a few

dressed stones near the well. These, from their shape, would seem to

have formed part of an arched door or window.

Near by there is also a large circular Fogou, or artificial cavern,

walled on both sides and partly covered with long slabs of moor-stone.

The Holy Well is, however, the most celebrated object in this vicinity;

a few years ago, it was resorted to on the first three Wednesdays in May

by scores of persons who had great faith in the virtue of its waters,

which were considered very efficacious for curing most diseases

incidental to childhood, and many ricketty babes are still bathed there

at the stated times when the spring is believed to possess the most

healing powers.

Belonging to this well and its neighbourhood there is a somewhat curious

story, which we will relate just as it has often been told us by old

people of the West Country.

THE CHANGELING OF BREA VEAN.

A hundred years or more ago--one afternoon in harvest time--a woman

called Jenny Trayer, who lived in Brea Vean (a little out-of-the-way

place at the foot of Chapel Carn Brea) gave her baby suck, rocked it to

sleep, then covered up the fire, turned down the brandis, placed

fire-hook and furze-prong across the hearth for good luck, and, leaving

the child alone, away she hastened over to Brea to "help cut the neck."

It was nearly dark when the last handful of wheat, called "the neck,"

was tied up and cut by the reapers throwing their reap-hooks at it. Then

it took a good bit longer to cry the neck according to the old custom of

the harvest-hands dividing themselves into three bands--one party

calling, three times, as loud as they could cry, "We have it, we have

it, we have it!" The second demanding, "What have ye? What have ye? What

have ye?" And the third replying, "A neck! a neck! a neck!" Then all

join, hats in hand, in a "Hip! hip! hip! Hurrah!"

The neck was then decorated with flowers and hung over the board.

Jenny, thinking about her babe all alone, didn't stop for the

neck-cutting carouse, but got a good drink of beer, and her neck-cake,

to take home; and hastened away. When she opened her door, she saw, by

the moonlight, that the cradle was overturned. Straw and rags were on

the floor, but no child was in sight.

Jenny groped round the room a long time; then, not finding any live

embers among the ashes, she took the tinder-box and struck a light. "The

more haste the worst speed." It was a long time before she got the

porvan (rush-wick) lit in the chill (iron lamp). In searching all the

holes and corners, she came to the wood-corner and there among turves,

ferns, and furze, she found the "cheeld," fast asleep. Being very tired,

she took up the child and went to bed. Next morning, when she looked at

the babe by daylight, it seemed to her that there was something strange

about it--she didn't know what--it was hearty enow, for it seemed never

satisfied unless it was all the time sucking or eating; it would roar

like a bull if it hadn't its will; and always wanted to be in her arms

or eating pap.

The poor woman couldn't do her "chars," and had no rest of her life with

the squalling, hungry brat. Yet, with all its sucking and eating, it

seemed wasting to skin and bone. So it kept on all the winter--the more

it ate the leaner it became. Many of the neighbours shook their heads

when they saw it, and said they feared the "small people" had played her

a trick that afternoon when she went to "neck-cutting." "Whether or no,"

said they, "you can do nothing better, Jenny, than to bathe it in the

Chapel Well as soon as May comes round."

Accordingly, the first Wednesday in May she took it on her back and

trudged away to Chapel Uny Well.

Three times she put it through the water from west to east, then dragged

it three times round the well against the sun. Whether the bath made it

any better or not she couldn't tell in one week. The following

Wednesday, however, the troublesome creature seemed to expect the jaunt,

and to enjoy it as it rode away on her shoulder over hill and moor to

the spring, where it had the same ducking again. The third Wednesday was

a wet day; yet, not to spoil the spell, Jenny took the brat, placed it

astride on her shoulder, held one foot in her hand, whilst he grasped

her hair to keep himself steady, as they beat over the moors against

wind and rain. The thing seemed to enjoy the storm, and crowed, like a

cock, when the wind roared the loudest.

They had nearly passed round Chapel Carn Brea and were coming by some

large rocks, near the open moor, when she heard a shrill voice,

seemingly above her head, call out,--

"Tredrill! Tredrill!

Thy wife and children greet thee well."

Jenny was surprised to hear the shrill voice and nobody in sight. When

she stopped an instant to look round, the thing on her shoulder cried

out in a voice as shrill and loud,--

"What care I for wife or child,

When I ride on Dowdy's back to the Chapel Well,

And have got pap my fill?"

Frightened out of her senses, to hear the miserable little object talk

like a man about his wife and his child, the poor woman cast it on the

ground and there it lay sprawling, until she took courage, threw it

across her shoulder, and ran back as fast as she could lay feet to

ground till she came to Brea town. She stopped before some houses a

little below Brea mansion, threw down the thing, that clung to her neck

for dear life, on to a dung-heap beside the road.

The women of Brea all ran out to see what could be the matter. As soon

as she recovered her breath she told them what she had heard. "Ah,"

exclaimed one, "didn't I tell thee, months ago, that thee wert nussan a

small body's brat, ever since the neck-cuttan night, when thy child was

spirited away, and that thing left in his place."

"Shure enow," said another, "anybody of common sense might see that.

Only look at the thing there, sprawling upon his back in the mud. Did

one ever see a Christian cheeld like that, with his goggle eyes,

squinting one way; his ugly mouth drawn another, and his pinched-up nose

all a-wry too?"

"And now, Jenny," broke in the oldest crone, "'Tis lucky for 'e that I

can tell 'e what you must do to get rid of this unlucky bucca, and get

back thy own dear cheeld. Now there's an old way, and I don't know but

it es the best; and that es to put the smale body upon the ashes' pile

and beat it well with a broom; then lay it naked under a church-way

stile; there leave et, and keep out of sight and hearan till the turn of

night; and, nine times out of ten, the thing will be took off and the

stolen cheeld put in his place. There's another plan but I never seed et

tried--to make by night a smoky fire, with green ferns and dry. When the

chimney and house are full of smoke as one can bear, throw the

changeling on the hearth-stone; go out of the house; turn three times

round; when one enters the right cheeld will be restored."

The women of Brea--resolved to try what a beating on the ashes' pile

would do towards getting rid of the goblin--threw it on a heap near at

hand and commenced belabouring it with their brooms. But they had

scarcely touched it than it set up such a roar that it was heard in Brea

mansion; and Dame Ellis came running down the town-place to see what

could be the matter. She asked what they were beating in that cruel way.

Being nearly dark and the wet ashes sticking to the creature she

couldn't tell what gave out such a doleful noise.

"Why mistress," says Jenny, "that thing there on the ashes' pile es what

was left in our house, when my dear cheeld was spirited away, by smale

people, while I was reapan in your field the very day we cut the neck.

All the neighbours know the trouble I've had ever since--how this thing

that looked like my cheeld have ben all the time screechan, suckan, or

eatan, and have never grown a bit, nor will make any use of his legs."

"But thats nothan," said she, recovering her breath, "to what happened a

few hours ago, and most frightened me out of my senses. You mayn't

believe at--that when, on my way to Chapel Uny Well, with that thing

astride on my shoulder, somebody that couldn't be seen by mortal eyes

cried out, 'Tredril, Tredril, thy wife and children greet thee well!'

Then, in an instant, good lack, that thing from my back replied, 'That

little cared he for wife or child when he rode on Dowdy's back (meaning

me) to the Chapel Well, and had good pap his fill.' Nobody can tell the

fright I was in, to hear that thing talk like a man about his wife and

child."

Dame Ellis, lifting the creature from the ashes' heap, said to Jenny, "I

believe that thou wert either drunk or in a waking dream when passing

round the hill, and that this child, used so ill, is as truly thine as

any thou hast born. Now take it home, wash it well, feed it regular, and

don't thee leave it all day lying in its cradle; and, if thee canst not

make it thrive, send for Dr. Madron."

Jenny and the other women at first refused to comply with Dame Ellis's

advice; told her that she knew next to nothing about such matters, and

related many things to prove that the creature was no mortal's child,

till the lady tired with their stories, turned to go in, saying to

Jenny,

"My husband shall come out and talk to thee; peradventure he may

convince thee of thy error."

Squire Ellis and his wife being quakers--a sect then but little known in

the West--they were thought by Brea women, and many others, to be no

better than unbelieving Pagans, "who haven't the grace," said they, "to

know anything about such creatures as spriggans, piskies, knackers

(knockers of the mines) and other small folks, good or bad, that haunt

our carns, moors, and mines; who can vanish or make themselves visible

when and how they please, as all more enlightened folks know."

They well knew, however, what concerned them more--that Squire Ellis

was their landlord, and that, quiet and quaker-like as he and his wife

were in their talk, and demure in their looks, they were not to be

trifled with; and that their will was law for all living on their estate

unless they could contrive to deceive them.

Squire Ellis came down and, finding that Jenny (with her bantling and

all the others) were gone into a house, where he heard them loudly

talking, he had nothing to say to them; perhaps, he kept an eye on their

proceedings.

Brea women, in spite of "unbelieving quakers," as they called Squire

Ellis and his wife, among themselves--determined to have their own

way--waited till all was dark in the great house; then Jenny, with the

bantling or spriggan, and another woman, who was very knowing about

changelings, passed quietly up Brea town-place, and under a stile on the

Church-way path crossing a field from Brea lane, they left the creature

(then asleep) that had been such a plague to them.

Jenny returned to Brea Vean, and there stayed till morning. Being

fatigued and worried she overslept herself, for it was nearly daybreak

when she awoke and hurried away, between hopes and fears, to the stile;

and there, sure enough, she found her own "dear cheeld," sleeping on

some dry straw. The infant was as clean, from head to foot, as water

could make it, and wrapped up in a piece of old gay-flowered chintz;

which small folks often covet and steal from furze-bushes, when it is

placed there in the sun to dry.

Jenny nursed her recovered child with great care, but there was always

something queer about it, as there always is about one that has been in

the fairies' power--if only for a few days. It was constantly ailing and

complaining, and, as soon as it was able to toddle, it would wander far

away to all sorts of out-of-the-way places. The good lady of Brea often

came to see it and brought it many nice things that its mother couldn't

afford to buy, and when he was about nine years of age Squire Ellis took

the changeling (as he was always called) into his service, but he was

found to be such a poor simple innocent that he could never be trusted

to work in the fields alone, much less with cattle; as a whim would take

him, every now and then, to leave his work and wander away over hills

and moors for days together. Yet he was found useful for attending to

rearing cattle and sheep--then kept in great numbers on the unenclosed

grounds of Brea. He was so careful of his master's flock in lambing time

that there was seldom any lost. Forsaken or weakly lambs were often

given to him by the neighbours, and he contrived to rear them so well

that, in a few years, he had a good flock of his own that Squire Ellis

and everyone else allowed him to pasture wherever he and his sheep

choose to wander--everybody knew the poor changeling and made him

welcome. When he grew to man's estate, however, he became subject to

fits, and had to remain at home with his mother great part of his time.

Yet, when the fits were over, nothing could restrain his propensity for

wandering, and his sheep, goats, and even calves, always followed, and

seemed equally to enjoy their rambles. He often talked to himself, and

many believed that he was then holding converse with some of the fairy

tribe, only visible to him, who enticed him to ramble among the carns,

hills, and moors--their usual haunts.

When about thirty years of age he was missed for several days; and his

flock had been noticed, staying longer than usual near the same place,

on a moor between the Chapel Hill and Bartinné, and there--surrounded by

his sheep--he was found, lying on a quantity of rushes which he had

pulled and collected for making sheep-spans.

He lay, with his arm under his head, apparently in sweet sleep, but the

poor changeling of Brea was dead.

BETTY STOGS'S BABY.[4]

Little more than twenty years ago, there lived in a lonely cot on a moor

in Towednack a man and his wife with one child. The woman--from her

slatternly habits--was known by the name of Betty Stogs; she had been

married about a year and had a baby six months old or so; when, almost

every day, whilst her husband was away 'to bal,' she would pass best

part of the time 'courseying' from house to house in the nearest

village.

The child would mostly be left in the house alone or with nothing but

the cat for company. One seldom saw the colour of the bantling's skin

for dirt. When anyone asked Betty why she didn't wash it oftener, "The

moor es a cold place," she'd reply, "and a good layer of dirt will help

keep 'n hot."

One afternoon about Midsummer she went to get milk for the child and

stayed away gossiping till dusk; it was so dark when she entered her

dwelling that she could scarcely see anything within it.

She went to the cradle and found it empty; the child was nowhere to be

seen; nor yet the cat that always slept with it, shared its pap, and

cleaned the skillet in which the 'child's-meat,' was cooked. Whilst

Betty was searching about the house her husband came home from

work--last core by day,--he was in a great rage with his wife and

greater grief for the loss of his 'crume of a cheeld,' as he called it.

After hours spent in fruitless search Betty sat down and cried bitterly,

whilst the father went away and told the neighbours what had happened.

Everybody turned out to look for the child; they examined moors and

crofts for a good distance round till after daybreak without seeing

sight or sign of it; but, when it was near sunrise, Betty spied the cat

coming towards her, then it went back mewling into a brake of furze. She

followed it and came to a plot of mossy grass, surrounded by thickets

and ferns, where she saw, amongst heath and wortleberry plants, a bundle

of old-fashioned chintz; she opened it and there was her child, sleeping

like a nut. It was wrapped in several gay old gowns, with mint, balm,

and all sorts of sweet herbs and flowers that are found on moors or in

gardens; but otherwise it was as naked as when born, yet clean and sweet

as a rose.

All the old folks said it was carried there by small-people, who

intended to bear it away to the hills or carns; but it took them so long

to clean it first that daylight surprised them ere they had done it to

their mind; so they left it there meaning to fetch it the next night.

The fright, however, that Betty had undergone, did her good and the

child too, for she passed less time in courseying, and took more care of

her babe for fear it might be stolen again. She made lots of frocks for

it out of the old chintz; and it throve so well after the small folks'

cleansing that he made as stout a man as his dad, who was usually called

Jan the Maunster (monster) from his bulky form.

[Illustration]

HOW A MORVAH MAN BOUGHT CLOTHES FOR HIS WIFE.[4]

"Contented toil, and hospitable care,

And kind connubial tenderness are there."

GOLDSMITH.

Most of the dwellers in the cottages scattered over the hills to the

north of Penzance (like the tinners of old) work in the mines and

cultivate a few acres 'out of core.' They are also remarkable for

preserving many old customs which are become extinct in less remote and

more populous districts, as well as for the quaint simplicity of their

manners and language. A few weeks ago a tall, middle-aged man entered a

draper's shop in Penzance. His blue smock-frock, corduroy trousers,

ruddy with tin stuff, and the high-poled Sunday's hat, marked him for a

high-country tinner. He paused in the middle of the shop and looked

around as if to select some particular one of the assistants to serve

him; then going over to the counter, where the forewoman was standing,

he placed three little packets of money, done up in paper, before her.

"Look-e here, my dear," says he, "here's three packats of money for

three things I want of 'e. Fust of all les have somethan to make a sheft

for my old oman--dowlas or calico, you know the sort of stuff, and how

much will do; for my old oman es of a tidy built and shaped much like

you. (The blushes and titterings among the shop girls may be imagined).

She told me how much, but I have forgot, only that a must cost ten-pence

a yard; so cut off as much as will make a sheft for yourself, my dear,

and see if you don't find the exact money for 'n in that paper, tied up

with tape."

The paper opened, the money was found right to a farthing.

"Now, my dear, that's all right. Get some sort of stuff, made of

sheep's clothing, I don't know what you call 'n, for to make an

undercoat for the old oman. You know how much will do by your own

measure; a must be two shellans a yard, and there's the money for 'n in

that paper tied up with white yarn."

To make sure of the quantity wanted, the shop woman counted the cash

sent, before she cut the required length of sanford. When that was

adjusted,

"Now, my dear," says he, "we are getting on cappetal, sure nuf. Next

let's have a pound of blue or black wostard--must be four shellans a

pound and plum (soft) like yarn; there can be no mistake about that, and

there es the money in the paper tied with black yarn. Now, over all

these, I spose you will give me a nackan (handkerchief) for myself,

waan't 'e, my darlan?"

The master of the establishment, who had been rather amused at the

scene, though it was nothing new to him, left the desk and desired the

shop woman to open some of good quality and neat patterns, for him to

choose from.

"Why, Mr. ----, my dear, havn't 'e any smarter ones than these in your

shop than?"

Some old-fashioned ones, of a gay pattern, were soon found, which

pleased the customer exactly. Mr. ---- gave the tinner a glass of wine

besides, and asked him how he liked it?

"Well, I can't say but a wed be pure keenly stuff with a glass of gin or

brandy to warm un a little."

The master replied that he had no spirit in the shop, but gave his

customer six-pence to buy a dram to warm the wine, on the way home.

"God bless 'e," says our Morvah man, slapping Mr. ---- on the shoulder,

"but you are one of the right sort, and when my old oman do want a smock

again I'll come and buy 'n for her, I don't wender now that all the

women like to go to your shop, and that young woman there is pure block

tin. But I spose, my dear," says he, turning towards the one he compared

to pure tin, "you think me an old Molly-caudle, don't 'e, for coman here

to buy the dudds for the old oman home? But 'force put es no choice,' my

dear. I'll tell 'e a minute how she esn't here herself. This mornan,

when I was takan breakfast to go to bal, Jenny took off a crock of

petates from the brandes, that she had, to save time, boiled for the pig

alongside of the tea-kettle for my breakfast. She must always be doan

two or three jobs together like the milkmaid before now. She took the

crock of petates out in the court to empty away the waater, and a minute

before she had put a tub of calves'-meat to cool on the caunce, and the

cheeld, accordan to custom, was trying to get at 'n to splash and play

in the milk. The cheeld todlan round the tub, tumbled in souce, head

down, Jenny left the cover slip from the crock in her fright, and out

came the boilan waater and petates all over her foot.

"Then she cried, 'Come thee way'st out here Billy and take the cheeld

out of the calves'-tub; see what I've done, and a es all thy fault; why

disna (dids't thou not) keep the cheeld out of the way?' Ah was no good

to say anything to her, my dear, because all the women, except you, will

lay the blame on somebody else, for the foolish things they do. I

dragged the cheeld out of the milk, left the dog to lick 'n clean, and

dipped Jenny's foot in a bucket of waater. The pigs got at the crock and

made some screechan when the hot petates burnt their throats. Next I put

my old oman on the bed and pulled off her stockan with as much care as

ef I'd ben peelan a petate. Then, by her direction, put a linan rag,

spread with raw cream, all over the scald, and, without clunkan a bit

more breakfast, got ready in a jiffy to run in to the doctor for a

plaster, and salve, and things, and to know what was best to do.

"'Billy,' says she, 'as sure es I'm alive, I shall be laid up for weeks,

and thee west have to do the work indoors and out, but I can never put

away the time doan nothan. Put on thy best hat and blue coat, thy old

clothes make thee look foolish in town, and go in to Mr. ----'s shop;

mind what I do tell thee. I've been savan money these weeks past to buy

some underclothing for winter, the next time I did go to town, and there

a all es in the skibbat of the chest, in three pieces of papar, the

money that each thing will come to.'

"Then she told me all about the price and number of yards, that I kept

repeatan to myself all the way in till I come to the doctor's shop and

there I forgot all about et. But she told me I should find a nice

motherly oman in this shop just her size, and that's you my dear, who

would tell me what to do ef I forgot. Jenny wanted to have something to

do while her foot was healan. I told her I didn't much like to go to

shop to buy her smock and undercoat; she could ask the nearest

neighbour's wife to do et for her. 'No, the devil a bit,' says she,

'that I waan't! Ask Honney's boy Tom's wife, to buy the things for me!

I'll go without a sheft fust, for she will go to meetan somewhere or

other every night for a week that she may tell the rest of them what my

things cost (and oh! the lies they will tell about et among them);

besides, we shall have the house full all the time with them, makan out

they are come to see how I am. Take the cheeld along weth thee down to

An' Nancy Trembaa's; leave 'n there; and ask her to step up to milkey

and do the rest of the mornan work for me.' When I left the cheeld down

to An' Nancy's, and told her what had happened, away she went, wethout

stopan so much as to put her hat on, up to keep things to rights while

I'm wantan.

"Well, soas, I've done the best I could. I've got the plaster and salve

in the head of my hat, with a fuggan Jenny made me take to eat on the

road. A high bell-topper es as handy as a basket to stow away the lumber

in; dash me ef a esn't. None of your low billycocks for me.

"Now I wish 'e all well, my dears, and ef you will come up to see us one

Sunday afternoon you shall be as welcome 'One and All,' as ef you had

been my own sisters. God bless 'e all; I shall be tother side of Ding

Dong in less than an hour."

Neither the master nor the shop assistants saw anything to laugh at when

the tinner had told his simple story. On the contrary they felt much

interested, as his 'old oman' was a well-known customer.

HOW A ZENNOR MAN CHOKED HIMSELF, BUT HAD HIS WILL

IN HIS POCKET.[4]

Not long ago a high-country farmer, after having finished his marketing,

in Penzance, treated himself to a supper at a cook-shop in Caunsehead.

Being in great hunger, or haste, he thought it waste of time to cut his

meat into smaller pieces than he could possibly swallow; besides, solid

junks would stand by his ribs and do the more good.

He made but two morsels of a quarter of a pound of beef; and in bolting

the last it stuck in his throat. In an instant he went blue in the face

and fell on the floor. The landlord ran for a surgeon, and by good luck

found one at home, the other side of the street. "Stand clear a bit, and

open the man's trap," said the doctor. With much trouble the Zennor

man's jaws were forced open, and the doctor feeling a portion of the

meat pulled out a piece about six inches long.

The patient was soon restored and ready for another such meal.

Then a lawyer's clerk, who had just entered, remarked;--"Why, old boy,

you ought to make your will and keep it by ye before sit down to eat

beef again." "Why bless 'e so I have. I always keep my will in my

pocket, and you shall see am ef you mind to. I made 'n myself--no

lawyers for me. Here a es." Saying this he drew from his pocket a sheet

of paper, and gave it to the doctor, telling him he might keep it, if he

had a mind to see how to make a will. He intended to make another the

next Sunday, because he had more things to bequeath now than when he

made the testament, of which the following is a faithful copy:--

"I'll make my will while I am well. I will bestow my riches. I'll give

to Ellek,[5] my eldest son, my best Coat, Jacket, and my Breeches. As

for my watch et es in pawn; else Elexander should have that. Neckey

shall have the courage Horse, and Jan the little Sprat. Mary shall have

the milking Cow, and Lystria shall have the Heifer. Fillis shall have

the flock of Sheep, and wat can I do better? Old Polly shall have the

Puss[6] of goold, and that will most maintain her. Sally shall have the

old brass Pan, the Bucket, and the Strainer.

"Signed, sealed, and delivered, in the presence of

"COUSIN MATTHEW HOLLOW,

"UNCLE PHILIP EDDY, and

"JOHN QUICK, the Schoolmaster."

[4] According to our intended arrangement the three foregoing stories

should have preceded those of St. Just.

[5] Alexander.

[6] Purse.

THE SMUGGLERS OF PENROSE.

_Part the First._

In winter's tedious nights, sit by the fire

With good old folkes; and let them tell thee tales

Of woful ages, long ago betid.

KING RICHARD II.

What remains of the old mansion of Penrose, in Sennen, stands on a low

and lonely site at the head of a narrow valley; through which a

mill-brook winds, with many abrupt turns, for about three miles, thence

to Penberth Cove. So late as forty years ago, it was one of those

antique, mysterious looking buildings, which most persons regard with a

degree of interest that no modern structure inspires; the upper story

only--with its mullioned windows, pointed gables, and massive

chimney-stacks--was just seen over the ivey-covered walls of courts and

gardens that surrounded it.

There was, however, a certain gloomy air about the ruinous walls and

neglected gardens embowered in aged trees, which might have conduced to

such unaccountable stories of apparitions and other unnatural

occurrences, as were said to have taken place there.

Some three or four centuries ago, it was the property and residence of

an ancient family of the same name; little more is known of these old

Penroses than what can be gathered from wild traditions related by the

winter's hearth. The following among many others were often recounted by

old folks of the West.

About three hundred years ago, the owner of Penrose was a younger son

who had been brought up to a seafaring life, which he continued to

follow till his elder brothers died unmarried and left him heir to the

family estate; then, preferring a life on the wave, he kept a

well-armed, fast-sailing, craft for fair-trading, or what is now called

smuggling; she was manned with as brave a crew as could be picked out of

the West Country; most of them are said to have been the Squire's poor

relations. A favourite cousin, called William Penrose--who had been his

shipmate for years--was captain of the merry men all.

The Squire often took trips to France and other places, whence his

goods were brought, and it is said that in his days Penrose crew were

never concerned in any piratical jobs; though we know that about that

time smuggler, privateer, and pirate, meant very much the same thing,

whilst the two latter were then convertible terms with most of our

rovers on the deep.

Penrose and his seamen passed but little time on shore except in the

depth of winter; yet the board in his hall was always furnished with

good substantial fare and the best of liquors, free for all comers.

Over a few years, when the good man was left a widower, with an only

child--a boy about seven or eight--he seemed to dislike the very sight

of land, for then, even in winter, with his little son, his cousin

William, and two or three old sailors, he would stay out at sea for

weeks together; leaving, as usual, the care of his farms and household

to the care of a younger brother and an old reve or bailif.

In returning from one of these trips, in a dark winter's night, their

boat struck on Cowloe and became a wreck. The Squire swam into Sennen

Cove with his boy, and in endeavouring to save his crew got drowned

himself.

The only remaining brother, known as Jan of Penrose, constituted himself

sole guardian of the heir, and master of the place and property.

Now this Jan hated all whom his late brother favoured; and in

consequence of his ill-will William Penrose left the West Country--for

the sea it was supposed--but whither he wandered was unknown, as no

tidings of him were received in the West.

The new master, however, soon got a large smuggling craft and manned her

with a crew who cared but little what they did for gold or an exciting

life; being well-armed they feared nothing that sailed the ocean.

Jan of Penrose never went to sea; but gave the command to a

wretch--known to have been a pirate--who was cast on Gwenvor sands from

his ship wrecked in Whitsand Bay, on the night that the good Squire

Penrose was drowned.

This pirate-smuggler and his desperate crew boarded many a rich

merchant-man going up Channel, from which they appropriated whatsoever

they pleased, and sent all who opposed them to the other world by water.

There was no Preventive Service then, to be any check on our free

trade. If Revenue Cutters came near our western land, their crews

dreaded to fall in with Cornish fair-traders more than our smugglers

feared the King's men. As for riding officers they would ride anywhere

else rather than on the cliff, when beacon fires blazed from the carns

of dark nights to guide fair-traders' boats into the coves.

When the rich goods and plunder were landed, and any over-curious person

remarked that they were not such as seemed likely to have been purchased

from our neighbours across the Channel, the jolly crew would give

themselves credit for being valiant privateers, and as such be much

renowned by simple country folks, and their plunder passed as lawful

prize.

People came from all over the country to purchase the goods, safely

stowed in vaults and other hiding places about Penrose; and in winter

the crew spent much of their time there in drunken rioting with all the

reckless youngsters of the neighbourhood.

After the good Squire was drowned his brother appeared to show every

kindness to the orphan heir; yet it was remarked that the child seemed

instinctively to avoid his uncle and the captain, who consorted much

together when the smugglers were ashore.

Whenever the boy could elude the old steward's vigilance he would go

away alone to the rocks in Sennen Cove where his father was drowned, or

shut himself up for hours in his father's bed-room, or wander about

other parts of the gloomy north wing, which was almost in ruins and

seldom entered by other inmates.

One winter's day, the ground being covered with snow, Penrose's people

and many others of the neighbourhood joined for a wolf-hunt. Traditions

say that in those times terrible havoc was often made on flocks by these

fierce beasts, and that children were sometimes carried off by them when

hard pressed with hunger.

Neither John Penrose nor the captain went to the chase; when at night

the game-laden hunters returned and blew their bugle-horns, they

remarked with surprise that the young heir--who was a general

favourite--did not, as was his wont, come into the court to meet them.

The boy was sought for in every place whither it was thought he might

have strayed. His uncle seemed to be much distressed, and continued the

fruitless search until it was surmised that the child must have missed

his way in returning from Sennen Cove, wandered out under Escols Cliff,

there got drowned by the flowing tide, and carried out to sea on the

ebb.

After this, Jan of Penrose, having all his own, became more riotously

debauched than ever; and his gang having taken a somewhat strange

aversion to their captain, he left and was no more seen in the West.