unoccupied, as it had the reputation of being haunted. None of the
servants nor even the devil-may-care smugglers would venture into it
after night-fall, when unearthly shrieks would be heard there, and
strange lights seen flashing through the casements till near morning.
Lights were also often seen in an orchard just below the town-place when
no one was there.
These unnatural occurrences, however, put no check to the excesses of
Penrose's band and the lawless castaways who joined them. By way of
variety to their fun, they frequently disguised themselves and made
nocturnal excursions to some village within a few miles, where they
would alarm the quiet folks in the dead of night, by discharging their
fire-arms in a volley; and make a bonfire of a furze-rick, out-house, or
thatched dwelling.
The poor villagers in their fright, would mistake these wretches for
outlandish people, come again to burn and pillage as in days of yore.
They were all the more ready to think so because about this time the
Spaniards had great fondness for roving round the western coasts, and
often did much damage in defenceless places; it was in Jan Penrose's
time, too, that a few Dons, high by day, put off from a galley in
Whitsand Bay, landed on Gwenvor Sands, and destroyed Velan-dreath Mill.
To return to Penrose crew, at the height of the fright and confusion
they would carry off such young women as they had before agreed on; the
gallants would take their fair-ones before them on horseback to Escols
Cliff or the hills, where they would be left alone by daybreak, to find
their way back afoot. Having carried on this sport a long time with
impunity, they became so bold at last as to make an attack on Buryan
Church-town; fortunately, however, Buryan men were apprised of their
intentions in time to be armed and ready to give them a warm reception;
in short they lay in wait for the smugglers, drove them all into a
vacant place near the cross in Church-town, and there surrounded them;
when thus hemmed in the band fought desperately, and till nearly every
man of them was killed or disabled they continued shouting to each
other, "cheer up comrades, die one, die all, and die we merrilly;" and
so many of them met their end in this encounter that Penrose band was
soon after broken up.
One night of the following Christmas, whilst a large company was
assembled at Penrose, keeping high festival after a day's hunt, loud
knocking was heard at the green-court door, and soon after a servant
conducted into the hall an elderly wayfaring man who requested a night's
shelter from the snow-storm.
John Penrose received the wanderer with hospitable courtesy; and charged
his steward, the old reve, to provide him with good cheer; the guests
continued their glee and paid but little attention to him, for begging
homeless pilgrims were all too plenty here at that time.
The company was also entertained by professional droll-tellers and
ballad-singers; persons of that class were then--and long after
continued to be--received, as substitutes for minstrels, in gentlemen's
houses of the humbler sort.
The stranger, however, regarded the company with attention, and noticed
that the master of Penrose looked wretched and haggard amidst all the
merriment. His scrutiny was interrupted by the steward who conducted him
to another room where a well furnished board, beside a blazing fire,
awaited him.
The stranger having refreshed himself, told the old steward how he had
just returned from a long pilgrimage in foreign lands, and had seen many
places spoken of in miracle-plays, which were acted in the Plan-an-Gware
at St. Just, and how he had that morning arrived at Market-jew on board
an eastern ship that traded there for tin.
He also said that he once had friends in the West Country; whether they
were alive or dead he knew not, but hoped to obtain some tidings of them
on the morrow.
The wanderer's voice seemed familiar to the old steward, and recalled
former times; but, ere they had time for more discourse, they were
invited to return to the hall and see a guise-dance, which was about to
commence.
The stranger seemed interested in the quaint performance of "St. George
and the Turkish Knight." A droll-teller in his character of bard, took
the part of chorus; explained the intent of coming scenes; instructed
and prompted the actors as well.
The play being concluded and the guisards well rewarded by the wayfarer,
he withdrew and told the steward that he felt weary after his long walk
though the snow and would be glad to lie down; if all the beds were
occupied, he could repose, he said, in a settle by the fireside, for a
few hours only, as he intended to leave early in the morning.
The old man replied that he feared any other accommodation in his power
to offer was not such as he might desire,--although the house was large,
with ample bed-rooms for more guests than it now contained--because a
great part of the northern end was shut up for a reason that the inmates
did not like to talk about. Yet as he believed the pilgrim to be a
prudent man, who was, no doubt, learned in ghostly matters, he was glad
to unburden his own mind and have his visitor's counsel, with his
prayers for the repose of the unquiet spirits that disturbed the place.
Then he told how many of the upper rooms, though well furnished, were
unused and falling to ruin on account of the unnatural sounds and sights
before mentioned. To which the stranger answered that as he had a mind
at ease he had no reason to dread any ghostly visitants; if the steward
would conduct him to a room in the haunted wing he did not fear for his
rest.
The old steward, taking a lamp, led the way to the tapestry
chamber--being the best room in that part of the mansion. A faggot of
dry ash-wood--already laid in the large open fire-place--was soon in a
blaze, and the room well aired and somewhat comfortable.
The old man brought in bread, meat, and wine, that the guest might take
more refreshment during the night, and supply his wallet in the morning
if he started before breakfast. After returning with more wood and
bog-turf to keep in the fire, he bade the guest good-night, sweet rest,
and pleasant dreams.
_Part the Second._
Blood, though it sleeps a time, yet never dies;
The gods on murd'rers fix revengeful eyes.
CHAPMAN.
After the old steward had retired from the dreaded room, its occupant
was in no haste to rest himself on the large stately looking bed; but
seemed never weary of examining the old portraits and quaint figures in
the arras (which might have been intended for portraits too), the
massive oak furniture with bold, grotesque, carvings, ancient armour,
coats of mail, and other interesting objects, which were suspended from
the walls, or in hanging presses, with all of which he appeared
familiar; so that it was near midnight when he sat down in the long
window-seat.
The storm had ceased and a full moon, shining on newly fallen snow, made
it almost as light as day. He opened the casement and looked into the
court, where he saw a company of young men and women passing out singly
and in silence.
The visitor, being well acquainted with West Country customs, knew--as
this was twelfth night--that the object of this silent procession was to
work some of the many spells, usually practised at this time, for the
purpose of gaining a knowledge of their future destiny with respect to
what they regarded as the most important of all events--marriage and
death.
So great was the desire of many young people to obtain an insight of
what the future had in store for them, that they often practised
singular rites,--still well-known in the West,--which are probably
vestiges of ancient magian ceremonials connected with divination.
This night, however, the young peoples' intention was simply to gather
ivy leaves and pull rushes; by the aid of which, with fire and water,
they hoped to discover who would be wedded, and with whom, or buried
before the new year was ended. There are many instances of predictions,
with regard to the latter event, conducing to accomplish their own
fulfilment, from their effects on people of melancholy temperament.
The pilgrim had not sat long, looking out of the open casement, when he
saw the company of young men and maidens come running back, apparently
in great fright. The doors were all immediately slammed to, the noisy
mirth and music suddenly ceased in the hall. The house, in a few
moments, was shrouded in thick fog; all was still as death about the
place for some minutes, then a noise was heard like the distant roaring
and moaning of the sea in a storm.
These ocean sounds seemed to approach nearer and nearer every instant,
until the waves were heard as if breaking and surging around the house.
In the wailing wind was heard a noise of oars rattling in their
row-locks for another instant; then as of the casting of oars hastily
into a boat.
This was followed by the hollow voices of the smugglers, drowned with
the old Squire, hailing their own names, as drowned men's ghosts are
said to do when they want the assistance of the living to procure them
rest.
All this time the green-court appeared as if filled with the sea, and
one could hear the breakers roaring as when standing on a cliff in a
storm.
All the buildings and trees surrounding the mansion disappeared as if
sunk into the ground.
At length the surging of waves and other sounds gradually died away
until they were only heard like the 'calling of cleeves' before a
tempest.
The steward had told the stranger of these noises and appearances, which
had become frequent of late, to the great terror of the household; but
he gave little heed to the old man's tales, thinking that such visions
were merely the creations of weak brains diseased by strong potions.
'Tis said that when the young folks reached the outer gate of the
avenue, near which they would find the plants required for their spells,
all keeping silence and taking care not to look behind them--as this or
speaking would spoil the charm--a female, who was a short distance ahead
of the others, saw what appeared to be the sea coming over the moors
before a driving fog. She ran shrieking to join her companions, who also
beheld the waves fast approaching--rolling, curling, and breaking on the
heath. They all ran up to the house with their utmost speed; and some
who had the courage to look behind them, when near the court door, saw
the curling breakers within a few yards of them; and a boat, manned with
a ghostly crew, came out of the driving mist as they rushed into the
house; and, not daring to look out, they saw nothing more.
The weary wayfaring man, having a clear conscience, feared nothing evil
in what appeared to him an unaccountable mystery, even in that time of
marvels; and, having told his beads, he committed himself to good
spirits' care.
The brave man was rather soothed than alarmed by a plaintive melody,
until there was a change in the harmonious strains, which grew more
distinct; and mingled with them were the tones of loved and once
familiar voices, calling, "William Penrose, arise and avenge the murder
of thy cousin's son!"
Casting a glance towards the window--whence the sound proceeded--he saw
just within it the apparition of a beautiful boy in white raiment. A
light which surrounded it showed the countenance of the lost heir of
Penrose. At the same time the room was filled with an odour like that of
sweet spring flowers.
The pilgrim, William Penrose, spoke to the spirit and conjured it,
according to the form prescribed by Holy Church, to speak and say what
he should do to give it rest.
The apparition, coming nearer, told how he had been murdered by the
pirate-captain of the smugglers, on the grand hunting day; and how his
uncle had given the pirate a great quantity of gold to do the bloody
deed--that he had been buried in the orchard under an apple-tree, that
would be known, even in winter, by its blasted appearance,--that the
murderer was then in Plymouth, keeping a public-house, the situation of
which was so plainly described by the spirit that William Penrose would
have no difficulty in finding it, and bringing the murderer to justice
by means of such proofs of his crime as would be found beneath the
blasted tree.
Moreover he told William that the spirits knew he was gone on a
pilgrimage for their repose; and that they all, through him, sought his
aid to enable them to rest in peace.
William Penrose having promised to perform all according to the wishes
of the departed, music was again heard and the spirit gradually
disappeared in a cloud of light.
Then the weary man sunk into sound repose from which he only awoke at
break of day.
His cousin, the good Squire, had also appeared to him in a dream, and
told him that concealed in the wainscot, beneath a certain piece of
tapestry, he would find a secret cabinet, in which was preserved good
store of gold and jewels for the infant heir; and that the key of this
hidden treasury was behind a leaf of carved foliage which ornamented the
bed head. He was told to take what money he required for his journey and
to keep the key.
He found everything as indicated in his dream.
Jan of Penrose had often sought for this private recess--where heirlooms
and other valuables were concealed, and only made known to the heir when
of age, or to a trusty guardian, if a minor--but he was deterred from
further search by such an apparition as made him avoid the chamber, and
of which he would never speak after his fearful fright was past.
The pilgrim arose and requested the old steward to accompany him a short
distance on his journey.
Before they parted the stranger discovered himself, to the old man's
great delight, to be the long-lamented William Penrose; told him that he
was about to undertake a long journey for the repose of the dead; that
he would return when he had accomplished his mission; and bade the
steward adieu, without speaking of the apparition or the cause of
disturbances in the mansion.
William Penrose, having arrived in the ancient town of Plymouth, and
entered the mean public-house to which he had been directed by the
apparition, saw the person he sought lying stretched by the fireside in
a squalid apartment that served for kitchen, guest-chamber, and sleeping
room.
The former pirate-captain looked like a deserter from the churchyard (as
we say); the face of this child-murderer was the colour of one long in
the tomb; with but little signs of life except in the lurid glare of his
sunken eyes.
William Penrose with much difficulty induced the 'wisht-looking' object
to converse; and, after a while, led him to talk of the West Country,
then of Sennen. From that the pilgrim spoke of Penrose, and asked him if
he knew, in Penrose orchard, a certain apple-tree, which he pointly
described. He had no sooner mentioned it than the inn-keeper exclaimed,
"I am a dead man."
The miserable wretch begged the pilgrim to have mercy on him and listen
to his confession, in which he declared he was driven to commit the
murder by his evil spirit that made him dislike the child, because he
had long hated his parents, more than from any love of gold given him by
Jan of Penrose, to remove the only obstacle to his possession of the
estate.
William Penrose--who was still unknown to the inn-keeper--wondered what
cause of ill-will he could ever have had against the good old Squire or
his wife, until the former pirate told how he was the prodigal son--long
supposed dead--of an ancient, respectable, but poor family, whose
ancestral seat was within a few miles of Penrose--how, almost from his
childhood, he had long and truly loved, and as he trusted, had his love
returned by the lady who became the wife of Squire Penrose,--how that he
had left his home in St. Just on a desperate privateering expedition, in
hopes of soon gaining sufficient riches to make the lady's parents
regard him with favour,--how, whilst he was returning with gold enough
to buy the parish, Penrose had wooed and won the lady--his first and
only love, for whom he had toiled and suffered every hardship during
many years.
He also related how when he came home so altered, by the burning suns of
the Spanish Main, that his nearest relatives knew him not, and found out
the ill return his lady-love had made him, that his only solace was the
hope of revenge.
Some of the gold that he had sweat blood to gain, for the sake of the
faithless fair, was laid out in a fast sailing craft, which might pass
for a merchant-man, privateer, or pirate, as she was all in turn during
a few years that he roamed the British seas.
The vessel was manned with a desperate crew, most of them his old
comrades, who would do anything to please him. The design he had formed,
more through hate than love, was to carry the lady off to some foreign
land.
A year or so after his return he landed one night in Whitsand Bay,
accompanied by a great part of his well-armed crew, who took their way
towards Penrose, where he learned ere their arrival, that his design of
carrying off the lady was frustrated by her having been laid in the
grave a few days before.
After this he wandered over sea and land by turns, caring nothing what
became of him, until cast on Gwenvor Sands--poor and naked, as his ship
foundered in deep water, when all but himself were drowned; and, as bad
luck would have it, he reached the shore on some loose part of the
wreck.
The worst portion of his story from this time is already told; but no
one can tell, as he related, how the desire of gold--to enable him to
recommence his roving life, far away from the hated sight of the land
and everything else that recalled a remembrance of his blighted youthful
hopes--maddening drink, and a wicked heart, farther irritated by Jan
Penrose, made him murder the child that he would have given a hundred
lives to restore before he received the uncle's bloody gold.
Since then he had never a moment been free from remorse. He wished for
death, but feared to die. If he drank himself mad, that only increased
the horror of his thoughts.
He had scarcely finished his sad tale when William Penrose discovered
himself to be the well-remembered playmate of the wretched man's
innocent youth; and he had only time to beg Penrose to bestow in alms
his ill-got store, for the scarcely hoped for mitigation of future
punishment, when he breathed his last.
When William Penrose returned to Penrose and made himself known, to the
great joy of old servants and others, he found that what was thought to
be merely the gloomy and morose temper of its master frequently made him
shun all society, and wander about the hills or cliffs and other
solitary places, for days and nights together.
No one either loved, feared, or cared enough about the surly man to pay
him any regard. He was absent then in one of his melancholy moods, and
William with the steward, aided by other old trusty servants, removed
the child's remains from beneath the blasted tree to Sennen churchyard;
and out of respect to the honourable old family, little was said or
known about the sad occurrence.
Jan of Penrose was no more seen alive in the old mansion, for the same
night that his nephew's remains were buried in consecrated ground, he
hanged himself in the malt-house; and he haunted it long after.
Following the spirit's injunction William Penrose had still to find and
remove the bodies of the old Squire and his crew. Now it was supposed
that they were 'sanded'--that is sunk in the moist sand and covered by
it during a flowing tide--near Gwenvor Cove, because corpse-lights had
frequently been seen, and the drowned sailors had been heard there
"hailing there own names," as they are still accustomed to do when
requiring aid of the living.
Next day Penrose and others found the bodies of the old sailor-squire
and his crew near the place where fishermen had heard the "calling of
the dead," and their remains were laid to repose, with all holy rites,
in an ancient burying-ground near Chapel Idné, where the wind and waves
sing their everlasting requiem in music they loved well when alive:--
"Pie Jesu, Domine,
Dona eis requiem.
Amen."
William Penrose, now heir-at-law of the bartons of Penrose, Brew, and
other farms in the West Country,--disliking to live in the place
connected with such melancholy events--gave up his rights of heirship to
another branch of the family; resumed his pilgrim's staff; and was
supposed to have died in the Holy Land.
* * * * *
The Penroses still in the West are said to be descended from a younger
branch of the ancient family of Sennen; with whom the Pendreas or
Pendars were intermarried.
The family of Jones purchased the Penroses' West Country property, and
it remained in their possession until the beginning of the last century.
We hear again of smugglers being kept in pay by the last Jones, of
Penrose, and by others who succeeded him. From the facilities afforded
by this secluded place for concealing contraband goods, it was always
noted as a favourite resort for western fair-traders.
Many people about the Land's End believe the old mansion was always
haunted; and it is said this was the principal reason for taking down
and rebuilding a portion of it a few years since.
[Illustration]
TREGAGLE.
In Cornwaile's fair land, bye the poole on the moore,
Tregeagle the wicked did dwell.
He once was a shepherde, contented and poore,
But growing ambytious, and wishing for more,
Sad fortune the shepherde befelle.
JOHN PENWARNE.
One may almost every day hear West Country folks make allusion to
Tregagle; for instance, a squalling child is called a Tregagle; and to a
blusterer they often say, "Hold thy bleatan, thee art worse than
Tregagle roaran before a storm."
But little is known here of the living man's history--which belonged for
the most part to the neighbourhood of Bodmin--all our common sayings,
connected with him, refer to his troublesome ghost at Gwenvor.
Our vague traditions, however, represent him as having been a most
unscrupulous lawyer; and say that he rose from low estate, by taking
bribes to lose his poorer client's cases, by bearing or procuring false
witnesses; forging documents relating to the bequest of property; and
other nefarious transactions which resulted in his acquisition of much
riches and consequent power.
He is also said to have been so cruel in his domestic relations,--by
having despatched several wives, who were rich heiresses--that he is
regarded as a sort of Cornish Bluebeard, who sold his soul to the devil
that he might have his wishes for a certain number of years.
All our western legends agree, however, in stating that the particular
business which was the cause of his being "called from the grave" was
this:--
A man who resided in the eastern part of the county, lent a sum of money
to another without receiving bond or note or anything for security, as
the transaction was witnessed by Tregagle; for whom the money was
borrowed; and who died before the money was repaid.
Soon after Tregagle's death, the lender demanded his money, and his
debtor denied ever having received it.
The case was brought before the court at Bodmin assizes; and when the
plaintiff said that Tregagle was the only witness, the defendant denied
it with an oath, and exclaimed, "If Tregagle ever saw it I wish to God
that Tregagle may come and declare it."
The words were no sooner uttered than Tregagle stood before the court,
and, pointing to the man, said, "I can no more be a false witness, thou
hast had the money, and found it easy to bring me from the grave, but
thou wilt not find it so easy to put me away." Wherever the terrified
man moved about the court Tregagle followed him; he begged the judge and
long-robed gentlemen to relieve him from the spirit. "That's thy
business," said they, one and all, "thou hast brought him, thou may'st
get him laid."
The man returned home, but whithersoever he went Tregagle followed, and
would seldom quit his side or let him rest by night or by day.
He repaid the borrowed money, gave much in alms, and sought to get rid
of the spirit by the aid of parsons, conjurors, and other wise men,
before they succeeded in binding it, for a while, to empty Dosmery Pool
with a crogan (limpet shell) that had a hole in its bottom.
Having soon finished that task, he returned to the man that brought him
from his grave, and followed and tormented him worse than before, until
he procured the help of other powerful exorcists who were more astute.
The first thing they did was to draw a circle, out in the town-place,
and put the man to stand within it. The spirit then took the form of a
black bull and tried to get at him with horns and hoofs, but the man was
safe within the line traced. A parson continued reading all the time,
while others kept an eye on the spirit that took many shapes. At first
the holy words of power made him furious; by turns, he bellowed like a
mad bull, hissed like an adder, or roared like a wild beast, that he
might be heard for miles away. Yet, by degrees, Tregagle became as
gentle as a lamb, and allowed the spirit-quellers to bind him with a new
hempen cord; and to lead him far away to Gwenvor Cove.
There they doomed him to make a truss of sand, to be bound with ropes
made of the same material, and carry it up to Carn Olva.
Tregagle was a long while at his tiresome task without being able to
accomplish it, until it came to a very cold winter, when, one hard
frosty night, by taking water from Velan Dreath brook, and pouring it
over his truss, he caused it to freeze together and bore it in triumph
to Carn Olva.
He then flew back to the man who raised him, and he would have torn him
in pieces, but, by good luck, he happened to have in his arms an
innocent young child, so the spirit couldn't harm him.
Without delay the terrified man sent for the nearest parson, who,
however, was not able, alone, to cope with Tregagle; the most he could
do was to prevent him from harming the man until other spirit-quellers
were brought to his assistance; with whose aid the furious spirit was
again bound, led away to Gwenvor, and required to undertake the same
task, without going near fresh water.
So Tregagle was matched at last, for he is still there on the shore of
Whitsand Bay vainly trying to make his truss of sand; and he is
frequently heard roaring for days before a northerly storm comes to
scatter it.
* * * * *
I well remember that when a boy, and living in Rafra, St. Levan, how
elderly men would go out into the town-place, last thing before they
went to bed, to "look at the weather,"--in harvest particularly,--and
come in saying, "Tregagle is roaring, so we shall surely have northerly
wind and a dry day to-morrow," or, "the northern cleeves are calling,"
by which they meant the same, and unconsciously used somewhat poetical
figures of speech.
A legend which connects Tregagle's escape from Gwenvor with the sanding
up of Parcurnow has been noticed (on page 140); other stories, however,
say, that job was imposed on him as a separate task, which he quickly
accomplished just before he was finally settled at Gwenvor.
WEST COUNTRY SUPERSTITIONS.
DEVIL'S MONEY.
There needs no other charm nor conjurer,
To raise infernal spirits up, but fear.
BUTLER.
Not long ago it was believed that Old Nick frequently appeared in the
form of a bull, and that he often placed money to tempt the unwary. The
following story--told us of the late Sir Rose Price's huntsman--will
help to explain notions which are not yet wholly exploded.
When the huntsman was a boy his parents lived in Nancledra, and sent him
daily to a school two or three miles off, till he was about thirteen
years old. He had his dinner sent with him, and he often minched. One
morning he wandered away over the moors in search of birds' nests and
rabbits' burrows. He had a good pasty in his dinner-bag and the day
passed pleasantly in birds-nesting, searching for young rabbits, and
playing about a tin-stream, three miles or so up the Bottom, where he
stayed till the streamers left work. Then he took his course for home,
over hedges and ditches, wandering wherever his fancy led him, till
almost dark, when he found himself in a large hilly field not far from
Nancledra. In making a short cut for home he crossed this field, and,
when near the middle of it, he heard a bull bellowing, and shortly saw a
large black one making towards him with tail up and head down; sometimes
it would stop to tear up the ground, and fling its horns as if to get in
practice to toss the boy; who being far from any hedges, there seemed no
way of escape from the field before the bull could overtake him. But,
luckily, within a few yards, there was a large rock, to which he ran and
climbed it, a moment only before the bull came to it.
The brute kept on, for a long time, going round and round the rock,
bellowing and tearing up the turf as if in a rage, till at last, tired
with his vain endeavours--as it seemed--to get at the boy, it hoisted
its tail like a flag-staff, galloped off, and vanished in a minute.
The boy didn't venture from his fort for sometime after the bull left.
At length he 'cramed' down over a shelving side of the rock on all
fours, head foremost--it was too dark to see where to put his feet. When
he touched ground with his hand he felt and took up what he thought, by
the feel of it, to be a penny-piece or a large button. He ran home and
saw, by light shining through a window, that he had found a penny. When
the way was clear, he made a place to hide it, in a hole over the
chimney-stool--the fire-place was a large open one for burning furze and
turf.
Next night, about the same hour as on the preceding, he went on the
rock, 'cramed' down again, and found two penny-pieces, which he hoarded
in the hole; and, night after night, he visited the rock, found the
money doubled each succeeding night, and picked up silver money in other
places where one would the least expect to find it, till his
hiding-place was nearly full in a few weeks.
How much longer this luck would have continued there is no knowing; for,
one night, when he thought there was nobody about, his mother came in
and found him standing on the chimney-stool so earnest about something
that he didn't see her watching him, and he kept handling his money till
she said,
"Whatever hast thee got there between the stones, that thee art always
stealing into the chimney, whenever thee dost think nobody is noticing
of thee."
"Only my buttons and marbles, mother," said he.
"I don't believe thee," replied his mother; "stand away, and I'll see
for myself."
Saying this she took up the fire-hook, ran the point of it into the
hole, and dragged out a lot of money.
"Now tell me, or I'll kill thee, thou lying thief," said she, "where
didst thee get this money; if thee hast stole it I'll murder thee, I
will."
The boy didn't much mind his mother's threats--terrific as they seem--he
was used to it. Yet she made him tell how he came by the money.
"Oh! good gracious mercy on us," cried she, before he had finished
telling her; "oh! thou wicked boy; thee hast frightened me out of my
life. Now tell me true," moaned she, wringing her hands, "hast thee used
any of the devil's money, put there to entice thee to sell thyself to
him, body and soul?"
"No, mother, please sure I han't," said he, "I was savan all to buy a
gun."
"Well, thank goodness," groaned his mother, "that I have found all out
in time to prevent thee shuttan thyself or somebody else with the
devil's gun. I should never more rejoice if I thought thee hast used a
farthing of en. Know, thou plague of my heart, that what seemed to thee
a bull was the Old One hisself. He placed the money there for thee, and,
when the bull seemed to vanish, he only changed to an adder, a toad, or
something else that suited his purpose, and he was watchan thee all the
time."
Whilst talking to the boy she raked all the money on to a fire-shovel,
and threw it under a brandes, around which there was a good turf-fire.
In a few minutes all the money melted away, and was gone like hailstones
in sunshine.
Next morning she carried out all the ashes, strewed them about the
town-place, and swept the hearth nine times before she lighted a new
fire. The poor woman never rested till she told old Parson Stephens. He
didn't altogether believe the boy's story, but said that if it was the
devil's money she did right, or she might have--brought it to him.
The boy was so terrified by what his mother said, that, for years after,
he never ventured to wander by night, even when he hunted for Sir Rose,
and was as stout a man as one might see of a market day; and the sight
of a black bull or anything he took for such would always make him
tremble.
There are many stories of this class about people having been enticed
with devil's money, but few of them have so fortunate an ending as the
old huntsman's relation.
THE SLIGHTED DAMSEL OF GWINEAR.
Trust me no tortures that the poets feign
Can match the fierce, th' unutterable pain
He feels who, day and night, devoid of rest,
Carries his own accuser in his breast.
JUVENAL.
There is a general belief, in the western part of Cornwall, that if a
greatly injured person, the last thing before death, reads or recites
the 109th Psalm, usually called the "Cursing Psalm," applying its
comminations to the injurer, the dying maledictions are sure to take
effect.
Nearly a hundred years ago there lived in Gwinear Church-town a young
man called Thomas Thomas, who for many years courted his cousin,
Elizabeth Thomas, of the same place. She was much attached to the young
man, who often promised to make her his wife; but, when she had shown
her utmost trust in him, on some little disagreement, he slighted her
and proposed to wed another damsel of the same village.
One Sunday afternoon he took his new love for a walk, passing by his old
sweetheart's door, purposely to spite her.
Soon after they had passed the cot of Elizabeth's parents, the betrayed
and wronged girl, who was of a very hasty temper, took a rope and a
prayer book, went into a road-way field, and hanged herself near the
path by which her faithless lover and his new fiance had passed, and
would, probably, return.
They came home, however, by another road. On their arriving in
Church-town, somebody asked them if they had seen Elizabeth, and
remarked that no one knew where she had gone, as she had been sought in
vain all over Church-town.
"Good God," exclaimed Thomas, "has she made away with herself? For more
than once she vowed that she would if I slighted her."
Then, as if tokened by her spirit, he went, followed by others, direct
to the tree on which they found her hanging and dead.
On the ground, at her feet, was her open prayer book. He took it up and
found a leaf turned down at the "Cursing Psalm;" on a leaf too he read
her name followed by "When this you see remember me."
Thomas then knew how she had doomed him; and he exclaimed "I'm ruined,
I'm ruined, for ever and ever."
For a long while he wandered about like one distracted, working in
various parts of the country, sometimes at mining, other times at
husbandry, and never returned to Gwinear Church-town.
Little was seen of him, by anyone who knew him, until after some years,
when he went to live in Market-jew. He would never venture to church or
chapel for fear of hearing read the 109th Psalm; he dreaded even to pass
near a school for the same reason.
He was several times hurt in the mines, in which he worked; and he
attributed all his misfortunes and bad luck to the curse of Elizabeth,
whose avenging ghost often appeared to him--as well by day as by
night--with an open prayer book in her hand.
He could never sleep without a comrade in his room; and seldom even
then, for, after a short slumber, when worn-out with fatigue, he would
start up in bed, crying in agony, "Oh, dear Betsy, shut the book. Do
shut the book."
Notwithstanding the distraction of his mind, he was still a fine,
strong, lusty, man, and many of his comrades advised him to get married,
saying there was nothing like a living wife to drive away the spirit of
a dead sweetheart. Taking their advice, he paid his addresses to several
young women of the neighbourhood and others farther away; but they, one
and all, flouted him with scorn, for the history of his unfortunate
first love was blown far and near. If he persisted in his suit the
indignant damsels would ask him with a sneer if he wished to bring all
the ill-wishes of the "Cursing Psalm" on their heads, too.
At length, however, a widow in Market-jew took pity on Thomas and
consented to venture her lot with him; and Betsy's ghost ceased
persecuting him--for a bit.
But on the road to St. Hilary Church--whither Thomas and the widow
proceeded to get married--the weather suddenly changed; from a calm and
sunshine it became a tempest, with thunder and lightning; it was harvest
time, and a cloud, black as night, hung over them, and rain poured along
churchway-path, whilst they saw people binding barley in the fields on
either hand.
Thomas, trembling with fear, saw his sweetheart's ghost, with her open
book, standing menacingly in the path before him; and he would have
turned back, had not the widow urged him on, saying that she saw no
ghost, and didn't mind her nor yet her book; and got him married. He
lived for a few years pretty tranquilly; and his wife bore him two
children. Then he was again disturbed with visits from the avenging
ghost; and some misfortune or sickness always closely followed its
appearance; until Thomas--worn-out in body and mind--when less than
forty years of age died, and was buried in St. Hilary.
THE WRECK OF ADMIRAL SIR CLOUDESLEY SHOVEL.
We are reminded by the above of the wreck of Admiral Sir Cloudesley
Shovel's ship, the "Association," at Scilly; and of a tradition, common
to the Islands, which attributes that disaster to the reading or
reciting of the 109th Psalm, shortly before death, by one of Sir
Cloudesley's crew, whom he unjustly condemned to be hanged.
The Admiral was returning with his fleet from Toulon, when, on the
evening of the 22nd October, 1707, his ship struck on the Gilstone,
about three miles and a half from St. Agnes; and in a few minutes
afterwards she went down, and everybody on board perished, except one
man, who saved himself by floating on a piece of timber to a rock called
Hellweathers,--about two miles and a half from the Gilstone,--where he
remained some days before the weather permitted any boat to approach and
take him off to St. Agnes.
He is said to have stated that the day before the Admiral's ship was
wrecked, one of the crew, who was a native of Scilly, and well
acquainted with the channel, represented to Sir Cloudesley that the
course the ship was taking would bring her on Scilly rocks. The Admiral
and his officers were incensed at the man's interference; and because he
persisted in affirming that the ship's way was wrong and would bring
them to destruction, Sir Cloudesley Shovel--rather summarily, one might
now think--condemned the man to be hanged for insubordination and
endeavouring to excite a mutiny.
When the poor fellow was tied to the mast, preparatory to his being
suspended by his neck, from the yard-arm, he begged, as a last favour,
that a Psalm might be read before his execution. His request being
granted, he selected the 109th, and repeated certain imprecatory
portions of it after the reader; and the last words he uttered were to
the effect that Sir Cloudesley Shovel and those who saw him hanged
should never reach the land alive.
His body, shrouded in a hammock, with a shot to sink it, was cast into
the deep, and but little heed paid to the dying sailor's sentence.
Shortly after, however, the sky, which had been gloomy all day, became
much darker; black, lowering, clouds, hung over the fleet like a funeral
pall, and the gale rose to a violent tempest. Then the hanged man's
curse was dreaded; and lo, to the crew's consternation, they beheld his
corpse--divested of its rude winding-sheet--floating near the doomed
ship, which it closely followed, with its face turned towards her,--in
all her varying course, through eddying currents,--until she struck on
the Gilstone; when the hanged man went down with the ship and his
messmates.
At this unfortunate time there perished, besides the Admiral, several
officers, and about two thousand men, belonging to the "Association" and
other vessels of the fleet.
Sir Cloudesley Shovel's body was washed ashore at Porth-Hellick Bay, in
St. Mary's, about eight miles from the Gilstone. It was quite naked, and
on the hatch of a ship, on which he had endeavoured to save
himself,--and a little dog lay by him,--when he was found by a soldier
and his wife, who only knew him to be the Admiral by a diamond ring on
his finger. They buried him in the sand, where a pit on Porth-Hellick
Bank still marks Sir Cloudesley Shovel's grave. The pit never fills up
in the greatest storms; and no grass ever grows on this blasted grave,
although the ground around it is often green.
"So the hanged seaman had as sweet a bit of revenge as one could wish
for," said our narrator, with a motion of his head which showed his
satisfaction at the Fates' award.
Connected with this unfortunate occurrence, there is a gratifying bit of
true history--we cannot say so much for all the above--which says that
Lady Shovel, on having her husband's ring,--by which his body was
identified,--sent her by the soldier, she gave him a pension for life;
and the Admiral was deposited in Westminster Abbey, where his monument
recalls the direful tale.
A NIGHT'S RIDE TO SCILLY.
No repares en eso, Sancho, que como estas cosas y estas volaterías
van fuera de los cursos ordinarios, de mil leguas verás y oiras lo
que quisieres, y no me aprietes tanto, que me derribas; y en verdad
que no sé de qué te turbas ni te espantas, que osaré jurar que en
todos los dias de mi vida he subido en cabalgadura de paso mas
llano: no parece sino que no nos movemos de un lugar. Destierra,
amigo, el miedo, que en efecto la cosa va como ha de ir, y el
viento llevamos en popa.
* * * * *
Bien es verdad que sentí que pasaba por la region del aire, y aun
que tocaba á la del fuego; pero que pasásemos de allí no lo puedo
creer.
D. QUIJOTE.
Many persons, not at all given to lying, assert that they have been
carried up and away by Old Nick, in the form of a horse. For the most
part, they affirm that they were taken "towers high;" and, when their
infernal steed descended it threw them off violently, and vanished in
fire and smoke.
We know a man called Jackey--never mind his surname--who had long been
a sober character, and was so particularly veracious that he prefaced
all his stories by saying, "I won't tell 'e a word of a lie, and know
it!" Indeed this common affirmation of his has become an every-day
saying, when anything doubtful is related. Well, Jackey has often told
us, and many others, that, when a young man, and not so good as he might
have been, he dwelt in the north of St. Just, and courted a girl who
lived in Tardinney with her parents, who either rented a few acres or
some dairy cows. One Sunday afternoon he went early to see his
sweetheart. Whilst she was out milking, and he with her, the old woman,
her mother, made a nice heavy currant-cake for tea. All was ready on the
board when they returned from milking. Jackey made a hearty tea, or
supper, as we should say; but, when that was over, the old woman said,
"I've made a junket for thee, Jackey, as it's the first Sunday in May;
it's in the dairy, 'runn'd' by this time; I'll bring it to thee in a
minute."
"Don't think I can find room for it," said he; "I'm as full as a tick."
"Hold thy tongue," said she; "go thee wayst out and take a few jumps
down from the heaping-stock, and pack the tea and trade away! Junket is
no fillan, any more than drink; it will only quaff (puff) one for a
bit."
Jackey went out and exercised himself a few minutes, by leaping over a
stile; came in and found on the table a basin of junket well spread with
thick cream and honey. It was no shabby allowance either, for the bowl
held a quart or more. Whilst Jackey dispatched his junket his sweetheart
rigged herself in her best, and then away they went down to Sennen
Church-town to Methodist meeting. There they met several of his comrades
with their sweethearts. Preaching over, they all went into the "First
and Last" for a drop of something to drink. Santusters are always free
enough in treating the women--and everybody else for that matter--so
each of the fair ones had a glass of gin-and-peppermint or of brandy and
cloves, or both if they liked, and most of them did like to taste both
cordials and a glass of shrub besides. The men had a few mugs of
shenackrum (gin and beer) with a dram of rum all around to finish off.
They were a score or more going to St. Just; and all kept together till
they came to the Burying-place Downs, where they parted company, and all
the Santusters went Brea way, singing snatches of some well-known
revival hymns to lively song tunes, except Jackey, who had to put his
sweetheart home by the other road.
It was between ten and eleven o'clock when they got to Tardinney, and
found the old folks gone to bed. A glowing turf-fire burned on the
hearth, and they stayed courting till about one in the morning. But
before Jackey left, his kind-hearted dear had tempted him to a slight
supper of half a dozen eggs that she had saved up during the week
unknown to the "old 'oman," and which were boiled over the turfy-fire.
Jackey ate them with some bread and butter, then he had a good piece of
cold cake, left from tea, with a bowl of milk; kissed; said good-night;
and started for home.
Jackey had been tramping about nearly all day. He had a tiresome walk
before him of nearly four miles; and to foot it, all alone, seemed
doubly wearisome. He walked on pretty fast till he came half-way over
Kelynack Downs. There he sat down to rest a minute and felt tired enough
to sleep in a pool of water. He couldn't help wishing, when he rose to
proceed, that an old horse might come in his way,--there were generally
plenty of them on the common. He hadn't gone more than a hundred yards,
when he saw what appeared to be an old black horse standing stock-still,
as if asleep, close by the road. Jackey untied and took the halter it
was spanned (hobbled) with from its legs, placed it over its head,
mounted, and did his utmost to keep it on the road. But, in spite of all
he could do, it took off westward over the Downs, going slowly at first,
but soon quickened its pace till it went like the wind, and he was
nearly blown off sometimes, with the rush of air occasioned by their
speed, for there was no wind to speak of.
The night was so clear that he saw the Longships light nearly all the
time, till they came to the cliff near the Land's End, to the best of
his judgment. He felt no fear to speak of. The thing he bestrode took
him over cliff--not right down, but sloping away gently. It went off
through the air--just skimming the sea--straight to Scilly, and arrived
there very quickly:--he thought it might be in a quarter of an hour or
thereaway, from the time he left the Longships behind his back till they
came to St. Agnes flashing light.
There was no stay when it came to the islands; for away it went all
around and across them so high up that he saw all Scilly isles spread
out like a map, and so plainly that he always remembered their position.
Then without any control from the rider, Jackey's steed turned tail on
Scilly and brought him back--about daybreak--to Kelynack Downs again,
within a stone's throw of the rock where he mounted, shook him off
pretty gently, and vanished in flame and smoke--as usual.
The Devil carried Jackey easy enough; but, for nearly a week after his
ride, he felt very stiff and sore all over.
If any doubting body questioned the truth of this story or hinted that
perhaps he fell asleep on Kelynack Downs and had "the stag," or got
"hilla-rodden," (night-mare) he would reply,
"Don't 'e believe it, my dear; not sure nuf; and, as a proof that what
I tell 'e is true, if you will give me a piece of chalk I'll mark out
all the islands as I seed them, and as correct as anyone who had lived
there all his time. Yet I had never been to Scilly before, nor have I
since that night. Bless the Lord, I had a narrow escape; but didn't stay
so late a-courting any more, and a few months after that night's ride,
Mally and me--we got married."
* * * * *
One can't see what motive Old Nick had in this case, to take such
trouble, unless it were for a mere freak, because he never seemed to
claim any recompense from his rider.
To be "hilla-ridden," and to have the "stag," are the only names known
to old country folks for the "night-mare," which is a word one never
hears among them. There is, however, some difference in the
signification of our two local terms. The former means to pass the time
in an agony of tormenting dreams; the latter is used for obstructed
respiration, or a feeling of weight on the chest, that prevents a person
from moving.
[Illustration]
ANCIENT BRIDAL CUSTOMS.
With the past and with the present,
Quaint old manners still are link'd;
Olden customs, grave and pleasant,
Ling'ring still, though nigh extinct.
C. T. C.
Some West Country folks still observe a few old-fashioned marriage
usages; one of which the following sketch will explain. It was given us,
as inserted, by a young man who was one of the wedding guests.
"In the winter of 1860 we were invited to a wedding at a place called
the Grambler in Sancreed; with strict orders to be in time to accompany
the "weddenars" to church at ten o'clock the following Saturday morning.
Not caring to take part in the ceremony, we only left Penzance at one
o'clock in the afternoon. On our arriving at New Bridge we found a
messenger awaiting our arrival to guide us to the bride's parents' house
where the wedding was being held. He also brought a bottle of brandy
which An' Nancy, the bride's mother, sent for the "strangers from
Penzance to drink on the way, to keep out the cold."
On nearing the house, we heard music and dancing, when our guide
hastened on before to let the party know we were come. "My dear boys,"
said An' Nancy, meeting us at the door, "come 'e in quick out of the
cold, we've ben afeerd you woddan coman."
All the company received us with hearty kindness; being placed at the
board, our host said, "We've had dennar, my dears, but there's plenty
left for 'e," at the same time pitching on each of our plates a piece of
roast beef of not less than four pounds, "Aet that fust," he continued,
"then you shall have some more." My companion looking rather surprised
at the liberal supply, An' Nancy exclaimed, "What's the matter weth thee
my boy, dossena like et? Well than thee shust have somethan else;" and
without waiting a reply, took away the plate of beef and replaced it
with one of roast goose and a dish of boiled pudding, saying, "Now
there, my dear boy, aet that, I s'ppose the beef was too tough for 'e."
Meanwhile the wedding-party--most of whom were young people--awaited us
in another room; we soon joined them and found good drink and cakes in
abundance. Uncle Will, the bride's father, being called upon for a
toast, he gave:--
"Here's to the bridegroom and the bride,
May they stick to each other's side;
I hope their life will be of joy,
And that the fust will be a boy."
which was received with roars of laughter and stamping of feet. Aunt
Nancy took from a buffet several bottles of cordials for the women and
others who liked them; amongst others were poppy and blackberry syrups,
sweet-drink (mead),--that had been kept some years for this happy
occasion--and peppermint water, of her own distilling. Presently the
fiddle struck up with a jig. "Les have the double shuffle, Uncle Will,"
said the young people. Up he jumped as lively as a kid, though he was
near eighty, and footed it out to the delight of all.
Young Jan of Santust (St. Just) followed, making the fire fly from the
heels of his boots, like flashes of lightning; and all the company were
quickly whirling, in reels, without much order.
Now, whilst the gaiety was at its height, the newly-wedded couple had
contrived to slip out quietly, and hasten to their new home. "They're
off, they're off," cried several voices; "come on soas, or else we shall
be too late; they will be in bed and lock the door." Away they all flew,
like mad devils, scampering over hedges and ditches for nearly a mile.
We followed--fortunately for us it was a clear moonlight night.
When we got to the house the foremost of the party were up stairs. "Come
'e up, boys," shouted they; up we went and found the bride and
bridegroom in bed, with their clothes on, having had no time to lock the
door even, as the wedding guests were close on their heels.
We shall long remember the scene we then witnessed; the guests were
beating them in bed, with stockings, straps, braces, or anything they
could lay hands on. "Give them pepper," shouted young Jan, the groom's
best man; "give et them, boys," and pepper them they did right merrily.
Not wishing to be behind the rest, we took off our braces and followed
suit. They continued this strange sport for a good while, until the
leader said, "Les go back, soas, or else we shall be all ill-wisht, for
et's nearly twelve a'clock."
Away they again rushed back to the old folks' house; and each one on
arriving, before speaking, touched the cravel, (lintel or head-stone of
the hearth) with his or her head, for good luck.
The old couple seemed well satisfied when we returned, as it was not
quite midnight.
Many elderly folks had arrived late in the evening to drink health and
long life to the newly-married; they assured us that it was an old
custom to tan young married people to bed, or else they would meet with
bad luck all their days. The good old souls had arranged for us to stay
over night; but as we deemed it best to return home, they made us take
more to eat and drink, to keep out the cold and help us on the road,
they said. Then amidst hearty leave-takings and promises to visit them
again soon, they allowed us to depart.
Well, somehow, we arrived home about daybreak, but often wished that we
had stopped at the Grambler till sunrise."
At more modish weddings the guests merely enter the bridal-chamber and
throw stockings--in which stones or something to make weight are
placed--at the bride and bridegroom in bed. The first one hit, of the
happy couple, betokens the sex of their first-born.
* * * * *
It was an old custom, religiously observed, until lately, in Zennor and
adjacent parishes on the north coast, to waylay a married couple on
their wedding-night and flog them to bed with cords, sheep-spans, or
anything handy for the purpose; believing that this rough treatment
would ensure them happiness and the "heritage and gift that cometh from
the Lord," of a numerous family.
MADRON WELL.
On passing over a stile and entering the moor in which the well is
situated, cross the moor at a right-angle to the hedge, and a minute's
walk will bring one to the noted spring, which is not seen until very
near, as it has no wall above the surface, nor any mark by which it can
be distinguished at a distance.
Much has been written of the remarkable cures effected by its holy
waters, and the intercession of St. Madron, or Motran; when it was so
famous that the maimed, halt, and lame, made pilgrimages from distant
parts to the heathy moor.
It is still resorted to on the first three Wednesdays in May, by some
few women of the neighbourhood, who bring children to be cured of skin
diseases by being bathed in it. Its old repute as a divining fount has
not yet quite died out, though young folks visit it now to drop pebbles
or pins into the well, more for fun and the pleasure of each other's
company, than through any belief that the falling together, or the
separation of pins or pebbles, will tell how the course of love will run
between the parties indicated by the objects dropped into the spring; or
that the number of bubbles which rise in the water, on stamping near the
well, mark the years, in answer to any question of time; but there was
not such want of faith, however, half a century ago.
A short time since I visited an elderly dame of Madron, who was a highly
reputed charmer for the cure of various skin ailments; I had known her
from my childhood; and my object was to glean what I could about the
rites practised, within her remembrance, at Madron Well, the
Crick-stone, and elsewhere.
She gave the following account of the usages at Madron Well about fifty
years ago. At that time, when she lived in Lanyon, scores of women from
Morvah, Zennor, Towednack, and other places, brought their children to
be cured of the shingles, wildfires, tetters, and other diseases, as
well as to fortify them against witchcraft or being blighted with an
evil eye.
An old dame called An' Katty, who mostly lived in the Bossullows, or
some place near, and who did little but knitting-work, picked up a good
living in May by attending at the well, to direct the high country folks
how they were to proceed in using the waters.
First she had the child stripped as naked as it was born; then it was
plunged three times against the sun; next the creature was passed
quickly nine times around the spring, going from east to west, or with
the sun; the child was then dressed, rolled up in something warm, and
laid to sleep near the water; if it slept, and plenty of bubbles rose in
the well, it was a good sign. I asked if a prayer, charm, or anything
was spoken during the operations? "Why, no, to be sure," my old friend
replied, "don't 'e know any better, there musn't be a word spoken all
the time they are near the water, it would spoil the spell; and a piece
rented, not cut, from the child's clothes, or from that of anybody using
the well must be left near it for good luck; ever so small a bit will
do. This was mostly placed out of sight between the stones bordering
the brooklet, or hung on a thorn that grew on the chapel wall.
Whilst one party went through their rites at the spring, all the others
remained over the stile in the higher enclosure, or by the hedge,
because, if a word were spoken by anybody near the well during the
dipping, they had to come again." The old woman, An' Katty, was never
paid in money, but balls of yarn, and other things she might want, were
dropped on the road, outside the well-moors, for her; she also got good
pickings by instructing young girls how to "try for sweethearts" at the
well. "Scores of maidens"--the dame's words--"used, in the summer
evenings, to come down to the well from ever so far, to drop into it
pins, gravels, or any small thing that would sink." The names of persons
were not always spoken when the objects which represented them were
dropped into the water; it sufficed to think of them; and as pins or
pebbles remained together or separated, such would be the couple's fate.
It was only when the spring was working (rising strongly) that it was of
any use to try the spells; and it was unlucky to speak when near the
well at such times.
The old woman that I visited said she had never heard that any saint had
anything to do with the water, except from a person who told her there
was something about it in a book; nor had she or anybody else heard the
water called St. Madron's Well, except by the new gentry, who go about
new naming places, and think they know more about them than the people
who have lived there ever since the world was created. She never heard
of any ceremony being performed at the old Chapel, except that some
persons hung a bit of their clothing on a thorn tree that grew near it.
High Country folks, who mostly resort to the spring, pay no regard to
any saint or to anyone else, except some old women who may come down
with them to show how everything used to be done.
There is a spring, not far from Bosporthenes, in Zennor, which was said
to be as good as Madron Well; and children were often taken thither and
treated in the same way.
Such is the substance of what the dame related; and she regarded the due
observance of ancient customs as a very solemn matter.
In answer to the questions of "What was the reason for going round the
well nine times? Leaving bits of clothing? Following the sun, &c.?" It
was always the same reply, "Such were the old customs," and everybody
knew it was unlucky to do any such work, and many things besides,
against the sun's course; no woman, who knew anything, would place pans
of milk in a dairy, so as to have to unream (skim) them, in turn,
against the sun, nor stir cream in that direction to make butter.
By following down the well-stream or hedge, mentioned above, we come to
the Chapel. In its southern wall may be noticed an opening for letting
water from the brook, which runs near it, flow into a baptistry in the
south-western corner of the Chapel. Entering the doorway, on the
northern side, one may remark that this primitive fount appears to have
been arched over, after the manner of our old bee-hive huts, by the
upper rows of stones slightly over-hanging. The altar table-slab, or
mensa--still remaining at the east end--has a square pit worked in its
centre, probably to mark the spot--over reliques--on which the
monstrance was placed. A step makes the division between the little nave
and sacrarium; there are also the remains of stone seats which were
carried all around against the walls.
Let no rude hand remove,
Or spoil thee; for the spot is consecrate
To thee, and thou to it.
THE CRICK-STONE, OR MEN-AN-TOL.
In a croft belonging to Lanyon farm, and about half a mile north of the
town-place, there is a remarkable group of three stones, the centre one
of which is called by antiquaries the Men-an-tol (holed stone), and by
country folk the Crick-stone, from an old custom--not yet extinct--of
"crameing" (crawling on all fours) nine times through the hole in the
centre stone, going against the sun's course, for the cure of lumbago,
sciatica, and other "cricks" and pains in the back. Young children were
also put through it to ensure them healthy growth.
Antiquaries are undecided with respect to the purpose for which these
mysterious stones were erected. Some hold that it is a sepulchral
monument, as well as the Men Scryfa (inscribed stone) half a mile
further on, because there is a tradition that a little below, in Gendhal
moor, there was once so great a battle that the streams ran with blood.
Others think the object of its erection was for the computation of time;
among the latter is Professor Max Müller, who, in the _Quarterly
Review_, for August, 1867, after stating that the three stones are in a
line bearing nearly east and west, says:--
"This Men-an-tol may be an old dial, erected originally to fix the
proper time for the celebration of the autumnal equinox; and, though it
may have been applied to other purposes likewise, such as the curing of
children by dragging them several times through the hole, still its
original intention may have been astronomical."
He also thinks that the Menheeres (long stones) served the same purpose,
as they are mostly found in pairs bearing nearly east and west.
The Tolmen, in Constantine parish, and holed stones in other parts of
the county, were used the same way as Lanyon Crick-stone for curing
various ailments.
To cure boils and rheumatism, persons "crame" nine times against the
sun, under a bramble growing at both ends.
The notion is that going against the sun will backen a disease but in
all other cases the sun's course must be followed.
CHARMS.
There are persons in every parish west of Hayle, and in many east of it,
who charm for the cure of various ailments. The members of a family,
formerly of Sennen, are believed to possess peculiar virtues as
charmers, which is said to have been obtained, hundreds of years ago,
from a forefather of theirs, dwelling in Escols, who found, washed in on
Gwenvor sand, a very old man, almost dead, whom he took to his house,
had him well cared for, so that he soon recovered and prepared to
depart. Before leaving, however, he told his host that he had neither
gold nor silver to pay him for his hospitality; yet he would bestow on
him and his what would be of more value; and imparted to the old man of
Escols most of the following charms, which a descendant of the family
gave me by word of mouth; if written they are useless, and the giver of
a written one thenceforth loses the power to cure by charming.
* * * * *
_Charm for a scald, wild-fire, burn, or any other inflammatory
diseases._
The person to be charmed gathers nine bramble leaves, which are put
into a vessel of spring water; then each leaf is passed over and from
the diseased part, whilst repeating three times to each leaf as
follows:--
"Three ladies come from the east,
One with fire and two with frost;
Out with thee fire, and in with thee frost,
In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost."
A stick of fire is then taken from the hearth and passed over and around
the diseased part whilst the above is repeated nine times.
* * * * *
_Charm for a prick of a thorn, boils, kennels, &c._
"Christ was crowned with thorns,
The thorns did bleed but did not rot,
No more shall thy finger (_or whatever part it may be_),
In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost."
* * * * *
_Charm for staunching blood._
"Christ was born in Bethlehem,
Baptised in the river Jordan;
There he digg'd a well.
And turn'd the water against the hill,
So shall thy blood stand still.
In the name, &c."
* * * * *
_Charm for a tetter._
"Tetter, tetter, thou hast nine sisters.
God bless the flesh and preserve the bone,
Perish thou tetter and be thou gone,
In the name, &c."
"Tetter, tetter, thou hast eight sisters.
God bless the flesh and preserve the bone,
Perish thou tetter and be thou gone,
In the name, &c."
The charm is thus continued until it comes to the last, which is:--
"Tetter, tetter, thou hast no sister,
God bless the flesh and preserve the bone,
Perish thou tetter and be thou gone.
In the name, &c."
* * * * *
_Charm for toothache._
"Christ pass'd by his brother's door,
Saw his brother lying on the floor.
'What aileth thee, brother?
Pain in thy teeth?
Thy teeth shall pain thee no more.'
In the name, &c."
The charmer places his or her thumb on the diseased part in all but the
first charm.
* * * * *
Divination with a Bible and key; seeking a response to doubts from the
first words the eye may glance on in letting a Bible fall open; and
various other superstitious practices, common to all England, are well
known here and need not be described.
THE FAIRY TRIBES.
Belief in fairies is far from being extinct in Cornwall, though our
country folks never call them by that name.
A few days since, a woman of Mousehal told me that not long ago troops
of small people, no more than a foot and a half high, used--on moonlight
nights--to come out of a hole in the cliff, opening onto the beach,
Newlyn side of the village, and but a short distance from it. The little
people were always dressed very smart; and if anyone came near them they
would scamper away into the hole. Mothers often told their children that
if they went under cliff by night the small people would carry them away
into "Dicky Danjy's holt."
Another kind called spriggans, which simply means sprites, are believed
to guard treasures buried in cliff and hill castles.
Not long since a tinner of Lelant dreamt, three nights following, that
a crock of gold was buried in a particular spot, between large rocks
within the castle, on Trecroben hill. The next clear moonlight night he
dug up the ground of which he had dreamt. After working two or three
hours he came to a flat stone which sounded hollow; whilst digging round
its edges, the weather became suddenly dark, the wind roared around the
carns, and looking up, when he had made a place for his hands to lift
it, he saw hundreds of ugly spriggans coming out from amidst the rocks
gathering around and approaching him. The man dropped his pick, ran down
the hill and home as fast as he could lay foot to ground; he took to his
bed and was unable to leave it for weeks.
When he next visited the castle he found the pit all filled in, with the
turf replaced; and he nevermore dug for the treasure.
Piskey still leads benighted people astray; this sprite wanders alone
and is always spoken of in the singular. It is somewhat remarkable that
a green bug, frequently found on bramble bushes in autumn, is called by
this name. After Michaelmas, it is said, that blackberries are
unwholesome because Piskey spoils them then.
Places frequented by goats are believed to be the favourite haunts of
fairies.
It is uncertain whether Bucka can be regarded as one of the fairy tribe;
old people, within my remembrance, spoke of a Bucka Gwidden and a Bucka
Dhu--by the former they meant a good spirit, and by the latter an evil
one, now known as Bucka boo. I have been told, by persons of credit,
that within the last forty years it was a usual practice with Newlyn and
Mousehal fishermen to leave on the sand at night a portion of their
catch for Bucka. Probably from this observance the common nickname of
Newlyn Buckas was derived. An old rhyme says:--
"Penzance boys up in a tree,
Looking as wisht as wisht can be;
Newlyn buckas as strong as oak,
Knocking them down at every poke."
From this it appears that Newlyn boys once considered it a matter of
pride to be called by the name of their ancient divinity.
The knockers of the mines--that some class among fairy tribes--are
simply believed, by our tinners, to be the spirits of those who worked
the 'old bals' in ancient times.
[Illustration]
MERMAIDS AND THE HOOPER.
Within easy memory many parts of the western coast were said to be
frequented by mermaids, particularly Sennen Cove. This place was also
resorted to by a remarkable spirit called the Hooper--from the hooting
or hooping sounds which it was accustomed to make.
In old time, according to tradition, a compact cloud of mist often came
in from over sea--when the weather was by no means foggy--and rested on
the rocks called Cowloe, thence it spread itself, like a curtain of
cloud, quite across Sennen Cove. By night a dull light was mostly seen
amidst the vapour, with sparks ascending as if a fire burned within it;
at the same time hooping sounds were heard proceeding therefrom. People
believed the misty cloud shrouded a spirit, which came to forewarn them
of approaching storms, and that those who attempted to put to sea found
an invisible force--seemingly in the mist--to resist them.
A reckless fisherman and his son, however,--disregarding the
token--launched their boat and beat through the fog with a threshal
(flail); they passed the cloud of mist which followed them, and neither
the men, nor the Hooper, were evermore seen in Sennen Cove.
This is the only place in the west where any tradition of such a
guardian spirit is preserved.
THE WRECKER AND THE DEATH SHIP.
Full well 'tis known adown the dale;
Tho' passing strange indeed the tale,
And doubtful may appear.
SHENSTONE.
Persons of a notoriously wicked character were said to have been
frequently taken off bodily by Old Nick when they died. The following is
one of many stories to that effect.
More than a hundred years ago a dark strange man appeared in St. Just;
no one knew whence he came, but it was supposed, however, that he was
put ashore from a pirate ship, by way of marooning him; as the crews of
such are wont to do by any wretch that is too bad even to consort with
high sea robbers.
He didn't appear to want for money as he soon rented a small, lone,
tenement, near the shore, and married a widow of the neighbourhood.
People wondered, for a long while, how so many vessels got wrecked under
the cliff that bordered the stranger's farm.
At length it was discovered that on dark winter nights--when honest
folks were a-bed--he made it his practice to fasten a lantern to the
neck of a horse, which he had hobbled, by tying down its head to a
fore-leg; then he drove the horse along near the cliff, and the lantern,
from its motion, would be taken for a vessel's stern-light.
Consequently those on board ships sailing by, expecting to find plenty
of sea room, would come right in and be wrecked on the rocks. Any of
their crews that escaped a watery grave the wretch would knock on the
head with his axe, or cut off their hand when they tried to grasp the
rocks.
He lived long and became rich by his sin. At length, however, the time
came for the fiend to claim his own. When he was dying his awful shrieks
were heard far away, as he cried, "Do save me from the devil, and the
sailors, there, looking to tear me to pieces." Several parsons and other
pious folks were sent for,--all those of the neighbourhood readily came,
for the dying sinner was rich.
Though it was in harvest time and high day, the old wrecker's chamber
became, at times, as dark as night. The parsons saw the devil in the
room, when others could not; by their reading they drove him to take
many shapes, but for all that he would not be put out; at last, when he
took the form of a fly, and buzzed about the dying wretch, they saw it
was in vain for them to try any longer.
During the time the exorcists were engaged, the chamber seemed--by the
sound--to be filled with the sea splashing around the bed; waves were
heard as if surging and breaking against the house, though it was a good
bit inland.
Whilst this was taking place at the dying wrecker's bedside, two men,
who were about harvest work in one of his fields near the cliff, heard a
hollow voice, as if coming from the sea, which said, "The hour is come
but the man is not come."
Looking in the direction whence the words came, they saw no person; but
far out to sea, they beheld a black, heavy, square-rigged ship, with all
sail set, coming fast in, against wind and tide, and not a hand to be
seen aboard her.
She came so close under cliff that only her topmast could be seen; when
black clouds--that seemed to rise out of the deep--gathered around her
and extended thence straight to the dying man's dwelling.
The harvest-men, terrified at the sight of this ship-of-doom so near
them, ran up to the town-place, just as the old sinner died, when his
dwelling shook as if about to fall. Everybody, in great fright, rushed
out and saw the black clouds roll off towards the death-ship, which, at
once, sailed away--amidst a blaze of lightning--far over sea, and
disappeared.
The weather immediately cleared, and nothing unusual occurred until a
few men assembled to put the wrecker's ghastly remains quickly off the
face of the earth; then, as the coffin was borne towards the churchyard,
a large black pig came--no one knew from whence--and followed the
bearers, who all declared the coffin was too light to contain any body.
The sky, too, became suddenly overcast, and a tempest raged to that
degree, they could scarcely keep on their legs to reach the churchyard
stile, where such sheets of blinding lightning flashed around them, that
they dropped the coffin and rushed into the church.
The storm having abated, they ventured out, and found nothing of the
coffin but its handles and a few nails, for it had been set on fire, and
all else consumed, by the lightning.
* * * * *
It does not appear what business the black pig had in the funeral
procession; such is the way, however, in which the story is always told.
THE SUN NEVER SHINES ON THOSE WHO HAVE
"SWORN AWAY A LIFE."
One frequently hears, in remote country places, the reproachful sayings
of, "The sun wont shine on thee," or, "the sun don't shine on thee."
This is regarded as a very bitter taunt, even by those who do not
understand its allusion or the old belief from which it proceeds.
The following story, told me by an aged mine captain, of Lelant, will
serve to explain it.
A few years ago a smuggler of Breage gave false evidence, which caused
one of another crew to be hanged, on the charge of having fired a fatal
shot at an officer belonging to a revenue cutter.
This perjurer, who swore away an innocent man's life, received--for
informing--such a sum of blood money as made him comparatively rich, yet
he remained at sea for several years, until he came to live at Hayle.
Few persons there knew him; but everybody remarked that he looked
deathly pale and shivered with cold, however warm the weather might be.
He lived alone and rarely left his house to go beyond his garden, and
his neighbours said that when he stood out in "sunshiney" weather he
cast no shadow. They surmised that he had been forsworn; for he could
never see the sun, and the sky always appeared dark to him; yet he saw
everything else the same as other people.
After his decease it became known how he had caused an innocent man's
death.
* * * * *
Notices of other popular superstitions may be found by a reference
to the Index.
[Illustration]
A LEGEND OF PENGERSEC.
So I your presence may enjoye,
No toil I will refuse;
But wanting you, my life is death;
Nay, death Ild rather chuse.
FAIR ROSAMOND.
Many years ago an elderly gentleman of Gwinear told me the following
story, which he had often heard related by old folks of that parish and
Breage, about certain ancient occupants of Pengersec; who dwelt there
long before the present castle was built by Milliton, who, according to
their legend, constructed his stronghold in the time of Henry VIII, out
of the ruins of a former castle which stood near the same site; and of
which, they say, some out-works may still be traced towards the sea.
My friend made a point of telling the story just as it was related by
old folks, and I wrote the greater part of it from his recital.
It contains, however, too many details of dreadful crimes to please
general readers; and as I think it right to give our old stories
unmutilated--so far as a due regard to decorum permits--I hesitated
about publishing it until advised to do so by friends who thought it
would interest antiquarian students.
* * * * *
The lords of old Pengersec Castle were all soldiers who rarely lived at
home. When the last lord's father was about twenty, as there was no
fighting going on hereabouts, he betook himself to outlandish countries,
far away in the east, to a place inhabited by people who were little
better than savages; for, instead of tilling the ground or digging for
tin, they passed their time roving from place to place as they wanted
fresh pastures for their cattle. They lived in tents covered with the
skins of their flocks, and their raiment was made of the same material;
yet these heathen worshippers of Termagaunt got plenty of gold and
precious things, by sending their young men to fight, for or against, or
to rob their more industrious neighbours who dwelt in houses, tilled the
ground, and followed trades.
Well, Pengersec went to war with these pagans, for or against, we don't
know nor care which, no more did he, so that he was fighting.
Whilst there, however, he fell in love with a beautiful Princess of the
people who dwelt in towns.
He wished to carry her off, but he couldn't, because she was betrothed
to a Prince of that country and jealously watched; yet Pengersec often
found means to visit the lady in the dead of night; and about the time
he left to return home she bore him a child, which was "put going" (made
away with). In spite of all, the Princess would then have followed him,
had he not vowed to return for her soon, or if, in the meanwhile, the
old king, her father, died--and not having male offspring--he would
marry her there and reign in his stead.
Then she took off her finger-ring, broke it, and gave him half, saying,
"when this you see, remember your love in a far country;" and he swore
by all she held sacred to remain unwed for seven years unless he married
her.
Shortly after his return home, however, he espoused a fair lady of
Helaston. There being no signs of his wife's likelihood to present him
with an heir--after having been married a year or two--he became very
dissatisfied; and hearing of new wars in the east he returned--before
seven years had elapsed--to the country where the former Princess--now a
Queen--reigned in her own right.
He renewed their former connection--taking good care not to tell her he
had a wife at home--and led her troops to war against the Prince who
would have had his Queen and her dominions but for him.
She lent Pengersec her father's enchanted sword--a magic weapon that
brought success to the rightful possessor--and fought by his side; yet
they were conquered; and the Cornish rover missed his lady-love in their
confused retreat; when, to save himself, as best he could, he took ship
for home and left her to her fate.
Now the Queen escaped to a port where she had many vessels, and knowing
that Pengersec's castle was near a place to which they often went for
tin, she embarked with an aged captain and set sail for the Mount,
hoping that if the man she trusted and loved above all in heaven or
earth had escaped with life, she would find him in his native land.
Meanwhile the treacherous lover had returned and found his wife with an
infant at the breast; he blamed her because she had not informed him of
her state before he left home. In reply, she told him how she feared to
raise his hopes, not being sure they would be realized.
He had scarcely settled himself comfortably in his castle with his wife
and his son--of whom he was very fond--when, one night, the Queen
knocked at his gate. In her arms she held a babe that had been born at
sea; weeping, she showed it to its father who refused to admit her
within his doors. "What can have possessed thee to follow me here thou
crazy saracen," said he, "know that I've many years been wed." "Cruel
man, dos thou spurn thy little son and me from thy doors," she replied,
"now that I am in this strange land poor and needy." Not wishing the
inmates of his dwelling to hear or see any more of the strange lady, he
led her away down by the sea-side. There, standing on a cliff, she
reproached him with being a faithless, perjured lover; with having
stolen the magic sword, on which the safety of her land depended; and
with being the cause of all her misfortunes. He threatened to drown her
unless she promised to return at once to her own country. "Alas! I have
no longer a country," said she, "for thee I am become a disgrace to my
people, who scorn me," and raising her hand--as if to curse him--she
continued, "but thou shalt no longer flourish; may evil meet thee and
bad luck follow thee to the sorrowful end of thy days."
Provoked at her upbraiding, he, in his fury, cast her over cliff, into
the deep, with the infant that she clasped to her breast.
Shortly after she was found floating lifeless on the waves, with the
babe asleep in her arms, by the captain and crew of her ship, who,
fearing she might be unkindly received, wished to accompany her, but
preferring to meet her roving lover alone, she bade them remain in the
boat, near where she landed, at a short distance from his castle.
The Queen's remains were taken to her native land, and the good captain
reared her child, which passed for his own son.
This old tiger of a Pengersec spent much of his time in hunting wolves,
which were numerous then; the following day he was in full chase on
Tregonning hill until night, when a violent storm arose. By the
lightning's glare he saw, cowering around him, a drove of wild animals,
that dreaded the awful thunder-storm more than they did the hunter and
his dogs. Presently appeared among them a white hare, with eyes like
coals of fire, then the dogs and savage beasts ran away howling louder
than the tempest; the horse threw its rider and left him alone on the
hill with the white hare that Pengersec knew to be the vengeful spirit
of the murdered lady.
Search being made next day he was found on the hill more dead than alive
from the effects of his fall and fright.
Worst of all he had lost the enchanted sword, with which he could save
his life in any encounter. This mishap troubled him much, for, when in
possession of this charmed weapon, he thought it mere fun to lop off the
heads of those who offended him; but now he became a coward and dreaded
to go beyond his castle gate without a priest beside him.
Indeed, he could never leave his dwelling but the white hare would cross
his path. When the priests vainly tried to dispose of her--like other
spirits--in the Red Sea, she assumed her natural shape and told them not
to think they had power to bind or loose her like the spirits of those
who had been in their hands from their cradle to the grave; moreover,
that she wouldn't be controlled by them or their gods, but, to please
herself, would quit the place until her son came to man's estate.
Pengersec's cruel treatment of his wife shortened her days; she soon
died, leaving her unweaned child, called Marec, to be nursed by the
miller's wife, who shared her breast between the young heir and her son
Uter.
Many years passed during which Pengersec seldom went beyond his castle
that he had almost entirely to himself; a few old servants only remained
in the gloomy habitation, out of regard to the young master, that he
might be properly instructed and cared for. Marec, when about twenty
years of age, excelled in all manly exercises; being a good seaman, as
well as his constant attendant and foster-brother Uter, they would steer
their boat through the roughest breakers, to aid a ship in distress,
when other men feared to leave the shore. His favourite pastime was
taming wild horses of the hills, in which he was said to have remarkable
skill.
About this time Pengersec recovered his wonted courage, so far as to
venture out to see the young men's sports, and to visit Godolphin
castle--a few miles off--where lived a rich lady whom he wished his son
to wed.
She had often seen Marec bear away the hurling-ball, win prizes at
wrestling and other games, and had a great desire for him and more for
the domain to which he was heir.
Although she was passable as to looks, and only a year or two older than
the young lord, he had no liking for her, because she had the repute of
being a sorceress. In all the country side it was whispered that the
damsel was too intimate with an old witch of Fraddam, whose niece,
called Venna, was the lady's favourite waiting-woman.
They spent much time together distilling or otherwise concocting what
they named medicaments, though some called them poisons; and many
persons, believing the lady had evil eyes, pointed at her with forked
fingers to avert their baneful influence.
Yet, from her affected horror of little failings, pretended pity for
those whom she slandered by insinuations, and her constant attendance at
church, simple people, that she favoured, thought her a good woman; and
crafty ones, from sympathy, were ever ready to further her designs.
As the young man cared more about his sports than for the lady,
Pengersec did the courting--for his son at first--but at length he
married the damsel of Godolphin himself.
They had not been long wedded, however, ere she became disgusted with
her old lord's gloomy fits, and, from seeing much of Marec, her passion
for him became too much for concealment. Fearing lest she might betray
her desires to her husband, she shut herself up in her own apartments
and, pretending to be ill, sent for the witch of Fraddam, who soon
discovered her ailment.
The lady complained of her dreary life shut up in the lonesome castle
with her morose old husband, though he doted on her, after his fashion.
Having made him promise, before marriage, that she and her children
should inherit his lands and all he could keep from his eldest son, it
fretted her to find that, as yet, she was not likely to become a mother.
"Behave kinder to Marec," said the wise-woman, "that he and his comrades
may cheer your solitude."
"Never name the uncouth savage to me!" exclaimed the lady, "he would far
rather chase wolves and ride wild horses around the hills than pass any
time, by day or by night, in a lady's bower." The witch being skilled in
making love-potions and powders, after more converse, promised to send
her a philter, by the aid of which Marec would soon become her humble
slave, and pine for her love. The love-drink was fetched without delay
by Venna, who waited on her young master at supper and spiced his ale;
but this was a mistake, for it should have been prepared and served by
the person in whose favour it was intended to work.
The waiting-maid being a comely lass, and he a handsome man, she forgot
her duty to her mistress, when Marec--as the custom was with gallant
youths--pressed her to drink from his tankard to sweeten it. The cordial
and charms, that were intended to move his affections in the lady's
favour, ended in his strolling on the sea-shore with her handmaid. The
step-dame, unable to rest, wandered down on the beach, where she espied
the loving pair in amorous dalliance. Her love turned to hate; without
being seen by them, she returned and passed the night in planning
revenge.
In the morning early the enraged lady sought an interview with her
doting old husband, and told him that she wished to return to her
father's house, because she was pining for fresh air, but dared not
leave her room when his son was in the castle for fear of being insulted
by his unbecoming behaviour; in fact, she gave the old lord to
understand--by hints, which might mean little or much--that Marec then
discovered such a passion for her as she failed to inspire before her
marriage.
Pengersec raved, and swore he would be the death of him before many
hours were passed; at length, however, his fit of anger having
moderated, he assured his wife that he would get him taken so far away
that it would be long ere he returned to trouble her, if ever he did.
This being agreed on, the lady somewhat pacified returned to her own
apartment, and summoned her woman to attend her. Venna had no sooner
entered the chamber than her mistress pinned her in a corner, held a
knife to her breast, and vowed to have her heart's blood that
instant--for her treachery in enticing her young master to the
sea-shore--unless she drank the contents of a phial which she held to
her lips.
"Have patience, my dear mistress," said she, "and I will either explain
to your satisfaction what seemeth false dealing and disloyalty, or I'll
drain this bottle of poison to the last drop." Venna then told her
mistress that she was only following her aunt's instructions to get
Marec into her toils, and--if other means failed--induce him, in the
dead of night, to visit her chamber by the outer stair from the garden.
The woman also proposed to make other arrangements, of which her
mistress approved.
Then the pair devised how to get rid of the old lord speedily,
for--having excited his jealousy--they feared he might kill his son, or
send him from the country without delay.
They little thought, however, when they had decided to poison him in the
evening at his supper, that all their infernal plans were overheard by
the priest and steward, who had long suspected the step-dame and her
woman of hatching some plot against the young master.
In Pengersec castle, as in many dwellings of that time, there were
private passages, contrived in the thickness of its walls. Such places,
being known only to the master and his confidential servants, were
frequently forgotten; yet the priests, who were skilled builders and
great devisers of mysterious hiding-holes, mostly knew where to find
them.
From behind a perforated carving, in stone or wainscot, the lady's
wicked designs were found out. At supper, the old steward, as was his
custom, stood behind his master to hand him the tankard of ale, that he
drank with his venison pasty, and a goblet of strong waters, that stood
in a buffet--prepared and spiced by the lady for her husband--beside one
for herself, to take with the sweet waffels with which they finished
their repast. The hall being but dimly lighted by the fading twilight
and a fire on the hearth, the steward managed to distract the lady's
attention, when removing the tankard, by letting it fall and spilling
what remained in it on her robe, so that, without being noticed, he
exchanged the two drinking-vessels' contents, and the lady took the
poisoned draught which she had prepared for her spouse.
But it had little or no effect on her for the time, because, to guard
against a mischance of this kind, she had long accustomed herself to
imbibe poisons, in increasing doses, until she could stand a quantity
that would be fatal to one not thus fortified.
After supper the priest informed Marec of the snares laid to entrap him,
and of the step-dame's murderous attempt on his father.
The lady despaired of accomplishing her designs, as Marec showed by his
behaviour, that he regarded her with loathing. One day, when she was
more gracious to him than usual, and made advances not to be
misunderstood, looking on her with contempt, he said, "Know, sorceress,
that I detest thee and abhor thy shameful intentions, but thou canst
neither hurt me by thy witchcraft, nor with the blight of thy evil
eyes." She made no reply, but left the hall and soon after told her
spouse that his son had most grossly insulted her. "Indeed," said she,
"I had to defend myself with all my might to preserve my honour, and
threatened to plunge a dagger into his heart unless he desisted and left
my apartment." Her fabricated story so provoked the old lord that he
determined to dispose of his son without delay.
That evening, the weather being stormy, Marec and Uter noticed, from
Pengersec How, a vessel taking a course which would bring her into
dangerous ground; the young men launched their boat, rowed towards the
ship, and signalled that there were sunken rocks ahead.
Night was now fast closing in, and the land could scarcely be discerned
through the mist, when the young men beheld something floating at a
little distance. On approaching it, they saw it to be a drowning seaman
quite exhausted, and unable to keep any longer on the surface; they
pulled with might and main and were just in time to save him. Having
reached Pengersec Cove, they bore him to Marec's chamber, stripped off
his wet clothing, rubbed him dry, placed him in bed on sheep-skins, and
lay on either side that the warmth of their bodies might help to restore
him. At length his breathing became regular, and, without speaking, he
went off in sound sleep.
The rescued sailor awoke much restored and just as well as need be,
though surprised to find himself in a new berth with strange
shipmates--as he thought his two bed-fellows. He tried to get out of bed
and have a look round, when Marec well pleased to see him so far
recovered--related how they had taken him into their boat the previous
evening, when he was seemingly at the last gasp.
The seaman--who was called Arluth--then said, that he recollected having
fallen from the "tops" into the water, and endeavouring to keep himself
afloat, in hopes of being seen from his ship and rescued; but of what
followed he had no remembrance. He also informed them that he was the
son of a captain of an eastern ship, which frequently traded at Cornish
ports; fearing his father might be in great distress, from thinking him
drowned, he wished to get on board his ship as soon as possible.
Uter fetched, from the butlery, beef, bread, and beer; when the sailor
and his master sat beside each other he remarked that they looked like
twin brothers, from their close resemblance.
Having breakfasted, they took horses and--followed by the dogs--started
for Market-jew.
When they came out on uncultivated ground, Marec proposed to hunt as
they went along, that the seaman might have some game to take aboard.
They had gone but a little way when a white doe started from a thicket
and ran towards the hills--followed by the hounds in full cry. The
sailor's horse being an old hunter, took after them, and the rider,
being an indifferent horseman, lost all control over his steed, which
bore him after the hounds near to the top of Tregonning hill, where the
doe disappeared and the dogs were at fault.
The sailor alighted near the same carn where Pengersec had been thrown
from his horse many years agone. He had no sooner put foot to ground
than lightning struck the rocks close by and they toppled over. Then he
heard a voice--as if from the ground--that said, "Fear not, Arluth,
beloved son of mine, to seize thy forefather's sword and with it win thy
kingdom."
There was no one nigh him; but, on glancing towards the carn, he saw
near it a beautiful white hare, which gazed lovingly on him for a moment
and then disappeared amongst the rocks. On going to the spot, where the
rocks had been severed, he found a naked sword with sparkling jewels in
its hilt, and the blade shone like flame.
Arluth, having recovered from his surprise, took up the sword, and,
looking round, he saw Marec and Uter near him. Surprised that it should
be discovered in such a place, and at what the seaman told him, Marec
said, that as he had found the magic weapon, he was destined to achieve
great things.
Arluth again thought of his father and shipmates, who, not knowing if he
were dead or alive would be in great trouble; he begged his companions
to let him hasten to Market-jew, and their horses soon took them
thither. On parting the sailor said he hoped to see his friends again;
they proposed to visit him in the evening; saw him embark in a boat and
pull off to his ship. The good captain was overjoyed to see him after
having mourned for him as dead.
Arluth related how he had been rescued; drew the sword from his belt and
told the captain where he had found it, with what he had seen and heard
on the hill. The captain having examined it, said, "The time is come for
me to declare that the only relationship I bear thee is through my
regard and loyalty to the murdered Queen, thy mother." He then related
to Arluth how the Queen had lost her kingdom and magic sword, through
her ill-requited love for Pengersec; and how he had saved him when an
infant. In conclusion the captain said, "Thou wilt now understand, my
son--let me still call thee so--how that the young lord of Pengersec,
who rescued thee last night, is thy brother. Thy name, too--which was
given thee by thy mother, as soon as thou wast born--belongs to this
country's tongue. The Queen, having heard Lord Pengersec thus called by
his Cornish followers who attended him to her land, took that title to
be one of his names, and liked it best for thee."
The captain also told the wondering sailor that he would be the
acknowledged heir to their country, which had for many years been rent
with civil war between divers pretendants thereto, among whom there was
no one sufficiently powerful to secure the throne, since the magic
sword--on which their country's safety in some way depended--had been
lost, and reserved by a protecting power for him.
"Now nothing more is wanting," said he, "to enable thee to reclaim thy
mother's dominions, and its people will gladly receive thee to give
peace to the distracted country."
The young sailor was much surprised by what the captain related, and
still more so when he said that about the time Arluth was following the
white doe Pengersec came on board his ship and proposed to hire him and
his crew to kidnap and carry away his son and his servant, merely to
gratify a step-dame's spite. The captain said his only reply to the
befooled and unnatural father's proposal was to tell him he should never
leave his vessel alive if he spoke to one of his crew, and to order him
over the ship's side immediately.
Being stupified with grief, he didn't think, however, of another
vessel--then anchored at no great distance--that came from a city where
the people mostly lived by piracy; the crew of this ship--which sailed
under any colour that suited their ends--made it their business, among
other things, to land in lonely places, maraud the country, carry off
young people, and sell them in Barbary for slaves.
"Had I but thought of it in time," said the captain, "we would have
taken off Pengersec and given him a taste of the sea, for I knew much
more of him than he suspected." Having seen Pengersec go on board and
leave the pirate ship, the captain and Arluth, knowing the gang would
even murder their own brothers for a trifle of gold, determined to watch
their proceedings, and rescue the young men if need be.
It was bargained between Pengersec and the pirates that, for a small
sum, they would kidnap his son and Uter, either when they went out
a-fishing--as was their practice almost nightly--or land and steal them
from the castle.
Meanwhile, Arluth had arms placed in a boat; and when twilight darkened
into night he saw a boat leave the pirate ship. "Now, may the gods help
me!" he exclaimed, springing up and brandishing his sword, "my first use
of this shall be to save my brother." Arluth with several of his crew
gave chase.
Marec and Uter, being on their way to the good captain's ship, were
encountered by the pirates, overpowered, and put in irons, when their
companion of the morning sprang into the pirate's boat and cut in pieces
every one of the gang.
Having released and embraced the captives, Arluth bore away to the
pirate ship, boarded her, hanged the rest of her crew, and took the
craft as a lawful prize; and a rich prize they found her.
Arluth, having returned to the good captain's ship and informed Marec
and Uter how the old lord intended to serve them, said, "Come with me
and never more put foot in the place whilst thy crafty stepmother's head
is above ground." Marec replied to the effect that he didn't like to go
away until he had furnished himself and Uter with money and needful
changes of clothing. "Don't touch a thing in the accursed place,"
returned Arluth, "for you have a brother belonging to the land whither
we are bound, who will share his last stiver with thee, and shed his
heart's blood in thy defence. Nay, brother, be not surprised," continued
he, in drawing Marec to him, "this brother of thine will ere long be
king of the country."
"Would to heaven thou wert my brother, thou heart-of-oak, and I would
joyfully go with thee to any land," replied Marec.
The captain gave the young men of Pengersec a cordial welcome, set
before them the richest wines in his ship, and--smiling with
satisfaction to see the brothers' attachment, and Marec's puzzled
look--he related to him the history of his father's exploits, which had
been told to Arluth, for the first time, only a few hours before.
Marec had been altogether ignorant of much that the old commander
related of his father's youthful adventures; he rejoiced, however, to
find a brother in Arluth, and to go with him, he cared not whither. Uter
had such a strong regard for his master that he would gladly accompany
him to the world's-end.
Arluth, having taken command of the captured pirate ship, with his
brother for mate--Uter, and a few hands spared from the other vessel, as
his crew--they at once made sail.
Whilst the two ships go sailing on, with clear skies and favouring
gales, we will return, for a brief space, to Pengersec. About the time
they got under way, the priest was told that the old lord had during the
day been on board two eastern vessels; the good man, fearing this visit
portended mischief, watched all night for Marec. When morning dawned,
there being no appearance of the young men nor their boat--and the ships
having left the bay--he sought Pengersec; found him and his wife, early
as it was, in the hall. The priest and steward accused the lady of
having conspired with her woman and others to destroy her step-son and
husband. Venna, being summoned, turned against her mistress; the old
lord, seeing how he had been fooled, ordered both women to be cast into
the dungeon, mounted his horse and rode in all haste to Market-jew to
see if any craft might be procured to sail after the departed ships and
recover his son. Finding nothing there to the purpose, he returned at
night-fall--distracted with remorse and rage--fully determined to hang
his wife and her woman from the highest tower of his castle.
On nearing the thicket, from which the doe started on the preceding day,
out sprang the white hare with flaming eyes, right in face of his horse;
the terrified steed turned, galloped down to the shore, and, to escape
the pursuing hare, took to sea. Neither the horse nor its rider were
evermore seen.
The lady was released by her father's people; she became covered with
scales, like a serpent--from the effects of the poison she had taken it
was supposed--and she was shut up, as a loathsome object, in a dark room
of Godolphin.
Venna escaped to her aunt the witch of Fraddam. The old lord having
confessed, in his anguish, how he had disposed of his son and Uter, the
people of Pengersec supposed they were taken to Barbary and sold as
slaves; hoping, however, to discover them, the old servants took good
care of everything, in order to save money and effect his ransom.
The two ships kept as near as might be on their voyage; and it was
noticed that a beautiful white bird followed them from Mount's Bay; it
often came within bow-shot but no one dared to aim a shaft at it, for
the eastern mariners believed it to be the spirit of a departed friend
who guarded them from harm.
Marec frequently passed to the old captain's vessel, when they were
becalmed, for he liked much to hear him tell of eastern magicians and
the wonderful things they did.
Having arrived at their destined port, they found their country in great
disorder from the war waged by many pretenders to the throne, as before
stated by the old commander. He had no sooner, however, presented to the
people the young man, whom they had long known as his son, and related
to them the history of his birth, and of the recovered magic sword, than
they all flocked to Arluth's standard and proclaimed him their king.
Arluth but little valued his new dominions at first, and would have
preferred the command of a good ship. Yet, to please his people, he
consented to rule them, and soon became fully occupied with the cares of
his government, which he regulated like the prudent captain of a
well-ordered ship; he would have no idle hands nor waste of stores in
his dominions.
King Arluth wished his brother to live with him as chief mate and
adviser, and offered to dwell in any place he might choose, so it was
near their principal port, that he might superintend the traffic.
Marec was loath to part with his brother, but his fancy was so fired
with what the captain told him about a people, living near them, who
were skilled in magic, that he ardently desired to visit their country,
and, if possible, acquire some of their extraordinary wisdom.
Arluth, on becoming acquainted with his wishes, furnished a vessel with
such merchandise as would meet with a ready sale in the wise-men's
country; equipped his brother in every way becoming his rank, and
dispatched him and Uter under the care of trustworthy persons.
Marec remained a long while studying among the magicians, and learned
many curious arts, unknown in western lands. He also married a beautiful
and rich lady, who was gifted with many rare accomplishments, and Uter
wedded her favourite damsel.
In about three years, the old captain--who, in the meantime, had made a
voyage to Market-jew for tin--came to the sage's country on purpose to
inform Marec that his father had long been dead, and how the people on
his estate had sent him money and wished for his speedy return.
Pengersec's heart then yearned for his home and his people; he told his
wife how in the pleasant land, towards the setting sun, gentle showers
descended, all summer long, like dews distilled from Heaven, and kept
the fields ever verdant; how crops succeeded crops throughout the year,
which was like a perpetual spring compared with the arid land in which
they then dwelt. He said how hills and dales were covered with fat herds
in that happy land, whose inhabitants had not to hunt half-starved wild
animals for their subsistence, but only followed the chase for pastime;
how by a process, unknown in other lands, a liquor was there brewed from
grain, which made those who drank it as strong as giants and brave as
lions; how the Cornish people merely washed the soil of their valleys
and found metals--more precious than silver or gold.
"That is the tin, to obtain which your eastern mariners make their
longest and most dangerous voyages," said Pengersec--as we shall now
call Marec--"besides," continued he, "I have a strong and fair castle in
a green valley by the sea; I will build thee a bower by the murmuring
shore, where we will have delightful gardens and everything for
pleasure." "Say no more, my beloved, about the delights of thy land,"
she replied, "for I shall little regard that when thou art by; thy home
shall be mine wherever thou choosest to dwell; and whenever it pleaseth
thee let us depart."
After procuring many magical books and other things, necessary for the
practice of occult sciences, Pengersec and his lady, with Uter and his
spouse, took leave of the sages and made sail for home.
On the way, Pengersec stayed some time with King Arluth, who presented
him with a foal of the choicest stock of his country; he also sent on
board, unknown to his brother, bales of brocade, and various rich stuffs
of gold and silver tissue, besides pearls, precious stones, and other
valuable things; and, promising to revisit each other, they took loving
leave.
The lady passed much time on deck playing on her harp, its sweet music
kept the weather fair, drew dolphins and other fishes from the depths of
the sea to sport around and follow the ship to Mount's Bay; thence it
came to pass that on our coast were found many rare fishes--never before
seen here.
When the young lord and his beautiful bride landed at Market-jew, the
people--one and all--came from near and far away to welcome them.
Bonfires blazed on every hill; weeks were passed in feasting at
Pengersec, where archery, hurling, slinging, wrestling, and other games
were carried on that the fair stranger might see our Cornish sports; at
night, minstrels and droll-tellers did their utmost to divert the
company.
The lady of the castle took much delight in her new home; she often
passed the mornings with her husband in hunting; she rode over moors and
hills with a hawk on her wrist or a bow in her hand. At eve her harp
would be heard in Pengersec towers sending joyous strains over sea and
land; then fishermen would rest on their oars, and sea-birds--forgetting
their nightly places of rest in the western cleeves--remained entranced
around the castle.
The people were much pleased with the outlandish lady, who admired their
unbounded hospitality to strangers, their primitive manners, simplicity
of heart, and sincerity of intention; for they appeared to her as
absolutely ignorant of fraud or flattery, as if they had never heard of
such a thing; she found them to be of a free, facetious temper, though
of a somewhat curious and inquisitive disposition--the women especially.
The lady thought our ancient language sounded much like her eastern
tongue, and that made her feel all the more at home.
Pengersec was no sooner fairly settled than he built two broad and lofty
towers--united by a gallery--on the seaward side of his castle. The
easternmost tower was constructed with everything requisite for his
magic art; in the other were placed his lady's private apartments,
overlooking pleasant gardens, the green glen, and boundless ocean.
When Pengersec returned, his stepmother was still immured in her dark
chamber. In a little while, however, she fretted herself to death, and
the breath no sooner left her body than she returned to haunt the rooms
formerly occupied by her in the castle. Pengersec had that portion of
the building at once rased to the ground, but her hideous ghost still
continued to wander about the place.
Now it was that the young lord essayed the power of his art to some
purpose, for, by his enchantment, he confined her to a hole in a
headland, west of Pengersec Cove, called the How, and compelled her to
assume the form of an uncommonly large adder, in which shape she is
still occasionally seen there, if what people of that neighbourhood say,
be true.
Over a few years, Pengersec became so much attached to occult sciences
that he devoted nearly all his time to their practice; he was seldom
seen beyond his castle, and, even there, he almost continually shut
himself up in his tower, where he was never approached except by his
lady and Uter, both of whom assisted him in such operations as required
help. Fires would be seen--through loop-holes in his tower--blazing all
night long; and the flames ascended high above the battlements when he
changed base metals into silver and gold.
If his fire happened to go out he rekindled it by sparks drawn from the
sun, by means of a magic crystal. With the same glass, or another, he
also saw what was being done in distant lands.
A person, who came from far to see the magician's wonders, on looking
into or through this glass, beheld in the castle-court what appeared to
be an uncommonly large bird carrying in its mouth a baulk of timber; on
taking away the glass he could only see a duck with a straw in her bill.
Pengersec paid no attention to his farms, which were left to Uter's
management; the lord, indeed, had no reason to care about them whilst he
could make gold in abundance.
But this untold riches was about the least important fruit of his
science, for--ere he became middle-aged--he concocted a magical elixir,
or water-of-life, which preserved him, his lady, and others in their
youthful vigour.
The lord of Pengersec was soon renowned in all the west as a most
powerful enchanter, whom everybody feared to molest--and well they
might. Some one from the Mount, having a mind to his fat sheep, carried
one of them down to the cliff, tied its legs together, and passed them
over his head. At this instant, however, the enchanter, happening to
glance at his magic glass, saw what was taking place, and put a spell on
the thief that made him remain in the same spot all the night with the
tide rising around him and the sheep hanging from his neck. The
enchanter released the thief in the morning and gave him the sheep with
a caution not to meddle with his flocks again or he would be served out
worse.
'Tis said, too, that Venna, who was now a noted wise-woman or
witch--living at St. Hillar Downs--often had contests with the enchanter
to test the relative powers of their familiars; they contended with
spells and counter-spells from mere pride of art. We omit the details
because they would merely be a repetition of much that has been related
in the foregoing stories of witchcraft and pellar-craft.
At times the lord would be seen careering over moors and hills, mounted
on his handsome mare, brought from the east; she excelled every other
steed for swiftness; a whisper from him would make her as docile as a
lamb, though she was quite unmanageable with everybody else.
The castle servants were frequently alarmed by hearing the enchanter
conjuring, in an unknown tongue, the unruly spirits that he required to
serve him; or by loud explosions. Pungent and fiery vapours, that
threatened to consume the building, often sent their strong odours for
miles around. At such times the frightened inmates sought their lady's
aid; who, on taking her harp to the enchanter's tower, soon drove away
or subdued the evil spirits by the power of its melody. One time the
magician left his furnaces and their fires to the care of his attendant
whilst he went to pass a while in his lady's bower; he had not been long
there when something told him that mischief was taking place in his
tower. On hastening thither he found the attendant, Uter, had neglected
his duty; and, by reading in one of the magical books, had called up
evil spirits in such numbers that in another instant they would have
destroyed him; and it required all the enchanter's power to subdue them.
Many years elapsed. The lord had a numerous family--of whom he took
little heed. Some of them were settled on farms, others had been adopted
by their uncle, King Arluth, who frequently sent his brother rare drugs,
spices, and other things, required by him for making his precious liquor
of life. The lady, having outlived all her children and grandchildren,
became weary of existence in a world, or amidst a people, that seemed
strange to her--all those of her own age being long dead--and wishing to
rest with her children, though loath to leave her husband, she often
begged him to discontinue prolonging his life; and he--as on former
occasions, for the last hundred years or so--always promised her to
leave the world when he had perfected some new essay of his art, which
was all in all to him. His wife, however, neglected to take the
life-cordial, and, at length, rested beneath the sod.
Their numerous descendants were known--as the custom was then--by the
names of places on which they dwelt; only one of them is particularly
mentioned by name in the legend; this was a lady, who lived in Pengersec
Castle at the time that a Welsh Prince, from having heard of the Cornish
magician's renown, came over to him for instruction, and before his
departure married the beautiful Lamorna, who was the sage's
great-granddaughter.
The Welsh Prince, having sent a quantity of black stones to Pengersec,
he extracted from them a sort of liquid-fire, which, by some
mismanagement, burst its containing vessels, and an instant afterwards
all was in flames. The magician was consumed with all his books and
treasures; the castle and all it held destroyed, leaving nothing but the
bare walls.
It is said that Venna, the witch, prolonged her life also--without the
aid of Pengersec's elixir--by merely enticing to her habitation, and
keeping there, goats and young people. From them, by some means of her
craft, she drew their youthful vigour to herself and caused them to pine
and die. This wicked practice of hers having being discovered, young
folks were carefully kept out of her reach; and to prevent her from
doing any more mischief, one night when she was brewing her hell-broth,
and the flames were seen rising high, the people--to prevent her
escape--nailed up her door; put a turf over her chimney-top, and
smothered her in the infernal vapours that arose from her hearth.
All the chief people of the story are ended; but had it not been for
Pengersec's untoward accident he might have lived to this day.
We have preserved in the foregoing what may seem to many persons mere
childish fancies; if, however, the same incidents should be found in the
folk-lore of other lands, they will have an interest for those whose
leisure and learning enabled them to trace our popular tales to their
fountain-head.
* * * * *