LEGENDS OF PARISHES, ETC.

Cornish people possess in a marked degree all the characteristics of

the Celts. They are imaginative, good speakers and story-tellers,

describing persons and things in a style racy and idiomatical,

often with appropriate gestures. Their proverbs are quaint and

forcible, they are never at a lack for an excuse, and are withal

very superstitious. Well-educated people are still to be met with

in Cornwall who are firm believers in apparitions, pixies (fairies,

called by the peasantry pisgies), omens, and other supernatural

agencies. Almost every parish has a legend in connection with its

patron saint, and haunted houses abound; but of the ghosts who

inhabit them, unless they differ from those seen elsewhere, I shall

say but little.

This county was once the fabled home of a race of giants, who in

their playful or angry moments were wont to hurl immense rocks at

each other, which are shown by the guides at this day as proofs of

their great strength. To illustrate how in the course of time truth

and fiction get strangely mingled, I will mention the fact that

old John of Gaunt is said to have been the last of these giants,

and to have lived in a castle on the top of Carn Brea (a high hill

near Redruth). He could stride from thence to another neighbouring

town, a distance of four miles. I do not know if he is supposed to

be the one that lies buried under this mighty carn, and whose large

protruding hand and bony fingers time has turned to stone. Here,

too, in the dark ages, a terrific combat took place between Lucifer

and a heavenly host, which ended in the former's overthrow. A small

monument has been erected on Carn Brea, to the memory of Lord de

Dunstanville; and I once heard an old woman, after cleaning a room,

say, "It was fine enough for Lord de Dunstanville." Every child has

heard of Jack the Giant Killer, who, amongst his other exploits,

killed by stratagem the one who dwelt at St. Michael's Mount:

"I am the valiant Cornishman

Who slew the giant Cormoran."

He did not however confine himself to this neighbourhood, for of

an ancient earth-work near Looe, known as the "Giant's Hedge," it

is said:--

"Jack the giant had nothing to do,

So he made a hedge from Lerrin to Looe."

But the sayings and doings of these mighty men have been told far

better than I could tell them in Mr. Halliwell Phillipps' book, Rambles

in West Cornwall by the Footsteps of the Giants; Mr. Robert Hunt's

Drolls, Traditions, and Superstitions of West Cornwall; Mr. Bottrell's

Hearthside Stories of West Cornwall; and by many other writers.

Tourists visit West Cornwall to see the Land's End and its fine coast

scenery, and express themselves disappointed that none of the country

people in that district know anything of King Arthur. They forget that

Uther's [3] heir was washed up to Merlin's feet by a wave at the base

of "Tintagel Castle by the Cornish sea," which is in the eastern part

of the county. This castle was built on one of the grandest headlands

in Cornwall (slate formation).

The ruins of King Arthur's Castle are most striking. They are situated

partly on the mainland and partly on a peninsula, separated by a

ravine, once said to have been spanned by a drawbridge connecting

the two.

The ascent of this promontory, owing to the slippery nature of the path

cut in the friable slate, is far from pleasant; and, as there was a

stiff breeze blowing when I mounted it, I thought old Norden was right

when he said: "Those should have eyes who would scale Tintagel." You

are, however, amply repaid for your trouble when you get to the top.

In addition to telling you of the grandeur of the castle in good

King Arthur's days, the guides show you some rock basins to which

they have given the absurd names of "King Arthur's cups and saucers."

Tradition assigns to this king another Cornish castle as a

hunting-seat, viz.--the old earth-round of Castle-an-dinas, near

St. Columb, from whence it is said he chased the wild deer on Tregoss

Downs.

A dreary drive through slate-quarries takes you from Tintagel to

Camelford. Near that town is Slaughter Bridge, the scene of a great

battle between King Arthur and his nephew Modred, whom by some writers

he is said to have killed on the spot; others have it that Arthur died

here of a wound from a poisoned arrow shot by Modred, and that, after

receiving his death wound at Camelford, he was conveyed to Tintagel

Castle, where, surrounded by his knights, he died. All the time he

lay a-dying supernatural noises were heard in the castle, the sea and

winds moaned, and their lamentations never ceased until our hero was

buried at Glastonbury. Then, in the pauses of the solemn tolling of the

funeral bells, sweet voices came from fairy-land welcoming him there,

from whence one day he will return and again be king of Cornwall. No

luck follows a man who kills a Cornish chough (a red legged crow),

as, after his death, King Arthur was changed into one.

"In the parish of St. Mabyn, in East Cornwall, and on the high road

from Bodmin to Camelford, is a group of houses (one of them yet

a smith's shop), known by the name of Longstone. The legend which

follows gives the reason of the name:

"In lack of records I may say: 'In the days of King Arthur there

lived in Cornwall a smith. This smith was a keen fellow, who made and

mended the ploughs and harrows, shod the horses of his neighbours,

and was generally serviceable. He had great skill in farriery, and

in the general management of sick cattle. He could also extract the

stubbornest tooth, even if the jaw resisted, and some gyrations around

the anvil were required.

"'There seems ever to have been ill blood between devil and smith,

and so it was between the fiend and the smith-farrier-dentist of

St. Mabyn. At night there were many and fierce disputes between

them in the smithy. The smith, as the rustics tell, always got the

advantage of his adversary, and gave him better than he brought. This

success, however, only fretted Old Nick, and spurred him on to further

encounters. What the exact matter of controversy on this particular

occasion was is not remembered, but it was agreed to settle it by some

wager, some trial of strength and skill. A two-acred field was near;

and the smith challenged the devil to the reaping of each his acre

in the shortest time. The match came off, and the devil was beaten,

for the smith had beforehand stealthily stuck here and there over

his opponent's acre some harrow-tines or teeth.

"'The two started well, but soon the strong swing of the fiend's scythe

was brought up frequently by some obstruction, and as frequently he

required the whetstone. The dexterous and agile smith went on smoothly

with his acre, and was soon unmistakeably gaining. The devil, enraged

at his certain discomfiture, hurled his whetstone at his rival, and

flew off. The whetstone, thrown with great violence, after sundry

whirls in the air, fell upright into the soil at a great depth, and

there remained a witness against the Evil One for ages. The devil

avoided the neighbourhood whilst it stood, but in an evil hour the

farmer at Treblethick, near, threw it down. That night the enemy

returned, and has haunted the neighbourhood ever since.

"'This monolith was of granite, and consequently brought hither from

a distance, for the local stone is a friable slate. It yielded four

large gate-posts, gave spans to a small bridge, and left much granite

remaining.'"--T. Q. Couch, Notes and Queries, April, 1883.

Upon St. Austell Down is an upright block of granite, called "the

giant's staff, or longstone," to which this legend is attached:--"A

giant, travelling one night over these hills, was overtaken by a

storm, which blew off his hat. He immediately pursued it; but, being

impeded by a staff which he carried in his hand, he thrust this into

the ground until his hat could be secured. After wandering, however,

for some time in the dark, without being able to find his hat, he gave

over the pursuit and returned for the staff; but this also he was

unable to discover, and both were irrevocably lost. In the morning,

when the giant was gone, his hat and staff were both found by the

country people about a mile asunder. The hat was found on White-horse

Down, and bore some resemblance to a mill-stone, and continued in its

place until 1798, when, some soldiers having encamped around it, they

fancied, it is said, as it was a wet season, this giant's hat was the

cause of the rain, and therefore rolled it over the cliff. The staff,

or longstone, was discovered in the position in which it remains;

it is about twelve feet high, and tapering toward the top, and is

said to have been so fashioned by the giant that he might grasp it

with ease."--Murray's Guide.

There is another longstone in the parish of St. Cleer, [4] about

two miles north of Liskeard, which bears an inscription to Doniert

(Dungerth), a traditional king of Cornwall, who was drowned in 872. In

fact, these "menhirs," supposed to be sepulchral monuments, are to

be found scattered all over the county.

The following curious bit of folk-lore appeared in the Daily News

of March 8th, 1883, communicated by the Rev. J. Hoskyns Abrahall,

Coombe Vicarage, near Woodstock:--"A friend of mine, who is vicar of

St. Cleer, in East Cornwall, has told me that at least one housemaid

of his--I think his servants in general--very anxiously avoided

killing a spider, because Parson Jupp, my friend's predecessor (whom

he succeeded in 1844), was, it was believed, somewhere in the vicarage

in some spider--no one knew in which of the vicarage spiders." Spiders

are often not destroyed because of the tradition that one spun a web

over Christ in the manger, and hid him from Herod.

There are other superstitions current in Cornwall somewhat similar

to the above. Maidens who die of broken hearts, after they have been

deceived by unfaithful lovers, are said to haunt their betrayers

as white hares. The souls of old sea-captains never sleep; they are

turned into gulls and albatrosses. The knockers (a tribe of little

people), who live underground in the tin-mines, are the spirits of

the Jews who crucified our Saviour, and are for that sin compelled

on Christmas morning to sing carols in his honour. "Jew" is a name

also given to a black field-beetle (why, I know not). It exudes

a reddish froth: country children hold it on their hands and say,

"Jew! Jew! spit blood!" "A ghost at Pengelly, in the parish of Wendron,

was compelled by a parson of that village after various changes of

form to seek refuge in a pigeonhole, where it is confined to this

day."--Through Rev. S. Rundle.

After this digression I will return to St. Cleer, and, beginning with

its holy well, briefly notice a few others. It is situated not far from

the church, and was once celebrated as a "boussening," or ducking-well

for the cure of mad people. Considerable remains of the baptistery,

which formerly enclosed it, are still standing, and outside, close

by, is an old stone cross. Carew says,--"There were many bowssening

places in Cornwall for curing mad people, and amongst the rest one

at Alter Nunne, in the hundred of Trigges, called S. Nunne's well,

and because the manner of this bowssening is not so vnpleasing to

heare as it was vneasie to feele, I wil (if you please) deliuer you

the practise, as I receyued it from the beholders. The water running

from S. Nunne's well fell into a square and close-walled plot, which

might be filled at what depth they listed. Vpon this wall was the

franticke person set to stand, his backe toward the poole, and from

thence with a sudden blow in the brest, tumbled headlong into the

pond, where a strong fellowe, provided for the nonce, tooke him and

tossed him vp and downe, alongst and athwart the water, vntill the

patient by foregoing his strength had somewhat forgot his fury. Then

was hee conueyed to the church and certain Masses sung ouer him; vpon

which handling if his wits returned S. Nunne had the thanks: but if

there appeared small amendment, he was bowssened againe and againe,

while there remayned in him any hope of life for recouery." The same

writer says of Scarlet's "well neare vnto Bodmin, howbeit the water

should seem to be healthfull, if not helpfull: for it retaineth this

extraordinary quality, that the same is waightier than the ordinary of

his kind, and will continue the best part of a yeere without alteration

or sent or taste, only you shall see it represent many colours,

like the Rain-bowe which (in my conceite) argueth a running throu

some minerall veine and therewithall a possessing of some vertue." I

must give one more quotation from Carew before I finish with him,

about a well at Saltash:--"I had almost forgotten to tell you that

there is a well in this towne whose water will not boyle peason to

a seasonable softnes."

The holy wells in Cornwall are very numerous; the greater part were

in olden times enclosed in small baptisteries. Luckily the poor people

believe that to remove any of the stones of the ruins of these chapels

would be fatal to them and to their children, and for that reason a

great number yet remain. It is considered unlucky, too, to cart away

any of the druidical monuments ("pieces of ancientcy"), and many

are the stories told of the great misfortunes that have fallen on

men who have so done. The innocent oxen or horses who drag them away

are always sure to die, and their master never prosper. Persistent

ill-luck also follows any one defiling these wells; and a tradition

is current in one of the "West Country" parishes, of a gentleman,

who, after he had washed his dogs, afflicted with the mange, in its

holy well, fell into such poverty that his sons were obliged to work

as day labourers. Mr. T. Q. Couch, in Notes and Queries, vol. x.,

gives this legend in connection with St. Nunn's well in Pelynt:--"An

old farmer once set his eyes upon the granite basin and coveted it;

for it was not wrong in his eyes to convert the holy font to the base

uses of the pig's stye; and accordingly he drove his oxen and wain to

the gateway above for the purpose of removing it. Taking his beasts

to the entrance of the well, he essayed to drag the trough from its

ancient bed. For a long time it resisted the efforts of the oxen,

but at length they succeeded in starting it, and dragged it slowly

up the hill-side to where the wain was standing. Here, however, it

burst away from the chains which held it, and, rolling back again to

the well, made a sharp turn and regained its old position, where it

has remained ever since. Nor will any one again attempt its removal,

seeing that the farmer, who was previously well-to-do in the world,

never prospered from that day forward. Some people say, indeed,

that retribution overtook him on the spot, the oxen falling dead,

and the owner being struck lame and speechless."

This St. Nunn's well is not the "boussening" well formerly mentioned,

but another dedicated to the same saint, and is resorted to as a

divining and wishing well; it is commonly called by the people of that

district the "Piskies' well." Pins are thrown into it, not only to

see by the bubbles which rise on the water whether the wisher will get

what he desires, but also to propitiate the piskies and to bring the

thrower good luck. This county has many other divining wells which were

visited at certain seasons of the year by those anxious to know what

the future would bring them. Amongst them the Lady of Nant's well, in

the parish of Colan, was formerly much frequented on Palm Sunday, when

those who wished to foretell their fate threw into the water crosses

made of palms. There was once in Gulval parish, near Penzance, a well

which was reported to have had great repute as a divining well. People

repaired to it to ask if their friends at a distance were well or ill,

living or dead. They looked into the water and repeated the words:

"Water, water, tell me truly,

Is the man that I love duly

On the earth, or under the sod,

Sick or well? in the name of God."

Should the water bubble up quite clear, the one asked for was in

good health; if it became puddled, ill; and should it remain still,

dead. Of the wells of St. Roche, St. Maddern (now Madron), and St. Uny,

I have spoken in the first part of this work.

The waters from several wells are used for baptismal rites (one near

Laneast is called the "Jordan"), and the children baptized with water

from the wells of St. Euny (at the foot of Carn Brea, Redruth) and

of Ludgvan (Penzance), &c., it was asserted could never be hanged

with a hempen rope; but this prophecy has unfortunately been proved

to be false. The water from the latter was famed too as an eye-wash,

until an evil spirit, banished for his misdeeds by St. Ludgvan, to

the Red Sea, spat into it from malice as he passed. The Red Sea is the

favourite traditional spot here for the banishment of wicked spirits,

and I have been told stories of wicked men whose souls, immediately

after their death, were carried off to well-known volcanoes.

Almost all these holy wells were once noted for the curing of diseases,

but the water from St. Jesus' well, in Miniver, was especially famed

for curing whooping-cough. St. Martin's well, in the centre of Liskeard

at the back of the market, known as "Pipe Well," from the four iron

pipes through which four springs run into it, was formerly not only

visited for the healing qualities of its chief spring, but for a

lucky stone that stood in it. By standing on this stone and drinking

of the well's water, engaged couples would be happy and successful in

their married life. It also conferred magical powers on any person

who touched it. The stone is still there, but has now been covered

over and has lost its virtue.

The saints sometimes lived by the side of the holy wells named after

them, notably St. Agnes (pronounced St. Ann), who dyed the pavement

of her chapel with her own blood. St. Neot in whose pool were always

three fish on which he fed, and whose numbers never grew less. [5]

St. Piran, the titular saint of tin-miners, who lived 200 years and

then died in perfect health. Of these three saints many miraculous

deeds are related; but they would be out of place in this work, and

I will end my account of the wells by a description of St. Keyne's,

more widely known outside Cornwall through Southey's ballad than

any of the others. It is situated in a small valley in the parish

of St. Neot, and was in the days of Carew and Norden arched over

by four trees, which grew so closely together that they seemed but

one trunk. Both writers say the trees were withy, oak, elm, and ash

(by withy I suppose willow was meant). They were all blown down by a

storm, and about 150 years ago, Mr. Rashleigh, of Menabilly, replaced

them with two oaks, two elms, and one ash. I do not know if they are

living, but Mr. J. T. Blight in 1858, in his book on Cornish Crosses,

speaks of one of the oaks being at that time so decayed that it had to

be propped. The reputed virtue of the water of St. Keyne's well is,

(as almost all know), that after marriage "whether husband or wife

come first to drink thereof they get the mastery thereby."--Fuller.

"In name, in shape, in quality,

This well is very quaint;

The name, to lot of 'Kayne' befell,

No ouer--holy saint.

"The shape, four trees of diuers kinde,

Withy, oke, elme, and ash,

Make with their roots an arched roofe,

Whose floore this spring doth wash.

"The quality, that man or wife,

Whose chance or choice attaines,

First of this sacred streame to drinke,

Thereby the mastry gaines."--Carew.

Southey makes a discomfited husband tell the story, who ends thus:

"I hasten'd as soon as the wedding was done,

And left my wife in the porch;

But i'faith she had been wiser than me,

For she took a bottle to church."

St. Keyne not only thus endowed her well, but during her stay at

St. Michael's Mount she gave the same virtue to St. Michael's

chair. This chair is the remains of an old lantern on the

south-west angle of the tower, at a height of upwards of 250

feet from low water. It is fabled to have been a favourite seat of

St. Michael's. Whittaker, in his supplement to Polwhele's History of

Cornwall, says, "It was for such pilgrims as had stronger heads and

bolder spirits to complete their devotions at the Mount by sitting

in this St. Michael's chair and showing themselves as pilgrims to

the country round;" but it most probably served as a beacon for

ships at sea. To get into it you must climb on to the parapet, and

you sit with your feet dangling over a sheer descent of at least

seventy feet; but to get out of it is much more difficult, as the

sitter is obliged to turn round in the seat. Notwithstanding this,

and the danger of a fall through giddiness, which, of course, would be

certain death, for there is not the slightest protection, I have seen

ladies perform the feat. Curiously enough Southey has also written a

ballad on St. Michael's chair, but it is not as popular as the one

before quoted; it is about "Richard Penlake and Rebecca his wife,"

"a terrible shrew was she." In pursuance of a vow made when Richard

"fell sick," they went on a pilgrimage to the Mount, and whilst he

was in the chapel,

"She left him to pray, and stole away

To sit in St. Michael's chair.

"Up the tower Rebecca ran,

Round and round and round;

'Twas a giddy sight to stand atop

And look upon the ground.

"'A curse on the ringers for rocking

The tower!' Rebecca cried,

As over the church battlements

She strode with a long stride.

"'A blessing on St. Michael's chair!'

She said as she sat down:

Merrily, merrily rung the bells,

And out Rebecca was thrown.

"Tidings to Richard Penlake were brought

That his good wife was dead;

'Now shall we toll for her poor soul

The great church bell?' they said.

"'Toll at her burying,' quoth Richard Penlake,

'Toll at her burying,' quoth he;

'But don't disturb the ringers now

In compliment to me.'"

Old writers give the name of "Caraclowse in clowse" to St. Michael's

Mount, which means the Hoar Rock in the Wood; and that it was at one

time surrounded by trees is almost certain, as at very low tides in

Mount's Bay a "submarine forest," with roots of large trees, may still

be clearly seen. At these seasons branches of trees, with leaves,

nuts, and beetles, have been picked up.

Old folks often compared an old-fashioned child to St. Michael's Mount,

and quaintly said, "she's a regular little Mount, St. Michael's Mount

will never be washed away while she's alive."

Folk-lore speaks of a time when Scilly was joined to the mainland,

which does not seem very improbable when we remember that within the

last twenty-five years a high road and a field have been washed away

by the sea between Newlyn and Penzance. An old lady, whose memory went

back to the beginning of the present century, told me that she had

often seen boys playing at cricket in some fields seaward of Newlyn,

of which no vestige in my time remained.

But the Lyonnesse, as this tract of land (containing 140 parish

churches) between the Land's End and Scilly was called, and where,

according to the Poet Laureate, King Arthur met his death-wound,

"So all day long the noise of battle roll'd

Among the mountains by the winter sea,

Until King Arthur's Table, man by man,

Had fallen in Lyonnesse about their lord,

King Arthur...."

is reputed to have been suddenly overwhelmed by a great flood. Only

one man of all the dwellers on it is said to have escaped death, an

ancestor of the Trevilians (now Trevelyan). He was carried on shore by

his horse into a cove at Perran. Alarmed by the daily inroad of the

sea, he had previously removed his wife and family. Old fishermen of

a past generation used to declare that on clear days and moonlight

nights they had often seen under the water the roofs of churches,

houses, &c., of this submerged district.

Whether the memory of this flood is perpetuated by the old proverb,

"As ancient as the floods of Dava," once commonly current in West

Cornwall, but which I have not heard for years, I know not, as I have

never met with any one who could tell me to what floods it referred.

Tradition also speaks of a wealthy city in the north of Cornwall,

called Langarrow, which for its wickedness was buried in sand, driven

in by a mighty storm. All that coast as far west as St. Ives is sand,

known as "Towans," and the sand is always encroaching.

There is a little church now near Padstow, dedicated to St. Enodock,

which is often almost covered by the shifting drifts. It is in a

solitary situation, and service is only held there once a year,

when a path to it has to be cut through the sand. It is said that

the clergyman, in order to keep his emoluments and fees, has been

sometimes obliged to get into it through a window or hole in the roof.

About eight miles from Truro is the lost church of Perranzabuloe,

which for centuries was supposed to have been a myth, but the shifting

of the sand disclosed it in 1835.

In Hayle Towans is buried the castle of Tendar, the Pagan chief who

persecuted the Christians, and in the neighbouring parish of Lelant

that of King Theodrick, who, after beheading, in Ireland, many saints,

crossed over to Cornwall on a millstone.

Many of the Cornish saints are reputed to have come into Cornwall in

the same way as this king; but St. Ia, the patron saint of St. Ives,

chose a frailer vessel. She crossed from Ireland on a leaf.

The afore-mentioned lost city was most likely a very small place,

as I asked an old woman three or four years ago, who lived not far

from the little village of Gwithian, where I could get something I

wanted, and she told me, "In the city."

The bay between this place and St. Ives (St. Ives Bay) has the

reputation of being haunted at stormy times before a shipwreck by a

lady in white, who carries a lantern.

At Nancledra, a village near St. Ives, was formerly a logan rock,

which could only be moved at midnight; and children were cured of

rickets by being placed on it at that hour. It refused to rock for

those who were illegitimate.

Not far from here is Towednack, and there is a legend to the

effect that the devil would never allow the tower of its church to

be completed, pulling down at night what had been built up in the

day. When a person makes an incredible statement he is in West Cornwall

told "To go to Towednack quay-head where they christen calves." (No

part of this parish touches the sea.)

Mr. Robert Hunt records a curious test of innocency which, not long

since, was practised in this parish. "A farmer in Towednack having been

robbed of some property of no great value was resolved, nevertheless,

to employ a test which he had heard the 'old people' resorted to for

the purpose of catching the thief. He invited all his neighbours into

his cottage, and, when they were assembled, he placed a cock under the

'brandice' (an iron vessel, formerly much employed by the peasantry

in baking when this process was carried out on the hearth, the fuel

being furze and ferns). Every one was directed to touch the brandice

with his, or her, third finger, and say: 'In the name of the Father,

Son, and Holy Ghost, speak.' Every one did as they were directed,

and no sound came from beneath the brandice. The last person was a

woman, who occasionally laboured for the farmer in his fields. She

hung back, hoping to pass unobserved amongst the crowd. But her very

anxiety made her a suspected person. She was forced forward, and

most unwillingly she touched the brandice, when, before she could

utter the words prescribed, the cock crew. The woman fell faint

on the floor, and when she recovered, she confessed herself to be

the thief, restored the stolen property, and became, it is said,

'a changed character from that day.'"

The following was told me by a friend. It took place in a school of one

of our western parishes about sixty years ago:--"It was in the days of

quill pens, and the master had lost his penknife. Every boy pleaded

not guilty. At twelve the master said no boy should leave the school

for half-an-hour, when he would return and see if they had found his

knife. The door was locked, and at the appointed time he came back

with a small, round table, on which he had inverted a 'half-strike'

(4 gallons) measure. The table was placed in the middle of the gangway;

the master stood by the side of it, and asked if they had found his

knife. All said 'No!' 'Well then,' answered he, 'come out slowly one

at a time and let each touch this measure with the right forefinger,

and the bantam-cock under it will crow at the thief.' The boys went

out boldly, as they passed touching the tub, but the master missed

one whom from the first he had suspected. He again locked the door,

searched the rooms, and there, under a desk, not in his own place,

he found the boy hiding. He began to cry, confessed the theft, and

gave up the knife."

Another test of innocency, practised in bygone days, was to kindle a

fire on one of the table-mên (large flat stones), so common in villages

in West Cornwall. A stick lit at this was handed to the accused,

who had to put out the fire by spitting on it. It is well-known that

fear dries up saliva. It is still supposed in remote districts that

no one can bear witness to a misdemeanour, seen through glass.

I will describe another rough ordeal before I go on to the legends

of the Land's End district. It is called "Riding the hatch," or

"heps" (a half-door often seen at small country shops). Any man

formerly accused of immorality was brought before a select number of

his fellow parishioners, and by them put to sit astride the "heps,"

which was shaken violently backwards and forwards: if he fell into the

house he was judged innocent; but out on the road, guilty. When any

one has been brought before his superiors and remanded he is still

figuratively said "to have been made to ride the 'heps.'" Hands are

washed, as by Pontius Pilate, to clear a person from crime, and to

call any one "dirty-fingered" is to brand him as a thief.

On a bench-end in Zennor church there is a very singular carving of

a mermaid. To account for it Zennor folks say that hundreds of years

ago a beautifully-attired lady, who came and went mysteriously, used

occasionally to attend their church and sing so divinely that she

enchanted all who heard her. She came year after year, but never aged

nor lost her good looks. At last one Sunday, by her charms, she enticed

a young man, the best singer in the parish, to follow her: he never

returned, and was heard of no more. A long time after, a vessel lying

in Pendower cove, into which she sailed one Sunday, cast her anchor,

and in some way barred the access to a mermaid's dwelling. She rose up

from the sea, and politely asked the captain to remove it. He landed

at Zennor, and related his adventure, and those who heard it agreed

that this must have been the lady who decoyed away the poor young man.

Not far from St. Just is the solitary, dreary cairn, known as Cairn

Kenidzhek (pronounced Kenidjack), which means the "hooting cairn,"

so called from the unearthly noises which proceed from it on dark

nights. It enjoys a bad reputation as the haunt of witches. Close

under it lies a barren stretch of moorland, the "Gump," over it the

devil hunts at night poor lost souls; he rides on the half-starved

horses turned out here to graze, and is sure to overtake them at a

particular stile. It is often the scene of demon fights, when one

holds the lanthorn to give the others light, and is also a great

resort of the pixies. Woe to the unhappy person who may be there

after night-fall: they will lead him round and round, and he may

be hours before he manages to get out of the place away from his

tormentors. Here more than once fortunate persons have seen "the

small people" too, at their revels, and their eyes have been dazzled

by the sight of their wonderful jewels; but if they have ever managed

to secrete a few, behold next morning they were nothing but withered

leaves, or perhaps snail-shells.

"Sennen Cove was much frequented by mermaids. This place was also

resorted to by a remarkable spirit called the Hooper--from the

hooping, or hooting sounds it was accustomed to make. In old times,

according to tradition, a compact cloud of mist often came in from

over the sea, when the weather was by no means foggy, and rested on

the rocks called Cowloc, 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 ever more

seen in Sennen Cove. This is the only place in the county where

any tradition of such a guardian spirit is preserved."--Bottrell.

The same author tells a story of a reputed astrologer called Dionysius

Williams, who lived in Mayon, in Sennen, a century ago. He found his

furze-rick was diminishing faster than it ought, and discovered by

his art that some women in Sennen Cove were in the habit of taking it

away at night. The very next night, when all honest folks should be

in bed, an old woman from the Cove came as was her wont to his rick

for a "burn" [6] of furze. She made one of no more than the usual size

but could not lift it, neither could she after she had lightened her

"burn" by half. Frightened, she tried to take out the rope and run

away, but she could neither draw it out nor move herself. Of course

Mr. Williams had put a spell upon her, and there she had to remain

in the cold all night. He came out in the morning and released her,

giving her, as she was poor, the furze. Neither she nor the other

women ever troubled him again.

Before proceeding any further, to make an allusion in the next

legend intelligible, I must say something about Tregeagle (pronounced

Tregaygle), the Cornish Bluebeard, who was popularly supposed to have

sold his soul to the devil, that his wishes might be granted for a

certain number of years; and who, in addition to several other crimes,

is accused of marrying and murdering many rich heiresses to obtain

their money. One day, just before his death, he was present when one

man lent a large sum to another without receiving receipt or security

for it (the money was borrowed for Tregeagle). Soon after Tregeagle's

death the borrower denied that he had ever had it, and the case

was brought into Bodmin Court to be tried, when the defendant said,

"If Tregeagle ever saw it I wish to God that Tregeagle may come into

court and declare it." No sooner were the words spoken than Tregeagle

appeared, and gave his witness in favour of the plaintiff, declaring

"that he could not speak falsely; but he who had found it so easy to

raise him would find it difficult to lay him." The money was paid,

but the wretched man was followed night and day by the spirit,

and great labour had the parsons and wise men before they could

finally rid him of his tormentor. There are many versions of this

transaction. Tregeagle himself is said in another to have received the

money for an estate of which he was steward, and not to have entered

it in his books. His ghost was doomed to do many impossible things,

such as to empty Dosmery pool, near Bodmin Moor, with a limpet shell

that had a hole in the bottom. This pool had the reputation, too,

of being bottomless; but it has lately been cut into and drained by

the workers of the granite quarries. Strange tales are told in that

neighbourhood of his appearing to people, and of his dismal howls

at not being able to fulfil his tasks. Mothers all over Cornwall

when their children are loudly crying may be often heard to declare

"that they are roaring worse than Tregeagle." "A tradition of the

neighbourhood says that on the shores of this lonely mere (Dosmery

pool) the ghosts of bad men are ever employed in binding the sand

in bundles with 'beams' (bands) of the same. These ghosts, or some

of them, were driven out (they say horsewhipped out) by the parson

from Launceston."--H. G. T. Notes and Queries, December, 1850.

Tregeagle had also to remove the sand from one cove to another,

where the sea always returned it. It was on one of these expeditions

that either by accident or design he dropped a sackful at the mouth

of Loe-pool, near Helston. (When in wet seasons the waters of this

pool rise to such a height as to obstruct the working of the mills

on its banks, and heavy seas have silted up the sand at its mouth,

the Mayor of Helston presents by ancient custom two leather purses

containing three halfpence each as his dues to the lord of Penrose who

owns Loe-pool, and asks for permission to cut a passage through the

bar to the sea). Another of Tregeagle's tasks is to make and carry

away a truss of sand bound with a rope of sand from Gwenvor (the

cove at Whitsand Bay) near the Land's End. But his unquiet spirit

finds no rest, for whilst he is trying to do his never-ending work

the devil hunts him from place to place, until he hides for refuge

in a hermit's ruined chapel on St. Roche's rocks (East Cornwall).

When the sea roars before a storm, people in the Land's End district

say "Tregeagle is calling," and often, too, his voice may be heard

lamenting around Loe-pool. [7]

The substance of the following I had from a Penzance man (H. R. C.),

to whom I must own I am indebted for much information about Cornish

folk-lore. All his life he has in his business mingled with the

peasantry of West Cornwall, and, unlike myself, he comes from a long

line of Cornishmen.

"You know Gwenvor Sands, in Whitsand Bay, at the Land's End, and

have heard of the unresting spirit of Tregeagle, by whom that spot is

haunted. He foretells storms, and calls before the wind reaches home. I

have often heard him howling before a westerly hurricane in the still

of midnight at my house in Penzance, a distance of ten miles."

Tradition tells that on these sands, many centuries ago, some

foreigners landed, and fought a great battle with the inhabitants,

under King Arthur, on Vellan-drucher Moor. "Where Madron, Gulval, and

Zennor meet, there is a flat stone where Prince Arthur and four British

kings dined, and the four kings collected the native Cornish who fought

under them at the battle of Vellan-drucher."--(Bottrell.) This was

long before the Spaniards (pronounced Spanyers) in 1595 came ashore

at the same place from a galley "high by day" (in broad daylight),

and burnt Vellan-dreath, a mill close by.

These foreigners are popularly supposed to be red-haired Danes, and

they stayed so long "that the birds built in the rigging of their

ships." In all the western parishes of Cornwall there has existed

time out of mind a great antipathy to certain red-haired families,

who are said to be their descendants, and, much to their disgust,

they are often hailed as Danes (pronounced Deanes). Indeed this

dislike was carried so far that few would allow any members of their

families to intermarry with them. In addition to the usual country

gossip in the beginning of this century amongst the women of this

district whilst knitting at their doors (for the Cornish are famous

"knitsters"), or sitting round "breeding" (netting) fishing-nets, they

had one never-failing topic of conversation in their fears that the

foreigners would land once more on Gwenvor Sands, or at Priest's Cove,

[8] in Pendeen, near St. Just. Who these strangers were to be they

were not at all sure, but they knew that the red-haired Danes were to

come again, when Vellan-drucher (a water mill-wheel) would once more

be worked with blood, and the kings for the last time would dine around

the Garrick Zans (Table Mên); and the end of the world would come soon

after: for had not Merlin so prophesied more than a thousand years

ago? Garrick Zans is the old name for a large flat stone, the Table Mên

(pronounced Mayon), at Sennen, near the Land's End, and seven mythical

Saxon kings are said to have dined at it when on a visit to Cornwall,

A.D. 600. "Around it old folk went nine times daily, from some notion

that is was lucky and good against witchcraft."--(Bottrell.)

Off the Land's End is a very striking rock rising out of the sea. It

is known as the Irish Lady, from the fact that an Irish vessel

was once wrecked on it, and out of all on board one poor lady alone

managed to scramble up to the top; but no boat could get to her, and,

exhausted by fatigue, she fell into the water, and was drowned. Her

spirit still haunts the spot. This is most probably a fanciful tale,

as the rock bears some resemblance to a human figure.

"During a dreadful thunderstorm and hurricane on the 30th January,

1648, the day on which King Charles was beheaded, a large stone

figure of a man, called the 'Armed Knight,' which stood in an upright

position at the extremity of the Land's End, forty fathoms above the

level of the sea, was thrown down. On the same day a ship riding

in St. Ives Bay, having on board the king's wardrobe and other

furniture belonging to the royal family, bound for France, broke

from her moorings, and ran ashore on the rocks of Godrevy Island,

where all on board, about sixty persons, were drowned, except one

man and a boy."--G. S. Gilbert's Cornwall.

The name of Armed Knight has been transferred to another pile of rocks

off the Land's End. The "stone figure" thrown down was most probably

a natural formation, as one of the rocks there now bears the fanciful

name of Dr. Johnson's Head, from a supposed likeness. Other versions

of this legend say "that the Armed Knight was only ninety feet high,

with an iron spire on its top."

Porthgwarra in olden times was known as Sweethearts' Cove from the

following circumstance: The daughter of a well-to-do farmer loved a

sailor, who was once one of her father's serving-men. Her parents,

especially her mother, disapproved of the match; and when the young

man returned from sea and came to see his sweetheart, he was forbidden

the house. The lovers however met, and vowed to be true to each other,

Nancy saying, "That she would never marry any other man," and William,

"That, dead or alive, he would one day claim her as his bride." He

again went to sea, and for a long time no tidings came, neither from

nor of him. Poor Nancy grew melancholy, and spent all her days, and

sometimes nights, looking out seaward from a spot on the cliff, called

then Nancy's Garden, now Hella Point. She gradually became quite mad;

and one night fancied she heard her lover tapping at her bed-room

window, and calling her to come out to him, saying: "Sleepest thou,

sweetheart? Awaken, and come hither, love. My boat awaits us at the

cove. Thou must come this night, or never be my bride." She dressed,

went to the cove, and was never seen again. Tradition says that

the same night William appeared to his father, told him that he had

come for his bride, and bade him farewell; and that next day the news

arrived of his having been drowned at sea. Bottrell gives this legend

under the title of "The Tragedy of Sweet William and Fair Nancy."

Not far from the parish of St. Levan is a small piece of

ground--"Johanna's Garden," which is fuller of weeds than of

flowers. The owner of it was one Sunday morning in her garden gathering

greens for her dinner, when she saw St. Levan going by to catch some

fish for his. He stopped and greeted her, upon which she reproved him

for fishing on a Sunday, and asked him what he thought would be his

end if he did so. He tried to convince her that it was not worse than

picking greens, but she would not listen to reason. At last St. Levan

lost patience, and said, "From this time for ever thou shalt be known,

if known at all, as the Foolish Johanna, and thy garden shall ever

continue to bear, as now, more hemlocks and nettles than leeks and

lentils. Mark this! to make thy remembrance the more accursed for all

time to come, if any child of thy name be baptised in the waters of

Parchapel-well (close at hand) it shall become a fool, like thyself,

and bad luck follow it."--Bottrell.

There is a cleft-stone in St. Levan churchyard called St. Levan's

stone; but it is said to have been venerated in the days of King

Arthur; and Merlin, who once visited these parts with him, uttered

this prophecy concerning it:--

"When, with panniers astride,

A pack-horse can ride

Through St. Levan's stone,

The world will be done."

Unless some earthquake splits it further the world will last thousands

of years longer.

On an almost inaccessible granite peak seaward of the pile of rocks

known as Castle Treryn (pronounced Treen), once the haunt and

meeting-place of witches, on the summit of which is perched the

far-famed Cornish logan-rock, is a sharp peak with a hole in it,

large enough to insert a hand. At the bottom lay an egg-shaped stone,

traditionally called the key of the castle, which, although easily

shifted, had for ages defied all attempts at removal. It was said that

should any one ever succeed in getting it out, Castle Treryn--in fact

the whole cairn--would immediately disappear. It was unfortunately

knocked out by the men who replaced the logan-rock, thrown down by

Lieutenant Goldsmith. Its position was often altered by heavy seas,

and from it the old folk formerly foretold the weather.

In Buryan parish, named after an Irish saint, a king's daughter,

who came into Cornwall with some of her companions in the fifth

century, is the famous circle of Dawns Myin, or the Merry Maidens,

originally consisting of nineteen upright stones. They are nineteen

maidens, who for their sin of dancing on a Sunday were all turned

into stone. Two mênhirs in a neighbouring field are the pipers, who

at the same time suffered the same fate. Of these and other stone

circles an old writer says, "No man when counting them can bring the

stones twice the same number."

Not far from Buryan, between Sennen and Penzance, is a very

solitary weird spot--a disused Quakers' burial-ground. In its lonely

neighbourhood is sometimes seen by a privileged few, "high by day,"

the spirit of a huntsman, followed by his dogs. He is dressed in the

hunting costume of bygone ages; he suddenly appears (for neither

his horse's hoofs nor his dogs' feet make any sound), jumps over

an adjacent hedge, and is as suddenly lost to view. I do not know

if tradition has ever connected this huntsman with Wild Harris of

Kenegie, [9] who was killed when hunting by a fall from his horse--it

was frightened by a white hare, the spirit of a deserted maiden,

which crossed its path. His ghost, in his hunting-dress, appeared

standing at the door of his house the night he was buried--the funeral,

according to an old custom, had taken place at midnight. For years

after he might be met in the vicinity of his home, and he and his

boon companions were often heard carousing at nights in a summer-house

on the bowling-green. Few then cared to pass Kenegie after dark, for

his was said not to be the only spirit that haunted the place. Wild

Harris's ghost was finally laid to rest by a famous ghost-laying

parson, and put as a task to count the blades of grass nine times in

an enclosure on the top of Castle-an-Dinas, an old earth fortification

near where he is said to have met his death. [10] Ghosts only "walk"

(appear) in the parish where their bodies were buried.

On the opposite side of Buryan to the Quakers' burial-ground is

the parish of Paul (St. Pol-de-Leon). Its church was burnt by the

Spaniards in 1595. They landed on a rock, said to have been named

after Merlin--Merlin's car, and marched from Paul to Penzance, which

they also fired in several places. I am afraid the inhabitants did

not make a very bold stand against them; for Merlin had prophesied

centuries before--

"That they should land on the rock of Merlin,

Who would burn Paul, Penzance, and Newlyn."

And this caused them to lose courage, and falsify the old proverb:

"Car and Pen, Pol and Tre,

Would make the devil run away."

Close by the highway, where the Buryan road joins the high-road

from Paul to Penzance, is a smoothly-cut, conical granite stone,

popularly supposed to have been placed there in memory of some woman

who was found murdered at that spot, with nothing on to identify her,

and with only a thimble and ring in her pocket. It really marks the

place where an ancient gold ring, three inches and a half in diameter,

bearing the motto, "In hac spe vivo," was discovered in 1781. In the

same parish, a short walk from this place, are some Druidical remains,

which have the curious name of "Kerris roundago." Some stones taken

from it to repair Penzance pier were fatal to the horses who drew them,

although they were young and healthy.

In the adjacent parish of Newlyn, a fishing village, the favourite

resort of artists, a great deal of gossiping on summer evenings

goes on around the small wells (here called peeths), whilst the

women wait patiently for each in turn to fill her earthen pitchers;

some of the most industrious bring their knitting in their pockets

with them. Opposite one of these wells, towering over St. Peter's

church, is a striking pile of rocks, "Tolcarn." On the summit are

some curious markings in the stones, which, when a child, I was told

were the devil's footprints; but the following legend, which I give

on the authority of the Rev. W. S. Lach-Szyrma, Vicar of St. Peter's,

is quite new to me:--

"The summit of the rock is reticulated with curious veins of elvan,

about which a quaint Cornish legend relates that the Bucca-boo, or

storm-god of the old Cornish, once stole the fishermen's net. Being

pursued by Paul choir, who sang the Creed, he flew to the top of Paul

hill and thence over the Coombe to Tolcarn, where he turned the nets

into stone."

We have now reached the town of Penzance, and through its streets

folks of the last generation often heard rumbling at midnight an

old-fashioned coach drawn by headless horses; or saw a procession of

coffins slowly wending its way to the churchyard. It was unlucky to

meet this, as death was sure soon to follow, and tradition speaks of a

woman who accidentally struck against one and died in the same night. A

coach with headless horses and coachman, also just before Christmas,

went through the streets of Penryn; this coachman had the power of

spiriting away people who met and stared at him, unless they turned

their heads and averted the evil by some mystical signs. In Penzance

town were many haunted houses, but space will only allow of my noticing

a few. One in Chapel Street (formerly Our Lady's Street) was tenanted

by the spirit of Mrs. Baines, an eccentric old lady. At the back

of her house was a very fine orchard well stocked with fruit-trees,

which the boys were too fond of visiting. She determined at last that

her gardener should watch for them, armed with an old blunderbuss,

charged with peas and small shot. She gave him strict orders should

he see any one, to say one, two, three, and then fire. He watched two

nights, but the boys were too cunning for him, and still the fruit

went. On the third, Mrs. Baines, thinking to catch him napping, went

herself into the garden and began to shake the apples down from one of

the trees. Some say that the man recognised his mistress, and, vexed

at her suspecting him, said one, two, three, as quickly as he could

utter the words, and fired; others, that he was sleeping, and awakened

by the noise she made, shot her by mistake, exclaiming, "I know-ee,

you thief, I do; now I'll sarve-ee out, I will." Terrified after he

had done the deed, he ran off into the country and there hid himself

for some days. The poor old lady was more frightened than hurt, and

all the shot were successfully extracted by her doctor; but very soon

after this adventure she died. From this time her house and grounds

began to have an evil reputation; Mrs. Baines's ghost, dressed in

antiquated garb, a quaint lace cap on her powdered hair, lace ruffles

hanging from her sleeves, and a short mode mantle over her shoulders,

was often seen walking in the gardens or standing under an apple-tree,

leaning on the gold-headed cane she always carried. Indoors, too,

her high-heeled shoes were plainly heard night after night tapping on

the floors as she paced up and down the rooms, which noise was often

varied by the whirring of her spinning-wheel. For some time the house

was unoccupied, now it is divided into two, and the ghost has been

laid to rest. But long after Mrs. Baines ceased to appear her wheel

was heard. At last it was discovered that some leather, which had

been nailed around a door to keep out draughts, was loose in places,

and that the whistling of the wind through this made the peculiar

sound. Mr. Bottrell says "that her spirit was laid by a parson, whose

name he thinks was Singleton, and he succeeded in getting her away

to the Western Green (west of Penzance), which was then spread over

many acres of land, where the waves now roll. [11] Here this powerful

parson single-handed bound her to spin from the banks, ropes of sand

for the term of a thousand years, unless she, before that time, spun

a sufficiently long and strong one to reach from St. Michael's Mount

to St. Clement's Isle (across the bay)." About a stone's throw from

Mrs. Baines's house, on an eminence above Quay street, stood in her

days Penzance Chapel of Ease (for Penzance was then in Madron parish),

called our Lady's or St. Mary's Chapel. On the same site was built, in

1835, the present parish church of St. Mary's. Here, in the memory of

a few who still survive, a gentleman in the early part of this century

did penance, and afterwards walked from thence through the streets to

his house, wrapped in a sheet, with a lighted taper in his hand. It

was usual then, as now, for the Mayor and Corporation of Penzance,

with the mace-bearers and constables, to go once a month in state

to church. Before the reading of the first lesson the mace-bearers

left, and visited the public-houses, in order to see that they were

shut during service time. When the sermon began they came back and

returned to their seats in order to be in readiness to escort the

Mayor home. Quay street was once the most fashionable part of Penzance,

but the large houses are now divided into smaller tenements; in some

of them bits of finely-moulded ceilings, &c., still exist. One of the

houses reputed to have been haunted was torn down in 1813, when the

skeleton of a man was found built into a wall. It was, of course,

put down to be the sailor's whose spirit was so often seen there,

and who (tradition said) had been murdered in that house for the sake

of his money. It was well known that he had brought back great riches

from foreign parts. There is a myth that Sir Walter Raleigh landed

at Penzance Quay when he returned from Virginia, and on it smoked the

first tobacco ever seen in England, but for this statement I believe

there is not the slightest foundation. Several western ports, both

in Devon and Cornwall, make the same boast.

It is a fact, however, that the news of Nelson's death was first

heard here. It was brought into the port by two fishermen, who had

it from the crew of a passing vessel. A small company of strolling

actors were playing that night at the little theatre then standing

over some stables in Chapel street, and the play was stopped for a

few moments whilst one of the actors told the audience.

Another haunted house, at the opposite side of Penzance, is celebrated

in a poem called "The Petition of an Old Uninhabited House," written

and published in 1811, by the Rev. C. V. Le Grice, who was then Vicar

of Madron. He was a friend of Charles Lamb, who mentions him in his

"Essay on Christ's Hospital." About this house a lady once told me a

strange story, that I will relate. Forty years ago, she, a perfect

stranger to the place, never having been in Penzance before, came

to it with her husband and her first child, for she was then a young

wife. As they meant to settle in the town, they went to this hotel,

where they intended staying until they could get a suitable house. On

the evening of their arrival, her husband having gone out, she sat

alone before the fire nursing her child, when she suddenly saw a

little old man, in a very old-fashioned dress, come into the room. He

sat down in a chair near her, looked steadfastly into the fire,

and, after some time, without saying a word, he rose and left. On

her husband's return, she told him of her queer visitor. The next

morning they made enquiries about him, and found that the hotel had

been built on the site of the old uninhabited house; that nearly the

whole of it had been destroyed, but a few of the best rooms remained;

and that they were in a haunted chamber. She declared that she could

never sleep there another night, and, temporarily, they engaged some

furnished lodgings. These old rooms are now pulled down and billiard

and other rooms cover the place where they stood.

Outside the boundary-stone, west of Penzance, stands, in its own

grounds, a house to which additions have been made by many succeeding

generations. Tradition, of course, gave it a ghost. With the other

members of my family I lived there for several years, but none of

us ever saw it. I am bound, however, to state that we never slept in

the haunted chamber. For a short period it was occupied by a groom,

who one morning came to me with a very long face, and said he dared

not sleep there any more, for some mysterious being came night after

night, and pulled all the bed-clothes off him; rather than do so,

he would sleep in the harness-room.

Still further west of Penzance is a much larger house, to which,

like the former, many additions have been made. And up its avenue,

after dark, a carriage may be often heard slowly making its way

until it reaches the hall-door, where it stops. In this house, about

sixty years ago, lived, in very great style, a gentleman, who was a

regular autocrat, and of him one of his old servants related to me

this anecdote, which is curious as an illustration of the manners of

those times. When in his employ, he gave an answer to some question,

which afterwards his master discovered to be an untruth. The next

Sunday he made him, as the congregation came out, stand at Madron

church door, by a tombstone covered with loaves of bread. Of these,

he had to give one to each poor person that passed, and say, in an

audible tone, "I, William ----, last week told my master a lie."

Mr. G. B. Millett, in his Penzance Past and Present, gives a tale well

known in this district, about the drinking habits of our ancestors,

which, as I am now on the subject of manners, I will quote.

"A particular gentleman, not far from Penzance, loved good liquor,

and one evening had gathered some of his jovial companions together,

determined to make a night of it. His wife, having had some experience

of such gatherings before, with wise precaution, saw as much wine

taken out of the cellar as she thought would be good for her husband

and his friends. Then, safely locking the strong oak door, she put the

key in her pocket, and announced her intention of spending the evening

with some lady friends. The hours were passing pleasantly away, and,

with a smile of inward satisfaction, she was congratulating herself

upon the success of her forethought, when a heavy stumbling noise

was heard upon the stairs, and shortly afterwards two burly footmen

staggered into the room, groaning under the weight of a ponderous

cellar door, with its posts and lintel, which had been sent by their

master for the mistress to unlock."

The manor of Conerton, which at one time nearly included the whole

of West Penwith, had many privileges in Penzance. Before the days of

county courts the lord held a monthly court here for the trial of

small cases not criminal. Its prison, a wretched place (visited by

Howard), no longer exists, but people were confined there early in

this century--sometimes for long periods. I was once shown a beautiful

patchwork quilt made by a poor woman, who had been imprisoned for debt.

Until within the last fifty years every butcher in Penzance market had

to pay to the bailiff of this manor at Christmas a marrow-bone or a

shilling. The first butcher who refused to pay it also defied one of

the bye-laws of the market that compelled them to wear white sleeves

over their blue blouses. He was brought before the magistrates, and

declared "that he would be incarcerated before he would do it." The

following is a favourite story handed down amongst the butchers from

father to son. A solicitor in Penzance had a very large dog that was in

the habit of coming into their market and stealing joints of meat from

the stalls. One day one of them went to the lawyer, and said,--"Please

sir, could I sue the owner of a dog for a leg of mutton stolen from my

stall?" "Certainly, my good man." "Then, please sir, the dog is yours,

and the price of the mutton is 4s. 6d." The money was paid, and the

man was going away in triumph, when he was called back by these words:

"Stay a moment, my good man, a lawyer's consultation is 6s. 8d., you

owe me the difference:" which sum the discomfited butcher had to pay.

Every stream in Cornwall however small is called a river (pronounced

revvur). One flows into the sea west of Penzance, between it and

Newlyn, known as Laregan, and another at the east in Gulval parish,

as Ponsandane river. There is an old rhyme about them that runs thus:

"When Ponsandane calls to Laregan river,

There will be fine weather.

But we may look for rain

When Laregan calls to Ponsandane."

Years ago there was a marsh between Penzance and Newlyn, now covered

by the sea, known to the old people as the "Clodgy;" when the sea

moaned there they said, "Clodgy is calling for rain." Sometimes at

the present day it is "Bucca" is calling, Bucca being the nickname

in Penzance for the inhabitants of Newlyn.

"Penzance boys up in a tree,

Looking as wisht (weak, downcast) as wisht can be;

Newlyn 'Buccas,' strong as oak,

Knocking them down at every poke."

The weather at Mount's Bay is also foretold by the look of the Lizard

land, which lies south:

"When the Lizard is clear, rain is near."

The marsh on Marazion Green still exists, and not many years ago

no one cared to cross it after nightfall, especially on horseback,

for at a certain spot close by the marsh a white lady was sure to

arise from the ground, jump on the rider's saddle, and, like the

"White Lady of Avenel," ride with him pillion-fashion as far as the

Red river [12] that runs into the sea just below the smelting-works

at Chyandour, a suburb of Penzance. The last person who saw her

was a tailor of this town, who died in 1840. He was commonly called

"Buck Billy," from his wearing till the day of his death a pigtail,

a buff waistcoat, and a blue coat with yellow buttons.

Marazion, or Market-jew, which latter is a corruption of its old

Cornish name, Marghaisewe, meaning a Thursday's market, is a small

town exactly opposite St. Michael's Mount. Until its present church

was built its mayor sat in a very high seat with his back against a

window. This is the origin of the Cornish proverb: "In your own light,

like the mayor of Market-jew." This mayor is jokingly said to have

three privileges. The first is, "That he may sit in his own light;"

the second, "Next to the parson;" and the third, "If he see a pig in

a gutter he may turn it out and take its place." [13]

In the churchyard of the neighbouring parish of St. Hilary is

a monument to the Rev. John Penneck, M.A., who, in the early part

of the last century, was Chancellor of Exeter Cathedral. His ghost

is very eccentric, sometimes getting into a passion, and on these

occasions raising a great storm of wind.

In the parish of Breage, near the sea, about four miles from Marazion,

are the ruins of Pengersick Castle, of which only some fragments of

walls and a square tower now stand. Some of the upper rooms in the

latter have fallen in, and they are all in a state of decay. The

lower have oak-panels curiously carved and painted, but time has

almost effaced the designs. The most perfect is one representing

"Perseverance," under which are the following lines:

"What thing is harder than the rock?

What softer is than water cleere?

Yet wyll the same, with often droppe,

The hard rock perce as doth a spere.

Even so, nothing so hard to attayne,

But may be hadde, with labour and payne."

So many are the legends told of the former inhabitants of Pengersick,

that it would be almost impossible at this date to decide which is

the original. These ruins stand on the site of a much older castle,

and in it dwelt, far back in the dark ages, a very wicked man, who,

when he was fighting in foreign parts, forgetting his wife at home,

courted a king's daughter, who gave him a magic sword, which ensured

in every battle the victory to its owner. He deceived and left her;

but she, with her son in her arms, followed him to his home by the

Mount. There she met him, and upbraided him with his cruelty, and

in a fit of passion he threw them both into the sea. The lady was

drowned, and after her death she was changed into a white hare, which

continually haunted the old lord; but her boy was picked up alive by a

passing ship. The lord's wife afterwards died, and he married again a

woman as bad as himself, reputed to be a witch, who was very cruel to

her step-son, who lived with his father at the castle. One night there

was a great storm in Mount's Bay, and the young man went down to the

shore to see if there were any vessels in distress, and spied on the

beach an almost exhausted sailor, who had been washed in by the waves,

and whom he bade his servants carry to his home, and put into his own

bed. When he revived, all were struck by the marvellous resemblance

to the young heir; and they conceived a great affection for each

other. Together they went to Marazion to see if they could find the

vessel from whose deck the stranger had fallen into the sea. It was

safe in harbour, and the captain, whom the sailor had always thought

to be his father, told him then for the first time, "How, when he

was an infant, he had rescued him from drowning where last night he

had nearly lost his life." Thus they were discovered to be brothers,

and a day or two after, when out hunting, guided by the white hare,

they accidentally came upon the miraculous sword that had disappeared

when his mother was drowned. Then these two brothers sailed away from

Cornwall, and dwelt in peace in the land of a strange princess; where

the Cornishman studied, under a celebrated master, astrology and all

other occult sciences. After some time the old lord of Pengersick met

his death in this wise: As he was riding out one fine morning, the

white hare suddenly sprang up in front of his horse and startled it,

so that it ran madly with its rider into the sea, where both were

swallowed up. When this news was brought to him, the Cornishman

bade his brother an affectionate farewell, and, with his wife, a

learned princess, went back to Pengersick, where they lived happily

for several generations, for amongst many other wonderful things,

the young lord had discovered an elixir of life which, had they so

wished, would have kept them alive to the present day. (See Bottrell.)

In addition to being well versed in occult lore, Pengersick's wife

was a fine musician; she could with her harp charm and subdue evil

spirits, and compel the fish in Mount's Bay, also the mermaids who

then dwelt there, to come out of the sea.

Another account of the old lord's death says that he and a party of

his friends were dining in his yacht around a silver table when she

went down, and all on board perished. This happened off Cudden Point,

which juts into the sea just opposite Pengersick. Children living there

formerly used to go down to the beach at low water to try and find

this silver table. (A ship laden with bullion is reported to have been

lost here in the time of Queen Elizabeth.) "The present castle," one

tradition says, "was built in the reign of Henry VIII. by a merchant

who had acquired immense wealth beyond the seas, and who loaded an ass

with gold, and broke its back. He sold the castle to a Mr. Milliton,

who, having slain a man, shut himself up in it to escape punishment."

Another legend says that Sir William Milliton built it, and, soon after

its completion, married a very rich but extremely ugly and shrewish

woman, of whom he tried by various ways to rid himself but in vain. One

day, after a desperate quarrel, he begged her forgiveness, and asked

her, in proof of having pardoned him, to sup with him that evening

in a room overlooking the sea. She agreed; and at the conclusion of

the feast they pledged each other in goblets of rich wine. Then Sir

William's looks altered, and, in a fierce voice, he said, "Woman,

now prepare for death! You have but a short time to live, as the

wine that you have just drunk was poisoned." "Then we die together,"

she answered, "for I had my suspicions, and mixed the contents of the

goblets." Up to this time the moon, which was at its full, had been

shining brightly through the open windows, for it was a warm summer

night, when suddenly a frightful storm of thunder and lightning arose,

the winds lashed the waves to fury, and the moon was darkened. The

servants, alarmed by this, and the unearthly fiendish yells that came

from the banqueting hall, rushed upstairs, and there found the bodies

of their master and mistress dead on the floor; and through the open

window they saw, by the light of the moon which for a moment shone

through a rift in the clouds, their souls borne away on the wings of

a demon in the shape of a bird.

The original name of Breage parish was Pembro; but St. Breaca, hearing

that the inhabitants were at a loss to raise the money for a peal of

bells, offered to extricate them from their difficulty on condition

that they should call the parish after her. The condition was accepted,

the bells were hung, and the parish henceforth was known as that of

St. Breage.--Through Rev. S. Rundle.

St. Germoe (Geronicus) an Irish king, who was converted to Christianity

in the fifth century, is said to have been the foster-son of Breaca

(or Breage), with whom he crossed over into Cornwall where they

settled. Two churches in adjoining parishes are dedicated to them;

St. Germoe is reputed to have been the founder of his, and there is

a curious structure at the north-east of the churchyard, known as

St. Germoe's chair or King Germoe's throne.

"There is more than one story attached to this chair. One is to the

effect that the saint sat in the central chair with two assessors,

one on either side of him; another legend is that the priests rested

in the chair; whilst a third is that pilgrims to the tomb of the saint

also rested therein. Be that as it may, however, it is possible that

this is a shrine, and that the body of St. Germoe rests underneath

it."--Rev. W. A. Osborne, Transactions Penzance Natural History

Society, 1886, 1887.

At Great Work Mine (Huel Vor) near by, a narrow level (not far down)

is still thought to have been made by Christian slaves, when the

first church at Germoe was built.

"Germoe, little Germoe lies under a hill,

When I'm in Germoe I count myself well;

True love's in Germoe, in Breage I've got none,

When I'm in Germoe I count myself at home."--

Through Rev. S. Rundle.

All Cornishmen at one time were supposed to be "wreckers," and from

the peninsular-shape of their county came the proverb, "'Tis a bad

wind that blows no good to Cornwall." But the dwellers in Breage and

Germoe must in olden times, from the following distich, have been

held in worse repute than their neighbours:

"God keep us from rocks and shelving sands,

And save us from Breage and Germoe men's hands."

The most noted and daring Cornish smuggler of the last century,

Coppinger, a Dane, lived on the north coast, and of him a legendary

catalogue of dreadful tales is told, all to be found in the

Rev. R. S. Hawker's book, the Footprints of Former Men in Far

Cornwall. He lays the scene of his exploits in the neighbourhood

of Hartland Bay, my informant near Newquay. He swam ashore here

in the prime of life, in the middle of a frightful storm, from a

foreign-rigged vessel that was seen in the offing, and of which nothing

more was ever heard or known. Wrapped in a cloak, that tradition says

he tore from off the shoulders of an old woman who was on the beach,

he jumped up behind a farmer's daughter, who had ridden down to see

the wreck, and was by her taken to her father's house, where he was

fed, clothed, and most hospitably received. He was a fine, handsome,

well-built man, and gave himself out to be most highly connected in

his own country. He soon won the young woman's affections, and at her

father's death, which took place not long after, he easily induced her

to marry him; but it was far from a happy union. Luckily they had but

one child--a deaf and dumb idiot, who had inherited his father's cruel

disposition, and delighted in torturing all living things. It is even

said that he cunningly killed one of his young playmates. Coppinger,

after his marriage, organized a band of smugglers, and made himself

their captain; and quickly through his misdeeds earned the title

of cruel Coppinger. One legend relates that he once led a Revenue

cutter into a dangerous cove, of which he alone knew the soundings,

and that he and his crew came out of it in safety, but the other

vessel with all on board perished. Mr. Hawker calls Coppinger's ship

the "Black Prince," and says he had it built for himself in Denmark,

and that men who had made themselves in any way obnoxious to him on

land were carried on board her, and compelled by fearful oaths to

enrol themselves in her crew.

In 1835 an old man of the age of ninety-seven related to this writer

that when a youth he had been so abducted, and after two years'

service he had been ransomed by his friends with a large sum. "And

all," said the old man, very simply, "because I happened to see

one man kill another, and they thought I should mention it." The

same author gives him a wonderfully fleet horse, which no one but

Coppinger could master, and says that on its back he made more than

one hairbreadth escape. He has also a marvellous account of his end,

in which he disappears as he came, in a vessel which he boarded in

a storm of thunder, lightning, and hail. As soon as he was in her,

"she was out of sight in a moment, like a spectre or a ghost." For

this he quotes the following verse:--

"Will you hear of the cruel Coppinger?

He came from a foreign kind;

He was brought to us from the salt water,

He was carried away by the wind."

The one thing certain about him is, that at one time he amassed money

enough by smuggling to buy a small freehold estate near the sea, the

title-deeds of which, signed with his name, still exist. But in his

old age, I have been told, he was reduced to poverty, and subsisted

on charity.

That in those bygone days smuggling was thought no sin every one

knows. And who has not heard the oft-quoted apocryphal anecdote of

the Cornish clergyman, who--when he was in the middle of his sermon

and some one opened the church door and shouted in, "A wreck! a

wreck!"--begged his parishioners to wait whilst he took off his gown

that they might all start fair.

The following is, however, a genuine letter of the last century from

a vicar in the eastern part of the county to a noted smuggler of

that district:--

"Martin Rowe, you very well know,

That Cubert's vicar loves good liquor,

One bottle's all, upon my soul.

You'll do right to come to-night;

My wife's the banker, she'll pay for the anker."

To the same jovial vicar is credited this grace, given to his hostess'

horror at her table after he had dined out several days in succession,

and had rabbits offered him, a dish he detested:--

"Of rabbits young and rabbits old,

Of rabbits hot and rabbits cold,

Of rabbits tender, rabbits tough,

I thank the Lord we've had enough."

Inland from Breage is the small hamlet of Leed's-town (called after

the Duke of Leeds, who has property in Cornwall). It is the seat of the

following short story:--"The Leed's-town ghost runs up and down stairs

in a house during the night, and then sits in a corner of the room

weeping and sleeking her hair. It is the ghost of a young woman who

was engaged to be married to a man who refused to become her husband

until she gave him certain deeds kept in a box in the above room. As

soon as the deeds were in his possession, he realised the property and

escaped to America, leaving the luckless girl to bemoan her loss. She

went mad: night and day she was searching for her deeds; sometimes she

would sit and wail in the spot where the box had been. At length she

died: her spirit, however, had no rest, and still constantly returns

to keep alive the memory of man's perfidy."--Through Rev. S. Rundle.

Close to Leed's-town, at the foot of Godolphin-hill, is the old house,

or hall, of Godolphin. The basement-floor of the original house

alone remains: it consists of a long façade supported by pillars

of white granite, the interior containing many objects of interest

well worth a visit. Opposite the inhabited part of the house is the

King's room, opening on the King's garden. (The title of King's

room was given to it from the legend that Charles II. once slept

there.) You could leave it by five ways; as there were three doors,

one exit through the floor, and another through the roof. Godolphin

is held by a very curious tenure, said to have originated in a bet

between the representatives of the Godolphin and St. Aubyn families

on a snail race. As the Godolphin snail was being beaten, its owner

pricked it with a pin to make it go faster, but it drew in its horns

and refused to move, consequently the other won. The following is the

ceremony which takes place every Candlemas. Before sunrise a person,

appointed as reeve by the Rev. St. Aubyn Molesworth St. Aubyn,

the lord of the manor of Lamburn, in the parish of Perranzabuloe

(near Truro), knocks at the ancient outer door of the quadrangle,

and repeats this demand thrice:--"Oyez! Oyez! Oyez! Here come I

the reeve of the manor of Lamburn, to demand my lord's dues, eight

groats and a penny in money, a loaf, a cheese, a collar of brawn,

and a jack of the best ale in the house. God save the Queen and the

lord of the manor." It is said at the outer door of the quadrangle,

at the inner door, and for the third and last time at the table in

the kitchen (which is one of the oldest and not the least interesting

rooms). The above high lordship is paid by the Duke of Leeds to

the St. Aubyn family, to whom should they fail an heir the estate

reverts. There is another curious tenure in this part of Cornwall,

which as I am on the subject I will, before proceeding further,

quote. "The parsonage of St. Grade, with a small portion of land,

including an orchard, is held of the manor of Erisey by the following

tenure, viz., that on Easter-day, yearly, the parson provide a dinner

for the master and mistress of Erisey house, and their man and maid,

with a pan of milk for a greyhound bitch."--Lake, Helston and Lizard.

The old manor-house of Erisey is in Ruan Major (near the Lizard),

and of one of the family the following story is told:--"He was

dancing with other ladies and gentlemen at Whitehall before James

I., and, through the violent motion and action of his body in the

middle of the dance, had his cap slip from his head and fall to the

ground; but he instantly with his foot tossed it on his head again,

and proceeded without let or hindrance with his part in that dance,

to the admiration of all who saw it, which gave occasion to King James

to enquire who that active gentleman was, and being told that his name

was Erisey, he forthwith replied, 'I like the gentleman very well,

but not his name of Heresey!'" The rector of Ruan Minor by ancient

usage and prescription (which is always admitted) claims a right of

sending a horse into a certain field in the parish of Landewednack,

whenever it is cropped with corn, and taking away as many sheaves as

the horse can carry away on its back.

"At Jew's Lane Hill, near Godolphin, a Jew is said to have hung himself

on a tree still pointed out, and was buried beneath the road. His ghost

appears in the shape of a bull and a fiery chariot. This superstition

has been known for generations."--M. H., through Rev. S. Rundle.