Chapel, and then it suddenly leaps over the rock—a beautiful fall of
water—into St Nectan’s Kieve. This deep rock-basin, brimming with the
clearest water, overflows, and another waterfall carries the river to the
lower level of the valley. Standing here within a circular wall of rocks,
you see how the falling fluid has worked back the softer slate-rock until
it has reached the harder masses, which are beautifully polished by the
same agent. Mosses, ferns, and grasses decorate the fall, fringing every
rock with a native drapery of the most exquisite beauty. Here is one of
the wildest, one of the most untrained, and, at the same time, one of the
most beautiful spots in Cornwall, full of poetry, and coloured by legend.
Yet here comes prosaic man, and by one stroke of his everyday genius, he
adds, indeed, a colour to the violet. You walk along the valley, through
paths trodden out of the undergrowth, deviously wandering up hill, or
down hill, as rock or tree has interposed. Many a spot of quiet beauty
solicits you to loiter, and loitering, you feel that there are places
from which the winds appear to gather poetry. You break the spell, or the
ear, catching the murmur of the waters, dispels the illusions which have
been created by the eye, and you wander forward anxious to reach the holy
“Kieve,”—to visit the saint’s hermitage. Here, say you, is the place to
hold “commune with Nature’s works, and view her charms unrolled,” when,
lo, a well-made door painted lead colour, with a real substantial lock,
bars your way, and Fancy, with everything that is holy, flies away before
the terrible words which inform you that trespassers will be punished,
and that the key can be obtained at ——. Well was it that Mr Wilkie
Collins gave “up the attempt to discover Nighton’s Kieve;”[11] for had
he, when he had found it, discovered this evidence of man’s greedy soul,
it would have convinced him that the “evil genius of fairy mythology,”
who so cautiously hid “the nymph of the waterfall,” was no other than
the farmer, who, as he told me, “owns the fee,” and one who is resolved
also, to pocket the fee, before any pilgrim can see the oratory and the
waterfall of St Nectan. Of course this would have turned the placid
current of the thoughts of “the Rambler beyond Railways,” which now flow
so pleasantly, into a troubled stream of biliary bitterness.
St Nectan placed in the little bell-tower of his secluded chapel a silver
bell, the notes of which were so clear and penetrating that they could be
heard far off at sea. When the notes came through the air, and fell on
the ears of the seamen, they knew that St Nectan was about to pray for
them, and they prostrated themselves before Heaven for a few minutes, and
thus endeavoured to win the blessing.
St Nectan was on the bed of death. There was strife in the land. A severe
struggle was going on between the Churchmen, and endeavours were being
made to introduce a new faith.
The sunset of life gave to the saint the spirit of prophecy, and he told
his weeping followers that the light of their religion would grow dim
in the land; but that a spark would for ever live amidst the ashes, and
that in due time it would kindle into a flame, and burn more brightly
than ever. His silver bell, he said, should never ring for others than
the true believer. He would enclose it in the rock of the Kieve; but when
again the true faith revived, it should be recovered, and rung, to cheer
once more the land.
One lovely summer evening, while the sun was slowly sinking towards the
golden sea, St Nectan desired his attendants to carry him to the bank
which overhung the “Kieve,” and requested them to take the bell from the
tower and bring it to him.
There he lay for some time in silent prayer, waiting as if for a sign,
then slowly raising himself from the bed on which he had been placed, he
grasped the silver bell. He rang it sharply and clearly three times, and
then he dropped it into the transparent waters of the Kieve. He watched
it disappear, and then he closed his eyes in death. On receiving the bell
the waters were troubled, but they soon became clear as before, and the
bell was nowhere to be seen. St Nectan died, and two strange ladies from
a foreign land came and took possession of his oratory, and all that
belonged unto the holy man. They placed—acting, as it was believed, on
the wishes of the saint himself—his body, all the sacramental plate, and
other sacred treasures, in a large oak chest. They turned the waters of
the fall aside, and dug a grave in the river bed, below the Kieve, in
which they placed this precious chest. The waters were then returned to
their natural course, and they murmur ever above the grave of him who
loved them. The silver bell was concealed in the Kieve, and the saint
with all that belonged to his holy office rested beneath the river bed.
The oratory was dismantled, and the two ladies, women evidently of high
birth, chose it for their dwelling. Their seclusion was perfect. “Both
appeared to be about the same age, and both were inflexibly taciturn.
One was never seen without the other. If they ever left the house, they
only left it to walk in the more unfrequented parts of the wood; they
kept no servant; they never had a visitor; no living soul but themselves
ever crossed the door of their cottage.”[12] The berries of the wood, a
few roots which they cultivated, with snails gathered from the rocks and
walls, and fish caught in the stream, served them for food. Curiosity was
excited, the mystery which hung around this solitary pair became deepened
by the obstinate silence which they observed in everything relating to
themselves. The result of all this was an anxious endeavour, on the part
of the superstitious and ignorant peasantry, to learn their secret. All
was now conjecture, and the imagination commonly enough filled in a wild
picture: devils or angels, as the case might be, were seen ministering to
the solitary ones. Prying eyes were upon them, but the spies could glean
no knowledge. Week, month, year passed by, and ungratified curiosity
was dying through want of food, when it was discovered that one of the
ladies had died. The peasantry went in a body to the chapel; no one
forbade their entering it now. There sat a silent mourner leaning over
the placid face of her dead sister. Hers was, indeed, a silent sorrow—no
tear was in her eye, no sigh hove her chest, but the face told all that
a remediless woe had fallen on her heart. The dead body was eventually
removed, the living sister making no sign, and they left her in her
solitude alone. Days passed on; no one heard of, no one probably inquired
after, the lonely one. At last a wandering child, curious as children
are, clambered to the window of the cell and looked in. There sat the
lady; her handkerchief was on the floor, and one hand hung strangely, as
if endeavouring to pick it up, but powerless to do so. The child told its
story—the people again flocked to the chapel, and they found one sister
had followed the other. The people buried the last beside the first, and
they left no mark to tell us where, unless the large flat stone which
lies in the valley, a short distance from the foot of the fall, and
beneath which, I was told, “some great person was buried,” may be the
covering of their tomb. No traces of the history of these solitary women
have ever been discovered.
Centuries have passed away, and still the legends of the buried bell and
treasure are preserved. Some long time since a party of men resolved to
blast the “Kieve,” and examine it for the silver bell. They were miners,
and their engineering knowledge, though rude, was sufficient to enable
them to divert the course of the river above the falls, and thus to leave
the “Kieve” dry for them to work on when they had emptied it, which was
an easy task. The “borer” now rung upon the rock, holes were pierced,
and, being charged, they were blasted. The result was, however, anything
but satisfactory, for the rock remained intact. Still they persevered,
until at length a voice was heard amidst the ring of the iron tools in
the holes of the rock. Every hand was stayed, every face was aghast, as
they heard distinctly the ring of the silver bell, followed by a clear
solemn voice proclaiming, “The child is not yet born who shall recover
this treasure.”
The work was stopped, and the river restored to its old channel, over
which it will run undisturbed until the day of which St Nectan prophesied
shall arrive.
When, in the autumn of 1863, I visited this lovely spot,
my guide, the proprietor, informed me that very recently a
gentleman residing, I believe, in London, dreamed that an angel
stood on a little bank of pebbles, forming a petty island, at
the foot of a waterfall, and, pointing to a certain spot, told
him to search there and he would find gold and a mummy. This
gentleman told his dream to a friend, who at once declared the
place indicated to be St Nectan’s waterfall. Upon this, the
dreamer visited the West, and, upon being led by the owner of
the property to the fall, he at once recognised the spot on
which the angel stood.
A plan was then and there arranged by which a search might
be again commenced, it being thought that, as an angel had
indicated the spot, the time for the recovery of the treasure
had arrived.
Let us hope that the search may be deferred, lest the
natural beauties of the spot should be destroyed by the
meddling of men, who can threaten trespassers,—fearing to
lose a sixpence,—and who have already endeavoured to improve
on nature, by cutting down some of the rock and planting
rhododendrons.
The Rev. R. S. Hawker, of Morwenstow, has published in his
“Echoes of Old Cornwall” a poem on this tradition, which, as
it is but little known, and as it has the true poetic ring, I
transcribe to adorn the pages of my Appendix.[13]
THEODORE, KING OF CORNWALL.
Riviere, near Hayle, now called Rovier, was the palace of Theodore, the
king, to whom Cornwall appears to have been indebted for many of its
saints. This Christian king, when the pagan people sought to destroy the
first missionaries, gave the saints shelter in his palace. St Breca, St
Iva, St Burianna, and many others, are said to have made Riviere their
residence. It is not a little curious to find traditions existing, as it
were, in a state of suspension between opinions. I have heard it said
that there was a church at Rovier—that there was once a great palace
there; and again, that Castle Cayle was one vast fortified place, and
Rovier another. Mr Davies Gilbert quotes Whitaker on this point:—
“Mr Whitaker, who captivates every reader by the brilliancy of
his style, and astonishes by the extent of his multifarious
reading, draws, however, without reserve, on his fertile
imagination, for whatever facts may be requisite to construct
the fabric of a theory. He has made Riviere the palace and
residence of Theodore, a sovereign prince of Cornwall, and
conducts St Breca, St Iva, with several companions, not only
into Hayle and to this palace, after their voyage from Ireland,
but fixes the time of their arrival so exactly, as to make it
take place in the night. In recent times the name of Riviere,
which had been lost in the common pronunciation, Rovier, has
revived in a very excellent house built by Mr Edwards on the
farm, which he completed in 1791.”[14]
HOLY WELLS.
“A well there is in the west country,
And a clearer one never was seen.”
ROBERT SOUTHEY.
SUPERSTITIONS OF THE WELLS.
WELL-WORSHIP.
“One meek cell,
Built by the fathers o’er a lonely well,
Still breathes the Baptist’s sweet remembrance round
A spring of silent waters.”
_Echoes from Old Cornwall_—R. S. HAWKER.
A spring of water has always something about it which gives rise to holy
feelings. From the dark earth there wells up a pellucid fluid, which in
its apparent tranquil joyousness gives gladness to all around. The velvet
mosses, the sword-like grasses, and the feathery ferns, grow with more of
that light and vigorous nature which indicates a fulness of life, within
the charmed influence of a spring of water, than they do elsewhere.
The purity of the fluid impresses itself, through the eye, upon the mind,
and its power of removing all impurity is felt to the soul. “Wash and
be clean,” is the murmuring call of the waters, as they overflow their
rocky basins, or grassy vases, and deeply sunk in depravity must that
man be who could put to unholy uses one of nature’s fountains. The inner
life of a well of waters, bursting from its grave in the earth, may be
religiously said to form a type of the soul purified by death, rising
into a glorified existence and the fulness of light. The tranquil beauty
of the rising waters, whispering the softest music, like the healthful
breathing of a sleeping infant, sends a feeling of happiness through the
soul of the thoughtful observer, and the inner man is purified by its
influence, as the outer man is cleansed by ablution.
Water cannot be regarded as having an inanimate existence. Its
all-pervading character and its active nature, flowing on for ever,
resting never, removes it from the torpid elements, and places it, like
the air, amongst those higher creations which belong to the vital powers
of the earth. The spring of water rises from the cold dark earth, it
runs, a silver cord glistening in the sunshine, down the mountainside.
The rill (prettily called by Drayton “a rillet”) gathers rejoicingly
other waters unto itself, and it grows into a _brooklet_ in its course.
At length, flowing onward and increasing in size, the _brook_ state of
being is fairly won; and then, by the gathering together of some more
dewdrops, the full dignity of a stream is acquired. Onwards the waters
flow, still gleaning from every side, and wooing new _runlets_ to its
bosom, eager as it were to assume the state which, in America, would be
called a “run” of water. Stream gathers on stream, and run on run; the
union of waters becomes a _river_; rolling in its maturity, swelling in
its pride, it seeks the ocean, and there is absorbed in the eternity
of waters. Has ever poet yet penned a line which in any way conveys to
the mind a sense of the grandeur, the immensity of the sea? I do not
remember a verse which does not prove the incapacity of the human mind
to embrace in its vastness the gathering together of the waters in the
mighty sea. Man’s mind is tempered, and his pride subdued, as he stands
on the sea-side and looks on the undulating expanse to which, to him,
there is no end. A material eternity of rain-drops gathered into a mass
which is from Omnipotence and is omnipotent. The influences of heaven
falling on the sheeted waters, they rise at their bidding and float in
air, making the skies more beautiful or more sublime, according to the
spirit of the hour. Whether the clouds float over the earth, illumined by
sun-rays, like the cars of loving angels; or rush wildly onward, as if
bearing demons of vengeance, they are subdued by the mountains, and fall
reluctantly as mists around the rocks, condense solemnly as dews upon the
sleeping flowers, sink to earth resignedly as tranquil rains, or splash
in tempestuous anger on its surface. The draught, in whatever form it
comes, is drunk with avidity, and, circulating through the subterranean
recesses of the globe, it does its work of re-creation, and eventually
reappears a bubbling spring, again to run its round of wonder-working
tasks.
Those minds which saw a God in light, and worshipped a Creator in the
sun, felt the power of the universal solvent, and saw in the diffusive
nature of that fluid which is everywhere, something more than a type of
the regenerating Spirit, which all, in their holier hours, feel necessary
to clear off the earthiness of life. Man has ever sought to discover the
spiritual in the material, and, from the imperfections of human reason,
he has too frequently reposed on the material, and given to it the
attributes which are purely spiritual. Through all ages the fountains
of the hills and valleys have claimed the reverence of men; and waters
presenting themselves, under aspects of beauty, or of terror, have been
regarded with religious feelings of hope or of awe.
As it was of old, so is it to-day. It was but yesterday that I stood near
the font of Royston Church, and heard the minister read with emphasis,
“None can enter into the kingdom of God except he be regenerate and born
anew of water.” Surely the simple faith of the peasant mother who, on
a spring morning, takes her weakly infant to some holy well, and three
times dipping it in its clear waters, uttering an earnest prayer at each
immersion, is but another form of the prescribed faith of the educated
churchman.
Surely the practice of consulting the waters of a sacred spring, by young
men and maidens, is but a traditional faith derived from the early creeds
of Greece—a continuance of the _Hydromancy_ which sought in the Castalian
fountain the divination of the future.
THE WELL OF ST CONSTANTINE.
In the parish of St Merran, or Meryn, near Padstow, are the remains of
the Church of St Constantine, and the holy well of that saint. It had
been an unusually hot and dry summer, and all the crops were perishing
through want of water. The people inhabiting the parish had grown
irreligious, and many of them sadly profane. The drought was a curse upon
them for their wickedness. Their church was falling into ruin, their
well was foul, and the arches over it were decayed and broken. In their
distress, the wicked people who had reviled the Word of God, went to
their priest for aid.
“There is no help for thee, unless thou cleansest the holy well.”
They laughed him to scorn.
The drought continued, and they suffered want.
To the priest they went again.
“Cleanse the well,” was his command, “and see the power of the blessing
of the first Christian emperor.” That cleansing a dirty well should bring
them rain they did not believe. The drought continued, the rivers were
dry, the people suffered thirst.
“Cleanse the well—wash, and drink,” said the priest, when they again went
to him.
Hunger and thirst made the people obedient. They went to the task. Mosses
and weeds were removed, and the filth cleansed. To the surprise of all,
beautifully clear water welled forth. They drank the water and prayed,
and then washed themselves, and were refreshed. As they bathed their
bodies, parched with heat, in the cool stream which flowed from the well,
the heavens clouded over, and presently rain fell, turning all hearts to
the true faith.
THE WELL OF ST LUDGVAN.
St Ludgvan, an Irish missionary, had finished his work. On the hill-top,
looking over the most beautiful of bays, the church stood with all its
blessings. Yet the saint, knowing human nature, determined on associating
with it some object of a miraculous character, which should draw people
from all parts of the world to Ludgvan. The saint prayed over the dry
earth, which was beneath him, as he knelt on the church stile. His prayer
was for water, and presently a most beautiful crystal stream welled up
from below. The holy man prayed on, and then, to try the virtues of the
water, he washed his eyes. They were rendered at once more powerful, so
penetrating, indeed, as to enable him to see microscopic objects. The
saint prayed again, and then he drank of the water. He discovered that
his powers of utterance were greatly improved, his tongue formed words
with scarcely any effort of his will. The saint now prayed, that all
children baptized in the waters of this well might be protected against
the hangman and his hempen cord; and an angel from heaven came down into
the water, and promised the saint that his prayers should be granted.
Not long after this, a good farmer and his wife brought their babe to
the saint, that it might derive all the blessings belonging to this
holy well. The priest stood at the baptismal font, the parents, with
their friends around. The saint proceeded with the baptismal ceremonial,
and at length the time arrived when he took the tender babe into his
holy arms. He signed the sign of the cross over the child, and when he
sprinkled water on the face of the infant its face glowed with a divine
intelligence. The priest then proceeded with the prayer; but, to the
astonishment of all, whenever he used the name of Jesus, the child, who
had received the miraculous power of speech, from the water, pronounced
distinctly the name of the devil, much to the consternation of all
present. The saint knew that an evil spirit had taken possession of the
child, and he endeavoured to cast him out; but the devil proved stronger
than the saint for some time. St Ludgvan was not to be beaten; he knew
that the spirit was a restless soul, which had been exorcised from
Treassow, and he exerted all his energies in prayer. At length the spirit
became obedient, and left the child. He was now commanded by the saint to
take his flight to the Red Sea. He rose, before the terrified spectators,
into a gigantic size, he then spat into the well; he laid hold of the
pinnacles of the tower, and shook the church until they thought it would
fall. The saint was alone unmoved. He prayed on, until, like a flash of
lightning, the demon vanished, shaking down a pinnacle in his flight. The
demon, by spitting in the water destroyed the spells of the water upon
the eyes[15] and the tongue too; but it fortunately retains its virtue
of preventing any child baptized in it from being hanged with a cord of
hemp. Upon a cord of silk it is stated to have no power.
This well had nearly lost its reputation once—a Ludgvan woman was hanged,
under the circumstances told in the following narrative:—
A small farmer, living in one of the most western districts of the
county, died some years back of what was supposed at that time to be
“English cholera.” A few weeks after his decease his wife married
again. This circumstance excited some attention in the neighbourhood.
It was remembered that the woman had lived on very bad terms with her
late husband, that she had on many occasions exhibited strong symptoms
of possessing a very vindictive temper, and that during the farmer’s
lifetime she had openly manifested rather more than a Platonic preference
for the man whom she subsequently married. Suspicion was generally
excited; people began to doubt whether the first husband had died fairly.
At length the proper order was applied for, and his body was disinterred.
On examination, enough arsenic to have poisoned three men was found in
the stomach. The wife was accused of murdering her husband, was tried,
convicted on the clearest evidence, and hanged. Very shortly after
she had suffered capital punishment horrible stories of a ghost were
widely circulated. Certain people declared that they had seen a ghastly
resemblance of the murderess, robed in her winding-sheet, with the black
mark of the rope round her swollen neck, standing on stormy nights upon
her husband’s grave, and digging there with a spade, in hideous imitation
of the actions of the men who had disinterred the corpse for medical
examination. This was fearful enough; nobody dared go near the place
after nightfall. But soon another circumstance was talked of in connexion
with the poisoner, which affected the tranquillity of people’s minds
in the village where she had lived, and where it was believed she had
been born, more seriously than even the ghost story itself. The well of
St Ludgvan, celebrated among the peasantry of the district for its one
remarkable property, that every child baptized in its water (with which
the church was duly supplied on christening occasions) was secure from
ever being hanged.
No one doubted that all the babies fortunate enough to be born and
baptized in the parish, though they might live to the age of Methuselah,
and might during that period commit all the capital crimes recorded in
the “Newgate Calendar,” were still destined to keep quite clear of the
summary jurisdiction of Jack Ketch. No one doubted this until the story
of the apparition of the murderess began to be spread abroad, then awful
misgivings arose in the popular mind.