Years had rolled on, and the people around were familiarised with those
strange neighbours, from whom also they derived large profits, since they
paid whatsoever price was demanded for any article which they required.
One day a stranger was seen in Market-Jew, whose face was bronzed by long
exposure to an Eastern sun. No one knew him; and he eluded the anxious
inquiries of the numerous gossips, who were especially anxious to learn
something of this man, who, it was surmised by every one, must have
some connexion with Pengerswick or his lady; yet no one could assign
any reason for such a supposition. Week after week passed away, and the
stranger remained in the town, giving no sign. Wonder was on every old
woman’s lips, and expressed in every old man’s eyes; but they had to
wonder on. One thing, it was said, had been noticed; and this seemed to
confirm the suspicions of the people. The stranger wandered out on dark
nights—spent them, it was thought, on the sea-shore; and some fishermen
said they had seen him seated on the rock at the entrance of the valley
of Pengerswick. It was thought that the lord kept more at home than
usual, and of late no one had heard his incantation songs and sounds;
neither had they heard the harp of the lady. A very tempestuous night,
singular for its gloom—when even the ordinary light, which, on the
darkest night, is evident to the traveller in the open country, did not
exist—appears to have brought things to their climax. There was a sudden
alarm in Market-Jew, a red glare in the eastern sky, and presently a
burst of flames above the hill, and St Michael’s Mount was illuminated in
a remarkable manner. Pengerswick Castle was on fire; the servants fled in
terror; but neither the lord nor his lady could be found. From that day
to the present they were lost to all.
The interior of the castle was entirely destroyed; not a vestige of
furniture, books, or anything belonging to the “Enchanter” could be
found. He and everything belonging to him had vanished; and, strange to
tell, from that night the bronzed stranger was never again seen. The
inhabitants of Market-Jew naturally crowded to the fire; and when all was
over they returned to their homes, speculating on the strange occurrences
of the night. Two of the oldest people always declared that, when the
flames were at the highest, they saw two men and a lady floating in the
midst of the fire, and that they ascended from amidst the falling walls,
passed through the air like lightning, and disappeared.
THE WITCH OF FRADDAM AND THE ENCHANTER OF PENGERSWICK.
Again and again had the Lord of Pengerswick reversed the spells of the
Witch of Fraddam, who was reported to be the most powerful weird woman
in the west country. She had been thwarted so many times by this “white
witch,” that she resolved to destroy him by some magic more potent than
anything yet heard of. It is said that she betook herself to Kynance
Cove, and that there she raised the devil by her incantations, and that
she pledged her soul to him in return for the aid he promised. The
enchanter’s famous mare was to be seduced to drink from a tub of poisoned
water placed by the roadside, the effect of which was to render him in
the highest degree restive, and cause him to fling his rider. The wounded
Lord of Pengerswick was, in his agony, to be drenched, by the old witch,
with some hell-broth, brewed in the blackest night, under the most evil
aspects of the stars; by this he would be in her power for ever, and she
might torment him as she pleased. The devil felt certain of securing the
soul of the Witch of Fraddam, but he was less certain of securing that
of the enchanter. They say, indeed, that the sorcery which Pengerswick
learned in the East was so potent, that the devil feared him. However,
as the proverb is, he held with the hounds and ran with the hare. The
witch collected with the utmost care all the deadly things she could
obtain, with which to brew her famous drink. In the darkest night, in
the midst of the wildest storms, amidst the flashings of lightnings and
the bellowings of the thunder, the witch was seen riding on her black
ram-cat over the moors and mountains in search of her poisons. At length
all was complete—the horse drink was boiled, the hell-broth was brewed.
It was in March, about the time of the equinox; the night was dark, and
the King of Storms was abroad. The witch planted her tub of drink in a
dark lane, through which she knew the Lord of Pengerswick must pass, and
near to it she sat, croning over her crock of broth. The witch-woman had
not long to wait; amidst the hurrying winds was heard the heavy tramp
of the enchanter’s mare, and soon she perceived the outline of man and
horse defined sharply against the line of lurid light which stretched
along the western horizon. On they came; the witch was scarcely able to
contain herself—her joy and her fears, struggling one with the other,
almost overpowered her. On came the horse and his rider: they neared the
tub of drink; the mare snorted loudly, and her eyes flashed fire as she
looked at the black tub by the roadside. Pengerswick bent him over the
horse’s neck and whispered into her ear; she turns round, and, flinging
out her heels, with one kick she scattered all to the wild winds. The tub
flew before the blow; it rushed against the crock, which it overturned,
and striking against the legs of the old Witch of Fraddam, she fell
along with the tub, which assumed the shape of a coffin. Her terror was
extreme: she who thought to have unhorsed the conjuror, found herself in
a carriage for which she did not bargain. The enchanter raised his voice
and gave utterance to some wild words in an unknown tongue, at which
even his terrible mare trembled. A whirlwind arose, and the devil was
in the midst of it. He took the coffin in which lay the terrified witch
high into the air, and the crock followed them. The derisive laughter
of Pengerswick, and the savage neighing of the horse, were heard above
the roar of the winds. At length, with a satisfied tone, he exclaimed,
“She is settled till the day of doom,” gave the mare the spurs, and rode
rapidly home.
The Witch of Fraddam still floats up and down, over the seas, around the
coast, in her coffin, followed by the crock, which seems like a punt in
attendance on a jolly-boat. She still works mischief, stirring up the sea
with her ladle and broom till the waves swell into mountains, which heave
off from their crests, so much mist and foam, that these wild wanderers
of the winds can scarcely be seen through the mist. Woe to the mariner
who sees the witch!
The Lord of Pengerswick alone had power over her. He had but to stand on
his tower, and blow three blasts on his trumpet, to summon her to the
shore, and compel her to peace.
TREWA, OR TREWE; THE HOME OF WITCHES.
As we walk from Nancledrea Bottoms towards Zennor we pass Trewa,
(pronounced _Truee_,) which is said to have been the place where at
midsummer all the witches of the west met. Here are the remains of very
ancient tin stream works, and these, I was informed, “were the remains
of bals which had been worked before the deluge; there was nothing so
old anywhere else in Cornwall.” Around us, on the hillsides and up the
bottoms, huge boulders of granite are most fantastically scattered. All
these rocks sprang from the ground at the call of the giants. At Embla
Green we still see the ruins of the Giant’s House, but all we know of
this Titan is that he was the king. On one side we have the “Giant’s
Well,” and not far off the “Druid’s Well,” and a little before us is
Zennor coit or cromlech.
From this point the scenery is of the wildest description. The granite
cairns are spread around in every direction, and many of those masses
are so strangely fashioned by the atmospheric influences ever acting on
them, that fancy can readily fashion them into tombs and temples. Rock
basins abound on these hills, and of ruined cromlechs there are many.
Whatever the local historians may say, local traditions assure us that on
Midsummer Eve all the witches in Penwith gathered here, and that they lit
fires on every cromlech, and in every rock basin, until the hills were
alive with flame, and renewed their vows to the evil ones from whom they
derived their power. Hence, to this day this place is called Burn Downs.
Amidst these rock masses there was one pile remarkable amidst all the
others for its size, and—being formed of cubical masses—for its square
character. This was known as the Witches’ Rock, and here it was said
they assembled at midnight to carry on their wicked deeds. This rock has
been removed, and with it the witches have died; the last real witch in
Zennor having passed away, as I have been told, about thirty years since,
and with her, some say, the fairies fled. I have, however, many reasons
for believing that our little friends have still a few haunts in this
locality. There is but one reason why we should regret the disappearance
of the Witches’ Rock. _Any one touching this rock nine times at midnight
was insured against bad luck._
KENIDZHEK WITCH.
On the tract called the “Gump,” near Kenidzhek, is a beautiful well of
clear water, not far from which was a miner’s cot, in which dwelt two
miners with their sister. They told her never to go to the well after
daylight; they would fetch the water for her. However, on one Saturday
night she had forgotten to get in a supply for the morrow, so she went
off to the well. Passing by a gap in a broken-down hedge (called a
_gurgo_) near the well, she saw an old woman sitting down, wrapped in
a red shawl; she asked her what she did there at that time of night,
but received no reply; she thought this rather strange, but plunged
her pitcher in the well; when she drew it up, though a perfectly sound
vessel, it contained no water; she tried again and again, and, though she
saw the water rushing in at the mouth of the pitcher, it was sure to be
empty when lifted out. She then became rather frightened; spoke again to
the old woman, but receiving no answer, hastened away, and came in great
alarm to her brothers. They told her that it was on account of this old
woman they did not wish her to go to the well at night. What she saw was
the ghost of old Moll, a witch who had been a great terror to the people
in her lifetime, and had laid many fearful spells on them. They said they
saw her sitting in the gap by the wall every night when going to bed.
THE WITCHES OF THE LOGAN STONE.
Who that has travelled into Cornwall but has visited the Logan Stone?
Numerous Logan rocks exist on the granite hills of the county, but
that remarkable mass which is poised on the cubical masses forming its
Cyclopean support, at Trereen, is beyond all others “The Logan Stone.”
A more sublime spot could not have been chosen by the Bardic priesthood
for any ordeal connected with their worship; and even admitting that
nature may have disposed the huge mass to wear away, so as to rest
delicately poised on a pivot, it is highly probable that the wild worship
of the untrained tribes, who had passed to those islands from the shores
of the Mediterranean Sea, may have led them to believe that some
superhuman power belonged to such a strangely-balanced mass of rock.
Nothing can be more certain than that through all time, passing on from
father to son, there has been a wild reverence of this mass of rock; and
long after the days when the Druid ceased to be, there is every reason
for believing that the Christian priests, if they did not encourage, did
not forbid, the use of this and similar rocks to be used as places of
ordeal by the uneducated and superstitious people around.
Hence the mass of rock on which is poised the Logan Stone has ever been
connected with the supernatural. To the south of the Logan Rock is a high
peak of granite, towering above the other rocks; this is known as the
Castle Peak.
No one can say for how long a period, but most certainly for ages, this
peak has been the midnight rendezvous for witches. Many a man, and woman
too, now sleeping quietly in the churchyard of St Levan, would, had they
the power, attest to having seen the witches flying into the Castle Peak
on moonlight nights, mounted on the stems of the ragwort, (_Senécio
Jacobæa Linn_,) and bringing with them the things necessary to make their
charms potent and strong.
This place was long noted as the gathering-place of the army of witches
who took their departure for Wales, where they would luxuriate at the
most favoured seasons of the year upon the milk of the Welshmen’s cows.
From this peak many a struggling ship has been watched by a malignant
crone, while she has been brewing the tempest to destroy it; and many a
rejoicing chorus has been echoed, in horror, by the cliffs around, when
the witches have been croaking their miserable delight over the perishing
crews, as they have watched man, woman, and child drowning, whom they
were presently to rob of the treasures they were bringing home from other
lands.
Upon the rocks behind the Logan Rock it would appear that every kind of
mischief which can befall man or beast was once brewed by the St Levan
witches.
MADGY FIGGY’S CHAIR.
All those who have visited the fine piles of rocks in the vicinity of
the so-called “St Levan,” Land’s-End, called Tol-pedden-Penwith,—and
infinitely finer than anything immediately surrounding the most western
promontory itself,—cannot have failed to notice the arrangement of
cubical masses of granite piled one upon the other, known as the _Chair
Ladder_.
This remarkable pile presents to the beat of the Atlantic waves a sheer
face of cliff of very considerable height, standing up like a huge
basaltic column, or a pillar built by the Titans, the horizontal joints
representing so many steps in the so-called “Ladder.” On the top is
placed a stone of somewhat remarkable shape, which is by no great effort
of the imagination converted into a chair. There it was that Madgy Figgy,
one of the most celebrated of the St Levan and Burian witches, was in
the habit of seating herself when she desired to call up to her aid the
spirits of the storm. Often has she been seen swinging herself to and
fro on this dizzy height when a storm has been coming home upon the
shores, and richly-laden vessels have been struggling with the winds.
From this spot she poured forth her imprecations on man and beast, and
none whom she had offended could escape those withering spells; and from
this “chair,” which will ever bear her name, Madgy Figgy would always
take her flight. Often, starting like some huge bird, mounted on a stem
of ragwort, Figgy has headed a band of inferior witches, and gone off
rejoicing in their iniquities to Wales or Spain.
This old hag lived in a cottage not far from Raftra, and she and all
her gang, which appears to have been a pretty numerous crew, were
notorious wreckers. On one occasion, Madgy from her seat of storms lured
a Portuguese Indiaman into Perloe Cove, and drowned all the passengers.
As they were washed on shore, the bodies were stripped of everything
valuable, and buried by Figgy and her husband in the green hollow, which
may yet be seen, just above Perloe Cove, marking the graves with a rough
stone placed at the head of the corpse. The spoils on this occasion must
have been large, for all the women were supplied for years with rich
dresses, and costly jewels were seen decking the red arms of the girls
who laboured in the fields. For a long time gems and gold continued to be
found on the sands. Howbeit, amongst the bodies thrown ashore was one of
a lady richly dressed, with chains of gold about her. “Rich and rare were
the gems she wore,” and not only so, but valuable treasure was fastened
around her, she evidently hoping, if saved, to secure some of her
property. This body, like all the others, was stripped; but Figgy said
there was a mark on it which boded them evil, and she would not allow
any of the gold or gems to be divided, as it would be sure to bring bad
luck if it were separated. A dreadful quarrel ensued, and bloodshed was
threatened; but the diabolical old Figgy was more than a match for any of
the men, and the power of her impetuous will was superior to them all.
Everything of value, therefore, belonging to this lady was gathered into
a heap, and placed in a chest in Madgy Figgy’s hut. They buried the
Portuguese lady the same evening; and after dark a light was seen to rise
from the grave, pass along the cliffs, and seat itself in Madgy’s chair
at Tol-Pedden. Then, after some hours, it descended, passed back again,
and, entering the cottage, rested upon the chest. This curious phenomenon
continued for more than three months,—nightly,—much to the alarm of all
but Figgy, who said she knew all about it, and it would all be right in
time. One day a strange-looking and strangely-attired man arrived at
the cottage. Figgy’s man (her husband) was at home alone. To him the
stranger addressed himself by signs,—he could not speak English, so he
does not appear to have spoken at all,—and expressed a wish to be led to
the graves. Away they went, but the foreigner did not appear to require
a guide. He at once selected the grave of the lady, and sitting down
upon it, he gave vent to his pent-up sorrows. He sent Figgy’s man away,
and remained there till night, when the light arose from the grave more
brilliant than ever, and proceeded directly to the hut, resting as usual
on the chest, which was now covered up with old sails, and all kinds of
fishermen’s lumber.
The foreigner swept these things aside, and opened the chest. He selected
everything belonging to the lady, refusing to take any of the other
valuables. He rewarded the wreckers with costly gifts, and left them—no
one knowing from whence he came nor whither he went. Madgy Figgy was now
truly triumphant. “One witch knows another witch, dead or living,” she
would say; “and the African would have been the death of us if we hadn’t
kept the treasure, whereas now we have good gifts, and no gainsaying
’em.” Some do say they have seen the light in Madgy Figgy’s chair since
those times.
OLD MADGE FIGGEY AND THE PIG.
Madge Figgey once lived in St Leven, but she removed to Burian
Church-town. She had a neighbour, Tom Trenoweth, who had a very fine
sow, and the old creature took it into her head to desire this sow. The
pig was worth a pound of any man’s money, but Madge offered Tom five
shillings for it.
“No,” says Tom, “I shan’t sell the sow to you, nor to anybody else. I am
going to put her in the house, and feed her for myself against winter.”
“Well,” said old Madge, nodding her head, and shaking her finger at Tom,
“you will wish you had.”
From that time the sow ceased to “goody” (thrive.) The more corn the sow
ate, the leaner she became. Old Madge came again, “Will ye sell her now,
Tom?”
“No! and be —— to you,” said Tom.
“Arreah, Tom! you will wish you had, before another week is ended, I can
tell ye.”
By next week the sow was gone to skin and bone, yet eating all the time
meat enough for three.
At last Tom took the sow out of the house, and prepared to drive her to
Penzance market, and sell her for what she would fetch.
The rope was put round her leg, but more for fashion’s sake than anything
else. The poor pig could scarcely stand on her legs, consequently there
was little chance of her running away. Well, Tom and his pig were no
sooner on the highroad than the sow set off like a greyhound, and never
stopped, racing over hedges and ditches, until she reached Leah Lanes.
Tom kept hold of the rope till his arm was almost dragged from his body,
and he was fairly “out of breath.” He dropped the rope, piggy went on
“as quiet as a lamb,” but only the way which pleased her best. At last
Tom and the sow arrived at Tregenebris Downs. At the corner of the roads,
where they divide,—one going to Sancreed, and the other to Penzance,—Tom
again laid hold of the rope, and said to himself, “I’ll surely get thee
to Penzance yet.”
The moment they came to the market-road, the sow made a bolt, jerked
the rope out of Tom’s hand, and ran off at full speed, never stopping
until she got in under Tregenebris Bridge. Now that bridge is more like
a long drain—locally a bolt—than anything else, and is smallest in the
middle; so when the sow got half way in, she stuck fast; she couldn’t
go forward—she wouldn’t come back. Tom fired all the stones he could
find,—first at the pig’s head, and then at her tail,—and all he got for
his pains was a grunt. There he stopped, watching the sow till near
sunset; he had eaten nothing since five in the morning, and was starving.
He saw no chance of getting the sow out, so he swore at her, and prepared
to go home, when who should come by but old Madge Figgey, with her stick
in one hand and basket in the other.
“Why, Tom, is that you? What in the world are ye doing here at this time
o’ day?”
“Well,” says Tom, “I’m cussed if I can tell; look under the bridge, if
you’re a mind to know.”
“Why, I hear the sow grunting, I declare. What will ye sell her for now?”
“If you can get her out, take her,” says Tom; “but hast anything to eat
in your basket?”
Madge gave him a twopenny loaf.
“Thank ye,” says Tom. “Now the devil take the both of ye!”
“Cheat! cheat! cheat!” says Madge. Out came the sow, and followed her
home like a dog.
MADAM NOY AND OLD JOAN.
They say that, a long time since, there lived an old witch down by Alsia
Mill, called Joan. Everybody feared to offend the old woman, and gave her
everything she looked for, except Madam Noy, who lived in Pendrea.
Madam Noy had some beautiful hens of a new sort, with “cops” on their
heads.
One morning early, Joan comes up to Pendrea, so as to catch Madam Noy
going out into the farmyard, with her basket of corn to feed the poultry,
and to collect the eggs.
Joan comes up nodding and curtsying every step. “Good morrow to your
honour; how well you are looking, Madam Noy; and, oh, what beautiful
hens. I’ve got an old hen that I do want to set; will you sell me a dozen
of eggs? Those with the ‘cops’ I’d like to have best.”
Madam turned round half offended, and said, “I have none to sell, neither
with the cops nor yet without the cops, whilst I have so many old
clucking hens about, and hardly an egg to be found.”
“You surely wouldn’t send me home empty as I came, madam dear?”
“You may go home the same way you came, for you aren’t wanted here.”
“Now,” croaked Joan, hoarse with passion, “as true as I tell you so, if
you don’t sell me some eggs, you will wish your cakes dough.”
As the old witch said this, she perched herself on the stile, shaking her
finger and “nodling” her head.
Madam Noy was a bit of a virago herself, so she took up a stone and
flung it at Joan; it hit her in the face, and made her jaws rattle.
As soon as she recovered, she spinned forth:—
“Madam Noy, you ugly old bitch,
You shall have the gout, the palsy, and itch;
All the eggs your hens lay henceforth shall be addle;
All your hens have the pip, and die with the straddle;
And ere I with the mighty fine madam have done,
Of her favourite ‘coppies’ she shan’t possess one.”
From that day forward, madam was always afflicted. The doctor from
Penzance could do little for her. The fowls’ eggs were always bad; the
hens died, and madam lost all her “coppies.” This is the way it came
about—in the place of cops the brains came out—and all by the spells of
old Joan.
This forms the subject of one of the old Cornish drolls, which ran in an
irregular jingle, such as the above, and was half sung, half said by the
droll-teller.
THE WITCH OF TREVA.
Once on a time, long ago, there lived at Treva, a hamlet in Zennor, a
wonderful old lady deeply skilled in necromancy. Her charms, spells, and
dark incantations made her the terror of the neighbourhood. However,
this old lady failed to impress her husband with any belief in her
supernatural powers, nor did he fail to proclaim his unbelief aloud.
One day this sceptic came home to dinner and found, being exceedingly
hungry, to his bitter disappointment, that not only was there no dinner
to eat, but that there was no meat in the house. His rage was great,
but all he could get from his wife was, “I couldn’t get meat out of the
stones, could I?” It was in vain to give the reins to passion, the old
woman told him, and he must know “that hard words buttered no parsnips.”
Well, at length he resolved to put his wife’s powers to the proof, and he
quietly but determinedly told her that he would be the death of her if
she did not get him some dinner; but if in half an hour she gave him some
good cooked meat, he would believe all she had boasted of her power, and
be submissive to her for ever. St Ives, the nearest market-town, was five
miles off; but nothing doubting, the witch put on her bonnet and cloak,
and started. Her husband watched her from their cottage door, down the
hill, and at the bottom of the hill he saw his wife quietly place herself
on the ground and disappear. In her place a fine hare ran on at its full
speed.
He was not a little startled, but he waited, and within the half hour in
walked his wife with “good flesh and taties all ready for aiting.” There
was no longer any doubt, and the poor husband lived in fear of the witch
of Treva to the day of her death.