Hawker, “the silent tower of Bottreaux,” remains without bells. “At
Forrabury the chimes have never sounded for a marriage, the knell has
never been heard for a funeral.”—_Collins._
In days long ago, the inhabitants of the parish of Forrabury—which does
not cover a square mile, but which now includes the chief part of the
town of Boscastle and its harbour—resolved to have a peal of bells which
should rival those of the neighbouring church of Tintagel, which are said
to have rung merrily at the marriage, and tolled solemnly at the death,
of Arthur.
The bells were cast; the bells were blessed; and the bells were shipped
for Forrabury. Few voyages were more favourable; and the ship glided,
with a fair wind, along the northern shores of Cornwall, waiting for the
tide to carry her safely into the harbour of Bottreaux.
The vesper bells rang out at Tintagel, and the pilot, when he heard the
blessed sound, devoutly crossed himself, and bending his knee, thanked
God for the safe and quick voyage which they had made.
The captain laughed at the superstition of the pilot, as he called it,
and swore that they had only to thank themselves for the speedy voyage,
and that, with his arm at the helm, and his judgment to guide them, they
should soon have a happy landing. The pilot checked this profane speech;
but the wicked captain—and he swore more impiously than ever that all was
due to himself and his men—laughed to scorn the pilot’s prayer. “May God
forgive you!” was the pilot’s reply.
Those who are familiar with the northern shores of Cornwall will know
that sometimes a huge wave, generated by some mysterious power in the
wide Atlantic, will roll on, overpowering everything by its weight and
force.
While yet the captain’s oaths were heard, and while the inhabitants on
the shore were looking out from the cliffs, expecting, within an hour, to
see the vessel, charged with their bells, safe in their harbour, one of
these vast swellings of the ocean was seen. Onward came the grand billow
in all the terror of its might. The ship rose not upon the waters as it
came onward. She was overwhelmed, and sank in an instant close to the
land.
As the vessel sank, the bells were heard tolling with a muffled sound,
as if ringing the death-knell of the ship and sailors, of whom the good
pilot alone escaped with life.
When storms are coming, and only then, the bells of Forrabury, with their
dull, muffled sound, are heard from beneath the heaving sea, a warning to
the wicked; and the tower has remained to this day silent.
THE TOWER OF MINSTER CHURCH.
“The Minster of the Trees! a lonely dell,
Deep with old oaks, and ’mid their quiet shade,
Gray with the moss of years, yon antique cell!
Sad are those walls: the cloister lowly laid,
Where pacing monks at solemn evening made
Their chanted orisons: and as the breeze
Came up the vale, by rock and tree delay’d,
They heard the awful voice of many seas
Blend with thy pausing hymn, thou Minster of the Trees!”
HAWKER.
On a visit to this old church, which is allowed to perish under the
influences of damp and the accompanying vegetable growth, in a way
which is but little creditable to the parishioners, I was struck at the
evidence that the tower had either been taken down or that it had fallen.
Amidst the long grass of the churchyard I found many remains of carved
stones, which clearly belonged at one time to the tower. I sought for
some information, but I could obtain none. The officiating clergyman,
and several gentlemen of Boscastle, were alike ignorant of any tradition
connected with the tower—the prevalent idea being that it was left
unfinished.
At length, the ostler at the inn informed me that the story of the
destruction of the tower ran thus:—
The tower of the church of the ancient abbey was seen through the gorge
which now forms the harbour of Boscastle, far out at sea. The monks were
in the habit of placing a light in one of the windows of the tower to
guide the worshippers, at night, to the minster.
Frequently sailors mistook this, by day for some landmark, and at night
for a beacon, and were thus led into a trap from which they could not
easily extricate themselves, and within which they often perished.
This accident occurred so frequently that the sailors began at last to
declare their belief that the monks purposely beguiled them to their
fate, hinting, indeed, that plunder was their object. Eventually, a band
of daring men, who had been thus lured into Boscastle, went to the abbey,
and, in spite of the exertions made by the monks, they pulled down the
tower, since which time it has never been rebuilt.
TEMPLE MOORS.
The parish of Temple in 1851 had a population of 24. Yet once the Knights
Templars built a church here; and with the purpose of civilising the
inhabitants of the moors in the midst of which it was founded, they
secured for their temple some special privileges. “Many a bad marriage
bargain,” says Tonkin, “is there yearly slubbered up, and grass widows
with their fatlings put to lie-in and nurse here.” “Send her to Temple
Moors,” implied that any female requiring seclusion might at one time
secure it under the charge of these Christian knights in this their
preceptory, and be returned to the world again, probably, in all
respects, a better woman. At all events, the world, being in ignorance,
did not repudiate the erring sister.
Stories linger over this wilderness of mixed good and evil. The church,
which was consecrated to the great cause of saving sinners, has perished.
No stone remains to tell us where it stood; and to “send her to Temple
Moors,” is to proclaim a woman an outcast from society.
THE LEGEND OF TAMARA.
The lovely nymph Tamara was born in a cavern. Although her parents were
spirits of the earth, the child loved the light of day. Often had they
chided her for yielding to her desires and visiting the upper world; and
often had they warned her against the consequences which would probably
arise from her neglect of their advice.
The giants of the moors were to be feared; and it was from these that the
earth spirits desired to protect their child.
Tamara—beautiful, young, heedless—never lost an opportunity of looking on
the glorious sun. Two sons of Dartmoor giants—Tavy and Tawrage—had seen
the fair maid, and longed to possess her. Long was their toil, and the
wild maiden often led them over mountain and moor in playful chase.
Under a bush in Morewinstow, one day, both Tavy and Tawrage came upon
Tamara. They resolved now to compel her to declare upon which of them her
choice should fall. The young men used every persuasion, and called her
by every endearing name. Her parents had missed Tamara, and they sought
and found her seated between the sons of the giants whom they hated.
The gnome father caused a deep sleep to fall on the eyes of Tavy and
Tawrage, and then he endeavoured to persuade his daughter to return to
his subterranean cell.
Tamara would not leave her lovers. In his rage the gnome cursed his
daughter, and, by the might of his curse, changed her into a river, which
should flow on for ever to the salt sea. The lovely Tamara dissolved in
tears, and, as a crystal stream of exceeding beauty, the waters glided
onward to the ocean.
At length Tavy awoke. His Tamara was gone; he fled to his father in the
hills. The giant knew of the metamorphosis, and, to ease the anguish of
his son, he transformed him into a stream. Rushing over rocks, running
through morasses, gliding along valleys, and murmuring amidst the groves,
Tavy still goes on seeking for Tamara—his only joy being that he runs by
her side, and that, mingling their waters, they glide together to the
eternal sea.
Tawrage awakened after a long sleep. He divined what had taken place, and
fled to the hills to an enchanter. At his prayer he, too, was changed
to a stream; but he mistook the road along which Tamara had gone, and
onward, ever sorrowing, he flows—away—away—away from his Tamara for ever.
Thus originated the Tamar, the Tavy, and the Taw.
THE CHURCH AND THE BARN.
The Daunays were great people in their day; but many of them bore
indifferent characters.
Sir John de Daunay was a strange mixture of ostentatious pride and
penuriousness. His Lady Emelyn was as proud as her husband, but
extravagant to a fault.
The priests of St Germans persuaded Sir John to build a church on his
lands at Sheviock. He commenced the work, and, notwithstanding his great
wealth, his heart failed him and he curtailed the fair proportions on
which he had at first decided.
Emelyn was enraged at this; and it is said, that, prompted by the devil
in visible presence, she resolved to build a barn which should exceed in
beauty the house of God.
The barn rose with astonishing rapidity. Stones were laid at night, and
the work proceeded as if the most lavish expenditure had been bestowed
upon it. The church progressed but slowly, and was, after all, a very
inferior structure to the barn. The devil, without doubt, having assisted
Lady Daunay in her wicked work.
“There runneth a tale amongst the parishioners how one of the Daunay
family’s ancestors undertook to build the church, and the wife the barn
adjoining; and that, casting up accounts on finishing their work, the
barn was found to have cost 1½d. more than the church.”[70]
The Daunay aisle in Sheviock Church still preserves the name of this
family, who appear to have possessed at one time nearly all this, and
much of the adjoining parish.
THE PENRYN TRAGEDY.
“News from Penryn, in Cornwall, of a most bloody and unexampled
Murder.”
Such was the title of a black-letter pamphlet of eight pages referred to
by Lysons. This curious book does not appear to be in existence.
Mr Davies Gilbert, who possessed much property in the parish of Gluvias,
was especially interested in the farm of Bohelland, the place which has
been rendered for ever notorious, as having been the scene of Lillo’s
tragedy of “Fatal Curiosity.”
From a work entitled “The Reign and Death of King James of Great
Britain,” Mr Gilbert quotes as follows:—
“He had been blessed with ample possessions and fruitful
issue, unhappy only in a younger son, who, taking liberty
from his father’s bounty, and with a crew of like condition,
that wearied on land, they went roving to sea, and in a small
vessel southward, took boot from all they could master. And
so increasing force and wealth, ventured on a Turk’s man
in the Streights; but by mischance their own powder fired
themselves, and our gallant, trusting to his skilful swimming,
got on shore upon Rhodes; with the best of his jewels about
him; where, offering some to sale to a Jew, who knew them
to be the Governor’s of Algier, he was apprehended, and, as
a pirate, sentenced to the galleys among other Christians,
whose miserable slavery made them all studious of freedom, and
with wit and valour took opportunity and means to murder some
officers, got on board of an English ship, and came safe to
London; where his misery, and some skill, made him servant to
a surgeon, and sudden preferment to the East Indies. There,
by this means, he got money; with which returning back, he
designed himself for his native county, Cornwall. And in a
small ship from London, sailing to the west, was cast away
upon that coast. But his excellent skill in swimming, and
former fate to boot, brought him safe to shore; where, since
his fifteen years’ absence, his father’s former fortunes much
decayed, now retired him not far off to a country habitation,
in debt and danger.
“His sister he finds married to a mercer, a meaner match
than her birth promised. To her, at first, he appears a poor
stranger, but in private reveals himself, and withal what
jewels and gold he had concealed in a bow-case about him;
and concluded that the next day he intended to appear to his
parents, and to keep his disguise till she and her husband
should meet, and make their common joy complete. Being come
to his parents, his humble behaviour, suitable to his suit of
clothes, melted the old couple to so much compassion as to give
him covering from the cold season under their outward roof; and
by degrees his travelling tales, told with passion to the aged
people, made him their guest so long by the kitchen fire, that
the husband took leave and went to bed. And soon after his true
stories working compassion in the weaker vessel, she wept, and
so did he; but compassionate of her tears, he comforted her
with a piece of gold, which gave assurance that he deserved a
lodging, to which she brought him; and being in bed, shewed her
his girdled wealth, which he said was sufficient to relieve
her husband’s wants, and to spare for himself, and being very
weary, fell fast asleep.
“The wife tempted with the golden bait of what she had,
and eager of enjoying all, awakened her husband with this
news, and her contrivance what to do; and though with horrid
apprehensions he oft refused, yet her puling fondness (Eve’s
enchantments) moved him to consent, and rise to be master of
all, and both of them to murder the man, which instantly they
did; covering the corpse under the clothes till opportunity to
convey it out of the way.
“The early morning hastens the sister to her father’s house,
where she, with signs of joy, inquires for a sailor that should
lodge there the last night; the parents slightly denied to have
seen any such, until she told them that he was her brother,
her lost brother; by that assured scar upon his arm, cut with
a sword in his youth, she knew him; and were all resolved this
morning to meet there and be merry.
“The father hastily runs up, finds the mark, and with horrid
regret of this monstrous murder of his own son, with the same
knife cuts his own throat.
“The wife went up to consult with him, where, in a most strange
manner beholding them both in blood, wild and aghast, with the
instrument at hand, readily rips herself up, and perishes on
the same spot.
“The daughter, doubting the delay of their absence, searches
for them all, whom she found out too soon; with the sad sight
of this scene, and being overcome with horror and amaze of
this deluge of destruction, she sank down and died; the fatal
end of that family. The truth of which was frequently known,
and flew to court in this guise; but the imprinted relation
conceals their names, in favour to some neighbour of repute
and kin to that family. The same sense makes me therein silent
also.”—_Gilbert_, vol. ii. p. 100.
Mr Harris of Salisbury, in his “Philological Inquiries,” says of Lillo’s
tragedy:—
“It is no small praise to this affecting fable that it so much resembles
the ‘Œdipus Tyrannus’ of Sophocles. In both tragedies, that which
apparently leads to joy, leads in its completion to misery; both
tragedies concur in the horror of their discoveries, and both in those
great outlines of a truly tragic revolution, (according to the nervous
sentiment of Lillo himself,)—
‘the two extremes of life,
The highest happiness the deepest woe,
With all the sharp and bitter aggravations
Of such a vast transition.’”
GOLDSITHNEY FAIR AND THE GLOVE.
On the 5th of August, St James’s day, (old style,) a fair is held here,
which was originally held in the Church-town of Sithney, near Helston.
In olden time the good _St Perran the Little_ gave to the wrestlers
in his parish a glove as the prize, and the winner of the glove was
permitted to collect the market toll on the day of the feast, and to
appropriate the money to his own use. The winner of the glove lived in
the Church-town of Sithney, and for long long years the right of holding
the fair remained undisputed.
At length the miners of Goldsithney resolved to contest the prize, and
they won it, since which time the fair has been held in that village,
they paying to the poor of the parish of Sithney one shilling as
compensation.
Gilbert remarks, “The displaying of a glove at fairs is an ancient and
widely-extended custom. Mr Lysons says it is continued at Chester. The
editor has seen a large ornamented glove over the guildhall at Exeter
during the fairs.”[71]
THE HARLYN PIE.
“Adjoining the Church of Constantine, in the parish of St Merryn, was
a cottage which a family of the name of Edwards held for generations,
under the proprietors of Harlyn, by the annual render of a pie, made of
limpets, raisins, and various herbs, on the eve of the festival in honour
of the saint to whom the church was dedicated. The pie, as I have heard
from my family, and from more ancient members of the family, and from
old servants, was excellent. The Edwards had pursued for centuries the
occupation of shepherds on Harlyn and Constantine commons. The last died
about forty years ago, and the wreck of their cottage is almost buried in
the sand.”[72]
PACKS OF WOOL THE FOUNDATION OF THE BRIDGE OF WADEBRIDGE.
Lovebone was the vicar of Wadebridge, and there was a ferry across the
river. It was a frequent custom for the farmers to ride their horses and
to drive their cattle across when the tide was low, and frequently men
and beasts were lost in the quicksands formed on the rising of the tide.
A sad accident of this kind happened, and Lovebone resolved on building
a bridge; as Leland says in his “Itinerary,” “Then one Lovebone, vicar
of Wadebridge, moved with pitie, began the bridge, and with great paine
and studie, good people putting their help thereto, finished it with xvii
fair and great uniform arches of stone.”
Great was the labour, and frequent the disappointment. Pier after pier
were built, and then they were lost in the sands. A “fair structure”
was visible at night, in the morning there was no trace of the work of
the masons. Lovebone almost despaired of success, indeed he was about
to abandon the work, when he dreamed that an angel came with a flock
of sheep, that he sheared them, let the wool fall into the water, and
speedily built the bridge upon the wool.
Lovebone awoke with a new idea. He gathered from the farmers around, all
the wool they would give him, he put it loosely into packs, placed these
thickly upon the sand, and built his piers. The work remains to this day
in proof of the engineering skill of the suggesting angel.[73]
Quoting Beaumont and Fletcher’s “Knight of the Burning Pestle,” we find
the Citizen saying to the Prologue:—
“Why could you not be content as well as others, with the Legend of
Whittington? or the Life and Death of Sir Thomas Gresham, with the
building of the Royal Exchange? or the Story of Queen Eleanor, with the
rearing of London Bridge upon woolsacks?”
THE LAST WOLF IN ENGLAND.
The extirpation of the wolves, which once existed in every part of these
islands, is an oft-told story.
But it is not generally known that the last native wolf lived in the
forests of Ludgvan, near Penzance. The last of his race was a gigantic
specimen, and terrible was the havoc made by him on the flocks. Tradition
tells us that at last he carried off a child. This could not be endured,
so the peasantry all turned out, and this famous wolf was captured at
Rospeith, the name of a farm still existing in Ludgvan.
CHURCHES BUILT IN PERFORMANCE OF VOWS.
There are several churches which, tradition tells us, owe their origin
to vows made by terrified men that they would, if relieved from their
dangers, build a temple to God.
Amongst these may be named Brent Tor, thus spoken of by Mr Bray:—
“The church of Brent Tor is dedicated to St Michael. And there is
a tradition among the vulgar that its foundation was originally
laid at the foot of the hill; but that the enemy of all angels, the
Prince of Darkness, removed the stones by night from the base to the
summit,—probably to be nearer his own dominion, the air,—but that,
immediately on the church’s being dedicated to St Michael, the patron of
the edifice hurled upon the devil such an enormous mass of rock, that
he never afterwards ventured to approach it. Others tell us that it was
erected by a wealthy merchant, who vowed, in the midst of a tremendous
storm at sea, (possibly addressing himself to his patron, St Michael,)
that if he escaped, he would build a church on the first land he
descried.”[74]
Brent Tor is a very remarkable hill, and can be seen far off at sea. This
may possibly lend some support to the latter tradition.
St Anthony, in Kerrier, is likewise stated to be the consequence of a
vow. Soon after the Conquest, as some persons of rank and fortune were
coming to England from Normandy, they were overtaken by a violent storm,
from which they expected immediate destruction. In the midst of their
distress, they directed their prayers to St Anthony, and laid themselves
under a solemn vow to erect a church to his memory, if he would save
them from shipwreck; and that this church should be erected on the very
spot where they should first get on shore. Driven by the tempest, they
were conducted, by a power fully equal to that which St Anthony might be
supposed to possess, into St Mawes’ harbour, and happily landed on that
very spot where the church now stands. And it appears that the materials
with which the tower is built, and the situation which the church and
tower occupy, are calculated to give sanction to this tradition.
BOLAIT, THE FIELD OF BLOOD.
Tradition asserts that it was on the spot, so called in the parish of
Burian, that the last battle was fought between the Cornish Britons and
Athelstan. This is in some measure confirmed by the discovery of flint
arrow-heads, in considerable quantities, from time to time, in and near
this “field of slaughter.”
We have little beyond the evidence of tradition to guide us in regard
to any of the triumphs of Athelstan in Cornwall. It appears tolerably
certain that this Saxon king confined the Cornish Britons to the western
side of the Tamar; thus breaking up the division known as Danmonium, and
limiting the territory over which the kings of the west ruled.
Scattered over Cornwall, we have the evidence, in the names of places,
of Saxon possession. In all probability these were the resting-places of
portions of the Saxon army, or the district in which fortified camps were
placed by Athelstan, to restrain a turbulent people. Be this as it may,
the battle at Bolait is said to have raged from morning until night, and
then, overpowered by numbers, the Cornish who still survived fled to the
hills, and thus left Athelstan the conqueror.
It was after this fight that Athelstan, seeing the Islands of Scilly
illumined by the setting sun, determined, if possible, to achieve their
conquest. He then recorded his vow, that he would, if he returned
victorious, build a church, which should be dedicated to St Buryana. Of
this church Hals writes as follows:—
“BURIAN.
“This church was founded and endowed by King Athelstan, about the year
930, after such time as he had conquered the Scilly Islands, as also the
county of Devon, and made Cornwall tributary to his sceptre. To which
church he gave lands and tithes of a considerable value for ever, himself
becoming the first patron thereof, as his successors the kings of England
have been ever since; for which reason it is still called the royal
rectory, or regal rectory, and the royal or regal peculiar; signifying
thereby that this is the church or chapel pertaining to the king, or
immediately under the jurisdiction of him, as the supreme ordinary from
whom there is no appeal; whereas other peculiars, though exempt from the
visitation or jurisdiction of the diocesan bishop within whose see they
stand, yet are always subject to the provincial Archbishops of Canterbury
and York, or other persons.
“This church or college consisted of canons, Augustines or regular
priests, and three prebendaries, who enjoyed the revenues thereof in
common, but might not marry; and the lord chancellors of England of old
visited this peculiar—which extended only over the parishes of Burian,
Sennen, and St Levan—for the king.
“One of the Popes of Rome, about the time of Edward III., obtruded upon
this church, the canons and prebends thereof, a dean to be an inspector
and overseer over them,—whom he nominated to be the Bishop of Exon for
the time being,—who for some time visited this church as its governor,
as the lord chancellor did before; which encroachment of the Pope being
observed by Edward III., as appears from the register of the writs, folio
40 and 41, 8 Edward III., rot. 97, this usurpation of the Pope was taken
away.”
WOEFUL MOOR, AND BODRIGAN’S LEAP.