of Looe. Otto, or Otho de Bodrigan, was lord of the manor of Pendrim and
Looe in the reign of Edward II. Another Otho de Bodrigan was Sheriff of
Cornwall in the 3d of Richard II., A.D. 1400.
Sir Henry Bodrigan was “attaynted for taking part with King Richard
III. against Henry VII.; and, after flying into Ireland, Sir Richard
Egecombe, father of Sir Pears Egecombe, had Bodrigan, and other parcels
of Bodrigan’s lands; and Trevanion had part of Bodrigan’s lands, as
Restronget and Newham, both in Falmouth Haven.”
On the Barton of Bodrigan there exists what are evidently the remains of
ancient fortifications, and near them a piece of waste land known as the
_Woeful Moor_.
Here Sir Henry Edgecombe and Trevanion defeated the great Bodrigan. He
fled, and tradition preserves, on the side of the cliff, the spot known
as Bodrigan’s leap, from which he leapt into the sea, and swam to a ship
which kept near the shore. As he leapt the precipice, he bequeathed,
with a curse, “his extravagance to the Trevanions, and his folly to the
Edgecombes.”
These families divided between them an estate said to be worth, in those
days, £10,000 per annum.
“At that period in our history when the law of the strongest was the
rule, three families in Cornwall were engaged in a series of domestic
wars; these were Bodrigan, Trevanion, and Edgecumbe. And when Richard
the Third obtained sovereign power, on the division which then took
place in the York faction, Bodrigan endeavoured to seize the property
of Edgecumbe, with little respect, as it would seem, for the life of
the possessor; but in the final struggle at Bosworth Field, where Henry
Tudor put an entire end to this contest for power under the guise of
property, by seizing the whole to himself, Trevanion and Edgecumbe had
the good fortune to appear on the winning side, and subsequently availed
themselves to the utmost of belligerent rights against Bodrigan, as he
had attempted to do before against them. The last of that family was
driven from his home, and seems to have perished in exile. His property
was divided between the two families opposed to him, and, after the lapse
of three hundred and fifty years, continues to form a large portion of
their respective possessions.”—_Gilbert_, vol. iii., p. 204.
William de Bodrigan was lord of the manor of Restronget, in the 12th of
Henry IV. The family possessed it till the beginning of the reign of
Henry VII., when, on the attainder of Bodrigan, it was given to William
Trevanion.[75]
PENGERSWICK CASTLE.
This castellated building—for it does not now admit of being called
a castle, notwithstanding its embattled turrets and its machicolated
gate—is situated in a hollow running down to Pengerswick Cove, in the
Mount’s Bay, where there never could have been anything to defend; and
certainly there is nothing to induce any one to incur the cost of such a
building.
Mr Milliton, in the reign of Henry VIII., slew in the streets of London a
man in a drunken brawl. He fled, and went to sea. It is not known to what
part of the world he went, but we are told that he became excessively
rich; so rich, indeed, that “when he loaded his ass with his gold, the
weight was so great as to break the poor animal’s back.” Returning to his
country, and not daring to appear in any of the large towns, he bought
the manor of Pengerswick, and built this castle, to defend himself, in
the event of his being approached by any of the officers of the law.
A miserable man, Milliton is said to have lived in a secret chamber in
this tower, and to have been visited only by his most trusted friends.
Deeply deploring the crime that had condemned him to seclusion from the
world, he spent his dreary hours in ornamenting his dwelling. His own
story is supposed to be told in the painting of an overladen ass in one
room, with a black-letter legend, importing that a miser is like an ass
loaded with riches, who, without attending to his golden burden, feeds on
thistles. There is also a carving of water wearing a hollow in a stone,
and under it the word “Perseverance.” Of the death of Milliton we have no
account.
There is very little doubt but that Pengerswick Castle is very much older
than the time of Milliton; indeed tradition informs us that he purchased
the place. The legends previously given, and others in my possession,
refer to a much earlier period. This castle was, it is said, surrounded
by trees; but John Hals, who inherited the property, had all the timber
cut down and sold.
THE CLERKS OF CORNWALL.
I.
“In the last age there was a familiarity between the parson and the clerk
and the people which our feelings of decorum would revolt at—_e.g._, ‘I
have seen the ungodly flourish like a _green bay_-tree.’ ‘How can that
be, maister?’ said the clerk of St Clement’s. Of this I was myself an
ear-witness.”
II.
“At Kenwyn, two dogs, one of which was the parson’s, were fighting at
the west end of the church; the parson, who was then reading the second
lesson, rushed out of the pew and went down and parted them; returning to
his pew, and doubtful where he had left off, he asked the clerk, ‘Roger,
where was I?’ ‘Why, down parting the dogs, maister,’ said Roger.”
III.
“At Mevagizzey, when non-resident clergymen officiated, it was usual
with the squire of the parish to invite them to dinner. Several years
ago, a non-resident clergyman was requested to do duty in the church of
Mevagizzey on a Sunday when the Creed of St Athanasius is directed to be
read. Before he had begun the service, the parish clerk asked him whether
he intended to read the Athanasian Creed that morning. ‘Why?’ said the
clergyman. ‘Because if you do, no dinner for you at the squire’s, at
Penwarne.’”
IV.
“A very short time since parish clerks used to read the first lesson.
I once heard the St Agnes clerk cry out, ‘To the mouth of the burning
_viery vurnis_, and spake, and said, Shadrac, Meshac, and Abednego, _com
voath and com hether_,’ (Daniel iii.)”
V.
“The clerk of Lamorran, in giving out the psalm, ‘Like a timorous bird
to distant mountains fly,’ always said, ‘Like a timmersum burde,’ &c.,
&c., with a shake of the head, and a quivering voice, which could not but
provoke risibility.”[76]
A FAIRY CAUGHT.
The following, communicated to me on the 8th of August, is too good to be
lost. I therefore give it in my correspondent’s own words:—
“I heard last week of three fairies having been seen in Zennor very
recently. A man who lived at the foot of Trendreen hill, in the valley
of Treridge, I think, was cutting furze on the hill. Near the middle
of the day he saw one of the small people, not more than a foot long,
stretched at full length and fast asleep, on a bank of griglans, (heath,)
surrounded by high brakes of furze. The man took off his furze cuff, and
slipped the little man into it, without his waking up; went down to the
house; took the little fellow out of the cuff on the hearthstone, when he
awakened, and seemed quite pleased and at home, beginning to play with
the children, who were well pleased with the small body, and called him
Bobby Griglans.
“The old people were very careful not to let Bob out of the house, or be
seen by the neighbours, as he promised to shew the man where the crocks
of gold were buried on the hill. A few days after he was brought from the
hill, all the neighbours came with their horses (according to custom)
to bring home the winter’s reek of furze, which had to be brought down
the hill in trusses on the backs of the horses. That Bob might be safe
and out of sight, he and the children were shut up in the barn. Whilst
the furze-carriers were in to dinner, the prisoners contrived to get
out, to have a “courant” round the furze-reek, when they saw a little
man and woman, not much larger than Bob, searching into every hole and
corner among the trusses that were dropped round the unfinished reek. The
little woman was wringing her hands and crying, ‘Oh, my dear and tender
Skillywidden, wherever canst ah (thou) be gone to? shall I ever cast
eyes on thee again? ‘Go ’e back,’ says Bob to the children; ‘my father
and mother are come here too.’ He then cried out, ‘Here I am, mammy!’ By
the time the words were out of his mouth, the little man and woman, with
their precious Skillywidden, were nowhere to be seen, and there has been
no sight nor sign of them since. The children got a sound thrashing for
letting Skillywidden escape.”
THE LIZARD PEOPLE.
There is a tradition that the Lizard people were formerly a very inferior
race. In fact it is said that they went on all fours, till the crew of a
foreign vessel, wrecked on the coast, settled among them, and improved
the race so much that they became as remarkable for their stature and
physical development as they had been before for the reverse. At this
time, as a whole, the Lizard folks certainly have among them a very large
population of tall people, many of the men and women being over six feet
in height.
PRUSSIA COVE AND SMUGGLERS’ HOLES.
Smugglers’ hiding-places (now, of course, unused) are numerous. On the
banks of the Helford river are several, and two or three have lately
been discovered on the coast about St Keverne by the falling in of their
roofs. In a part of Penzance harbour, nine years ago, a hiding-place
of this kind was discovered; it still contained one or two kegs, and
the skeleton of a man, with his clothes in good preservation. It is
presumed that the poor fellow while intoxicated was shut in, and the
place never more opened by his companions. Speaking of Penzance—about
fifty years since, in the back of the harbour, was an old adit called
“Gurmer’s Hole,” and in the cliff over its entrance, _on a dark night_, a
phosphorescent appearance was always visible from the opposite side. It
could not be seen from beneath, owing to the projection of the face of
the cliff. A fall of the part taking place, the phenomenon disappeared.
Sixty or seventy years since, a native of Breage called “Carter,” but
better known, from a most remarkable personal resemblance to Frederick
the Great, as the “King of Prussia,” monopolised most of the smuggling
trade of the west. By all accounts he was a man of uncommon mental power,
and chose as the seat of his business a sequestered rocky cove about two
miles east of Marazion, which continues to bear the name of “Prussia
Cove,” and where deep channels, cut in hard rock, to allow of the near
approach of their boats, still shew the determination of the illicit
traders. Although constantly visited by the excise officers, the “king”
rarely failed to remove his goods, the stocks of which were at times very
large, suffering for a long period comparatively little from “seizures.”
On one occasion his boats, while landing a cargo, being hard pressed by
the revenue cutter, Carter had some old cannon brought to the edge of
the cliff and opened fire on the unwelcome intruder, and after a short
but sharp engagement, fairly beat her off. The cutter was, of course,
back again early in the morning, and part of the crew, with the captain,
landed; the only traces, however, of the engagement to be seen was the
trampled ground. On approaching Carter’s house, the officer was met by
the “king” himself, with an angry remonstrance about practising the
cutter’s guns at midnight so near the shore, and disturbing his family at
such unseemly hours. Although the principal parties concerned were well
known, no evidence could be obtained, and the matter was allowed to drop.
Toward the close of his career, Carter “ventured” in larger ships, became
less successful, and was at last exchequered. He died, at a very advanced
age, in poor circumstances.
CORNISH TEENY-TINY.
Mr Halliwell gives us, in his “Popular Rhymes and Nursery Tales,” the
story of Teeny-tiny. In this a little old woman takes a bone from the
churchyard to make soup. She goes to bed, and puts the bone in the
cupboard. During the night some one comes demanding the bone, and at
length the terrified old woman gives it up.
A similar story is told in Cornwall.
An old lady had been to the church in the sands of Perranzabuloe. She
found, amidst the numerous remains of mortality, some very good teeth.
She pocketed these, and at night placed them on her dressing-table before
getting into bed. She slept, but was at length disturbed by some one
calling out, “Give me my teeth—give me my teeth.” At first the lady took
no notice of this, but the cry, “Give me my teeth,” was so constantly
repeated, that she at last, in terror, jumped out of bed, took the
teeth from the dressing-table, and, opening the window, flung them out,
exclaiming, “Drat the teeth, take ’em.” They no sooner fell into the
darkness on the road, than hasty retreating footsteps were heard, and
there were no more demands for the teeth.
THE SPANIARD AT PENRYN.
In the reign of James I. there happened to be upon our coast a Spanish
vessel of war. Favoured by the mists of evening and the growing darkness,
the ship entered Falmouth harbour unseen. The crew armed themselves,
and taking to their boats, proceeded with great caution to the town of
Penryn, situated at the head of the harbour. There they landed, formed
themselves into proper order, and marched into the town, purposing
to plunder the inhabitants and burn the town. With steady tramp they
cautiously proceeded up the dark main street, resolving to attack the
principal dwellings first. Suddenly a great shout was heard, drums and
trumpets sounded, the noise of many feet rushing to and fro fell on the
ears of the Spaniards. Believing that they were discovered, and that
preparations had been made for their reception, fear seized them, and
they fled precipitately to their boats and left the town. The martial
music proceeded, however, from a temporary theatre, in which a troop of
strolling players were entertaining the people.
BOYER, MAYOR OF BODMIN.
In the reign of Edward VI., Boyer was the mayor of Bodmin, and he
appears to have been suspected of aiding in an insurrection of the men
of Devonshire and Cornwall. However this may be, Sir Anthony Kingston,
provost-marshal of the king’s army, sent orders to Boyer to have a gibbet
erected in the street opposite his own house by the next day at noon. He,
at the same time, sent his compliments to the mayor, telling him that he
should dine with him, in order to be present at the execution of some
rebels.
The unsuspecting mayor obeyed the command, and at the time appointed
provided an entertainment for his guest. Kingston put about the wine, and
when he observed the mayor’s spirits were exhilarated, asked him if the
gibbet was ready. Being told that it was, with a wanton and diabolical
sneer he ordered the mayor to be hanged upon it.
At the same time a miller was ordered to be hanged; his servant was so
deeply attached to him, that he went to Kingston and begged him to spare
his master’s life, even if he hung him in his place. “If you are so fond
of hanging,” said Kingston, “you shall not be disappointed,” and he
hanged the miller and his servant together.
A similar story is told of a mayor of St Ives.
THOMASINE BONAVENTURE.
In the reign of Henry VI., about the year 1450, in the parish of Week
St Mary, on the northern coast of Cornwall, was born of humble parents
a girl, to whom the name of Thomasine was given. This child was in no
way distinguished from other Cornish children; they ever have been, and
still are, remarkable for their healthful beauty, and Thomasine, like
others, was beautiful. Her father was a small farmer, and the daughter
was usually employed in minding the sheep upon Greenamore, or preventing
the geese from straying too far from his dwelling.
Thomasine appears to have received no education beyond that which nature
gave her. She grew to womanhood a simple, artless maiden, who knew
nothing of the world or its cares beyond the few sorrows which found
their way into the moorland country of Week and Temple.
Thomasine was watching her flocks when a mounted traveller, with
well-filled saddle-bags, passing over the moors observed her. Struck by
the young woman’s beauty, he halted and commenced a conversation with
her. “Her discreet answers, suitable to the beauty of her face, much
beyond her rank or degree,” says the quaint Hals, “won upon him, and he
desired to secure her as a servant in his family.” This traveller, who
was a draper from London, sought out the parents of the shepherdess,
and proposed to relieve them of this daughter, by taking her to the
metropolis, promising her good wages and many privileges; and beyond this
he agreed that, in case he should die, seeing she would be so far removed
from her friends, she should be carefully provided for.
Having satisfied themselves of the respectability of this merchant
traveller, the parents agreed to part with their daughter; and
Thomasine, full of girlish curiosity to see the city, of which she had
heard, was willing to leave her home.
We next find Thomasine in London as a respected servant to this city
draper. His wife and family are pleased with the innocent Cornish
girl; and by her gentle manners and great goodness of heart, she won
upon all with whom she was brought in contact. Years passed away, and
the draper’s wife died. In the course of time he proposed to make the
faithful Thomasine his wife. The proposal was accepted, and “Thomasine
and her master were solemnly married together as man and wife; who then,
according to his promise, endowed her with a considerable jointure in
case of her survivorship.” Within two years of this marriage the draper
died, and Thomasine was left sole executrix. The poor servant, who but
a few years previous was minding sheep on the moors, was now a rich
widow, courted by the wealthy of the metropolis. With that good sense
which appears ever to have distinguished her, she improved her mind; and
following the examples by which she had been for some time surrounded,
she added to her natural graces many acquired elegances of manner.
The youth and beauty of the widow brought her numerous admirers, but
all were rejected except Henry Gale, of whom we know little, save that
he was “an eminent and wealthy citizen.” He was accepted, and Thomasine
Gale was the most toasted of all city madams. After a few years passed in
great happiness, Thomasine became again a widow. Gale left her all his
property, and she became, when not yet thirty years of age, one of the
wealthiest women in London. So beautiful, so rich, and being yet young,
the widow was soon induced to change her state again. She chose now for
her companion John Percivall, who was already high in the honours of the
corporation.
At the feast of Sir John Collet, who was Lord Mayor in the second year
of the reign of Henry VII., in 1487, Percivall was the mayor’s carver,
“at which time, according to the custom of that city, Sir John drank to
him in a silver cup of wine, in order to make him sheriff thereof for the
year ensuing, whereupon he covered his head and sat down at table with
the Lord Mayor of London.” John Percivall was elected Lord Mayor himself
in 1499, and he was knighted in the same year by Henry VII. Sir John
Percivall and Dame Thomasine Percivall lived many years happily together;
but he died, leaving all his fortune to his widow.
Lady Percivall was now advanced in years. She had had three husbands,
but no children. The extraordinary accession of fortune made no change
in her simple honest heart; the flattery of the great, by whom she had
been surrounded, kindled no pride in the beautiful shepherdess. The home
of her childhood, from which she had been so long separated, was dear to
her, and she retired in her mourning to the quiet of that distant home.
She spent her declining years in good works. Roads were made and bridges
built at her cost; almshouses for poor maids were erected; she relieved
prisoners; fed the hungry, and clothed the naked. In Week St Mary,
Thomasine founded a chantry and free school “to pray for the souls of her
father and mother, and her husbands and relatives.” To the school she
added a library, and a dwelling for the chanters and others, “and endowed
the same with £20 lands for ever.” Cholwell, a learned man and great
linguist, was master here in Henry VIII.’s time; and here he educated in
the “liberal arts and sciences,” says Carew, “many gentlemen’s sons.”
Such were a few of the benefits conferred on Week by the girl who once
had tended the flocks upon the moors; but who, by great good fortune,
and more by the exercise of good sense, became Lady Mayoress.
Dame Thomasine Percivall died, respected by all who knew her, in 1530,
having then reached the good old age of eighty years.
It appears probable that the name Bonaventure, by which this remarkable
female is usually known, was given to her, likely enough, by the linguist
Cholwell, to commemorate her remarkable fortune.
Berry Comb, in Jacobstow, was once the residence of Thomasine, and it was
given at her death to the poor of St Mary Week.
THE LAST OF THE KILLIGREWS.
Lady Jane, the widow of Sir John Killigrew, sate in one of the windows
of Arwenick House, looking out upon the troubled waters of Falmouth
Harbour. A severe storm had prevailed for some days, and the Cornish
coast was strewn with wrecks. The tempest had abated; the waves were
subsiding, though they still beat heavily against the rocks. A light
scud was driving over the sky, and a wild and gloomy aspect suffused all
things. There was a sudden outcry amongst a group of men, retainers of
the Killigrew family, which excited the attention of Lady Jane Killigrew.
She was not left long in suspense as to the cause. In a few minutes two
Dutch ships were seen coming into the harbour. They had evidently endured
the beat of the storm, for they were both considerably disabled; and
with the fragments of sail which they carried, they laboured heavily. At
length, however, these vessels were brought round within the shelter of
Pendennis; their anchors were cast in good anchoring-ground; and they
were safe, or at least the crew thought so, in comparatively smooth
water.
As was the custom in those days, the boat belonging to the Killigrew
family, manned by the group of whom we have already spoken, went off as
soon as the ships were anchored and boarded them. They then learnt that
they were of the Hanse Towns, laden with valuable merchandise for Spain,
and that this was in the charge of two Spanish factors. On the return of
the boat’s crew, this was reported to Lady Killigrew; and she being a
very wicked and most resolute woman, at once proposed that they should
return to the ships, and either rob them of their treasure, or exact from
the merchants a large sum of money in compensation. The rude men, to whom
wrecking and plundering was but too familiar, were delighted with the
prospect of a rare prize; and above all, when Lady Killigrew declared
that she would herself accompany them, they were wild with joy.
With great shouting, they gathered together as many men as the largest
boat in the harbour would carry, and armed themselves with pikes, swords,
and daggers. Lady Jane Killigrew, also armed, placed herself in the stern
of the boat after the men had crowded into their places, and with a wild
huzza they left the shore, and were soon alongside of the vessel nearest
to the shore. A number of the men immediately crowded up the side and on
to the deck of this vessel, and at once seized upon the captain and the
factor, threatening them with instant death if they dared to make any
outcry. Lady Jane Killigrew was now lifted on to the deck of the vessel,
and the boat immediately pushed off, and the remainder of the crew
boarded the other ship.
The Dutch crew were overpowered by the numbers of Cornishmen, who were
armed far more perfectly than they. Taken unawares as they were, at a
moment when they thought their troubles were for a season at an end, the
Dutchmen were almost powerless.
The Spaniards were brave men, and resisted the demands made to deliver up
their treasure. This resistance was, however, fatal to them. At a signal,
it is said by some, given by their leader, Lady Jane Killigrew,—although
this was denied afterwards,—they were both murdered by the ruffians into
whose hands they had fallen, and their bodies cast overboard into the sea.