Old folks of Gulval say that, in their grandparents’ time, the ancient
mansion of Kenegie and its grounds were constantly haunted by three
“sperats,” and, on some nights by many more.
The following stories respecting them were told by an aged tinner of
Lelant, as they had been often related to him by his mother, who had
lived for many years in service at Kenegie, previous to her marriage,
about fourscore years ago; some incidents are also taken from other
versions.
The first ghost, of whom there is any remembrance, and the one which
remained longest, was the spirit of a thrifty old Harris, who made
great additions to the house and walled-gardens, and was most unwilling
to die and leave them. This spirit, however, gave but little trouble.
He merely came on a certain night in every year—which was known to his
descendants—to review the place in which he had taken so much delight;
and only required that, on the night of his accustomed visit, the
principal entrance door should be left open, as well as one opposite,
opening into a paved court surrounded by offices.
At that time the grand entrance was approached by a straight, stately
avenue, flanked by a bowling green, with a picturesque two-storied
summer-house or “look-out” at its further end.
It was believed that any negligence in leaving open these doors, at the
stated time, would be a cause of misfortune to the Harris family, or a
token of its decline.
Consequently, this custom was duly observed from farther back than
there is any remembrance, until within a few years of the time when the
last Harris of Kenegie disposed of his ancestral home. ’Tis said that
when the spirit came and found the doors closed—through some mistake,
it is supposed,—he made much unearthly wailing, till cock-crowing, then
went moaning away and never returned.
It is surmised that when the old family residence, in which he so much
delighted, came into the possession of strangers, he neither desired to
see it nor to hear of it again; and that he has, ever since, shut
himself up in his family vault, where he has plenty of company, as one
may judge from the great number of monuments in Gulval Church,
recording the virtues of his descendants. Before that unlucky time,
crickets were heard chirriping around the hearths of their old home all
night long; but afterwards not one was heard or seen,—sure token of
impending misfortune.
The next ghostly visitor, and a more troublesome one, had been
housekeeper and a great favourite with a later Squire Harris, much to
the prejudice of his son and heir. The very night after her funeral,
disturbances began; the whole household were annoyed by this husey of a
ghost prancing along stone-paved passages, from one room to
another—doors clashing and banging behind her,—till she entered the
kitchen, where she would next be heard winding-up the great
roasting-jack,—one of the old fashioned noisy clock-work machines, kept
in motion by a heavy weight passing through the chamber floors, and
attached to a rope or chain working over screeching pullies, fixed
somewhere in the upper regions of the mansion.
After an interval of scolding, shrieking, and the other accessories of
a row, she would beat the table or dresser-bed with a rolling-pin, and
make the pewter-plates rattle, by way of announcing, as she was wont to
do, that the roast was ready, and to summon the servants to dish it up.
Between the thumps, she screeched “Quick, come quick!” and another
voice replied “Anon, anon!” Then the parlour furniture would be
shifted, as if preparations were in progress for entertaining a large
company. At length the inmates were glad to hear her high-heeled shoes
patting over stairs and along the gallery, until they stopped at her
late master’s bed-chamber door, which was usually the conclusion of her
noisy exploits for the night.
The shadowy figure of this old woman, in a long-bodied gown and kirtle,
was frequently seen passing quickly through the court. Now and then it
happened that a new servant, wishing to get ahead with her work—on
washing days especially,—and not hearing any disturbance, ventured
downstairs in the small hours of the morning; but, on entering the
kitchen, her light was almost always blown out, and she got a slap in
the face, from an invisible hand, that “made her see fire before her
eyes;” and, on turning to leave the room, received a kick behind which
made her remember to stay abed till cock-crowing.
This housekeeper was “put to rest,” however, many years before the
Harrises left their old home, and bound to perform such a task as she
richly deserved. There are no particulars known of the way in which
this was done; it is only stated that some powerful
exorcists—neighbouring clergymen, who were then supposed to possess
power over ghostly visitants—succeeded, after much conjuration, in
quelling her, in some measure; but, as she absolutely refused to leave
the place, they compromised matters by confining her to a small room,
on the eastern or northern side of the mansion; with her were placed a
fleece of black wool, a pair of cards, a “pole and kiggal” (distaff and
spindle) and knitting needles. With these she was required to card the
black fleece until it became white, and then to spin it and knit
stockings of the yarn. Her closet door is walled up or plastered over,
so that few know exactly where it is situated, though old folks who
served the Harris family say they have often heard the clicking of
cards in some remote part of the buildings, and that there was always a
little hole, such as sparrows might nest in, through and through the
wall; if filled up, it was sure to be opened over night, without being
touched by mortal hands.
Whether this old jade’s ghost still gives signs of her presence, is
best known to the inmates. One would gladly dismiss her, but we shall
have to mention her again in connection with “Wild Harris,” who next
came back and haunted the place, down almost to recent times.
The last Ghost of Kenegie—at least of whom there is any trustworthy
tradition—was that of a spendthrift heir, known as “Wild Harris,” who
is best remembered, because ordinary parsons’ collective power was
found insufficient to lay him. He extended his walks all over the
grounds and far away down in the “bottom” towards the mill. He was also
often seen on horseback, chasing with one hound, on Kenegie Downs and
elsewhere.
Belated market folks and others dreaded to pass Kenegie Gate, for they
frequently saw the “Squire’s sperat” standing in an alcove, just over
this grand entrance. The ghost mostly wore a steeple-crown and feather,
hunting-coat and riding-boots, or a long, black gown and flat cap, with
lace and plume.
He usually stood beside his family coat-of-arms, which may still be
seen, and glared down on the road with a look as immovable as that of
the lions carved in stone, that, on either hand, then guarded the gate.
Sometimes, too, he was beheld seated beside the churchway-stile, a few
yards further up the hill. Often on approaching this spot, people were
made aware of the spirit being near, though invisible, by a sulpherous
smell which pervaded the place.
On winter nights, the Squire’s ghost, with a dozen or more of his “old
comrades,” or such-like spirits, would assemble in the bowling-green
summer-house, where they might be seen and heard from the mansion even,
talking, singing, swearing, and shouting, in a state of uproarious
mirth. Altogether, Kenegie must have been a lively place of nights,
with the old housekeeper reacting scenes of her former rule within, and
“Wild Harris’s” nocturnal carouse in the “look-out.” Few servants,
however, lived there long; they didn’t relish such ghostly merriment,
in which they had no other share than to be kept awake and terrified
all night.
No satisfactory account is handed down as to why these troublesome
spirits could not or would not rest; there are, however, fragments of
misty traditions which throw a little light on the subject.
Of the old improving gentleman, who delighted in building, no more
seems to be known than what has been stated. The other unresting Harris
is said to have been an eager sportsman, with much wild-oats in his
composition, who cared for little else but his hunter and hounds,
except a young lady, a poor relation, dependent on his family, with
whom she lived much like a fish out of water, being regarded as too low
for the parlour on grand occasions; and, at all times, as too high for
the kitchen, where she was treated as an intruder by the housekeeper
and her creatures.
This unfortunate damsel passed much of her time in the pleasant upper
room of the summer-house with old maiden ladies of the family, who here
wrought everlasting tapestry, fine lace, or embroidery, varying their
labours by spinning, to stretch their legs, and by doing much other
useful and ornamental work,—then regarded as necessary accomplishments.
Here, too, the ancient dames sipped choice cordials of their own
distilling or compounding; perhaps, in latter days, enjoyed their tea
and gossip; and, from the balcony-like outer stair-landing, have
watched the gentlemen’s healthy exercise and sports on the
bowling-green. This choice retreat was finished with decorative wood
and plaster-work; over the fireplace may yet be seen the family
coat-of-arms; a broad window, opposite the entrance, commanded a
delightful view over miles of rich pasture, orchards, and gardens; the
western hills, with several parish churches; St. Buryan tower, standing
boldly out, like a lofty landmark, against the sky. In the ground
apartment, which also contains a fireplace, gentlemen, after their
exercise on the bowling-green, rested and partook of refreshments with
more enjoyment than—
“A party in a parlour,
Cram’d as they on earth are cram’d.”
When the poor gentlewoman was in her bloom, “Wild Harris’s” father was
a widower, in his dotage, and too much influenced by his housekeeper,
who had been, during his wife’s lifetime, and was still, a special
favourite with him. The old faggot, may she never cease carding, and
her wool never become white! She ever disliked her young master, and
detested the poor orphan lady, of whom she was jealous, fearing lest
she might supplant her one day in governing the household. The dame was
a malicious spy on the lovers, who frequently met in the summer-house
and retired walks down the vale. Their interviews were all the sweeter
for being stolen; yet soon, alas, they resulted in sorrow to the young
lady.
The old gentleman was much prejudiced against his poor cousin by being
persuaded that, only for this unfortunate attachment, his son would
have wedded a rich heiress, whose lands lay near the Harrises’
“up-country” property. He declared that the day his son married his
cousin, he would wed his housekeeper, so that she should still rule the
roost. In spite of all opposition, however, the young man would have
made an “honest woman” of his betrothed, but was hindered by the malice
of the old dame and his father until too late; for the poor damsel,
distracted with grief, wandered away one night, she knew not whither,
and next morning was found, by her lover, drowned in a mill-pond.
Shortly after this tragic event the old Squire died, and “Wild Harris”
found himself master of Kenegie, but disinherited of much other
property, bequeathed to his brothers in the army or navy. He had some
satisfaction, however, in turning to doors the old mischief-making
minion, but not much; she soon fretted herself to death, and was hardly
laid in her grave ere she was back again, making such a din, out of
mere spite, as hindered the inmates from getting a wink of sleep during
the dead hours of night.
The master of Kenegie became more reckless than ever; his days were
spent in hunting, or holding games on the bowling-green; and his nights
were passed in revelry.
He kept open house, for rich or poor, who chose to partake of his
hospitality. One and all were cordially welcomed. With all his faults,
he had an open heart and hand; but, in a few years, he came to an
untimely end, whilst still in his prime, by a fall from his horse when
hunting on the Castle Downs. It is said that his horse was startled by
a white hare that often followed him, and was believed to be the
unfortunate lady’s spirit.
He was borne to Gulval Church and laid in the vault at night, as was
the fashion then with some of our old families. His burial was attended
by many friends; and when some of them—who remained late at the funeral
supper—came down the avenue to return home, they beheld him, as
natural, seemingly, as life, standing by the summer-house steps,
arrayed in his hunting-dress, and, by his side, a favourite old dog
that had died when his master breathed his last.