The following account of this ghost-laying is given as related by the
old tinner, [2] except where his dialect might be unintelligible to
general readers. It is curious that he made the spirit-queller address
the ghost by the uncouth word “Nomine domme,” which he thought a proper
name. One cannot doubt that the expression used by the original
story-teller was (In) nomine Domini, which became corrupted, as above,
by the usage of more ignorant droll-tellers of recent times.
On asking my venerable gossip what the term signified, he replied to
the effect that it would take a conjurer to tell. He had heard it was a
magical word, very likely the spirit’s name among spirits, for old
folks held that they acquire new ones quite different from what they
bore when in mortal bodies; that persons, knowing and using these
secret names, obtained power over spirits, whether black or white; by
this means conjurers controlled them, and witches summoned fiends to
work their wicked will for a time. According to old belief, the
infernal gentry were fond of wandering incog., just like mortals of
high rank, that they might not have too many witches to work for. That
strange word was the only one remembered of the parson’s conjuring
formulary; “the others,” said he, “were as long as to-day and
to-morrow, not like ours, for none but a parson, or some such learned
body, could utter them.”
When speaking of evil spirits, he called them “Bukkaboos,” which is a
recent corruption of “Bukka-dhu” (black spirit,) as old folks, who knew
anything of Cornish, pronounced it. Within the writer’s remembrance,
“Bukka-gwidden” (white spirit) was also in frequent use, though there
was great latitude allowed to its signification. All good spirits,
including, “small people” (fairies) were thus termed, except Piskey; he
was regarded as “something between both,” like St. Just Bukka said he
was, on seating himself between a mine-captain and a “venturer,” who
asked him if he were a fool or a rogue?
If Piskey threshed poor old people’s corn and did other odd jobs for
them by night, he was just as ready to lead them astray and into bogs,
for mere fun; to ride the life out of colts; dirt on blackberries; and
do other mischievous pranks. A precocious child, one “too wise to live
long,” who bothered old folks by asking awkward questions, was called a
“Bukka-gwidden,” as well as a poor simple, innocent, harmlessly insane
person, or near to it. My old west-country schoolmaster, of a little
more than fifty years ago, often applied this name to his scholars.
Persons who have been acquainted with our old droll-tellers know that
they gave free rein to fancy, provided they had an audience to their
mind; being well aware that, for the most part,
“A jest’s prosperity lies in the ear
Of him that hears it.”
It is often remarked by strangers that the Cornish don’t understand a
joke; but, if one may judge by the grotesque scenes and adventures of
our old stories, that was not the case in past times, when there was
less affectation and Puritanism than at present.
Some of the incidents related seem absurd enough, yet, as they may
dimly shadow forth some old belief, it was thought best to give them,
for better for worse, as consistency is not expected in very old
stories, such as follow:—
The housekeeper was confined to her task, as already stated, long
before the family succeeded in getting “Wild Harris” laid. Many
ineffectual attempts were made, which only resulted in harm, by raising
tempests which destroyed crops on land and life at sea; besides, after
these vain trials of parson’s power, the ghost became more troublesome,
for awhile, than he was before their interference with his walks.
Fortunately, however, the Rev. Mr. Polkinghorne, of St. Ives, acquired
the virtue whereby he became the most powerful exorcist and
“spirit-queller” west of Hayle.
From the little that is known of this gentleman, one may infer that he
wasn’t, by any means, such as would now be styled a “pious character.”
He is said to have been the boldest fox-hunter of these parts, but he
would never chase a hare; any attempt to kill one would make him swear
like a trooper. He kept many of these innocent animals—the
hares—running about his house like cats; foolish people said they were
the parson’s familiar spirits or witches he found wandering in that
shape. He was a capital hurler, and encouraged all kinds of manly
games, as he said they produced a cordial “one and all” sort of feeling
between high and low. The parson was mostly accompanied by his horse
and dog, which both followed him. When he stopped to chat, Hector, his
horse, came up and rested his head on his master’s shoulder, as if
desirous of hearing the news too. If he called at a house, both his
attendants waited at the door, his horse never requiring to be held. He
made long journeys with his steed walking alongside or behind him, the
bridle-rein passed round its neck and the stirrups thrown across the
saddle. Wonderful stories are also told about the high hedges and rocky
ground that the parson’s horse would take him safely over, when after
the hounds; and how the birds, which nestled undisturbed in his garden,
and other dumb creatures seemed to regard him as one of themselves.
On being requested to do his utmost in order that “Wild Harris’s” ghost
might rest in peace, or be kept away from Kenegie, the reverend
gentleman replied that he hoped to succeed if it were in the power of
man to effect it.
Other clergymen, hearing of what was about to be attempted, expressed a
wish to be present at the proceedings. Mr. Polkinghorne replied that he
neither required their assistance nor desired their presence, yet, any
of his reverend brethren might please themselves for what he cared.
Moreover, he charged them that, if they came to Kenegie on the
appointed night, not to intermeddle in any way, whatever might happen.
A night in the latter end of harvest was appointed for this arduous
undertaking. Several clergymen being anxious to see how the renowned
spirit-queller would act with a ghost that had baffled so many of them,
about an hour before midnight four from the westward of Penzance, a
young curate of St. Hellar (St. Hilary), and another from some parish
over that way, arrived at Kenegie, and waited a long while near the
gate, expecting Mr. Polkinghorne. At the turn of night, a terrific
storm came on, and the six parsons, drenched to their skins, took
refuge in the summer-house. Candles had been lit in the upper room of
this building, as it was understood that the spirit-quelling operations
would be performed there. They waited long, but neither Polkinghorne
nor Harris’s ghost appearing, the curate of St. Hellar—impatient of
inaction—took from his breast a book, and read therefrom some conjuring
formulas, by way of practice, or for mere pastime. As he read, a
crashing thunder-clap burst over the building, shook it to its
foundations, and broke open the window. The parsons fell on the floor,
as if stunned, and on opening their eyes, after being almost blinded by
lightning, they beheld near the open door a crowd of “Bukka-dhu”
grinning at them, and then partially disappear in a misty vapour, to be
succeeded by others, who all made ugly faces and contemptuous or
threatening gestures. “It was enough to make the parsons swear,” if
they hadn’t been so frightened, to see how these jeering “Bukkas”
mocked them.
The reverend gentlemen crawled to the window and looked out, to avoid
the sight of such ugly spectres, and to get fresh air,—that in the room
smelt worse than the fumes of brimstone. Presently, an icy shiver ran
through them, and they felt as if something awful had entered the room.
On glancing round, they beheld the apparition of a man standing with
his back to the fireplace, and looking intently towards the opposite
wall. His eyes never winked nor turned away, but seemed to gaze on
something beyond the blank wall. He wore a long black gown or loose
coat which reached the floor; his face appeared sad and wan, under a
sable cap, garnished with a plume and lace. He seemed unconscious of
either the black spirits’ or parsons’ presence. Over a while, he turned
slowly round, advanced towards the window, with a frowning countenance,
which showed the parsons that he regarded them as intruders; and they,
poor men, trembling in every limb, with hair on end, pressed each other
into the open window, intending to drop themselves to the ground, and
risk broken bones and an ugly “qualk” (concussion), for they were most
of them fat and heavy.
Meanwhile, scores of “Bukkas” continued to hover behind the ghost,
grimmacing as if they enjoyed the parsons’ distress. Every minute
seemed an hour to the terrified gentlemen; but, as some of them got
their legs out through the casement, the tread of heavy boots was heard
on the stone stairs, and Polkinghorne bounced into the room, when the
ghost, turning quickly round, exclaimed, “Now Polkinghorne, that thou
art come, I must be gone!” The conjurer quietly holding out his hand
towards the ghost, quietly said “In nomine Domini, I bid thee stay;”
then he turned to the black spirits, made a crack with his
hunting-whip, said, “Avaunt, ye Bukkadhu,” and off they went, at his
word, howling and shrieking louder than the tempest. The ghost stood
still; Polkinghorne uttered long words in an unknown tongue whilst he
drew around it, on the sanded floor, with his whip-stick, a circle and
magical signs, with a “five-pointed star” (pentagram) “to lock the
circle.” He continued speaking a long while without pausing, and his
words sounded deep and full, as if, at once, near and afar off, like
the “calling of cleaves” and surging of billows on a long stretch of
shore, or thunder echoing around the hills.
At length the spirit felt the able conjuror’s power, crouched down at
his feet, holding out his hands, as if praying him to desist.
Mr. Polkinghorne, whilst still saying powerful words, unwound, from
around his waist, a few yards of new hempen “balsh” (cord), leaving
much more of it attached. Having made a loop at the end, he passed it
over the ghost’s head and under his arms; then, addressing him, said,
“In nomine Domini, I bid thee stand up and come with me.” On saying
this, he lifted from the floor, with his whip-stick, the spirit’s
skirts, and under them nothing was seen but flaming fire.
When Polkinghorne had the spirit standing beside him, with his eyes
fixed and limbs motionless, like one spell-bound, he exclaimed, “Thank
the Powers, it’s all right so far.”
Casting a glance towards the other parsons, and seeing a book on the
floor, he took it up, opened it, and speaking for the first time to his
reverend brethren, said, “You, too, may thank your lucky stars that I
came in the nick of time to save ye from grievous harm.” Holding it
towards the St. Hellar curate, he continued, “This belongs to you, my
weak brother; strange such a book should be in your possession! The
penmanship is beautiful; it must have cost a mint of money, yet it is
worse than useless,—nay, it’s perilous to such as you. By good luck,
you read what merely brought hither silly ‘Bukkas’; one can’t properly
call them demons, though no others were known here in old times; they
now mostly keep to old ruined castles, ‘crellas,’ and ‘fougoes,’ yet
they are always abroad in such a night as this. But, if you had chanced
to have pronounced a word, that you don’t understand, on the next leaf,
you would have called hither such malignant fiends, flying in the
tempest this awful night, as would have torn ye limb from limb, or have
carried ye away bodily. Perhaps, becoming tired, they might have fixed
ye on St. Hellar steeple. For my part, I wish you were there, lest a
greater evil befall ye this night.
“You ought to have known, as any old ‘pellars’ (conjurors) would have
told ye, if you had deigned to talk with such without preaching to
them, that the secret of secrets, the unwritten words which make this
book of use, are the names of powerful and benevolent spirits, by whose
aid fiends are expelled. These secret names, by which alone they may be
invoked, are only taught, by word of mouth, to the few who are
initiated, after long probation, mental and bodily, and a more severe
examination, by nine sages, than the likes of you would ever pass.
Many, to their sorrow, have been presumptuous to make the essay. Sages
hold that if these sacred names were written they would lose their
magic power.
“The mystic signs, necessary for obtaining mastery over some spirits,
are only traced in sand, or other substance from which they are readily
effaced when those deemed worthy have this knowledge imparted. Not so
very long ago, the learned in occult science met, at stated times, on
the lonely downs, and at the same places in which sages were wont to
confer in days of yore for the examination of such as sought admission
into their fraternity, and for the preservation of their mystic lore.
Novices were principally examined as to their proficiency in the
science of extension, and in making such reckonings as are required for
constructing a planetary scheme at any given time. Not that these
sciences had much connection with the more mysterious subjects treated
of in this manuscript; but, it was justly considered that the person
having a mind capable of comprehending geometrical problems, and of
making abstruse astrological calculations, was worthy to be admitted
into the brotherhood of sages, and, in time, to their higher
mysteries.”
After a pause, in looking sadly at the ghost, who seemed to listen with
attention, he continued, addressing the gentlemen of St. Hellar, “I
suppose you have heard the old saying, ‘Women and fools can rise
devils, but it takes wise men to lay them.’ Indeed, tradition says
that, in ancient times, fair young witches first obtained this dread
knowledge from their demon lovers, to summon them whenever they
desired; old hags soon pried into the secret—as they will into all
kinds of deviltry,—and quickly communicated from one to another, until
witches became numerous in all Christian lands; thousands of them were
burnt as a warning, but their burning didn’t deter others from the like
evil practices.
“The demons became disgusted of witches continually crying after them,
to wreck their vengeance on innocent man and beast, and did their best
to evade them. Much more may be said on the subject, but time presses.
I have still arduous work to perform, so only another word, my
over-curious brother,—burn this book of magic in the first convenient
fire.”
Saying that, he cast down the book; spoke a few words, which the others
didn’t understand; drew his foot over a mystic sign that “locked” the
charmed circle; and, turning towards the spirit, said, “In nomine
Domini, come thou with me,” and “Wild Harris’s” ghost was led away,
quiet as a lamb.
Mr. Polkinghorne, having reached the outer gate, took his horse, which
he had left there. The poor beast trembled, though this ghost was not
the first, by many, that had been near it. Having mounted, he gave the
ghost more rope, and bade him keep farther from Hector. A minute
afterwards the four west-country parsons, without as much as saying, “I
wish’e well, till we meet again,” took down hill as fast as their
horses could “lay feet to ground;” it was “the devil take the hindmost”
with them.
In passing up Kenegie lane, the parson’s horse was very “fractious;” it
jumped from side to side, tried to leap over hedges, and screeched like
a child; yet it became pretty quiet at last, when the spirit kept off
to the end of his tether. Few bleaker places are to be found than the
old road to St. Ives, passing over Kenegie downs. When they got there,
the wind seemed to beat on them from all points at once; rain and
thunder never ceased; the Castle-hill seemed all ablaze with lightning;
at times, too, when a more violent blast than usual whirled around
them, clouds of fiends hovered over them like foul birds of prey; the
sky was pitch black, and demons were only seen by the forked lightning
that burst from their midst. The ghost, as if seeking protection, came
nearer the parson; then his horse’s terror became painful to witness,
until a few magical words and a crack of his whip sent the devils
howling away, and the ghost to the end of his rope. At last they came
within a stone’s cast of a few dwellings called Castle-gate, and
leaving the highway took a path on the left that wound up the hill to
Castle-an-dinas.
We leave them for awhile to look after St. Hellar curate and his
friend.
One might think that the two parsons from eastward would have taken
their nearest way home, over Market-jew-green; but no, St. Hellar
curate thought he would rather go many miles out of his way than miss
this opportunity of seeing a spirit put to rest, and his friend was
afraid to go home alone; so they both started after the ghost-layer,
keeping sufficiently near to see him on horse-back, leading the spirit,
as they ascended the hill. The lightning was almost continuous,
otherwise the night was very dark. On reaching the open downs, however,
they found it impossible to keep their saddles, even by holding on with
both hands to their horses’ manes. Their hats were blown away, and
their cloaks flying from their necks like sails in a hurricane rent
from the yards. They alighted and trudged along, in single file,
dragging their unwilling steeds behind them, for the horses wanted to
take their accustomed road home, and didn’t like the ghostly company
ahead.
When Mr. Polkinghorne reached the hamlet, called Castle-gate, and
entered a narrow lane leading up to Castle-an-dinas, they were so far
behind as not to see his departure from the highroad; and, on coming
near the lonely cottages, decided to stay there, if they could find
shelter; but, on a closer view, the dwellings appeared to be deserted;
the thatch was stripped from their roofs, leaving bare rafters on all
but one of them.
On approaching that dwelling, they heard Mr. Polkinghorne’s Hector
neigh from the downs; their horses replied, and there was more
whinnying from Hector, which showed the direction taken, and set St.
Hellar parson all agog, to follow the ghost-layer. As they crossed the
road and paused a moment, a whirlwind passed over the house, where they
thought of seeking shelter, and took up a bundle of spars (small rods,
pointed at both ends, and used for securing the thatch) which a
thatcher, who had been repairing the roof, had left there, pinned to
the work with a broach, that he might find them to hand when he
continued his thatching. The bundle being taken high up and whirled
about, its bind broke, and one of the devil-directed spars pierced St.
Hellar curate’s side, just above his pin-bone, (hip-joint) like an
arrow shot from a bow. He fell on the ground like as if killed, and his
companion, in drawing the spar out of his friend’s side, had his hand
burnt, just as if he had grasped red-hot iron.
Presently, the black clouds rolled away westward, and the wind lulled.
Then the spar-wounded man was raised by his companion; lifted on to his
horse; and laid across the saddle, like a sack of corn. They went
slowly on and reached Nancledery about daybreak. Having rested a few
hours at the Mill, it was found that the St. Hellar curate was still
unable to sit on horseback, and he was taken home in a cart.
The reverend gentleman was, ever after, lame; and bore to his grave
marks of his spar-shot wound; that’s the last we heard of him.
We now return to Mr. Polkinghorne. At the time of this ghost-laying
there were, around the Castle-hill, extensive tracts of open heath,
which are now enclosed; and the highway is skirted by hedges, where it
was then open downs, there being several more small dwellings built at
Castle-gate.
The parson’s Hector was well acquainted with the lay of the country all
around, as he had often crossed it following the hounds; and, after
scrambling through the narrow lane, tried his utmost to take away down
over the moorland to a smith’s shop in Halangove, where he had often
been shod. By a firm hand on the bridle-rein his master kept him
up-hill for a furlong or so, when they came to an old gurgie (ruined
hedge) that once enclosed a fold. On one side there was a bowjey
(cattle or sheep-house). A dwelling and outhouses have since been
built, and a few quillets (small fields) enclosed near this spot. Mr.
Polkinghorne alighted, turned his horse into the old “shelter,” and
bade the ghost approach.
They walked on in silence until they came to the Castle’s outer
enclosure, which screened them from the blast. Then the reverend
gentleman said, “Now that we are alone, and not likely to suffer any
more intrusion, tell me, my unhappy brother, what it is that disturbs
thy rest? Be assured, my desire is to procure thee peace.”
The spirit replied to the effect that, at the time of his decease, he
was much troubled, because he owed several sums to work-people and
others, fearing they wouldn’t be paid by his successor. Moreover, he
related how he had walked about for years, hoping some honest body
would speak to him; how the longer he was left unspoken to the more
uneasy and troublesome he became; and when his relations brought the
parsons to lay him, who were unqualified for that office, he was much
exasperated, and he determined never to leave Kenegie.
“Yet, it gave me some pleasure,” said the ghost, “to make those who
came and read long curses, as if exorcising an evil spirit to “cut and
run” and nevermore return, by only advancing a step towards them.
Though spirits seldom speak until first addressed, I couldn’t help
exclaiming, as I did, and wished to escape when you surprised me by
entering the summer-house; but I am now satisfied to be in your power,
trusting you will procure me rest.”
“Be assured, my son,” replied the parson, “that I will see all thy
debts paid.”
“That will relieve me of much,” said the spirit, “yet there are other
subjects that trouble me; but you must promise me never to divulge
them, ere I make a clean breast of them.”
“My profession obliges secrecy in such cases,” replied his adviser,
“therefore speak on without reserve.”
The poor ghost having unburthened himself, Mr. Polkinghorne gave him
words of comfort, and concluded by saying, “think no more about your
little faults and failings, for if, when in mortal life, you had more
of what we call the devil in ye, you would have overcome your
opponents, and much grief would have been spared to yourself and
others.
“Besides, my son,” continued he, “from your simple, honest, and
confiding disposition, you were unable to cope with sly, mercenary
hirelings.”
Then the parson took the cord off, saying, “This is no longer required
to protect ye from evil spirits, for they have all departed with the
tempest they raised, and the sky is now serene.”
As they ascended the hill the moon shone bright on the old fort’s inner
enclosing wall, which was then almost intact. The upper enclosure is
nearly oval in outline, and they entered it at its south-eastern end.
Stopping a minute on the hill-top, Mr. Polkinghorne said to the ghost,
“There is no cure for a troubled spirit equal to constant employment,
and I shall allot you an easy task, which, with time and patience, will
procure ye repose; but I must first make the whole of this enclosure
secure against infernal spirits.”
Mr. Polkinghorne then used a form of exorcism, which, as far as it
could be understood by the old story-teller’s account, was something
like the following:
Having placed the ghost on his right hand side, he passed with him
three times around the enclosed hill-top, going from east to west, or
with the sun, and keeping close to the wall. At the first round, he
merely counted the number of paces; at the next, he uttered, in some
ancient eastern tongue, such exorcisms and adjurations as serve to
expel infernal spirits; at the last circuit, he made, near the bounding
wall, twelve mystic signs, at equal distances. He then passed through
the middle of the ground to its north-western end, “cutting the air”
with his whip, and tracing on the earth more magical figures. Being
arrived at the end opposite the entrance, he drew a line with his whip
stick, from a large stone in the wall, on one side, to another
opposite, and told the spirit to remember them as bound-stones. The
space thus marked off might be three or four “laces” of pretty even
grass-covered ground, with a few furze bushes and large stones
scattered over it.
The reverend gentleman rested a while on the ruined wall, which rose
some ten feet above a surrounding foss, and three or four from the
inner ground.
“Now, my son,” said he, turning towards the ghost, who stood near, “all
within the Castle’s upper walls is as safe for ye as consecrated
ground; and here is your task, which is merely to count the blades of
grass on this small space, bounded by the wall and a straight line from
stone to stone, that you can always renew or find.
“You must reckon them nine times, to be sure that you have counted
right; you needn’t set about it till I leave, there’s plenty of time
before ye.
“Whilst at your work, banish from your thoughts all remembrance of past
griefs, as far as possible, by thinking of pleasant subjects. There is
nothing better for this purpose than the recollection of such old world
stories as delighted our innocent childhood, and please us in mature
age.”
The spirit looked disconcerted and said something—the old tinner didn’t
know his words exactly,—to intimate that he thought the assigned task a
vain one, as it produced nothing of lasting use. He would rather be
employed in repairing the Castle walls, or some such job.
“No, my dear son,” replied the parson, “it would never do for ye to be
employed on anything that would be visible to human eyes; the unusual
occurrence would draw hither such crowds of gazers as would greatly
incommode ye. No more need ye trouble yourself on the score of its mere
use, in your sense; for if restless mortals employed themselves solely
in such works of utility as you mean, the greater part of them would
find nothing to do, and be more miserable than ghosts unlaid.”
The poor ghost assented to the greater part of what the parson said,
and the reverend gentleman resumed his discourse, which was enough of
itself to “put spirits to rest” one might think.
“Believe me, gentle spirit,” said he, “the world is just as much a show
as our old Christmas ‘guise-dance’ of St. George; for a great number
pass their lives in doing battle with imaginary dragons; others in
racing about on their hobby-horses, to the great annoyance of quiet
folks. There are numerous doctors, too, both spiritual and physical,
for ever vaunting of their ‘little bottles of elecampane,’ as sovereign
cures for all ills but their own; whilst the motley crowd is bedizened
in fantastic rags and tinsel, just like ‘guiseards.’ Indeed, except
honest husbandmen, simple artisans, and a few others, the rest might
just as well pass their time in spinning ropes of sand, counting blades
of grass, or in any other ghostly employment, for all the good they do,
unless it be to tranquilize their restless minds.”
The ghost made no reply, but seemed “all down in the mouth,” which
expression of sadness the parson remarked, and said, “Don’t ye be out
of heart, brother, but have patience, and you will find that, with
constant work, years will pass away like a summer’s day. Then you will
wonder how your mortal crosses ever had the power to trouble ye. All
remembrance of them will fade like a dream, and you will rest in peace.
“When you have a mind to pause awhile—say after each time of
counting,—you can go around the hill-top and enjoy the extensive
prospect, as all within this higher rampart is a charmed circle for ye,
where fiends dare not enter. There are other pleasant sights which you
will often behold; for the small-people (fairies) still keep to the
Castle-hill and hold their dances and fairs, of summer nights, within
these ramparts. On May-day, in the morning, they are frequently seen
around the spring, just below, or going up and down the steps which
lead to it, by young men and maidens who come at early dawn to clean
out the Castle-well, and to deck it with green boughs and blossoming
May, as is their wont. These gay beings are the spirits of old
inhabitants who dwelt—it may be thousands of years ago—in the
‘Crellas,’ at Chysauster.
“There is something more which will serve to divert ye; people from far
and near often come here to enjoy the charming prospect; you may learn
by their talk what is going on in the country round, if you care to
hear anything about it. Perhaps some of the neighbours may speak of you
and your family, and say things neither pleasant nor true; but let me
beg of ye, however much you may be vexed to hear their slander, for
goodness sake, don’t ye contradict them, nor show yourself; for your
apparition, in its rich but antiquated garb, would frighten poor
weak-minded mortals into fits.”
The poor ghost seemed “dumbfoundered,” and said not a word: so the
parson went on as if in his pulpit. At length he stood up and said,
hastily, “One might mention more of what will make your abode pleasant,
but it’s high time for you to become invisible and for me to leave ye.
The cocks will soon be crowing; see how fast the light increases on
Carn Marth, Carn Brea, and other noble hills that were giants’ dwelling
places in days of yore, and stand out against the grey sky like
sentinels over this favoured Western Land.”
The parson, pointing to the eastern sky, told the spirit to put off his
form. In a minute or so the apparition became indistinct, and faded
gradually away, like a thin wreath of smoke dissolving in air.
Mr. Polkinghorne said farewell, and, as he turned to leave the spirit
to his task, he heard a hollow voice say, “Good friend, do thou
remember me, and visit me again.”
When the reverend gentleman entered the old “bowjey,” the joy that his
horse showed at his approach was like recalling him from death to life.
As Mr. Polkinghorne slowly wended his way homeward, he was grieved to
see the wreck made by the preceding night’s tempest. In Nancledry,
low-lying as it is, dwellings were unroofed, and trees, which had
withstood the storms of centuries were all uprooted. On higher ground
“stones were blown out of hedges,” arish mows laid low, and the corn
whirled around fields.
About sunrise, St. Ives folks, standing at their doors, were surprised
to see their beloved parson, coming down the Stennack, looking so sad
and weary, and that he didn’t give them “the time of day” (a greeting
suitable to the time, as good morning, &c.,) with his accustomed
cheerful tone and pleasant smile. Neither Mr. Polkinghorne nor his
steed were again seen in the street for several days after their
ghostly night’s work.