[1] The once general custom of “touching the cravel” for the purpose of
averting evils foreshadowed by ill-omens, &c., seems to have almost
died out with the disuse of open fire-places for burning furze and
turf.
Some fifty years ago the practice must have been known all over the
county, and farther off. A “pellar,” called Lutey, then in great
repute, enjoined those under his “protection” to perform the rite at
stated periods, as a safeguard against witchcraft and bad luck
generally. In the spring—as soon as there was twelve hours sun—this
wise man was resorted to by people from all parts of the county, and
farther away, to have their “protection” renewed. This was always the
term used, and its meaning well understood. Great numbers came over
from the Scilly Islands, and the captains and crews of Welsh vessels
trading to Hayle often sought this conjurer’s aid.
One may hope that the pleasant old Christmas pastime of burning
ivy-leaves and rushes was still observed, last Twelfth-night, in some
outlying hamlets where the good folks are not yet so “enlightened” as
to conceive that they know much more than their grandparents.
Those who have taken part in this old observance for obtaining presages
regarding the most important events of life, know that “touching the
cravel” must be carefully complied with on leaving the hearth to gather
what they require; and the first thing on their return, before any of
them may speak, and their more interesting rites commence.
If any of the company happen to speak by the way, the charm is spoiled,
and the seeming presages will be unreliable, unless the incautious ones
return, touch the cravel, and resume the work.
One may be excused for dwelling so long on these almost forgotten
customs, as they may have some significance, interesting to antiquaries
at least. It is high time to glean the little that remains of old-world
observances; for even in such remote places as the northern parishes,
most folks, under middle age, are chary of giving any information about
them.
[2] See the Tinner, page 21.
[3] The name usually given to St. Just feast as it is the nearest
Sunday to All-Hallows.
[4] Grease which oozes out from the gudgeons of mine machinery.
[5] The herb scrophularia aquatica.
[6] Avena nuda.
[7] At that time the duty on salt was 4d. per pound; and, at the low
price for which pork was then sold, it took nearly the value of one
side of a carcase to buy enough salt to cure the other side.
[8] Literally corn-feast; the last day of corn carrying, when
neighbours usually assist each other, then have a good supper and
carouse.
[9] Beacon.
[10] Mean men.
[11] Frogs.
[12] Shell-snails.
[13] Small Lizards.
[14] Patrick Kennedy’s description of an Irish wake, may remind elderly
Cornish people of a custom generally observed in West Cornwall, at
least, in the last century; that of holding watch-night, with the
deceased, for one night, and keeping lighted candles in the room in
which the body was laid out, every night until the funeral.
All those friends of the family who intended to follow the body to its
grave, as “mourners” were expected to join the watchers. It was
customary to have a supper for them (the watchers) about midnight; and
a few hours afterwards the watching was concluded.
It was never the custom here, within our remembrance to address the
spirit, supposed to be hovering near its body, until the latter was
consigned to earth, as the Irish do at this day. In their “croneing”
the spirit is mostly spoken to in consoling or flattering words; and
often a little blarney is added also. Both in Ireland and here, it was
thought a great slight or an insult if friends, who had formal notice
of a decease, did not attend at the watch-night or wake. It is evident,
however, that these customs are remnants of the same ancient British
usage, amongst those of the Celtic race.
A pleasing picture of this ancient observance may be seen in
Cymbeline,—Act iv. Scene 2.
[15] He-Goat.
[16] She-Goat.
[17] See page 70.
[18] Mr. W. J. Henwood.
[19] Before this old building was demolished, a few months since, it
was photographed by Mr. R. H. Preston.
[20] Wednesday in Feasten week.
[21] Dogs with old tin pans, or the like, tied to their tails.
[22] A century or so ago, the people of Ludgvan were so much celebrated
for their dexterity in throwing and catching the silver ball, that they
were known far and near as the Ludgvan hurlers, and still hold in
remembrance their ancient renown by retaining it to this day as a
nickname. Formerly, they were as proud of this name as of their holy
well, and of the tradition they firmly believe—that none who have been
baptized in its waters ever have been, or ever will be, hanged.
[23] “Malbrook is gone to the wars.” This once popular ditty was a
version of the celebrated French song of
“Malbrough s’en va-t-en guerre,
Mironton, mironton, mirontaine,”
which was composed after the battle of Malplaquet in 1709, by some
French officers; who, after being defeated by the Duke of Marlborough,
consoled themselves by making the facetious song in which they imagined
“Monsieur Malbrough is dead.—
What’s more—he’s buri-ed,”
many years before he gave up the ghost and ceased to be the object of
the soldier’s admiration and terror.
The name of Marlborough having been first corrupted by the French into
Malbrough, was further changed by the English into Malbrook. Only a few
years since the old song was republished in Paris, in the collection of
“Chansons Populaires,” under the title of “Mort et convoi de
l’invincible Malbrough.” From the translation of an amusing essay,
which precedes the song in this collection, we quote the following.
Speaking of Marlborough, the writer says, “Not being able to conquer,
the enemy lampooned him, and each of his victories was followed by a
new satirical song; such verses being in France then, as in the good
times of Cardinal Mazarin, the people’s most ordinary means of taking
their revenge.”
The song was preserved only by tradition in some of the provinces,
where it had been probably left by the soldiers of Villars and de
Bufflers; but in 1781 it resounded, all of a sudden, from one end of
the kingdom to the other. It happened that when Marie Antoinette gave
to the throne of France an heir, he was nursed by a peasant named
(probably nicknamed) Madame Poitrine, who had been chosen, among other
qualifications, for her healthy appearance, and good humour. The nurse,
while rocking the royal cradle, sung Malbrough, and the dauphin, it is
said, opened his eyes at the name of the great general. The name, the
simplicity of the words, singularity of the burthen, and the touching
melodiousness of the air, interested the queen, and she frequently sang
it. Everybody repeated it after her, and even the king condescended to
quaver out the words, “Malbrough s’en va-t-en guerre.” Malbrough was
sung in the state apartments of Versailles; in the kitchens; in the
stables; it became quite the rage: from the Court it was adopted by the
tradespeople of Paris, and passed thence from town to town, and country
to country; it was wafted across to England, where it soon became as
popular as in France. It is said that a French gentleman, wishing, when
in London, to be driven to Marlborough Street, had totally forgotten
its name, but, on singing the air of Malbrough, the coachman understood
him immediately, and drove him to the proper address with no other
direction.
Goethe, who travelled in France about the same time, was so teased with
the universal concert of Malbrough, that he took a hatred to the duke,
who was the innocent cause of the musical epidemic. Malbrough made
itself heard, without ceasing. Apropos of everything, and apropos of
nothing, it gave its name to the fashions, to silks, head-dresses,
carriages, and soups—was reproduced, in short, in all manner of ways
and forms, and, nothing short of the Revolution, the fall of the
Bastile, and the Marsellaise hymn, were sufficient to smother the
sounds of that hitherto never ceasing song. The warlike and melancholy
air of the song did not, any more than its hero, originate in France,
and we have sought in vain to trace its history back from the time when
Napoleon—in spite of his general antipathy to music—roared it out
whenever he got into his saddle to start on a fresh campaign. We are
not unwilling to believe, with M. de Chateaubriand, that it was the
same air which the crusaders of Godefroid de Bouillion sang under the
walls of Jerusalem. The Arabs still sing it, and pretend that their
ancestors learned it at the battle of Massoura, or else from the
brothers-in-arms of De Joinville, who repeated it to the clashing of
bucklers while pressing forward to the cry of
“Mountjoy, Saint Denis!”
[24] This old Cornish word Bucca (still in common use) has various
significations, and none very clearly defined. It appears to belong to
the same family of words as the Irish “Pooka,” and the Welsh “Pwcca.”
As above, it is often applied to a poor, half-witted person of a
mischievous disposition—one about whom there is anything weird or
wisht—to a ghost, or any kind of frightful apparition, and by
association of ideas to a scarecrow. By Buccaboo, which is probably a
corruption of Buccadhu (black spirit) we mean Old Nick, or one of his
near relations. As an example of this, there is a story told of an old
lady who lived long ago at Raftra, in St. Levan. The old dame, when
more than fourscore, was so fond of card playing that she would walk
almost every Winter’s night, in spite of wind or weather, to the
village of Trebear, distant a mile or more, that she might enjoy her
favourite pastime with a family of congenial tastes who resided there.
The old lady’s step-daughter wished to put a stop to what she regarded
as rather scandalous vagaries, the old dame seldom arriving home before
the small hours of the morning; with this intention the young mistress
persuaded the serving-man to array himself in a white sheet, &c., so as
to personate a ghost that was accused of wandering about a lonely spot
over which old madam would have to pass. The Winter’s night was dark
and rainy, when, about midnight, the ghost seated himself on the side
of Goon-proynter stile, where he had to wait two or three hours. The
dear old lady was in no hurry to leave pleasant company as it was
Christmas time. At last the old lady passed Padz-jigga, mounted the
stile, and seated herself to draw breath opposite the ghost. Over a
while, she said, “Hallo! Bucca gwidden (white spirit) what cheer? And
what in the world dost thee do here with Bucca Dhu close behind thee?”
This cool address so frightened Bucca-gwidden that he ran off as fast
as he could lay feet to ground, the old lady scampering after, clapping
her hands and calling “Good boy, Buccadhu; now thee west catch Bucca
gwidden and take’n away with thee!” The ghost was so frightened that he
fell in a fit and was never right in the head after. Then he was a real
bucca in the sense of our Betty’s sweetheart, and the strong minded
sociable old lady enjoyed many more years of her favourite pastime with
her friends in Trebear.
Another Bucca of the mischievous class lived in St. Just but a short
time since, who gave rise to the saying “Between both,” as Bucca said.
Being, as usual, loafing about the public-house of a pay day, when
there is more than the ordinary good cheer about, Bucca happened to
look into a room where Capt. Chynolds and another gentleman were
sitting in the window-seat. The captain said to the intruder, “Which
art thee, Bucca, a fool or a rogue?” Before making any reply, Bucca
placed himself between them, then answered “I’m between both, I
believe!” Another day he was idling about a new shaft that two men were
engaged in sinking—one filling the kibbal, the other winding up the
stuff with a hand winze. The man to grass told Bucca to take hold of
the winze and wind up a few kibbals whilst he lighted his pipe. Bucca
wound up two or three all right. When the next kibbal full was near the
top of the shaft he called out “Hold on there below while I spit on my
hands a minute.” Down went the kibbal, winze and all smash, and half
killed the man below. Bucca took to his heels crying “Triz-wiz,
triz-wiz; whipper-snapper, catch me if thee cust.” (canst).
Another trick of the Bucca was to watch when the women put a nice bit
of cake to bake that they might have a comfortable cup of tea before
the good man came home from work. They would be sure to go out to
coursey (gossip) a bit while the cake was baking. Then Bucca would
steal in, carry off the cake, and place a turf under the bake-pan,
carefully covered with fire again. When the gossip came to take up the
nice bit she might be heard to exclaim “Well I never thought I’d been
out so long; my cake is burned to ashes.”
[25] The “red-haired Danes” have continued a source of terror and a
name of reproach to the present day. On the first of this month a
Longrock quarrel was the subject of a magisterial inquiry at the
Penzance town-hall, when it was proved that the defendant, Jeffery, had
called one of the complainants, Lawrence, who has rubrick hair, a
“red-haired Dane.” In Sennen Cove, St. Just, and the western parishes
generally, there has existed, time out of mind, a great antipathy to
certain red-haired families, who were said to be descendants of the
Danes, and whose ancestors were supposed, centuries before, to have
landed in Whitsand Bay, and set fire to, and pillaged the villages.
Indeed, this dislike to the Rufus-headed people was carried so far that
few families would allow any member to marry them, so that the
unfortunate race had the less chance of seeing their children lose the
objectionable tinge of hair.
[26] As the name Vellandruchar means wheel-mill, the mill which was
formerly in this place was probably one of the oldest in the West. At
no great distance from Vellandruchar is the site of another ancient
mill called Vellansager. This name is equally suggestive, as denoting
that the serging or bolting apparatus was not then common in the mills.
These old mills were situated in the lower part of Burrien, on the
stream which divides that parish from Paul. According to tradition, a
sanguinary battle was fought on the moors a little above Vellandruchar,
between Arthur and the Danes, when they say the mill was worked with
blood, and that arrow, spear and axe-heads, with the remains of other
weapons, have frequently been found in the bog-turf (peat soil) which
is cut for fuel from Vellandruchar Moors. These moors were also said to
be so much infested with adders, in old time, that cattle could not be
turned into them in Summer, until one day an adder got into a pot of
milk, which a man who was cutting turf on the moor brought with him to
drink. The man placed a turf on the mouth of the pot, and stopped the
adder in it. In a short time the imprisoned adder made a peculiar
noise, which attracted other adders round the pot. These, in turn,
seemed to call others, until from all parts of the moors the adders
were seen directing their course straight to the interesting captive.
The men cutting turf on the moors were all obliged to flee the low
grounds. Towards night, when they ventured into the moor, they found
that a mass of adders, as large as an ordinary hay-cock, had interlaced
themselves into a solid heap over and round the pot. The people then
formed a ring of dry furze, and other fuel they found ready cut, around
the mass of adders, now apparently torpid. When many scores of trusses
of furze were collected, fire was placed at the same instant to several
parts of the ring of furze. They say that the noise made by the burning
adders was frightful, and that a great number of milpreaves were found
in the ashes.
This story of the adders is also told about Trevethow Moors, the ground
now called the Hay Meadow, and many other places.
[27] At pater omnipotens adigat me fulmine ad umbras, Pallentes umbras
Erebi, noctemque profundam, &c., &c.
[28] This was nearly the language of our learned countryman, Mr. Moyle,
in “A charge to the Grand Jury at Liskeard, April, 1706.” “If France
(says he) prevails in this war, we shall be dragooned into idolatry,
slavery, and wooden shoes.”—See Moyle’s works, vol. 1, p. 163.
[29] “Golls” or “gollies” is the Phœnician name for Hercules, according
to the Rev. Mr. Hogg, in his Fabulous History of Cornwall, so that the
use of the term, vulgar as it may appear to some, connects the butcher
of our narrative with a favourite deity of the Phœnicians.