Most of the saints came into Cornwall, dropping little bits of fame
and reputation as they travelled from parish to parish, and from holy
well to holy well. Old Fuller says they were born under a travelling
planet, "neither bred where born, nor beneficed where bred, nor buried
where beneficed," but wandering ever. Cornwall is known as the "Land
of Saints," and county teams are usually "Saints." "The Saints _v_.
Week-enders. Six goals to three. Five to one on Saints." It sounds a
bit curious, but you get used to it.
The true story of the saints is a little mixed; the giants and the
piskies come in, and wherever the saints went there was sure to be
trouble. We picked up a few stories, not all in one place, but here and
there. Those already published we weeded out, together with some which
appeared doubtful. Some needed a little patching up in places, and the
Bookworm said the most imperfect were the most genuine. The following
were thought worthy of survival.
[Illustration: KING TEWDRIG AND THE SAINTS.]
KING TEWDRIG AND THE SAINTS.
Irish saints swarmed as thick as flies in summer in the reign of
Tewdrig the King, who built his castle on the sands at Hayle, wherein
it now is, only the X-rays are not strong enough to make it visible.
This Tewdrig was a good old sort, and was called Theodore by the saints
as long as he had anything to give. But the saints letting it be known
in the distressful land that they had struck oil, their friends and
relatives swarmed across the Channel in such crowds that the King was
in danger of being eaten out of house and home. He summoned the Keeper
of the Victuals, and asked for a report. He had it; and it was short
and sad--as sad in its way as an army stores inquiry. Every living
thing in air and field and wood had been devoured. All the salted meats
in the keeves had disappeared, "and if you don't stop this immigration
of Irish saints," said the unhappy official, "we shall be eaten up
alive." The good King became serious. Whilst they were talking, a
messenger came with the news that a great batch of saints had come
ashore. The King and his Keeper of the Victuals--when there were any
to keep--looked at each other solemnly. "Put the castle in mourning,"
said the King. When the new arrivals danced up to the gate, with teeth
well set for action and stomachs empty, the Keeper of the Victuals
spoke sadly. "The good King died," he said, "the moment he heard that
more saints had arrived. Those who came first ate all his substance and
emptied his keeves, and there was nothing left of him now but bones.
The last words of the good King were, 'Give them my bones.'" The Keeper
of the Victuals turned, as though to fetch the good King's bones for
the saints to feast on; but they one and all departed and spread the
story. The King played the game and ordered his own funeral; and when
the time came, he got up and looked through a peep-hole to see the
procession. "The saints," said he, "have spared my bones, but they will
surely come and see the last of me." But he was mistaken. The story
that all the keeves were empty spread, and there wasn't a "saint" left
in the land on the morrow. Then the King showed himself to his own
people, and a law was passed, intituled "An Act against Alien Saints'
Immigration." The country recovered its ancient prosperity, and the
Keeper of the Victuals filled the keeves with salted meats, and there
were wild birds in the air, and beasts in the field, and the King once
more feasted in his own hall.
St. Ia came across the Channel on a cabbage leaf, and the wind and tide
carried her gaily to King Tewdrig's shore, but when the Customs asked
her what she had to declare, she only held up the cabbage leaf. As she
was a princess in her own right, and good-looking for an emigrant,
the Customs officers were sad, but showed her a printed paper, rule
xli, which stated that "foreigners without luggage, or visible means
of subsistence, must not be allowed to land." The saint pointed to
the cabbage leaf, and argued that it was "luggage" and "visible means
of subsistence," and would have made good her point but for the
King's Chancellor, who said that the cabbage leaf, being "pickled,"
was a manufactured article, and liable to duty under the new fiscal
regulations. St. Ia always left her purse at home when she travelled,
so she was unable to pay the duty. Once more she committed herself to
the mercies of the sea on her cabbage leaf, and was carried to St.
Ives, where she landed, and was made much of. She stayed there for
a time, planted her leaf, and was blessed with a wonderful crop of
pickled cabbages, the like of which had never before been seen or heard
of. But she revenged herself upon King Tewdrig by writing to all the
papers, and the saints, who deserted the King when they had almost
eaten him up, made a fine how-de-doo, and an "Irish grievance," and the
bad name which they gave the King stuck to him. The saints wrote the
books in those days, and those who came after repeated what they wrote,
until the people believed, and called it "history."
[Illustration: ST. IA.]
Guy said it was very unconstitutional to lay the fault upon the King,
who, it was well known, could do no wrong. It was the duty of the
Prime Minister to bear all faults, and it was noticeable that many
prime ministers were round-shouldered, so that they might carry faults
lightly.
THE BATTLE OF ST. BREAGE.
The saints and piskies had a battle-royal at St. Breage. A three-line
whip was sent over to Ireland, and as soon as it was known that there
was a little fighting to do, and a cracked skull almost certain, for
the glory of God, the saints sent up a shout, straightened their
blackthorns, and came across the water in whole battalions. The cause
was popular. St. Patrick had driven the snakes into the sea, and why
not the saints drive the piskies out of Cornwall? Hooroo! Paddy's blood
was up, and he was spoiling for a bit of fun. The saints had the best
of it, but so much blood was spilt on both sides that the sand was
turned into stone. There is no other such stone in the district, and
St. Breage had a block carved into a cross, and set up as a memorial,
which may be seen to this day, only it has a hole in it which was made
by the Giant Golons, who wore it on his watchchain until the date of
his conversion.
"When anything has to be accounted for in this land, put it down to the
saints, or the piskies, or Old Artful, and you're sure to be right.
Nothing ever took place in the ordinary course of things. A month of
Cornwall would be enough to drive a modern scientist stark, staring
mad," said Guy.
"It would be curious to speculate what sort of world we should be
living in to-day if things really happened, as they are said to
have happened, between fairies and piskies, saints and giants, each
possessing supernatural powers. And yet law and custom grew out of
beliefs in the invisible-visible," said the Bookworm.
THE STORY OF AN ARTFUL MAID.
There were women as well as men saints, and when a woman came to the
front she made a sensation. St. Agnes was a woman. She was not born
a saint, but became one. She was christened Ann, plain Ann, and was a
good little girl, with blue eyes, and light brown hair much given to
curl into love locks. She stayed at home until she grew up, and became
restless, and wanted to see the world for herself. She did not complain
more than other girls that her dresses were not tailor-made, and she
had no particular grievance, only she felt that she must have a change.
She wrote a dear little note, and enclosed one of her love locks to
her dear and loving parents, freely forgiving them all the trouble and
expense she had been to them, and went on her own.
She was supposed to be delicate on the chest, and Cornwall having a
great reputation, she made all haste to get there. In those days there
were a good many pilgrims on the road who used to entertain one another
with stories of many lands and their adventures therein, and delicate
little Agnes heard in this way about a famous Cornish giant, named
Bolster. Mr. Bolster was in many respects a monster, and his story had
great interest for little Agnes, because it was said he changed his
wife every New Year's Day. He was called "Bolster" because he used to
smother the old ones. Agnes wanted an adventure, and as her saint-like
qualities developed, she felt more and more drawn towards Mr. Bolster,
until she determined to try her hand upon him. It was a bold thing;
but Agnes was bold, and when she felt at all timid she said aloud,
"Courage!"
Mr. Bolster was a very fine fellow, the Colossus of his age. When his
right foot rested on the summit of one hill his left foot rested on the
summit of another, and the only thing that troubled him was corns, and
when the weather changed, sometimes he had such twinges that he often
thought he had a "conscience," and wished to get rid of it. At other
times his conscience was "passive." Agnes heard about the corns, and a
light played in her eyes of heavenly blue. She had an idea.
New Year was approaching, and Mr. Bolster was on the look-out for a
fresh partner of his joys. When Agnes sighted him he was standing
with one foot on Carn Brea and the other on Beacon, looking at the
little virgins round about playing at "touch." His habit was to make
a selection, watch the young lady home, and then, at New Years dawn,
to carry her off just when she was busiest dreaming of mince-pies.
Agnes guessed that the psychological moment had come, so she walked up
Carn Brea and tickled Mr. Bolster's right foot with a bramble, quite
close to his pet corn. Mr. Bolster, thinking that conscience was at
him again, lifted his foot angrily; but, happily for Agnes, saw her
kneeling at his foot.
"Hulloa!" he shouted.
Agnes presented her card.
+---------------------------------------------+
| BEAUTIFUL FOR EVER! |
| |
| MISS AGNES. |
| |
| _Corns Extracted, Bunions Attended to._ |
+---------------------------------------------+
Beauty at his feet, and the New Year near. Corns extracted. Was there
ever such luck? So he took the little maiden up in his arms and
promised, then and there, that she should be the next Mrs. Bolster.
"Not long to wait," he added with a chuckle, the present Mrs. B. not
having turned out to his liking.
Mr. Bolster had neglected his personal appearance very much lately, and
when he sat Agnes on his knee in the gloaming, she began his education.
"Beautiful for Ever!" was her trade mark. If Bolster only wore curls,
what a head! Hyacinthine locks, what an Apollo! Bolster looked at her
dear little love locks, and then put his great hand over his own hair,
which was long and matted, and began to think that, after all, short,
crisp curls would be an improvement. He did not surrender at once,
but Agnes said she couldn't, she really couldn't, be the next Mrs.
Bolster and trim his pet corns unless he had hyacinthine locks, like
an up-to-date hero in a novel. She found a bit of chalk and drew on
a blackboard the head of a Hercules with Apollo's locks. Mr. Bolster
was touched in a weak spot, and to keep him soft, Agnes vowed that she
would never be Mrs. Bolster until he was such a man--such a curled
darling.
Mr. Bolster's hair was long and matted, and Agnes got a rake, and
combed and combed until it all came off, and there was none to curl.
New Year came, and Mrs. Bolster in possession went the way of all the
giant's wives, and Agnes sat upon Bolster's knee and wept because of
her vow which she must keep--no curls, no Agnes. She stroked his bald
pate, saying the new hair was sprouting already, and it would curl so
sweet when short that his own mother wouldn't know him. Then Agnes
put him on health diet to make him young again, and when his hair
really began to grow she became afraid, for she caught him heating the
curling-tongs in secret, as though he meant business at an early date.
Agnes sat upon his knee and wept. He was so stout. She could not clasp
his manly waist. He must reduce--he must, he must. The tears were in
her beautiful eyes. Once more she touched the spot, and Mr. Bolster,
the Colossus, was soft. He'd do anything, and then he took an oath at
which the stars trembled.
There was a little basin in the rock which the giant used for
shaving-water now he had become a dandy. Water trickled down the
crevice into the sea when the cork plug was removed. Agnes prescribed
a little blood-letting--for she was skilled in phlebotomy--"just a
basinful, you know," said she, with great pleading eyes of heavenly
blue. Mr. Bolster threw his mighty arm carelessly across the basin.
"Only a basinful this time," said Agnes, pulling out the plug.
"Wake me up when it's full," said Bolster.
He slept and slept, dreaming of Agnes, and the vital stream flowed and
ran down the crevice into the sea. And Agnes looked over the cliff and
saw the sea blush, and blush deeper still.
"Is it nearly full?" asked Bolster, in a tone of lazy happiness.
"Not yet--not yet, my love," said Agnes, stroking his bald head where
the curls were to grow.
So he slept and woke again, and asked, "Is it nearly full?"
"Yet a little more; it runs so slowly now," said Agnes.
And Bolster slept again.
Agnes looked over the cliff and the sea was deeply dyed, so great a
stream had flowed from the mighty form, smiling in sleep, but pale in
death.
He woke and tried to rise, but Agnes soothed him, saying--
"But a little more, 'tis nearly to the brim."
And his last vision was of Agnes.
So the land was rid of Bolster; but the people were not so thankful to
Agnes as they might have been, so she "skipped." She led a wandering
life, making and selling an ointment which people rubbed over their
eyes to make them see clearer, and her fame followed her, so people
began to praise and dedicate churches to her. The place where Bolster
was slain became St. Agnes, and the basin into which his life's blood
flowed may be seen to this day. A pebble thrown in finds its way to the
sea if there is nothing to prevent it.
Guy said he liked to hear stories told on the spot, things seemed
so real. Here was the very basin which held Bolster's shaving-water
before it became the receiver for his blood. Just as good being here as
reading an illustrated article in a magazine.
The Bookworm said the story was only one of a class, and it was quite
easy to separate fact from fiction when we once knew how. In this case,
Bolster was not a real person, but a snow-god, to whom the people
offered a virgin every New Year to make him melt and let the earth
bring forth her increase. St. Agnes made the people see the error of
their ways--that was the ointment which she made for giving people
clearer vision--and so it was said that she had slain Bolster. She
was, no doubt, artful, and was all the more popular in consequence, it
becoming a saying that "an artful maid is stronger than Bolster."
Guy said he liked the story best as it was, and had no patience with
the Bookworm's treatment of it as a myth. He'd put money on Agnes, he
said, to make her way in the world as well as any twentieth-century
woman.
[Illustration: ST. AGNES.]
[Illustration: THE SMUGGLER'S CAVE.]