Chapter 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.

These wretches ransacked the ships, and appropriated whatsoever they pleased, while Lady Jane took from them “two hogsheads of Spanish pieces of eight, and converted them to her own use.”

As one of the Spanish factors was dying, he lifted his hands to Heaven, prayed to the Lord to receive his soul, and turning to the vile woman to whose villany he owed his death, he said, “My blood will linger with you until my death is avenged upon your own sons.”

This dreadful deed was not allowed to pass without notice even in those lawless times. The Spaniards were then friendly with England, and upon the representation made by the Spanish minister to the existing government, the sheriff of Cornwall was ordered to seize and bring to trial Lady Jane Killigrew and her crew of murderers. A considerable number were arrested with her; and that lady and several of her men were tried at Launceston.

Since the Spaniards were proved to be at the time of the murder “foreigners under the Queen’s protection,” they were all found guilty, and condemned to death.

All the men were executed on the walls of Launceston Castle; but by the interest of Sir John Arundell and Sir Nicholas Hals, Queen Elizabeth was induced to grant a pardon for Lady Jane.

How Lady Jane Killigrew lived, and when she died, are matters on which even tradition, by which the story is preserved, is silent. We know, however, that her immediate descendant, John Killigrew, who married one of the Monks, and his son William Killigrew, who was made a baronet in 1660 by Charles II., were only known for the dissoluteness of character, and the utter regardlessness of every feeling of an exalting character, which they displayed. Sir William Killigrew, by his ill conduct and his extravagant habits, wasted all the basely-gotten treasure, and sold the manor and barton of Arwenick to his younger brother, Sir Peter Killigrew. With the son of this Peter the baronetcy became extinct. The last Sir Peter Killigrew, however, improved his fortune by marrying one of the coheirs of Judge Twisden. Sir Peter and his wife, of whom we know nothing, died, leaving one son, George Killigrew, who connected himself with the St Aubyn family by marriage. This man appears to have inherited many of the vices of his family. He was given to low company, and towards the close of his life was remarkable only for his drunken habits.

He was one evening in a tavern in Penryn, surrounded by his usual companions, and with them was one Walter Vincent, a barrister-at-law. The wine flowed freely; songs and loose conversation were the order of the night. At length all were in a state of great excitement through the extravagance of their libations, and something was said by George Killigrew very insultingly to Walter Vincent.

Walter Vincent does not appear to have been naturally a depraved man, but of violent passions. Irritated by Killigrew, he made some remarks on the great-grandmother being sentenced to be hanged. Swords were instantly drawn by the drunken men. They lunged at each other. Vincent’s sword passed directly through Killigrew’s body, and he fell dead in the midst of his revelries, at the very moment when he was defending the character of her who had brought dishonour upon them.

This Walter Vincent was tried for the murder of George Killigrew, but acquitted. We are told by the Cornish historian, “Yet this Mr Vincent, through anguish and horror at this accident, (as it was said,) within two years after, wasted of an extreme atrophy of his flesh and spirits; that, at length, at the table whereby he was sitting, in the Bishop of Exeter’s palace, in the presence of divers gentlemen, he instantly fell back against the wall and died.”

George Killigrew left one daughter; but of her progress in life we know nothing. Thus the Cornish Killigrews ceased to be a name in the land.

Such a tale as this does not, of course, exist without many remarkable additions. Ghosts and devils of various kinds are spoken of as frequenting Arwenick House, and the woods around it. Those spectral and demoniacal visitations have not, however, any special interest. They are only, indeed, repetitions of oft-told tales.

SAINT GERENNIUS.

This reached me at too late a period to be included with the legends of the saints:—

“The beacon at Veryan stands on the highest ground in Roseland, at a short distance from the cliff which overlooks Pendower and Gerrans Bay. Dr Whitaker, in his ‘Cathedral of Cornwall,’ states it to be one of the largest tumuli in the kingdom. Its present height above the level of the field in which it stands is about twenty-eight feet, and its circumference at the base three hundred and fifty feet; but it must have been originally much larger, as a considerable portion on one side has been removed, its summit being now about eighty feet from the base on the south side, and only fifty feet on the north, whilst the top of the cairn which was discovered in it, and which was, no doubt, placed exactly in the original centre of the mound, is at least ten feet still further north than the present summit.

“A tradition has been preserved in the neighbourhood, that Gerennius, an old Cornish saint and king, whose palace stood on the other side of Gerrans Bay, between Trewithian and the sea, was buried in this mound many centuries ago, and that a golden boat with silver oars were used in conveying his corpse across the bay, and were interred with him. Part of this tradition receives confirmation from an account incidentally given of King Gerennius, in an old book called the ‘Register of Llandaff.’ It is there stated that, A.D. 588, Teliau, bishop of Landaff, with some of his suffragan bishops, and many of his followers, fled from Wales, to escape an epidemic called the yellow plague, and migrated to Dole in Brittany, to visit Sampson, the archbishop of that place, who was a countryman and friend of Teliau’s. ‘On his way thither,’ says the old record, ‘he came first to the region of Cornwall, and was well received by Gerennius, the king of that country, who treated him and his people with all honour. From thence he proceeded to Armorica, and remained there seven years and seven months; when, hearing that the plague had ceased in Britain, he collected his followers, caused a large bark to be prepared, and returned to Wales.’ ‘In this,’ the record proceeds, ‘they all arrived at the port called Din-Gerein, king Gerennius lying in the last extreme of life, who, when he had received the body of the Lord from the hand of St Teliau, departed in joy to the Lord.’ ‘Probably,’ says Whitaker, in his remarks on this quotation, ‘the royal remains were brought in great pomp by water from Din-Gerein, on the western shore of the port, to Carne, about two miles off on the northern; the barge with the royal body was plated, perhaps, with gold in places; perhaps, too, rowed with oars having equally plates of silver upon them; and the pomp of the procession has mixed confusedly with the interment of the body in the memory of tradition.’”

CORNISH DIALOGUE.

As the Cornish dialogue peculiarly illustrates a description of literary composition which has no resemblance to that of any other county, I think it advisable to give one specimen:—

DIALOGUE BETWEEN MAL TRELOARE AND SAUNDRY KEMP.

’Twas Kendle teening, when jung Mal Treloare
Trudg’d hum from Bal, a bucken copper ore;
Her clathing hard and ruff, black was her eye,
Her face and arms like stuff from Cairn Kye.
Full butt she mit jung Saundry Kemp, who long
She had been token’d to, come from Ding Dong;
Hes jacket wet, his faace rud like his beard,
And through his squarded hat hes hair appeared.
She said, “Oh, Kemp, I thoft of thee well leer,
Thees naw that daay we wor to Bougheehere,
That daay with ale and cakes, at three o’clock,
Thees stuff’d me so, I jist neen crack’d me dock:
Jue said to me, ‘Thee mayst depend thee life,
I love thee, Mal, and thee shust be ma wife.’
And to ma semmen, tes good to lem ma naw
Whether the words were aal in jest or no.”
_Saundry._ Why, truly, Mal, I like a thing did zay,
That I wud have thee next Chewiden daay.
But zence that time I like a think ded hear
Thees went wi’ some one down, ‘I naw where;’
Now es that fitty, Mal? What dost think?
_Mal._ Od rot tha body, Saundry, who said so?
Now, faath and traath, I’ll naw afore I go;
Do lem me naw the Gossenbary dog.
_Saundry._ Why, then, Crull said jue wor down to Wheal Bog
With he and Tabban, and ded make some tricks
By dabben clay at jungsters making bricks;
Aand that from there jue went to Aafe-waye house,
Aand drink’t some leeker. Mal, now there’s down souse.
Aand jue to he, like a thing ded zay,
Jue wed have he, and I mait go away.
_Mal._ I tell the lubber so! I to Wheal Bog!
I’ll scatt his chacks, the emprent, saucy dog.
Now hire me, Saundry Kemp, now down and full,
Ef thee arten hastes, thee shust hire the whole.
Fust jue must naw, tes true as thee art there,
Aant Blanch and I went to Golsinny feer.
Who overtookt us in the doosty road,
In common hum but Crull, the cloppen toad.
Zes he to Aant, “What cheer? Aant Blanch, what cheer?
Jue makes good coose, suppose jue been to feer.”
“Why, hiss,” zes Aant, “ben there a pewer spur.
I wedn’t a gone ef nawed ed been so fur.
I bawft a pair of shods for Sarah’s cheeld.”
By this time, lock! we cum jist to the field.
We went to clemmer up the temberen style.
(Haw kept his eye upon me all the while.)
Zes hem to Aant, “Then whos es thees braa maide?
Come tha wayst long, dasent be afraid.”
Then mov’d my side, like a thing,
Aand pull’d my mantle, and just touch’d my ching,
“How arry, jung woman?” zes haw. “How dost do?”,
Zes I, “Jue saucy dog, what’s that to jue?
Keep off, jung lad, else thees have a slap.”
Then haw fooch’d some great big doat figs in me lap.
So I thoft, as haw had been so kind,
Haw might go by Aant Blanch, ef haw had a mind.
Aand so haw ded, aand tookt Aant Blanch’s arm.
“Araeh!” zes haw, “I dednt mane no harm.”
So then Aant Blanch and he ded talk and jest
Bout dabbing clay and bricks at Petran feast.
_Saundry._ Ahah then, Mal, ’twas there they dabbed the clay?
_Mal._ Plaase Father, Kemp, tes true wot I do saay.
And hire me now, pla-sure, haw dedent budge
From Aanty’s arm till jest this side Long Brudge.
Aand then zes he to Aant, “Shall we go in
To Aafe-way house, and have a dram of gin
And trickle mixt? Depend ol do es good,
Taake up the sweat, and set to rights the blud.”
So Aant did saay, “Such things she dedn’t chuse,”
And squeezed my hand, aand loike a thing refuse.
So when we pass’d along by Wheal Bog moor,
Haw jumpt behind, and pok’t es in the door.
Haw caal’d for gin, aand brandy too, I think.
He clunk’d the brandy, we the gin did drink.
So when haw wish’d good night, as es the caase,
Haw kiss’t Aant Blanch, and jist neen touched my face.
Now, Saundry Kemp, there’s nothing shure in this,
To my moinde, then, that thee shust take amiss.
_Saundry._ No, fath, then Mal, ef this is all aand true,
I had a done the same ef I was jue.
_Mal._ Next time in any house I see or near am,
I’ll down upon the plancheon, rat am, tear am,
Aand I will so poaw am.
_Saundry._ Our Kappen’s there, just by thickey bush.
Hush! now Mally, hush!
Aand as hes here, so close upon the way,
I wedent wish haw nawed what we did zay,
And jett I dedent care, now fath and soul,
Ef so be our Kappen wor to hire the whole.
How arry Kappen? Where be going so fast?
Jure goin’ hum, suppose, jure in sich haste.
_Kappen._ Who’s that than? Saundry, arten thee ashamed
To coosy so again? Thee wust be blamed
Ef thees stay here all night to prate wi’ Mal!
When tes thy cour, thee wusten come to Bal.
Aand thee art a Cobbe, I tell thee so.
I’ll tell the owners ef thee dosent go.
_Saundry._ Why, harkee, Kappen, doant skoal poor I.
Touch pipe a crum, jue’ll naw the reason why.
Cozen Mal aand I ben courtain bout afe a year.
Hould up tha head, Mal; don’t be ashamed, dost hire?
Aand Crull one day made grief ’tween I and she;
But he shall smart for it now, I swear by G——.
Haw told me lies, as round as any cup.
Now Mal and I have mit, we’ve made it up;
So, Kappen, that’s the way I stopt, I vow.
_Kappen._ Ahah! I dedent giss the case jist now.
But what dost think of that last batch of ore?
_Saundry._ Why pewer and keenly gossen, Kappen, shure
I bleeve that day, ef Frankey’s pair wornt drunk,
We shud had pewer stuff too from the sump.
But there, tes all good time, as people saay,
The flooken now, aint throw’d es far away;
So hope to have bra tummells soon to grass.
How did laast batch down to Jandower pass?
_Kappen._ Why, hang thy body, Saundry, speed, I saay,
Thees keep thy clacker going till tes day.
Go speak to Mally now, jue foolish toad.
I wish both well, I’ll keep my road.
_Saundry._ Good nightie, Kappen, then I wishee well.
Where artee, Mally? Dusten haw hire me, Mal?
Dusent go away, why jue must think of this,
Before we part, shure we must have a kiss.

_She wiped her muzzle from the mundic stuff_,
_And he rubb’d his, a little stain’d with snuff_.

Now then, there, good night Mal, there’s good night;
But, stop a crum.
_Mally._ Good night.
_Kappen._ Good night.

_Keendle teening_, candle lighting.

_Squarded hat_, broken or cracked hat.

_Lem ma naw_, let me know, tell me.

_Wheal Bog_, wheal, or, correctly spelt, huel, is old Cornish, and signifies a mine or work.

_Doat figs_, broad figs.

_A cobbe_, a cobbler, a bungler.

_Bra tummills_, brave heaps, large piles of ore.

FOOTNOTES

[1] Another tradition affirms that one of the sons of Cyrus lies buried beneath the Longstone.

[2] See 1st Series, p. 198.

[3] St Breock or Briock, a bishop of a diocese in Armorica, is said to have been the patron saint of St Breage. But there is a Cornish distich, “Germow Mathern, Breaga Lavethas.” Germoe was a king, Breaga a midwife, which rather favours the statement that St Breage was a sister of St Leven. Breage and Germoe are adjoining parishes, having the shores of the Mount’s Bay for their southern boundaries. When the uncultivated inhabitants of this remote region regarded a wreck as a “God-send,” and plundered without hesitation every body, living or dead, thrown upon the shore, these parishes acquired a melancholy notoriety. The sailors’ popular prayer being,

“God keep us from rocks and shelving sands,
And save us from Breage and Germoe men’s lands.”

Happily those days are almost forgotten. The ameliorating influences of the Christian faith, which was let in upon a most benighted people by John Wesley, like a sunbeam, dispelled those evil principles, and gave birth to pure and simple virtues.

[4] Leland, cited by William of Worcester from the Cornish Calendar at St Michael’s Mount. Michell’s “Parochial History of Saint Neot’s.”

[5] Carew’s Survey, Lord Dedunstanville’s edition, p. 305. See “The Well of St Keyne,” by Robert Southey, in his “Ballads and Metrical Tales,” vol. i.; or of Southey’s collected works, vol. vi.

St Keyne, or St Kenna, is said to have visited St Michael’s Mount, and imparted this peculiar virtue to a stone chair on the tower.

[6] See Gilbert, vol. iii. p. 329. See Appendix A. The name of this saint is written Piran, Peran, and Perran.

[7] _See_ Perran-Zabuloe, with an Account of the Past and Present State of the Oratory of St Piran in the Sands, and Remarks on its Antiquity. By the Rev. Wm. Haslam, B.A., and by the Rev. Collins Trelawney.

St Kieran, the favourite Celtic saint, reached Scotland from Ireland, the precursor of St Columba, (565 A.D.) “The cave of St Kieran is still shewn in Kintyre, where the first Christian teacher of the Western Highlands is believed to have made his abode.”—_Wilson’s Prehistoric Annals._

There is a curious resemblance between the deeds and the names of those two saints.

[8] See Appendix B.

[9] See Appendix C.

[10] TINTAGEL is the usual name. Gilbert, in his “Parochial History,” has it, “DUNDAGELL, _alias_ DYNDAGELL, _alias_ BOSITHNEY;” in “Doomsday-book” it is called “DUNECHEINE.” Tonkin writes “Dindagel or Daundagel,” and sometimes DUNGIOGEL. “A King Nectan, or St Nectan, is said to have built numerous churches in several parts of Scotland, as well as in other parts of the kingdom of the Northern Picts.”—_Wilson’s Prehistoric Annals of Scotland._

[11] It is called indifferently Nectan, Nathan, Nighton, or Knighton’s Kieve.

[12] Rambles beyond Railways. By Wilkie Collins. Mr Collins was curiously misled by those who told him the tradition. The building which these strange solitary women inhabited was St Nectan’s, or, as he and many others write it, St Nighton’s, Chapel, and not a cottage. They died, as Mr Collins describes it; but either he, or those from whom he learned the tale, has filled in the picture from imagination. I perceive, on referring to Mr Walter White’s admirable little book, “A Londoner’s Walk to the Land’s End,” that he has made the same mistake about the cottage.

[13] Appendix D.

[14] Parochial History, vol. iii. p. 423.

[15] It is curious that the farm over which some of this water flows is called “Collurian” to this day.

[16] See another story of this wretched woman in the section devoted to Demons and Spectres. 1st Series.

[17] Hals, speaking of Gulval Well, thus describes it and its virtues:—“In Fosses Moor, part of this manor of Lanesly, in this parish, is that well-known fountain called Gulval Well. To which place great numbers of people, time out of mind, have resorted for pleasure and profit of their health, as the credulous country people do in these days, not only to drink the waters thereof, but to inquire after the life or death of their absent friends; where, being arrived, they demanded the question at the well whether such a person by name be living, in health, sick, or dead. If the party be living and in health, the still quiet water of the well-pit, as soon as the question is demanded, will instantly bubble or boil up as a pot, clear crystalline water; if sick, foul and puddle waters; if the party be dead, it will neither bubble, boil up, nor alter its colour or still motion. However, I can speak nothing of the truth of those supernatural facts from my own sight or experience, but write from the mouths of those who told me they had seen and proved the veracity thereof. Finally, it is a strong and courageous fountain of water, kept neat and clean by an old woman of the vicinity, to accommodate strangers, for her own advantage, by blazing the virtues and divine qualities of those waters.”—_Hals, quoted by Gilbert_, _Parochial History of Cornwall_, vol. ii. p. 121.

[18] “Tales of the West,” by the author of “Letters from the East.”

[19] The tale of “The Legend of Pacorra.”

[20] “Popular Tales of the West Highlands,” by J. F. Campbell. (See page 134, vol. ii.)

[21] Notes and Queries.

[22] Gilbert, vol. i. p. 291.

[23] Carew.

[24] “Popular Rhymes and Nursery Tales,” by James O. Halliwell.

[25] See “Thomas of the Thumb, or _Tómas na h’ordaig_,” Tale lxix. “Popular Tales of the West Highlands,” by J. F. Campbell.

[26] “Popular Rhymes and Nursery Tales,” by James O. Halliwell.

[27] Camden’s “Britannica,” by Gough, vol. i., p. 139. From this author we do not learn much. Indeed he says—“As to that Constantine, whom Gildas calls ‘that tyrannical whelp of the impure Danmonian lioness,’ and of the disforesting of the whole country under King John, before whose time it was all forest, let historians tell—it is not to my purpose.” vol. i. p. 8.

[28] Milton’s “History of Britain,” edit. 1678, p. 155.

[29] Vellan (mill), druchar (wheel.)

[30] Carew says, “a promontory, (by _Pomp. Mela_, called Bolerium; by _Diodorus_, Velerium; by _Volaterane_, Helenium; by the Cornish, Pedn an laaz; and by the English, the Land’s-End.)”—_Survey of Cornwall._

[31] Penꞃiðꞅꞇeoꞃꞇ.—The name of the Land’s-End in the Saxon map; in the text, Camden prints Penꞃihꞇꞅꞇeoꞃꞇ.

[32] “CASTELL-AN-DINAS.—In the parish of St Colomb Major stands a castle of this name. Near this castle, by the highway, stands the Coyt, a stony tumulus so called, of which sort there are many in Wales and Wiltshire, as is mentioned in the ‘Additions to Camden’s Britannia’ in these places, commonly called the Devil’s Coyts. It consists of four long stones of great bigness, perpendicularly pitched in the earth contiguous with each other, leaving only a small vacancy downwards, but meeting together at the top; over all which is laid a flat stone of prodigious bulk and magnitude, bending towards the east in way of adoration, (as Mr Lhuyd concludes of all those Coyts elsewhere,) as the person therein under it interred did when in the land of the living; but how or by what art this prodigious flat stone should be placed on the top of the others, amazeth the wisest mathematicians, engineers, or architects to tell or conjecture. Colt, in Belgic-British, is a cave, vault, or cott-house, of which coyt might possibly be a corruption.”—_Gilbert’s Parochial History._

[33] In the Manor of Lambourn is an ancient barrow, called Creeg Mear, the Great Barrow, which was cut open by a labourer in search of stones to build a hedge. He came upon a small hollow, in which he found nine urns filled with ashes; the man broke them, supposing they were only old pitchers, good for nothing; but Tonkin, who saw them, believes them to have been Danish, containing the ashes of some chief commanders slain in battle; and, says he, on a small hill just under this barrow is a Danish encampment, called Castle Caer Dane, vulgo Castle Caer Don,—_i.e._, the Danes’ Camp,—consisting of three entrenchments finished, and another begun, with an intent to surround the inner three, but not completed; and opposite to this, about a bowshot, the river only running between, on another hill is another camp or castle, called Castle Kaerkief, castrum simile, from Kyfel similis, alike alluding to Castle Caer Dane. But this is but just begun, and not finished in any part, from which I guess there were two different parties, the one attacking the other before the entrenchments were finished.

[34] C. S. Gilbert’s Historical Survey.

[35] Gilbert.

[36] See Popular Tales from the Norse. By George Webbe Dasent, D.C.L. Legends of Iceland, collected by Jón Arnason. Translated by George E. J. Powell and Eirékur Magnússon.

[37] _Notes and Queries_, vol. viii. p. 618.

[38] “I shall offer a conjecture touching the name of this place, which I will not say is right, but only probable. _Tin_ is the same as _Din_, _Dinas_, and _Dixeth_, deceit; so that _Tindixel_, turned, for easier pronunciation, to _Tintagel_, _Dindagel_, or _Daundagel_, signifies _Castle of Deceit_, which name might be aptly given to it from the famous deceit practised here by Uter Pendragon by the help of Merlin’s enchantment.”—_Tonkin._

“Mr Hals says this place is called _Donecheniv_ in ‘Domesday Survey.’ _Dunechine_ would mean the fortress of the chasm, corresponding precisely with its situation.”—_Davies Gilbert._

[39] Gilbert, vol. ii. p. 402, _et seq._

[40] Gruter’s Collection of Ancient Inscriptions, quoted by J. C. Pritchard.

[41] The Parson’s.

[42] The Beacon.

[43] See Appendix E.

[44] See Appendix F, “_Saracen_.”

[45] “They maintaine these works to have been verie auncient, and first wrought by the _Jewes_ with Pickaxes of Holme-Boxe and Hartshorne. They prove this by the name of those places yet enduring, to wit, _Attall Sarazin_, in English, the _Jewes Offcast_, and by those tooles daily found amongst the rubble of such workes.”—_Survey of Cornwall. Carew._ (Appendix F.)

[46] Is this supported by the statement of Dr Stillingfleet, Bishop of Worcester, who says, “The Christian religion was planted in the Island of Great Britain during the time of the apostles, and probably by St Paul”?

[47] “Some are sent, like the spirit Gathon in Cornwall, to work the will of his master in the mines.”—_Mrs Bray’s Traditions of Devonshire._

Who was the spirit Gathon?

“The miner starts as he hears the mischievous Gathon answering blow for blow the stroke of his pickaxe, or deluding him with false fires, noises, and flames.”—_A Guide to the Coasts of Devon and Cornwall. Mackenzie Walcott, M.A._

Carne, in his “Tales of the West,” alludes to this:—“The miners have their full share of the superstitious feelings of the country, and often hear with alarm the noises, as it were, of other miners at work deep underground, and at no great distance. The rolling of the barrows, the sound of the pickaxes, and the fall of the earth and stones, are distinctly heard through the night,—often, no doubt, the echo of their own labours; but sometimes continued long after that labour has ceased, and occasionally voices seem to mingle with them. Gilbert believed that he was peculiarly exposed to these visitations; he had an instinctive shrinking from the place where the accident had happened; and, when left alone there, it was in vain that he plied his toil with desperate energy to divert his thoughts. Another person appeared to work very near him: he stayed the lifted pick and listened. The blow of the other fell distinctly, and the rich ore followed it in a loud rolling; he checked the loaded barrow that he was wheeling; still that of the unknown workman went on, and came nearer and nearer, and then there followed a loud, faint cry, that thrilled through every nerve of the lonely man, for it seemed like the voice of his brother. These sounds all ceased on a sudden, and those which his own toil caused were the only ones heard, till, after an interval, without any warning, they began again, at times more near, and again passing away to a distance.”—_The Tale of the Miner._

[48]

“Now well! now well! the angel did say
To certain poor shepherds in the fields who lay
Late in the night, folding their sheep;
A winter’s night, both cold and deep.
Now well! now well! now well!
Born is the King of Israel!”

[49] A tributer is a man who agrees with the adventurers in a mine to receive a certain share of the profits on the ore raised by him in lieu of wages. This account is settled monthly or bi-monthly, which will explain the phrase a “poor month.”

[50] “The man has still a good thick head of hair.—C. F. S.”

[51] I am informed that there are no less than four of these cliff chapels between St Leven and St Loy, which was a larger building, where mass was probably celebrated.

[52] Pilchards are called _par excellence_ “fish.”

[53] Heva is shouted from the hills, upon which a watch is kept for the approach of pilchards by the “huer,” who telegraphs to the boats by means of bushes covered with white cloth, or, in modern days, with wire frames so covered. These signals are well understood, and the men in the seine and the other boats act according to the huer’s directions. The following song contains all the terms employed in this fishery; many of them, especially _Could Roos_, do not appear to have any definite meaning attached to them.

The song is by the late C. Taylor Stevens of St Ives, who was for some time the rural postman to Zennor. I employed Mr Taylor Stevens for some time collecting all that remains of legendary tales and superstitions in Zennor and Morva. The net is spelled sometimes Seine at others Sean.

“MERRY SEAN LADS.

“With a cold north wind and a cockled sea,
Or an autumn’s cloudless day,
At the huer’s bid, to stem we row,
Or upon our paddles play.
All the signs, ‘East, West, and Quiet,
Could Roos,’ too well we know;
We can bend a stop, secure a cross,
For brave sean lads are we!
_Chorus_—We can bend a stop, secure a cross,
For brave sean lads are we!

“If we have first stem when heva comes,
We’ll the huer’s bushes watch;
We will row right off or quiet lie,
Flying summer sculls to catch.
And when he winds the towboat round,
We will all ready be,
When he gives Could Roos, we’ll shout hurrah!
Merry sean lads are we!
_Chorus_—When he gives Could Roos, we’ll shout hurrah!
Merry sean lads are we!

“When the sean we’ve shot, upon the tow,
We will heave with all our might,
With a heave! heave O! and rouse! rouse O!
Till the huer cries, ‘All right.’
Then on the bunt place kegs and weights,
And next to tuck go we.
We’ll dip, and trip, with a ‘Hip hurrah!’
Merry sean lads are we!
_Chorus_—We’ll dip, and trip, with a ‘Hip hurrah!’
Merry sean lads are we!”

[54] Hone’s “Every-Day Book.”

[55] Spinning-wheel.

[56] Every-Day Book.

[57] On the Diseases of Cornish Miners. By William Wale Tayler, F.R.C.S.

[58] When cattle or human beings have been bewitched, it was very commonly thought that if a bottle of urine from the diseased beast or person was obtained, then corked very tight and buried mouth downwards, that the witch would be afflicted with strangury, and in her suffering confess her crime and beg forgiveness.

[59] Throb.

[60] The invocation of the “Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,” invariably accompanies every form of charm.

[61] Borlase’s Observations on the Ancient and Present State of the Island of Scilly.—“Notes and Queries,” vol. x. p. 181. 1854.

[62] The Survey of Cornwall. By Richard Carew.

[63] Draw and Hitchin’s Cornwall.

[64] See also p. 216.

[65] In Hugh Miller’s “Scenes and Legends of the North of Scotland,” edit. 1858, pp. 256, 257, will be found some stories of the flight of the “herring drove” from the coast of Cromarty, which are analogous to this.

[66] See “Death Tokens.”

[67] “There appeared in the north-east the frustrum of a large rainbow; all the colours were lively and distinct, and it was three times as wide as the arch of an ordinary complete rainbow, but no higher than it was wide. They call it here, in Cornwall, _a weather dog_; but in the Cornish language, _Lagas-auel_,—that is, the weather’s eye,—and pronounce it a certain sign of hard rain.”—_Borlase’s Natural History of Cornwall._

[68] Hone’s Table-Book.

[69] In pul; meaning in mud.

[70] Davies Gilbert’s “Cornwall.”

[71] Vol. iii. p. 309.

[72] Letter from William Peter, Esq. of Harlyn, to Davies Gilbert, vol. iii. p. 178.

[73] See Keighton’s “Tales and Popular Fictions,” p. 247.

[74] “Traditions, Legends, Superstitions, and Sketches of Devonshire,” by Mrs Bray, who gives a letter of her husband’s, for some time vicar of Tavistock.

[75] See Gilbert, vol. iii., p. 293, and Bond’s account of the Trelawnys in Bond’s Looe.

[76] Hone’s Table-Book.

APPENDIX.