Chapter II: Part 2

As most of the sponsors were courting couples, living in the parish, the clerk gave them timely notice, too, that the young women might get up their best rig-out, as he called it, against the grand occasion. Some of the mothers, poor dears, who were so earnest that there should be no “hitch” in the matter, accompanied the clerk to houses where they apprehended finding any difficulty, to help him over it. They had no occasion, however, for the women, without exception, agreed they could go through “fire and water” to please their good parson. “Bless hes heart,” said they, “hes door es always open to a poor body in want; he’d give the shirt from hes back to any one in much distress; and he esn’t a bit sticked up, though wise man as he es, he might well be proud of his learnan.”

“’Tes never his way,” said another, “to be like the old priest of the fable, who was ever ready weth hes blessan, but wed never bestow a farthan; as for our passon, he wed have us all be merry and glad tell the end.”

“Aye, we all know there esn’t his equal round about,” said the clerk. “Moreover, et will be something for ’e all to remember weth pride; and your cheldren’s cheldren may well feel exalted to hear how their ‘grammars’ help’t to rout the devil from Ladock.”

Before night the old man was assured by as many mothers as he thought sufficient that they would bring their babes to be christened the next Sunday. On his way home he called in at several farm-houses, in all of which he was made welcome with something substantial to eat, and good strong ale to help him on. The folks were always glad to have him and his violin at their merry-making times, such as “gulthise” (harvest-feast) weddings, christenings, feasten tides, &c., although he had no great variety of dance tunes.

Soon after day-down he arrived back to the parsonage, not a bit the worse for liquor, because he had taken little else than good wholesome home-brewed. Having told Mr. Wood how he had succeeded, the reverend gentleman, after a pause, said, “You have done well, better in fact than I expected; the number of women to be depended on amounts to eight, though you thought them more. Now everything is significant. It was held by wise men of yore, and is by many of the present day, that peculiar virtues belong to particular numbers, representing the signs of planetary and other powers; indeed, a magic square is as powerful for controlling demons as the impress of Solomon’s seal, which you call the five-pointed star. So to neglect nothing which might tend to our success, we will have a fortunate, or what you would call a lucky number of children. You know everybody hereabouts use nine in all their charms and many other matters. They also call old stone circles ‘nine-maidens,’ though they are, for the most part, formed of many more than nine stones. The latter part of this name, however, is a double corruption, first from the old Cornish men (stone) into medn (just as pen is changed to pedn); thence it became Saxonised to maiden, which, in turn, suggested foolish legends about dancing-maidens turned to stones to account for this unmeaning name. The general use of nine seems to indicate that the ancient inhabitants regarded it as a sacred number. According to eastern sages, twelve is the best of all, because it contains the number of signs on the sun’s yearly circuit, and for various other reasons.

“So we will make up a round dozen with four of the youngest christened last year. You can go and select them to-morrow; the mothers will make no difficulty, as they have nothing to provide; and here, take this,” said Mr. Wood, placing in the other’s hand a good sum in silver, “and give it amongst the poor women, that they may buy biscuit for their offerings, and not want to ask for trust.”

The clerk, having supped heartily, promised to find the additional number on the morrow, and went home well content, particularly so because “the master,” as he called the parson, had given him money for the poor mothers.

Next Sunday afternoon a dozen matrons came with their infants and the sponsors. There were many strangers as well as the regular congregation, and the devil on the tower, making his usual disturbance.

There were nine women churched; and as many children christened, after service; when the parson walked out of Church, followed by twelve mothers, with their babes in their arms, and the godfathers and godmothers, in a procession, marshalled by the clerk. They were all arranged in lines, five deep, the mothers in front, opposite the belfry door. Mr. Wood directed each mother to pass her child from one of its sponsors to the other, the last handing it to him.

He then held it up awhile, that the devil might behold it, and returned it to its mother.

All the babes having been thus passed from hand to hand, their mothers held them aloft, whilst the parson walked to and fro, before them, reading and cutting the air, in various figures, with his ebony staff. He read and read for a long spell, in loud tones, yet the infernal being still remained,—pretty silent, however,—“clutted in” close by a pinnacle, on the tower’s eastern edge, where he seemed quite heedless of the important proceedings below.

At last some of the children, becoming tired, perhaps, began to cry, the others followed suit, and the twelve blessed babes, each one and altogether, seemed trying their utmost to scream the loudest; whilst the parson read or recited with increased vehemence. Then it was that the fiend hopped over on to the western parapet, and stretching his neck glanced down on the good folks.

The effect of what he heard and saw was magical; at least it seemed so to the spectators.

Giving a prolonged scream, which was heard for miles around, he darted straight up, to the height of a bow-shot, or more; then, shaping his course towards St. Ender, he quickly disappeared.

Many of the spectators said they saw sparks and blue flames thrown off with every flap of his huge wings; but all of them agreed that his display of fire was nothing like what they had expected to behold when a devil takes his departure. Over a while, when it was found that he didn’t return, there was great rejoicing in Ladock; and he has nevermore been seen there from that time to this. The bells were put in order without delay, and their frequent joyous peals kept all such fiends at a distance.

Note.—The clerk spoken of in the foregoing story was much respected by his neighbours on account of his ancient lineage; he was a descendant of the Courtneys who long owned Tretnurf, in Ladock, and lived there for many generations.

THE GHOSTS OF KENEGIE.

Old folks of Gulval say that, in their grandparents’ time, the ancient mansion of Kenegie and its grounds were constantly haunted by three “sperats,” and, on some nights by many more.

The following stories respecting them were told by an aged tinner of Lelant, as they had been often related to him by his mother, who had lived for many years in service at Kenegie, previous to her marriage, about fourscore years ago; some incidents are also taken from other versions.

The first ghost, of whom there is any remembrance, and the one which remained longest, was the spirit of a thrifty old Harris, who made great additions to the house and walled-gardens, and was most unwilling to die and leave them. This spirit, however, gave but little trouble. He merely came on a certain night in every year—which was known to his descendants—to review the place in which he had taken so much delight; and only required that, on the night of his accustomed visit, the principal entrance door should be left open, as well as one opposite, opening into a paved court surrounded by offices.

At that time the grand entrance was approached by a straight, stately avenue, flanked by a bowling green, with a picturesque two-storied summer-house or “look-out” at its further end.

It was believed that any negligence in leaving open these doors, at the stated time, would be a cause of misfortune to the Harris family, or a token of its decline.

Consequently, this custom was duly observed from farther back than there is any remembrance, until within a few years of the time when the last Harris of Kenegie disposed of his ancestral home. ’Tis said that when the spirit came and found the doors closed—through some mistake, it is supposed,—he made much unearthly wailing, till cock-crowing, then went moaning away and never returned.

It is surmised that when the old family residence, in which he so much delighted, came into the possession of strangers, he neither desired to see it nor to hear of it again; and that he has, ever since, shut himself up in his family vault, where he has plenty of company, as one may judge from the great number of monuments in Gulval Church, recording the virtues of his descendants. Before that unlucky time, crickets were heard chirriping around the hearths of their old home all night long; but afterwards not one was heard or seen,—sure token of impending misfortune.

The next ghostly visitor, and a more troublesome one, had been housekeeper and a great favourite with a later Squire Harris, much to the prejudice of his son and heir. The very night after her funeral, disturbances began; the whole household were annoyed by this husey of a ghost prancing along stone-paved passages, from one room to another—doors clashing and banging behind her,—till she entered the kitchen, where she would next be heard winding-up the great roasting-jack,—one of the old fashioned noisy clock-work machines, kept in motion by a heavy weight passing through the chamber floors, and attached to a rope or chain working over screeching pullies, fixed somewhere in the upper regions of the mansion.

After an interval of scolding, shrieking, and the other accessories of a row, she would beat the table or dresser-bed with a rolling-pin, and make the pewter-plates rattle, by way of announcing, as she was wont to do, that the roast was ready, and to summon the servants to dish it up. Between the thumps, she screeched “Quick, come quick!” and another voice replied “Anon, anon!” Then the parlour furniture would be shifted, as if preparations were in progress for entertaining a large company. At length the inmates were glad to hear her high-heeled shoes patting over stairs and along the gallery, until they stopped at her late master’s bed-chamber door, which was usually the conclusion of her noisy exploits for the night.

The shadowy figure of this old woman, in a long-bodied gown and kirtle, was frequently seen passing quickly through the court. Now and then it happened that a new servant, wishing to get ahead with her work—on washing days especially,—and not hearing any disturbance, ventured downstairs in the small hours of the morning; but, on entering the kitchen, her light was almost always blown out, and she got a slap in the face, from an invisible hand, that “made her see fire before her eyes;” and, on turning to leave the room, received a kick behind which made her remember to stay abed till cock-crowing.

This housekeeper was “put to rest,” however, many years before the Harrises left their old home, and bound to perform such a task as she richly deserved. There are no particulars known of the way in which this was done; it is only stated that some powerful exorcists—neighbouring clergymen, who were then supposed to possess power over ghostly visitants—succeeded, after much conjuration, in quelling her, in some measure; but, as she absolutely refused to leave the place, they compromised matters by confining her to a small room, on the eastern or northern side of the mansion; with her were placed a fleece of black wool, a pair of cards, a “pole and kiggal” (distaff and spindle) and knitting needles. With these she was required to card the black fleece until it became white, and then to spin it and knit stockings of the yarn. Her closet door is walled up or plastered over, so that few know exactly where it is situated, though old folks who served the Harris family say they have often heard the clicking of cards in some remote part of the buildings, and that there was always a little hole, such as sparrows might nest in, through and through the wall; if filled up, it was sure to be opened over night, without being touched by mortal hands.

Whether this old jade’s ghost still gives signs of her presence, is best known to the inmates. One would gladly dismiss her, but we shall have to mention her again in connection with “Wild Harris,” who next came back and haunted the place, down almost to recent times.

The last Ghost of Kenegie—at least of whom there is any trustworthy tradition—was that of a spendthrift heir, known as “Wild Harris,” who is best remembered, because ordinary parsons’ collective power was found insufficient to lay him. He extended his walks all over the grounds and far away down in the “bottom” towards the mill. He was also often seen on horseback, chasing with one hound, on Kenegie Downs and elsewhere.

Belated market folks and others dreaded to pass Kenegie Gate, for they frequently saw the “Squire’s sperat” standing in an alcove, just over this grand entrance. The ghost mostly wore a steeple-crown and feather, hunting-coat and riding-boots, or a long, black gown and flat cap, with lace and plume.

He usually stood beside his family coat-of-arms, which may still be seen, and glared down on the road with a look as immovable as that of the lions carved in stone, that, on either hand, then guarded the gate. Sometimes, too, he was beheld seated beside the churchway-stile, a few yards further up the hill. Often on approaching this spot, people were made aware of the spirit being near, though invisible, by a sulpherous smell which pervaded the place.

On winter nights, the Squire’s ghost, with a dozen or more of his “old comrades,” or such-like spirits, would assemble in the bowling-green summer-house, where they might be seen and heard from the mansion even, talking, singing, swearing, and shouting, in a state of uproarious mirth. Altogether, Kenegie must have been a lively place of nights, with the old housekeeper reacting scenes of her former rule within, and “Wild Harris’s” nocturnal carouse in the “look-out.” Few servants, however, lived there long; they didn’t relish such ghostly merriment, in which they had no other share than to be kept awake and terrified all night.

No satisfactory account is handed down as to why these troublesome spirits could not or would not rest; there are, however, fragments of misty traditions which throw a little light on the subject.

Of the old improving gentleman, who delighted in building, no more seems to be known than what has been stated. The other unresting Harris is said to have been an eager sportsman, with much wild-oats in his composition, who cared for little else but his hunter and hounds, except a young lady, a poor relation, dependent on his family, with whom she lived much like a fish out of water, being regarded as too low for the parlour on grand occasions; and, at all times, as too high for the kitchen, where she was treated as an intruder by the housekeeper and her creatures.

This unfortunate damsel passed much of her time in the pleasant upper room of the summer-house with old maiden ladies of the family, who here wrought everlasting tapestry, fine lace, or embroidery, varying their labours by spinning, to stretch their legs, and by doing much other useful and ornamental work,—then regarded as necessary accomplishments. Here, too, the ancient dames sipped choice cordials of their own distilling or compounding; perhaps, in latter days, enjoyed their tea and gossip; and, from the balcony-like outer stair-landing, have watched the gentlemen’s healthy exercise and sports on the bowling-green. This choice retreat was finished with decorative wood and plaster-work; over the fireplace may yet be seen the family coat-of-arms; a broad window, opposite the entrance, commanded a delightful view over miles of rich pasture, orchards, and gardens; the western hills, with several parish churches; St. Buryan tower, standing boldly out, like a lofty landmark, against the sky. In the ground apartment, which also contains a fireplace, gentlemen, after their exercise on the bowling-green, rested and partook of refreshments with more enjoyment than—

“A party in a parlour,
Cram’d as they on earth are cram’d.”

When the poor gentlewoman was in her bloom, “Wild Harris’s” father was a widower, in his dotage, and too much influenced by his housekeeper, who had been, during his wife’s lifetime, and was still, a special favourite with him. The old faggot, may she never cease carding, and her wool never become white! She ever disliked her young master, and detested the poor orphan lady, of whom she was jealous, fearing lest she might supplant her one day in governing the household. The dame was a malicious spy on the lovers, who frequently met in the summer-house and retired walks down the vale. Their interviews were all the sweeter for being stolen; yet soon, alas, they resulted in sorrow to the young lady.

The old gentleman was much prejudiced against his poor cousin by being persuaded that, only for this unfortunate attachment, his son would have wedded a rich heiress, whose lands lay near the Harrises’ “up-country” property. He declared that the day his son married his cousin, he would wed his housekeeper, so that she should still rule the roost. In spite of all opposition, however, the young man would have made an “honest woman” of his betrothed, but was hindered by the malice of the old dame and his father until too late; for the poor damsel, distracted with grief, wandered away one night, she knew not whither, and next morning was found, by her lover, drowned in a mill-pond.

Shortly after this tragic event the old Squire died, and “Wild Harris” found himself master of Kenegie, but disinherited of much other property, bequeathed to his brothers in the army or navy. He had some satisfaction, however, in turning to doors the old mischief-making minion, but not much; she soon fretted herself to death, and was hardly laid in her grave ere she was back again, making such a din, out of mere spite, as hindered the inmates from getting a wink of sleep during the dead hours of night.

The master of Kenegie became more reckless than ever; his days were spent in hunting, or holding games on the bowling-green; and his nights were passed in revelry.

He kept open house, for rich or poor, who chose to partake of his hospitality. One and all were cordially welcomed. With all his faults, he had an open heart and hand; but, in a few years, he came to an untimely end, whilst still in his prime, by a fall from his horse when hunting on the Castle Downs. It is said that his horse was startled by a white hare that often followed him, and was believed to be the unfortunate lady’s spirit.

He was borne to Gulval Church and laid in the vault at night, as was the fashion then with some of our old families. His burial was attended by many friends; and when some of them—who remained late at the funeral supper—came down the avenue to return home, they beheld him, as natural, seemingly, as life, standing by the summer-house steps, arrayed in his hunting-dress, and, by his side, a favourite old dog that had died when his master breathed his last.

LAYING WILD HARRIS’S GHOST.

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.

CORNISH CASTLES.

It is not generally known to strangers that what are called Castles in Cornwall are little more than simple entrenchments, consisting of large and small stones built up about ten or twelve feet high and held together by their own weight, without any cement. These embankments are surrounded by a ditch, formed by excavating the soil which fills the ramparts. A well is always found within the Castle’s enclosure.

Traditions, which have been handed down by old stationary folks, such as freeholding farmers—whose families have long dwelt near these primitive strongholds—say that they were constructed by the ancient inhabitants, as places of refuge where their cattle and other property might be protected from the “red-haired Danes,” who frequently marauded the country in days of yore. Near the outer entrenchment of Treen Dinas stood a barn, where there is now a dwelling called Caer Keis. This barn was inconveniently situated for farming purposes, and old proprietors of Treen held that it was used in old times for storing hay and corn, which might be wanted for cattle when they were placed in the Castle to be safe from northern pirates who were accustomed to land at Parcurno,—then free from sand.

It is a matter of regret that such interesting examples of primitive fortifications, as Castle-an-Dinas and others, should have been almost destroyed of late years, when they have been resorted to as to quarries, and the stones removed for building huts and hedges.