Chapter V: Part 5

The feasters wondered to see so much to be cooked, and however the bakers would contrive to dress all the geese, ducks, and other things, as Mary remarked on their return. “Now arn’t they good fellows, to work so hard on a Sunday, that we poor folks may have a holiday then?” said Dick. “Nearly all the neighbours who haven’t the new-fashioned contrivances, called slabs, send their meat to the bakehouse, though they say of some bakers, but not of ours, that

‘They cut the meat both ready and raw,
Skim the fat, and pinch the dough;’

and one can’t blame them if they take a little, now and then, for working so hard of a Sunday.”

“They well deserve it, poor fellows,” said Jackey, “I’d rather work to bal for my part.”

Public ovens being heated with furze, bakers had a very laborious occupation; and, almost all their customers having ducks or geese at Madrontide, made it much harder at that particular season.

The old bachelor, anxious to entertain his visitors handsomely, was “as busy as a hen with one chick,” and his restlessness made them uncomfortable. On coming in he placed on the table tobacco and new long pipes; then, thinking he ought to have a pudding, he proceeded to get the materials for making one, till Mary stopped him by saying he should do nothing of the sort, as what they had taken to the bakehouse would be a capital dinner without it.

“Sit thee down, mate,” said Jackey, “and touch pipe a bit; lev Mary do the rest about dinner.”

At last he sat down for a few minutes, and Jackey said, “This es a comfortable little place, large enough for one man and a cat; it’s like a town house on this side; looking downwards you see plenty of walls and roofs, with a glimpse of sky, and have the morning sun, when there’s any going; that’s as much as one can expect in town; and, on ’tother side, it’s like being in the country with green fields all the way up from Leskenack, and trees growing on the hedge and overhanging the lane.”

“Aye, I’m better off here by far,” replied the happy occupier of two small rooms, “than hundreds who live in other parts of the town where the old gardens and courts are built on with dwellings for poor people, who are glad to get under a roof anywhere near their work.”

When Dick thought his dinner ready, he and his guests fetched it from the bakehouse, each bearing a dish.

Vegetables had been boiled and ale fetched in the meanwhile. Having good appetites they enjoyed their dinner and praised the bakers.

Whilst drinking their toddy, and the men smoking, in the afternoon, Dick asked, between puffs, if Mary knew how Conny Trevail’s pig was come? “Why I never heard there was anything amiss with n,” replied she, “and I saw long-legged Conny, as we call her, yesterday, gadding about from house to house, as usual, to hear and tell the news, her clothes all in ‘skethans’ (strips), and one would think she liked them so, for she’ll never sew up a ‘skate’ (rent) so long as the pieces hang together; and her stockings (never darned) have the holes dragged together, tell their tops won’t reach her garters. But what made you ask about her pig?” In reply Dick told the story which follows, somewhat abridged.

“On the last Thursday Conny came into the druggist’s shop, in great ‘stroath’ (fussy haste), her hair all hanging about her face, her bonnet tied down weth a ‘nackan’ (handkerchief) and cloak all on one shoulder.

“Going to the master, she asked if he could give her anything to do her pig good. ‘What’s the matter weth n?’ asked he in return. ‘Es like a thing bewitched,’ said Conny, ‘a’ll neither live nor die, and the best mait I can give n es all muzzled out of the ‘traff’ weth n, and es gone to skin and bone. I knaw a was begrudged to me when I was in price for n. I was in two minds when I left home whether a was best to go to the ‘pellar’ or come to you, but now I’m here I’ll try what you can do.’

“‘You can have something that may bring the pig to an appetite,’ said the druggist, ‘ef you give it as I’ll direct ’e.’

“Having put up some powders, he told Conny she must thoroughly clean the pig’s trough, wash it out, and have it sweet; then give the pig fresh food, and a little of the powders, two or three times a day. ‘The medicine comes to sixpence.’

“‘Gracious me; es a lot of money,’ said she, ‘and are ’e sure a’ll do the pig good.’ ‘I can tell ’e as truly as if I’d been a conjuror,’ answered the druggist, ‘that if you do as I’ve told ’e, by next Thursday this time your pig will either be better or worse, or much the same.’ ‘Aw, thank’e sar,’ said Conny, ‘I’ll pay the money with a good heart, now you’ve told me that.’

“The druggist having taken the money went into the house. Now Dick had been at the mortar all the time, but pounding easily, that he might hear what passed, and get in a word if he found the chance.

“Conny turned to leave the shop, but, seeing Dick, she came over to him with the drugs in her hand, and said, ‘Dost a think, you, that this ‘trade’ ‘ll do any good at all? I wish I’d gone to the pellar, for his work es sure, ef a do charge three shellans before he’ll do anything to stop the witchcraft.’

“‘Well, you heard what master said,’ replied Dick, ‘and I firmly believe him.’

“‘Now I’ll tell thee what I’ll do before I’m a day older,’ said she, ‘to serve out that strollop who begrudged me the pig, and ef her ill wishes have fallen upon am I’ll make her suffer torments. The conjuror can’t tell me any more than I know about that. I’ll bury the bottle of water before night ef I can; she shall come to me and beg, and pray, and promise never to ill-wish anything belongan to me agen, she shall.’ Dick told her to make haste home, and let him know how the pig got on the next time she came to town.”

“Aw the old fool,” said Jackey, when the story was ended. “But she is no worse than scores of others who put more faith in the conjuror than in a doctor. She’s too lazy to clean the pig’s trough, or mend her clothes, yet she’d go a score miles or more to consult the pellar. There are many that might be expected to know better than old Conny who will visit the pellar and pay him well to have what they call their protection renewed in a few months more. This is done when the sun is coming back and getting strong—the wise-man has more power then—about the end of March, so they believe; and soon after the time of visiting the pellar, old Tammy, his wife will ride round the West Country, bringing the ‘protection’ to such as are unable to go for it. Old bedlyers have it put into their pillows; others wear it on the breast.”

An hour or so before sunset, Jackey becoming tired of being shut up in Dick’s bird-cage of a dwelling, and wishing to breathe sweet country air, said to his wife, “Es time for us to be jogging home along.”

“You must have tea first,” said Dick, “then I’ll go part of road wh’y.”

“Take your hat and pipe and come now,” replied Jackey; “we don’t want tea, and Mary had a cup after dinner; she can get home before we want any more.”

They started—all three—and went down along joyfully; and so ended their Penzance feast.

On taking leave of Dick, a mile or two from town, Mary told him to search his cupboard when he got home,—she never told him of the cake she’d put there for him. They were satisfied on the whole, yet glad to get home, and never wished to go again.

Fifty years ago, and longer, Madron Feast was dying out. The principal people were strangers there, who cared nothing for the parish feast, and had no sympathy with the old inhabitants or their customs.

There is no remembrance or tradition of Madrontide ever having been kept heartily, by “One and all,” like St. Just feast, nor of any holiday-games on their Feasten Monday, such as wrestling, hurling, throwing quoits, &c. The old game called “kook” was a trial of casting quoits the farthest and nearest to goal. This is all but forgotten. As for hurling, it is now unknown, in every place west of Hayle, except at St. Ives, and there only in the mild form of hurling to the goal. On the feast their silver ball is aired for a short time on Permester Sand.

What is here known as a pellar’s “protection” is usually two or three inches of parchment inscribed with planetary and other signs or cabalistic words. It is a mystery how these inscriptions were first acquired, as they are not found in any books which were likely to have come into the hands of our wise-men; and the words are quite unlike charms for the cure of many ailments. These are grounded on Christian legends, but the Pellar’s “protections” have nothing Christian in their construction. They are probably of greater antiquity than the said charms.

As an example, here is the only one I have met with which can be given in type. The others have all, more or less, signs and figures which would require woodcuts to show them.

R O T A S
O P E R A
T E N E T
A R E P O
S A T O R

This magic square may be read four ways the same; beginning at the top, it must be read from right to left as Sator, Arepo, &c. This is the case with some others of the Pellar’s talismans. Our wise-men (call them conjurors if you please, but they do not like the term) have no knowledge whence their formulæ were obtained, nor what the name of “pellar” means. Yet it is probably a corruption of the old Cornish word “pystryor” which means a conjuror or magician. The name of wizard is unknown here amongst old folk who have no book-learning.

ZENNOR HEARTHSIDE STORIES.

“And each, in turn, would some fond theme relate;
Not of perplexing plans to mend the State,
But seriously renew some oft-told tale,
Or ancient legend of some spectre pale,
Or wondrous deeds by their good fathers done,
And stories strange, long passed, denied by none.”

John Williams.

Being on the road to Zennor with a stranger to Cornwall, who wished to see all he could of the place and people, we had the good luck to fall in with a very intelligent old miner, returning to his home from Ding Dong. He at once entered into conversation with that ease and candour for which the true Cornish have ever been remarkable.

Our destination for the night being Zennor churchtown, and his cottage not being far out of our road, we gladly accepted his invitation to accompany him home and rest awhile; the more so as we were soon sensible that our companionship was mutually agreeable.

Our comrades’ constant flow of joke and story, told in the quaint way so peculiar to Droll-tellers of the West, made the time pass unobserved, until we found that night was closing around us as we sat by his fireside, when (wishing to retain some of the tinner’s peculiar words, old proverbs, and the novel points of some rare drolls) the stranger produced pencil and paper. The writing materials seemed to suggest

‘A chield’s amang ye, taking notes,
And faith he’ll prent it,’

as our very communicative friend ‘fought shy’ all at once. After we had assured him that nothing of what he told us should be published without his consent, he gave the reason for his sudden reticence; which, as he no longer objected to taking notes, I will give in his own language.

My old friend began by saying, “The reason I felt a dislike to your writing down any of the foolish drolls I have been telling is because many have lately published stories pretended to be Cornish which would make strangers think us void of common sense, and that our lingo is such a gibberish as was never jabbered in this world nor any other. They should remember the old saying about foul birds dirting their own nests. True, I remember the time when many used more old Cornish words, and spoke broader than we do now; as, for example, in St. Just, where I was born and bred. In the ‘daddy,’ ‘mammy,’ and ‘porridge’ days we called the cape the caape; and the hall we called the hale. Then, over a while we got a good schoolmaster among us, and came to ‘father,’ ‘mother,’ and ‘broth.’ We learned to say the ‘cape’ and ‘hall,’ just like other folks. At last, what they called good times came, and, would ye believe it? many of the St. Tusters,—the ‘red-tailed droans,’—got so rich and proud that nothing would do but they must send their boys and girls away to boarding school. When they came back it was nothing but ‘pa,’ ‘ma,’ and ‘soup,’ and ‘will you take a walk down to the keep?’ The poor old ‘hale’ was then refined into ‘hele,’ with their confounded mincing, unless they called it a ‘parlour.’ A ‘parlour,’ forsooth. It was but the old hale, make the most of it. Besides, I was rather shy when the paper came in sight, because we have many manners and customs which appear singular to strangers, when they first come among us, although we, who are raised in the midst of them, think all our ways quite natural, and that it must be the same everywhere else. Faith, before a spell of bad times came, and sent me and a good many other Cousin Johneys off to the Lakes and Mineral Point for a time, where I believe many of us would have stopped and sent home for our families if it were not for the cursed kick-up the Yankies made about their darkies, and old Virginia’s shore. Well, before we crossed the herring-pool I was as bad as the old woman down in St. Ives, who was four score and had never been over the hill farther than the top of the Stennack, before Whitfield came one Sunday to preach on Trecroben, when all the town went to hear him. The old dame, among the rest, reached the top of the hill, and looking round, declared she never thought the world was half so large before, and supposed the hills she could see far away must be in France, or Spain, or perhaps some of the foreign countries she had read of in the Bible.

“I found when I came back from Yankee-land that a lot of our Cousin Johneys who had learned to read and write a little had been telling what they called Cornish stories to enlighten strangers; but, the traitors, they have been telling such a lot of stuff as is only likely to turn their own country and comrades into ridicule. Those who try to make fun of their mates for the amusement of strangers, or for the sake of showing off their own fancied superiority, should have their windpipes slit, or their bread-bags ripped up, the dastardly crew.”

When we were about to leave, our old friend said “My dears, if you must go to Zennor churchtown for the night, let me beg of ye don’t take the people you may meet with there for a fair sample of Cornish folks; that’s the only place in the County where the cow ate the bell-rope and no wonder the poor half-starved thing should have gone into the belfry and eaten the straw rope that’s fixed to their old crazy kettle, for their cattle are half-starved in winter and when they die off in spring they are sure to think they were bewitched, and off they go to the pellar to know who the old crone is that owes them a grudge? The church is well worth seeing, if they have not destroyed the curious old carved-work that used to be there. You need not be surprised if they have, as they but lately allowed one of their largest quoits (cromlechs) to be broken up and carried off.

“In the next parish, where they live on fish and potatoes every day, with conger-pie for a change on a Sunday they arn’t much better.

“Towednack people say that the devil would never let them raise their tower any higher—a good thing to have some one to put the fault on, if it’s only Old Nick; but, whatever he should get up a storm and blow the stones down for, if they only attempt to place pinnacles on their stumpy tower, it’s hard to say; yet such is the story Towednack folks will tell ye.

“About St. Ives, too, the less said the better. I wouldn’t advise you to go there, unless you can bear the sight and smell of all that’s filthy, without having your stomach turned.

“But, Lord, what can one expect of the people who whipped the hake round the market? When you come round to Lelant you will get among civilized people again, and it’s well worth going farther to see Trecroben hill and its giant’s castle, with the giant’s chair on Trink hill, and many other places, which you have no doubt heard of.” We passed a few days, however, very pleasantly amongst Zennor folk; and gleaned the following stories, &c., of this section from them.

We reached Zennor churchtown about eight o’clock, and found very fair accommodation at the public-house; as good, indeed, as one might expect in such a retired district.

By the kitchen fire, were seated four elderly men, who appeared to be well pleased with their ale and each others company. The chief talker of these four old cronies was the captain or manager of Zennor tin-stamps.

He said much about the witches and tin-streamers who lived in Trewey or Trewey-bottom, long ago; and of Kerrow and other ancient hamlets, with the people who dwelt there in days of yore.

During the evening, Cap’n Henny, as they called him, spoke of a retired seaman who had been much troubled by a shipmate’s ghost, until he plucked up courage and spoke to his old comrade’s spirit. One story brought up another, till it was near midnight, when the company left for their homes.

The hostess said, that Jackey (her husband) was gone over to Trevidja to gulthise [8], if he should be home to-morrow, he would tell us some stories she believed to be true, because her husband knew the people the stories were told of; “but as for Uncle Henny’s,” said she, “they are all, or nearly all, about people who lived so long ago that one don’t know whether they’re true or no.”

The schoolmaster referred to, Mr. John Davey, was well versed in various branches of mathematics, and took good care that his pupils should be thoroughly grounded in the most practically useful problems. Many young miners of St. Just acquired such a taste for geometry about this time that the boards, &c., near mine-workings were often found covered with diagrams from Euclid. They hit on the Chinese method of demonstrating the famous 47th problem, 1st book, by drawing the diagram to a scale, producing the squares of the three sides, dividing them into small squares by scale, thus proving that the sum of the squares of the two lesser sides was equal to the square of the larger. With many other problems of the same class, they took similar practical means of demonstration and were not slow to see their application. Mr. Davey and his pupils also took great pride in answering mathematical queries proposed in the ‘Ladies and Gentlemen’s Diary,’ and other magazines of this period. Nor did he neglect general literature for the more practical subjects, as an anecdote, which was told me by a pupil of Mr. Davey, will prove:—This young man was much addicted to spending his evenings in public-houses for the sake of having company and excitement more than from any love of drink.

Being in Penzance Market, and seeing some curious old books, illustrated with rare engravings, and knowing that Mr. Davey was fond of such works, he bought two or three volumes for the sake of gratifying the old gentleman, not attempting to understand them himself. One was an odd volume of Shakespeare, containing some of the historical plays; another Spenser’s Faerie Queene; the other Goldsmith’s poems and plays. Mr. Davey pointed out the most beautiful passages in the plays of the royal Henrys, and explained the history of the time of these dramas, helping him at the same time to enjoy the beauties of Fairy-land and all its revelries. The young miner no longer wanted public-house amusements. Before the winter was over, with a small portion of the money he would have wasted, but for the delight he had in reading the old volumes over and over again, he bought complete editions of Shakespeare, Spenser, &c., and soon acquired a good acquaintance with many of the best English authors.

A few years afterwards he received a hurt at the mine, which disabled him for hard work, when he opened a school in Buryan Churchtown, which procured him a comfortable maintenance, and his greatest pleasure seemed to be to speak of his old master with love and gratitude.

No doubt much of the superior intelligence of St. Just men of the present time is owing to the training of the excellent old schoolmaster, who was altogether a remarkable man for the time and place. We want more such schoolmasters and fewer preachers in the West.

THE SEAMAN’S GHOST.

James Botterell, one of the St. Just family of that name, after having served many years aboard a privateer when he was a young man, in Bonaparte’s time, settled in Zennor, about fifty years ago. Shortly after he left sea, he was much troubled with a drowned shipmate’s ghost. Towards the morning part of a stormy winter’s night, he was aroused by three loud raps on his chamber window; and, on raising his head, he saw standing by his bedside the apparition of one John Jones, who had been his favourite comrade—looking pale and sad, and, apparently, dripping wet. In a few minutes it disappeared with the misty light which surrounded it.

Next day James tried to persuade himself that the vision might be merely a troubled dream, but the apparition continued to come on each succeeding night, stopping longer than at first. There was also much noise and disturbance in and around his dwelling, by day as well as by night.

Over a week or so the ghost, often casting an angry look at the man, followed him about in broad daylight, so that James became weary of his life. His friends advised him to speak to the ghost and have confidence, as they had always been good friends; they told him that a spirit would never speak until spoken to; and they believed that his shipmate merely wanted him to do something that the ghost was unable to perform. Moreover, they warned him that there was danger to be apprehended when a spirit was angered by delay in speaking to it.

At length James plucked up courage, and one day, being at work in a field, when his old mate’s ghost stood by him—as usual, looking sad and angry by turns—he spoke, and said, “Tell me, John Jones, what shall I do to give thee rest?” The spirit replied, “It is well thou hast spoken, for I should have been the death of thee if thou hadst much longer refused to speak! What grieved and vexed me most was to see that thou seemedst to fear thy old comrade, who always liked thee the best of all his shipmates.”

“I no longer fear thee, Jack,” replied James; “and wish I could grasp that hand of thine as in times gone by.” Indeed, he now felt no more dread of his messmate’s ghost than if he were still a living man. The spirit, looking pleased, said, “Now I see thee art like thyself again, staunch and true to thy comrade in life and death. Listen and learn why I am come to seek thy aid. The other stormy night, a few minutes before I first appeared at thy bedside, I was on board a good ship in the Bay of Biscay, with a strong gale and a rolling sea. In clewing up a topsail, the ship gave a lurch: I lost my hold, fell overboard, and was drowned before anybody noticed my mishap. When sinking I thought of thee. Now much of my prize-money is in a chest, left in Plymouth at a public-house well-known to thee—the one we used most to frequent, when everything was in common between us. My son, I want thee to go thither; take my chest to another house; pay what I owe to various people in Plymouth, and keep what remains for thyself. I’ll meet thee there and direct thee how to act.”

Jim having promised to do all that was required, Jack’s ghost looked happy, and a moment after said, “I wish thee well, mate, till we meet again,” and disappeared.

Early next morning James took a strong young horse and rode away to Plymouth. It was after candlelighting of the second night when he arrived there, and put up at an inn—a short distance from the one where the chest was left.

Whilst he lay awake, thinking how he should proceed on the morrow, Jones appeared by his bedside, and, as if knowing what passed in the man’s mind, said, “Don’t ’e think, my son, that the landlady will make any difficulty about taking away the chest, for she don’t know, d’ye see, that it contains valuables, nor that I shipped aboard an Indiaman and got drowned a few weeks ago. But she remembers how—not long since—we wore each other’s clothes and shared each other’s rhino, just as brothers should. Tell her I’m in town and will see her before I leave! To-morrow bring here the chest and I’ll direct ’e how to deal with my creditors; and now good night, mate.” Saying this he vanished.

The landlady was very glad to see James, and more so to have the sailor’s chest taken out of her way; told him to give her love to Captain Jones (as she called him), and to say she hoped he wouldn’t fail to call before he left port. The chest being opened, there was nothing to be seen in it but the seaman’s best clothing; for all the money was concealed in secret drawers of the skibbet, and under a false bottom. The ghost accompanied James—though invisible to others—all the time, until the business was settled. Then it left him—without saying good bye, however.

James went over to Dock. Whilst he was there admiring the shipping, on turning around he saw Jones close beside him. If he had been visible to other people they would have taken him for an able seaman in his prime, for he appeared rigged out in brand new sailor’s garb and looked hale and hearty as when alive. “I’ve just passed by the old inn,” said he, “showed myself as I now appear, and kissed my hand to our old hostess, who was at her work near an open window; but, before she could reach her door to welcome home the man she used to admire, lo! I’m here. So you see it’s convenient to be a ghost!”

James didn’t think so, however; and they walked on in silence till they came near a fine ship ready to sail on a long voyage. Then the spirit stopped, and, looking sorrowfully in the man’s face said, “My dear Jim, I will now bid thee farewell. I’m off to sea again, for, with an occasional trip to the Green, I know no way of passing the time that better suits me. Thou wilt nevermore see me whilst thou art alive, but if thou thinkest of me at the hour of thy death we shall meet, as soon as the breath leaves thy body. My poor clay lies deep in the Bay of Biscay, and when thine is laid in Zennor churchyard we will rove the seas together. A truehearted tar has nothing to fear, and now my son adieu.” A moment after James saw him glide aboard the ship, and in the twinkling of an eye he vanished.

James returned to the inn, feeling very wisht, and his sadness continued till he came in sight of Zennor Hills. Then he felt in pretty good heart; and well he might, for hadn’t he brought home a bundle of capital clothes that he found in his comrade’s chest and many more pounds in his pocket than when he left Zennor? But the horse was never fit for anything again, from having been ridden to and from Plymouth in less than a week.

Sailors say that ships are often haunted with drowned seamen’s ghosts, and they believe that such vessels are seldom wrecked, for the friendly spirits give warning of approaching tempests, and tokens of other dangers to their craft.

Cornish Sailors’ Isle of Avalon. — It is known to most persons who have mixed much with Cornish sailors that they often speak of the “Green,” which they frequently call Fiddler’s Green amongst themselves. They describe this place as an “Isle of the Blest,” in which honest Tars, after the toils of this life, are to enjoy unmixed bliss with their old comrades and favourite fair ones. In orchards of fruit, ever ripe, they are to be entertained with music, dancing, and everything else in which they delighted in their lifetime. The idea of this Fairy Land is probably derived from Celtic mythology, as well as that of

“The island valley of Avilion,
Where falls not hail, or rain, or snow;
Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies
Deep-meadow’d, happy, fair with orchard lawns,
And bowery hollows crown’d with summer seas.”

Thither King Arthur was wafted in a barge with three fair queens when his table, man by man,

“Had fallen in Lyonness about their Lord.”

Breton and Welsh sailors have similar notions.

THE OLD WOMAN’S GHOST.

Not long since there lived at Trewey, in Zennor, a poor and aged woman, who much loved her neighbour’s little girl, and, when dying, bequeathed to her a shawl, which was all she had to leave of any value.

The departed woman’s wish, however, was disregarded; and a few evenings after her funeral, the child would burst out in shrieks. On being asked what made her screech so, “Oh! there’s An Katty,” cried she, “with her face tied up in a white nackan and nothing on her but a sheet!” Thus the old woman’s ghost continued to haunt her; until one evening a strong man, of great faith, took the child and carried her out of doors, when, over a while, the little girl exclaimed, “Oh, there she es again.” Then the man saw the spirit too, and said to her, “In the name of goodness I command thee to tell me why thou art come back to trouble this cheeld?” The spirit answered, “Because the shawl isn’t given to the cheeld, I cannot rest.” Then the man said he would see her wish complied with, bade her depart in peace, and told her that if she hadn’t been “an old fool of a sperat, she would have scared the ones who kept the shawl and have left the cheeld alone!” By that, the ghost had vanished, without saying another word.

The same night the shawl was given to the cheeld, and Trewey folks thought that all was then settled with the old woman; but, in the course of two or three evenings, the little girl, being out in the town-place with her playmates, was taken up over the furze-ricks by invisible means, and borne away out of sight in a minute. The other children ran home frightened.

She often stayed out in neighbours’ houses for hours together, so her mother didn’t miss her till bedtime. Then, as the woman was going to look for her, in she came, with only one shoe on.

Being questioned as to where she had been to lose her shoe, the child answered that she didn’t know—only that she was taken up over the “housen” and carried away as easy as if she had been rocked in a cradle to a Churchtown with lots of trees in it, and laid in the churchyard on a new grave; she saw nobody, but heard like singing around her; somebody kissed her; then she shivered with cold, and was again carried up over the trees and back to her own town-place. She believed that her shoe was loosened as she skimmed the tree-tops, but where it dropped she couldn’t tell.

From what the child said, all Trewey people thought she had been taken to Ludgvan, where the old woman was buried; and it was put beyond doubt next day, when her missing shoe was found on the old woman’s grave. There it was left; for the old woman “might want something belonging to the child, to put her to rest,” and nobody would risk bringing her back again for the sake of a shoe.

And she has “kept quiet” from that day to this.

The stranger, by the way of applauding this story, or the droll-teller, exclaimed, “Hear, hear, and cheers!” “Iss, they’re all in rags and tatters,” said the landlady, who was laying the table, “es the confounded children’s work; they’re always pullan the heer (hair) out of the cheers, od drat tham.” When the gentleman explained that no allusion was made to her chairs, the jolly dame laughed heartily at her mistake, and speaking to the story-teller said, “Cap’n Henny, don’t ’e tell any more stories about sperats, lev es have the St. Ives mutton feast, or somethan cheerful.”

Then the man who had told the two preceding drolls recited the following verses.

THE MUTTON FEAST AT ST. IVES.

An old tradition says that a flock of sheep were blown from Gwithian sands into St. Ives Bay, and that St. Ives fishermen caught them, believing them to be a new variety of fish, either with their nets, or with hook and line, and brought them ashore as their night’s catch.

About eighty years ago, Mr. Fortescue Hitchins wrote the following verses on this tradition.

Sometime ago in days of yore,
On Cornwall’s northern sandy shore,
A borough town, as some folks say,
Stood on the margin of a bay;
And through all the country round
Its folks for wisdom were renowed.

East of this famous borough’s bay
A barren, sandy common lay,
Where the farmers naught could keep,
Except some flocks of half-starved sheep.

One dusky night the wind blew high,
Black, lowering clouds obscured the sky:
With furious sway the eastern blast
Swept all before it as it past;
Storm-driven stores of frighted sheep
Were hurried down the sandy steep;
Nor could they face the sweeping sway,
Which sent them headlong into sea.

Bad are the winds, as all must know,
That never good to any blow;
Since two or three, at dawn of day,
Wreck-hunters ranging round the bay,
With joy beheld the fleecy flock
Lie dead around on sand and rock.
They, with good Ammon, when they spied,
Opened their throats and “heava!” cried.
This well-known sound aroused them all,
And out they tumbled great and small:
Fish-bulkers, chimney-sweepers, sailors,
Parson, clerk, tinkers, and tailors,
Coopers, crabpot-makers, cobblers,
Hewers, hake-whippers, and hoblers,
Boat-menders, seiners, and warp-hawlers,
And all the gape-mouth heava bawlers.

With joy they see the mutton store,
And “heava” sound from shore to shore:
So counting honestly the sheep
A God-send from the stormy deep,
All hands turned-to, with wonderous pain,
To share the unexpected gain;
Brought home of mutton such a store
Which lasted them ten days or more;
And from each hide made shift to pull
Almost a pound-and-half of wool.

Now, mutton roasted, mutton boiled,
And mutton fried, and baked, and broiled,
Which, savoury, smoaking from a dish,
Had almost drowned the smell of fish.

Five days they watched the foaming tide,
Hoping more sheep might yet be spied.
And now and then their longing eyes
With joy salute the mutton prize;
And when, at length, a heavy sea
Has fairly thrown them in their way,
Surrounded like a flock of crows,
Which carrion want to fill their maws.

Now those who have to feed on fish
Ten minutes took to enjoy that dish;
An hour now to dinner linger,
To pick the bones and lick their fingers.

These thankful folks were heard to say—
“O blessed was that happy day
That brought such stormy sway to sweep
Into our Bay such flocks of sheep!
O might such storms, ten times a year,
Send such good store of such good cheer!
O that the storm would also bring
A few good ankers from the sling,
Buried by smugglers in the sea,
And throw them plump into our Bay!

Then we lazy lubbers all
Might lean our backs against the wall,
And thankfully enjoy the sun,—
That would be glorious lazy fun!”

“Heava” is shouted from the high ground on which a watch is kept for pilchards as soon as the “huers” signal their approach. These signals are made to seiners in the boats, by the means of bushes, or wire-frames covered with white cloth.

The cheering sound of “heava” no sooner reached St. Ives than it resounded from street to street, and soon reached the country.

It has been said that this word “heava” was either a contraction of “we have them, or here they are;” but its origin is uncertain.

THE WITCH OF KERROW.

About seventy years ago, Sir Rose Price often started a hare near Kerrow, in Zennor. His dogs would run it into the village, where it would always escape by entering a “bolt” (drain) that ran from a pool up under a house, not far from the pool. At last, one day the hunters loaded their guns to hinder it from escaping by that strange way. Having started the hare it took the usual course, when one of the guards shot at it, but didn’t kill it, for it went up town and entered the bolt as usual. Sir Rose lifted the latch and, followed by some others, entered the dwelling to ask leave to open the bolt, when lo! there, sitting on the hearthstone, they beheld an old woman of the house, much bleeding about her head and face, with her hair all hanging down. Beside her, on the chimney-stool, sat a monstrous big black cat, with his back up and eyes like coals of fire, showing his teeth as if ready to spring at the intruders, who turned tail and went away, without speaking a word, when they saw how they had hunted and shot a witch. And not one of these hunters ever prospered after! At least so runs the legend.

FAIRIES ON THE EASTERN GREEN.

Returning somewhat late on the following evening, from a long ramble to see remarkable places in the neighbourhood, we found the manager of Zennor stamps and the other old cronies seated in their accustomed places by the fireside.

Shortly after the landlord came in from his work. He was a sturdy fellow of fifty or thereaway, burnt as brown as a berry. Most of his time was passed at work on his farm; he had a good size one for that part of Zennor, and the public-house was left to his wife’s management.

During the evening, after much coaxing, our host told the story which his wife had spoken of as a true one: telling how a company of smugglers, of his acquaintance, had been driven away from Market-jew Green by small-folks (fairies.)

There is some hope that all the fairy-folk have not yet entirely forsaken this neighbourhood, as there are persons now living who have seen them dancing and holding their revels on the Eastern Green within the last fifty years. At that time, however, there were many acres of grass-grown sandy banks there; and a broad belt of soft green-sward, which skirted the carriage road, afforded a pleasant walk from Chyandour to Market-jew bridge.

Great part of this green has now been swept away by the waves, and much of what the sea spared has been enclosed by the grasping owners of adjacent land, though their right to this ancient common is very questionable.

The following fairy adventure was told to me a short time since by a grave elderly man who heard it related by the principal person concerned in it.

Tom Warren, of Paul, was noted as one of the boldest smugglers round. On a summer’s night, about forty years ago, he and five other men landed a boat-load of smuggled goods at a short distance from Long Rock. The brandy, salt, &c., having been taken above high-water mark, two of the men departed for Market-jew, where their best customers lived, and one went over to Newtown to procure horses that the goods might be secured before daybreak.

Tom and the other two, being very tired, lay down by a heap of goods, hoping to get a doze whilst their comrades were away. They were soon disturbed, however, by the shrill “tweeting” of “feapers” (slit quills or reeds, which give a shrill note when blown in.) Besides there was a constant tinkling, just like old women make by rattling pewter plates or brass pans to frighten their swarming bees home, or to make them settle.

The men thought this noise might be from a company of young folks keeping up a dance on the Green till a very late hour. Tom went to see who they were and to send them home, for it wasn’t desirable for everybody to pry into the fair traders’ business. Having passed the beach, he mounted a high sand-bank to have a look round, as the music seemed very near him.

At a little distance, in hollows, between sand-banks, he saw glimmering lights, and persons like gaily dressed dolls skipping about and whirling round. Going nearer, he beheld, perched on a pretty high bank in their midst, a score or so of little old-looking chaps; many of them blew in mouth-organs (Pan’s pipes); some beat cymbals or tambourines; whilst others played on jew’s-harps, or tweeted on May whistles and feapers.

Tom noticed that the little men were rigged all in green, except their scarlet caps (small people are so fond of that coloured head-gear that they used to be nick-named “red-caps.”) But what struck him and tickled his fancy most was to see the little, old, grave-looking pipers with their long beards wagging.

In moving their mouths over the reeds, stuck in their breasts, they looked more like buck goats than anything human, so Tom said; and that for the life of him he couldn’t forbear shouting—“Will ’e be shaved— will ’e be shaved old red-caps?”

He hailed them twice, and was about to do so again when all the dancers, with scores and hundreds more than he noticed at first sprang up, ranged themselves in rank and file; armed themselves in an instant with bows and arrows, spears and slings; then faced about, looking like vengeance. The band being disposed alongside, played a quick march, and the troops of “spriggans” stamped on towards Tom, who saw them getting taller as they approached him. Their threatening looks were so frightful that he turned tail and ran down to his comrades, and roused them, saying, “Put to sea for your lives. There’s thousands of small people and bucca-boos ’most on our backs! They’ll soon surround us!”

Tom made off to the boat, and his comrades followed close at his heels; but, on the way, a shower of pebbles fell on them, and “burned like coals ’o fire wherever they hit them.”

The men pulled many fathoms from shore before they ventured to look up, though they knew themselves safe when on the sea, because none of the fairy tribe dare touch salt water.

At length, casting a glance landward, they saw, ranged along the shore, a company of as ugly-looking creatures as they ever beheld, making threatening gestures and vain endeavours to sling stones at them.

When a furlong or so from land, the men rested on their oars, and kept watching their assailants, till near daybreak; then horses being heard galloping along the road from Market-jew, the small people retreated to the sand-banks and the smugglers rowed to land. Tom again shouted to the retiring host, “We’ll shave ’e all, and cut your tails off, ef you ever show here any more.” But the fairies disdained to notice his impudence and presently disappeared.

The other smugglers, who were now on the beach with plenty of help, on seeing their mates leaving the boat, inquired if the riding-officer had hove in sight. In such a case smugglers usually took to sea that they might not be known; they didn’t mind his seeing the goods, for the most valuable would be secured before the king’s men came to take them.

After spileing an anker (tapping a keg) and treating all the neighbours who came to help or purchase, or both, Tom related how they had to run for their lives and take to sea in order to escape an army of small-people. Some could scarcely believe it, though others thought the story likely enow. All blamed Tom for mocking the fairies, and said bad luck would cross his path, ere long, for that night’s work. Aye, and their forebodings were verified before another summer came round. However, without further mishap for that night, the goods were quickly disposed of—the greater part in Market-jew, and the rest left at an old tin work, near the Marsh, till wanted.

We have not heard of fairies having been seen on the Eastern Green since they were thus shamefully derided by Tom Warren.

“They’re never was a better pare (company) of fair-traders than Tom and his mates,” continued the landlord, “and they found good customers in the old well-to-do farmers of Zennor, who dearly loved their toddy, the Lord rest them.”

THE LAST THREATENED INVASION: COMMOTION AND FALSE ALARM IN THE WEST.

The landlady had told her husband, when he came in from his work, that their stranger-guest much wished to hear our old drolls and songs; and to see the remarkable places round about. That was the chief reason why the master of the house was so desirous that the company might tell something, of native growth, which a stranger might deem noteworthy.

Having told the fairy-tale, our host, addressing his wife, said “now Jenny, I’ve told that story to please thee, tell us how Betty Stags was served by a kindlier sort of spriggans (sprites).”

“When I’ve cleaned up a bit, perhaps I may,” replied she, “and Uncle Honney (Hanibal) may sing us a song that while ef he will be so good.”

“That I wed, weth all my heart,” said an old man belonging to the stamps, “ef we had one worth singan; but there’s none known, in these parts, good for anything. Such cheerful songs and rare old ballads as we used to sing, to lighten our labour, are all condemned now, and the singer cried down as ‘carnal-minded.’ In place of them we hear nothan but revival hymns, and I for one can’t make out any sense in them.”

“You have worked in bals up along as far as Dolcoath, or farther,” said our host, “and I have surely heard ’e tell a song or an old ballad that you had heard up that way long ago.”

“But the west es I can’t tell enough of’n to make out the rhymes,” replied the old man; “I only remember that when I was a youngster workan on the floors in Dolcoath, about the time that Boney was expected to invade, and that his troops wed be landed here in the West; et might be on Market-jew Green, or Gwenvor Sand, in Whitsand Bay, out westward. Boney had flat-bottomed boats made, to be sent with the transport ships, and in such boats his troops cud come ashore in shallow water.”

“I only jest remember that time,” said another old man, “there was much alarm amongst the farmers; the ‘guides’ were called out, and the cattle branded on horns and hoofs, that they might be known to their owners, when all the stock belongan to a neighbourhood, should be herded together, and drivan away up along, as it was expected they wed, that the enemy should not come at them.”

“Don’t ’e mind, too,” resumed Uncle Honney, “how notices were put upon Church doors, and other places, forbiddan any bonfires to be made at Midsummer, lest they might be mistaken for bickan-fires, [9] and give a false alarm, like Santusters ded, when they thoft the French had one night landed on Gwenvor Sand, where the Danes used to come ashore and pillage the country round. There were trusses of dry furze kept upon all the bickan-hills, ready for firan; it was the women in Santust ’Chtown who raised the alarm and caused the bickans to blaze from Chapel Carn Brea to Plymouth; troops were dispatched from garrison, but they didn’t know where to take to, lost their way west of Falmouth, and were found down in Gweek, a week after ‘jousters’ and other market-folk had brought news of this false alarm to Falmouth. About that time it was when this song was often singed by tinners around Redruth.

“I don’t remember how the words were broft into rhymes mind ’e. Et said how Englishmen had beaten the French over and over again; taken countries they once ruled over, had them still, and meant to keep them too. Ef Boney’s men landed upon Cornish shores, we wed beat them to bruss. Then it was said how the French were a ‘heap of poor pelyacks’ [10] who, at home, had neither decent meat nor clothes; but were glad to catch quilkans, [11] bullhorns, [12] and padgy-paws; [13] and to stampy about in temberan shoes.

“The burden, or running verse, that came in at every four lines was this:—

‘They shall not eat of our good meat,
Our pelchers and petates.’”

“There was an old Cornish Dialogue in verse, too,” said another old man, “which gave much the same account.”

“I should dearly like,” said the visitor, “to get copies of that song and dialogue, or of as much as is known of them.”

“That old piece Uncle Honney spoke of es forgotten among us,” replied our host, “but I know another, not so old, that’s often told for Christmas pastime, in place of a Guise-dance of St. George and the Turkish Knight; we’ll get’n up for ’e now, the same as we do at Christmastide; ef Jenny will be Mal Treloar, I’ll take the part of Sandry Kemp.”

“That I will,” said our hostess, “and Uncle Honney can give me the word when I may forget et, jest as he do to youngsters actan a Christmas play; he’ll speak for the Cap’n, too, and say other bits requiran a third speaker.”

The company having placed themselves as the landlady directed, gave the following Cornish Dialogue:

MAL TRELOARE AND SANDRY KEMP KISS AND BECOME GOOD FRIENDS AGAIN: OR BACKBITING CRULL OUTWITTED.

’Twas Kendle teenan, 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 Sandry 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 heer 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.”

Sandry.—Why, truly, Mal, I like a thing did zay
That I wud have thee next Chewiden daay.
But zence that time I like a thing ded hear
Thees went wi’ some one down, I naw where;
Now es that fitty, Mal? What dost think?

Mal.—Od rat tha body, Sandry, who said so?
Now, faath and traath, I’ll naw afore I go;
Do lem ma naw the Gossenbary dog.