VARIOUS ROMANCES & SUPERSTITIONS.

THE BELLS OF FORRABURY CHURCH.

To this day the tower of Forrabury Church, or, as it is called by Mr Hawker, “the silent tower of Bottreaux,” remains without bells. “At Forrabury the chimes have never sounded for a marriage, the knell has never been heard for a funeral.”—Collins.

In days long ago, the inhabitants of the parish of Forrabury—which does not cover a square mile, but which now includes the chief part of the town of Boscastle and its harbour—resolved to have a peal of bells which should rival those of the neighbouring church of Tintagel, which are said to have rung merrily at the marriage, and tolled solemnly at the death, of Arthur.

The bells were cast; the bells were blessed; and the bells were shipped for Forrabury. Few voyages were more favourable; and the ship glided, with a fair wind, along the northern shores of Cornwall, waiting for the tide to carry her safely into the harbour of Bottreaux.

The vesper bells rang out at Tintagel, and the pilot, when he heard the blessed sound, devoutly crossed himself, and bending his knee, thanked God for the safe and quick voyage which they had made.

The captain laughed at the superstition of the pilot, as he called it, and swore that they had only to thank themselves for the speedy voyage, and that, with his arm at the helm, and his judgment to guide them, they should soon have a happy landing. The pilot checked this profane speech; but the wicked captain—and he swore more impiously than ever that all was due to himself and his men—laughed to scorn the pilot’s prayer. “May God forgive you!” was the pilot’s reply.

Those who are familiar with the northern shores of Cornwall will know that sometimes a huge wave, generated by some mysterious power in the wide Atlantic, will roll on, overpowering everything by its weight and force.

While yet the captain’s oaths were heard, and while the inhabitants on the shore were looking out from the cliffs, expecting, within an hour, to see the vessel, charged with their bells, safe in their harbour, one of these vast swellings of the ocean was seen. Onward came the grand billow in all the terror of its might. The ship rose not upon the waters as it came onward. She was overwhelmed, and sank in an instant close to the land.

As the vessel sank, the bells were heard tolling with a muffled sound, as if ringing the death-knell of the ship and sailors, of whom the good pilot alone escaped with life.

When storms are coming, and only then, the bells of Forrabury, with their dull, muffled sound, are heard from beneath the heaving sea, a warning to the wicked; and the tower has remained to this day silent.

THE TOWER OF MINSTER CHURCH.

On a visit to this old church, which is allowed to perish under the influences of damp and the accompanying vegetable growth, in a way which is but little creditable to the parishioners, I was struck at the evidence that the tower had either been taken down or that it had fallen. Amidst the long grass of the churchyard I found many remains of carved stones, which clearly belonged at one time to the tower. I sought for some information, but I could obtain none. The officiating clergyman, and several gentlemen of Boscastle, were alike ignorant of any tradition connected with the tower—the prevalent idea being that it was left unfinished.

At length, the ostler at the inn informed me that the story of the destruction of the tower ran thus:—

The tower of the church of the ancient abbey was seen through the gorge which now forms the harbour of Boscastle, far out at sea. The monks were in the habit of placing a light in one of the windows of the tower to guide the worshippers, at night, to the minster.

Frequently sailors mistook this, by day for some landmark, and at night for a beacon, and were thus led into a trap from which they could not easily extricate themselves, and within which they often perished. This accident occurred so frequently that the sailors began at last to declare their belief that the monks purposely beguiled them to their fate, hinting, indeed, that plunder was their object. Eventually, a band of daring men, who had been thus lured into Boscastle, went to the abbey, and, in spite of the exertions made by the monks, they pulled down the tower, since which time it has never been rebuilt.

TEMPLE MOORS.

The parish of Temple in 1851 had a population of 24. Yet once the Knights Templars built a church here; and with the purpose of civilising the inhabitants of the moors in the midst of which it was founded, they secured for their temple some special privileges. “Many a bad marriage bargain,” says Tonkin, “is there yearly slubbered up, and grass widows with their fatlings put to lie-in and nurse here.” “Send her to Temple Moors,” implied that any female requiring seclusion might at one time secure it under the charge of these Christian knights in this their preceptory, and be returned to the world again, probably, in all respects, a better woman. At all events, the world, being in ignorance, did not repudiate the erring sister.

Stories linger over this wilderness of mixed good and evil. The church, which was consecrated to the great cause of saving sinners, has perished. No stone remains to tell us where it stood; and to “send her to Temple Moors,” is to proclaim a woman an outcast from society.

THE LEGEND OF TAMARA.

The lovely nymph Tamara was born in a cavern. Although her parents were spirits of the earth, the child loved the light of day. Often had they chided her for yielding to her desires and visiting the upper world; and often had they warned her against the consequences which would probably arise from her neglect of their advice.

The giants of the moors were to be feared; and it was from these that the earth spirits desired to protect their child.

Tamara—beautiful, young, heedless—never lost an opportunity of looking on the glorious sun. Two sons of Dartmoor giants—Tavy and Tawrage—had seen the fair maid, and longed to possess her. Long was their toil, and the wild maiden often led them over mountain and moor in playful chase.

Under a bush in Morewinstow, one day, both Tavy and Tawrage came upon Tamara. They resolved now to compel her to declare upon which of them her choice should fall. The young men used every persuasion, and called her by every endearing name. Her parents had missed Tamara, and they sought and found her seated between the sons of the giants whom they hated. The gnome father caused a deep sleep to fall on the eyes of Tavy and Tawrage, and then he endeavoured to persuade his daughter to return to his subterranean cell.

Tamara would not leave her lovers. In his rage the gnome cursed his daughter, and, by the might of his curse, changed her into a river, which should flow on for ever to the salt sea. The lovely Tamara dissolved in tears, and, as a crystal stream of exceeding beauty, the waters glided onward to the ocean.

At length Tavy awoke. His Tamara was gone; he fled to his father in the hills. The giant knew of the metamorphosis, and, to ease the anguish of his son, he transformed him into a stream. Rushing over rocks, running through morasses, gliding along valleys, and murmuring amidst the groves, Tavy still goes on seeking for Tamara—his only joy being that he runs by her side, and that, mingling their waters, they glide together to the eternal sea.

Tawrage awakened after a long sleep. He divined what had taken place, and fled to the hills to an enchanter. At his prayer he, too, was changed to a stream; but he mistook the road along which Tamara had gone, and onward, ever sorrowing, he flows—away—away—away from his Tamara for ever.

Thus originated the Tamar, the Tavy, and the Taw.

THE CHURCH AND THE BARN.

The Daunays were great people in their day; but many of them bore indifferent characters.

Sir John de Daunay was a strange mixture of ostentatious pride and penuriousness. His Lady Emelyn was as proud as her husband, but extravagant to a fault.

The priests of St Germans persuaded Sir John to build a church on his lands at Sheviock. He commenced the work, and, notwithstanding his great wealth, his heart failed him and he curtailed the fair proportions on which he had at first decided.

Emelyn was enraged at this; and it is said, that, prompted by the devil in visible presence, she resolved to build a barn which should exceed in beauty the house of God.

The barn rose with astonishing rapidity. Stones were laid at night, and the work proceeded as if the most lavish expenditure had been bestowed upon it. The church progressed but slowly, and was, after all, a very inferior structure to the barn. The devil, without doubt, having assisted Lady Daunay in her wicked work.

“There runneth a tale amongst the parishioners how one of the Daunay family’s ancestors undertook to build the church, and the wife the barn adjoining; and that, casting up accounts on finishing their work, the barn was found to have cost 1½d. more than the church.”[70]

The Daunay aisle in Sheviock Church still preserves the name of this family, who appear to have possessed at one time nearly all this, and much of the adjoining parish.

THE PENRYN TRAGEDY.

“News from Penryn, in Cornwall, of a most bloody and unexampled Murder.”

Such was the title of a black-letter pamphlet of eight pages referred to by Lysons. This curious book does not appear to be in existence.

Mr Davies Gilbert, who possessed much property in the parish of Gluvias, was especially interested in the farm of Bohelland, the place which has been rendered for ever notorious, as having been the scene of Lillo’s tragedy of “Fatal Curiosity.”

From a work entitled “The Reign and Death of King James of Great Britain,” Mr Gilbert quotes as follows:—

“He had been blessed with ample possessions and fruitful issue, unhappy only in a younger son, who, taking liberty from his father’s bounty, and with a crew of like condition, that wearied on land, they went roving to sea, and in a small vessel southward, took boot from all they could master. And so increasing force and wealth, ventured on a Turk’s man in the Streights; but by mischance their own powder fired themselves, and our gallant, trusting to his skilful swimming, got on shore upon Rhodes; with the best of his jewels about him; where, offering some to sale to a Jew, who knew them to be the Governor’s of Algier, he was apprehended, and, as a pirate, sentenced to the galleys among other Christians, whose miserable slavery made them all studious of freedom, and with wit and valour took opportunity and means to murder some officers, got on board of an English ship, and came safe to London; where his misery, and some skill, made him servant to a surgeon, and sudden preferment to the East Indies. There, by this means, he got money; with which returning back, he designed himself for his native county, Cornwall. And in a small ship from London, sailing to the west, was cast away upon that coast. But his excellent skill in swimming, and former fate to boot, brought him safe to shore; where, since his fifteen years’ absence, his father’s former fortunes much decayed, now retired him not far off to a country habitation, in debt and danger.

“His sister he finds married to a mercer, a meaner match than her birth promised. To her, at first, he appears a poor stranger, but in private reveals himself, and withal what jewels and gold he had concealed in a bow-case about him; and concluded that the next day he intended to appear to his parents, and to keep his disguise till she and her husband should meet, and make their common joy complete. Being come to his parents, his humble behaviour, suitable to his suit of clothes, melted the old couple to so much compassion as to give him covering from the cold season under their outward roof; and by degrees his travelling tales, told with passion to the aged people, made him their guest so long by the kitchen fire, that the husband took leave and went to bed. And soon after his true stories working compassion in the weaker vessel, she wept, and so did he; but compassionate of her tears, he comforted her with a piece of gold, which gave assurance that he deserved a lodging, to which she brought him; and being in bed, shewed her his girdled wealth, which he said was sufficient to relieve her husband’s wants, and to spare for himself, and being very weary, fell fast asleep.

“The wife tempted with the golden bait of what she had, and eager of enjoying all, awakened her husband with this news, and her contrivance what to do; and though with horrid apprehensions he oft refused, yet her puling fondness (Eve’s enchantments) moved him to consent, and rise to be master of all, and both of them to murder the man, which instantly they did; covering the corpse under the clothes till opportunity to convey it out of the way.

“The early morning hastens the sister to her father’s house, where she, with signs of joy, inquires for a sailor that should lodge there the last night; the parents slightly denied to have seen any such, until she told them that he was her brother, her lost brother; by that assured scar upon his arm, cut with a sword in his youth, she knew him; and were all resolved this morning to meet there and be merry.

“The father hastily runs up, finds the mark, and with horrid regret of this monstrous murder of his own son, with the same knife cuts his own throat.

“The wife went up to consult with him, where, in a most strange manner beholding them both in blood, wild and aghast, with the instrument at hand, readily rips herself up, and perishes on the same spot.

“The daughter, doubting the delay of their absence, searches for them all, whom she found out too soon; with the sad sight of this scene, and being overcome with horror and amaze of this deluge of destruction, she sank down and died; the fatal end of that family. The truth of which was frequently known, and flew to court in this guise; but the imprinted relation conceals their names, in favour to some neighbour of repute and kin to that family. The same sense makes me therein silent also.”—Gilbert, vol. ii. p. 100.

Mr Harris of Salisbury, in his “Philological Inquiries,” says of Lillo’s tragedy:—

“It is no small praise to this affecting fable that it so much resembles the ‘Œdipus Tyrannus’ of Sophocles. In both tragedies, that which apparently leads to joy, leads in its completion to misery; both tragedies concur in the horror of their discoveries, and both in those great outlines of a truly tragic revolution, (according to the nervous sentiment of Lillo himself,)—

GOLDSITHNEY FAIR AND THE GLOVE.

On the 5th of August, St James’s day, (old style,) a fair is held here, which was originally held in the Church-town of Sithney, near Helston.

In olden time the good St Perran the Little gave to the wrestlers in his parish a glove as the prize, and the winner of the glove was permitted to collect the market toll on the day of the feast, and to appropriate the money to his own use. The winner of the glove lived in the Church-town of Sithney, and for long long years the right of holding the fair remained undisputed.

At length the miners of Goldsithney resolved to contest the prize, and they won it, since which time the fair has been held in that village, they paying to the poor of the parish of Sithney one shilling as compensation.

Gilbert remarks, “The displaying of a glove at fairs is an ancient and widely-extended custom. Mr Lysons says it is continued at Chester. The editor has seen a large ornamented glove over the guildhall at Exeter during the fairs.”[71]

THE HARLYN PIE.

“Adjoining the Church of Constantine, in the parish of St Merryn, was a cottage which a family of the name of Edwards held for generations, under the proprietors of Harlyn, by the annual render of a pie, made of limpets, raisins, and various herbs, on the eve of the festival in honour of the saint to whom the church was dedicated. The pie, as I have heard from my family, and from more ancient members of the family, and from old servants, was excellent. The Edwards had pursued for centuries the occupation of shepherds on Harlyn and Constantine commons. The last died about forty years ago, and the wreck of their cottage is almost buried in the sand.”[72]

PACKS OF WOOL THE FOUNDATION OF THE BRIDGE OF WADEBRIDGE.

Lovebone was the vicar of Wadebridge, and there was a ferry across the river. It was a frequent custom for the farmers to ride their horses and to drive their cattle across when the tide was low, and frequently men and beasts were lost in the quicksands formed on the rising of the tide. A sad accident of this kind happened, and Lovebone resolved on building a bridge; as Leland says in his “Itinerary,” “Then one Lovebone, vicar of Wadebridge, moved with pitie, began the bridge, and with great paine and studie, good people putting their help thereto, finished it with xvii fair and great uniform arches of stone.”

Great was the labour, and frequent the disappointment. Pier after pier were built, and then they were lost in the sands. A “fair structure” was visible at night, in the morning there was no trace of the work of the masons. Lovebone almost despaired of success, indeed he was about to abandon the work, when he dreamed that an angel came with a flock of sheep, that he sheared them, let the wool fall into the water, and speedily built the bridge upon the wool.

Lovebone awoke with a new idea. He gathered from the farmers around, all the wool they would give him, he put it loosely into packs, placed these thickly upon the sand, and built his piers. The work remains to this day in proof of the engineering skill of the suggesting angel.[73]

Quoting Beaumont and Fletcher’s “Knight of the Burning Pestle,” we find the Citizen saying to the Prologue:—

“Why could you not be content as well as others, with the Legend of Whittington? or the Life and Death of Sir Thomas Gresham, with the building of the Royal Exchange? or the Story of Queen Eleanor, with the rearing of London Bridge upon woolsacks?”

THE LAST WOLF IN ENGLAND.

The extirpation of the wolves, which once existed in every part of these islands, is an oft-told story.

But it is not generally known that the last native wolf lived in the forests of Ludgvan, near Penzance. The last of his race was a gigantic specimen, and terrible was the havoc made by him on the flocks. Tradition tells us that at last he carried off a child. This could not be endured, so the peasantry all turned out, and this famous wolf was captured at Rospeith, the name of a farm still existing in Ludgvan.

CHURCHES BUILT IN PERFORMANCE OF VOWS.

There are several churches which, tradition tells us, owe their origin to vows made by terrified men that they would, if relieved from their dangers, build a temple to God.

Amongst these may be named Brent Tor, thus spoken of by Mr Bray:—

“The church of Brent Tor is dedicated to St Michael. And there is a tradition among the vulgar that its foundation was originally laid at the foot of the hill; but that the enemy of all angels, the Prince of Darkness, removed the stones by night from the base to the summit,—probably to be nearer his own dominion, the air,—but that, immediately on the church’s being dedicated to St Michael, the patron of the edifice hurled upon the devil such an enormous mass of rock, that he never afterwards ventured to approach it. Others tell us that it was erected by a wealthy merchant, who vowed, in the midst of a tremendous storm at sea, (possibly addressing himself to his patron, St Michael,) that if he escaped, he would build a church on the first land he descried.”[74]

Brent Tor is a very remarkable hill, and can be seen far off at sea. This may possibly lend some support to the latter tradition.

St Anthony, in Kerrier, is likewise stated to be the consequence of a vow. Soon after the Conquest, as some persons of rank and fortune were coming to England from Normandy, they were overtaken by a violent storm, from which they expected immediate destruction. In the midst of their distress, they directed their prayers to St Anthony, and laid themselves under a solemn vow to erect a church to his memory, if he would save them from shipwreck; and that this church should be erected on the very spot where they should first get on shore. Driven by the tempest, they were conducted, by a power fully equal to that which St Anthony might be supposed to possess, into St Mawes’ harbour, and happily landed on that very spot where the church now stands. And it appears that the materials with which the tower is built, and the situation which the church and tower occupy, are calculated to give sanction to this tradition.

BOLAIT, THE FIELD OF BLOOD.

Tradition asserts that it was on the spot, so called in the parish of Burian, that the last battle was fought between the Cornish Britons and Athelstan. This is in some measure confirmed by the discovery of flint arrow-heads, in considerable quantities, from time to time, in and near this “field of slaughter.”

We have little beyond the evidence of tradition to guide us in regard to any of the triumphs of Athelstan in Cornwall. It appears tolerably certain that this Saxon king confined the Cornish Britons to the western side of the Tamar; thus breaking up the division known as Danmonium, and limiting the territory over which the kings of the west ruled.

Scattered over Cornwall, we have the evidence, in the names of places, of Saxon possession. In all probability these were the resting-places of portions of the Saxon army, or the district in which fortified camps were placed by Athelstan, to restrain a turbulent people. Be this as it may, the battle at Bolait is said to have raged from morning until night, and then, overpowered by numbers, the Cornish who still survived fled to the hills, and thus left Athelstan the conqueror.

It was after this fight that Athelstan, seeing the Islands of Scilly illumined by the setting sun, determined, if possible, to achieve their conquest. He then recorded his vow, that he would, if he returned victorious, build a church, which should be dedicated to St Buryana. Of this church Hals writes as follows:—

“BURIAN.

“This church was founded and endowed by King Athelstan, about the year 930, after such time as he had conquered the Scilly Islands, as also the county of Devon, and made Cornwall tributary to his sceptre. To which church he gave lands and tithes of a considerable value for ever, himself becoming the first patron thereof, as his successors the kings of England have been ever since; for which reason it is still called the royal rectory, or regal rectory, and the royal or regal peculiar; signifying thereby that this is the church or chapel pertaining to the king, or immediately under the jurisdiction of him, as the supreme ordinary from whom there is no appeal; whereas other peculiars, though exempt from the visitation or jurisdiction of the diocesan bishop within whose see they stand, yet are always subject to the provincial Archbishops of Canterbury and York, or other persons.

“This church or college consisted of canons, Augustines or regular priests, and three prebendaries, who enjoyed the revenues thereof in common, but might not marry; and the lord chancellors of England of old visited this peculiar—which extended only over the parishes of Burian, Sennen, and St Levan—for the king.

“One of the Popes of Rome, about the time of Edward III., obtruded upon this church, the canons and prebends thereof, a dean to be an inspector and overseer over them,—whom he nominated to be the Bishop of Exon for the time being,—who for some time visited this church as its governor, as the lord chancellor did before; which encroachment of the Pope being observed by Edward III., as appears from the register of the writs, folio 40 and 41, 8 Edward III., rot. 97, this usurpation of the Pope was taken away.”

WOEFUL MOOR, AND BODRIGAN’S LEAP.

The Bodrigans, from a very early period, were connected with the borough of Looe. Otto, or Otho de Bodrigan, was lord of the manor of Pendrim and Looe in the reign of Edward II. Another Otho de Bodrigan was Sheriff of Cornwall in the 3d of Richard II., A.D. 1400.

Sir Henry Bodrigan was “attaynted for taking part with King Richard III. against Henry VII.; and, after flying into Ireland, Sir Richard Egecombe, father of Sir Pears Egecombe, had Bodrigan, and other parcels of Bodrigan’s lands; and Trevanion had part of Bodrigan’s lands, as Restronget and Newham, both in Falmouth Haven.”

On the Barton of Bodrigan there exists what are evidently the remains of ancient fortifications, and near them a piece of waste land known as the Woeful Moor.

Here Sir Henry Edgecombe and Trevanion defeated the great Bodrigan. He fled, and tradition preserves, on the side of the cliff, the spot known as Bodrigan’s leap, from which he leapt into the sea, and swam to a ship which kept near the shore. As he leapt the precipice, he bequeathed, with a curse, “his extravagance to the Trevanions, and his folly to the Edgecombes.”

These families divided between them an estate said to be worth, in those days, £10,000 per annum.

“At that period in our history when the law of the strongest was the rule, three families in Cornwall were engaged in a series of domestic wars; these were Bodrigan, Trevanion, and Edgecumbe. And when Richard the Third obtained sovereign power, on the division which then took place in the York faction, Bodrigan endeavoured to seize the property of Edgecumbe, with little respect, as it would seem, for the life of the possessor; but in the final struggle at Bosworth Field, where Henry Tudor put an entire end to this contest for power under the guise of property, by seizing the whole to himself, Trevanion and Edgecumbe had the good fortune to appear on the winning side, and subsequently availed themselves to the utmost of belligerent rights against Bodrigan, as he had attempted to do before against them. The last of that family was driven from his home, and seems to have perished in exile. His property was divided between the two families opposed to him, and, after the lapse of three hundred and fifty years, continues to form a large portion of their respective possessions.”—Gilbert, vol. iii., p. 204.

William de Bodrigan was lord of the manor of Restronget, in the 12th of Henry IV. The family possessed it till the beginning of the reign of Henry VII., when, on the attainder of Bodrigan, it was given to William Trevanion.[75]

PENGERSWICK CASTLE.

This castellated building—for it does not now admit of being called a castle, notwithstanding its embattled turrets and its machicolated gate—is situated in a hollow running down to Pengerswick Cove, in the Mount’s Bay, where there never could have been anything to defend; and certainly there is nothing to induce any one to incur the cost of such a building.

Mr Milliton, in the reign of Henry VIII., slew in the streets of London a man in a drunken brawl. He fled, and went to sea. It is not known to what part of the world he went, but we are told that he became excessively rich; so rich, indeed, that “when he loaded his ass with his gold, the weight was so great as to break the poor animal’s back.” Returning to his country, and not daring to appear in any of the large towns, he bought the manor of Pengerswick, and built this castle, to defend himself, in the event of his being approached by any of the officers of the law.

A miserable man, Milliton is said to have lived in a secret chamber in this tower, and to have been visited only by his most trusted friends. Deeply deploring the crime that had condemned him to seclusion from the world, he spent his dreary hours in ornamenting his dwelling. His own story is supposed to be told in the painting of an overladen ass in one room, with a black-letter legend, importing that a miser is like an ass loaded with riches, who, without attending to his golden burden, feeds on thistles. There is also a carving of water wearing a hollow in a stone, and under it the word “Perseverance.” Of the death of Milliton we have no account.

There is very little doubt but that Pengerswick Castle is very much older than the time of Milliton; indeed tradition informs us that he purchased the place. The legends previously given, and others in my possession, refer to a much earlier period. This castle was, it is said, surrounded by trees; but John Hals, who inherited the property, had all the timber cut down and sold.

THE CLERKS OF CORNWALL.

I.

“In the last age there was a familiarity between the parson and the clerk and the people which our feelings of decorum would revolt at—e.g., ‘I have seen the ungodly flourish like a green bay-tree.’ ‘How can that be, maister?’ said the clerk of St Clement’s. Of this I was myself an ear-witness.”

II.

“At Kenwyn, two dogs, one of which was the parson’s, were fighting at the west end of the church; the parson, who was then reading the second lesson, rushed out of the pew and went down and parted them; returning to his pew, and doubtful where he had left off, he asked the clerk, ‘Roger, where was I?’ ‘Why, down parting the dogs, maister,’ said Roger.”

III.

“At Mevagizzey, when non-resident clergymen officiated, it was usual with the squire of the parish to invite them to dinner. Several years ago, a non-resident clergyman was requested to do duty in the church of Mevagizzey on a Sunday when the Creed of St Athanasius is directed to be read. Before he had begun the service, the parish clerk asked him whether he intended to read the Athanasian Creed that morning. ‘Why?’ said the clergyman. ‘Because if you do, no dinner for you at the squire’s, at Penwarne.’”

IV.

“A very short time since parish clerks used to read the first lesson. I once heard the St Agnes clerk cry out, ‘To the mouth of the burning viery vurnis, and spake, and said, Shadrac, Meshac, and Abednego, com voath and com hether,’ (Daniel iii.)”

V.

“The clerk of Lamorran, in giving out the psalm, ‘Like a timorous bird to distant mountains fly,’ always said, ‘Like a timmersum burde,’ &c., &c., with a shake of the head, and a quivering voice, which could not but provoke risibility.”[76]

A FAIRY CAUGHT.

The following, communicated to me on the 8th of August, is too good to be lost. I therefore give it in my correspondent’s own words:—

“I heard last week of three fairies having been seen in Zennor very recently. A man who lived at the foot of Trendreen hill, in the valley of Treridge, I think, was cutting furze on the hill. Near the middle of the day he saw one of the small people, not more than a foot long, stretched at full length and fast asleep, on a bank of griglans, (heath,) surrounded by high brakes of furze. The man took off his furze cuff, and slipped the little man into it, without his waking up; went down to the house; took the little fellow out of the cuff on the hearthstone, when he awakened, and seemed quite pleased and at home, beginning to play with the children, who were well pleased with the small body, and called him Bobby Griglans.

“The old people were very careful not to let Bob out of the house, or be seen by the neighbours, as he promised to shew the man where the crocks of gold were buried on the hill. A few days after he was brought from the hill, all the neighbours came with their horses (according to custom) to bring home the winter’s reek of furze, which had to be brought down the hill in trusses on the backs of the horses. That Bob might be safe and out of sight, he and the children were shut up in the barn. Whilst the furze-carriers were in to dinner, the prisoners contrived to get out, to have a “courant” round the furze-reek, when they saw a little man and woman, not much larger than Bob, searching into every hole and corner among the trusses that were dropped round the unfinished reek. The little woman was wringing her hands and crying, ‘Oh, my dear and tender Skillywidden, wherever canst ah (thou) be gone to? shall I ever cast eyes on thee again? ‘Go ’e back,’ says Bob to the children; ‘my father and mother are come here too.’ He then cried out, ‘Here I am, mammy!’ By the time the words were out of his mouth, the little man and woman, with their precious Skillywidden, were nowhere to be seen, and there has been no sight nor sign of them since. The children got a sound thrashing for letting Skillywidden escape.”

THE LIZARD PEOPLE.

There is a tradition that the Lizard people were formerly a very inferior race. In fact it is said that they went on all fours, till the crew of a foreign vessel, wrecked on the coast, settled among them, and improved the race so much that they became as remarkable for their stature and physical development as they had been before for the reverse. At this time, as a whole, the Lizard folks certainly have among them a very large population of tall people, many of the men and women being over six feet in height.

PRUSSIA COVE AND SMUGGLERS’ HOLES.

Smugglers’ hiding-places (now, of course, unused) are numerous. On the banks of the Helford river are several, and two or three have lately been discovered on the coast about St Keverne by the falling in of their roofs. In a part of Penzance harbour, nine years ago, a hiding-place of this kind was discovered; it still contained one or two kegs, and the skeleton of a man, with his clothes in good preservation. It is presumed that the poor fellow while intoxicated was shut in, and the place never more opened by his companions. Speaking of Penzance—about fifty years since, in the back of the harbour, was an old adit called “Gurmer’s Hole,” and in the cliff over its entrance, on a dark night, a phosphorescent appearance was always visible from the opposite side. It could not be seen from beneath, owing to the projection of the face of the cliff. A fall of the part taking place, the phenomenon disappeared.

Sixty or seventy years since, a native of Breage called “Carter,” but better known, from a most remarkable personal resemblance to Frederick the Great, as the “King of Prussia,” monopolised most of the smuggling trade of the west. By all accounts he was a man of uncommon mental power, and chose as the seat of his business a sequestered rocky cove about two miles east of Marazion, which continues to bear the name of “Prussia Cove,” and where deep channels, cut in hard rock, to allow of the near approach of their boats, still shew the determination of the illicit traders. Although constantly visited by the excise officers, the “king” rarely failed to remove his goods, the stocks of which were at times very large, suffering for a long period comparatively little from “seizures.” On one occasion his boats, while landing a cargo, being hard pressed by the revenue cutter, Carter had some old cannon brought to the edge of the cliff and opened fire on the unwelcome intruder, and after a short but sharp engagement, fairly beat her off. The cutter was, of course, back again early in the morning, and part of the crew, with the captain, landed; the only traces, however, of the engagement to be seen was the trampled ground. On approaching Carter’s house, the officer was met by the “king” himself, with an angry remonstrance about practising the cutter’s guns at midnight so near the shore, and disturbing his family at such unseemly hours. Although the principal parties concerned were well known, no evidence could be obtained, and the matter was allowed to drop. Toward the close of his career, Carter “ventured” in larger ships, became less successful, and was at last exchequered. He died, at a very advanced age, in poor circumstances.

CORNISH TEENY-TINY.

Mr Halliwell gives us, in his “Popular Rhymes and Nursery Tales,” the story of Teeny-tiny. In this a little old woman takes a bone from the churchyard to make soup. She goes to bed, and puts the bone in the cupboard. During the night some one comes demanding the bone, and at length the terrified old woman gives it up.

A similar story is told in Cornwall.

An old lady had been to the church in the sands of Perranzabuloe. She found, amidst the numerous remains of mortality, some very good teeth. She pocketed these, and at night placed them on her dressing-table before getting into bed. She slept, but was at length disturbed by some one calling out, “Give me my teeth—give me my teeth.” At first the lady took no notice of this, but the cry, “Give me my teeth,” was so constantly repeated, that she at last, in terror, jumped out of bed, took the teeth from the dressing-table, and, opening the window, flung them out, exclaiming, “Drat the teeth, take ’em.” They no sooner fell into the darkness on the road, than hasty retreating footsteps were heard, and there were no more demands for the teeth.

THE SPANIARD AT PENRYN.

In the reign of James I. there happened to be upon our coast a Spanish vessel of war. Favoured by the mists of evening and the growing darkness, the ship entered Falmouth harbour unseen. The crew armed themselves, and taking to their boats, proceeded with great caution to the town of Penryn, situated at the head of the harbour. There they landed, formed themselves into proper order, and marched into the town, purposing to plunder the inhabitants and burn the town. With steady tramp they cautiously proceeded up the dark main street, resolving to attack the principal dwellings first. Suddenly a great shout was heard, drums and trumpets sounded, the noise of many feet rushing to and fro fell on the ears of the Spaniards. Believing that they were discovered, and that preparations had been made for their reception, fear seized them, and they fled precipitately to their boats and left the town. The martial music proceeded, however, from a temporary theatre, in which a troop of strolling players were entertaining the people.

BOYER, MAYOR OF BODMIN.

In the reign of Edward VI., Boyer was the mayor of Bodmin, and he appears to have been suspected of aiding in an insurrection of the men of Devonshire and Cornwall. However this may be, Sir Anthony Kingston, provost-marshal of the king’s army, sent orders to Boyer to have a gibbet erected in the street opposite his own house by the next day at noon. He, at the same time, sent his compliments to the mayor, telling him that he should dine with him, in order to be present at the execution of some rebels.

The unsuspecting mayor obeyed the command, and at the time appointed provided an entertainment for his guest. Kingston put about the wine, and when he observed the mayor’s spirits were exhilarated, asked him if the gibbet was ready. Being told that it was, with a wanton and diabolical sneer he ordered the mayor to be hanged upon it.

At the same time a miller was ordered to be hanged; his servant was so deeply attached to him, that he went to Kingston and begged him to spare his master’s life, even if he hung him in his place. “If you are so fond of hanging,” said Kingston, “you shall not be disappointed,” and he hanged the miller and his servant together.

A similar story is told of a mayor of St Ives.

THOMASINE BONAVENTURE.

In the reign of Henry VI., about the year 1450, in the parish of Week St Mary, on the northern coast of Cornwall, was born of humble parents a girl, to whom the name of Thomasine was given. This child was in no way distinguished from other Cornish children; they ever have been, and still are, remarkable for their healthful beauty, and Thomasine, like others, was beautiful. Her father was a small farmer, and the daughter was usually employed in minding the sheep upon Greenamore, or preventing the geese from straying too far from his dwelling.

Thomasine appears to have received no education beyond that which nature gave her. She grew to womanhood a simple, artless maiden, who knew nothing of the world or its cares beyond the few sorrows which found their way into the moorland country of Week and Temple.

Thomasine was watching her flocks when a mounted traveller, with well-filled saddle-bags, passing over the moors observed her. Struck by the young woman’s beauty, he halted and commenced a conversation with her. “Her discreet answers, suitable to the beauty of her face, much beyond her rank or degree,” says the quaint Hals, “won upon him, and he desired to secure her as a servant in his family.” This traveller, who was a draper from London, sought out the parents of the shepherdess, and proposed to relieve them of this daughter, by taking her to the metropolis, promising her good wages and many privileges; and beyond this he agreed that, in case he should die, seeing she would be so far removed from her friends, she should be carefully provided for.

Having satisfied themselves of the respectability of this merchant traveller, the parents agreed to part with their daughter; and Thomasine, full of girlish curiosity to see the city, of which she had heard, was willing to leave her home.

We next find Thomasine in London as a respected servant to this city draper. His wife and family are pleased with the innocent Cornish girl; and by her gentle manners and great goodness of heart, she won upon all with whom she was brought in contact. Years passed away, and the draper’s wife died. In the course of time he proposed to make the faithful Thomasine his wife. The proposal was accepted, and “Thomasine and her master were solemnly married together as man and wife; who then, according to his promise, endowed her with a considerable jointure in case of her survivorship.” Within two years of this marriage the draper died, and Thomasine was left sole executrix. The poor servant, who but a few years previous was minding sheep on the moors, was now a rich widow, courted by the wealthy of the metropolis. With that good sense which appears ever to have distinguished her, she improved her mind; and following the examples by which she had been for some time surrounded, she added to her natural graces many acquired elegances of manner.

The youth and beauty of the widow brought her numerous admirers, but all were rejected except Henry Gale, of whom we know little, save that he was “an eminent and wealthy citizen.” He was accepted, and Thomasine Gale was the most toasted of all city madams. After a few years passed in great happiness, Thomasine became again a widow. Gale left her all his property, and she became, when not yet thirty years of age, one of the wealthiest women in London. So beautiful, so rich, and being yet young, the widow was soon induced to change her state again. She chose now for her companion John Percivall, who was already high in the honours of the corporation.

At the feast of Sir John Collet, who was Lord Mayor in the second year of the reign of Henry VII., in 1487, Percivall was the mayor’s carver, “at which time, according to the custom of that city, Sir John drank to him in a silver cup of wine, in order to make him sheriff thereof for the year ensuing, whereupon he covered his head and sat down at table with the Lord Mayor of London.” John Percivall was elected Lord Mayor himself in 1499, and he was knighted in the same year by Henry VII. Sir John Percivall and Dame Thomasine Percivall lived many years happily together; but he died, leaving all his fortune to his widow.

Lady Percivall was now advanced in years. She had had three husbands, but no children. The extraordinary accession of fortune made no change in her simple honest heart; the flattery of the great, by whom she had been surrounded, kindled no pride in the beautiful shepherdess. The home of her childhood, from which she had been so long separated, was dear to her, and she retired in her mourning to the quiet of that distant home.

She spent her declining years in good works. Roads were made and bridges built at her cost; almshouses for poor maids were erected; she relieved prisoners; fed the hungry, and clothed the naked. In Week St Mary, Thomasine founded a chantry and free school “to pray for the souls of her father and mother, and her husbands and relatives.” To the school she added a library, and a dwelling for the chanters and others, “and endowed the same with £20 lands for ever.” Cholwell, a learned man and great linguist, was master here in Henry VIII.’s time; and here he educated in the “liberal arts and sciences,” says Carew, “many gentlemen’s sons.” Such were a few of the benefits conferred on Week by the girl who once had tended the flocks upon the moors; but who, by great good fortune, and more by the exercise of good sense, became Lady Mayoress.

Dame Thomasine Percivall died, respected by all who knew her, in 1530, having then reached the good old age of eighty years.

It appears probable that the name Bonaventure, by which this remarkable female is usually known, was given to her, likely enough, by the linguist Cholwell, to commemorate her remarkable fortune.

Berry Comb, in Jacobstow, was once the residence of Thomasine, and it was given at her death to the poor of St Mary Week.

THE LAST OF THE KILLIGREWS.

Lady Jane, the widow of Sir John Killigrew, sate in one of the windows of Arwenick House, looking out upon the troubled waters of Falmouth Harbour. A severe storm had prevailed for some days, and the Cornish coast was strewn with wrecks. The tempest had abated; the waves were subsiding, though they still beat heavily against the rocks. A light scud was driving over the sky, and a wild and gloomy aspect suffused all things. There was a sudden outcry amongst a group of men, retainers of the Killigrew family, which excited the attention of Lady Jane Killigrew. She was not left long in suspense as to the cause. In a few minutes two Dutch ships were seen coming into the harbour. They had evidently endured the beat of the storm, for they were both considerably disabled; and with the fragments of sail which they carried, they laboured heavily. At length, however, these vessels were brought round within the shelter of Pendennis; their anchors were cast in good anchoring-ground; and they were safe, or at least the crew thought so, in comparatively smooth water.

As was the custom in those days, the boat belonging to the Killigrew family, manned by the group of whom we have already spoken, went off as soon as the ships were anchored and boarded them. They then learnt that they were of the Hanse Towns, laden with valuable merchandise for Spain, and that this was in the charge of two Spanish factors. On the return of the boat’s crew, this was reported to Lady Killigrew; and she being a very wicked and most resolute woman, at once proposed that they should return to the ships, and either rob them of their treasure, or exact from the merchants a large sum of money in compensation. The rude men, to whom wrecking and plundering was but too familiar, were delighted with the prospect of a rare prize; and above all, when Lady Killigrew declared that she would herself accompany them, they were wild with joy.

With great shouting, they gathered together as many men as the largest boat in the harbour would carry, and armed themselves with pikes, swords, and daggers. Lady Jane Killigrew, also armed, placed herself in the stern of the boat after the men had crowded into their places, and with a wild huzza they left the shore, and were soon alongside of the vessel nearest to the shore. A number of the men immediately crowded up the side and on to the deck of this vessel, and at once seized upon the captain and the factor, threatening them with instant death if they dared to make any outcry. Lady Jane Killigrew was now lifted on to the deck of the vessel, and the boat immediately pushed off, and the remainder of the crew boarded the other ship.

The Dutch crew were overpowered by the numbers of Cornishmen, who were armed far more perfectly than they. Taken unawares as they were, at a moment when they thought their troubles were for a season at an end, the Dutchmen were almost powerless.

The Spaniards were brave men, and resisted the demands made to deliver up their treasure. This resistance was, however, fatal to them. At a signal, it is said by some, given by their leader, Lady Jane Killigrew,—although this was denied afterwards,—they were both murdered by the ruffians into whose hands they had fallen, and their bodies cast overboard into the sea.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SAINT GERENNIUS.

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

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

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

CORNISH DIALOGUE.

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

DIALOGUE BETWEEN MAL TRELOARE AND SAUNDRY KEMP.

Keendle teening, candle lighting.

Squarded hat, broken or cracked hat.

Lem ma naw, let me know, tell me.

Wheal Bog, wheal, or, correctly spelt, huel, is old Cornish, and signifies a mine or work.

Doat figs, broad figs.

A cobbe, a cobbler, a bungler.

Bra tummills, brave heaps, large piles of ore.