Part II
Appendix —
An Account of the First Celebration of the
KNILLIAN GAMES at St. IVES.
Alluded to at page 158 of this work.
We trust that our readers will find some amusement and relaxation, after the fatigue of their day’s excursion, in the following Jeu d’Esprit, as originally written by an eye witness of the festivity; an institution which, adds the said writer, will go far to preserve the tone of the Cornish character, and which can never be neglected while the Cornish men continue to be brave, and the Cornish women to be virtuous.
The celebration of the Games at Olympia, after the revolution of every four years, formed the chief date of time among the Greeks; and perhaps in future the inhabitants of the West of England will reckon the years, as they pass, by the quinquennial return of the games at St. Ives.
I ought rather to have begun by stating, that John Knill, Esq. a gentleman formerly of great eminence in the above mentioned town, has bequeathed the income of a considerable estate to be distributed by the trustees in a variety of prizes to those who may excel in racing, in rowing, and in wrestling. A large sum is to be divided among a band of virgins, who are to be dressed all in white, and with four matrons, and a company of musicians preceding them, are to walk in pairs to the summit of the hill, which is near the town of St. Ives, where they are to dance and chaunt a hymn round the far famed mausoleum.
Ten guineas are appointed to be expended in a dinner at the grand hotel in the town, of which six of the principal inhabitants are to partake; and this festival is to be repeated every fifth year for ever.
From the earliest periods of history, the Cornish have been famous for their enthusiastic fondness of the athletic exercises of hurling, racing, wrestling, and rowing, and for the pious fervour of the hymns which the Druids instructed them to sing round the Cromlechs of the departed brave.
By establishing rewards for superiority in amusements in which the Cornish still delight to excel, Mr. Knill has shewn the patriotic feelings of his local attachments; while by the appropriate selection of the spot where these pastimes are to take place, he has given ample proof of the correctness of his taste. The enormous statue of Jupiter at Elis pointed out that part of Peloponnesus to the taste of the Greeks, as the most proper place for the celebration of the Olympic Games; and a sympathy of feeling and sentiment induced Mr. Knill to order that the Mausoleum, which he erected in the year 1782 should be the centre of the quinquennial festivities. This proud pyramid, whose base is situated on the summit of a rock, and whose apex is often concealed among the clouds, has hitherto formed only an object of ornamental magnificence, or a guide to the tempest tost mariner; but henceforth it will be regarded as the monument of fame—the pillar of the west—the Cornish column!
Monday last was the day appointed for the first celebration. I was present at the scene, and am induced to think, from this first specimen, that the rites of the hill will be celebrated in succeeding years with increased fervour and renewed admiration. Weak as my powers of description are, your readers may, perhaps, from the following account, conceive some idea of the interesting spectacle.
Early in the morning the roads from Helston, from Truro, and from Penzance, were lined with horses and vehicles of every description. These were seen amidst clouds of dust, pouring down the sides of the adjacent mountains; while thousands of travellers on foot chose the more pleasant route through the winding passages of the vallies. At noon the assembly was formed. The wrestlers entered the ring;—the troop of virgins dressed, all in white, advanced with solemn step, which was regulated by the notes of harmony. The spectators ranged themselves along the sides of the hills which inclose the extensive bay, while the pyramid on the summit seemed pointing to the sun, who appeared in all the majesty of light, rejoicing at the scene.
At length the Mayor of Saint Ives appeared in his robes of state. The signal was given. The flags were displayed in waving splendour from the towers of the castle. Here the wrestlers exerted their sinewy strength; there the rowers, in their various dresses of blue, white, and red, urged the gilded prows of their boats through the sparkling waves of the ocean; while the hills echoed to the mingled shouts of the victors, the dashing of the oars, the songs of the virgins, and the repeated plaudits of the admiring crowd, who stood so thick upon the crescent, which is formed by the surrounding mountains, as to appear, if I may so express myself, one living amphitheatre.
The ladies and gentlemen of Penzance returned to an elegant dinner which they had ordered to be prepared at the Union Hotel; and a splendid ball concluded the entertainment of the evening. The jolly god presided,—but a reproving smile from Venus restrained him, if he ventured beyond the due bounds of decorum. Hilarity and beauty danced to the most delicious notes of harmony; till the rosy finger of Aurora pointed to the hour at which the quinquennial festivities should close. Perhaps to many the visions of the night brought back the joys of the day, and the feet danced, the heart throbbed, and the cheek glowed, when the eye-lids were closed in sleep.
A SONG,
Written by one of the Head Poets of London for Mr. Knill’s
Games at Saint Ives.
(To the tune of “Boys and Girls come out to play.”)
Sung at the Mausoleum, by a Minstrel adorned with Ribbons.
Knill commands, and all obey,
Lads and Lasses haste away,
Aunts and Uncles,142 Maids and Wives,
All are gay, at gay St. Ives.
No tongue is mute or foot is still,
But One and All143 are on the hill,
In chorus round the tomb of Knill.
This you surely may rely on,
Paul, Penzance, nor Marazion,
Never saw in all their lives
Such sport as now is at St. Ives.
No tongue, &c.
Some in gigs and coaches flocking,
Some without or shirt or stocking,
All are crowding—not a hack
But has three upon his back.
No tongue, &c.
Of Virgins pure—(let envy squint,
And malice sneer, there’s nothing in’t)
Of Virgins pure a throng advance,
And round the tomb in circles dance.
No tongue, &c.
Boys on gingerbread are feeding,
Cudgel-broken pates are bleeding;
Races running, Wrestlers falling,
Bones are cracking, women squalling.
No tongue, &c.
Thro’ the breaking wave below,
Rowers urge the bounding prow;
While many a Tub and many a Ray144
Sport around in finny play.
No tongue, &c.
All are running—what’s the matter?
Why, to see the fine Regatta.
Earth and water, hill and bay,
Share the frolic of the day.
No tongue, &c.
Oh! it glads the heart to see e’m
Gamble round the Mausoleum.
All is joy: and laughter shakes
All the merry land of Hakes.145
No tongue, &c.
What a pother! what a deal is
Talk’d about the games at Elis:
Such as they—no not a million
Equal what we call the Knillian.
No tongue, &c.
Knill commands, and all obey,
Lads and lasses haste away,
All the world and all his wives.
What was Greece to gay St. Ives!!
No tongue is mute, no foot is still,
But One and All are on the hill
In chorus round the tomb of Knill.
An appropriate Chorus to be sung round the Tomb by the Virgins.
Quit the bustle of the Bay,
Hasten, Virgins, come away;
Hasten to the mountain’s brow,
Leave, oh! leave St. Ives below!
Haste to breathe a purer air
Virgins fair, and pure as fair.
Quit St. Ives and all her treasures,
Fly her soft voluptuous pleasures,
Fly her sons and all the wiles,
Lurking in their wanton smiles;
Fly her splendid midnight halls,
Fly the revels of her Balls;
Fly, oh! fly the chosen seat,
Where vanity and fashion meet.
Hither hasten; form the ring,
Round the tomb in chorus sing,
And on the lofty mountain’s brow
Aptly dite,
(Just as we should be, all in white)
Leave all our Cowels,146 and our cares below.
A Cornish Dialogue
Between Grace Penvear and Mary Treviskey.
Greacey.
Fath and Trath than! I bleeve in ten Parishes round
Sichey Roag, sichey Vellan es nat to ba found.
Mally.
Whoats’ tha’ fussing, Un Greacey! long wetha Cheel Vean?
Greacey.
A fussing a ketha! oads splet ’es ould breane!
Our Martn’s cum’d hum cheeld so drunk as a beast,
And so cross as the Gallish from Perran-zan feaast:
A cum’d in a tottering, cussing, and sweering
So hard as a Stompses, and tarving and teering!
Mally.
Naver meynd et un Greacey, goa, poat en to bed
Al sleep ale tha lecker aweay froam es head.
Greacey.
I’d nat goa a neest en to fang tha Kings Crown,
For a sweers ef I speek to’an al cleev ma skuel down:
Tha navar en ale tha boarn daeys, fath and shoar,
Dedst behould sichey Maze-gerry Pattick a foar.
Why, a scat ale to Midjans and Jowds for the noans,
A clom Buzza of scale melk about on tha scoans.
And a raak’d up a showl for to steeve ma’ outright,
But I’m run’d awaey, readdy to feyntey for freyt!
Loard! tell ma un Mally! whaat shall Ey do by ’an?
For Zoundtikins Deth! Ey’m a fear’d to cum ny’an.
Mally.
I know whoat Ey’d gee’an ef so bee ’twor my case,
Ey’d scat tha ould Chacks aa’n; Ey’d trem ’an un Greace.
Greacey.
Ey’m afeard o’my leyf to coam ny tha ould Vellan,
Else pleas faather! Ey bleeve Ey shu’d murely kill ’an.
Wor ever poor creychar so baal’d and aboos’d,
Ma heep here leyke bazzom, tha Roag have a bruis’d.
Ey mad for ’es sopar a Muggety Pye,
But a shaan’t clunk a croom a’te Ey wish Ey meay die!
Mally.
Aye! Ey tould tha afore that tha jobb wor a done,
That tha’d’st find out tha odds ‘ate, so shoor as a gun;
But tha’ wouds’nt hark to ma for doubting, for why
That beshoor, that tha knowd’st ‘en mooch better than Ey;
But Ey knaw’d tha good trem ‘ane befour tha’s’t a got ‘en;
Ey cou’d tell tha a mashes of stoareys about en;
But tha’ aanserds’t soa heytish and shrinkt up tha noaz:
‘A gissing ’twor greeat stromming leys Ey sopoaz!
But there’s one of es praenks Ey shall aleweays remembar
’Twill be three years agone coam tha eighth of Novembar,
Ey’d two pretty young Mabjers as eyes cu’d behould,
So fat as tha Botar; jest iteen wiks ould,
Tha wor picking about in tha Tewn plaace for meat,
Soa Ey hov downe sum Pillas amongst mun to eat:
When who but your man comd a tott’ring along
Soa drunk, that Ey thoft fath, ad fale in tha dung!
‘A left tomble ’es Hoggan-bag jest by tha doar,
Soa I caled to tha man as one wud to be shoor,
Sez Ey, Martyn! dust hire Cheeld! teak up tha bag,
“Arrea” sez a, “for whoat beest a caleing me Dog?”
And dreev’d forth toweards ma, nar bettar nar wuss
Nack’d the Mabjers boath steff, we a gaert mawr o’ fuss;
Ley’k enow ef Ey hadnt shov’d haastis awaey
A’d a done as a ded to Jan Rous t’oather daey,
When a gote en eis tantrums, a wilfull ould Devel,
A slam’d tha poor Soal on tha head we a Yevel;
Fath and Soal than un Gracey ef so bee a doent aelter
Ey bleev e ma conshance el swing en a haelter.
Greacey.
When tha Leker es runn’d awaey every drap
’Tis too late to ba thenking of plugging the Tap,
And marridge must goa as the Loard do ordean,
But a Passon wud swear to ba used so Cheeld Vean.
Had Ey smilt out tha coose ‘ane but neyne weeks ago
Ey’d never a had tha ould Vellan Ey know,
But a vowd and a swear’d that if Ey’d by hes weyf
That Ey naver shud lack ale tha daeys o’ ma leyf;
And a broft me a Nakin and Corn saave from Preen;
En ma conshance thoft Ey, Ey shall leve leyk a Queen.
But ‘tes plaguey provoking, od rat es ould head!
To be pooted and flopt soa! Ey wish a war dead.
Why a spent haafe es fangings laast Saterday neyt,
Leyk enow by this teym ‘tes gone every dyte.
But Ey’ll tame tha ould Devel, afor et es long,
Ef Ey caant we ma Viestes—Ey will we ma Tongue.
(Fuss) [a low cant word] a tumult, a bustle. Swift.
(Un) Aunt—a title usually given to an elderly woman.
(Vean) [Cornish for little] Cheel Vean—little Child.
(Tarving) [a cant word] struggling, convulsions, Tarvings.
(Fang) [Saxon] to gripe, receive, &c. Shakespear.
(Maze-gerry Pattick) a mad brutish or frolicsome fool.
(Midjans and Jouds) shreds and tatters.
(Noans) [Nonce] on purpose.
(Clom Buzza) a coarse earthen pot.
(Scoans) the pavement. (Showl) a shovel. (Steeve) stave.
(Scat) to give a blow, to break. (Chacks) cheeks.
(Murely) almost. (Baal’d) mischievously beaten.
(Bazzom) of a blue or purple colour.
(Muggety Pye) a pye made of sheeps guts, parsley and cream, pepper and salt. (Clunk) swallow. (Croom) crumb.
(Mashes) a great many, number, &c.
(Mabjers) Mab Hens—young fowls two-thirds grown.
(Pillas) [Pilez—Cornish] the avena nuda or naked oats of Ray; bald, bare or naked oats without husks.
(Hoggan) Hogan in Cornish British signifies a Hawthorn berry; also any thing mean or vile; but here it means a Pork pasty; and now indeed a Tinner’s Pasty is called a Hoggan.
(Arrea) Arria [vulg. for Ria] O strange.
(Gaert) great, “gaert mawr o Fuss,” great root of Furze.
(Haestis) hastily. (Yevil) a Dung fork with three prongs.
(Passon) Parson. (Coose) course or way of him.
(Neyne weeks)—as though they had been married but nine weeks, whereas in the third line, she is addressed by Un Mally as ‘long wetha Cheeld vean.’ This will be readily explained by noticing a custom very prevalent among the lower ranks of the county, as will appear by the following anecdote. A friend of mine who was one year an officer in one of the mining parishes, told me that of fifty-five couples married during that year, it was manifest by the appearance of fifty of the ladies, that they ought to have been married several moons before. A young man, to the honor of the county be it said, (even if the practice be to its disparagement) needs no compulsion to marry his lass when in this condition.
(Nackin) Handkerchief. (Preen) Penryn. (Pooted) kicked.
(Fangings) gettings or wages. (Viestes) Fists.
Carn Breh, an Ode Hitherto Unpublished, By Dr. Walcot, Better Known by the Poetical Appellation of Peter Pindar147148
While nature slumbers in the shade,
And Cynthia, cloth’d in paly light,
Walks her lone way, the mount I tread,
Majestic mid the gloom of night.
With reverence to the lofty hill I bow,
Where Wisdom, Virtue, taught their founts to flow.
Wan, on yon rocks’ aspiring steep
Behold a Druid form, forlorn!
I see the white rob’d phantom weep—
I hear to heaven his wild harp mourn.
The temples open’d to the vulgar eye;
And Oaks departed, wake his inmost sigh.
O! lover of the twilight hour,
That calls thee from the tombs of death,
To haunt the cave, the time-struck tower,
The sea-girt cliff, the stormy heath;
Sweet is thy minstrelsy to him whose lays
First sung this hallow’d hill of ancient days.
Yet not this Druid-scene alone
Inspires the gloom-delighted muse;
Ah! many a hill to fame unknown,
With awe the tuneful wanderer views;
And oft while midnight lends her list’ning ear,
Sings darkling, to the solitary sphere.
Poor Ghost! no more the Druid band
Shall watch, Devotion-wrapt, their fire,
No more, high sounding thro’ the land,
To Virtue strike the plauding lyre.
The snake along the frowning fragment creeps,
And fox obscene beneath the shadow sleeps.
No more beneath the golden hook
The treasures of the grove shall fall;
Time triumphs o’er each vanish’d oak—
The power whose might shall crush this ball—
Yet, yet, till Nature droops the head to die
Compassion grant each monument a sigh.
The bards, in lays sublime, no more
The warrior’s glorious deeds relate;
Whose patriot arm a thunder bore,
That hurl’d his country’s foe to fate:
Lo! mute the harp near each pale Druid hung,
Mute, like the voice that once accordant sung.
Save when the wandering breeze of morn,
Or eve’s wild gale with wanton wing,
To hear the note of sorrow mourn,
Steals to the silent sleeping string,
And wildly brushing, wakes with sweetest swell,
The plaintive trembling spirit of the shell.
Here Virtue’s awful voice was heard,
That pour’d the instructive truth profound,
Here Cornwall’s sons that voice rever’d,
Where sullen silence sleeps around.
See where she sung, sad, melancholy, tread,
A pensive pilgrim o’er th’ unconscious dead.
She calls on Alda’s, Odred’s name,
Sons to the darken’d world of yore!
Lur’d by whose eagle-pinion’d fame,
The stranger left his native shore,
Daring, his white sail to the winds he gave,
And sought fair knowledge o’er the distant wave.
Tho’ few these awful rocks revere,
And temples that deserted lie,
The muse shall ask the tenderest tear
That ever dropt from Pity’s eye,
T’ embalm the ruins that her sighs deplore,
Where Wisdom, Virtue dwelt, but dwell no more.
Footnotes:
137 See Paris’s Pharmacologia, vol. I, chap. “Expectorants.”
138 See page 5 of the Guide.
139 Medical Notes on Climate, Diseases, &c. in France, Italy, and Switzerland, by James Clark, M.D. London 1820.
140 A Short Account of some of the Principal Hospitals of France, Italy, Switzerland, and the Netherlands, with Remarks upon the Climate and Diseases of those Countries. By H. W. Carter, M.D. London 1819.
141 “There is one class of affections for which the Atmosphere of Rome appeared to me unfavourable. These are head-aches arising from a tendency to a fullness about the head. In many cases among the English residents, I found persons not previously subject to head-aches affected with them here, and some already liable to them had been aggravated. Apoplexy, I was told, was at one time so frequent at Rome that a day of public fasting was ordered, and a particular form of prayer addressed to St. Anthony to avert so dreadful a calamity from the Holy city.”
142 Aunts and Uncles. A Cornish epithet indiscriminately applied to elderly persons.
143 One and All is the Cornish motto.
144 Common fish at St. Ives.
145 St. Ives abounds with a fish called a Hake.
146 See the explanation of this term at page 34.
147 For a description of this hill see page 208.
148 Dr. Walcot was apprenticed to his uncle, who was an apothecary at Fowey in Cornwall, and after having practised for some years in the West Indies, he settled as a Physician at Truro: after residing there for some time, he suddenly quitted the county, in consequence of a law suit in which he was engaged against the Corporation of Truro; the dispute related to the right of their putting upon him a parish apprentice; when he sold his effects, shut up his house, and informed the officers that if they were determined to carry their point, they might put the apprentice into the empty building, as he should never enter it again.
London: printed by William Phillips, George Yard, Lombard Street.