West Country Superstitions
Devil’s Money
There needs no other charm nor conjurer,
To raise infernal spirits up, but fear.
Butler.
Not long ago it was believed that Old Nick frequently appeared in the form of a bull, and that he often placed money to tempt the unwary. The following story—told us of the late Sir Rose Price’s huntsman—will help to explain notions which are not yet wholly exploded.
When the huntsman was a boy his parents lived in Nancledra, and sent him daily to a school two or three miles off, till he was about thirteen years old. He had his dinner sent with him, and he often minched. One morning he wandered away over the moors in search of birds’ nests and rabbits’ burrows. He had a good pasty in his dinner-bag and the day passed pleasantly in birds-nesting, searching for young rabbits, and playing about a tin-stream, three miles or so up the Bottom, where he stayed till the streamers left work. Then he took his course for home, over hedges and ditches, wandering wherever his fancy led him, till almost dark, when he found himself in a large hilly field not far from Nancledra. In making a short cut for home he crossed this field, and, when near the middle of it, he heard a bull bellowing, and shortly saw a large black one making towards him with tail up and head down; sometimes it would stop to tear up the ground, and fling its horns as if to get in practice to toss the boy; who being far from any hedges, there seemed no way of escape from the field before the bull could overtake him. But, luckily, within a few yards, there was a large rock, to which he ran and climbed it, a moment only before the bull came to it.
The brute kept on, for a long time, going round and round the rock, bellowing and tearing up the turf as if in a rage, till at last, tired with his vain endeavours—as it seemed—to get at the boy, it hoisted its tail like a flag-staff, galloped off, and vanished in a minute.
The boy didn’t venture from his fort for sometime after the bull left. At length he ‘cramed’ down over a shelving side of the rock on all fours, head foremost—it was too dark to see where to put his feet. When he touched ground with his hand he felt and took up what he thought, by the feel of it, to be a penny-piece or a large button. He ran home and saw, by light shining through a window, that he had found a penny. When the way was clear, he made a place to hide it, in a hole over the chimney-stool—the fire-place was a large open one for burning furze and turf.
Next night, about the same hour as on the preceding, he went on the rock, ‘cramed’ down again, and found two penny-pieces, which he hoarded in the hole; and, night after night, he visited the rock, found the money doubled each succeeding night, and picked up silver money in other places where one would the least expect to find it, till his hiding-place was nearly full in a few weeks.
How much longer this luck would have continued there is no knowing; for, one night, when he thought there was nobody about, his mother came in and found him standing on the chimney-stool so earnest about something that he didn’t see her watching him, and he kept handling his money till she said,
“Whatever hast thee got there between the stones, that thee art always stealing into the chimney, whenever thee dost think nobody is noticing of thee.”
“Only my buttons and marbles, mother,” said he.
“I don’t believe thee,” replied his mother; “stand away, and I’ll see for myself.”
Saying this she took up the fire-hook, ran the point of it into the hole, and dragged out a lot of money.
“Now tell me, or I’ll kill thee, thou lying thief,” said she, “where didst thee get this money; if thee hast stole it I’ll murder thee, I will.”
The boy didn’t much mind his mother’s threats—terrific as they seem—he was used to it. Yet she made him tell how he came by the money.
“Oh! good gracious mercy on us,” cried she, before he had finished telling her; “oh! thou wicked boy; thee hast frightened me out of my life. Now tell me true,” moaned she, wringing her hands, “hast thee used any of the devil’s money, put there to entice thee to sell thyself to him, body and soul?”
“No, mother, please sure I han’t,” said he, “I was savan all to buy a gun.”
“Well, thank goodness,” groaned his mother, “that I have found all out in time to prevent thee shuttan thyself or somebody else with the devil’s gun. I should never more rejoice if I thought thee hast used a farthing of en. Know, thou plague of my heart, that what seemed to thee a bull was the Old One hisself. He placed the money there for thee, and, when the bull seemed to vanish, he only changed to an adder, a toad, or something else that suited his purpose, and he was watchan thee all the time.”
Whilst talking to the boy she raked all the money on to a fire-shovel, and threw it under a brandes, around which there was a good turf-fire. In a few minutes all the money melted away, and was gone like hailstones in sunshine.
Next morning she carried out all the ashes, strewed them about the town-place, and swept the hearth nine times before she lighted a new fire. The poor woman never rested till she told old Parson Stephens. He didn’t altogether believe the boy’s story, but said that if it was the devil’s money she did right, or she might have—brought it to him.
The boy was so terrified by what his mother said, that, for years after, he never ventured to wander by night, even when he hunted for Sir Rose, and was as stout a man as one might see of a market day; and the sight of a black bull or anything he took for such would always make him tremble.
There are many stories of this class about people having been enticed with devil’s money, but few of them have so fortunate an ending as the old huntsman’s relation.
The Slighted Damsel of Gwinear
Trust me no tortures that the poets feign
Can match the fierce, th’ unutterable pain
He feels who, day and night, devoid of rest,
Carries his own accuser in his breast.
Juvenal.
There is a general belief, in the western part of Cornwall, that if a greatly injured person, the last thing before death, reads or recites the 109th Psalm, usually called the “Cursing Psalm,” applying its comminations to the injurer, the dying maledictions are sure to take effect.
Nearly a hundred years ago there lived in Gwinear Church-town a young man called Thomas Thomas, who for many years courted his cousin, Elizabeth Thomas, of the same place. She was much attached to the young man, who often promised to make her his wife; but, when she had shown her utmost trust in him, on some little disagreement, he slighted her and proposed to wed another damsel of the same village.
One Sunday afternoon he took his new love for a walk, passing by his old sweetheart’s door, purposely to spite her.
Soon after they had passed the cot of Elizabeth’s parents, the betrayed and wronged girl, who was of a very hasty temper, took a rope and a prayer book, went into a road-way field, and hanged herself near the path by which her faithless lover and his new fiance had passed, and would, probably, return.
They came home, however, by another road. On their arriving in Church-town, somebody asked them if they had seen Elizabeth, and remarked that no one knew where she had gone, as she had been sought in vain all over Church-town.
“Good God,” exclaimed Thomas, “has she made away with herself? For more than once she vowed that she would if I slighted her.”
Then, as if tokened by her spirit, he went, followed by others, direct to the tree on which they found her hanging and dead.
On the ground, at her feet, was her open prayer book. He took it up and found a leaf turned down at the “Cursing Psalm;” on a leaf too he read her name followed by “When this you see remember me.”
Thomas then knew how she had doomed him; and he exclaimed “I’m ruined, I’m ruined, for ever and ever.”
For a long while he wandered about like one distracted, working in various parts of the country, sometimes at mining, other times at husbandry, and never returned to Gwinear Church-town.
Little was seen of him, by anyone who knew him, until after some years, when he went to live in Market-jew. He would never venture to church or chapel for fear of hearing read the 109th Psalm; he dreaded even to pass near a school for the same reason.
He was several times hurt in the mines, in which he worked; and he attributed all his misfortunes and bad luck to the curse of Elizabeth, whose avenging ghost often appeared to him—as well by day as by night—with an open prayer book in her hand.
He could never sleep without a comrade in his room; and seldom even then, for, after a short slumber, when worn-out with fatigue, he would start up in bed, crying in agony, “Oh, dear Betsy, shut the book. Do shut the book.”
Notwithstanding the distraction of his mind, he was still a fine, strong, lusty, man, and many of his comrades advised him to get married, saying there was nothing like a living wife to drive away the spirit of a dead sweetheart. Taking their advice, he paid his addresses to several young women of the neighbourhood and others farther away; but they, one and all, flouted him with scorn, for the history of his unfortunate first love was blown far and near. If he persisted in his suit the indignant damsels would ask him with a sneer if he wished to bring all the ill-wishes of the “Cursing Psalm” on their heads, too.
At length, however, a widow in Market-jew took pity on Thomas and consented to venture her lot with him; and Betsy’s ghost ceased persecuting him—for a bit.
But on the road to St. Hilary Church—whither Thomas and the widow proceeded to get married—the weather suddenly changed; from a calm and sunshine it became a tempest, with thunder and lightning; it was harvest time, and a cloud, black as night, hung over them, and rain poured along churchway-path, whilst they saw people binding barley in the fields on either hand.
Thomas, trembling with fear, saw his sweetheart’s ghost, with her open book, standing menacingly in the path before him; and he would have turned back, had not the widow urged him on, saying that she saw no ghost, and didn’t mind her nor yet her book; and got him married. He lived for a few years pretty tranquilly; and his wife bore him two children. Then he was again disturbed with visits from the avenging ghost; and some misfortune or sickness always closely followed its appearance; until Thomas—worn-out in body and mind—when less than forty years of age died, and was buried in St. Hilary.
The Wreck of Admiral Sir Cloudesley Shovel
We are reminded by the above of the wreck of Admiral Sir Cloudesley Shovel’s ship, the “Association,” at Scilly; and of a tradition, common to the Islands, which attributes that disaster to the reading or reciting of the 109th Psalm, shortly before death, by one of Sir Cloudesley’s crew, whom he unjustly condemned to be hanged.
The Admiral was returning with his fleet from Toulon, when, on the evening of the 22nd October, 1707, his ship struck on the Gilstone, about three miles and a half from St. Agnes; and in a few minutes afterwards she went down, and everybody on board perished, except one man, who saved himself by floating on a piece of timber to a rock called Hellweathers,—about two miles and a half from the Gilstone,—where he remained some days before the weather permitted any boat to approach and take him off to St. Agnes.
He is said to have stated that the day before the Admiral’s ship was wrecked, one of the crew, who was a native of Scilly, and well acquainted with the channel, represented to Sir Cloudesley that the course the ship was taking would bring her on Scilly rocks. The Admiral and his officers were incensed at the man’s interference; and because he persisted in affirming that the ship’s way was wrong and would bring them to destruction, Sir Cloudesley Shovel—rather summarily, one might now think—condemned the man to be hanged for insubordination and endeavouring to excite a mutiny.
When the poor fellow was tied to the mast, preparatory to his being suspended by his neck, from the yard-arm, he begged, as a last favour, that a Psalm might be read before his execution. His request being granted, he selected the 109th, and repeated certain imprecatory portions of it after the reader; and the last words he uttered were to the effect that Sir Cloudesley Shovel and those who saw him hanged should never reach the land alive.
His body, shrouded in a hammock, with a shot to sink it, was cast into the deep, and but little heed paid to the dying sailor’s sentence. Shortly after, however, the sky, which had been gloomy all day, became much darker; black, lowering, clouds, hung over the fleet like a funeral pall, and the gale rose to a violent tempest. Then the hanged man’s curse was dreaded; and lo, to the crew’s consternation, they beheld his corpse—divested of its rude winding-sheet—floating near the doomed ship, which it closely followed, with its face turned towards her,—in all her varying course, through eddying currents,—until she struck on the Gilstone; when the hanged man went down with the ship and his messmates.
At this unfortunate time there perished, besides the Admiral, several officers, and about two thousand men, belonging to the “Association” and other vessels of the fleet.
Sir Cloudesley Shovel’s body was washed ashore at Porth-Hellick Bay, in St. Mary’s, about eight miles from the Gilstone. It was quite naked, and on the hatch of a ship, on which he had endeavoured to save himself,—and a little dog lay by him,—when he was found by a soldier and his wife, who only knew him to be the Admiral by a diamond ring on his finger. They buried him in the sand, where a pit on Porth-Hellick Bank still marks Sir Cloudesley Shovel’s grave. The pit never fills up in the greatest storms; and no grass ever grows on this blasted grave, although the ground around it is often green.
“So the hanged seaman had as sweet a bit of revenge as one could wish for,” said our narrator, with a motion of his head which showed his satisfaction at the Fates’ award.
Connected with this unfortunate occurrence, there is a gratifying bit of true history—we cannot say so much for all the above—which says that Lady Shovel, on having her husband’s ring,—by which his body was identified,—sent her by the soldier, she gave him a pension for life; and the Admiral was deposited in Westminster Abbey, where his monument recalls the direful tale.
A Night’s Ride to Scilly
No repares en eso, Sancho, que como estas cosas y estas volaterías van fuera de los cursos ordinarios, de mil leguas verás y oiras lo que quisieres, y no me aprietes tanto, que me derribas; y en verdad que no sé de qué te turbas ni te espantas, que osaré jurar que en todos los dias de mi vida he subido en cabalgadura de paso mas llano: no parece sino que no nos movemos de un lugar. Destierra, amigo, el miedo, que en efecto la cosa va como ha de ir, y el viento llevamos en popa.
Bien es verdad que sentí que pasaba por la region del aire, y aun que tocaba á la del fuego; pero que pasásemos de allí no lo puedo creer.
D. Quijote.
Many persons, not at all given to lying, assert that they have been carried up and away by Old Nick, in the form of a horse. For the most part, they affirm that they were taken “towers high;” and, when their infernal steed descended it threw them off violently, and vanished in fire and smoke.
We know a man called Jackey—never mind his surname—who had long been a sober character, and was so particularly veracious that he prefaced all his stories by saying, “I won’t tell ’e a word of a lie, and know it!” Indeed this common affirmation of his has become an every-day saying, when anything doubtful is related. Well, Jackey has often told us, and many others, that, when a young man, and not so good as he might have been, he dwelt in the north of St. Just, and courted a girl who lived in Tardinney with her parents, who either rented a few acres or some dairy cows. One Sunday afternoon he went early to see his sweetheart. Whilst she was out milking, and he with her, the old woman, her mother, made a nice heavy currant-cake for tea. All was ready on the board when they returned from milking. Jackey made a hearty tea, or supper, as we should say; but, when that was over, the old woman said, “I’ve made a junket for thee, Jackey, as it’s the first Sunday in May; it’s in the dairy, ’runn’d’ by this time; I’ll bring it to thee in a minute.”
“Don’t think I can find room for it,” said he; “I’m as full as a tick.”
“Hold thy tongue,” said she; “go thee wayst out and take a few jumps down from the heaping-stock, and pack the tea and trade away! Junket is no fillan, any more than drink; it will only quaff (puff) one for a bit.”
Jackey went out and exercised himself a few minutes, by leaping over a stile; came in and found on the table a basin of junket well spread with thick cream and honey. It was no shabby allowance either, for the bowl held a quart or more. Whilst Jackey dispatched his junket his sweetheart rigged herself in her best, and then away they went down to Sennen Church-town to Methodist meeting. There they met several of his comrades with their sweethearts. Preaching over, they all went into the “First and Last” for a drop of something to drink. Santusters are always free enough in treating the women—and everybody else for that matter—so each of the fair ones had a glass of gin-and-peppermint or of brandy and cloves, or both if they liked, and most of them did like to taste both cordials and a glass of shrub besides. The men had a few mugs of shenackrum (gin and beer) with a dram of rum all around to finish off. They were a score or more going to St. Just; and all kept together till they came to the Burying-place Downs, where they parted company, and all the Santusters went Brea way, singing snatches of some well-known revival hymns to lively song tunes, except Jackey, who had to put his sweetheart home by the other road.
It was between ten and eleven o’clock when they got to Tardinney, and found the old folks gone to bed. A glowing turf-fire burned on the hearth, and they stayed courting till about one in the morning. But before Jackey left, his kind-hearted dear had tempted him to a slight supper of half a dozen eggs that she had saved up during the week unknown to the “old ’oman,” and which were boiled over the turfy-fire. Jackey ate them with some bread and butter, then he had a good piece of cold cake, left from tea, with a bowl of milk; kissed; said good-night; and started for home.
Jackey had been tramping about nearly all day. He had a tiresome walk before him of nearly four miles; and to foot it, all alone, seemed doubly wearisome. He walked on pretty fast till he came half-way over Kelynack Downs. There he sat down to rest a minute and felt tired enough to sleep in a pool of water. He couldn’t help wishing, when he rose to proceed, that an old horse might come in his way,—there were generally plenty of them on the common. He hadn’t gone more than a hundred yards, when he saw what appeared to be an old black horse standing stock-still, as if asleep, close by the road. Jackey untied and took the halter it was spanned (hobbled) with from its legs, placed it over its head, mounted, and did his utmost to keep it on the road. But, in spite of all he could do, it took off westward over the Downs, going slowly at first, but soon quickened its pace till it went like the wind, and he was nearly blown off sometimes, with the rush of air occasioned by their speed, for there was no wind to speak of.
The night was so clear that he saw the Longships light nearly all the time, till they came to the cliff near the Land’s End, to the best of his judgment. He felt no fear to speak of. The thing he bestrode took him over cliff—not right down, but sloping away gently. It went off through the air—just skimming the sea—straight to Scilly, and arrived there very quickly:—he thought it might be in a quarter of an hour or thereaway, from the time he left the Longships behind his back till they came to St. Agnes flashing light.
There was no stay when it came to the islands; for away it went all around and across them so high up that he saw all Scilly isles spread out like a map, and so plainly that he always remembered their position. Then without any control from the rider, Jackey’s steed turned tail on Scilly and brought him back—about daybreak—to Kelynack Downs again, within a stone’s throw of the rock where he mounted, shook him off pretty gently, and vanished in flame and smoke—as usual.
The Devil carried Jackey easy enough; but, for nearly a week after his ride, he felt very stiff and sore all over.
If any doubting body questioned the truth of this story or hinted that perhaps he fell asleep on Kelynack Downs and had “the stag,” or got “hilla-rodden,” (night-mare) he would reply,
“Don’t ’e believe it, my dear; not sure nuf; and, as a proof that what I tell ’e is true, if you will give me a piece of chalk I’ll mark out all the islands as I seed them, and as correct as anyone who had lived there all his time. Yet I had never been to Scilly before, nor have I since that night. Bless the Lord, I had a narrow escape; but didn’t stay so late a-courting any more, and a few months after that night’s ride, Mally and me—we got married.”
One can’t see what motive Old Nick had in this case, to take such trouble, unless it were for a mere freak, because he never seemed to claim any recompense from his rider.
To be “hilla-ridden,” and to have the “stag,” are the only names known to old country folks for the “night-mare,” which is a word one never hears among them. There is, however, some difference in the signification of our two local terms. The former means to pass the time in an agony of tormenting dreams; the latter is used for obstructed respiration, or a feeling of weight on the chest, that prevents a person from moving.
Ancient Bridal Customs
With the past and with the present,
Quaint old manners still are link’d;
Olden customs, grave and pleasant,
Ling’ring still, though nigh extinct.
C. T. C.
Some West Country folks still observe a few old-fashioned marriage usages; one of which the following sketch will explain. It was given us, as inserted, by a young man who was one of the wedding guests.
“In the winter of 1860 we were invited to a wedding at a place called the Grambler in Sancreed; with strict orders to be in time to accompany the “weddenars” to church at ten o’clock the following Saturday morning.
Not caring to take part in the ceremony, we only left Penzance at one o’clock in the afternoon. On our arriving at New Bridge we found a messenger awaiting our arrival to guide us to the bride’s parents’ house where the wedding was being held. He also brought a bottle of brandy which An’ Nancy, the bride’s mother, sent for the “strangers from Penzance to drink on the way, to keep out the cold.”
On nearing the house, we heard music and dancing, when our guide hastened on before to let the party know we were come. “My dear boys,” said An’ Nancy, meeting us at the door, “come ’e in quick out of the cold, we’ve ben afeerd you woddan coman.”
All the company received us with hearty kindness; being placed at the board, our host said, “We’ve had dennar, my dears, but there’s plenty left for ’e,” at the same time pitching on each of our plates a piece of roast beef of not less than four pounds, “Aet that fust,” he continued, “then you shall have some more.” My companion looking rather surprised at the liberal supply, An’ Nancy exclaimed, “What’s the matter weth thee my boy, dossena like et? Well than thee shust have somethan else;” and without waiting a reply, took away the plate of beef and replaced it with one of roast goose and a dish of boiled pudding, saying, “Now there, my dear boy, aet that, I s’ppose the beef was too tough for ’e.”
Meanwhile the wedding-party—most of whom were young people—awaited us in another room; we soon joined them and found good drink and cakes in abundance. Uncle Will, the bride’s father, being called upon for a toast, he gave:—
“Here’s to the bridegroom and the bride,
May they stick to each other’s side;
I hope their life will be of joy,
And that the fust will be a boy.”
which was received with roars of laughter and stamping of feet. Aunt Nancy took from a buffet several bottles of cordials for the women and others who liked them; amongst others were poppy and blackberry syrups, sweet-drink (mead),—that had been kept some years for this happy occasion—and peppermint water, of her own distilling. Presently the fiddle struck up with a jig. “Les have the double shuffle, Uncle Will,” said the young people. Up he jumped as lively as a kid, though he was near eighty, and footed it out to the delight of all.
Young Jan of Santust (St. Just) followed, making the fire fly from the heels of his boots, like flashes of lightning; and all the company were quickly whirling, in reels, without much order.
Now, whilst the gaiety was at its height, the newly-wedded couple had contrived to slip out quietly, and hasten to their new home. “They’re off, they’re off,” cried several voices; “come on soas, or else we shall be too late; they will be in bed and lock the door.” Away they all flew, like mad devils, scampering over hedges and ditches for nearly a mile. We followed—fortunately for us it was a clear moonlight night.
When we got to the house the foremost of the party were up stairs. “Come ’e up, boys,” shouted they; up we went and found the bride and bridegroom in bed, with their clothes on, having had no time to lock the door even, as the wedding guests were close on their heels.
We shall long remember the scene we then witnessed; the guests were beating them in bed, with stockings, straps, braces, or anything they could lay hands on. “Give them pepper,” shouted young Jan, the groom’s best man; “give et them, boys,” and pepper them they did right merrily. Not wishing to be behind the rest, we took off our braces and followed suit. They continued this strange sport for a good while, until the leader said, “Les go back, soas, or else we shall be all ill-wisht, for et’s nearly twelve a’clock.”
Away they again rushed back to the old folks’ house; and each one on arriving, before speaking, touched the cravel, (lintel or head-stone of the hearth) with his or her head, for good luck.
The old couple seemed well satisfied when we returned, as it was not quite midnight.
Many elderly folks had arrived late in the evening to drink health and long life to the newly-married; they assured us that it was an old custom to tan young married people to bed, or else they would meet with bad luck all their days. The good old souls had arranged for us to stay over night; but as we deemed it best to return home, they made us take more to eat and drink, to keep out the cold and help us on the road, they said. Then amidst hearty leave-takings and promises to visit them again soon, they allowed us to depart.
Well, somehow, we arrived home about daybreak, but often wished that we had stopped at the Grambler till sunrise.
At more modish weddings the guests merely enter the bridal-chamber and throw stockings—in which stones or something to make weight are placed—at the bride and bridegroom in bed. The first one hit, of the happy couple, betokens the sex of their first-born.
It was an old custom, religiously observed, until lately, in Zennor and adjacent parishes on the north coast, to waylay a married couple on their wedding-night and flog them to bed with cords, sheep-spans, or anything handy for the purpose; believing that this rough treatment would ensure them happiness and the “heritage and gift that cometh from the Lord,” of a numerous family.
Madron Well
On passing over a stile and entering the moor in which the well is situated, cross the moor at a right-angle to the hedge, and a minute’s walk will bring one to the noted spring, which is not seen until very near, as it has no wall above the surface, nor any mark by which it can be distinguished at a distance.
Much has been written of the remarkable cures effected by its holy waters, and the intercession of St. Madron, or Motran; when it was so famous that the maimed, halt, and lame, made pilgrimages from distant parts to the heathy moor.
It is still resorted to on the first three Wednesdays in May, by some few women of the neighbourhood, who bring children to be cured of skin diseases by being bathed in it. Its old repute as a divining fount has not yet quite died out, though young folks visit it now to drop pebbles or pins into the well, more for fun and the pleasure of each other’s company, than through any belief that the falling together, or the separation of pins or pebbles, will tell how the course of love will run between the parties indicated by the objects dropped into the spring; or that the number of bubbles which rise in the water, on stamping near the well, mark the years, in answer to any question of time; but there was not such want of faith, however, half a century ago.
A short time since I visited an elderly dame of Madron, who was a highly reputed charmer for the cure of various skin ailments; I had known her from my childhood; and my object was to glean what I could about the rites practised, within her remembrance, at Madron Well, the Crick-stone, and elsewhere.
She gave the following account of the usages at Madron Well about fifty years ago. At that time, when she lived in Lanyon, scores of women from Morvah, Zennor, Towednack, and other places, brought their children to be cured of the shingles, wildfires, tetters, and other diseases, as well as to fortify them against witchcraft or being blighted with an evil eye.
An old dame called An’ Katty, who mostly lived in the Bossullows, or some place near, and who did little but knitting-work, picked up a good living in May by attending at the well, to direct the high country folks how they were to proceed in using the waters.
First she had the child stripped as naked as it was born; then it was plunged three times against the sun; next the creature was passed quickly nine times around the spring, going from east to west, or with the sun; the child was then dressed, rolled up in something warm, and laid to sleep near the water; if it slept, and plenty of bubbles rose in the well, it was a good sign. I asked if a prayer, charm, or anything was spoken during the operations? “Why, no, to be sure,” my old friend replied, “don’t ’e know any better, there musn’t be a word spoken all the time they are near the water, it would spoil the spell; and a piece rented, not cut, from the child’s clothes, or from that of anybody using the well must be left near it for good luck; ever so small a bit will do. This was mostly placed out of sight between the stones bordering the brooklet, or hung on a thorn that grew on the chapel wall.
Whilst one party went through their rites at the spring, all the others remained over the stile in the higher enclosure, or by the hedge, because, if a word were spoken by anybody near the well during the dipping, they had to come again.” The old woman, An’ Katty, was never paid in money, but balls of yarn, and other things she might want, were dropped on the road, outside the well-moors, for her; she also got good pickings by instructing young girls how to “try for sweethearts” at the well. “Scores of maidens”—the dame’s words—“used, in the summer evenings, to come down to the well from ever so far, to drop into it pins, gravels, or any small thing that would sink.” The names of persons were not always spoken when the objects which represented them were dropped into the water; it sufficed to think of them; and as pins or pebbles remained together or separated, such would be the couple’s fate. It was only when the spring was working (rising strongly) that it was of any use to try the spells; and it was unlucky to speak when near the well at such times.
The old woman that I visited said she had never heard that any saint had anything to do with the water, except from a person who told her there was something about it in a book; nor had she or anybody else heard the water called St. Madron’s Well, except by the new gentry, who go about new naming places, and think they know more about them than the people who have lived there ever since the world was created. She never heard of any ceremony being performed at the old Chapel, except that some persons hung a bit of their clothing on a thorn tree that grew near it. High Country folks, who mostly resort to the spring, pay no regard to any saint or to anyone else, except some old women who may come down with them to show how everything used to be done.
There is a spring, not far from Bosporthenes, in Zennor, which was said to be as good as Madron Well; and children were often taken thither and treated in the same way.
Such is the substance of what the dame related; and she regarded the due observance of ancient customs as a very solemn matter.
In answer to the questions of “What was the reason for going round the well nine times? Leaving bits of clothing? Following the sun, &c.?” It was always the same reply, “Such were the old customs,” and everybody knew it was unlucky to do any such work, and many things besides, against the sun’s course; no woman, who knew anything, would place pans of milk in a dairy, so as to have to unream (skim) them, in turn, against the sun, nor stir cream in that direction to make butter.
By following down the well-stream or hedge, mentioned above, we come to the Chapel. In its southern wall may be noticed an opening for letting water from the brook, which runs near it, flow into a baptistry in the south-western corner of the Chapel. Entering the doorway, on the northern side, one may remark that this primitive fount appears to have been arched over, after the manner of our old bee-hive huts, by the upper rows of stones slightly over-hanging. The altar table-slab, or mensa—still remaining at the east end—has a square pit worked in its centre, probably to mark the spot—over reliques—on which the monstrance was placed. A step makes the division between the little nave and sacrarium; there are also the remains of stone seats which were carried all around against the walls.
Let no rude hand remove,
Or spoil thee; for the spot is consecrate
To thee, and thou to it.
The Crick-Stone, or Men-an-tol
In a croft belonging to Lanyon farm, and about half a mile north of the town-place, there is a remarkable group of three stones, the centre one of which is called by antiquaries the Men-an-tol (holed stone), and by country folk the Crick-stone, from an old custom—not yet extinct—of “crameing” (crawling on all fours) nine times through the hole in the centre stone, going against the sun’s course, for the cure of lumbago, sciatica, and other “cricks” and pains in the back. Young children were also put through it to ensure them healthy growth.
Antiquaries are undecided with respect to the purpose for which these mysterious stones were erected. Some hold that it is a sepulchral monument, as well as the Men Scryfa (inscribed stone) half a mile further on, because there is a tradition that a little below, in Gendhal moor, there was once so great a battle that the streams ran with blood. Others think the object of its erection was for the computation of time; among the latter is Professor Max Müller, who, in the Quarterly Review, for August, 1867, after stating that the three stones are in a line bearing nearly east and west, says:—
“This Men-an-tol may be an old dial, erected originally to fix the proper time for the celebration of the autumnal equinox; and, though it may have been applied to other purposes likewise, such as the curing of children by dragging them several times through the hole, still its original intention may have been astronomical.”
He also thinks that the Menheeres (long stones) served the same purpose, as they are mostly found in pairs bearing nearly east and west.
The Tolmen, in Constantine parish, and holed stones in other parts of the county, were used the same way as Lanyon Crick-stone for curing various ailments.
To cure boils and rheumatism, persons “crame” nine times against the sun, under a bramble growing at both ends.
The notion is that going against the sun will backen a disease but in all other cases the sun’s course must be followed.
Charms
There are persons in every parish west of Hayle, and in many east of it, who charm for the cure of various ailments. The members of a family, formerly of Sennen, are believed to possess peculiar virtues as charmers, which is said to have been obtained, hundreds of years ago, from a forefather of theirs, dwelling in Escols, who found, washed in on Gwenvor sand, a very old man, almost dead, whom he took to his house, had him well cared for, so that he soon recovered and prepared to depart. Before leaving, however, he told his host that he had neither gold nor silver to pay him for his hospitality; yet he would bestow on him and his what would be of more value; and imparted to the old man of Escols most of the following charms, which a descendant of the family gave me by word of mouth; if written they are useless, and the giver of a written one thenceforth loses the power to cure by charming.
Charm for a scald, wild-fire, burn, or any other inflammatory diseases.
The person to be charmed gathers nine bramble leaves, which are put into a vessel of spring water; then each leaf is passed over and from the diseased part, whilst repeating three times to each leaf as follows:—
“Three ladies come from the east,
One with fire and two with frost;
Out with thee fire, and in with thee frost,
In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.”
A stick of fire is then taken from the hearth and passed over and around the diseased part whilst the above is repeated nine times.
Charm for a prick of a thorn, boils, kennels, &c.
“Christ was crowned with thorns,
The thorns did bleed but did not rot,
No more shall thy finger (or whatever part it may be),
In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.”
Charm for staunching blood.
“Christ was born in Bethlehem,
Baptised in the river Jordan;
There he digg’d a well.
And turn’d the water against the hill,
So shall thy blood stand still.
In the name, &c.”
Charm for a tetter.
“Tetter, tetter, thou hast nine sisters.
God bless the flesh and preserve the bone,
Perish thou tetter and be thou gone,
In the name, &c.”
“Tetter, tetter, thou hast eight sisters.
God bless the flesh and preserve the bone,
Perish thou tetter and be thou gone,
In the name, &c.”
The charm is thus continued until it comes to the last, which is:—
“Tetter, tetter, thou hast no sister,
God bless the flesh and preserve the bone,
Perish thou tetter and be thou gone.
In the name, &c.”
Charm for toothache.
“Christ pass’d by his brother’s door,
Saw his brother lying on the floor.
‘What aileth thee, brother?
Pain in thy teeth?
Thy teeth shall pain thee no more.’
In the name, &c.”
The charmer places his or her thumb on the diseased part in all but the first charm.
Divination with a Bible and key; seeking a response to doubts from the first words the eye may glance on in letting a Bible fall open; and various other superstitious practices, common to all England, are well known here and need not be described.
The Fairy Tribes
Belief in fairies is far from being extinct in Cornwall, though our country folks never call them by that name.
A few days since, a woman of Mousehal told me that not long ago troops of small people, no more than a foot and a half high, used—on moonlight nights—to come out of a hole in the cliff, opening onto the beach, Newlyn side of the village, and but a short distance from it. The little people were always dressed very smart; and if anyone came near them they would scamper away into the hole. Mothers often told their children that if they went under cliff by night the small people would carry them away into “Dicky Danjy’s holt.”
Another kind called spriggans, which simply means sprites, are believed to guard treasures buried in cliff and hill castles.
Not long since a tinner of Lelant dreamt, three nights following, that a crock of gold was buried in a particular spot, between large rocks within the castle, on Trecroben hill. The next clear moonlight night he dug up the ground of which he had dreamt. After working two or three hours he came to a flat stone which sounded hollow; whilst digging round its edges, the weather became suddenly dark, the wind roared around the carns, and looking up, when he had made a place for his hands to lift it, he saw hundreds of ugly spriggans coming out from amidst the rocks gathering around and approaching him. The man dropped his pick, ran down the hill and home as fast as he could lay foot to ground; he took to his bed and was unable to leave it for weeks.
When he next visited the castle he found the pit all filled in, with the turf replaced; and he nevermore dug for the treasure.
Piskey still leads benighted people astray; this sprite wanders alone and is always spoken of in the singular. It is somewhat remarkable that a green bug, frequently found on bramble bushes in autumn, is called by this name. After Michaelmas, it is said, that blackberries are unwholesome because Piskey spoils them then.
Places frequented by goats are believed to be the favourite haunts of fairies.
It is uncertain whether Bucka can be regarded as one of the fairy tribe; old people, within my remembrance, spoke of a Bucka Gwidden and a Bucka Dhu—by the former they meant a good spirit, and by the latter an evil one, now known as Bucka boo. I have been told, by persons of credit, that within the last forty years it was a usual practice with Newlyn and Mousehal fishermen to leave on the sand at night a portion of their catch for Bucka. Probably from this observance the common nickname of Newlyn Buckas was derived. An old rhyme says:—
“Penzance boys up in a tree,
Looking as wisht as wisht can be;
Newlyn buckas as strong as oak,
Knocking them down at every poke.”
From this it appears that Newlyn boys once considered it a matter of pride to be called by the name of their ancient divinity.
The knockers of the mines—that some class among fairy tribes—are simply believed, by our tinners, to be the spirits of those who worked the ‘old bals’ in ancient times.
Mermaids and the Hooper
Within easy memory many parts of the western coast were said to be frequented by mermaids, particularly Sennen Cove. This place was also resorted to by a remarkable spirit called the Hooper—from the hooting or hooping sounds which it was accustomed to make.
In old time, according to tradition, a compact cloud of mist often came in from over sea—when the weather was by no means foggy—and rested on the rocks called Cowloe, thence it spread itself, like a curtain of cloud, quite across Sennen Cove. By night a dull light was mostly seen amidst the vapour, with sparks ascending as if a fire burned within it; at the same time hooping sounds were heard proceeding therefrom. People believed the misty cloud shrouded a spirit, which came to forewarn them of approaching storms, and that those who attempted to put to sea found an invisible force—seemingly in the mist—to resist them.
A reckless fisherman and his son, however,—disregarding the token—launched their boat and beat through the fog with a threshal (flail); they passed the cloud of mist which followed them, and neither the men, nor the Hooper, were evermore seen in Sennen Cove.
This is the only place in the west where any tradition of such a guardian spirit is preserved.
The Wrecker and the Death Ship
Full well ’tis known adown the dale;
Tho’ passing strange indeed the tale,
And doubtful may appear.
Shenstone.
Persons of a notoriously wicked character were said to have been frequently taken off bodily by Old Nick when they died. The following is one of many stories to that effect.
More than a hundred years ago a dark strange man appeared in St. Just; no one knew whence he came, but it was supposed, however, that he was put ashore from a pirate ship, by way of marooning him; as the crews of such are wont to do by any wretch that is too bad even to consort with high sea robbers.
He didn’t appear to want for money as he soon rented a small, lone, tenement, near the shore, and married a widow of the neighbourhood.
People wondered, for a long while, how so many vessels got wrecked under the cliff that bordered the stranger’s farm.
At length it was discovered that on dark winter nights—when honest folks were a-bed—he made it his practice to fasten a lantern to the neck of a horse, which he had hobbled, by tying down its head to a fore-leg; then he drove the horse along near the cliff, and the lantern, from its motion, would be taken for a vessel’s stern-light.
Consequently those on board ships sailing by, expecting to find plenty of sea room, would come right in and be wrecked on the rocks. Any of their crews that escaped a watery grave the wretch would knock on the head with his axe, or cut off their hand when they tried to grasp the rocks.
He lived long and became rich by his sin. At length, however, the time came for the fiend to claim his own. When he was dying his awful shrieks were heard far away, as he cried, “Do save me from the devil, and the sailors, there, looking to tear me to pieces.” Several parsons and other pious folks were sent for,—all those of the neighbourhood readily came, for the dying sinner was rich.
Though it was in harvest time and high day, the old wrecker’s chamber became, at times, as dark as night. The parsons saw the devil in the room, when others could not; by their reading they drove him to take many shapes, but for all that he would not be put out; at last, when he took the form of a fly, and buzzed about the dying wretch, they saw it was in vain for them to try any longer.
During the time the exorcists were engaged, the chamber seemed—by the sound—to be filled with the sea splashing around the bed; waves were heard as if surging and breaking against the house, though it was a good bit inland.
Whilst this was taking place at the dying wrecker’s bedside, two men, who were about harvest work in one of his fields near the cliff, heard a hollow voice, as if coming from the sea, which said, “The hour is come but the man is not come.”
Looking in the direction whence the words came, they saw no person; but far out to sea, they beheld a black, heavy, square-rigged ship, with all sail set, coming fast in, against wind and tide, and not a hand to be seen aboard her.
She came so close under cliff that only her topmast could be seen; when black clouds—that seemed to rise out of the deep—gathered around her and extended thence straight to the dying man’s dwelling.
The harvest-men, terrified at the sight of this ship-of-doom so near them, ran up to the town-place, just as the old sinner died, when his dwelling shook as if about to fall. Everybody, in great fright, rushed out and saw the black clouds roll off towards the death-ship, which, at once, sailed away—amidst a blaze of lightning—far over sea, and disappeared.
The weather immediately cleared, and nothing unusual occurred until a few men assembled to put the wrecker’s ghastly remains quickly off the face of the earth; then, as the coffin was borne towards the churchyard, a large black pig came—no one knew from whence—and followed the bearers, who all declared the coffin was too light to contain any body. The sky, too, became suddenly overcast, and a tempest raged to that degree, they could scarcely keep on their legs to reach the churchyard stile, where such sheets of blinding lightning flashed around them, that they dropped the coffin and rushed into the church.
The storm having abated, they ventured out, and found nothing of the coffin but its handles and a few nails, for it had been set on fire, and all else consumed, by the lightning.
It does not appear what business the black pig had in the funeral procession; such is the way, however, in which the story is always told.
The Sun Never Shines on Those Who Have “Sworn Away a Life”
One frequently hears, in remote country places, the reproachful sayings of, “The sun wont shine on thee,” or, “the sun don’t shine on thee.” This is regarded as a very bitter taunt, even by those who do not understand its allusion or the old belief from which it proceeds.
The following story, told me by an aged mine captain, of Lelant, will serve to explain it.
A few years ago a smuggler of Breage gave false evidence, which caused one of another crew to be hanged, on the charge of having fired a fatal shot at an officer belonging to a revenue cutter.
This perjurer, who swore away an innocent man’s life, received—for informing—such a sum of blood money as made him comparatively rich, yet he remained at sea for several years, until he came to live at Hayle. Few persons there knew him; but everybody remarked that he looked deathly pale and shivered with cold, however warm the weather might be. He lived alone and rarely left his house to go beyond his garden, and his neighbours said that when he stood out in “sunshiney” weather he cast no shadow. They surmised that he had been forsworn; for he could never see the sun, and the sky always appeared dark to him; yet he saw everything else the same as other people.
After his decease it became known how he had caused an innocent man’s death.
Notices of other popular superstitions may be found by a reference to the Index.
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