tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-39829441853559310832024-03-05T17:18:44.671-08:00Cornish Folklore - Lien Gwerin a GernowCornish Folklore - Lien Gwerin a Gernow ~ tales
Alex Langstonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03233247785468335422noreply@blogger.comBlogger64125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3982944185355931083.post-13574995307093830222021-04-05T14:00:00.003-07:002021-04-05T14:05:10.702-07:00Grampound Wassail Song<p>Chorus:</p><p>Wassail, wassail, wassail, wassail</p><p>And joy come to our jolly wassail</p><p><br /></p><p>Now here at this house we first will be seen</p><p>To drink the king's health such a custom has been</p><p>Now unto the master we'll drink his good health</p><p>We hope he may prosper in virtue and wealth</p><p><br /></p><p>With our wassail, etc.</p><p><br /></p><p>In a friendly manner this house we salute,</p><p>For it is an old custom, you need not dispute;</p><p>Ask not the reason from where it did spring,</p><p>For you know very well it's an old ancient thing.</p><p><br /></p><p>Now here at your door we orderly stand</p><p>With our jolly wassail and our hats in our hand</p><p>We do wish you good health unto master and dame,</p><p>To children and servants we do wish the same</p><p><br /></p><p>It has been the custom, as I've been told</p><p>By ancient housekeepers in days of old,</p><p>When young men and maidens together draw near</p><p>They fill up our bowls with cider or beer</p><p><br /></p><p>Come fill up our wassail bowl full to the brim,</p><p>See, harnessed and garnished so neat and so trim</p><p>Sometimes with laurel and sometimes with bays</p><p>According to custom to keep the old ways</p><p><br /></p><p>(Pause for drink)</p><p><br /></p><p>Methinks I do smile to see the bowl full,</p><p>Which just now was empty and now filled do grow</p><p>By the hands of good people, long may they remain</p><p>And love to continue the same to maintain</p><p><br /></p><p>Now neighbours and strangers we always do find</p><p>And hope we shall be courteous, obliging and kind;</p><p>And hope your civility to us will be proved</p><p>As a piece of small silver in token of love</p><p><br /></p><p>(Pause for collection)</p><p><br /></p><p>We wish you great plenty and long time to live</p><p>Because you were so willing and freely to give</p><p>To our jolly wassail most cheerful and bold,</p><p>Long may you be happy, long may you live bold</p><p><br /></p><p>We hope your new apple trees prosper and bear,</p><p>That we shall have cider again next year;</p><p>For where you've a hogshead we hope you'll have ten,</p><p>That you will have cider when we come again</p><p><br /></p><p>We hope all your barley will prosper and grow,</p><p>That you may have barley and beer to bestow;</p><p>For where you've a bushel we hope you'll have ten,</p><p>That you will have beer when we come again</p><p><br /></p><p>Now for this good liquor to us you do bring,</p><p>We'll lift up our voices and merrily sing,</p><p>That all good householders may continue still</p><p>And provide some good liquor our bowl for to fill</p><p><br /></p><p>Now for this good liquor, your cider or beer,</p><p>Now for the great kindness that we have had here,</p><p>We'll return our thanks, and shall still bear in mind</p><p>How you have been bountiful, loving and kind</p><p><br /></p><p>Now for the great kindness that we have received</p><p>We return you our thanks and shall take our leave;</p><p>From this present time we shall bid you adieu</p><p>Until the next year when the time do ensue</p><p><br /></p><p>Now jolly old Christmas is passing away;</p><p>According to custom this is the last day</p><p>That we shall enjoy along with you to bide</p><p>So farewell old Christmas, this merry old tide</p><div><br /></div>Alex Langstonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03233247785468335422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3982944185355931083.post-84289659655020282782019-06-13T02:01:00.003-07:002019-06-13T02:09:23.468-07:00Storm Woman of Dozmary Pool<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">The lonely and isolated Dozmary Pool has many mysterious tales to tell. But there is one which is truly remarkable. In the murky depths of the pool a powerful vortex is rumoured to exist, like an underground waterfall. This strange watery realm is reputed to be presided over by the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Old Storm Woman</i>, a ghostly moor-land mermaid, who dwells in the cool peaty waters below the still surface of the lake. It is she who creates the winds which rip across the moor from the centre of the lake, as she gathers the power of the aqueous vortex; she blows the winds across eastern Cornwall from the dramatic cliffs of the north coast, across the granite tors to the lush river valleys in the south. Maybe the strange and seemingly out-of-place ancient carving of a mermaid, which resides in the parish church at nearby Linkinhorne, is an old half-forgotten reminder of her story? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: xx-small;">Above: Linkinhorne church mermaid by Paul Atlas-Saunders</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Enys Tregarthen retold this tale in her children’s story entitled <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The House of the Sleeping Winds</i> originally published in 1911. The most famous legend associated with Dozmary Pool is that of Sir Bedevere casting Excalibur into the lake, where the Lady of the Lake receives Arthur’s sword for safe keeping. Maybe the Old Storm Woman Mermaid and the Lady of the Lake are one and the same? </span><br />
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Alex Langstonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03233247785468335422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3982944185355931083.post-65971011255292321332018-10-12T22:43:00.003-07:002018-10-12T22:47:26.752-07:00Ghost-ship of Porthcurno<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Onward came the ill-omened craft </span></div>
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The tale from Robert Hunt's <a href="http://www.sacred-texts.com/neu/eng/prwe/prwe204.htm">"Popular Romances"</a></div>
Alex Langstonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03233247785468335422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3982944185355931083.post-33624708466534020312018-09-14T01:44:00.001-07:002018-09-14T01:56:14.672-07:00Guldize on Bodmin Moor<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip_euUjjYcKjxxRychYC3Oz-5-DCfGMGKkUQBfpDyC5JbDUoyWx5hTjKwjo9khcIm1beO3K57pI2nkwUkbDm39t9ORnulkzGto9Lds9YKBQrDi6cEd8l64Yntn-D1LYTwEiz2J_eQGWcaR/s1600/11169249_10153576656201635_415258891797170701_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1136" data-original-width="852" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip_euUjjYcKjxxRychYC3Oz-5-DCfGMGKkUQBfpDyC5JbDUoyWx5hTjKwjo9khcIm1beO3K57pI2nkwUkbDm39t9ORnulkzGto9Lds9YKBQrDi6cEd8l64Yntn-D1LYTwEiz2J_eQGWcaR/s400/11169249_10153576656201635_415258891797170701_o.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">On Bodmin Moor, during the first half of the 20th century, Guldize, (the end of harvest) was marked by Crying the Neck and performing a Broom Dance.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">At North Hill during the 1930s, Goldhys was celebrated with a broom dance to the tune of ‘So Early in the Morning’. This was recorded in Old Cornwall magazine in 1931, where the writer, E. Thompson says: </span><br />
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<i><span style="font-size: large;">“…I must not forget to mention the dance over the Broomstick. This is most interesting especially if someone is present with a concertina. The Dance, I think it is to the tune of So Early In The Morning. It’s fine when you hear the heavy boots beating a tattoo on the stone floors, as the dancers first lift one leg then the other, to pass the broomstick from hand to hand, as if they were weaving. What a wonderful time too. As the dance proceeds, the musician plays faster and faster and the dancers have to dance faster. It is a marvel how these men, some big and well built, can jump so nimbly as they do in this dance."</span></i><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">For more on this and other lore, check out <a href="http://www.troybooks.co.uk/from-granite-to-sea.html">From Granite to Sea</a></span><br />
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<br />Alex Langstonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03233247785468335422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3982944185355931083.post-3640910566472126812018-09-11T02:25:00.001-07:002018-09-11T03:37:13.790-07:00The Black Dog of Tregrehan<div>
<b><span style="font-size: large;">An old tale, re-imagined by Alex Langstone.</span></b></div>
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Tregrehan Mills, 1779.</div>
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It was a clear moonlit night in the narrow lanes at Tregrehan Mills, and a clandestine group of men were out poaching. Close to midnight they had gathered at an isolated trackway on the edge of the hamlet, not far from the boundary of the large estate owned by Lord Carlyon. Most of the men had cut across the fields from St Blazey, Boscoppa and Par and now gathered in the shadows of the ancient hedge. The old lane was brightly lit by the moon, and all was quiet.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span> </div>
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One of the lads, a mere boy, was told to keep guard by the granite hedge, whilst the older men quickly dispersed in the neighbouring fields, looking for deer tracks under the soft silver light of the full moon. Sam was on the lookout for any intruders, and he had been instructed to raise the alarm if any strangers appeared in the vicinity. Though nervous, he was a seasoned lookout, and had been on many night-time errands before, be they poaching at Tregrehan or smuggling at Par. If it wasn’t for these activities, Sam knew they would probably be starving, so it was all part of his regular routine.</div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.8px; text-align: center;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12.8px; text-align: center;">Artwork copyright Paul Atlas-Saunders</span></div>
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Shortly after, Sam thought he heard a horse approaching, and he drew himself closer to the dark shadows cast by the tall hedge. He listened again, but the clattering sound had ceased. An owl hooted from the tree tops and another responded, their eerie avian conversation seemed to hang on the night air, in this ancient Cornish lane.<br />
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Sam’s senses suddenly heightened, as again he heard the clatter of a horse approaching. This time he raised the alarm, as they could ill afford to be caught trespassing, let alone poaching. As his companions drew close to the shadows of the hedge, the sound grew louder., and the noisy clatter of hooves became much more distinct. They were all intrigued to see who was riding out so noisily on this fine moonlit night. However, a dire feeling of dread came over them all, as a very strange apparition manifested before them. Instead of a horse, there appeared a huge furry black beast, which looked like a large dog or small bear. <span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div>
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As the creature passed by the group, they all witnessed the wild monster with his demonic fiery eyes and large teeth, which struck terror into their hearts. What was this uncanny beast? Furthermore, the strange creature walked straight through a wooden gate, without any obstruction, as if it were a ghostly apparition or maybe a demon straight from hell.<br />
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Beyond the sturdy wooden gate, the strange black dog trotted off into the fields beyond. The men watched its monstrous spectral illuminated form for several minutes, and they continued to hear the strange nightmarish clattering of the ghost dog’s hoof-like paws, which gradually seemed to fade into the disturbing shadows of the trees on the far side of the pasture. </div>
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The poachers decided to call it a night, and as they dispersed into smaller groups to head for their homes, the conversation was of confusion and fear, as they tried to understand what they had all witnessed in the lush fields and ancient woodlands of Tregrehan Mills on that fateful and haunted moonlit night.</div>
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Artwork copyright Paul Atlas-Saunders<br />
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<a href="http://cornishfolkloretales.blogspot.com/2014/04/the-hound-of-st-austell.html">Please see here for source material</a><br />
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This piece was first published in <a href="http://www.lulu.com/gb/en/shop/alex-langstone/lien-gwerin-2/paperback/product-23621913.html">Lien Gwerin no. 2</a></div>
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Alex Langstonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03233247785468335422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3982944185355931083.post-37938801401325245682018-06-26T08:03:00.000-07:002018-06-26T09:40:44.956-07:00Poperro Feast of St Peter<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Image courtesy of Polperro News</div>
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Jonathan Couch describes the traditional midsummer festivities and the harbour beach fire in his 'History of Polperro'<br />
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<i>"On the eve of the fair is the prefatory ceremony of a bonfire. The young fishermen go from house to house and beg money to defray the expenses. At night-fall a large pile of faggots and tar-barrels is built on the beach, and amid the cheers of a congregated crowd of men, women and children, (for it is a favour never denied to children to stay up and see the bonfire), the pile is lighted. The fire blazes up, and men and boys dance merrily round it, and keep up the sport till the fire burns low enough, then they venturously leap through the flames. It is a most animated scene; the whole valley lit up by the bright red glow, bringing into strong relief front and gable of picturesque old houses, each window crowded with eager and delighted faces; while around the fire is a crowd of ruddy lookers-on, shutting in a circle of impish figures leaping like salamanders through the flames. The fire was no doubt, originally intended to celebrate the solstitial feast, but was in later times, deferred until the festival of St Peter".</i>Alex Langstonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03233247785468335422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3982944185355931083.post-59073579026947558722018-06-24T04:33:00.001-07:002018-06-24T04:33:07.160-07:00The Devil in Polperro<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Robert Hunt recorded the following about the Devil in Polperro:<br />
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In the slate (Killas) formations behind Polperro is a good example of a fault. The geologist, in the pride of his knowledge, refers this to some movement of the solid mass–a rending of the rocks, produced either by the action of some subterranean force lifting the earth-crust, or by a depression of one division of the rocks.<br />
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The grey-bearded wisdom of our grandfathers led them to a conclusion widely different from this. The mighty ruler of the realms of darkness, who is known to have an especial fondness for rides at midnight, “to see how his little ones thrive,” ascending from his subterranean country, chose this spot as his point of egress. As he rose from below in his fiery car, drawn by a gigantic jet black steed, the rocks gave way before him, and the rent at Polperro remains to this day to convince all unbelievers.<br />
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Not only this, as his Satanic majesty burst through the slate rocks, his horse, delighted with the airs of this upper world, reared in wild triumph, and, planting again his hoof upon the ground, made these islands shake as with an earthquake; and he left the deep impression of his burning foot behind. There, any unbeliever may see the hoof-shaped pool, unmistakable evidence of the wisdom of the days gone by.<br />
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<br />Alex Langstonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03233247785468335422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3982944185355931083.post-24787591089643641572018-04-03T12:13:00.000-07:002018-04-03T22:58:43.357-07:00Tintagel Sea Serpent<br />
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Above: Looking towards Barras Nose and Gullastem, from Tintagel Island</span></i></div>
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In September 1907 the Aberdeen Journal reported a sighting of a sea serpent by the Rev. T. C. Davies of Sheffield and Mr E Dodgson, Chaplain at Jesus College Oxford. They first sighted the creature about 11.45.am on September 12th. The report came in a letter to the Western Morning News. They were seated on the edge of the cliff at Gullastem, close to Tintagel, when their attention was drawn to a black object moving very quickly along the surface about 200 yards away towards Tintagel Island. In view for about a minute, the serpent was at least twenty-foot-long, and was holding its head above the water which appeared to have a large mane upon it. The two witnesses rued that they had neither a telescope or a "Kodak to take its likeness”.<br />
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<br />Alex Langstonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03233247785468335422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3982944185355931083.post-57696033749353115252018-04-01T11:39:00.001-07:002018-04-01T11:39:21.577-07:00Roche Holy Well LoreRoche, north of St. Austell, famous for the Roche rocks, with St. Michael's Chapel built amongst them. Once tenanted by a hermit; then by a leper, whose daughter waited on him, and drew water from a well, said to ebb and flow, called after her.<br />
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To St. Gundred's, near a group of cottages called Hollywell village, maidens would repair on Holy Thursday, to throw in pins and pebbles, and predict coming events by the sparkling of the bubbles which rise up. Lunatics were also immersed in it<br />
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From:The Legendary Lore of the Holy Wells of England by Robert Charles Hope, 1893.Alex Langstonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03233247785468335422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3982944185355931083.post-62045386486183143822017-12-20T11:08:00.002-08:002017-12-20T11:21:32.362-08:00Cornish Bunch or Bush<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: large;">Cornish Bunch or Bush</span><br />
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Two withy hoops are fastened together at right angles. These are covered with holly and ivy. A red candle is placed at the base and an apple is secured to hang down above it. These were hung from the ceiling on Winter Solstice eve, where just before midnight, the red candle was very carefully lit. Then those assembled would form a ring underneath the bush, and perform a dance to welcome the rebirth of the sun.<br />
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<i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">From: The Old Cornwall Christmas Anthology</span></i><br />
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<br />Alex Langstonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03233247785468335422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3982944185355931083.post-13726947486712948452017-11-29T07:34:00.001-08:002017-11-29T08:10:33.204-08:00Historic accounts of the Obby Oss in West PenwithThe three accounts below form the basis for our understanding of the West Penwith mid-winter mast style Obby Oss.<br />
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"Here was burned a mesquita (Paul church) in which there was a horse carved in wood and greatly embellished, serving as an idol worshipped by the people" (Log of Capt. Carlos de Amezola, 1595)<br />
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"Another amusement is called 'The Corn-market' where there is also there is a master who has an assistant called Spy-the-Market; another essential character is old Penglaze who has a blackened face and a staff in his hand, and a person girded round with a horse's hide, or what is supposed to be such, to serve as his horse; they are placed towards the back of the market.<br />
The other players each have some even price appropriated to them for names, as Twopence, Sixpence, Twelvepence, etc. The master then calls 'Spy-the-master', to which the man replies, 'Ay, sirrah.' The master the asks the price of corn. The man names some price that is borne by one of the players as, for instance, 'Twopence'. The master then holds the same conversation with Twopence as he had with his man, and so on till some mistake is made by any of the party not answering to his name, when the unlucky offender is to be sealed, which constitutes the principal amusement of the game. The master than goes up to the delinquent and, taking up his foot, says: 'Here is my seal, where is old Penglaze's seal?' and gives him a blow on the foot. Old Penglaze then comes in on his horse which winces and capers about grotesquely. He is told that a fine colt needs shoeing, for which he says that his full reward is a full gallon of moonlight besides all other customs for shoeing in that market. The shoe of the 'colt' is than taken off and Penglaze gives him one or two hard blows on the sole of the foot, after which he rides off again, his horse capering more than ever and sometimes throwing the old gentleman off." (Sandys: "Cornish Carols Ancient and Modern", 1833, in respect of West Cornwall)<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small; text-align: left;">Above: The Walmer hooden oss from Kent. Taken in 1907, this may be similar in style to the accound that William Sandys gives of the Penzance Oss.</span></div>
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"A well-known character amongst them, about 50 years ago, was the hobby-horse, represented by a man carrying a piece of wood in the form of a horse's head and neck, with some contrivance for opening and shutting the mouth with a loud snapping noise, the performer being so covered with a horse-cloth or hide of a horse as to resemble the animal whose curvetings, biting and other motions he imitated." (R. Edmonds, "The Land's End District", 1862, re. the Christmas to Twelve-Tide geese (guise) dancers).<br />
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With thanks to Craig Weatherhill for bringing the texts together.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Above: The modern Cornish mast-beast style of Oss, still very much associated with mid-winter traditions across Cornwall</span></div>
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Alex Langstonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03233247785468335422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3982944185355931083.post-29699296879780009842017-10-04T22:48:00.002-07:002021-10-10T02:56:08.335-07:00The Darley Oak<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="uficommentbody1n4g">The Darley Oak near Linkinhorne, suggested to be at least 1,000 years old may recall some of this ‘supernatural’ reverence. Local folk tradition gives magical healing properties to the tree.</span><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=3982944185355931083#_edn1" name="_ednref1" title=""><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"></span></span></a><span class="uficommentbody1n4g"> It is said that any wish made by it will come true, and the trees acorns are said to be used as lucky charms, particularly giving luck to pregnant women. In particular anyone who passes through the hollow of the tree and then encircles the trunk will be granted any wish or desire. The tree was first documented as a tree of great antiquity in the 18th century, and has been seen as a natural curiosity for generations. The present farmhouse was built in 1733; but the tree was revered well before this time. In William Harvey’s 1727 book on the parish of Linkinhorne, it is stated that the hollow in the trunk was <i>capable of housing small pleasure parties. </i>The custom of holding tea parties in the Oak’s hollow trunk was continued well into the 1980s by the Hoare family, who purchased the farm in 1919. </span> </span></span><br />
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<i>...snippet taken from my recent book: 'From Granite to Sea ~ The Folklore of Bodmin Moor and East Cornwall' published by Troy Books. Art </i><i><span class="_Tgc">© </span>Paul Atlas-Saunders, words </i><span class="_Tgc">© Alex Langstone.</span></div>
Alex Langstonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03233247785468335422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3982944185355931083.post-77614629604650956442017-09-23T05:22:00.001-07:002018-09-22T23:31:28.297-07:00Killigarth's Ghost, Talland<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Alex Langstonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03233247785468335422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3982944185355931083.post-5495775705883570622017-06-23T15:26:00.000-07:002018-04-01T02:58:37.645-07:00Lundy Hole and the Devil<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4MBv8WFvM3HtZu9j6jRU3TXA9-bf80s1nNthT0G9Z2fpv3gYwT3aBs1HZmocUpD-0aoBvKJzIrMVf8ZUY3aMCfTq4S_nTZLOEEFLQPo82WS6chaQllcU6kSeo1HOze1BnnT8n93BhVDRd/s1600/047.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1063" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4MBv8WFvM3HtZu9j6jRU3TXA9-bf80s1nNthT0G9Z2fpv3gYwT3aBs1HZmocUpD-0aoBvKJzIrMVf8ZUY3aMCfTq4S_nTZLOEEFLQPo82WS6chaQllcU6kSeo1HOze1BnnT8n93BhVDRd/s400/047.JPG" width="265" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Nicholas Roscarrock recorded the following folklore from the remote and rugged peninsula between Wadebridge and Port Isaac. It concerns St Menefrida, patron of St Minver church and was first recorded during the early 17th century. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">One fine day, whilst Menefrida was combing her hair by her ancient chapel and holy well at Tredrizzick, she was rudely confronted by the Devil, who appeared from the deep shadows of the local woods. She was so distressed by his astonishing apparition, that she threw her comb at him, striking the fiend with such force that he flew through the air and plunged into the ground at Topalundy, on the nearby coast. This created the great hole, now known as Lundy Hole, sited high on the clifftop above Lundy Cove, Polzeath. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">It is interesting to note that Roscarrock lived nearby at St Endellion, so one must assume this was an established folktale in his day.</span></span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaliSEf2WVuDXKZU66NjTPM51dPkFhyl9gmLNHlvhtcwQPPL9cSD6gGcXN2a-YjTQLnuK_L3AxJh1QNLLP-ohw_Lc50hyphenhyphenaNl4a7xFSHGeVlIf4PUnYm-cxxK7UxUTmvrGNzott1xgdG-sn/s1600/060.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="874" data-original-width="1600" height="347" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaliSEf2WVuDXKZU66NjTPM51dPkFhyl9gmLNHlvhtcwQPPL9cSD6gGcXN2a-YjTQLnuK_L3AxJh1QNLLP-ohw_Lc50hyphenhyphenaNl4a7xFSHGeVlIf4PUnYm-cxxK7UxUTmvrGNzott1xgdG-sn/s640/060.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Above left: Lundy Hole. Above: Lundy Cove. </span></div>
Alex Langstonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03233247785468335422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3982944185355931083.post-73614076510093947182017-06-22T06:36:00.000-07:002017-06-22T06:45:50.205-07:00John Harris gets piskey-led by Bucca on Bolenowe Carn<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="UFICommentBody _1n4g"></span></span><br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="UFICommentBody _1n4g"></span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimgDoNXezVdUuvz8Y7kHlIECpWZhDLBwIqle8c58wLdgdFaXQheGxHFODpTzUYLHPiZ7v5nYmxmZjqPfmbrh_2JG1TjmVqiEsaPAZ7F1OVmACqqrQVj3UwvM0fgr0NBVEWBamkkhPGzsRx/s1600/JH1.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="256" data-original-width="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimgDoNXezVdUuvz8Y7kHlIECpWZhDLBwIqle8c58wLdgdFaXQheGxHFODpTzUYLHPiZ7v5nYmxmZjqPfmbrh_2JG1TjmVqiEsaPAZ7F1OVmACqqrQVj3UwvM0fgr0NBVEWBamkkhPGzsRx/s1600/JH1.png" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="UFICommentBody _1n4g">"Another incident I cannot forget. I could not have been then more than four or five years ' old. I left my mother’s door,
and by some contrivance got over the stile at the end of the house
leading into the meadow. Here I played among the daisies and clover for
some time, pulling off the great heads of the ox—eye, and collecting
moss-cups and ivy-leaves from the hedges. So intent was I on my
botanical selection, that I noticed not the sinking sun, or the rising
moon, until the falling twilight warned me it was time to return to the
house. But this was not so easy as leaving it. Round and round I walked,
still getting more bewildered and farther into the gloom. Then I sat
down on a rock by the side of the path in the Water Field, shut my eyes
and sobbed. Over me were the broad heavens, studded with stars, and
around me the stillness and the solemness of night. My parents, alarmed
at my absence, sought for me with many fears; and when they found me, I
was sitting upon this mossy boulder, sobbing forth at intervals, “There
is nobody here but I and the buckaw. ” The buckaw was a supposed pixey
that haunted the neighbourhood."</span></span><br />
<br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="UFICommentBody _1n4g"><i>extracted from My Autobiography by John Harris. </i>With thanks to Andy Norfolk.</span></span>Alex Langstonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03233247785468335422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3982944185355931083.post-26530342398153016962017-06-17T06:08:00.000-07:002017-06-17T06:10:13.613-07:00Encounter at Dolcoath Mine by John Harris<div class="_5pbx userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="js_a">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
We entered the blacksmith’s shed by the door I have mentioned, which
fronted the high road, and had just finished changing our dress, when we
heard a tremendous racket outside. We ran to the door, and there was a
little horseman on a night-black nag, galloping furiously in front of
the smithy.<br />
<br />
In a moment the horse was checked, and back came the
rash rider again, sweeping by like the wind. But instead of continuing
on the carriage road, the smoking steed dashed over the heaps of rubbish
behind the shed, where a horse had never been known to have gone
before. Round, and round, and round the shed it rushed at a frantic
pace, each time faster than before. as if the weird animal had wings. I
could see no whip in the rider’s hand, or bridle-rein—no saddle-stirrup
or spur, neither could I discover any face to the horseman. The mystic
horse then dashed by us so near that the wind it stirred rushed in our
faces. On it went in the very direction of our home, over the road we
walked.<br />
The smithy stood in a mineral valley known as Bottom Hill,
and its sides were very steep, so that it was no easy task to go up
them. The carriage road wound along its side, running on a considerable
length until it reached the top. There was, however, a footpath for
passengers almost in a direct line from the lowest part of the valley to
the very edge of the hill. At the distance of every few yards there
were flights of steps, so as to surmount it more easily. But a horse to
go up that way would be almost like scaling a cliff. What was our
surprise, then, when this hazardous horseman, but a few feet in advance
of us, dashed right up over these steps! As he leaped from level to
level, and from stone to stone, the black horse seemed standing upright
on its hind legs. No sound was heard, no ' crack of whip, no breathing
of the jaded beast, but all was still as death.<br />
<br />
Of course, the wild
horse and its wilder rider reached the high-road on the top of the
valley long before we did, though we paced on considerably faster than
we were wont. I felt no fear, and hardly expected to see it again, but
had resolved that, should it make its appearance, to call out boldly and
ask what it wanted. Exactly as we reached the last step of the
footpath, which would land us on the main road, there was the black
horse and its sooty rider coming full tilt in our faces! I had an
opportunity, for a second, to examine the horseman; for by this time the
moon had risen, and the light was tolerably good. He seemed as black as
ink, armless and legless, and no bigger than a farmer’s watchdog. He
was bent forward upon the horse’s neck, so that he was almost double. I
could see no face or features of any kind—no whip, or bridle, or
saddle-girth. But down he came sweeping like a storm-wave. We stepped
quickly aside, and I shouted “Good night!” but there was no reply, no
recognition of our presence, or murmur of any kind. On went the black
horse galloping into the midnight—on, on! For several minutes we heard
the animal’s hoofs rattling and ringing upon the road towards
Tuckingmill; and then all was silent, and we saw it no more. What it was
I have never discovered to this day—but it was no ghost.<br />
<br />
<i>extracted from My Autobiography by John Harris</i></div>
Alex Langstonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03233247785468335422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3982944185355931083.post-79779633607536877552016-10-27T10:12:00.001-07:002016-10-30T12:12:59.776-07:00The Spectre Bridegroom<div align="CENTER">
<br /></div>
LONG, long ago a farmer named Lenine lived in Boscean. He
had but one son, Frank Lenine, who was indulged into waywardness by both his
parents. In addition to the farm servants, there was one, a young girl,
Nancy Trenoweth, who especially assisted Mrs Lenine in all the various
duties of a small farmhouse.<br />
Nancy Trenoweth was very pretty, and although perfectly
uneducated, in the sense in which we now employ the term education, she
possessed many native graces, and she had acquired much knowledge, really
useful to one whose aspirations would probably never rise higher than to be
mistress of a farm of a few acres. Educated by parents who had certainly
never seen the world beyond Penzance, her ideas of the world were limited to
a few miles around the Land's End. But although her book of nature was a
small one, it had deeply impressed her mind with its influences. The wild
waste, the small but fertile valley, the rugged hills, with their crowns of
cairns, the moors rich in the golden furze and the purple heath, the
sea-beaten cliffs, and the silver sands, were the pages she had studied,
under the guidance of a mother who conceived, in the sublimity of her
ignorance, that everything in nature was the home of some spirit form. The
soul of the girl was imbued with the deeply religious dye of her mother's
mind, whose religion was only a sense of an unknown world immediately beyond
our own. The elder Nancy Trenoweth exerted over the villagers around her
considerable power. They did not exactly fear her. She was too free from
evil for that; but they were conscious of a mental superiority, and yielded
without complaining to her sway.<br />
<br />
The result of this was, that the younger Nancy, although
compelled to service, always exhibited some pride, from a feeling that her
mother was a superior woman to any around her. She never felt herself inferior to her master and
mistress, yet she complained not of being in subjection to them. There were
so many interesting features in the character of this young servant girl
that she became in many respects like a daughter to her mistress. There was
no broad line of division in those days, in even the manorial hall, between
the lord and his domestics, and still less defined was the position of the
employer and the employed in a small farmhouse. Consequent on this condition
of things, Frank Lenine and Nancy were thrown as much together as if they
had been brother and sister. Frank was rarely checked in anything by his
over-fond parents, who were especially proud of their son, since he was
regarded as the handsomest young man in the parish. Frank conceived a very
warm attachment for Nancy, and she was not a little proud of her lover.
Although it was evident to all the parish that Frank and Nancy were
seriously devoted to each other, the young man's parents were blind to it,
and were taken by surprise when one day Frank asked his father and mother to
consent to his marrying Nancy.<br />
<br />
The Lenines had allowed their son to have his own way
from his youth up; and now, in a matter which brought into play the
strongest of human feelings, they were angry because he refused to bend to
their wills.<br />
<br />
The old man felt it would be a degradation for a Lenine
to marry a Trenoweth, and, in the most unreasoning manner, he resolved it
should never be. The first act was to send Nancy home to Alsia Mill, where
her parents resided; the next was an imperious command to his son never
again to see the girl.<br />
The commands of the old are generally powerless upon the
young where the affairs of the heart are concerned. So were they upon Frank.
He, who was rarely seen of an evening beyond the garden of his father's
cottage, was now as constantly absent from his home. The house, which was
wont to be a pleasant one, was strangely altered. A gloom had fallen over
all things; the father and son rarely met as friends--the mother and her
boy had now a feeling of reserve. Often there were angry altercations
between the father and son, and the mother felt she could not become the
defender of her boy in his open acts of disobedience, his bold defiance of
his parents' commands.<br />
<br />
Rarely an evening passed that did not find Nancy and
Frank together in some retired nook. The Holy Well was a favourite
meeting-place, and here the most solemn vows were made. Locks of hair were
exchanged; a wedding-ring, taken from the finger of a corpse, was broken,
when they vowed that they would be united either dead or alive; and they
even climbed at night the granite-pile at Treryn, and swore by the Logan
Rock the same strong vow.<br />
<br />
Time passed onward thus unhappily, and, as the result of
the endeavours to quench out the passion by force, it grew stronger under
the repressing power, and, like imprisoned steam, eventually burst through
all restraint. Nancy's parents discovered at length that moonlight
meetings between two untrained, impulsive youths, had a natural result, and
they were now doubly earnest in their endeavours to compel Frank to marry
their daughter.<br />
<br />
The elder Lenine could not be brought to consent to this,
and he firmly resolved to remove his son entirely from what he considered
the hateful influences of the Trenoweths. He resolved to go to Plymouth, to
take his son with him, and, if possible, to send him away to sea, hoping
thus to wean him from his folly, as he considered this love-madness. Frank,
poor fellow, with the best intentions, was not capable of any sustained
effort, and consequently he at length succumbed to his father; and, to
escape his persecution, he entered a ship bound for India, and bade adieu to
his native land. Frank could not write, and this happened in days when
letters could be forwarded only with extreme difficulty, consequently Nancy
never heard from her lover.<br />
<br />
A baby had been born into a troublesome world, and the
infant became a real solace to the young mother. As the child grew, it
became an especial favourite with its grandmother; the elder Nancy rejoiced
over the little prattler, and forgot her cause of sorrow. Young Nancy lived
for her child, and on the memory of its father. Subdued in spirit she was,
but her affliction had given force to her character, and she had been heard
to declare that wherever Frank might be she was ever present with him;
whatever might be the temptations of the hour, that her influence was
all-powerful over him for good. She felt that no distance could separate
their souls, that no time could be long enough to destroy the bond between
them.<br />
A period of distress fell upon the Trenoweths, and it was
necessary that Nancy should leave her home once more, and go again into
service. Her mother took charge of the babe, and she found a situation in
the village of Kimyall, in the parish of Paul. Nancy, like her mother,
contrived by force of character to maintain an ascendancy amongst her
companions. She had formed an acquaintance, which certainly never grew into
friendship, with some of the daughters of the small farmers around. These
girls were all full of the superstitions of the time and place.<br />
<br />
The winter was coming on, and nearly three years had
passed away since Frank Lenine left his country. As yet there was no sign.
Nor father, nor mother, nor maiden had heard of him, and they all sorrowed
over his absence. The Lenines desired to have Nancy's child, but the
Trenoweths would not part with it. They went so far even as to endeavour to
persuade Nancy to live again with them, but Nancy was not at all disposed to
submit to their wishes.<br />
<br />
It was All-hallows Eve, and two of Nancy's companions
persuaded her--no very difficult task--to go with them and sow hemp-seed.<br />
<br />
At midnight the three maidens stole out unperceived into
Kimyall town-place to perform their incantation. Nancy was the first to sow,
the others being less bold than she.<br />
Boldly she advanced, saying, as she scattered the seed,<br />
<br />
"Hemp-seed I sow thee,<br />
Hemp.seed grow thee;<br />
And he who wilt my true love be,<br />
Come after me<br />
And shaw thee."<br />
<br />
This was repeated three times, when, looking back over
her left shoulder, she saw Lenine; but he looked so angry that she shrieked
with fear, and broke the spell. One of the other girls, however, resolved
now to make trial of the spell, and the result of her labours was the vision
of a white coffin. Fear now fell on all, and they went home sorrowful, to
spend each one a sleepless night.<br />
<br />
November came with its storms, and during one terrific
night a large vessel was thrown upon the rocks in Bernowhall Cliff, and,
beaten by the impetuous waves, she was soon in pieces. Amongst the bodies of
the crew washed ashore, nearly all of whom had perished, was Frank Lenine. -
He was not dead when found, but the only words he lived to speak were
begging the people to send for Nancy Trenoweth, that he might make her his
wife before he died.<br />
<br />
Rapidly sinking, Frank was borne by his friends on a
litter to Boscean, but he died as he reached the town-place. His parents,
overwhelmed in their own sorrows, thought nothing of Nancy, and without her
knowing that Lenine had returned, the poor fellow was laid in his last bed,
in Burian Churchyard.<br />
On the night of the funeral, Nancy went, as was her
custom, to lock the door of the house, and as was her custom too, she looked
out into the night. At this instant a horseman rode up in hot haste, called
her by name, and hailed her in a voice that made her blood boil.<br />
<br />
The voice was the voice of Lenine. She could never forget
that; and the horse she now saw was her sweetheart's favourite colt, on
which he had often ridden at night to Alsia.<br />
The rider was imperfectly seen; but he looked very
sorrowful, and deadly pale, still Nancy knew him to be Frank Lenine.<br />
<br />
He told her that he had just arrived home, and that the
first moment he was at liberty he had taken horse to fetch his loved one,
and to make her his bride.<br />
<br />
Nancy's excitement was so great, that she was easily
persuaded to spring on the horse behind him, that they might reach his home
before the morning.<br />
<br />
When she took Lenine's hand a cold shiver passed through
her, and as she grasped his waist to secure herself in her seat, her arm
became as stiff as ice. She lost all power of speech, and suffered deep
fear, yet she knew not why. The moon had arisen, and now burst out in a full
flood of light, through the heavy clouds which had obscured it. The horse
pursued its journey with great rapidity, and whenever in weariness it
slackened its speed, the peculiar voice of the rider aroused its drooping
energies. Beyond this no word was spoken since Nancy had mounted behind her
lover. They now came to Trove Bottom, where there was no bridge at that
time; they dashed into the river. The moon shone full in their faces. Nancy
looked into the stream, and saw that the rider was in a shroud and other
grave-clothes. She now knew that she was being carried away by a spirit, yet
she had no power to save herself; indeed, the inclination to do so did not
exist.<br />
<br />
On went the horse at a furious pace, until they came to
the blacksmith's shop near Burian Church-town, when she knew by the light
from the forge fire thrown across the road that the smith was still at his
labours. She now recovered speech. "Save me! save me! save me I" she cried
with all her might. The smith sprang from the door of the smithy, with a
red-hot iron in his hand, and as the horse rushed by, caught the woman's
dress and pulled her to the ground. The spirit, however, also seized Nancy's
dress in one hand, and his grasp was like that of a vice. The horse passed
like the wind, and Nancy and the smith were pulled down as far as the old
Almshouses, near the churchyard. Here the horse for a moment stopped. The
smith seized that moment, and with his hot iron burned off the dress from
the rider's hand, thus saving Nancy, more dead than alive; while the rider
passed over the wall of the churchyard, and vanished on the grave in which
Lenine had been laid but a few hours before.<br />
<br />
The smith took Nancy into his shop, and he soon aroused
some of his neighbours, who took the poor girl back to Alsia. Her parents
laid her on her bed. She spoke no word, but to ask for her child, to request
her mother to give up her child to Lenine's parents, and her desire to be
buried in his grave. Before the morning light fell on the world, Nancy had
breathed her last breath.<br />
<br />
A horse was seen that night to pass through the
Church-town like a ball from a musket, and in the morning Lenine's colt was
found dead in Bernowhall Cliff, covered with foam, its eyes forced from its
head, and its swollen tongue hanging out of its mouth. On Lenine's grave was
found the piece of Nancy's dress which was left in the spirit's hand when
the smith burnt her from his grasp.<br />
<br />
It is said that one or two of the sailors who survived
the wreck related after the funeral, how, on the 30th of October, at night,
Lenine was like one mad; they could scarcely keep him in the ship. He seemed
more asleep than awake, and, after great excitement, he fell as if dead upon
the deck, and lay so for hours.<br />
When he came to himself, he told them that he had been
taken to the village of Kimyall, and that if he ever married the woman who
had cast the spell, he would make her suffer the longest day she had to live
for drawing his soul out of his body.<br />
<br />
Poor Nancy was buried in Lenine's grave, and her companion
in sowing hemp-seed, who saw the white coffin, slept beside her within the
year.<br />
<br />
This story bears a striking resemblance to the "Lenore" of
Burger, which remarkable ballad can scarcely have found its way, even yet,
to Boscean.<br />
<br />
<i>From "Popular Romances" by Robert Hunt </i><br />
<i>Also told by William Bottrell as "</i><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-variant: small-caps;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Nancy Trenoweth, the Fair Daughter of the Miller of Alsia</span>"</span></span><br />
<i> </i>Alex Langstonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03233247785468335422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3982944185355931083.post-1472823653878058692016-10-27T10:12:00.000-07:002016-10-28T12:05:09.314-07:00Allantide Customs<br />
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Allantide apples - Camel Valley, North Cornwall. <span style="font-size: x-small;">Pic: </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span class="_Tgc">© </span>Alex Langstone</span></div>
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On the nearest Saturday to Hallowe'en, October 31st, the fruiterers
of Penzance display in their windows very large apples, known locally as Allan apples. These were formerly bought by the inhabitants and all
the country people from the neighbourhood (for whom Penzance is the
market-town), and one was given to each member of the family to be eaten
for luck. The elder girls put theirs, before they ate them, under their
pillows, to dream of their sweethearts. A few of the apples are still
sold ; but the custom, which, I have lately been told, was also observed
at St. Ives, is practically dying out. On Allantide, at Newlyn West, two
strips of wood are joined crosswise by a nail in the centre, at each of
the four ends a lighted candle is stuck, with apples hung between. This
is fastened to a beam, or the ceiling of the kitchen, and made to
revolve rapidly. The players, who try to catch the apples in their
mouths, often get instead a taste of the candle.<br />
<br />
In Cornwall, as in other parts of England, many charms were tried on
Hallowe'en to discover with whom you were to spend your future life, or
if you were to remain unmarried, such as pouring melted lead through the
handle of the front door key. The fantastic shapes it assumed foretold
your husband's profession or trade.<br />
<br />
Rolling three names, each written on a separate piece of paper,
tightly in the centre of three balls of earth. These were afterwards put
into a deep basin of water, and anxiously watched until one of them
opened, as the name on the first slip which came to the surface would be
that of the person you were to marry.<br />
<br />
Tying the front door key tightly with your left leg garter between
the leaves of a Bible at one particular chapter in the Song of Solomon.
It was then held on the forefinger, and when the sweetheart's name was
mentioned it turned round.<br />
<br />
Slipping a wedding-ring on to a piece of cotton, held between the forefinger and thumb, saying, "If my husband's name is to be let this ring swing ! " Of course, when the name of the person pre-
ferred was spoken, the holder unconsciously made the ring oscillate.<br />
<br />
From: <span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;">The Folk-Lore Journal Volume 4 1886, p 111</span></span>Alex Langstonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03233247785468335422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3982944185355931083.post-21270758128377837932016-10-20T05:03:00.000-07:002018-03-28T11:16:33.525-07:00Bossiney cross witch bottles<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Illustration by Paul Atlas-Saunders. Originally published in </div>
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<a href="http://spiritofalbionbooks.blogspot.co.uk/2018/02/from-granite-to-sea-standard-hardback.html">'From Granite to Sea'</a> by Alex Langstone</div>
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<br />
<b>Below: from Devon and Cornwall Notes and Queries Vol. II (1921) p. 288</b><br />
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The wayside cross at Fenterleigh crossroads has survived reasonably well,
despite some peripheral damage to the edge of the cross-head. Although
slightly re-located, it remains as a marker on its original route and junction
and forms a good example of a decorated wheel-headed cross. The location of
this cross on a road linking the important medieval centres at Bossiney and
Tintagel with the inland routes through Cornwall demonstrates well the
relationship between such crosses and broadly contemporary settlements and
thoroughfares. This cross also marks one of several routes in the parish to
the church at Tintagel, showing the differing purposes which wayside crosses
served.<br />
<br />
Extract above is from the Historic England record. <br />
<a href="https://historicengland.org.uk/listing/the-list/list-entry/1007958">https://historicengland.org.uk/listing/the-list/list-entry/1007958</a><br />
<br />
According to Andrew Langdon, in his "Stone Crosses in North Cornwall", this cross was recorded as being seen standing against a hedge in the 1860's, where only the front was visible. So it is likely that the incident that H. Michael Whitley mentions above, where the witch bottles were found by a local farmer, occurred sometime between the 1860's and 1880's. Alex Langstonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03233247785468335422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3982944185355931083.post-33938315984238708662016-08-17T04:13:00.001-07:002018-04-01T03:01:14.280-07:00The Spectral Coach<br />
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<br />
THE OLD vicarage-house at Talland, as seen from the Looe road, its
low roof and grey walls peeping prettily from between the dense boughs
of ash and elm that environed it, was as picturesque an object as you
could desire to see. The seclusion of its situation was enhanced by the
character of the house itself. It was an odd-looking, old-fashioned
building, erected apparently in an age when asceticism and self-denial
were more in vogue than at present, with a stern disregard of the
comfort of the inhabitant, and in utter contempt of received principles
of taste. As if not secure enough in its retirement, a high wall,
enclosing a courtelage in front, effectually protected its inmates from
the prying passenger, and only revealed the upper part of the house,
with its small Gothic windows, its slated roof, and heavy chimneys
partly hidden by the evergreen shrubs which grew in the enclosure. Such
was it until its removal a few years since; and such was it as it lay
sweetly in the shadows of an autumnal evening one hundred and thirty
years ago, when a stranger in the garb of a country labourer knocked
hesitatingly at the wicket gate which conducted to the court. After a
little delay a servant-girl appeared, and finding that the countryman
bore a message to the vicar, admitted him within the walls, and
conducted him along a paved passage to the little, low, damp parlour
where sat the good man. The Rev. Mr Dodge was in many respects a
remarkable man. You would have judged as much of him as he sat before
the fire in his high-back chair, in an attitude of thought, arranging,
it may have been, the heads of his next Sabbath's discourse. His heavy
eyebrows, throwing into shade his spacious eyes, and indeed the whole
contour of his face, marked him as a man of great firmness of character
and of much moral and personal courage. His suit of sober black and
full-bottomed periwig also added to his dignity, and gave him an
appearance of greater age. He was then verging on sixty. The time and
the place gave him abundant exercise for the qualities we have
mentioned, for many of his parishioners obtained their livelihood by
the contraband trade, and were mostly men of unscrupulous and daring
character, little likely to bear with patience, reflections on the
dishonesty of their calling. Nevertheless the vicar was fearless in
reprehending it, and his frank exhortations were, at least, listened to
on account of the simple honesty of the man, and his well-known
kindness of heart. The eccentricity of his life, too, had a wonderful
effect in procuring him the respect, not to say the awe, of a people
superstitious in a more than ordinary degree. Ghosts in those days had
more freedom accorded them, or had more business with the visible world
than at present; and the parson was frequently required by his
parishioners to draw from the uneasy spirit the dread secret which
troubled it, or by the aid of the solemn prayers of the church to set
it at rest for ever. Mr Dodge had a fame as an exorcist, which was not
confined to the bounds of his parish, nor limited to the age in which
he lived.<br />
<br />
"Well, my good man, what brings you hither?" said the clergyman to
the messenger.<br />
"A letter, may it please your reverence, from Mr Mills of Lanreath,"
said the countryman, handing him a letter.<br />
<br />
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<br />
Mr Dodge opened it and read as follows:--<br />
"MY DEAR BROTHER DODGE,--I have ventured to trouble you, at the
earnest request of my parishioners, with a matter, of which some
particulars have doubtless reached you, and which has caused, and is
causing, much terror in my neighbourhood. For its fuller explication, I
will be so tedious as to recount to you the whole of this strange story
as it has reached my ears, for as yet I have not satisfied my eyes of
its truth. It has been told me by men of honest and good report
(witnesses of a portion of what they relate), with such strong
assurances, that it behoves us to look more closely into the matter.
There is in the neighbourhood of this village a barren bit of moor
which had no owner, or rather more than one, for the lords of the
adjoining manors debated its ownership between themselves, and both
determined to take it from the poor, who have for many years past
regarded it as a common. And truly, it is little to the credit of these
gentlemen, that they should strive for a thing so worthless as scarce
to bear the cost of law, and yet of no mean value to poor labouring
people. The two litigants, however, contested it with as much violence
as if it had been a field of great price, and especially one, an old
man, (whose thoughts should have been less set on earthly possessions,
which he was soon to leave,) had so set his heart on the success of his
suit, that the loss of it, a few years back, is said to have much
hastened his death. Nor, indeed, after death, if current reports are
worthy of credit, does he quit his claim to it; for at night-time his
apparition is seen on the moor, to the great terror of the neighbouring
villagers. A public path leads by at no great distance from the spot,
and on divers occasions has the labourer, returning from his work, been
frightened nigh unto lunacy by sight and sounds of a very dreadful
character. The appearance is said to be that of a man habited in black,
driving a carriage drawn by headless horses. This is, I avow, very
marvellous to believe, but it has had so much credible testimony, and
has gained so many believers in my parish, that some steps seem
necessary to allay the excitement it causes. I have been applied to for
this purpose, and my present business is to ask your assistance in this
matter, either to reassure the minds of the country people if it be
only a simple terror; or, if there be truth in it, to set the troubled
spirit of the man at rest. My messenger, who is an industrious,
trustworthy man, will give you more information if it be needed, for,
from report, he is acquainted with most of the circumstances, and will
bring back your advice and promise of assistance.<br />
<br />
"Not doubting of your help herein, I do with my very hearty
commendation commit you to God's protection and blessing, and am,--Your
very loving brother, ABRAHAM MILLS."<br />
<br />
This remarkable note was read and re-read, while the countryman sat
watching its effects on the parson's countenance, and was surprised
that it changed not from its usual sedate and settled character.
Turning at length to the man, Mr Dodge inquired, "Are you, then,
acquainted with my good friend Mills?"<br />
"I should know him, sir," replied the messenger, "having been sexton
to the parish for fourteen years, and being, with my family, much
beholden to the kindness of the rector."<br />
<br />
"You are also not without some knowledge of the circumstances
related in this letter. Have you been an eye-witness to any of those
strange sights?"<br />
<br />
"For myself, sir, I have been on the road at all hours of the night
and day, and never did I see anything which I could call worse than
myself. One night my wife and I were awoke by the rattle of wheels,
which was also heard by some of our neighbours, and we are all assured
that it could have been no other than the black coach. We have every
day such stories told in the villages by so many creditable persons,
that it would not be proper in a plain, ignorant man like me to doubt
it."<br />
"And how far," asked the clergyman, "is the moor from Lanreath?"<br />
"About two miles, and please your reverence. The whole parish is so
frightened, that few will venture far after nightfall, for it has of
late come much nearer the village. A man who is esteemed a sensible and
pious man by many, though an Anabaptist in principle, went a few weeks
back to the moor ('tis called Blackadon) at midnight, in order to lay
the spirit, being requested thereto by his neighbours, and he was so
alarmed at what he saw, that he hath been somewhat mazed ever
since."<br />
"A fitting punishment for his presumption, if it hath not quite
demented him," said the parson. "These persons are like those addressed
by St Chrysostom, fitly called the golden-mouthed, who said,
ÔMiserable wretches that ye be! ye cannot expel a flea, much less
a devil!' It will be well if it serves no other purpose but to bring
back these stray sheep to the fold of the Church. So this story has
gained much belief in the parish?"<br />
"Most believe it, sir, as rightly they should, what hath so many
witnesses," said the sexton, "though there be some, chiefly young men,
who set up for being wiser than their fathers, and refuse to credit it,
though it be sworn to on the book."<br />
"If those things are disbelieved, friend," said the parson, "and
without inquiry, which your disbeliever is ever the first to shrink
from, of what worth is human testimony? That ghosts have returned to
the earth, either for the discovery of murder, or to make restitution
for other injustice committed in the flesh, or compelled thereto by the
incantations of sorcery, or to communicate tidings from another world,
has been testified to in all ages, and many are the accounts which have
been left us both in sacred and profane authors. Did not Brutus, when
in Asia, as is related by Plutarch, see--"<br />
<br />
Just at this moment the parson's handmaid announced that a person
waited on him in the kitchen,--or the good clergyman would probably
have detailed all those cases in history, general and biblical, with
which his reading had acquainted him, not much, we fear to the
edification and comfort of the sexton, who had to return to Lanreath, a
long and dreary road, after nightfall. So, instead, he directed the
girl to take him with her, and give him such refreshment as he needed,
and in the meanwhile he prepared a note in answer to Mr Mills,
informing him that on the morrow he was to visit some sick persons in
his parish, but that on the following evening he should be ready to
proceed with him to the moor.<br />
<br />
On the night appointed the two clergymen left the Lanreath rectory
on horseback, and reached the moor at eleven o'clock. Bleak and dismal
did it look by day, but then there was the distant landscape dotted
over with pretty homesteads to relieve its desolation. Now, nothing was
seen but the black patch of sterile moor on which they stood, nothing
heard but the wind as it swept in gusts across the bare hill, and
howled dismally through a stunted grove of trees that grew in a glen
below them, except the occasional baying of dogs from the farmhouses in
the distance. That they felt at ease, is more than could be expected of
them; but as it would have shown a lack of faith in the protection of
Heaven, which it would have been unseemly in men of their holy calling
to exhibit, they managed to conceal from each other their uneasiness.
Leading their horses, they trod to and fro through the damp fern and
heath with firmness in their steps, and upheld each other by remarks on
the power of that Great Being whose ministers they were, and the might
of whose name they were there to make manifest. Still slowly and
dismally passed the time as they conversed, and anon stopped to look
through the darkness for the approach of their ghostly visitor. In
vain. Though the night was as dark and murky as ghost could wish, the
coach and its driver came not.<br />
After a considerable stay, the two clergymen consulted together, and
determined that it was useless to watch any longer for that night, but
that they would meet on some other, when perhaps it might please his
ghostship to appear. Accordingly, with a few words of leave-taking,
they separated, Mr Mills for the rectory, and Mr Dodge, by a short ride
across the moor, which shortened his journey by half a mile, for the
vicarage at Talland.<br />
<br />
The vicar rode on at an ambling pace, which his good mare sustained
up hill and down vale without urging. At the bottom of a deep valley,
however, about a mile from Blackadon, the animal became very uneasy,
pricked up her ears, snorted, and moved from side to side of the road,
as if something stood in the path before her. The parson tightened the
reins, and applied whip and spur to her sides, but the animal, usually
docile, became very unruly, made several attempts to turn, and, when
prevented, threw herself upon her haunches. Whip and spur were applied
again and again, to no other purpose than to add to the horse's terror.
To the rider nothing was apparent which could account for the sudden
restiveness of his beast. He dismounted, and attempted in turns to lead
or drag her, but both were impracticable, and attended with no small
risk of snapping the reins. She was remounted with great difficulty,
and another attempt was made to urge her forward, with the like want of
success. At length the eccentric clergyman, judging it to be some
special signal from Heaven, which it would be dangerous to neglect,
threw the reins on the neck of his steed, which, wheeling suddenly
round, started backward in a direction towards the moor, at a pace
which rendered the parson's seat neither a pleasant nor a safe one. In
an astonishingly short space of time they were once more at
Blackadon.<br />
<br />
By this time the bare outline of the moor was broken by a large
black group of objects, which the darkness of the night prevented the
parson from defining. On approaching this unaccountable appearance, the
mare was seized with fresh fury, and it was with considerable
difficulty that she could be brought to face this new cause of fright.
In the pauses of the horse's prancing, the vicar discovered to his
horror the much-dreaded spectacle of the black coach and the headless
steeds, and, terrible to relate, his friend Mr Mills lying prostrate on
the ground before the sable driver. Little time was left him to call up
his courage for this fearful emergency; for just as the vicar began to
give utterance to the earnest prayers which struggled to his lips, the
spectre shouted, "Dodge is come! I must begone!" and forthwith leaped
into his chariot, and disappeared across the moor.<br />
<br />
The fury of the mare now subsided, and Mr Dodge was enabled to
approach his friend, who was lying motionless and speechless, with his
face buried in the heather.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile the rector's horse, which had taken fright at the
apparition, and had thrown his rider to the ground on or near the spot
where we have left him lying, made homeward at a furious speed, and
stopped not until he had reached his stable door. The sound of his
hoofs as he galloped madly through the village awoke the cottagers,
many of whom had been some hours in their beds. Many eager faces,
staring with affright, gathered round the rectory, and added, by their
various conjectures, to the terror and apprehensions of the family.<br />
<br />
The villagers, gathering courage as their numbers increased, agreed
to go in search of the missing clergyman, and started off in a compact
body, a few on horseback, but the greater number on foot, in the
direction of Blackadon. There they discovered their rector, supported
in the arms of Parson Dodge, and recovered so far as to be able to
speak. Still there was a wildness in his eye, and an incoherency in his
speech, that showed that his reason was, at least, temporarily
unsettled by the fright. In this condition he was taken to his home,
followed by his reverend companion.<br />
<br />
Here ended this strange adventure; for Mr Mills soon completely
regained his reason, Parson Dodge got safely back to Talland, and from
that time to this nothing has been heard or seen of the black ghost or
his chariot.<br />
<br />
<i>Collected by Thomas Quiller Couch and published in The History of Polperro by Jonathan Couch</i>Alex Langstonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03233247785468335422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3982944185355931083.post-35653477214518160812016-07-16T04:15:00.001-07:002016-07-16T04:19:10.865-07:00The Lost Child of St Allen<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAUMFho4EAbVQfB2vDlvU6G0O5P84EsuGt6_ASLSz3FRkAVj1j0mgovrL6eHBgSoppFowdr5YJQM-kctzh4RCeuUL7cB9Mm4cj-eDxXWdfrOdzEAxA3cHkNbuLOt71wUQR8HYACGDVwxqu/s1600/Lost+child+of+st+allen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="367" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAUMFho4EAbVQfB2vDlvU6G0O5P84EsuGt6_ASLSz3FRkAVj1j0mgovrL6eHBgSoppFowdr5YJQM-kctzh4RCeuUL7cB9Mm4cj-eDxXWdfrOdzEAxA3cHkNbuLOt71wUQR8HYACGDVwxqu/s400/Lost+child+of+st+allen.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
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They never talk of fairies in Cornwall; what
"foreigners" call fairies the Cornish call "piskies," or
" small people." And all about the Duchy piskies still abound for
those who are fitted to see them. The old folk will still tell you many strange
stories of the piskies. One of the best known is that of the lost child of St.
Allen. St. Allen is a parish on the high ground about four miles from Truro,
and there, in the little hamlet of Treonike, or, as it is now called,
Trefronick, on a lovely spring evening years and years ago, a small village boy
wandered out to pick flowers in a little copse not far from his parents'
cottage.</div>
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<br /></div>
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His mother, looking from the kitchen door, saw him happily
engaged in his innocent amusement, then turned to make ready the supper for her
good man, whom she saw trudging home in the distance across the fields. When, a
few minutes later, she went to call her boy in to his evening meal, he had
vanished...</div>
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<br /></div>
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At first it was thought that the child had merely wandered
further into the wood, but after a while, when he did not return, his parents
grew alarmed and went in search of him. Yet no sign of the boy was discovered.</div>
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<br /></div>
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For two days the villagers sought high and low for the
missing child, and then, on the morning of the third day, to the delight of the
distracted parents, their boy was found sleeping peacefully upon a bed of fern
within a few yards of the place where his mother had last seen him. He was
perfectly well, quite happy, and entirely ignorant of the length of time that
had elapsed. And he had a wonderful story to tell.</div>
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<br /></div>
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While picking the flowers, he said, he had heard a bird singing
in more beautiful tones than any he had heard before. Going into the wood to
see what strange songster this was, the sound changed to most wonderful music
which compelled him to follow it. Thus lured onward he came at length to the
edge of an enchanted lake, and he noticed that night had fallen but that the
sky was ablaze with huge stars. Then more stars rose up all around him, and,
looking, he saw that each was in reality a pisky. These small people formed
themselves into a procession, singing strange fascinating songs the while, and
under the leadership of one who was more brilliant and more beautiful than the
rest they led the boy through their dwelling place. This, he said, was like a
palace. Crystal pillars supported arches hung with jewels which glistened with
every colour of the rainbow. Far more wonderful, the child said, were the
crystals than any he had seen in a Cornish mine.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The piskies were very kind to him, and seemed to enjoy his
wonder and astonishment at their gorgeous cave. They gave him a fairy meal of
the purest honey spread on dainty little cakes, and when at last he grew tired
numbers of the small folk fell to work to build him a bed of fern. Then,
crowding around him, they sang him to sleep with a strange soothing lullaby,
which for the rest of his life he was always just on the point of remembering,
but which as certainly escaped him. He remembered nothing more until he was
awakened and taken home to his parents.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The wise folk of St. Allen maintained that only a child of
the finest character ever received such honour from the small people, and that
the fact that they had shown him the secrets of their hidden dwelling augured
that for ever afterwards they would keep him under their especial care. And so
it was; the boy lived to a ripe old age and prospered amazingly. He never knew
illness or misfortune, and died at last in his sleep; and those that were near
him say that as he breathed his last a strange music filled the room. Some say
that the piskies still haunt the woods and fields around Trefronick, but that
they only show themselves to children and grown-ups of simple, trusting nature.
Anyhow, those that wish to try to see them may reach the place where the lost child
was spirited away in an hour and a half's walk from Truro, Cornwall's cathedral
city, which is at the head of one of the most beautiful rivers in the world.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
From: <i>Legend Land:
Being a Collection of Some of the Old Tales Told in Those Western Parts of
Britain Served by the Great Western Railway by George Basil Barham</i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The version below was recorded by Robert Hunt from an account given to him from a St Allen resident in around 1835 -</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
In the little hamlet of Treonike, in the parish of St Allen, has long lingered
the story of a lost child, who was subsequently found. All the stories agree
in referring the abduction of the child to supernatural agency, and in some
cases it is referred to the "Small People or Piskies," in others, to less
amiable spiritual creatures. Mr Hals [a] has given one version of this story,
which differs in some respects from the tale as I heard it, from an old woman
some thirty years since, who then lived in this parish. Her tale was to the
following effect.<br />
<br />
<br />
It was a lovely evening, and the little boy was gathering
flowers in the fields, near a wood. The child was charmed by hearing some
beautiful music, which he at first mistook for the song of birds; but, being a
sharp boy, he was not long deceived, and he went towards the wood to ascertain
from whence the melodious sounds came. When he reached the verge of the wood,
the music was of so exquisite a character, that he was compelled to follow the
sound, which appeared to travel before him. Lured in this way, the boy
penetrated to the dark centre of the grove, and here, meeting with some
difficulties, owing to the thick growth of underwood, he paused and began to
think of returning. The music, however, became more ravishing than before, and
some invisible being appeared to crush down all the low and tangled plants,
thus forming for him a passage, over which he passed without any difficulty.
At length he found himself on the edge of a small lake, and, greatly to his
astonishment, the darkness of night was around him, but the heavens were thick
with stars. The music ceased, and, wearied with his wanderings, the boy fell
asleep on a bed of ferns. He related, on his restoration to his parents, that
he was taken by a beautiful lady through palaces of the most gorgeous
description. Pillars of glass supported arches which glistened with every
colour, and these were hung with crystals far exceeding anything which were
ever seen in the caverns of a Cornish mine. It is, however, stated that many
days passed away before the child was found by his friends, and that at length
he was discovered, one lovely morning, sleeping on the bed of ferns, on which
he was supposed to have fallen asleep on the first adventurous evening. There
was no reason given by the narrator why the boy was "spirited away" in the
first instance, or why he was returned. Her impression was, that some sprites,
pleased with the child's innocence and beauty, had entranced him. That when
asleep he had been carried through the waters to the fairy abodes beneath
them; and she felt assured that a child so treated would be kept under the
especial guardianship of the sprites for ever afterwards. Of this, however,
tradition leaves us in ignorance.<br />
<br />
[a] See Davies Gilbert's <i>Parochial History of Cornwall</i>.Alex Langstonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03233247785468335422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3982944185355931083.post-31614964931786149972016-07-05T22:53:00.001-07:002016-07-07T10:57:29.956-07:00The Mermaid's Vengeance<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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IN one of the deep valleys of the parish of Perranzabuloe,
which are remarkable for their fertility, and especially for the abundance of
fruit which the orchards produce, lived in days long ago, amidst a
rudely-civilised people, a farmer's labourer, his wife, with one child, a
daughter. The man and woman were equally industrious. The neatly white-washed
walls of their mud-built cottage, the well-kept gravelled paths, and
carefully-weeded beds of their small garden, in which flowers were cultivated
for ornament, and vegetables for use, proclaimed at once the character of the
inmates. In contrast with the neighbouring cottages, this one, although
smaller than many others, had a superior aspect, and the occupiers of it
exhibited a strong contrast to those peasants and miners amidst whom they
dwelt.<br />
<br />
Pennaluna, as the man was called, or Penna the Proud, as he
was, in no very friendly spirit, named by his less thoughtful and more
impulsive fellows, was, as we have said, a farmer's labourer. His master was a wealthy yeoman, and he, after many years'
experience, was so convinced of the exceeding industry and sterling honesty of
Penna, that he made him the manager of an outlying farm in this parish, under
the hind (or hine--the Saxon pronunciation is still retained in the West of
England), or general supervisor of this and numerous other extensive farms.<br />
<br />
Penna was too great a favourite with the Squire to be a
favourite of the hind's; he was evidently jealous of him, and from not being
himself a man of very strict principles, he hated the unobtrusive goodness of
his underling, and was constantly on the watch to discover some cause of
complaint. It was not, however, often that he was successful in this. Every
task committed to the care of Penna, and he was often purposely overtasked, was executed with great care and despatch. With the wife of Penna, however,
the case was unfortunately different. Honour Penna was as industrious as her
husband, and to him she was in all respects a helpmate. She had, however,
naturally a proud spirit, and this had been encouraged in her youth by her
parents. Honour was very pretty as a girl, and, indeed, she retained much
beauty as a woman. The only education she received was the wild one of
experience, and this within a very narrow circle. She grew an ignorant girl,
amongst ignorant men and women, few of them being able to write their names,
and scarcely any of them to read. There was much native grace about her, and
she was flattered by the young men, and envied by the young women, of the
village, the envy and the flattery being equally pleasant to her. In the
same village was born, and brought up, Tom Chenalls, who had, in the course of
years, become hind to the Squire. Tom, as a young man, had often expressed
himself fond of Honour, but he was always distasteful to the village maiden,
and eventually, while yet young, she was married to Pennaluna, who came from
the southern coast, bringing with him the recommendation of being a stranger,
and an exceedingly hard-working man, who was certain to earn bread, and
something more, for his wife and family. In the relations in which these
people were now placed towards each other, Chenalls had the opportunity of
acting ungenerously towards the Pennas. The man bore this uncomplainingly, but
the woman frequently quarrelled with him whom she felt was an enemy, and whom
she still regarded but as her equal. Chenalls was a skilled farmer, and hence
was of considerable value to the Squire; but although he was endured for his
farming knowledge and his business habits, he was never a favourite with his
employer. Penna, on the contrary, was an especial favourite, and the evidences
of this were so often brought strikingly under the observation of Chenalls,
that it increased the irritation of his hate, for it amounted to that. For
years things went on thus. There was the tranquil suffering of an oppressed
spirit manifested in Penna, the angry words and actions of his wife towards
the oppressor, and, at the same time, as she with much fondness studied to
make their humble home comfortable for her husband, she reviled him not
unfrequently for the meek spirit with which he endured his petty, but still
trying, wrongs. The hind dared not venture on any positive act of wrong
towards those people, yet he lost no chance of annoying them, knowing that the
Squire's partiality for Penna would not allow him to venture beyond certain
bounds, even in this direction.<br />
<br />
Penna's solace was his daughter. She had now reached her
eighteenth year, and with the well-developed form of a woman, she united the
simplicity of a child. Selina, as she was named, was in many respects
beautiful. Her features were regular, and had they been lighted up with more
mental fire, they would have been beautiful; but the constant repose, the want
of animation, left her face merely a pretty one. Her skin was beautifully
white, and transparent to the blue veins which traced their ways beneath it,
to the verge of that delicacy which indicates disease; but it did not pass
that verge. Selina was full of health, as her well moulded form at once
showed, and her clear blue eye distinctly told. At times there was a lovely
tint upon the cheek, not the hectic of consumptive beauty, but a pure rosy
dye, suffused by the healthy life stream, when it flowed the fastest.<br />
<br />
The village gossips, who were always busy with their
neighbours, said strange things of this girl. Indeed, it was commonly reported
that the real child of the Pennas was a remarkably plain child, in every
respect a different being from Selina. The striking difference between the
infant and the woman was variously explained by the knowing ones. Two stories
were, however, current for miles around the country. One was, that Selina's
mother was constantly seen gathering dew in the morning, with which to wash
her child, and that the fairies on the Towens had, in pure malice, aided her
in giving a temporary beauty to the girl, that it might lead to her betrayal
into crime. Why this malice, was never clearly made out. The other story was, that Honour Penna constantly bathed the
child in a certain pool, amidst the arched rocks of Perran, which was a
favourite resort of the mermaids; that on one occasion the child, as if in a
paroxysm of joy, leapt from her arms into the water, and disappeared. The mother, as may well be supposed,
suffered a momentary agony of terror; but presently the babe swam up to the
surface of the water, its little face more bright and beautiful than it had
ever been before. Great was the mother's joy, and also, as the gossips say, great her surprise at the sudden change in the appearance of her offspring.
The mother knew no difference in the child whom she pressed lovingly to her
bosom, but all the aged crones in the parish declared it to be a changeling.
This tale lived its day; but, as the girl grew on to womanhood, and showed
none of the special qualifications belonging either to fairies or mermaids, it
was almost forgotten. The uncomplaining father had solace for all his
sufferings in wandering over the beautiful sands with his daughter. Whether it
was when the summer seas fell in musical undulations on the shore, or when,
stirred by the winter tempests, the great Atlantic waves came up in grandeur,
and lashed the resisting sands in giant rage, those two enjoyed the solitude.
Hour after hour, from the setting sun time, until the clear cold moon flooded
the ocean with her smiles of light, would the father and child walk these
sands. They seemed never to weary of them and the ocean.<br />
<br />
Almost every morning, throughout the milder seasons, Selina
was in the habit of bathing, and wild tales were told of the frantic joy with
which she would play with the breaking billows. Sometimes floating over, and
almost dancing on the crests of the waves, at other times rushing under them,
and allowing the breaking waters to beat her to the sands, as though they were
loving arms, endeavouring to encircle her form. Certain it is, that Selina
greatly enjoyed her bath, but all the rest must be regarded as the creations
of the imagination. The most eager to give a construction unfavourable to the
simple mortality of the maiden was, however, compelled to acknowledge that
there was no evidence in her general conduct to support their surmises.
Selina, as an only child, fared the fate of others who are unfortunately so
placed, and was, as the phrase is, spoiled. She certainly was allowed to
follow her own inclinations without any check. Still her inclinations were
bounded to working in the garden, and to leading her father to the sea-shore.
Honour Penna, sometimes, it is true, did complain that Selina could not be
trusted with the most ordinary domestic duty. Beyond this, there was one other
cause of grief, that was, the increasing dislike which Selina exhibited
towards entering a church. The girl, notwithstanding the constant excuses of
being sick, suffering from headache, having a pain in her side, and the like,
was often taken, notwithstanding, by her mother to the church. It is said that she always shuddered as she passed the church-stile, and
again on stepping from the porch into the church itself. When once within the
house of prayer she evinced no peculiar liking or disliking, observing
respectfully all the rules during the performance of the church-service, and
generally sleeping, or seeming to sleep, during the sermon. Selina Pennaluna
had reached her eighteenth year; she was admired by many of the young men of
the parish, but, as if surrounded by a spell, she appeared to keep them all at
a distance from her. About this time, a nephew to the Squire, a young soldier, who had been wounded in the wars, came into Cornwall to heal his wounds,
and recover health, which had suffered in a trying campaign.<br />
<br />
This young man, Walter Trewoofe, was a rare specimen of
manhood. Even now, shattered as he was by the combined influences of wounds,
an unhealthy climate, and dissipation, he could not but be admired for
fineness of form, dignity of carriage, and masculine beauty. It was, however,
but too evident, that this young man was his own idol, and that he expected
every one to bow down with him, and worship it. His uncle was proud of Walter,
and although the old gentleman could not fail to see many faults, yet he
regarded them as the follies of youth, and trusted to their correction with
the increase of years and experience. Walter, who was really suffering
severely, was ordered by his surgeon, at first, to take short walks on the
sea-shore, and, as he gained strength, to bathe. He was usually driven in his
uncle's pony-carriage to the edge of the sands. Then dismounting he would walk
for a short time, and quickly wearing, return in his carriage to the luxuriant
couches at the manor-house.<br />
<br />
On some of those occasions Walter had observed the father and
daughter taking their solitary ramble. He was struck with the quiet beauty of
the girl, and seized an early opportunity of stopping Penna to make some
general inquiry respecting the bold and beautiful coast. From time to time
they thus met, and it would have been evident to any observer that Walter did
not so soon weary of the sands as formerly, and that Selina was not displeased
with the flattering things he said to her. Although the young soldier had
hitherto led a wild life, it would appear as if for a considerable period the
presence of goodness had repressed every tendency to evil in his ill-regulated
heart. He continued, therefore, for some time playing with his own feelings
and those of the childlike being who presented so much of romance, combined
with the most homely tameness, of character. Selina, it is true, had never yet
seen Walter except in the presence of her father, and it is questionable if
she had ever for one moment had a warmer feeling than that of the mere
pleasure--a silent pride--that a gentleman, at once so handsome, so refined,
and the nephew of her father's master, should pay her any attention. Evil eyes
were watching with wicked earnestness the growth of passion, and designing
hearts were beating quicker with a consciousness that they should eventually
rejoice in the downfall of innocence. Tom Chenalls hoped that he might achieve
a triumph, if he could but once asperse the character of Selina. He took his
measures accordingly. Having noticed the change in the general conduct of his
master's nephew, he argued that this was due to the refining influence of a
pure mind, acting on one more than ordinarily impressionable to either evil or
good.<br />
<br />
Walter rapidly recovered health, and with renewed strength the
manly energy of his character began to develop itself. He delighted in
horse-exercise, and Chenalls had always the best horse on the farms at his
disposal. He was a good shot, and Chenalls was his guide to the best
shooting-grounds. He sometimes fished, and Chenalls knew exactly where the
choicest trout and the richest salmon were to be found. In fact, Chenalls
entered so fully into the tastes of the young man, that Walter found him
absolutely necessary to him to secure the enjoyments of a country life.<br />
<br />
Having established this close intimacy, Chenalls never lost an
opportunity of talking with Walter respecting Selina Penna. He soon satisfied
himself that Walter, like most other young men who had led a dissipated life,
had but a very low estimate of women generally. Acting upon this, he at first
insinuated that Selina's innocence was but a mask, and at length he boldly
assured Walter that the cottage girl was to be won by him with a few words,
and that then he might put her aside at any time as a prize to some low-born
peasant. Chenalls never failed to impress on Walter the necessity of keeping
his uncle in the most perfect darkness, and of blinding the eyes of Selina's
parents. Penna was, so thought Chenalls, easily managed, but there was
more to be feared from the wife. Walter, however, with much artifice, having
introduced himself to Honour Penna, employed the magic of that flattery,
which, being properly applied, seldom fails to work its way to the heart of a
weak-minded woman. He became an especial favourite with Honour, and the
blinded mother was ever pleased at the attention bestowed with so little
assumption,--as she thought,--of pride, on her daughter, by one so much
above them. Walter eventually succeeded in separating occasionally, though not
often, Penna and his daughter. The witching whispers of unholy love were
poured into the trusting ear. Guileless herself, this child-woman suspected no
guile in others, least of all in one whom she had been taught to look upon as
a superior being to herself. Amongst the villagers, the constant attention of
Walter Trewoofe was the subject of gossip, and many an old proverb was quoted
by the elder women, ill-naturedly, and implying that evil must come of this
intimacy, Tom Chenalls was now employed by WaIter to contrive some means by
which he could remove Penna for a period from home. He was not long in doing
this. He lent every power of his wicked nature to aid the evil designs of the
young soldier, and thus he brought about that separation of father and child
which ended in her ruin.<br />
Near the Land's End the squire possessed some farms, and one
of them was reported to be in such a state of extreme neglect, through the
drunkenness and consequent idleness of the tenant, that Chenalls soon obtained
permission to take the farm from this occupier, which he did in the most
unscrupulous disregard for law or right. It was then suggested that the only
plan by which a desirable occupier could be found, would be to get the farm
and farm-buildings into good condition, and that Penna, of all men, would be
the man to bring this quickly about. The squire was pleased with the plan.
Penna was sent for by him, and was proud of the confidence which his master
reposed in him. There was some sorrow on his leaving home. He subsequently
said that he had had many warnings not to go, but he felt that he dared not
disoblige a master who had trusted him so far, so he went.<br />
<br />
Walter needed not any urging on the part of Chenalls, though
he was always ready to apply the spur when there was the least evidence of the
sense of right asserting itself in the young man's bosom. Week after week
passed on. Walter had rendered himself a necessity to Selina. Without her
admirer the world was cold and colourless. With him all was sunshine and
glowing tints.<br />
<br />
Three months passed thus away, and during that period it had
only been possible for Penna to visit his home twice. The father felt that
something like a spirit of evil stood between him and his daughter. There was
no outward evidence of any change, but there was an inward sense--undefined,
yet deeply felt like an overpowering fear, that some wrong had been done.
On parting, Penna silently but earnestly prayed that the deep dread might be
removed from his mind. There was an aged fisherman, who resided in a small
cottage built on the sands, who possessed all the superstitions of his class.
This old man had formed a father's liking for the simple-hearted maiden, and
he had persuaded himself that there really was some foundation for the tales
which the gossips told. To the fisherman, Walter Trewoofe was an evil genius.
He declared that no good ever came to him, if he met Walter when he was about
to go to sea. With this feeling he curiously watched the young man and maiden,
and he, in after days, stated his conviction that he had seen "merry maidens
rising from the depth of the waters, and floating under the billows to watch
Selina and her lover. He has also been heard to say that on more than one
occasion Walter himself had been terrified by sights and sounds. Certain,
however, it is, these were insufficient and the might of evil passions were
more powerful than any of the protecting influences of the unseen world.<br />
<br />
Another three months had gone by, and Walter Trewoofe had
disappeared from Perranzabuloe. He had launched into the gay world of the
metropolis, and rarely, if ever, dreamed of the deep sorrow which was weighing
down the heart he had betrayed Penna returned home, his task was done, and
Chenalls had no reason for keeping him any longer from his wife and daughter
Clouds gathered slowly but unremittingly around him. His daughter retired into
herself no longer as of old reposing her whole soul on her father's heart. His
wife was somewhat changed too, she had some secret in her heart which she
feared to tell The home he had left was not the home to which he had returned
It soon became evident that some shock had shaken the delicate frame of his
daughter. She pined rapidly; and Penna was awakened to a knowledge of the
cause by the rude rejoicing of Chenalls, who declared "that all people who
kept themselves so much above other people were sure to be pulled down." On
one occasion he so far tempted Penna with sneers, at his having hope to secure
the young squire for a son-in-law, that the long-enduring man broke forth and
administered a severe blow upon his tormentor. This was duly reported to the
squire, and added thereto was a magnified story of a trap which had been set
by the Penna to catch young Walter; it was represented that even now they in
tended to press their claims, on account of grievous wrongs upon them, whereas
it could be proved that Walter was guiltless--that he was indeed the innocent
victim of designing people, who though to make money out of their assumed
misfortune. The squire made his inquiries, and there were not a few who
eagerly seized the opportunity to gain the friendship of Chenalls by
representing this family to have been hypocrites of the deepest dye; and the
poor girl especially was now loaded with a weight of iniquities of which she
had no knowledge. All this ended in the dismissal of Penna from the Squire's
service, and in his being deprived of the cottage in which he had taken so
much pride. Although thrown out upon the world a disgraced man, Penna faced
his difficulties manfully. He cast off, as it were, the primitive simplicity
of his character, and evidently worked with a firm resolve to beat down his
sorrows. He was too good a workman to remain long unemployed; and although his
new home was not his happy home as of old, there was no repining heard from
his lips. Weaker and weaker grew Selina, and it soon became evident to all,
that if she came from a spirit-world, to a spirit-world she must soon return.
Grief filled the hearts of her parents, it prostrated her mother, but the
effects of severe labour, and the efforts of a settled mind, appeared to
tranquillise the breast of her father. Time passed on, the wounds of the soul
grew deeper, and there lay, on a low bed, from which she had not strength to
move, the fragile form of youth with the countenance of age. The body was
almost powerless, but there beamed from the eye the evidences of a spirit
getting free from the chains of clay.<br />
<br />
The dying girl was sensible of the presence of creations other
than mortal, and with these she appeared to hold converse, and to derive
solace from the communion. Penna and his wife alternately watched through the
night hours by the side of their loved child, and anxiously did they mark the
moment when the tide turned, in the full belief that she would be taken from
them when the waters of the ocean began to recede from the shore. Thus days
passed on, and eventually the sunlight of a summer morning shone in through
the small window of this humble cottage, on a dead mother and a living
babe.<br />
<br />
The dead was buried in the churchyard on the sands, and the
living went on their ways, some rejoicingly and some in sorrow.<br />
<br />
Once more Walter Trewoofe appeared in Perran-on-the-sands.
Penna would have sacrificed him to his hatred; he emphatically protested that
he had lived only to do so; but the good priest of the Oratory contrived to
lay the devil who had possession, and to convince Penna that the Lord would,
in His own good time, and in His own way, avenge the bitter wrong. Tom
Chenalls had his hour of triumph; but from the day on which Selina died
everything went wrong. The crops failed, the cattle died, hay-stacks and
corn-ricks caught fire, cows slipped their calves, horses fell lame, or
stumbled and broke their knees,--a succession of evils steadily pursued him.
Trials find but a short resting-place with the good; they may be bowed to the
earth with the weight of a sudden sorrow, but they look to heaven, and their
elasticity is<br />
restored. The evil-minded are crushed at once, and grovel on
the ground in irremediable misery. That Chenalls fled to drink in his troubles
appeared but the natural result to a man of his character. This unfitted him
for his duties, and he was eventually dismissed from his situation.
Notwithstanding that the Squire refused to listen to the appeals in favour of
Chenalls, which were urged upon him by Walter, and that indeed he forbade his
nephew to countenance "the scoundrel" in any way, Walter still continued his
friend. By his means Tom Chenalls secured a small cottage on the cliff, and
around it a little cultivated ground, the produce of which was his only
visible means of support. That lonely cottage was the scene, however, of
drunken carousals, and there the vicious young men, and the no less vicious
young women, of the district, went after nightfall, and kept "high carnival"
of sin. Walter Trewoofe came frequently amongst them; and as his purse usually
defrayed the costs of a debauch, he was regarded by all with especial favour.<br />
<br />
One midnight, Walter, who had been dancing and drinking for
some hours, left the cottage wearied with his excesses, and although not
drunk, he was much excited with- wine. His pathway lay along the edge of the
cliffs, amidst bushes of furze and heath, and through several irregular,
zigzag ways. There were lateral paths striking off from one side of the main
path, and leading down to the sea-shore. Although it was moonlight, without
being actually aware of the error, Walter wandered into one of those; and
before he was awake to his mistake, he found himself on the sands. He cursed
his stupidity, and, uttering a blasphemous oath, he turned to retrace his
steps.<br />
<br />
The most exquisite music which ever flowed from human ups fell
on his ear; he paused to listen, and collecting his unbalanced thoughts, he
discovered that it was the voice of a woman singing a melancholy dirge<br />
<br />
"The stars are beautiful, when bright<br />
They are mirror'd in the sea;<br />
But they are pale beside that light<br />
Which was so beautiful to me.<br />
My angel child, my earth-born girl,<br />
From all your kindred riven,<br />
By the base deeds of a selfish churl,<br />
And to a sand-grave driven!<br />
How shall I win thee back to ocean? <br />
How canst thou quit thy grave,<br />
To share again the sweet emotion<br />
Of gliding through the wave?"<br />
<br />
Walter, led by the melancholy song, advanced slowly along the
sands. He discovered that the sweet, soft sounds proceeded from the other side
of a mass of rocks, which project far out over the sands, and that now, at
low-water, there was no difficulty in walking around it. Without hesitation he
did so, and he beheld, sitting at the mouth of a cavern, one of the most
beautiful women he had ever beheld. She continued her song, looking upwards to
the stars, not appearing to notice the intrusion of a stranger. Walter
stopped, and gazed on the lovely image before him with admiration and wonder,
mingled with something of terror. He dared not speak, but fixed, as if by
magic, he stood gazing on. After a few minutes, the maiden, suddenly
perceiving that a man was near her, uttered a piercing shriek, and made as if
to fly into the cavern. Walter sprang forward and seized her by the arm,
exclaiming, "Not yet, my pretty maiden, not yet." She stood still in the
position of flight, with her arm behind her, grasped by Walter, and turning
round her head, her dark eyes beamed with unnatural lustre upon him.
Impressionable he had ever been, but never had he experienced anything so
entrancing, and at the same time so painful, as that gaze. It was Selina's
face looking lovingly upon him, but it seemed to possess some new power--a
might of mind from which he felt it was impossible for him to escape. Walter
slackened his hold, and slowly allowed the arm to fall from his hand. The
maiden turned fully round upon him. "Go!" she said. He could not move.<br />
<br />
"Go,
man!" she repeated. He was powerless.<br />
"Go to the grave where the sinless one sleepeth!<br />
Bring her cold corse where her guarding one weepeth;<br />
Look on her, love her again, ay! betray her,<br />
And wreath with false smiles the pale face of her slayer!<br />
Go, go! now, and feel the full force of my sorrow!<br />
For the glut of my vengeance there cometh a morrow."<br />
<br />
Walter was statue-like, and he awoke from this trance-like
state only when the waves washed his feet, and he became aware that even now
it was only by wading through the waters that he could return around the point
of rocks. He was alone. He called; no one answered. He sought wildly, as far
as he now dared, amidst the rocks, but the lovely woman was nowhere to be
discovered.<br />
<br />
There was no real danger on such a night as this; therefore
Walter walked fearlessly through the gentle waves, and recovered the pathway
up from the sands. More than once he thought he heard a rejoicing laugh, which
was echoed in the rocks, but no one was to be seen. Walter reached his home and bed, but he
found no sleep; and in the morning he arose with a sense of wretchedness which
was entirely new to him. He feared to make any one of his rough companions a
confidant, although he felt this would have relieved his heart. He therefore
nursed the wound which he now felt, until a bitter remorse clouded his
existence. After some days, he was impelled to visit the grave - of the lost
one, and in the fullness of the most selfish sorrow, he sat on the sands and
shed tears. The priest of the Oratory observed him, and knowing Walter
Trewoofe, hesitated not to inquire into his cause of sorrow. His heart was
opened to the holy man, and the strange tale was told--the only result being,
that the priest felt satisfied it was but a vivid dream, which had resulted
from a brain over-excited by drink. He, however, counselled the young man,
giving him some religious instruction, and dismissed him with his blessing.
There was relief in this. For some days Walter did not venture to visit his
old haunt, the cottage of Chenalls. Since he could not be lost to his
companions without greatly curtailing their vicious enjoyments, he was hunted
up by Chenalls, and again enticed within the circle. His absence was explained
on the plea of illness. Walter was, however, an altered man; there was not the
same boisterous hilarity as formerly. He no longer abandoned himself without
restraint to the enjoyments of the time. If he ever, led on by his thoughtless
and rough-natured friends, assumed for a moment his usual mirth, it was
checked by some invisible power. On such occasions he would turn deadly pale,
look anxiously around, and fail back, as if ready to faint, on the nearest
seat. Under these influences, he lost health. His uncle, who was really
attached to his nephew, although he regretted his dissolute conduct, became
now seriously alarmed. Physicians were consulted in vain; the young man pined,
and the old gossips came to the conclusion that Walter Trewoofe was
ill-wished, and there was a general feeling that Penna or his wife was at the
bottom of it. Walter, living really on one idea, and that one the beautiful
face which was, and yet was not, that of Selina, resolved again to explore the
spot on which he had met this strange being, of whom nothing could be learned
by any of the covert inquiries he made. He lingered long ere he could resolve
on the task; but wearied, worn by the oppression of one undefined idea, in
which an intensity of love was mixed with a shuddering fear, he at last
gathered sufficient courage to seize an opportunity for again going to the
cavern. On this occasion, there being no moon, the night was dark, but the
stars shone brightly from a sky, cloudless, save a dark mist which hung
heavily over the western horizon. Every spot of ground being familiar to him,
who, boy and man, had traced it over many times, the partial darkness
presented no difficulty. Walter had scarcely reached the level sands, which
were left hard by the retiring tide, than he heard again the same magical
voice as before. But now the song was a joyous one, the burthen of it being<br />
<br />
"Join all hands<br />
Might and main,<br />
Weave the sands,<br />
Form a chain,<br />
He, my lover,<br />
Comes again!"<br />
<br />
He could not entirely dissuade himself but that he heard this
repeated by many voices; but he put the thought aside, referring it, as well
he might, to the numerous echoes from the cavernous openings in the cliffs.<br />
<br />
He reached the eastern side of the dark mass of rocks, from
the point of which the tide was slowly subsiding. The song had ceased, and a
low moaning sound - the soughing of the wind passed along the shore. Walter
trembled with fear, and was on the point of returning, when a most flute-like
murmur rose from the other side of the rocky barrier, which was presently
moulded into words<br />
<br />
"From your couch of glistering pearl,<br />
Slowly, softly, come away;<br />
Our sweet earth-child, lovely girl,<br />
Died this day,--died this day."<br />
<br />
Memory told Walter that truly was it the anniversary of Selina
Pennaluna's death, and to him every gentle wave falling on the shore sang, or
murmured <br />
<br />
<br />
"Died this day, died this day."<br />
<br />
The sand was left dry around the- point of the rocks, and
Walter impelled by a power which he could not control, walked onward. The
moment he appeared on the western side of the rock, a wild laugh burst into
the air, as if from the deep cavern before him, at the entrance of which sat
the same beautiful being whom he had formerly met. There was now an expression
of rare joy on her face, her eyes glistened with delight, and she extended her
arms. as if to welcome him.<br />
<br />
"Was it ever your wont to move so slowly towards your loved
one?"<br />
<br />
Walter heard it was Selina's voice. He saw it was Selina's
features; but he was conscious it was not Selina's form.<br />
<br />
"Come, sit beside me, Walter, and let us talk of love."<br />
<br />
He sat
down without a word, and looked into the maiden's face with a vacant
expression of fondness. Presently she placed her hand upon his heart; a
shudder passed through his frame; but having passed, he felt no more pain, but
a rare intensity of delight. The maiden wreathed her arm around his neck, drew
Walter towards her, and then he remembered how often he had acted thus towards
Selina. She bent over him and looked into his eyes. In his mind's mirror he
saw himself looking thus into the eyes of his betrayed one.<br />
<br />
"You loved her once?" said the maiden.<br />
<br />
"I did indeed," answered Walter, with a sigh.<br />
<br />
"As you loved her, so I love you," said the maiden, with a
smile which shot like a poisoned dart through Walter's heart. She lifted the
young man's head lovingly between her hands, and bending over him, pressed her
lips upon and kissed his forehead, Walter curiously felt that although he was
the kissed, yet that he was the kisser.<br />
<br />
"Kisses," she said, "are as true at sea as they are false on
land. You men kiss the earth-born maidens to betray them. The kiss of a
sea-child is the seal of constancy. You are mine till death."<br />
"Death!" almost shrieked Walter.<br />
<br />
A full consciousness of his situation now broke upon Walter.
He had heard the tales of the gossips respecting the mermaid origin of Selina;
but he had laughed at them as an idle fancy. he now felt they were true. For
hours Walter was compelled to sit by the side of his beautiful tormentor,
every word of assumed love and rapture being a torture of the most exquisite
kind to him. He could not escape from the arms which were wound around him. He
saw the tide rising rapidly. He heard the deep voice of the winds coming over
the sea from the far west. He saw that which appeared at first as a dark mist,
shape itself into a dense black mass of cloud, and rise rapidly over the
star-bedecked space above him. He saw by the brilliant edge of light which
occasionally fringed the clouds that they were deeply charged with thunder.
There was something sublime in the steady motion of the storm; and now the
roll of the waves, which had been disturbed in the Atlantic, reached our
shores, and the breakers fell thunderingly within a few feet of Walter and his
companion. Paroxysms of terror shook him, and with each convulsion he felt
himself grasped with still more ardour, and pressed so closely to the maiden's
bosom, that he heard her heart dancing of joy.<br />
<br />
At length his terrors gave birth to words, and he implored her
to let him go.<br />
<br />
"The kiss of the sea-child is the seal of constancy." Walter
vehemently implored forgiveness. He confessed his deep iniquity. He promised a
life of penitence.<br />
<br />
"Give me back the dead," said the maiden bitterly, and she
planted another kiss, which seemed to pierce his brain by its coldness, upon
his forehead.<br />
<br />
The waves rolled around the rock on which;they sat; they
washed their seat. Walter was .still in the female's grasp, and she lifted him
to a higher ledge. The storm approached. Lightnings struck down from the
heavens into the sands; and thunders roared along the iron cliffs. The mighty
waves grew yet more rash, and washed up to this strange pair, who now sat on
the highest pinnacle of the pile of rocks. Walter's terrors nearly overcame
him; but he was roused by a liquid stream of fire, which positively hissed by
him, followed immediately by a crash of thunder, which shook the solid earth.
Tom Chenall's cottage on the cliff burst into a blaze, and Walter saw, from
his place amidst the raging waters, a crowd of male and female roisterers rush
terrified out upon the heath, to be driven back by the pelting storm. The
climax of horrors appeared to surround Walter. He longed to end it in death,
but he could not die. His senses were quickened. He saw his wicked companion
and evil adviser struck to the ground, a blasted heap of ashes, by a lightning
stroke, and at the same moment he and his companion were borne off the rock on
the top of a mountainous wave, on which he floated; the woman holding him by
the hair of his head, and singing in a rejoicing voice, which was like a
silver bell heard amidst the deep base bellowings of the storm -<br />
<br />
"Come away, come away,<br />
O'er the waters wild!<br />
Our earth-born child<br />
Died this day, died this day.<br />
"Come away, come away!<br />
The tempest loud<br />
Weaves the shroud<br />
For him who did betray.<br />
"Come away, come away!<br />
Beneath the wave<br />
Lieth the grave<br />
Of him we slay, him we slay.<br />
"Come away, come away!<br />
He shall not rest<br />
In earth's own breast<br />
For many a day, many a day.<br />
"Come away, come away!<br />
By billows to<br />
From coast to coast,<br />
Like deserted boat<br />
His corpse shall float<br />
Around the bay, around the bay."<br />
<br />
Myriads of voices on that wretched night were heard amidst the
roar of the storm. The waves were seen covered with a multitudinous host, who
were tossing from one to the other the dying Walter Trewoofe, whose false
heart thus endured the vengeance of the mermaid, who had, in the fondness of
her soul, made the innocent child of humble parents the child of her adoption.<br />
<br />
Several versions of the following story have been given me.
The general idea of the tale belongs to the north coast; but the fact of
mermaidens taking innocents under their charge was common around the Lizard, and
in some of the coves near the Land's End.<br />
<br />
<i>from 'Popular Romances' by Robert Hunt </i>Alex Langstonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03233247785468335422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3982944185355931083.post-8436275389042472652016-06-07T10:27:00.000-07:002016-06-09T10:34:54.479-07:00St German's Well<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYXHm_CCdADGQCBeQ7HPDDxjrVKS2Qy4kWgfBwi_jMBI14AtiVqoI-giMA-LI_d5kvV7814TdEvMvdTPkBYAph1FaJoTFTCro9u4Dq1ehmMm07w26XvGlPPMxkoxAXYZNBkHqWaQPWhS3d/s1600/rame.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYXHm_CCdADGQCBeQ7HPDDxjrVKS2Qy4kWgfBwi_jMBI14AtiVqoI-giMA-LI_d5kvV7814TdEvMvdTPkBYAph1FaJoTFTCro9u4Dq1ehmMm07w26XvGlPPMxkoxAXYZNBkHqWaQPWhS3d/s400/rame.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #444444;">Rame Head, where St Germanus ascended in an angelic flaming chariot </span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="UFICommentBody _1n4g"></span></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="UFICommentBody _1n4g">The good St German was, it would appear, sent into Cornwall in the reign of
the Emperor Valentinian, mainly to suppress the Pelagian heresy. The inhabitants
of the shores of the Tamar had long been schooled into -the belief in
original sin, and they would not endure its denial from the lips of a
stranger. In this they were supported by the monks, who had already a
firm footing in the land, and who taught the people implicit obedience
to their religious instructors, faith in election, and that all human
efforts were unavailing, unless supported by priestly aid. St German was
a man with vast powers of endurance. He preached his doctrines of
freewill, and of the value of good works, notwithstanding the outcry
raised against him. His miracles were of the most remarkable character,
and sufficiently impressive to convince a large body of the Cornish
people that he was an inspired priest. St German raised a beautiful
church, and built a monastic house for the relief of poor people. Yet
notwithstanding the example of the pure life of the saint, and his
unceasing study to do good, a large section of the priests and the
people never ceased to persecute him. To all human endurance there is a
limit, and even that of the saint weakened eventually, before the
never-ceasing annoyances -by which he was hemmed in. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="UFICommentBody _1n4g">One
Sabbath morning the priest attended as usual to his Christian duties,
when he was interrupted by a brawl amongst the outrageous people, who
had come in from all parts of 'the country with a determination to drive
him from the place of his adoption. The holy man prayed for his
persecutors, and he entreated them to calm their angry passions and
listen to his healing words. But no words could convey any healing balm
to their stormy hearts. At length his brethren, fearing that his life
was in danger, begged him to fly, and eventually he left the church by a
small door near the altar, while some of the monks endeavoured to
tranquillise the people. St German went, a sad man, to the cliffs at the
Rame head, and there alone he wept in agony at the failure of his
labours. So intense was the soul-suffering of this holy man, that the
rocks felt the power of spirit-struggling, and wept with him. The eyes
of man, a spiritual creation, dry after the outburst of sorrow, but when
the gross forms of matter are compelled to sympathise with spiritual
sorrow, they remain for ever under the influence; and from that day the
tears of the cliffs have continued to fall, and the Well of St German
attests to this day of the saint's agony. The saint was not allowed to
remain in concealment long. The crowd of opposing priests and the
peasantry were on his track. Hundreds were on the hill, and arming
themselves with stones, they descended with shouts, determined to
destroy him. St German prayed to God for deliverance, and immediately a
rush, as of thunder, was heard upon the hills--a chariot surrounded by
flames, and flashing light in all directions, was seen rapidly
approaching. The crowd paused, fell back, and the flaming car passed on
to where St German knelt. There were two bright angels in the chariot;
they lifted the persecuted saint from the ground, and placing him
between them, ascended into the air.<br /><br />"Curse
your persecutors," said the angels. The saint cursed them; and from
that time all holiness left the church he had built. The saint was borne
to other lands, and lived to effect great good. On the rocks the burnt
tracts of the chariot wheels were long to be seen, and the Well of Tears
still flows."</span></span><br />
<br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="UFICommentBody _1n4g"><i>From "Popular Romances of the West of England" by Robert Hunt </i></span></span>Alex Langstonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03233247785468335422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3982944185355931083.post-21067208245177797782016-04-27T23:48:00.001-07:002016-04-27T23:48:11.019-07:00St Neot, the Pigmy Saint<br />
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="image-0021"></a>
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<div class="figure" style="text-align: center;">
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<h2 style="text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikTfIWqhOAEn76JSRtvqnvrOc_RisSZBf5g1NxNeQzQoPTShuSxfMVW3ZwH9XDukvo-WwJADLWoTUYZS_ZHFuHn2jd32b7b3mYCle2EMwmGU18LQQFF87N4U8dprgm-FF6tuAeGdHIIpfX/s1600/St+MNeot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="370" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikTfIWqhOAEn76JSRtvqnvrOc_RisSZBf5g1NxNeQzQoPTShuSxfMVW3ZwH9XDukvo-WwJADLWoTUYZS_ZHFuHn2jd32b7b3mYCle2EMwmGU18LQQFF87N4U8dprgm-FF6tuAeGdHIIpfX/s400/St+MNeot.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
</h2>
<h2>
</h2>
<span class="pagenum"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" id="page41" name="page41"></a></span>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: 0;">
O<span class="uc">f</span> all the vast company of saints peculiar to Cornwall, St. Neot is
surely the strangest, for he was, so the old traditions have it, a
pigmy, perfectly formed, yet only fifteen inches in height. There are
very many stories told of this tiny holy man, and most of them seem to
show that he wielded a great power over all animals.<br />
</div>
One of the prettiest stories is of the time when St. Neot presided over
his abbey and there came one night thieves to the monastic farm and
stole all the monks' plough oxen. The poor brothers had not the money to
purchase other beasts, and seed-time was upon them with their fields yet
un-ploughed. Ruin seemed certain until the good little abbot appealed to
the wild beasts to come to their aid. And then, to the amazement of the
monks, there came from the surrounding forests wild stags, who docilely
offered their necks to the yoke and drew the heavy ploughs. Each night the stags were released, and they went off to the woods; but
each succeeding morning they returned to continue their task.<br />
<br />
The news of this miraculous happening spread rapidly abroad and came at
last to the ears of the thieves. They were so deeply impressed by the
story that they returned the stolen oxen at once and promised never
again to pursue their evil ways. So the stags were released from their
self-appointed labour, but ever after, they say, each bore a white ring
like a yoke about its neck, and each enjoyed a charmed life, for no
arrow or spear of a hunter could hurt it.<br />
<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" id="page42" name="page42"></a></span>
Another story that is told is that of St. Neot and the hunted doe. While
the good saint was seated in contemplation by his well, there burst from
the woods a doe pursued by hounds and huntsmen. The poor beast was
exhausted and sank down by the saint as if imploring his protection.<br />
<br />
The tiny saint rose and faced the oncoming pack, which instantly turned
and dashed back into the forest. Presently the huntsmen approached with
drawn bows, prepared to dispatch the frightened quarry. But they too, at
the sight of the saint, desisted, and the chief of them, falling upon
his knees, cast away his quiver and besought the Holy Neot to receive
him into the Church.<br />
<br />
This man, they say, became a monk at the monastery of St. Petroc
at Bodmin, and the hunting-horn which he carried on the day of his
conversion was hung for many years in St. Neot's church.Many of the stories of this saint are depicted in the mediæval
stained-glass windows of the parish church of St. Neot, a pretty village
nestling under the southern slopes of the Bodmin Moor. This church has
one of the finest sets of fifteenth and sixteenth century painted
windows in the country, which rival the famous Fairford glass in
Gloucestershire.<br />
<br />
St. Neot is easily reached by road from Bodmin or Liskeard, or from
Doublebois station, on the main line, from which it is distant about
three miles. The village lies in a sheltered valley surrounded by
charming wooded country, and from it you may
<span class="pagenum"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" id="page43" name="page43"></a></span>
reach, only a short
distance away, the edge of wild Bodmin Moor itself.<br />
<br />
Bodmin, an attractive yet—by the tourist—much neglected town, is some
seven miles away. Bodmin, the capital of Cornwall, is a quiet, sleepy
old town ideally situated as a centre from which to reach many parts of
the Duchy. Midway between the two coasts, with a good rail service to
either, and close to the wild moorland that bears its name, this town is
rich in history.<br />
<br />
The moor with its two Cornish mountains, Brown Willy and Rough Tor
(which you must pronounce to rhyme with "plough"), is easily reached,
and the rail will take you to Wadebridge or Padstow on the rugged north
coast; or south to sheltered Fowey—the Troy Town of "Q"—for an
afternoon's excursion.
<br />
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="image-0022"></a>
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<div class="figure">
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<h2 style="text-align: center;">
</h2>
<h2 style="text-align: center;">
</h2>
<h2 style="text-align: center;">
</h2>
<h2 style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-VMph9DwaHhY-AnoouFwSUZP4UDgFDBceGbeA1BG0E9w2__mrc-svwJ5Q9EfXRpA_6wKRrBj52gsYFGdnNHaqzWumQVGnpYhe5Zj0FKlccRl3smkdba7T8FYUR2CU1XCEyW5V7gDibhBj/s1600/St+Neot.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="291" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-VMph9DwaHhY-AnoouFwSUZP4UDgFDBceGbeA1BG0E9w2__mrc-svwJ5Q9EfXRpA_6wKRrBj52gsYFGdnNHaqzWumQVGnpYhe5Zj0FKlccRl3smkdba7T8FYUR2CU1XCEyW5V7gDibhBj/s400/St+Neot.jpg" width="400" /> </a></h2>
<h2 style="text-align: left;">
<i><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;">From The Line to Legend Land published by Great Western Railways in 1922</span></span></i> </h2>
</div>
</div>
<span class="pagenum"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" id="page44" name="page44"></a></span>
Alex Langstonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03233247785468335422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3982944185355931083.post-47345378686135350422016-03-29T08:18:00.000-07:002016-04-07T03:06:18.278-07:00The Witch and the Toad<div align="justify">
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">An old woman called Alsey, usually Aunt Alsey occupied a small cottage
in Anthony, one of a row which belonged to a tradesman living in Dock; as
Devonport was then designated to distinguish it from </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Plymouth</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">. The old woman possessed a very violent
temper, and this, more than anything else, fixed upon her the character of
being a witch. Her landlord had frequently sought his rent, and as frequently
he received nothing but abuse. He had, on the special occasion to which our
narrative refers, crossed the Tamar and walked to Anthony, with the firm
resolve of securing his rent, now long in arrear, and of turning the old
termagant out of the cottage. A violent scene ensued, and, the vicious old
woman, more than a match for a really kind-hearted and quiet man, remained the
mistress of the situation. She seated herself in the door of her cottage and
cursed her landlord's wife, "the child she was carrying," and all
belonging to him, with so devilish a spite that Mr--owned he was fairly driven
away in terror.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">On returning home, he, of course, told his wife all the circumstances;
and while they were discoursing on the subject, the whole story being
attentively listened to by their daughter, then a young girl, who is my
informant, a woman came into the shop requiring some articles which they sold.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">"Sit still, father," said Mrs--to her husband; "you must
be tired. I will see to the shop."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">So she went from the parlour, into the shop, and, hearing the wants of
her customer, proceeded <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>to supply them;
gossiping gaily, as was her wont, to interest the buyer.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mrs--was weighing one of the articles required, when something falling
heavily from the ceiling of the shop, struck the beam out of her hand, and both
the falling body and the scales came together with much noise on to the
counter. At the same instant both women screamed; the shopkeeper calling also
"Father ! father ! " meaning her husband thereby with great energy.</span><br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mr--and his daughter were in the shop instantly, and there, on the
counter, they saw an enormous and most ugly toad sprawling amidst the chains of
the scales. The first action of the man was to run back to the parlour, seize
the tongs, and return to the <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>shop. He
grasped the swollen toad with the tongs, the vicious creature spitting all the
tithe, and, without a word, he went back and flung it behind the block of wood
which was burning in the grate. The object of terror being removed, the wife,
who was shortly to become the mother of another child, though usually a woman
who had great command over her feelings, fainted.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">This circumstance demanding all their attention, the toad was
forgotten. The shock was a severe one; and although Mrs--was restored in a
little time to her senses, she again and again became faint. Those fits
continuing, her medical attendant, Dr--was sent for, and on his arrival he
ordered that his patient should be immediately placed in bed, and the husband
was informed that he must be prepared for a premature birth.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The anxiety occasioned by these circumstances, and the desire to afford
every relief to his wife, so fully occupied Mr --, that for an hour or two he
entirely forgot the cause of all this mischief; or, perhaps satisfying himself
that the toad was burnt to ashes, he had no curiosity to look after it. He was,
however, suddenly summoned from the bedroom, in which he was with his wife, by
his daughter calling to him, in a voice of terror "O father, the toad, the
toad!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mr--rushed down-stairs, and he then discovered that the toad, though
severely burnt, had escaped destruction. It must have crawled up over the log
of wood, and from it have fallen down amongst the ashes. There it was now making
useless struggles to escape, by climbing over the fender.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The tongs were again put in requisition, with the intention this time
of carrying the reptile out of the house. Before, however, he had time to do
so, a man from Anthony came hastily into the shop with the information that
Aunt Alsey had fallen into the fire, as the people supposed, in a fit, and that
she was nearly burnt to death. This man had been sent off with two commissions one
to fetch the doctor, and the other to bring Mr--with him, as much of the
cottage had been injured by fire, communicated to it by the old woman's dress.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">In as short a time as possible the parish surgeon and Mr --. were at
Anthony, and too truly they found the old woman most severely burnt; so
seriously, indeed, there was no chance that one so aged could rally from the
shock which her system must have received, however, a litter was carefully
prepared, the old woman was placed in it, and carried to the workhouse. Every
attention was given to her situation, but she never recovered perfect
consciousness, and during the night she died.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The toad, which we left inside the fender in front of a blazing fire,
was removed from a position so trying to any cold-blooded animal, by the
servant, and thrown, with a "hugh "and a shudder, upon one of the
flower-beds in the small garden behind the house.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">There it lay the next morning dead and when examined by Mr --, it was
found that all the injuries sustained by the toad corresponded with those
received by the poor old wretch, who had no doubt fallen a victim to passion.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">As we have only to deal with the mysterious relation which existed
between the witch and the toad, it is not necessary that we should attend
further to the innocent victim of an old woman's vengeance, than to say that
eventually a babe was born that that babe grew to be a handsome man, was an
officer in the navy, and having married, went to sea, and perished, leaving a
widow with an unborn child to lament his loss. Whether this was a result of the
witch's curse, those who are more deeply skilled in witchcraft than I am, may
perhaps tell.</span></div>
<i><br /></i>
<i>From Popular Romances of the West of England by Robert Hunt </i></div>
Alex Langstonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03233247785468335422noreply@blogger.com0