Chapter XI: Part 11

[24] This old Cornish word Bucca (still in common use) has various significations, and none very clearly defined. It appears to belong to the same family of words as the Irish “Pooka,” and the Welsh “Pwcca.” As above, it is often applied to a poor, half-witted person of a mischievous disposition—one about whom there is anything weird or wisht—to a ghost, or any kind of frightful apparition, and by association of ideas to a scarecrow. By Buccaboo, which is probably a corruption of Buccadhu (black spirit) we mean Old Nick, or one of his near relations. As an example of this, there is a story told of an old lady who lived long ago at Raftra, in St. Levan. The old dame, when more than fourscore, was so fond of card playing that she would walk almost every Winter’s night, in spite of wind or weather, to the village of Trebear, distant a mile or more, that she might enjoy her favourite pastime with a family of congenial tastes who resided there. The old lady’s step-daughter wished to put a stop to what she regarded as rather scandalous vagaries, the old dame seldom arriving home before the small hours of the morning; with this intention the young mistress persuaded the serving-man to array himself in a white sheet, &c., so as to personate a ghost that was accused of wandering about a lonely spot over which old madam would have to pass. The Winter’s night was dark and rainy, when, about midnight, the ghost seated himself on the side of Goon-proynter stile, where he had to wait two or three hours. The dear old lady was in no hurry to leave pleasant company as it was Christmas time. At last the old lady passed Padz-jigga, mounted the stile, and seated herself to draw breath opposite the ghost. Over a while, she said, “Hallo! Bucca gwidden (white spirit) what cheer? And what in the world dost thee do here with Bucca Dhu close behind thee?” This cool address so frightened Bucca-gwidden that he ran off as fast as he could lay feet to ground, the old lady scampering after, clapping her hands and calling “Good boy, Buccadhu; now thee west catch Bucca gwidden and take’n away with thee!” The ghost was so frightened that he fell in a fit and was never right in the head after. Then he was a real bucca in the sense of our Betty’s sweetheart, and the strong minded sociable old lady enjoyed many more years of her favourite pastime with her friends in Trebear.

Another Bucca of the mischievous class lived in St. Just but a short time since, who gave rise to the saying “Between both,” as Bucca said. Being, as usual, loafing about the public-house of a pay day, when there is more than the ordinary good cheer about, Bucca happened to look into a room where Capt. Chynolds and another gentleman were sitting in the window-seat. The captain said to the intruder, “Which art thee, Bucca, a fool or a rogue?” Before making any reply, Bucca placed himself between them, then answered “I’m between both, I believe!” Another day he was idling about a new shaft that two men were engaged in sinking—one filling the kibbal, the other winding up the stuff with a hand winze. The man to grass told Bucca to take hold of the winze and wind up a few kibbals whilst he lighted his pipe. Bucca wound up two or three all right. When the next kibbal full was near the top of the shaft he called out “Hold on there below while I spit on my hands a minute.” Down went the kibbal, winze and all smash, and half killed the man below. Bucca took to his heels crying “Triz-wiz, triz-wiz; whipper-snapper, catch me if thee cust.” (canst).

Another trick of the Bucca was to watch when the women put a nice bit of cake to bake that they might have a comfortable cup of tea before the good man came home from work. They would be sure to go out to coursey (gossip) a bit while the cake was baking. Then Bucca would steal in, carry off the cake, and place a turf under the bake-pan, carefully covered with fire again. When the gossip came to take up the nice bit she might be heard to exclaim “Well I never thought I’d been out so long; my cake is burned to ashes.”

[25] The “red-haired Danes” have continued a source of terror and a name of reproach to the present day. On the first of this month a Longrock quarrel was the subject of a magisterial inquiry at the Penzance town-hall, when it was proved that the defendant, Jeffery, had called one of the complainants, Lawrence, who has rubrick hair, a “red-haired Dane.” In Sennen Cove, St. Just, and the western parishes generally, there has existed, time out of mind, a great antipathy to certain red-haired families, who were said to be descendants of the Danes, and whose ancestors were supposed, centuries before, to have landed in Whitsand Bay, and set fire to, and pillaged the villages. Indeed, this dislike to the Rufus-headed people was carried so far that few families would allow any member to marry them, so that the unfortunate race had the less chance of seeing their children lose the objectionable tinge of hair.

[26] As the name Vellandruchar means wheel-mill, the mill which was formerly in this place was probably one of the oldest in the West. At no great distance from Vellandruchar is the site of another ancient mill called Vellansager. This name is equally suggestive, as denoting that the serging or bolting apparatus was not then common in the mills. These old mills were situated in the lower part of Burrien, on the stream which divides that parish from Paul. According to tradition, a sanguinary battle was fought on the moors a little above Vellandruchar, between Arthur and the Danes, when they say the mill was worked with blood, and that arrow, spear and axe-heads, with the remains of other weapons, have frequently been found in the bog-turf (peat soil) which is cut for fuel from Vellandruchar Moors. These moors were also said to be so much infested with adders, in old time, that cattle could not be turned into them in Summer, until one day an adder got into a pot of milk, which a man who was cutting turf on the moor brought with him to drink. The man placed a turf on the mouth of the pot, and stopped the adder in it. In a short time the imprisoned adder made a peculiar noise, which attracted other adders round the pot. These, in turn, seemed to call others, until from all parts of the moors the adders were seen directing their course straight to the interesting captive. The men cutting turf on the moors were all obliged to flee the low grounds. Towards night, when they ventured into the moor, they found that a mass of adders, as large as an ordinary hay-cock, had interlaced themselves into a solid heap over and round the pot. The people then formed a ring of dry furze, and other fuel they found ready cut, around the mass of adders, now apparently torpid. When many scores of trusses of furze were collected, fire was placed at the same instant to several parts of the ring of furze. They say that the noise made by the burning adders was frightful, and that a great number of milpreaves were found in the ashes.

This story of the adders is also told about Trevethow Moors, the ground now called the Hay Meadow, and many other places.

[27] At pater omnipotens adigat me fulmine ad umbras, Pallentes umbras Erebi, noctemque profundam, &c., &c.

[28] This was nearly the language of our learned countryman, Mr. Moyle, in “A charge to the Grand Jury at Liskeard, April, 1706.” “If France (says he) prevails in this war, we shall be dragooned into idolatry, slavery, and wooden shoes.”—See Moyle’s works, vol. 1, p. 163.

[29] “Golls” or “gollies” is the Phœnician name for Hercules, according to the Rev. Mr. Hogg, in his Fabulous History of Cornwall, so that the use of the term, vulgar as it may appear to some, connects the butcher of our narrative with a favourite deity of the Phœnicians.