Chapter III: Part 3

Some years ago, a bad example was shown by the proprietor of Trazza, who was lord of the land on which Castle-an-Dinas stands, by his having a good portion of the inner entrenchment demolished at its south-eastern end, and the stones taken to construct, on the brow of the hill, a nondescript object, which looks best at a distance.

In looking at the few fragments of “dry walling” that remain, one can but admire the thoughtful way in which the stones were laid—perhaps thousands of years ago—so as to “break the joints” and bind each other. The Castle Well, near the summit of the hill, used to be regarded as one of the curiosities of this old fort. The water was reached by descending ten or a dozen steps when the spring was low.

From the upper entrenchment may be surveyed one of the most extensive and varied prospects west of Carn Brea. The rugged brown hills on the northern side offer a striking contrast to the beautiful bay and rich land, cultivated almost to the water’s edge, on the other side. Eastward, the view is only bounded by hills which rise beyond St. Austell and stretch northward, Roughtor and Brownwhilly being in this range.

Looking westward the hills of Sancreed and St. Just, hide the Land’s End; yet, with a clear atmosphere, Scilly Isles may be descryed, on the horizon’s verge, like clouds resting on the ocean.

The fine tower of Buryan Church is a very conspicuous object, and it reminds one that near it, in Buryan parish, are the ancestral, but forsaken, homes of some who have made their mark in England’s history; and of others whose names live in romance and hearthside story, as Boscawen, Noy, Tresillian, Vivian, Le Velis, &c.

The more immediate objects in the landscape are familiar to us all, yet the kind of bird’s-eye view obtained from this elevated site gives a novel appearance to the scene scarcely to be expected.

One may find a pleasant walk from Penzance to Castle-an-Dinas, nearly all the way through fields, by taking the Churchway path from Gulval to Angarrack; thence across two or three small fields the heath-covered hill is reached, and one is soon on its summit.

THE HAUNTED LAWYER.

A little while ago an aged native of Gulval spoke of another ghost that haunted Kenegie, but only for a short time. Whether it was the “spirit” of a Harris or an Arundel he couldn’t say, because it was so long past, but it was all in the same family; for a Harris, he believed, changed his name for that of Arundel; then, over a generation or two, the family resumed their former name. People round about always called them Harrises, and this one was spoken of as the proud squire of Kenegie. He always rode a high horse. If he met people in the narrow lanes (and there were but few broad ones in his time) they had to get out of his way, by leaping hedges sometimes, else he’d ride over them.

They say that the only person who wouldn’t make way for him was an old Rogers of Treassowe. On Castle Downs there was a wide piece of ground left for horse-tracks where the road to St. Ives passed, so that when one path was too much worn another might be taken, on the turf. In some places the principal paths were divided by rocks or brakes of furze; and in a little way the branches united again, or crossed others, in a bewildering maze. ’Tis said that if Rogers, when on a heavy horse, could make out at a little distance, the track which would lead to that on which Harris rode, he would be sure to take it; if a deep one all the better; and so they would both ride up, “full butt,” against each other, like Æsop’s two goats crossing the brook on a plank, and either have a “scruff” or a slashing fight with their whips. Yet they were good friends, at times; hunted together over each other’s lands; and visited one another on ceremonial occasions.

This burly gentleman-farmer of Treassowe, however, has nothing to do with the story about to be told; yet thoughts of him occur in connection with the proud Harris from his being so often spoken of as his opponent. He was, also, a fair sample of “Ludgvan Hurlers” of old, who were noted as sturdy “sticklers” for their rights, with a trifle more from those inclined to domineer, as well as for their devotion to the manly game which procured them their honourable nickname—still retained, though for many years past they had never strengthened their muscles and minds as they were wont to do in days of yore, by hurling their silver ball, for miles, forward and backward along Market Jew Green, then a common of great extent, or away inland “to the country.” The game on the Green was called Hurling to the Goal.

Now, when Harris the proud was on his deathbed he sent a man to Penzance for a lawyer, because he wanted to make an addition to his will. “Take the fleetest horse in my stable,” said he to his servant, “ride for thy life,—for thy life; stop not for anything in thy road; tell him to take thy horse and hasten away if his own be unsaddled.”

On a chest, near the squire’s bed, sat his son John, rocking himself to and fro, and crying bitterly. “What art thou crying for, my son?” asked his father. “Because you are going to die, father,” replied the boy. “Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do?” And he went on crying more and more. “Stop crying, my son,” said his father, “thou wilt do very well, for I am going to give thee Trengwainton; and Castle Horneck, to look at; don’t cry any more, my son, for I’m very weak and want to sleep, my son.”

The lawyer having arrived at the squire’s bedside, and writing materials being ready, asked what must be added to the will? The squire, when propped up with pillows, gasped out, “I wish, I wish,” several times, until he became exhausted, and fell back in bed. After resting awhile he made signs to be raised again, and then only repeated the same words, “I wish, I wish,” until the lawyer told him to stop a moment and then say what it was that he wanted to have written. “That my son John shall have Trengwainton,” gasped the dying man.

The lawyer, who had also been the squire’s steward for a long time, was quite confounded. In a minute or two he said, “I don’t know what you mean; how can your son have Trengwainton? The place doesn’t belong to you, I can’t understand ’e at all.” The little blood in Harris’s body seemed to rush into his face and turn blue; then he became pale, and cried, as hard as he was able, “Thou fool of a lawyer not to know how, when”——unable to say any more he fell back in bed, more exhausted than before.

Then he began twitching at the bedclothes, and kept on murmuring “I wish, I wish,” lower and lower, and slower and slower, until he breathed his last, with the words on his lips.

The lawyer returned homeward, feeling very sad and much perplexed. He and the deceased had been constant friends from their boyhood. Of late years his connection with Harris was mainly as steward of his estate, and in that character we have to speak of him. The late squire had undertaken many improvements of his farm, then in progress, as well as alterations in his premises by his advice; and the steward took just as much interest in his friend’s family and estate as if they had been his own. He was, also, the only solicitor of note then in Penzance. People of that time did not run for legal advice to settle trifling matters in dispute; they were often a law unto themselves, rough and ready, as well as warm-hearted; though far less hypocritical then than now.

The unsatisfied dead man was laid in the family vault, when the customary time for keeping people of his quality above ground had expired. On the night of his funeral, towards the morning, doleful sounds were heard proceeding from the late squire’s bedroom, with plaintive cries of “I wish, I wish,” followed by agonising moans and groans.

Next day the steward came over to arrange some business that required his presence on the place; old greyheaded servants of the family soon told him of the ghostly sounds heard in the ancient mansion, only a few hours past. The strong-minded man of law ridiculed them, and said it was only their fearful fancies, followed by disturbing dreams, which had caused all their dread of their old master’s return. The old servants followed the lawyer to the outer gate, begging him to stay at the house over night. “No, no, I’ve other fish to fry,” replied he, “go’e to rest before you’re all tipsy, and let the squire come if he will or can.”

The steward proceeded slowly down the hill, thinking of his deceased friend. As he passed a churchway stile, a little below the principal entrance gate, a gentleman came over and walked close beside him, keeping pace with his horse. Neither spoke. The steward didn’t even give the customary greeting of “Good night,” so usual here when people meet in country lanes. The strange gentleman’s broad brimmed hat and drooping plume so shaded his face that his features could not be distinctly seen; but his tall figure was attired in a dress precisely like that which had been usually worn by Harris, and which was of too grand a mode for anybody else in the immediate neighbourhood. The horse showed signs of great terror by rubbing his rider against the hedge, and by trying to run off at a gallop; yet, however the steed altered his paces, the stranger kept alongside, with such an easy motion as if he floated in air, until, passing the stream which flows to Ponsandane, when this strange companion disappeared,—there was no knowing whither.

Having crossed the water, and the road ascending for a little way, the rider let his steed take its course; then it went off at a furious rate, and only ceased its race when near the watering-trough at the top of Market-jew Street, opposite the “Star” Inn. After slaking its thirst, it went down a lane, now built on, and called New Street, which led to a yard, stable, and garden, at the back of the lawyer’s house, on the eastern side of Chapel Street (formerly called Our Lady Street) and a little above the end of Vounder Ver.

It is not known whether the lawyer surmised or not that the companion of his ride down Kenegie Hill was his late friend’s ghost, which it was: for he, like most of his profession, could keep his own counsel, especially in doubtful cases.

Next day, however, when he was expected by the family at Kenegie to settle such business as could only be arranged with his help, he begged for delay, on the plea of illness, and took to his bed, which he did not quit for some days.

Night was dreaded in the old mansion at Kenegie. Even the decline of day made its inmates shudder with apprehensive terror. The slamming of doors, rattling of furniture, and other disturbances commenced earlier and continued later into the morning than they did at first; and the spirit’s cries of “I wish, I wish,” seemed to be uttered in anger rather than in grief. During all the family’s trouble the steward was unable, or unwilling, to come near them. Yet, almost daily, one or other of Harris’s old servants came in to enquire after the lawyer’s health, and told his family how their late master’s ghost had been seen and heard before candle-lighting time in a court behind the house; and that it was intended, over a few nights, to try what “spirit-quellers,” as ghost-layers were called, could do in order to give the troubled spirit rest.

The steward was still far from well, when one night, about a week after his last visit to Kenegie, and just after he heard an eight-day clock on his stair-landing strike two, whilst he was listening for the town-clock, five minutes slower than his own, he heard a loud knocking at his front door. Shortly afterwards his housekeeper came to his bedroom door, and asked, “Are ’e waking, master?” Having spoken to her, she said, “There’s an old clergyman, from over Hayle way, below; I’ve seen him here before; he must speak with you, he says: he has a message of the utmost importance to you.” The steward told her to strike a light and show the parson up at once, as he was an old acquaintance who didn’t stand on ceremony with him.

The old dame sat on her three-legged stool, hammering away with flint and steel, in making vain endeavours to kindle the tinder, which wasn’t touched by a spark, for the box had overturned in her lap without her knowing it; her skirts being huddled on in a hurry she hardly knew where to find her knees to steady the tinder-box between them. There was a glimmer of light coming through the diamond-shaped lead lights from a ghostly-looking bit of a morning moon, when the venerable gentleman told her to take no more trouble; as he was well acquainted with the house and her master he could find the way to his room without a candle and alone; his business was too urgent for any farther delay.

The reverend gentleman, on entering the lawyer’s bedroom, drew back the window curtains, and said, whilst shaking hands, “I hope to be excused for calling at this unseasonable hour on account of the message I bring; the importance of which, to you, will be best understood when I tell ye of this night’s occurrences.” Now, the lawyer was impatient to learn this urgent business, but it would seem as if the parson were in no hurry—such good men take things easy. For he went to the window, opened a casement, and looked out, as if to recollect his thoughts. It was too obscure then for him to enjoy the extensive prospect, as seen by day—only bounded by distant eastern hills. Returning to the lawyer’s bedside, the reverend gentleman seated himself and continued thus:—“I calculate, by the stars now rising, as well as by the altitude attained by others, that it is now two hours and forty-five minutes since I, with four other clergymen of our neighbourhood, by a request of the deceased squire’s family, assembled on the Bowling Green, at Kenegie, in order to give rest to the unquiet spirit which quitted Proud Harris’s mortal tenement a fortnight since. Having marked on the turf a circle, and placed on its circumference three lighted candles, to mark the points of an equilateral triangle, within which a ghost is as safe as in consecrated ground—the devil and his hounds are always on the watch for vagrant spirits, roaming from churchyards—we formed ourselves in line, facing south and behind the lights, in order of precedence, my station being at the right hand of all. Then a reverend gentleman, who, like myself, has much knowledge of planetary influence and other occult sciences, as well as great ability in laying obdurate spirits, spoke a form of citation. Not a dozen words of this solemn summons were uttered when Proud Harris’s ghost, in winding-sheet and shroud came before us, and, with a frowning countenance and angry gestures, abruptly said, ‘Begone about your own business, if you have any, for you have none whatever here; and learn, vain mortals, that I will not leave this place for anything you can do or say, until it pleaseth me to do so.’” “Ah, I see,” said the steward, “it’s the same resolute spirit still that always animated my deceased friend, for he never liked those of your cloth; in fact he couldn’t abide to see men feathered all in black and white; he used to say, ‘They are like Market-jew crows.’” “Well, well, let that pass,” replied the reverend gentleman, “You have not yet heard the matter of importance to you. On my commencing a powerful form of conjuration the spirit approached me and said, ‘Dear old friend of my youth, for the sake of those many happy days that we have passed together in the hunting-field, do thou go from me, and at once, to that accursed lawyer and steward of mine; tell him that unless he comes here, and that shortly, to mind his business, I will go to him. Aye, you see that thin rim of the waning moon; if he be not here, attending to his duty to me and mine, ere that moon be renewed, I will appear before him when least expected, whether he be in his office, his bed-chamber, or elsewhere, alone.’ On my assenting to convey his message the ghost vanished, and I at once came hither with such speed as my three-score and six years permit.”

The parson paused a moment, but, the lawyer remaining silent, he continued: “I advise you as a friend, go, as desired, before you are three days older, for by that time this moon’s diminished horns will have recommenced their growth. As I have now faithfully delivered the spirit’s message, I bid you adieu, hoping you will have grace to follow my advice.”

“I intend going to Kenegie,” replied the lawyer, “before another night comes round. Stay and take breakfast; you must need rest after such trying work.”

“No, I must be gone,” said the parson, “though I have neither eaten nor slept since my leaving Ruan yesterday morn.”

“Then if you won’t stop, I wish ’e well,” said the steward, “hoping never more to see ye here with a message from the dead. Farewell.”

After this unpleasant interruption to his night’s rest, the steward lay awake and turned out of bed before his accustomed time of rising, with the intention of going to Kenegie without delay. Yet, from feeling very much out of order, when partly dressed, he returned to bed and sent for a medical man.

The doctor felt the lawyer’s hot forehead and rapidly-throbbing pulse, whilst the sick man told him that he could neither get tranquil sleep nor take his food with any appetite.

“My good friend,” replied the doctor, “you are working yourself to death, in trying to grapple with your extensive practice. Now, you must not think of entering your office for a month at least. Go away to the country; when you are able, for the sake of getting rid of business cares; your clients must have patience until you get well. If they won’t, let them go to Old Nick for advice. His counsel will please the greater part of them much better than the advice of an honest attorney.”

The patient then said, “I am most anxious first to go over and arrange some business in Kenegie which requires my presence there.”

“All right,” replied the doctor, “you can do nothing better, when well enough, mind you, than ride over there daily; but don’t stay long in the house, and say but little about professional matters. After taking some light refreshment, ride away up to Castle-an-Dinas, or, at least, as far as the hamlet called Castle Gate, and ride easily forth and back, over the stretch of level road on that high ground. When there you will breathe the sweet air of the hills, mingled with ocean’s breezes, which will do you more good than any amount of drugs. You must, however, take a small dose at once, in order to procure tranquil sleep. Never mind your appetite, that will return when you are able to take daily rides over the hills, and you will be able to eat like a horse, as the saying is.”

The doctor having sent for medicine, and seen his patient take the same, went downstairs, charged the household to keep still, and on no account to let their master be disturbed with business callers. “If he should sleep for 24 hours, let him,” said the doctor, “and I’ll call again shortly.”

The steward said nothing of his having been accompanied by Harris’s ghost in his ride down Kenegie Hill, nor of the spirit’s message, well knowing that his medical friend had no faith in supernatural appearances; and the ailing man himself had but slight belief in such matters until the evidence of his own eyes, as well as the reverend gentleman’s words, convinced him, in spite of his reason.

The “doctor’s stuff” had its desired effect. The steward slept soundly through the night, and until nearly noon next morning, when he took breakfast in bed, then more medicine, and slept again. About two o’clock the doctor called and asked the housekeeper how her master was. “I suppose,” said she, “that he’s going on as well as can be expected, for he slept well last night, ate a good breakfast for a sick man, and is sleeping again. A few minutes since I went into his room, and saw his eyes were shut, and didn’t speak to him, as you told me not to, but I talked a little to myself, and he didn’t ask me what I was grumbling about, as he mostly does if I speak a few words to, myself.

“A precious nurse you are,” said the doctor, “can’t you keep your tongue still when in your master’s room?”

The lawyer had the same tranquil rest on the following night; got up at his usual time, and soon after an early dinner, took horse for Kenegie.

The steward arrived at the old mansion about three or four o’clock. Having stayed a few hours with the bereaved family, and said all he could to comfort them, he recollected that there were alterations, or repairs, going on down at the mill, which he ought to see. The lengthening shadows warned him that it was time for his departure, that he might see the mill on his way home. Having sent his horse down, by a servant, he took a pathway which made a short cut thither across some fields. This was always a favourite walk with him and the late squire, because it afforded delightful views over land and sea. When on the clear ground, and in sight of Rosemorran, he saw the sunbeams still shining through a few leafless trees on the hill, but the valley was all in shadow. On coming to a high-hedged and narrow lane, near the mill, the gentleman went on slowly, with eyes cast down, musing on times past. Glancing upwards, when his reverie ended, he beheld, at the distance of ten or a dozen paces, the late squire, looking as formerly, and slowly approaching him. The steward, though much terrified at first, noticed that the garb taken by the apparition was, from looped-up hat to silver spurs, exactly like that which Harris had usually worn when following his hounds. At a glance the steward saw the same bright and unsullied attire for which the late owner of Kenegie had been distinguished. There were the same untarnished gold-lace and buttons on his bright scarlet coat; and the boots, with their tops just touching, without hiding, the jewelled knee-buckles of his nether garment. Yet, for all this brightness of dress, the ghostly face, as seen by the terrified man on coming nearer, made his blood run cold. The eyes were like the unclosed eyes of the dead; and the other features were pale and motionless as those of a marble image lying on a tomb. The lawyer had heard, like everybody else here, that one should never turn back from a ghost, but speak, if only a single word, as a spirit is powerless to impart its wishes till spoken to; and if long delayed the person is in danger of receiving bodily harm, and will be haunted to death if he speak not before. The poor man forced himself, as it were, to advance with his eyes cast down, for he couldn’t bear to see the ghastly countenance. When near he could only murmur, “What shall I do for ’e?”

“I am rejoiced that thou hast come to meet me here, and spoken in time, for on the morrow I should have gone to thee. The anger I felt at thy delay hath passed; why shouldst thou fear me, frail mortal that thou art, when, ere long, thou wilt be as I am, and then seek me with a greater desire to meet me than thou hast now to shun my company? Besides thou knowest I always liked thee for thy honesty, and thy regard to me and mine, as well as for thy doing justice to thy poorer clients—as far as unjust laws and judges would allow thee. Now, with regard to my son John,” continued the ghost, looking sorrowfully on his faithful steward, “Death, as thou knowest, cut short my efforts to explain how my wishes were to be accomplished touching Trengwainton. Thy eyes are cast on earth; dost thou attend to what I say?”

“I do my best to,” replied the poor steward like one in a waking dream.

“Well, as thou knowest, there is much money owing to me on the place; no interest has ever been paid, and more cash is wanted. Do thou supply more and more until the place be indebted to nearly its value. Our boy John is now about fourteen. Before he will be of age, foreclose the mortgage, as the place by that time will be burthened to nearly its full value. If the estate be offered for sale there will be no purchaser; everyone hereabouts has enough to do to keep the land he has. All landowners here are much embarrased to hold what they have. Yet if the place be worth anything more than its encumbrance, pay over the balance on putting my son in possession. The management of my family’s property will be entirely on thy hands for many years, and thou wilt still be my trusty steward. Now understand me clearly, of a Harris it must never with truth be said that he got his lands unfairly. Mark the little more I have to say, that I may depart for good, and no more have to revisit this miserable world. Look up now, that I may know thou attendest to my words, and learn that unless my wishes be accomplished none of my family, nor of thine, will be known in this part of the country for half the time they have flourished here, nor have an inch of land more than their graves occupy. Behold those aged trees which my forefathers planted. Ere they return to dust our ancient homes will know us no more, if my last wishes be disregarded.”

Before the lawyer could reply—if he had anything to say—Harris’s ghost had vanished.

The servant, who awaited the lawyer at the Mill, became uneasy when it was almost night and the gentleman had not arrived; knowing him to be unwell and that he was a man who would never “say die whilst there was a shot in the locker,” as the saying is (everybody liked the steward for his pluck and kindly disposition.) He rode slowly up the lane by which he expected the steward to arrive, and, at last found him sitting on a bank beside the road, seeming all bewildered and stupid, like a person recovering from a trance or just come out of a fit. The servant roused him up, as he said, but the steward didn’t speak, even when he mounted his horse, and rode slowly homeward, with the servant following to his own door, where the doctor was anxiously awaiting his patient’s return. We heard no more of the good lawyer, but hope he rode out no more until perfectly recovered.

Harris’s ghost, satisfied with having told the lawyer how its wishes were to be carried out, has never more been seen nor heard in Kenegie, from that day to this.

HALLANTIDE: OR A ST. JUST FEAST FIFTY YEARS AGO.

“The Saint’s Feast is kept upon the Dedication Day, by every householder of the parish, within his own dores, each entertaining such forrayne acquaintance as will not fayle, when their like turne cometh about, to requite them with the like kindness.”—Carew’s Survey of Cornwall.

Many persons of Penzance and its neighbourhood, whose memories take them back fifty years or more, may recollect an aged man, usually called Dick Rastram, who for some weeks before Christmas, and after it, used to be heard calling around the market,—

“Moore’s almanacks new,
Some lies and some true.”

The almanacks he sold were supplemented with advertisements of patent medicines and other special articles kept by his master.

On the whole Dick must have been a good servant, or his master would never have had the patience to bear with his provoking ways for so many years as he did. Dick was very fond of arguing the point as to the best mode of doing any job he was set about, and the time wasted in settling the matter was more than would have sufficed to do the work many times over; but he would exert himself with double vigour when allowed to have his own way. Sometimes, however, the master becoming tired of his man’s pig-headedness, would say “do the work as thou art told to; whether right or wrong no blame will rest on thy shoulders.” Then Dick would keep a sharp look-out for a mistake, and if his master made any, by a “slip of the tongue,” he would be sure to execute it to the very letter.

One morning this precious man-servant was sent to the bake-house in Back Lane, for a twopenny loaf of the proper age for mixing with other ingredients in making pills. In a few minutes he returned, placed the pence on the counter, and said “there’s no bread there stale enough; where must I go next?” Then he was told some other place, and as often returned without bread, asking each time where he was to go next? So he dawdled away great part of the forenoon, when everyone knew that if he had a mind he would find a suitable loaf in some shop best known to himself, in a few minutes. The last time he returned with the two-pence and asked, “Where must I go next?” his master, provoked beyond measure, said go to —, naming a place said to be very hot; and to soften the angry expression, added the word “stone” in a lower voice; but the man heard this cooling word, took up the pence, and went out to get the bread, it was supposed from some shop of his own choice. Night came, however, but no Dick; and the following day passed without his having been seen or heard of in Penzance.

A little after the usual closing time Mr. Harvey was in his shop with a few of his neighbours, wondering what had become of his man, and getting rather uneasy at not having had any tidings of him, and was about to have his shop closed, when Dick entered, put a two-penny loaf on the counter, and said, “Here’s a loaf that’ll please ’e I ’spose. I’ve ben where you told me to go for ut. You will, of course, pay me for what it cost me in lodgings in Helston last night, and for meat and drink on the road. I went as cheap as I cud; ’tes only two and twenty pence; seeman to me you have kept the shop open very late, and all the lamps burnan, when every shop round the market es shut up except the two grocers’ that are always the last.”

Dick then put up the shutters, turned down all the lamps except one near his master’s desk, and asked if there was anything more for him to do that night. “If there esn’t,” said he, “I’d like to go home and go to bed at once, that I may rise early in the mornan.”

Dick’s master being one who always saw the humourous side of a matter—and who had a keen relish for it, couldn’t, for his life, keep a stern look when he replied, “go into the kitchen and get thy supper and don’t let me see thee any more to night.”

Yet, with all the man’s deviltry, he was extremely proud of his master’s repute as a skilful chemist and a clever man; as well as of the old-established business, to which he regarded himself as a most important adjunct.

The warehouses where Dick reigned supreme, as far as he could, were extensive and somewhat scattered. The shop was a large one for those times, with groceries on one side and drugs on the other. Grocers’ kitchens were then the usual places in which their regular country customers left their baskets when their marketing was finished; and there, too, boiling water was kept that country-folks might make themselves tea, after which the warehouseman helped them take their marketing to the inn-yard, at which their horses were left (market-carts were but few then.) All were anxious to keep in with Dick, to have his assistance, for he was as “ugly” as sin with some who gadded about to new shops, that they might pick up things sold cheap as a draw for a short time.

Amongst the old regular customers, to whom Dick paid much attention, was Mary Angwin, or Chygwin, the wife of a well-to-do miner in St. Just Churchtown, who also cultivated a few acres of land, in his spare time. A few weeks before Hallantide [3] Mary invited Dick to come out the Feasten Sunday, and he promised to come.

On Feasten Eve, Mary and Jackey, her husband, were both in Penzance, to get meat and other things for the feast. They didn’t want to kill their pig for winter’s store before it was fat, and sell one side of it on the Thursday before the Feast, as many did that they might buy beef and other good things for the Tide. “Be sure you come early, in time to go to Church,” said Jackey, when his wife had reminded Dick of his promise to come. St. Just folks, and others in Feasten time, were proud to show a goodly number of visitors in Church. “And now, Dick,” said she, when ready to leave the shop, “if you will take one side of the basket, with me, Jackey will shoulder the sack of meat. The basket is heavy with Hallan apples, the largest I could get, and with other things; the old mare will groan and grunt at some rate, all the way home, as she always do, the creature, when there’s a few pounds more than usual on her back.”

After Mary had jogged away, seated on a bow-pad, with the heavy basket on her knees and the sack across the beast, Jackey stayed awhile waiting for some comrades who were going to tramp it home as well as himself. “You can find our house, mate, without any trouble,” said he to his expected feaster, “’tes nearly the first you will come to on entering Churchtown by the Penzance road; and you will know et by the largest turf-rick you’ll see close to the end of et, and ’tes sure to be sanded all about, from the door to the turf-rick and pigs’ crow. I’ve ben along to Percurnow on purpose for a load; none else will please Mary, for the Feast, but the sand from that Cove; and I brought home ‘gard,’ (decomposed granite) from the Tinpit Hill, in St. Levan, too, that she may scour the life out of tembran things,—the dairy door and all, as well as the benches; she’s a capital wife, she es. Now good night, and be sure to come early.”

By 10 o’clock Dick arrived, and was treated to a dram, first thing, whilst Mary laid before him a substantial breakfast. The only one there before, except those belonging to the house, was an old maid, a mantua-maker of Kelynack; she was a staid old dear, yet not out of hopes of getting married. Hearing that Dick Rostram was expected she had invited herself to come and help Mary cook the feasten dinner; and it was funny to see this dry old creature “setting her cap” at old Dick all the time he was there. Next came an elderly couple from Sancras; then two blooming damsels, sisters, from Morvah. And when all those expected were come, Mary said, “Jackey, my son,” (though speaking to her husband) “es time for thee to take our Feasters to Church, for I and Cousin Gracey want all the room to cook dinner. You’ll stop a spell in the public-house as usual, and all will be ready to place on the board by the time you come in.”

Though late for service in Church they had one comfort, as Jackey said, “they would be out as soon as the rest.”

About two o’clock the feasters came home and found the big crock lifted off the brandes (trivet) on to the hearth. In the large vessel were boiled a rump of beef, a couple of fowls, and a nice piece of streaky pork to eat with them; as well as turnips, carrots, and other vegetables, all in kipps (net-bags) to keep them separate and for convenience in taking up. The vegetables were placed to drain on bars called “kipp sticks,” placed across the crock; the beef was dished up on a round pewter platter; the fowls had melted butter and parsley—some of the butter poured on them, the rest served in a boat. A rabbit-pie was steaming on the chimney stool; and a baked figgy (plum) pudding was on the dresser, turned out of the baker on to another pewter platter, and powdered over with white sugar. On one end of the hearth, over a few embers, stood a little pot, the very model of the larger vessel but not more than a tenth of its size, containing choice red-apply potatoes, steaming under a cloth, all the water having been poured off. At the sight of this Dick clapped his hands and cried “what a dear little crock!”

When the female guests came down, with their dresses pinned up, that they mightn’t be foust (soiled or rumpled) they found dinner served. Mary took from the dresser pewter flagons, which shone like silver and were only used on grand occasions, to serve the ale. If the feasters didn’t make a good dinner it was from no fault of their entertainers, for it was “cut and come again” till all declared they were “choke full and ready to burst.” Then they had a nip of brandy all round, to settle their stomachs. Jugs of hot toddy were next placed on the board, with a little tray of shag tobacco and long pipes. Crocks and pans put away, the fire was gathered to one end of the hearth; fresh turves put on; and the chimney-stool put back to its place on the other end of the roomy hearth, that those who liked best to smoke in the chimney corner might sit there. The men being made comfortable as their hearts could desire, Mary and her female friends went upstairs to have a cosy chat to themselves; and there they had a bottle of old sweet-drink (mead) which had been kept for the feast. Didn’t their tongues go, two or three together, talking over the births and marriages that had lately taken place or were likely soon to occur amongst their acquaintances; the new dresses seen in Church; and scores of other matters dear to female hearts.

When weary of being without the men, down they came to have a look round the “hale” (hall?) Jackey asked if they,—the two blooming ones—would like to have a run down to the Cape? “No thank ’e, Jackey dear,” said the elder, “’tes too cold a place this time of the year, but well enow in summer. After we have warmed ourselves a bit we want to see the pretty things in your hale, brought home, from over sea, by your cousin, Tom Hattam.” “You shall, my dears, and take a glass of hot toddy to warm ’e all through. I spose your sweethearts will be here soon?” “No not yet, for hours,” said the elder again; “es time enow for them to come here when we want to be going home, and that won’t be yet awhile. But I shouldn’t wonder if Nanny’s Tom es here before long to know where he shall meet you and some other San Tusters to-morrow to go rabbit shooting. You must come over to Morvah, he said, for he can tell you where a hare’s likely to be found and rabbits in plenty. Her boy, Tom es roving mad sometimes to get married and be off over sea to a place where many of his comrades went some years ago, and are doing well there, so Tom says. What’s the place called Nancy, that thee art always dreaman about?” “Dodgeville,” replied the younger; “es near Mineral Point.”

Jackey having set the Morvah girls a-talking about their sweethearts, and the subject of their discourse being of little interest to any but themselves, the Sancras man, taking Jackey’s two elder children, went to visit some relatives of his and theirs in another part of Churchtown. His wife was asleep on Mary’s bed, being tired after her walk from Trannack and a hearty meal. At last when the girls paused a moment they and the rest went to look at the pretty things in Mary’s hale.

Whether Jackey Angwin’s best room be called a hale or a parlour, it was a very neat little place,—almost too bright and nice and full of nick-nacks for one’s eyes to rest on anything.

The mantel-shelf was so crowded with china cattle, chiefly cows and sheep, with a shepherd and shepherdess under a tree, taking care of them, that they had scarcely room either to lie or to stand amidst crystals of quartz, or Cornish diamonds, and other choice specimens, and foreign shells. There were also two circus horses, red and white ones, rearing on their hind legs, on either end of the shelf, and ready for a spring down on the floor.

Hanging on the walls over the mantel was that red-hot picture of Vesuvius and the Bay of Naples, which seamen so often bring home from some Levantine port to let their friends know something of the wonders they have seen. “Come here, Dick, and the rest of ’e, and tell us about this picture and other foreign things that Cousin Jack brought home on his return from his first voyage abroad.” Dick looked at the picture and said, “This is the same that one may see in almost every house in Capens Row, and in many on Sandy Bank. Sailors all tell a story about it and say that a long while ago, a vessel was becalmed for three days and two nights within sight of that burning mountain. About one o’clock, or earlier, on the third night, they heard a loud voice, coming from that mountain, say, ‘the hour es come, but the man esn’t come.’ Lookan to windward just after, the sailors saw a black cloud rising from out over the sea and coming straight towards them. When just over the main-tops they saw plainly that what they had taken for a cloud was a company of infernal spirits, carrying off among them a man they had known. He was a Barbary pirate whose vessel they had sunk with all on board not long before. The men heard dreadful cries as the infernal spirits bore the pirate away right to the mountain that had only ben smoakan for days before; but as the infernals approached and took the man down et blazed up and roared like thunder. Then a gale sprung up and brought the ship into port—thereabouts, where you see the red-lookan housen,” said Dick pointing to Naples.

[This sounds much like an old kmonish legend, and it probably is one adapted from the ancient myth which tells of Etna and Vesuvius being the chimney-tops of Tartarus.]

“Can that story be true?” asked Gracey, looking at the picture as if she expected to see the cloud of infernals. “I don’t know I’m sure,” Angwin replied, “for Jack told us the same; but sailors spin such queer yarns, and so besmeared with their tarbrush, that one can’t ever tell what’s in them of truth. Now when Jack brought us this picture (and other things we’ll see bem by) Granny was here. She put on her spectacles to have a good look, but couldn’t make out what it was. When Jack told her et was a burnan mountain she said ‘Hold thy tongue; I’ll never believe that; es a bad picture of a house a fire I spose.’ ‘Well, old dear,’ replied he, ‘you won’t credit me weth haven sen many things that you havn’t. You wan’t believe praps that when on the Red Sea shores I seed the axle-trees of Pharoah’s chariots stickan out of the sand weth the linch-pins still in them. The wheels and the other tember was rotten and washed away.’ ‘Perhaps I may believe that,’ said she. ‘An old ship-mate of mine,’ continued Jack, ‘who had ben a long way inland told me he had sen Lot’s wife turned into rock-salt. ’Tes still standan in that dry climate, and he cracked off the little finger of her right hand. It’s grown again: fingers and toes shoot out, or sprout anew, during a flowing tide.’ ‘Why what is become of the finger?’ asked she. ‘That, at the bottom of the sea, now,’ replied he, ‘weth many other strange things, such as Eve’s apples, very fair to see but all full of ashes within jest like ‘colebrands’ (smutty ears of wheat.) His ship was sunk with a blow from a whale’s tail, and he wed a ben drowned, ef by good luck he hadn’t a got hold of a dolphan, which he mounted when sinkan, and the good fish, always friendly to sailors, bore him safe to shore.’ ‘Now I wan’t heer any more of thy stories,’ said Granny, ‘for one can’t tell what to believe of them.’”

When Jackey ceased talking the company passed on towards a large table, with turned-down leaves, which stood against the wall opposite the window. Resting on this table and supported by the wall was an oval mahogany tea tray of the old fashion, and above it pictures of the four Evangelists, seemingly painted on glass. The saints’ raiment was of as deep a dye as the lurid flames of Vesuvius or the purple waters of Naples Bay. In front of the tea tray was a pile of books, and at either end a large foreign shell, so turned as to show the delicate pink of its inner surface. “Put one of these to your ear, my dear,” said Dick to the younger Morvah damsel, “and you will hear waves surging on the shores from which they were brought, and that’s over the water which you expect soon to cross.” Nancy having placed a shell to her ear and listening, said, “I surely hear it murmuring as if in grief to be taken from its old home and companions. What do you hear, sister?” “Much the same, I think,” replied the other sister. “Oh, what a lot of things you townsmen know,” said Gracey; “I should dearly love to live in Penzance; one can hear and see so much more there than in the country.” “Come and live with me then, my dear,” said Dick; “I’ve a lot of pretty things to show ’e and we’re a suitable couple,—just of a height,” continued he, taking Gracey’s arm in his, whilst she looked down and simpered in a way she thought would seem modest.

Leaving the table, all Mary’s guests came to a corner-cupboard or “buffet,” as it was usually called. About a third of its height was closed with doors; over which were three open shelves. On the lower shelf, or cupboard-bed, was a rare old china punch-bowl, turned on its mouth, with old china plates lining the sides, and around the bowl, basins and small cups, without handles, all of rare old India china. On the middle shelf was a china tea-set. On the upper one many curious old glasses, some of them coloured, with high twisted stems, and patterns cut on their inner surfaces. Whilst looking over these, Gracey spoke of her feet being cold, and the gallant Dick led her to the kitchen fire. When they had passed out Mary opened the cupboard doors and took out a variety of such trifles as sailors usually bring home from foreign parts; and these were, most of them, either from Quebec or South American ports, to which ships in the timber trade resort. Amongst the former were moccasons and pouches of curious patterns, worked by the squaws of Indian Lorrett, about ten miles from Quebec; strings of those rare seeds called Indian shot, the product of Canadian plants. (The larger ones, looking like bits of pear-shaped porcelain, and just as hard, are often strung for rosaries: although so hard that their sides, when dry, cannot be pierced with steel, they have a natural cavity from end to end, running lengthwise, through which a fine needle and thread may be passed.) Next a clear broad-mouthed bottle, full of smaller foreign products, was taken out and brought to the window, when Mary noticed that the day was darkening, and, looking up at the old eight-day clock, which stood beside the fireplace, was surprised to find it so late, and said she must be off to get tea, opened the door a little, then closed it, and came back and said to Jackey, “I be hanged ef old Gracey and Dick ain’t upon the chimney-stool sitting as close as they can get, head to head, courtan. Who but they! She’s ben tryan all she cud do in that way ever since Dick es here.”

Mary then went to the dairy to make a cake. The window being darkened by many choice plants, chiefly roses, they brought the bottle of wonders up to the kitchen table and turned out its contents.

One may remark, before going farther, that the clock was made by Matthew Wearne, of St. Erth, early in the last century. Many of them are still in this neighbourhood, keeping good time.

Suspended from a beam, near the middle of the room, was a silvered-glass globe reflecting objects around. Against vacant places on the walls were placed the usual six chairs and two armed ones, all furnished with neat, patch-work covered cushions. The bottle being emptied on the table, there were found various small tropical shells and seeds, strung together like necklaces; also some of those bean-shaped seeds frequently picked up on our sands, and on all shores laved by the Gulf Stream. In the West Country these have no particular name that we know of, but they were often perforated, strung, and hung from children’s necks to make them cut their teeth easily; and were worn as amulets for preventing diseases. It is pretty well known that those seeds of tropical trees being found on many shores of Europe, and not being those of any known trees in the Old World, learned men concluded before the time of Columbus, that they must be produced in lands either in, or beyond, the Atlantic; consequently, they had something to do with the discovery of America.

The bottle repacked and put away tea was ready and all the guests assembled.

Besides the heavy cake just baked,—black with currants, and too rich with cream for any one to eat much of, there were risen cakes; and apple-cakes, baked on Saturday; with bread, cream, and honey.

Tea being over, the old Sancras couple left. They wern’t much missed, for they were a dull old pair, who passed nearly all their time either eating, drinking, or sleeping. The old man had walked down to Nancherrow, ’tis true, but then he went to visit an old acquaintance, were he was sure to have more drink; yet he tasted every thing on the table at tea-time, finishing with bread and honey, as he said the cream was too “quaffing” (luscious) to eat with honey.