Part 11

The hostess said, that Jackey (her husband) was gone over to Trevidja to gulthise [8], if he should be home to-morrow, he would tell us some stories she believed to be true, because her husband knew the people the stories were told of; “but as for Uncle Henny’s,” said she, “they are all, or nearly all, about people who lived so long ago that one don’t know whether they’re true or no.”

The schoolmaster referred to, Mr. John Davey, was well versed in various branches of mathematics, and took good care that his pupils should be thoroughly grounded in the most practically useful problems. Many young miners of St. Just acquired such a taste for geometry about this time that the boards, &c., near mine-workings were often found covered with diagrams from Euclid. They hit on the Chinese method of demonstrating the famous 47th problem, 1st book, by drawing the diagram to a scale, producing the squares of the three sides, dividing them into small squares by scale, thus proving that the sum of the squares of the two lesser sides was equal to the square of the larger. With many other problems of the same class, they took similar practical means of demonstration and were not slow to see their application. Mr. Davey and his pupils also took great pride in answering mathematical queries proposed in the ‘Ladies and Gentlemen’s Diary,’ and other magazines of this period. Nor did he neglect general literature for the more practical subjects, as an anecdote, which was told me by a pupil of Mr. Davey, will prove:—This young man was much addicted to spending his evenings in public-houses for the sake of having company and excitement more than from any love of drink.

Being in Penzance Market, and seeing some curious old books, illustrated with rare engravings, and knowing that Mr. Davey was fond of such works, he bought two or three volumes for the sake of gratifying the old gentleman, not attempting to understand them himself. One was an odd volume of Shakespeare, containing some of the historical plays; another Spenser’s Faerie Queene; the other Goldsmith’s poems and plays. Mr. Davey pointed out the most beautiful passages in the plays of the royal Henrys, and explained the history of the time of these dramas, helping him at the same time to enjoy the beauties of Fairy-land and all its revelries. The young miner no longer wanted public-house amusements. Before the winter was over, with a small portion of the money he would have wasted, but for the delight he had in reading the old volumes over and over again, he bought complete editions of Shakespeare, Spenser, &c., and soon acquired a good acquaintance with many of the best English authors.

A few years afterwards he received a hurt at the mine, which disabled him for hard work, when he opened a school in Buryan Churchtown, which procured him a comfortable maintenance, and his greatest pleasure seemed to be to speak of his old master with love and gratitude.

No doubt much of the superior intelligence of St. Just men of the present time is owing to the training of the excellent old schoolmaster, who was altogether a remarkable man for the time and place. We want more such schoolmasters and fewer preachers in the West.

THE SEAMAN’S GHOST.

James Botterell, one of the St. Just family of that name, after having served many years aboard a privateer when he was a young man, in Bonaparte’s time, settled in Zennor, about fifty years ago. Shortly after he left sea, he was much troubled with a drowned shipmate’s ghost. Towards the morning part of a stormy winter’s night, he was aroused by three loud raps on his chamber window; and, on raising his head, he saw standing by his bedside the apparition of one John Jones, who had been his favourite comrade—looking pale and sad, and, apparently, dripping wet. In a few minutes it disappeared with the misty light which surrounded it.

Next day James tried to persuade himself that the vision might be merely a troubled dream, but the apparition continued to come on each succeeding night, stopping longer than at first. There was also much noise and disturbance in and around his dwelling, by day as well as by night.

Over a week or so the ghost, often casting an angry look at the man, followed him about in broad daylight, so that James became weary of his life. His friends advised him to speak to the ghost and have confidence, as they had always been good friends; they told him that a spirit would never speak until spoken to; and they believed that his shipmate merely wanted him to do something that the ghost was unable to perform. Moreover, they warned him that there was danger to be apprehended when a spirit was angered by delay in speaking to it.

At length James plucked up courage, and one day, being at work in a field, when his old mate’s ghost stood by him—as usual, looking sad and angry by turns—he spoke, and said, “Tell me, John Jones, what shall I do to give thee rest?” The spirit replied, “It is well thou hast spoken, for I should have been the death of thee if thou hadst much longer refused to speak! What grieved and vexed me most was to see that thou seemedst to fear thy old comrade, who always liked thee the best of all his shipmates.”

“I no longer fear thee, Jack,” replied James; “and wish I could grasp that hand of thine as in times gone by.” Indeed, he now felt no more dread of his messmate’s ghost than if he were still a living man. The spirit, looking pleased, said, “Now I see thee art like thyself again, staunch and true to thy comrade in life and death. Listen and learn why I am come to seek thy aid. The other stormy night, a few minutes before I first appeared at thy bedside, I was on board a good ship in the Bay of Biscay, with a strong gale and a rolling sea. In clewing up a topsail, the ship gave a lurch: I lost my hold, fell overboard, and was drowned before anybody noticed my mishap. When sinking I thought of thee. Now much of my prize-money is in a chest, left in Plymouth at a public-house well-known to thee—the one we used most to frequent, when everything was in common between us. My son, I want thee to go thither; take my chest to another house; pay what I owe to various people in Plymouth, and keep what remains for thyself. I’ll meet thee there and direct thee how to act.”

Jim having promised to do all that was required, Jack’s ghost looked happy, and a moment after said, “I wish thee well, mate, till we meet again,” and disappeared.

Early next morning James took a strong young horse and rode away to Plymouth. It was after candlelighting of the second night when he arrived there, and put up at an inn—a short distance from the one where the chest was left.

Whilst he lay awake, thinking how he should proceed on the morrow, Jones appeared by his bedside, and, as if knowing what passed in the man’s mind, said, “Don’t ’e think, my son, that the landlady will make any difficulty about taking away the chest, for she don’t know, d’ye see, that it contains valuables, nor that I shipped aboard an Indiaman and got drowned a few weeks ago. But she remembers how—not long since—we wore each other’s clothes and shared each other’s rhino, just as brothers should. Tell her I’m in town and will see her before I leave! To-morrow bring here the chest and I’ll direct ’e how to deal with my creditors; and now good night, mate.” Saying this he vanished.

The landlady was very glad to see James, and more so to have the sailor’s chest taken out of her way; told him to give her love to Captain Jones (as she called him), and to say she hoped he wouldn’t fail to call before he left port. The chest being opened, there was nothing to be seen in it but the seaman’s best clothing; for all the money was concealed in secret drawers of the skibbet, and under a false bottom. The ghost accompanied James—though invisible to others—all the time, until the business was settled. Then it left him—without saying good bye, however.

James went over to Dock. Whilst he was there admiring the shipping, on turning around he saw Jones close beside him. If he had been visible to other people they would have taken him for an able seaman in his prime, for he appeared rigged out in brand new sailor’s garb and looked hale and hearty as when alive. “I’ve just passed by the old inn,” said he, “showed myself as I now appear, and kissed my hand to our old hostess, who was at her work near an open window; but, before she could reach her door to welcome home the man she used to admire, lo! I’m here. So you see it’s convenient to be a ghost!”

James didn’t think so, however; and they walked on in silence till they came near a fine ship ready to sail on a long voyage. Then the spirit stopped, and, looking sorrowfully in the man’s face said, “My dear Jim, I will now bid thee farewell. I’m off to sea again, for, with an occasional trip to the Green, I know no way of passing the time that better suits me. Thou wilt nevermore see me whilst thou art alive, but if thou thinkest of me at the hour of thy death we shall meet, as soon as the breath leaves thy body. My poor clay lies deep in the Bay of Biscay, and when thine is laid in Zennor churchyard we will rove the seas together. A truehearted tar has nothing to fear, and now my son adieu.” A moment after James saw him glide aboard the ship, and in the twinkling of an eye he vanished.

James returned to the inn, feeling very wisht, and his sadness continued till he came in sight of Zennor Hills. Then he felt in pretty good heart; and well he might, for hadn’t he brought home a bundle of capital clothes that he found in his comrade’s chest and many more pounds in his pocket than when he left Zennor? But the horse was never fit for anything again, from having been ridden to and from Plymouth in less than a week.

Sailors say that ships are often haunted with drowned seamen’s ghosts, and they believe that such vessels are seldom wrecked, for the friendly spirits give warning of approaching tempests, and tokens of other dangers to their craft.

Cornish Sailors’ Isle of Avalon. — It is known to most persons who have mixed much with Cornish sailors that they often speak of the “Green,” which they frequently call Fiddler’s Green amongst themselves. They describe this place as an “Isle of the Blest,” in which honest Tars, after the toils of this life, are to enjoy unmixed bliss with their old comrades and favourite fair ones. In orchards of fruit, ever ripe, they are to be entertained with music, dancing, and everything else in which they delighted in their lifetime. The idea of this Fairy Land is probably derived from Celtic mythology, as well as that of

“The island valley of Avilion, Where falls not hail, or rain, or snow; Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies Deep-meadow’d, happy, fair with orchard lawns, And bowery hollows crown’d with summer seas.”

Thither King Arthur was wafted in a barge with three fair queens when his table, man by man,

“Had fallen in Lyonness about their Lord.”

Breton and Welsh sailors have similar notions.

THE OLD WOMAN’S GHOST.

Not long since there lived at Trewey, in Zennor, a poor and aged woman, who much loved her neighbour’s little girl, and, when dying, bequeathed to her a shawl, which was all she had to leave of any value.

The departed woman’s wish, however, was disregarded; and a few evenings after her funeral, the child would burst out in shrieks. On being asked what made her screech so, “Oh! there’s An Katty,” cried she, “with her face tied up in a white nackan and nothing on her but a sheet!” Thus the old woman’s ghost continued to haunt her; until one evening a strong man, of great faith, took the child and carried her out of doors, when, over a while, the little girl exclaimed, “Oh, there she es again.” Then the man saw the spirit too, and said to her, “In the name of goodness I command thee to tell me why thou art come back to trouble this cheeld?” The spirit answered, “Because the shawl isn’t given to the cheeld, I cannot rest.” Then the man said he would see her wish complied with, bade her depart in peace, and told her that if she hadn’t been “an old fool of a sperat, she would have scared the ones who kept the shawl and have left the cheeld alone!” By that, the ghost had vanished, without saying another word.

The same night the shawl was given to the cheeld, and Trewey folks thought that all was then settled with the old woman; but, in the course of two or three evenings, the little girl, being out in the town-place with her playmates, was taken up over the furze-ricks by invisible means, and borne away out of sight in a minute. The other children ran home frightened.

She often stayed out in neighbours’ houses for hours together, so her mother didn’t miss her till bedtime. Then, as the woman was going to look for her, in she came, with only one shoe on.

Being questioned as to where she had been to lose her shoe, the child answered that she didn’t know—only that she was taken up over the “housen” and carried away as easy as if she had been rocked in a cradle to a Churchtown with lots of trees in it, and laid in the churchyard on a new grave; she saw nobody, but heard like singing around her; somebody kissed her; then she shivered with cold, and was again carried up over the trees and back to her own town-place. She believed that her shoe was loosened as she skimmed the tree-tops, but where it dropped she couldn’t tell.

From what the child said, all Trewey people thought she had been taken to Ludgvan, where the old woman was buried; and it was put beyond doubt next day, when her missing shoe was found on the old woman’s grave. There it was left; for the old woman “might want something belonging to the child, to put her to rest,” and nobody would risk bringing her back again for the sake of a shoe.

And she has “kept quiet” from that day to this.

The stranger, by the way of applauding this story, or the droll-teller, exclaimed, “Hear, hear, and cheers!” “Iss, they’re all in rags and tatters,” said the landlady, who was laying the table, “es the confounded children’s work; they’re always pullan the heer (hair) out of the cheers, od drat tham.” When the gentleman explained that no allusion was made to her chairs, the jolly dame laughed heartily at her mistake, and speaking to the story-teller said, “Cap’n Henny, don’t ’e tell any more stories about sperats, lev es have the St. Ives mutton feast, or somethan cheerful.”

Then the man who had told the two preceding drolls recited the following verses.

THE MUTTON FEAST AT ST. IVES.

An old tradition says that a flock of sheep were blown from Gwithian sands into St. Ives Bay, and that St. Ives fishermen caught them, believing them to be a new variety of fish, either with their nets, or with hook and line, and brought them ashore as their night’s catch.

About eighty years ago, Mr. Fortescue Hitchins wrote the following verses on this tradition.

Sometime ago in days of yore, On Cornwall’s northern sandy shore, A borough town, as some folks say, Stood on the margin of a bay; And through all the country round Its folks for wisdom were renowed.

East of this famous borough’s bay A barren, sandy common lay, Where the farmers naught could keep, Except some flocks of half-starved sheep.

One dusky night the wind blew high, Black, lowering clouds obscured the sky: With furious sway the eastern blast Swept all before it as it past; Storm-driven stores of frighted sheep Were hurried down the sandy steep; Nor could they face the sweeping sway, Which sent them headlong into sea.

Bad are the winds, as all must know, That never good to any blow; Since two or three, at dawn of day, Wreck-hunters ranging round the bay, With joy beheld the fleecy flock Lie dead around on sand and rock. They, with good Ammon, when they spied, Opened their throats and “heava!” cried. This well-known sound aroused them all, And out they tumbled great and small: Fish-bulkers, chimney-sweepers, sailors, Parson, clerk, tinkers, and tailors, Coopers, crabpot-makers, cobblers, Hewers, hake-whippers, and hoblers, Boat-menders, seiners, and warp-hawlers, And all the gape-mouth heava bawlers.

With joy they see the mutton store, And “heava” sound from shore to shore: So counting honestly the sheep A God-send from the stormy deep, All hands turned-to, with wonderous pain, To share the unexpected gain; Brought home of mutton such a store Which lasted them ten days or more; And from each hide made shift to pull Almost a pound-and-half of wool.

Now, mutton roasted, mutton boiled, And mutton fried, and baked, and broiled, Which, savoury, smoaking from a dish, Had almost drowned the smell of fish.

Five days they watched the foaming tide, Hoping more sheep might yet be spied. And now and then their longing eyes With joy salute the mutton prize; And when, at length, a heavy sea Has fairly thrown them in their way, Surrounded like a flock of crows, Which carrion want to fill their maws.

Now those who have to feed on fish Ten minutes took to enjoy that dish; An hour now to dinner linger, To pick the bones and lick their fingers.

These thankful folks were heard to say— “O blessed was that happy day That brought such stormy sway to sweep Into our Bay such flocks of sheep! O might such storms, ten times a year, Send such good store of such good cheer! O that the storm would also bring A few good ankers from the sling, Buried by smugglers in the sea, And throw them plump into our Bay!

Then we lazy lubbers all Might lean our backs against the wall, And thankfully enjoy the sun,— That would be glorious lazy fun!”

“Heava” is shouted from the high ground on which a watch is kept for pilchards as soon as the “huers” signal their approach. These signals are made to seiners in the boats, by the means of bushes, or wire-frames covered with white cloth.

The cheering sound of “heava” no sooner reached St. Ives than it resounded from street to street, and soon reached the country.

It has been said that this word “heava” was either a contraction of “we have them, or here they are;” but its origin is uncertain.

THE WITCH OF KERROW.

About seventy years ago, Sir Rose Price often started a hare near Kerrow, in Zennor. His dogs would run it into the village, where it would always escape by entering a “bolt” (drain) that ran from a pool up under a house, not far from the pool. At last, one day the hunters loaded their guns to hinder it from escaping by that strange way. Having started the hare it took the usual course, when one of the guards shot at it, but didn’t kill it, for it went up town and entered the bolt as usual. Sir Rose lifted the latch and, followed by some others, entered the dwelling to ask leave to open the bolt, when lo! there, sitting on the hearthstone, they beheld an old woman of the house, much bleeding about her head and face, with her hair all hanging down. Beside her, on the chimney-stool, sat a monstrous big black cat, with his back up and eyes like coals of fire, showing his teeth as if ready to spring at the intruders, who turned tail and went away, without speaking a word, when they saw how they had hunted and shot a witch. And not one of these hunters ever prospered after! At least so runs the legend.

FAIRIES ON THE EASTERN GREEN.

Returning somewhat late on the following evening, from a long ramble to see remarkable places in the neighbourhood, we found the manager of Zennor stamps and the other old cronies seated in their accustomed places by the fireside.

Shortly after the landlord came in from his work. He was a sturdy fellow of fifty or thereaway, burnt as brown as a berry. Most of his time was passed at work on his farm; he had a good size one for that part of Zennor, and the public-house was left to his wife’s management.

During the evening, after much coaxing, our host told the story which his wife had spoken of as a true one: telling how a company of smugglers, of his acquaintance, had been driven away from Market-jew Green by small-folks (fairies.)

There is some hope that all the fairy-folk have not yet entirely forsaken this neighbourhood, as there are persons now living who have seen them dancing and holding their revels on the Eastern Green within the last fifty years. At that time, however, there were many acres of grass-grown sandy banks there; and a broad belt of soft green-sward, which skirted the carriage road, afforded a pleasant walk from Chyandour to Market-jew bridge.

Great part of this green has now been swept away by the waves, and much of what the sea spared has been enclosed by the grasping owners of adjacent land, though their right to this ancient common is very questionable.

The following fairy adventure was told to me a short time since by a grave elderly man who heard it related by the principal person concerned in it.

Tom Warren, of Paul, was noted as one of the boldest smugglers round. On a summer’s night, about forty years ago, he and five other men landed a boat-load of smuggled goods at a short distance from Long Rock. The brandy, salt, &c., having been taken above high-water mark, two of the men departed for Market-jew, where their best customers lived, and one went over to Newtown to procure horses that the goods might be secured before daybreak.

Tom and the other two, being very tired, lay down by a heap of goods, hoping to get a doze whilst their comrades were away. They were soon disturbed, however, by the shrill “tweeting” of “feapers” (slit quills or reeds, which give a shrill note when blown in.) Besides there was a constant tinkling, just like old women make by rattling pewter plates or brass pans to frighten their swarming bees home, or to make them settle.

The men thought this noise might be from a company of young folks keeping up a dance on the Green till a very late hour. Tom went to see who they were and to send them home, for it wasn’t desirable for everybody to pry into the fair traders’ business. Having passed the beach, he mounted a high sand-bank to have a look round, as the music seemed very near him.