Part 3

“Haif a dozzen, or more, have ben in the straw,” replied the old man, “and all their children are kept tel next feasten-tide, to be christened then, accordan to custom, that the same treat may serve for witnesses (sponsors) and feasters; that et may be ‘the more the merrier,’ for feasten-time; and some of them are nearly ready to tumble in agen before they’ve returned thanks for their last deliverance. I was gwean to say just now,” continued the clerk, as Mr. Wood was about to speak, “that ef you had only been in the world in Tregagle’s time, and qualified for a sperat-queller and devel-driver as you are now, that Evil One, who es more like a devel than a mortal’s sperat, wedn’t ha been left to carry on, in the way he ded, for many years; after sweepan the sand from one West country cove to another, in a crack, when they were miles asunder; stoppan up the Loo, and so changan Helston from a seaport to an inland town; then back again for another job, and frightnan people out of their lives almost, with the devel and hes hounds chasan am round and round Gosmoor and about, tryan to keep am from the Chapel on the rock, where Tregagle always took refuge. Happely passons fixed am, at last, to team out Dosmery. There he’ll have to stay, for ever and ever and aye. He mait as well try to dip the ocean dry weth hes leaky croggan (limpet shell) as that bottomless pool, which as a part of the sea, they say, as et do fall and rise with the ebb and flow of the tide; and for a few minutes after the tide’s turn to ebb, there’s a whirlpool in the meddle of en, when bushes and other light things floatan near are sucked down, and sometime afterwards they rise agen in Falmouth Harbour or St. Austell Bay, I forget which,—some say the one and some ’tother. I wanted to ax ’e somethan about ’n, fearan I shud forget, but——”

“Stop, for goodness sake,” cried the parson, “leave Dosmery and Tregagle to the charge of Old Nick and be—be attentive to what I have farther to say regarding our own devil, and the means to be essayed for driving him; and when we have happily concluded, we will—on some winter’s night—overhaul these old stories, to see if there be a few grains of truth underlaying the mass of fables.

“Now, as I take it that recently baptised children have the greatest power to drive away evil spirits, I wish you to go round the parish to-morrow, and request all prudent women who have lately undergone the pains and perils of childbirth, to come and be churched next Sunday afternoon, if they are able, and to bring their babes to be christened at the same time. If a goodly number can’t be got to come next Sunday, let it be on the following week, but arrange with the mothers that they all come at the same time.”

“I’ll do the best I can, accordan to your wishes,” replied the clerk, “but they won’t be willan to come before the feast, because poor people don’t care to make two treats when one would do.”

“Tell them to give the sponsors cake and ale, for the time,” replied Mr. Wood, “and put off their chief entertainment till the tide, when we’ll have a merry time of it. The feasten week I’ll go round and visit them all; and you, being fiddler-in-chief, shall have enough to do. Call at my house when you come back to tell me how you have got on, and that we settle on the number, and other matters to be observed.”

Whilst talking they had walked slowly towards the parsonage. The clerk having agreed to Mr. Wood’s proposals, they wished each other good night and separated.

Early on the following morning Clerk Courtney, as he was called, began his journey round the parish to ask the mothers of all unbaptized children to bring them to be christened the next Sunday afternoon. After stating the urgent reason for his request, the women replied to the effect that they would have preferred leaving their christenings till the feast, for the sake of economy; yet being desirous, above all things, to please their good parson, they promised to attend, as required, and thought it nothing strange that they should be wanted for such an occasion, as they knew the trouble the devil had given, and the prevalent belief in the power of young children to rout evil spirits. Few of the good dames were provided with wheaten flour, as barley-bread was the “staff of life” then in all labourers’ and most small farmers’ households. They told the clerk, however, that if they couldn’t get wheat to take to mill, in time for making a christening cake, they would buy a few penny worth of biscuit, so as to have white-bread for offerings on their way to be “uprose.” They would on no account neglect this old custom of giving to the first person met on the way to be churched a good slice of cake or wheaten bread of some sort; it was believed to bring good luck to the giver, receiver, and child.

The mother also drew a presage, from the first person by whom met or overtaken on leaving her threshold. She regarded encountering boy or man as a good omen that her next born would be a boy. Such was the dislike of many mothers to meeting another woman that they often left the path, or, if they saw no way for avoiding a meeting, the poor woman passed the omen of ill-luck on the right hand, as she would a witch, and appear not to see her. Yet their most general plan was to turn back home, if not far from it, and touch the “cravel” (mantle-stone across the head of an open chimney) with her forehead, and cast into the fire a handful of dry grass, or anything picked up, on the way back, that would burn; then start again, hoping for better luck.

The practice of resorting to the hearth and touching the “cravel” [1] with the head, is regarded as the most effectual means of averting any impending evils of a mysterious nature.

The reasons for their preference of boys to girls may be found in the old sayings:—“While the boy is away his bread winning, the maid is home doing nothing but spinning.” “Boys can take care of themselves, but maidens can’t.”

The dames would all get a “half-a-strike” of wheat each and take it to mill if they could. They liked going thither to “serge” (sift) their flour to their liking, and hear the latest gossip from the miller’s wife, or other women who brought their grist. Mills were so noted as places for scandal, that any slanderous tale used to be called a “mill story.” The mill, too, was the usual place of rendezvous for young folks of summers’ evenings, when they generally had a dance, to music from the miller’s fiddle,—all the old millers could play dance tunes. If the miller hadn’t leisure, some of the merry company either beat up the time on a “crowd” (sieve-rind with a sheepskin bottom, used for taking up corn, flour, &c.), or they sung verses of old ballads which suited the measure. We will no longer linger over our pleasing old customs.

As most of the sponsors were courting couples, living in the parish, the clerk gave them timely notice, too, that the young women might get up their best rig-out, as he called it, against the grand occasion. Some of the mothers, poor dears, who were so earnest that there should be no “hitch” in the matter, accompanied the clerk to houses where they apprehended finding any difficulty, to help him over it. They had no occasion, however, for the women, without exception, agreed they could go through “fire and water” to please their good parson. “Bless hes heart,” said they, “hes door es always open to a poor body in want; he’d give the shirt from hes back to any one in much distress; and he esn’t a bit sticked up, though wise man as he es, he might well be proud of his learnan.”

“’Tes never his way,” said another, “to be like the old priest of the fable, who was ever ready weth hes blessan, but wed never bestow a farthan; as for our passon, he wed have us all be merry and glad tell the end.”

“Aye, we all know there esn’t his equal round about,” said the clerk. “Moreover, et will be something for ’e all to remember weth pride; and your cheldren’s cheldren may well feel exalted to hear how their ‘grammars’ help’t to rout the devil from Ladock.”

Before night the old man was assured by as many mothers as he thought sufficient that they would bring their babes to be christened the next Sunday. On his way home he called in at several farm-houses, in all of which he was made welcome with something substantial to eat, and good strong ale to help him on. The folks were always glad to have him and his violin at their merry-making times, such as “gulthise” (harvest-feast) weddings, christenings, feasten tides, &c., although he had no great variety of dance tunes.

Soon after day-down he arrived back to the parsonage, not a bit the worse for liquor, because he had taken little else than good wholesome home-brewed. Having told Mr. Wood how he had succeeded, the reverend gentleman, after a pause, said, “You have done well, better in fact than I expected; the number of women to be depended on amounts to eight, though you thought them more. Now everything is significant. It was held by wise men of yore, and is by many of the present day, that peculiar virtues belong to particular numbers, representing the signs of planetary and other powers; indeed, a magic square is as powerful for controlling demons as the impress of Solomon’s seal, which you call the five-pointed star. So to neglect nothing which might tend to our success, we will have a fortunate, or what you would call a lucky number of children. You know everybody hereabouts use nine in all their charms and many other matters. They also call old stone circles ‘nine-maidens,’ though they are, for the most part, formed of many more than nine stones. The latter part of this name, however, is a double corruption, first from the old Cornish men (stone) into medn (just as pen is changed to pedn); thence it became Saxonised to maiden, which, in turn, suggested foolish legends about dancing-maidens turned to stones to account for this unmeaning name. The general use of nine seems to indicate that the ancient inhabitants regarded it as a sacred number. According to eastern sages, twelve is the best of all, because it contains the number of signs on the sun’s yearly circuit, and for various other reasons.

“So we will make up a round dozen with four of the youngest christened last year. You can go and select them to-morrow; the mothers will make no difficulty, as they have nothing to provide; and here, take this,” said Mr. Wood, placing in the other’s hand a good sum in silver, “and give it amongst the poor women, that they may buy biscuit for their offerings, and not want to ask for trust.”

The clerk, having supped heartily, promised to find the additional number on the morrow, and went home well content, particularly so because “the master,” as he called the parson, had given him money for the poor mothers.

Next Sunday afternoon a dozen matrons came with their infants and the sponsors. There were many strangers as well as the regular congregation, and the devil on the tower, making his usual disturbance.

There were nine women churched; and as many children christened, after service; when the parson walked out of Church, followed by twelve mothers, with their babes in their arms, and the godfathers and godmothers, in a procession, marshalled by the clerk. They were all arranged in lines, five deep, the mothers in front, opposite the belfry door. Mr. Wood directed each mother to pass her child from one of its sponsors to the other, the last handing it to him.

He then held it up awhile, that the devil might behold it, and returned it to its mother.

All the babes having been thus passed from hand to hand, their mothers held them aloft, whilst the parson walked to and fro, before them, reading and cutting the air, in various figures, with his ebony staff. He read and read for a long spell, in loud tones, yet the infernal being still remained,—pretty silent, however,—“clutted in” close by a pinnacle, on the tower’s eastern edge, where he seemed quite heedless of the important proceedings below.

At last some of the children, becoming tired, perhaps, began to cry, the others followed suit, and the twelve blessed babes, each one and altogether, seemed trying their utmost to scream the loudest; whilst the parson read or recited with increased vehemence. Then it was that the fiend hopped over on to the western parapet, and stretching his neck glanced down on the good folks.

The effect of what he heard and saw was magical; at least it seemed so to the spectators.

Giving a prolonged scream, which was heard for miles around, he darted straight up, to the height of a bow-shot, or more; then, shaping his course towards St. Ender, he quickly disappeared.

Many of the spectators said they saw sparks and blue flames thrown off with every flap of his huge wings; but all of them agreed that his display of fire was nothing like what they had expected to behold when a devil takes his departure. Over a while, when it was found that he didn’t return, there was great rejoicing in Ladock; and he has nevermore been seen there from that time to this. The bells were put in order without delay, and their frequent joyous peals kept all such fiends at a distance.

Note.—The clerk spoken of in the foregoing story was much respected by his neighbours on account of his ancient lineage; he was a descendant of the Courtneys who long owned Tretnurf, in Ladock, and lived there for many generations.

THE GHOSTS OF KENEGIE.

Old folks of Gulval say that, in their grandparents’ time, the ancient mansion of Kenegie and its grounds were constantly haunted by three “sperats,” and, on some nights by many more.

The following stories respecting them were told by an aged tinner of Lelant, as they had been often related to him by his mother, who had lived for many years in service at Kenegie, previous to her marriage, about fourscore years ago; some incidents are also taken from other versions.

The first ghost, of whom there is any remembrance, and the one which remained longest, was the spirit of a thrifty old Harris, who made great additions to the house and walled-gardens, and was most unwilling to die and leave them. This spirit, however, gave but little trouble. He merely came on a certain night in every year—which was known to his descendants—to review the place in which he had taken so much delight; and only required that, on the night of his accustomed visit, the principal entrance door should be left open, as well as one opposite, opening into a paved court surrounded by offices.

At that time the grand entrance was approached by a straight, stately avenue, flanked by a bowling green, with a picturesque two-storied summer-house or “look-out” at its further end.

It was believed that any negligence in leaving open these doors, at the stated time, would be a cause of misfortune to the Harris family, or a token of its decline.

Consequently, this custom was duly observed from farther back than there is any remembrance, until within a few years of the time when the last Harris of Kenegie disposed of his ancestral home. ’Tis said that when the spirit came and found the doors closed—through some mistake, it is supposed,—he made much unearthly wailing, till cock-crowing, then went moaning away and never returned.

It is surmised that when the old family residence, in which he so much delighted, came into the possession of strangers, he neither desired to see it nor to hear of it again; and that he has, ever since, shut himself up in his family vault, where he has plenty of company, as one may judge from the great number of monuments in Gulval Church, recording the virtues of his descendants. Before that unlucky time, crickets were heard chirriping around the hearths of their old home all night long; but afterwards not one was heard or seen,—sure token of impending misfortune.

The next ghostly visitor, and a more troublesome one, had been housekeeper and a great favourite with a later Squire Harris, much to the prejudice of his son and heir. The very night after her funeral, disturbances began; the whole household were annoyed by this husey of a ghost prancing along stone-paved passages, from one room to another—doors clashing and banging behind her,—till she entered the kitchen, where she would next be heard winding-up the great roasting-jack,—one of the old fashioned noisy clock-work machines, kept in motion by a heavy weight passing through the chamber floors, and attached to a rope or chain working over screeching pullies, fixed somewhere in the upper regions of the mansion.

After an interval of scolding, shrieking, and the other accessories of a row, she would beat the table or dresser-bed with a rolling-pin, and make the pewter-plates rattle, by way of announcing, as she was wont to do, that the roast was ready, and to summon the servants to dish it up. Between the thumps, she screeched “Quick, come quick!” and another voice replied “Anon, anon!” Then the parlour furniture would be shifted, as if preparations were in progress for entertaining a large company. At length the inmates were glad to hear her high-heeled shoes patting over stairs and along the gallery, until they stopped at her late master’s bed-chamber door, which was usually the conclusion of her noisy exploits for the night.

The shadowy figure of this old woman, in a long-bodied gown and kirtle, was frequently seen passing quickly through the court. Now and then it happened that a new servant, wishing to get ahead with her work—on washing days especially,—and not hearing any disturbance, ventured downstairs in the small hours of the morning; but, on entering the kitchen, her light was almost always blown out, and she got a slap in the face, from an invisible hand, that “made her see fire before her eyes;” and, on turning to leave the room, received a kick behind which made her remember to stay abed till cock-crowing.

This housekeeper was “put to rest,” however, many years before the Harrises left their old home, and bound to perform such a task as she richly deserved. There are no particulars known of the way in which this was done; it is only stated that some powerful exorcists—neighbouring clergymen, who were then supposed to possess power over ghostly visitants—succeeded, after much conjuration, in quelling her, in some measure; but, as she absolutely refused to leave the place, they compromised matters by confining her to a small room, on the eastern or northern side of the mansion; with her were placed a fleece of black wool, a pair of cards, a “pole and kiggal” (distaff and spindle) and knitting needles. With these she was required to card the black fleece until it became white, and then to spin it and knit stockings of the yarn. Her closet door is walled up or plastered over, so that few know exactly where it is situated, though old folks who served the Harris family say they have often heard the clicking of cards in some remote part of the buildings, and that there was always a little hole, such as sparrows might nest in, through and through the wall; if filled up, it was sure to be opened over night, without being touched by mortal hands.

Whether this old jade’s ghost still gives signs of her presence, is best known to the inmates. One would gladly dismiss her, but we shall have to mention her again in connection with “Wild Harris,” who next came back and haunted the place, down almost to recent times.

The last Ghost of Kenegie—at least of whom there is any trustworthy tradition—was that of a spendthrift heir, known as “Wild Harris,” who is best remembered, because ordinary parsons’ collective power was found insufficient to lay him. He extended his walks all over the grounds and far away down in the “bottom” towards the mill. He was also often seen on horseback, chasing with one hound, on Kenegie Downs and elsewhere.

Belated market folks and others dreaded to pass Kenegie Gate, for they frequently saw the “Squire’s sperat” standing in an alcove, just over this grand entrance. The ghost mostly wore a steeple-crown and feather, hunting-coat and riding-boots, or a long, black gown and flat cap, with lace and plume.

He usually stood beside his family coat-of-arms, which may still be seen, and glared down on the road with a look as immovable as that of the lions carved in stone, that, on either hand, then guarded the gate. Sometimes, too, he was beheld seated beside the churchway-stile, a few yards further up the hill. Often on approaching this spot, people were made aware of the spirit being near, though invisible, by a sulpherous smell which pervaded the place.

On winter nights, the Squire’s ghost, with a dozen or more of his “old comrades,” or such-like spirits, would assemble in the bowling-green summer-house, where they might be seen and heard from the mansion even, talking, singing, swearing, and shouting, in a state of uproarious mirth. Altogether, Kenegie must have been a lively place of nights, with the old housekeeper reacting scenes of her former rule within, and “Wild Harris’s” nocturnal carouse in the “look-out.” Few servants, however, lived there long; they didn’t relish such ghostly merriment, in which they had no other share than to be kept awake and terrified all night.

No satisfactory account is handed down as to why these troublesome spirits could not or would not rest; there are, however, fragments of misty traditions which throw a little light on the subject.

Of the old improving gentleman, who delighted in building, no more seems to be known than what has been stated. The other unresting Harris is said to have been an eager sportsman, with much wild-oats in his composition, who cared for little else but his hunter and hounds, except a young lady, a poor relation, dependent on his family, with whom she lived much like a fish out of water, being regarded as too low for the parlour on grand occasions; and, at all times, as too high for the kitchen, where she was treated as an intruder by the housekeeper and her creatures.