Part 4

This unfortunate damsel passed much of her time in the pleasant upper room of the summer-house with old maiden ladies of the family, who here wrought everlasting tapestry, fine lace, or embroidery, varying their labours by spinning, to stretch their legs, and by doing much other useful and ornamental work,—then regarded as necessary accomplishments. Here, too, the ancient dames sipped choice cordials of their own distilling or compounding; perhaps, in latter days, enjoyed their tea and gossip; and, from the balcony-like outer stair-landing, have watched the gentlemen’s healthy exercise and sports on the bowling-green. This choice retreat was finished with decorative wood and plaster-work; over the fireplace may yet be seen the family coat-of-arms; a broad window, opposite the entrance, commanded a delightful view over miles of rich pasture, orchards, and gardens; the western hills, with several parish churches; St. Buryan tower, standing boldly out, like a lofty landmark, against the sky. In the ground apartment, which also contains a fireplace, gentlemen, after their exercise on the bowling-green, rested and partook of refreshments with more enjoyment than—

“A party in a parlour, Cram’d as they on earth are cram’d.”

When the poor gentlewoman was in her bloom, “Wild Harris’s” father was a widower, in his dotage, and too much influenced by his housekeeper, who had been, during his wife’s lifetime, and was still, a special favourite with him. The old faggot, may she never cease carding, and her wool never become white! She ever disliked her young master, and detested the poor orphan lady, of whom she was jealous, fearing lest she might supplant her one day in governing the household. The dame was a malicious spy on the lovers, who frequently met in the summer-house and retired walks down the vale. Their interviews were all the sweeter for being stolen; yet soon, alas, they resulted in sorrow to the young lady.

The old gentleman was much prejudiced against his poor cousin by being persuaded that, only for this unfortunate attachment, his son would have wedded a rich heiress, whose lands lay near the Harrises’ “up-country” property. He declared that the day his son married his cousin, he would wed his housekeeper, so that she should still rule the roost. In spite of all opposition, however, the young man would have made an “honest woman” of his betrothed, but was hindered by the malice of the old dame and his father until too late; for the poor damsel, distracted with grief, wandered away one night, she knew not whither, and next morning was found, by her lover, drowned in a mill-pond.

Shortly after this tragic event the old Squire died, and “Wild Harris” found himself master of Kenegie, but disinherited of much other property, bequeathed to his brothers in the army or navy. He had some satisfaction, however, in turning to doors the old mischief-making minion, but not much; she soon fretted herself to death, and was hardly laid in her grave ere she was back again, making such a din, out of mere spite, as hindered the inmates from getting a wink of sleep during the dead hours of night.

The master of Kenegie became more reckless than ever; his days were spent in hunting, or holding games on the bowling-green; and his nights were passed in revelry.

He kept open house, for rich or poor, who chose to partake of his hospitality. One and all were cordially welcomed. With all his faults, he had an open heart and hand; but, in a few years, he came to an untimely end, whilst still in his prime, by a fall from his horse when hunting on the Castle Downs. It is said that his horse was startled by a white hare that often followed him, and was believed to be the unfortunate lady’s spirit.

He was borne to Gulval Church and laid in the vault at night, as was the fashion then with some of our old families. His burial was attended by many friends; and when some of them—who remained late at the funeral supper—came down the avenue to return home, they beheld him, as natural, seemingly, as life, standing by the summer-house steps, arrayed in his hunting-dress, and, by his side, a favourite old dog that had died when his master breathed his last.

LAYING WILD HARRIS’S GHOST.

The following account of this ghost-laying is given as related by the old tinner, [2] except where his dialect might be unintelligible to general readers. It is curious that he made the spirit-queller address the ghost by the uncouth word “Nomine domme,” which he thought a proper name. One cannot doubt that the expression used by the original story-teller was (In) nomine Domini, which became corrupted, as above, by the usage of more ignorant droll-tellers of recent times.

On asking my venerable gossip what the term signified, he replied to the effect that it would take a conjurer to tell. He had heard it was a magical word, very likely the spirit’s name among spirits, for old folks held that they acquire new ones quite different from what they bore when in mortal bodies; that persons, knowing and using these secret names, obtained power over spirits, whether black or white; by this means conjurers controlled them, and witches summoned fiends to work their wicked will for a time. According to old belief, the infernal gentry were fond of wandering incog., just like mortals of high rank, that they might not have too many witches to work for. That strange word was the only one remembered of the parson’s conjuring formulary; “the others,” said he, “were as long as to-day and to-morrow, not like ours, for none but a parson, or some such learned body, could utter them.”

When speaking of evil spirits, he called them “Bukkaboos,” which is a recent corruption of “Bukka-dhu” (black spirit,) as old folks, who knew anything of Cornish, pronounced it. Within the writer’s remembrance, “Bukka-gwidden” (white spirit) was also in frequent use, though there was great latitude allowed to its signification. All good spirits, including, “small people” (fairies) were thus termed, except Piskey; he was regarded as “something between both,” like St. Just Bukka said he was, on seating himself between a mine-captain and a “venturer,” who asked him if he were a fool or a rogue?

If Piskey threshed poor old people’s corn and did other odd jobs for them by night, he was just as ready to lead them astray and into bogs, for mere fun; to ride the life out of colts; dirt on blackberries; and do other mischievous pranks. A precocious child, one “too wise to live long,” who bothered old folks by asking awkward questions, was called a “Bukka-gwidden,” as well as a poor simple, innocent, harmlessly insane person, or near to it. My old west-country schoolmaster, of a little more than fifty years ago, often applied this name to his scholars.

Persons who have been acquainted with our old droll-tellers know that they gave free rein to fancy, provided they had an audience to their mind; being well aware that, for the most part,

“A jest’s prosperity lies in the ear Of him that hears it.”

It is often remarked by strangers that the Cornish don’t understand a joke; but, if one may judge by the grotesque scenes and adventures of our old stories, that was not the case in past times, when there was less affectation and Puritanism than at present.

Some of the incidents related seem absurd enough, yet, as they may dimly shadow forth some old belief, it was thought best to give them, for better for worse, as consistency is not expected in very old stories, such as follow:—

The housekeeper was confined to her task, as already stated, long before the family succeeded in getting “Wild Harris” laid. Many ineffectual attempts were made, which only resulted in harm, by raising tempests which destroyed crops on land and life at sea; besides, after these vain trials of parson’s power, the ghost became more troublesome, for awhile, than he was before their interference with his walks.

Fortunately, however, the Rev. Mr. Polkinghorne, of St. Ives, acquired the virtue whereby he became the most powerful exorcist and “spirit-queller” west of Hayle.

From the little that is known of this gentleman, one may infer that he wasn’t, by any means, such as would now be styled a “pious character.” He is said to have been the boldest fox-hunter of these parts, but he would never chase a hare; any attempt to kill one would make him swear like a trooper. He kept many of these innocent animals—the hares—running about his house like cats; foolish people said they were the parson’s familiar spirits or witches he found wandering in that shape. He was a capital hurler, and encouraged all kinds of manly games, as he said they produced a cordial “one and all” sort of feeling between high and low. The parson was mostly accompanied by his horse and dog, which both followed him. When he stopped to chat, Hector, his horse, came up and rested his head on his master’s shoulder, as if desirous of hearing the news too. If he called at a house, both his attendants waited at the door, his horse never requiring to be held. He made long journeys with his steed walking alongside or behind him, the bridle-rein passed round its neck and the stirrups thrown across the saddle. Wonderful stories are also told about the high hedges and rocky ground that the parson’s horse would take him safely over, when after the hounds; and how the birds, which nestled undisturbed in his garden, and other dumb creatures seemed to regard him as one of themselves.

On being requested to do his utmost in order that “Wild Harris’s” ghost might rest in peace, or be kept away from Kenegie, the reverend gentleman replied that he hoped to succeed if it were in the power of man to effect it.

Other clergymen, hearing of what was about to be attempted, expressed a wish to be present at the proceedings. Mr. Polkinghorne replied that he neither required their assistance nor desired their presence, yet, any of his reverend brethren might please themselves for what he cared. Moreover, he charged them that, if they came to Kenegie on the appointed night, not to intermeddle in any way, whatever might happen.

A night in the latter end of harvest was appointed for this arduous undertaking. Several clergymen being anxious to see how the renowned spirit-queller would act with a ghost that had baffled so many of them, about an hour before midnight four from the westward of Penzance, a young curate of St. Hellar (St. Hilary), and another from some parish over that way, arrived at Kenegie, and waited a long while near the gate, expecting Mr. Polkinghorne. At the turn of night, a terrific storm came on, and the six parsons, drenched to their skins, took refuge in the summer-house. Candles had been lit in the upper room of this building, as it was understood that the spirit-quelling operations would be performed there. They waited long, but neither Polkinghorne nor Harris’s ghost appearing, the curate of St. Hellar—impatient of inaction—took from his breast a book, and read therefrom some conjuring formulas, by way of practice, or for mere pastime. As he read, a crashing thunder-clap burst over the building, shook it to its foundations, and broke open the window. The parsons fell on the floor, as if stunned, and on opening their eyes, after being almost blinded by lightning, they beheld near the open door a crowd of “Bukka-dhu” grinning at them, and then partially disappear in a misty vapour, to be succeeded by others, who all made ugly faces and contemptuous or threatening gestures. “It was enough to make the parsons swear,” if they hadn’t been so frightened, to see how these jeering “Bukkas” mocked them.

The reverend gentlemen crawled to the window and looked out, to avoid the sight of such ugly spectres, and to get fresh air,—that in the room smelt worse than the fumes of brimstone. Presently, an icy shiver ran through them, and they felt as if something awful had entered the room. On glancing round, they beheld the apparition of a man standing with his back to the fireplace, and looking intently towards the opposite wall. His eyes never winked nor turned away, but seemed to gaze on something beyond the blank wall. He wore a long black gown or loose coat which reached the floor; his face appeared sad and wan, under a sable cap, garnished with a plume and lace. He seemed unconscious of either the black spirits’ or parsons’ presence. Over a while, he turned slowly round, advanced towards the window, with a frowning countenance, which showed the parsons that he regarded them as intruders; and they, poor men, trembling in every limb, with hair on end, pressed each other into the open window, intending to drop themselves to the ground, and risk broken bones and an ugly “qualk” (concussion), for they were most of them fat and heavy.

Meanwhile, scores of “Bukkas” continued to hover behind the ghost, grimmacing as if they enjoyed the parsons’ distress. Every minute seemed an hour to the terrified gentlemen; but, as some of them got their legs out through the casement, the tread of heavy boots was heard on the stone stairs, and Polkinghorne bounced into the room, when the ghost, turning quickly round, exclaimed, “Now Polkinghorne, that thou art come, I must be gone!” The conjurer quietly holding out his hand towards the ghost, quietly said “In nomine Domini, I bid thee stay;” then he turned to the black spirits, made a crack with his hunting-whip, said, “Avaunt, ye Bukkadhu,” and off they went, at his word, howling and shrieking louder than the tempest. The ghost stood still; Polkinghorne uttered long words in an unknown tongue whilst he drew around it, on the sanded floor, with his whip-stick, a circle and magical signs, with a “five-pointed star” (pentagram) “to lock the circle.” He continued speaking a long while without pausing, and his words sounded deep and full, as if, at once, near and afar off, like the “calling of cleaves” and surging of billows on a long stretch of shore, or thunder echoing around the hills.

At length the spirit felt the able conjuror’s power, crouched down at his feet, holding out his hands, as if praying him to desist.

Mr. Polkinghorne, whilst still saying powerful words, unwound, from around his waist, a few yards of new hempen “balsh” (cord), leaving much more of it attached. Having made a loop at the end, he passed it over the ghost’s head and under his arms; then, addressing him, said, “In nomine Domini, I bid thee stand up and come with me.” On saying this, he lifted from the floor, with his whip-stick, the spirit’s skirts, and under them nothing was seen but flaming fire.

When Polkinghorne had the spirit standing beside him, with his eyes fixed and limbs motionless, like one spell-bound, he exclaimed, “Thank the Powers, it’s all right so far.”

Casting a glance towards the other parsons, and seeing a book on the floor, he took it up, opened it, and speaking for the first time to his reverend brethren, said, “You, too, may thank your lucky stars that I came in the nick of time to save ye from grievous harm.” Holding it towards the St. Hellar curate, he continued, “This belongs to you, my weak brother; strange such a book should be in your possession! The penmanship is beautiful; it must have cost a mint of money, yet it is worse than useless,—nay, it’s perilous to such as you. By good luck, you read what merely brought hither silly ‘Bukkas’; one can’t properly call them demons, though no others were known here in old times; they now mostly keep to old ruined castles, ‘crellas,’ and ‘fougoes,’ yet they are always abroad in such a night as this. But, if you had chanced to have pronounced a word, that you don’t understand, on the next leaf, you would have called hither such malignant fiends, flying in the tempest this awful night, as would have torn ye limb from limb, or have carried ye away bodily. Perhaps, becoming tired, they might have fixed ye on St. Hellar steeple. For my part, I wish you were there, lest a greater evil befall ye this night.

“You ought to have known, as any old ‘pellars’ (conjurors) would have told ye, if you had deigned to talk with such without preaching to them, that the secret of secrets, the unwritten words which make this book of use, are the names of powerful and benevolent spirits, by whose aid fiends are expelled. These secret names, by which alone they may be invoked, are only taught, by word of mouth, to the few who are initiated, after long probation, mental and bodily, and a more severe examination, by nine sages, than the likes of you would ever pass. Many, to their sorrow, have been presumptuous to make the essay. Sages hold that if these sacred names were written they would lose their magic power.

“The mystic signs, necessary for obtaining mastery over some spirits, are only traced in sand, or other substance from which they are readily effaced when those deemed worthy have this knowledge imparted. Not so very long ago, the learned in occult science met, at stated times, on the lonely downs, and at the same places in which sages were wont to confer in days of yore for the examination of such as sought admission into their fraternity, and for the preservation of their mystic lore. Novices were principally examined as to their proficiency in the science of extension, and in making such reckonings as are required for constructing a planetary scheme at any given time. Not that these sciences had much connection with the more mysterious subjects treated of in this manuscript; but, it was justly considered that the person having a mind capable of comprehending geometrical problems, and of making abstruse astrological calculations, was worthy to be admitted into the brotherhood of sages, and, in time, to their higher mysteries.”

After a pause, in looking sadly at the ghost, who seemed to listen with attention, he continued, addressing the gentlemen of St. Hellar, “I suppose you have heard the old saying, ‘Women and fools can rise devils, but it takes wise men to lay them.’ Indeed, tradition says that, in ancient times, fair young witches first obtained this dread knowledge from their demon lovers, to summon them whenever they desired; old hags soon pried into the secret—as they will into all kinds of deviltry,—and quickly communicated from one to another, until witches became numerous in all Christian lands; thousands of them were burnt as a warning, but their burning didn’t deter others from the like evil practices.

“The demons became disgusted of witches continually crying after them, to wreck their vengeance on innocent man and beast, and did their best to evade them. Much more may be said on the subject, but time presses. I have still arduous work to perform, so only another word, my over-curious brother,—burn this book of magic in the first convenient fire.”

Saying that, he cast down the book; spoke a few words, which the others didn’t understand; drew his foot over a mystic sign that “locked” the charmed circle; and, turning towards the spirit, said, “In nomine Domini, come thou with me,” and “Wild Harris’s” ghost was led away, quiet as a lamb.

Mr. Polkinghorne, having reached the outer gate, took his horse, which he had left there. The poor beast trembled, though this ghost was not the first, by many, that had been near it. Having mounted, he gave the ghost more rope, and bade him keep farther from Hector. A minute afterwards the four west-country parsons, without as much as saying, “I wish’e well, till we meet again,” took down hill as fast as their horses could “lay feet to ground;” it was “the devil take the hindmost” with them.

In passing up Kenegie lane, the parson’s horse was very “fractious;” it jumped from side to side, tried to leap over hedges, and screeched like a child; yet it became pretty quiet at last, when the spirit kept off to the end of his tether. Few bleaker places are to be found than the old road to St. Ives, passing over Kenegie downs. When they got there, the wind seemed to beat on them from all points at once; rain and thunder never ceased; the Castle-hill seemed all ablaze with lightning; at times, too, when a more violent blast than usual whirled around them, clouds of fiends hovered over them like foul birds of prey; the sky was pitch black, and demons were only seen by the forked lightning that burst from their midst. The ghost, as if seeking protection, came nearer the parson; then his horse’s terror became painful to witness, until a few magical words and a crack of his whip sent the devils howling away, and the ghost to the end of his rope. At last they came within a stone’s cast of a few dwellings called Castle-gate, and leaving the highway took a path on the left that wound up the hill to Castle-an-dinas.

We leave them for awhile to look after St. Hellar curate and his friend.

One might think that the two parsons from eastward would have taken their nearest way home, over Market-jew-green; but no, St. Hellar curate thought he would rather go many miles out of his way than miss this opportunity of seeing a spirit put to rest, and his friend was afraid to go home alone; so they both started after the ghost-layer, keeping sufficiently near to see him on horse-back, leading the spirit, as they ascended the hill. The lightning was almost continuous, otherwise the night was very dark. On reaching the open downs, however, they found it impossible to keep their saddles, even by holding on with both hands to their horses’ manes. Their hats were blown away, and their cloaks flying from their necks like sails in a hurricane rent from the yards. They alighted and trudged along, in single file, dragging their unwilling steeds behind them, for the horses wanted to take their accustomed road home, and didn’t like the ghostly company ahead.

When Mr. Polkinghorne reached the hamlet, called Castle-gate, and entered a narrow lane leading up to Castle-an-dinas, they were so far behind as not to see his departure from the highroad; and, on coming near the lonely cottages, decided to stay there, if they could find shelter; but, on a closer view, the dwellings appeared to be deserted; the thatch was stripped from their roofs, leaving bare rafters on all but one of them.