Part 5

On approaching that dwelling, they heard Mr. Polkinghorne’s Hector neigh from the downs; their horses replied, and there was more whinnying from Hector, which showed the direction taken, and set St. Hellar parson all agog, to follow the ghost-layer. As they crossed the road and paused a moment, a whirlwind passed over the house, where they thought of seeking shelter, and took up a bundle of spars (small rods, pointed at both ends, and used for securing the thatch) which a thatcher, who had been repairing the roof, had left there, pinned to the work with a broach, that he might find them to hand when he continued his thatching. The bundle being taken high up and whirled about, its bind broke, and one of the devil-directed spars pierced St. Hellar curate’s side, just above his pin-bone, (hip-joint) like an arrow shot from a bow. He fell on the ground like as if killed, and his companion, in drawing the spar out of his friend’s side, had his hand burnt, just as if he had grasped red-hot iron.

Presently, the black clouds rolled away westward, and the wind lulled. Then the spar-wounded man was raised by his companion; lifted on to his horse; and laid across the saddle, like a sack of corn. They went slowly on and reached Nancledery about daybreak. Having rested a few hours at the Mill, it was found that the St. Hellar curate was still unable to sit on horseback, and he was taken home in a cart.

The reverend gentleman was, ever after, lame; and bore to his grave marks of his spar-shot wound; that’s the last we heard of him.

We now return to Mr. Polkinghorne. At the time of this ghost-laying there were, around the Castle-hill, extensive tracts of open heath, which are now enclosed; and the highway is skirted by hedges, where it was then open downs, there being several more small dwellings built at Castle-gate.

The parson’s Hector was well acquainted with the lay of the country all around, as he had often crossed it following the hounds; and, after scrambling through the narrow lane, tried his utmost to take away down over the moorland to a smith’s shop in Halangove, where he had often been shod. By a firm hand on the bridle-rein his master kept him up-hill for a furlong or so, when they came to an old gurgie (ruined hedge) that once enclosed a fold. On one side there was a bowjey (cattle or sheep-house). A dwelling and outhouses have since been built, and a few quillets (small fields) enclosed near this spot. Mr. Polkinghorne alighted, turned his horse into the old “shelter,” and bade the ghost approach.

They walked on in silence until they came to the Castle’s outer enclosure, which screened them from the blast. Then the reverend gentleman said, “Now that we are alone, and not likely to suffer any more intrusion, tell me, my unhappy brother, what it is that disturbs thy rest? Be assured, my desire is to procure thee peace.”

The spirit replied to the effect that, at the time of his decease, he was much troubled, because he owed several sums to work-people and others, fearing they wouldn’t be paid by his successor. Moreover, he related how he had walked about for years, hoping some honest body would speak to him; how the longer he was left unspoken to the more uneasy and troublesome he became; and when his relations brought the parsons to lay him, who were unqualified for that office, he was much exasperated, and he determined never to leave Kenegie.

“Yet, it gave me some pleasure,” said the ghost, “to make those who came and read long curses, as if exorcising an evil spirit to “cut and run” and nevermore return, by only advancing a step towards them. Though spirits seldom speak until first addressed, I couldn’t help exclaiming, as I did, and wished to escape when you surprised me by entering the summer-house; but I am now satisfied to be in your power, trusting you will procure me rest.”

“Be assured, my son,” replied the parson, “that I will see all thy debts paid.”

“That will relieve me of much,” said the spirit, “yet there are other subjects that trouble me; but you must promise me never to divulge them, ere I make a clean breast of them.”

“My profession obliges secrecy in such cases,” replied his adviser, “therefore speak on without reserve.”

The poor ghost having unburthened himself, Mr. Polkinghorne gave him words of comfort, and concluded by saying, “think no more about your little faults and failings, for if, when in mortal life, you had more of what we call the devil in ye, you would have overcome your opponents, and much grief would have been spared to yourself and others.

“Besides, my son,” continued he, “from your simple, honest, and confiding disposition, you were unable to cope with sly, mercenary hirelings.”

Then the parson took the cord off, saying, “This is no longer required to protect ye from evil spirits, for they have all departed with the tempest they raised, and the sky is now serene.”

As they ascended the hill the moon shone bright on the old fort’s inner enclosing wall, which was then almost intact. The upper enclosure is nearly oval in outline, and they entered it at its south-eastern end. Stopping a minute on the hill-top, Mr. Polkinghorne said to the ghost, “There is no cure for a troubled spirit equal to constant employment, and I shall allot you an easy task, which, with time and patience, will procure ye repose; but I must first make the whole of this enclosure secure against infernal spirits.”

Mr. Polkinghorne then used a form of exorcism, which, as far as it could be understood by the old story-teller’s account, was something like the following:

Having placed the ghost on his right hand side, he passed with him three times around the enclosed hill-top, going from east to west, or with the sun, and keeping close to the wall. At the first round, he merely counted the number of paces; at the next, he uttered, in some ancient eastern tongue, such exorcisms and adjurations as serve to expel infernal spirits; at the last circuit, he made, near the bounding wall, twelve mystic signs, at equal distances. He then passed through the middle of the ground to its north-western end, “cutting the air” with his whip, and tracing on the earth more magical figures. Being arrived at the end opposite the entrance, he drew a line with his whip stick, from a large stone in the wall, on one side, to another opposite, and told the spirit to remember them as bound-stones. The space thus marked off might be three or four “laces” of pretty even grass-covered ground, with a few furze bushes and large stones scattered over it.

The reverend gentleman rested a while on the ruined wall, which rose some ten feet above a surrounding foss, and three or four from the inner ground.

“Now, my son,” said he, turning towards the ghost, who stood near, “all within the Castle’s upper walls is as safe for ye as consecrated ground; and here is your task, which is merely to count the blades of grass on this small space, bounded by the wall and a straight line from stone to stone, that you can always renew or find.

“You must reckon them nine times, to be sure that you have counted right; you needn’t set about it till I leave, there’s plenty of time before ye.

“Whilst at your work, banish from your thoughts all remembrance of past griefs, as far as possible, by thinking of pleasant subjects. There is nothing better for this purpose than the recollection of such old world stories as delighted our innocent childhood, and please us in mature age.”

The spirit looked disconcerted and said something—the old tinner didn’t know his words exactly,—to intimate that he thought the assigned task a vain one, as it produced nothing of lasting use. He would rather be employed in repairing the Castle walls, or some such job.

“No, my dear son,” replied the parson, “it would never do for ye to be employed on anything that would be visible to human eyes; the unusual occurrence would draw hither such crowds of gazers as would greatly incommode ye. No more need ye trouble yourself on the score of its mere use, in your sense; for if restless mortals employed themselves solely in such works of utility as you mean, the greater part of them would find nothing to do, and be more miserable than ghosts unlaid.”

The poor ghost assented to the greater part of what the parson said, and the reverend gentleman resumed his discourse, which was enough of itself to “put spirits to rest” one might think.

“Believe me, gentle spirit,” said he, “the world is just as much a show as our old Christmas ‘guise-dance’ of St. George; for a great number pass their lives in doing battle with imaginary dragons; others in racing about on their hobby-horses, to the great annoyance of quiet folks. There are numerous doctors, too, both spiritual and physical, for ever vaunting of their ‘little bottles of elecampane,’ as sovereign cures for all ills but their own; whilst the motley crowd is bedizened in fantastic rags and tinsel, just like ‘guiseards.’ Indeed, except honest husbandmen, simple artisans, and a few others, the rest might just as well pass their time in spinning ropes of sand, counting blades of grass, or in any other ghostly employment, for all the good they do, unless it be to tranquilize their restless minds.”

The ghost made no reply, but seemed “all down in the mouth,” which expression of sadness the parson remarked, and said, “Don’t ye be out of heart, brother, but have patience, and you will find that, with constant work, years will pass away like a summer’s day. Then you will wonder how your mortal crosses ever had the power to trouble ye. All remembrance of them will fade like a dream, and you will rest in peace.

“When you have a mind to pause awhile—say after each time of counting,—you can go around the hill-top and enjoy the extensive prospect, as all within this higher rampart is a charmed circle for ye, where fiends dare not enter. There are other pleasant sights which you will often behold; for the small-people (fairies) still keep to the Castle-hill and hold their dances and fairs, of summer nights, within these ramparts. On May-day, in the morning, they are frequently seen around the spring, just below, or going up and down the steps which lead to it, by young men and maidens who come at early dawn to clean out the Castle-well, and to deck it with green boughs and blossoming May, as is their wont. These gay beings are the spirits of old inhabitants who dwelt—it may be thousands of years ago—in the ‘Crellas,’ at Chysauster.

“There is something more which will serve to divert ye; people from far and near often come here to enjoy the charming prospect; you may learn by their talk what is going on in the country round, if you care to hear anything about it. Perhaps some of the neighbours may speak of you and your family, and say things neither pleasant nor true; but let me beg of ye, however much you may be vexed to hear their slander, for goodness sake, don’t ye contradict them, nor show yourself; for your apparition, in its rich but antiquated garb, would frighten poor weak-minded mortals into fits.”

The poor ghost seemed “dumbfoundered,” and said not a word: so the parson went on as if in his pulpit. At length he stood up and said, hastily, “One might mention more of what will make your abode pleasant, but it’s high time for you to become invisible and for me to leave ye. The cocks will soon be crowing; see how fast the light increases on Carn Marth, Carn Brea, and other noble hills that were giants’ dwelling places in days of yore, and stand out against the grey sky like sentinels over this favoured Western Land.”

The parson, pointing to the eastern sky, told the spirit to put off his form. In a minute or so the apparition became indistinct, and faded gradually away, like a thin wreath of smoke dissolving in air.

Mr. Polkinghorne said farewell, and, as he turned to leave the spirit to his task, he heard a hollow voice say, “Good friend, do thou remember me, and visit me again.”

When the reverend gentleman entered the old “bowjey,” the joy that his horse showed at his approach was like recalling him from death to life.

As Mr. Polkinghorne slowly wended his way homeward, he was grieved to see the wreck made by the preceding night’s tempest. In Nancledry, low-lying as it is, dwellings were unroofed, and trees, which had withstood the storms of centuries were all uprooted. On higher ground “stones were blown out of hedges,” arish mows laid low, and the corn whirled around fields.

About sunrise, St. Ives folks, standing at their doors, were surprised to see their beloved parson, coming down the Stennack, looking so sad and weary, and that he didn’t give them “the time of day” (a greeting suitable to the time, as good morning, &c.,) with his accustomed cheerful tone and pleasant smile. Neither Mr. Polkinghorne nor his steed were again seen in the street for several days after their ghostly night’s work.

CORNISH CASTLES.

It is not generally known to strangers that what are called Castles in Cornwall are little more than simple entrenchments, consisting of large and small stones built up about ten or twelve feet high and held together by their own weight, without any cement. These embankments are surrounded by a ditch, formed by excavating the soil which fills the ramparts. A well is always found within the Castle’s enclosure.

Traditions, which have been handed down by old stationary folks, such as freeholding farmers—whose families have long dwelt near these primitive strongholds—say that they were constructed by the ancient inhabitants, as places of refuge where their cattle and other property might be protected from the “red-haired Danes,” who frequently marauded the country in days of yore. Near the outer entrenchment of Treen Dinas stood a barn, where there is now a dwelling called Caer Keis. This barn was inconveniently situated for farming purposes, and old proprietors of Treen held that it was used in old times for storing hay and corn, which might be wanted for cattle when they were placed in the Castle to be safe from northern pirates who were accustomed to land at Parcurno,—then free from sand.

It is a matter of regret that such interesting examples of primitive fortifications, as Castle-an-Dinas and others, should have been almost destroyed of late years, when they have been resorted to as to quarries, and the stones removed for building huts and hedges.

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.