“Continually at my bed’s headA hearse doth hang, which doth me tellThat I ere morning may be dead,Though now I feel myself full well.”Robert Southwell.
“Continually at my bed’s headA hearse doth hang, which doth me tellThat I ere morning may be dead,Though now I feel myself full well.”Robert Southwell.
“Continually at my bed’s headA hearse doth hang, which doth me tellThat I ere morning may be dead,Though now I feel myself full well.”
“Continually at my bed’s head
A hearse doth hang, which doth me tell
That I ere morning may be dead,
Though now I feel myself full well.”
Robert Southwell.
Robert Southwell.
“The messenger of GodWith golden trumpe I see,With many other angels more,Which sound and call for me.Instead of musicke sweet,Go toll my passing bell.”The Bride’s Burial.
“The messenger of GodWith golden trumpe I see,With many other angels more,Which sound and call for me.Instead of musicke sweet,Go toll my passing bell.”The Bride’s Burial.
“The messenger of GodWith golden trumpe I see,With many other angels more,Which sound and call for me.Instead of musicke sweet,Go toll my passing bell.”
“The messenger of God
With golden trumpe I see,
With many other angels more,
Which sound and call for me.
Instead of musicke sweet,
Go toll my passing bell.”
The Bride’s Burial.
The Bride’s Burial.
When you cross the brook which divides St Leven from Sennen, you are on the estate of Treville.
Tradition tells us that this estate was given to an old family who came with the Conqueror to this country. This ancestor is said to have been the Duke of Normandy’s wine-taster, and that he belonged to the ancient counts of Treville, hence the name of the estate. Certain it is the property has ever been held without poll deeds. For many generations the family has been declining, and the race is now nearly, if not quite, extinct.
Through all time a peculiar token has marked the coming death of a Vingoe. Above the deep caverns in the Treville cliff rises a carn. On this, chains of fire were seen ascending and descending, and often accompanied by loud and frightful noises.
It is said that these tokens have not been seen since the last male of the family came to a violent end.
Robert, Earl of Moreton, in Normandy,—who always carried the standard of St Michael before him in battle,—was made Earl of Cornwall by William the Conqueror. He was remarkable for his valour and for his virtue, for the exercise of his power, and his benevolence to the priests. This was the Earl of Cornwall who gave the Mount in Cornwall to the monks of Mont St Michel in Normandy. He seized upon the priory of St Petroc at Bodmin, and converted all the lands to his own use.
This Earl of Cornwall was an especial friend of William Rufus. It happened that Robert, the earl, was hunting in the extensive woods around Bodmin—of which some remains are still to be found in the Glyn Valley. The chase had been a severe one; a fine old red deer had baffled the huntsmen, and they were dispersed through the intricacies of the forest, the Earl of Cornwall being left alone. He advanced beyond the shades of the woods on to the moors above them, and he was surprised to see a very large black goat advancing over the plain. As it approached him, which it did rapidly, he saw that it bore on its back “King Rufus,” all black and naked, and wounded through in the midst of his breast. Robert adjured the goat, in the name of the Holy Trinity, to tell what it was he carried so strangely. He answered, “I am carrying your king to judgment; yea, that tyrant William Rufus, for I am an evil spirit, and the revenger of his malice which he bore to the Church of God. It was I that did cause this slaughter; the protomartyr of England, St Albyn, commanding me so to do, who complainedto God of him, for his grievous oppression in this Isle of Britain, which he first hallowed.” Having so spoken, the spectre vanished. Robert, the earl, related the circumstance to his followers, and they shortly after learned that at that very hour William Rufus had been slain in the New Forest by the arrow of Walter Tirell.
In the first year of the reign of Edward IV., the brave Sir John Arundell dwelt on the north coast of Cornwall, at a place called Efford, on the coast near Stratton. He was a magistrate, and greatly esteemed amongst men for his honourable conduct. He had, however, in his official capacity, given offence to a wild shepherd, who had by some means acquired considerable influence over the minds of the people, under the impression of his possessing some supernatural powers. This man had been imprisoned by Arundell, and on his return home he constantly waylaid the knight, and, always looking threateningly at him, slowly muttered,—
“When upon the yellow sand,Thou shalt die by human hand.”
“When upon the yellow sand,Thou shalt die by human hand.”
“When upon the yellow sand,Thou shalt die by human hand.”
“When upon the yellow sand,
Thou shalt die by human hand.”
Notwithstanding the bravery of Sir John Arundell, he was not free from the superstitions of the period. He might, indeed, have been impressed with the idea that this man intended to murder him. It is, however, certain that he removed from Efford on the sands, to the wood-clad hills of Trerice, and here he lived for some years without the annoyance of meeting his old enemy. In the tenth year of Edward IV., Richard de Vere, earl of Oxford, seized St Michael’s Mount. Sir John Arundell, then sheriff of Cornwall, gathered together his own retainers and a large host of volunteers, and led them to the attack on St Michael’s Mount. The retainersof the Earl of Oxford, on one occasion, left the castle, and made a sudden rush upon Arundell’s followers, who were encamped on the sands near Marazion. Arundell then received his death-wound. Although he left Efford “to counteract the will of fate,” the prophecy was fulfilled; and in his dying moments, it is said his old enemy appeared, singing joyously,—
“When upon the yellow sand,Thou shalt die by human hand.”
“When upon the yellow sand,Thou shalt die by human hand.”
“When upon the yellow sand,Thou shalt die by human hand.”
“When upon the yellow sand,
Thou shalt die by human hand.”
A gay party were assembled one afternoon, in the latter days of January, in the best parlour of a farmhouse near the Land’s-End. The inhabitants of this district were, in many respects, peculiar. Nearly all the land was divided up between, comparatively, a few owners, and every owner lived on and farmed his own land.
This circumstance, amongst others, led to a certain amount of style in many of the old farmhouses of the Land’s-End district; and even now, in some of them, from which, alas! the glory has departed, may be seen the evidences of taste beyond that which might have been expected in so remote a district.
The “best parlour” was frequently panelled with carved oak, and the ceiling, often highly, though it must be admitted, heavily decorated. In such a room, in the declining light of a January afternoon, were some ten or a dozen farmers’ daughters, all of them unmarried, and many of them having an eye on the farmer’s eldest son, a fine young man about twenty years of age, called Joseph.
This farmer and his wife, at the time of which we speak, had three sons and two daughters. The eldest son was anexcellent and amiable young man, possessed of many personal attractions, and especially fond of the society of his sisters and their friends. The next son was of a very different stamp, and was more frequently found in the inn at Church-town than in his father’s house; the younger son was an apprentice at Penzance. The two daughters, Mary and Honour, had coaxed their mother into “a tea and heavy cake” party, and Joseph was especially retained, to be, as every one said he was, “the life of the company.”
In those days, when, especially in those parts, every one took dinner at noon, and tea not much after four o’clock, the party had assembled early.
There had been the usual preliminary gossip amongst the young people, when they began to talk about the wreck of a fruit-ship which had occurred but a few days before, off the Land’s-End, and it was said that considerable quantities of oranges were washing into Nangissell Cove. Upon this, Joseph said he would take one of the men from the farm, and go down to the cove—which was not far off—and see if they could not find some oranges for the ladies.
The day had faded into twilight, the western sky was still bright with the light of the setting sun, and the illuminated clouds shed a certain portion of their splendour into the room in which the party were assembled. The girls were divided up into groups, having their own pretty little bits of gossip, often truly delightful from its entire freedom and its innocence; and the mother of Joseph was seated near the fireplace, looking with some anxiety through the windows, from which you commanded a view of the Atlantic Ocean. The old lady was restless; sometimes she had to whisper something to Mary, and then some other thing to Honour. Her anxiety, at length, was expressed in her wondering where Joseph could be tarrying so long. All the young ladiessought to ease her mind by saying that there were no doubt so many orange-gatherers in the Cove, that Joseph and the man could not get so much fruit as he desired.
Joseph was the favourite son of his mother, and her anxiety evidently increased. Eventually, starting from her chair, the old lady exclaimed, “Oh, here he is; now I’ll see about the tea.”
With a pleased smile on her face, she left the room, to return, however, to it in deeper sorrow.
The mother expected to meet her son at the door—he came not. Thinking that he might possibly have been wetted by the sea, and that he had gone round the house to another door leading directly into the kitchen, for the purpose of drying himself, or of changing his boots, she went into the dairy to fetch the basin of clotted cream,—which had been “taken up” with unusual care,—to see if the junket was properly set, and to spread the flaky cream thickly upon its surface.
Strange,—as the old lady subsequently related,—all the pans of milk were agitated—“the milk rising up and down like the waves of the sea.”
The anxious mother returned to the parlour with her basin of cream, but with an indescribable feeling of an unknown terror. She commanded herself, and, in her usual quiet way, asked if Joseph had been in. When they answered her “No,” she sighed heavily, and sank senseless into a chair.
Neither Joseph nor the servant ever returned alive. They were seen standing together upon a rock, stooping to gather oranges as they came with each wave up to their feet, when one of the heavy swells—the lingering undulations of a tempest, so well known on this coast—came sweeping onward, and carried them both away in its cave of waters, as the wave curved to ingulf them.
The undertow of the tidal current was so strong that, though powerful men and good swimmers, they were carried at once beyond all human aid, and speedily perished.
The house of joy became a house of mourning, and sadness rested on it for years. Day after day passed by, and, although a constant watch was kept along the coast, it was not until the fated ninth day that the bodies were discovered, and they were then found in a sadly mutilated state.
Often after long years, and when the consolations derivable from pure religious feeling had brought that tranquillity upon the mind of this loving mother,—which so much resembles the poetical repose of an autumnal evening,—has she repeated to me the sad tale.
Again and again have I heard her declare that she saw Joseph, her son, as distinctly as ever she saw him in her life, and that, as he passed the parlour windows, he looked in upon her and smiled.
This is not given as a superstition belonging in any peculiar way to Cornwall. In every part of the British Isles it exists; but I have never met with any people who so firmly believed in the appearance of the phantoms of the dying to those upon whom the last thoughts are centred, as the Cornish did.
Another case is within my knowledge.
A lady, the wife of an officer in the navy, had been with her husband’s sister, on a summer evening, to church. The husband was in the Mediterranean, and there was no reason to expect his return for many months.
These two ladies returned home, and the wife, ascending the stairs before her sister-in-law, went into the drawing-room—her intention being to close the windows, which, as the weather had been warm and fine, had been thrown open.
She had proceeded about half way across the room, whenshe shrieked, ran back, and fell into her sister-in-law’s arms. Upon recovery, she stated that a figure, like that of her husband, enveloped in a mist, appeared to her to fill one of the windows.
By her friends, the wife’s fancies were laughed at; and, if not forgotten, the circumstance was no longer spoken of.
Month after month glided by, without intelligence of the ship to which that officer belonged. At length the Government became anxious, and searching inquiries were made. Some time still elapsed, but eventually it was ascertained that this sloop of war had perished in a white squall, in which she became involved, near the Island of Mitylene, in the Grecian Archipelago, on the Sunday evening when the widow fancied she saw her husband.
It is a very popular fancy that when a maiden, who has loved not wisely but too well, dies forsaken and broken-hearted, that she comes back to haunt her deceiver in the shape of a white hare.
This phantom follows the false one everywhere, mostly invisible to all but him. It sometimes saves him from danger, but invariably the white hare causes the death of the betrayer in the end.
The following story of the white hare is a modification of several tales of the same kind which have been told me. Many, many years have passed away, and all who were in any way connected with my story have slept for generations in the quiet churchyard of ——.
A large landed proprietor engaged a fine, handsome young fellow to manage his farm, which was a very extensive as well as a high-class one. When the young farmer was dulysettled in his new farmhouse, there came to live with him, to take the management of the dairy, a peasant’s daughter. She was very handsome, and of a singularly fine figure, but entirely without education.
The farmer became desperately in love with this young creature, and eventually their love passed all the bounds of discretion. It became the policy of the young farmer’s family to put down this unfortunate passion, by substituting a more legitimate and endearing object.
After a long trial, they thought they were successful, and the young farmer was married.
Many months had not passed away when the discharged dairy-maid was observed to suffer from illness, which, however, she constantly spoke of as nothing; but knowing dames saw too clearly the truth. One morning there was found in a field a newly-born babe strangled. The unfortunate girl was at once suspected as being the parent, and the evidence was soon sufficient to charge her with the murder. She was tried, and, chiefly by the evidence of the young farmer and his family, convicted of, and executed for, the murder.
Everything now went wrong in the farm, and the young man suddenly left it and went into another part of the country.
Still nothing prospered, and gradually he took to drink to drown some secret sorrow. He was more frequently on the road by night than by day; and, go where he would, a white hare was constantly crossing his path. The white hare was often seen by others, almost always under the feet of his horse; and the poor terrified animal would go like the wind to avoid the strange apparition.
One morning the young farmer was found drowned in a forsaken mine; and the horse, which had evidently suffered extreme terror, was grazing near the corpse. Beyond alldoubt the white hare, which is known to hunt the perjured and the false-hearted to death, had terrified the horse to such a degree, that eventually the rider was thrown into the mine-waste in which the body was found.
Placing the hand of a man who has died by his own act is a cure for many diseases.
The following is given me by a thinking man, living in one of the towns in the west of Cornwall:—
“There is a young man in this town who had been afflicted with running tumours from his birth. When about seventeen years of age he had the hand of a man who had hanged himself passed over the wounds on his back, and, strange to say, he recovered from that time, and is now comparatively robust and hearty. This incident is true; I was present when the charm was performed. It should be observed that the notion appears to be that the ‘touch’ is only effectual on the opposite sex; but in this case they were both, the suicide and the afflicted one, of the same sex.”
This is only a modified form of the superstition that a wen, or any strumous swelling, can be cured by touching it with the dead hand of a man who has just been publicly hanged.
I once saw a young woman led on to the scaffold, in the Old Bailey, for the purpose of having a wen touched with the hand of a man who had just been executed.
A strong prejudice has long existed against burying on the northern side of the church. In many churchyards the southern side will be found full of graves, with scarcely any on the northern side.
I have sought to discover, if possible, the origin of this prejudice, but I have not been able to trace it to any well-defined feeling. I have been answered, “Oh, we like to bury a corpse where the sun will shine on the grave;” and, “The northern graveyard is in the shadow, and cold;” but beyond this I have not advanced.
We may infer that this desire to place the remains of our friends in earth on which the sun shines, is born of that love which, forgetting mortality, lives on the pleasant memories of the past, hoping for that meeting beyond the grave which shall know no shadow. The act of planting flowers, of nurturing an evergreen tree, of hanging “eternals” on the tomb, is only another form of the same sacred feeling.
It is, or rather was, believed, in nearly every part of the West of England, that death is retarded, and the dying kept in a state of suffering, by having any lock closed, or any bolt shot, in the dwelling of the dying person.
A man cannot die easy on a bed made of fowls’ feathers, or the feathers of wild birds.
Never carry a corpse to church by a new road.
Whenever a guttering candle folds over its cooling grease, it is watched with much anxiety. If it curls upon itself it is said to form the “handle of a coffin,” and the person towards whom it is directed will be in danger of death.
Bituminous coal not unfrequently swells into bubbles, these bubbles of coal containing carburetted hydrogen gas.When the pressure becomes great they burst, and often throw off the upper section with some explosive force. According to the shape of the piece thrown off, so is it named. If it proves round it is a purse of money; if oblong, it is a coffin, and the group towards which it flew will be in danger.
If a cock crows at midnight, the angel of death is passing over the house; and if he delays to strike, the delay is only for a short season.
The howling of a dog is a sad sign. If repeated for three nights, the house against which it howled will soon be in mourning.
A raven croaking over a cottage fills its inmates with gloom.
There are many other superstitions and tokens connected with life and death, but those given shew the general character of those feelings which I may, I think, venture to call the “inner life” of the Cornish people. It will be understood by all who have studied the peculiarities of any Celtic race, that they have ever been a peculiarly impressible people. They have ever observed the phenomena of nature; and they have interpreted them with hopeful feelings, or despondent anxiety, according as they have been surrounded by cheerful or by sorrow-inducing circumstances. That melancholy state of mind, which is so well expressed by the word “whisht,” leads the sufferer to find a “sign” or a “token” in the trembling of a leaf, or in the lowering of the tempest-clouds. A collection of the almost infinite variety of these “signs and tokens” which still exist, would form a curious subjectfor an essay. Yet this could only now be done by a person who would skilfully win the confidence of the miner or the peasant. They feel that they might subject themselves to ridicule by an indiscreet disclosure of the religion of their souls. When, if ever, such a collection is made, it will be found that these superstitions have their origin in the purest feelings of the heart—that they are the shadowings forth of love, tinctured with the melancholy dyes of that fear which is born of mystery.
One would desire that even those old superstitions should be preserved. They illustrate a state of society, in the past, which will never again return. There are but few reflecting minds which do not occasionally feel a lingering regret that times should pass away during which life was not a reflection of cold reason.
But these things must fade as a knowledge of nature’s laws is disseminated amongst the people. Yet there is—
The lonely mountains o’er,And the resounding shore,A voice of weeping heard, and loud lament;From haunted spring and dale,Edged with poplar pale,The parting genius is, with sighing sent.
The lonely mountains o’er,And the resounding shore,A voice of weeping heard, and loud lament;From haunted spring and dale,Edged with poplar pale,The parting genius is, with sighing sent.
The lonely mountains o’er,And the resounding shore,A voice of weeping heard, and loud lament;From haunted spring and dale,Edged with poplar pale,The parting genius is, with sighing sent.
The lonely mountains o’er,
And the resounding shore,
A voice of weeping heard, and loud lament;
From haunted spring and dale,
Edged with poplar pale,
The parting genius is, with sighing sent.
“The king was to his palace, though the service was ydo,Yled with his meinie, and the queen to her also;For she heldthe old usages.”Robert of Gloucester.
“The king was to his palace, though the service was ydo,Yled with his meinie, and the queen to her also;For she heldthe old usages.”Robert of Gloucester.
“The king was to his palace, though the service was ydo,Yled with his meinie, and the queen to her also;For she heldthe old usages.”
“The king was to his palace, though the service was ydo,
Yled with his meinie, and the queen to her also;
For she heldthe old usages.”
Robert of Gloucester.
Robert of Gloucester.
“They say, miracles are past, and we have our philosophical persons, to make modern and familiar things supernatural and causeless. Hence is it that we make trifles of terrors, ensconcing ourselves into seeming knowledge.”—All’s Well that Ends Well—Shakespeare.
“They say, miracles are past, and we have our philosophical persons, to make modern and familiar things supernatural and causeless. Hence is it that we make trifles of terrors, ensconcing ourselves into seeming knowledge.”—All’s Well that Ends Well—Shakespeare.
In the rural districts of Cornwall, it is thought to be unlucky if a female is the first to enter the house on new-year’s morning. To insure the contrary, it was customary to give boys some small reward for placing sand on the door-steps and in the passage.
In many places, not many years since, droves of boys would march through the towns and villages, collecting their fees for “sanding your step for good luck.”
This custom prevails over most parts of England. I know a lady who, at the commencement of the present year, sent a cabman into her house before her, upon promise of giving him a glass of spirits, so that she might insure the good luck which depends upon “a man’s taking the new year in.”
The first of May is inaugurated with much uproar. As soon as the clock has told of midnight, a loud blast on tin trumpets proclaims the advent of May. This is long continued. At daybreak, with their “tintarrems,” they proceed to the country, and strip the sycamore-trees (called May-trees) of all their young branches, to make whistles. With these shrill musical instruments they return home. Young men and women devote May-day to junketing and pic-nics.
It was a custom at Penzance, and probably at many other Cornish towns, when the author was a boy, for a number of young people to sit up until twelve o’clock, and then to march round the town with violins and fifes, and summon their friends to the Maying.
When all were gathered, they went into the country, and were welcomed at the farmhouses at which they called, with some refreshment in the shape of rum and milk, junket, or something of that sort.
They then gathered the “May,” which included the young branches of any tree in blossom or fresh leaf. The branches of the sycamore were especially cut for the purpose of making the “May music.” This was done by cutting a circle through the bark to the wood a few inches from the end of the branch. The bark was wetted and carefully beaten until it was loosened and could be slid off from the wood. The wood was cut angularly at the end, so as to form a mouth-piece, and a slit was made in both the bark and the wood, so that when the bark was replaced a whistle was formed. Prepared with a sufficient number of May whistles, all the party returned to the town, the band playing, whistles blowing, and the young people singing some appropriate song.
Formerly it was customary for the boys to tie stones to cords, and with these parade the town, slinging these stones against the doors, shouting aloud,—
“Give me a pancake, now—now—now,Or I’ll souse in your door with a row—tow—tow.”
“Give me a pancake, now—now—now,Or I’ll souse in your door with a row—tow—tow.”
“Give me a pancake, now—now—now,Or I’ll souse in your door with a row—tow—tow.”
“Give me a pancake, now—now—now,
Or I’ll souse in your door with a row—tow—tow.”
A genteel correspondent assures me “this is observed now in the lower parts of the town only.”
This ancient custom, which consists in dancing through the streets of the town, and entering the houses of rich and poor alike, is thus well described:—
“On the 8th of May, at Helstone, in Cornwall, is held what is called ‘the Furry.’ The word is supposed by Mr Polwhele to have been derived from the old Cornish wordfer, a fair or jubilee. The morning is ushered in by the music of drums and kettles, and other accompaniments of a song, a great part of which is inserted in Mr Polwhele’s history, where this circumstance is noticed. So strict is the observance of this day as a general holiday, that should any person be found at work, he is instantly seized, set astride on a pole, and hurried on men’s shoulders to the river, where he is sentenced to leap over a wide place, which he, of course, fails in attempting, and leaps into the water. A small contribution towards the good cheer of the day easily compounds for the leap. About nine o’clock the revellers appear before the grammar-school, and demand a holiday for the schoolboys, after which they collect contributions from houses. They thenfadeinto the country, (fade being an old English word forgo,) and, about the middle of the day, return with flowers and oak-branches in their hats and caps. From this time they dance hand in hand through the streets, to the sound of the fiddle, playing a particular tune, running into every house they pass without opposition. In the afternoon a select party of the ladies and gentlemen make a progress through the street, and very late in the evening repair to the ball-room. A stranger visiting the town on the eighth of May would really think the people mad, so apparently wild and thoughtless is the merriment of the day. There is no doubt of ‘the Furry’ originating from the ‘Floralia,’ anciently observed by the Romans on the fourth of the calends of May.”—Every-Day Book.
“On the 8th of May, at Helstone, in Cornwall, is held what is called ‘the Furry.’ The word is supposed by Mr Polwhele to have been derived from the old Cornish wordfer, a fair or jubilee. The morning is ushered in by the music of drums and kettles, and other accompaniments of a song, a great part of which is inserted in Mr Polwhele’s history, where this circumstance is noticed. So strict is the observance of this day as a general holiday, that should any person be found at work, he is instantly seized, set astride on a pole, and hurried on men’s shoulders to the river, where he is sentenced to leap over a wide place, which he, of course, fails in attempting, and leaps into the water. A small contribution towards the good cheer of the day easily compounds for the leap. About nine o’clock the revellers appear before the grammar-school, and demand a holiday for the schoolboys, after which they collect contributions from houses. They thenfadeinto the country, (fade being an old English word forgo,) and, about the middle of the day, return with flowers and oak-branches in their hats and caps. From this time they dance hand in hand through the streets, to the sound of the fiddle, playing a particular tune, running into every house they pass without opposition. In the afternoon a select party of the ladies and gentlemen make a progress through the street, and very late in the evening repair to the ball-room. A stranger visiting the town on the eighth of May would really think the people mad, so apparently wild and thoughtless is the merriment of the day. There is no doubt of ‘the Furry’ originating from the ‘Floralia,’ anciently observed by the Romans on the fourth of the calends of May.”—Every-Day Book.
If on midsummer-eve a young woman takes off the shift which she has been wearing, and, having washed it, turns it wrong side out, and hangs it in silence over the back of a chair, near the fire, she will see, about midnight, her future husband, who deliberately turns the garment.
If a young lady will, on midsummer-eve, walk backwards into the garden and gather a rose, she has the means of knowing who is to be her husband. The rose must be cautiously sewn up in a paper bag, and put aside in a dark drawer, there to remain until Christmas-day.
On the morning of the Nativity the bag must be carefully opened in silence, and the rose placed by the lady in her bosom. Thus she must wear it to church. Some young man will either ask for the rose, or take it from her without asking. That young man is destined to become eventually the lady’s husband.
“At eve last midsummer no sleep I sought,But to the field a bag of hemp-seed brought;I scatter’d round the seed on every side,And three times in a trembling accent cried,—‘This hemp-seed with my virgin hand I sow,Who shall my true love be, the crop shall mow.’I straight look’d back, and, if my eyes speak truth,With his keen scythe behind me came the youth.”Gay’s Pastorals.
“At eve last midsummer no sleep I sought,But to the field a bag of hemp-seed brought;I scatter’d round the seed on every side,And three times in a trembling accent cried,—‘This hemp-seed with my virgin hand I sow,Who shall my true love be, the crop shall mow.’I straight look’d back, and, if my eyes speak truth,With his keen scythe behind me came the youth.”Gay’s Pastorals.
“At eve last midsummer no sleep I sought,But to the field a bag of hemp-seed brought;I scatter’d round the seed on every side,And three times in a trembling accent cried,—‘This hemp-seed with my virgin hand I sow,Who shall my true love be, the crop shall mow.’I straight look’d back, and, if my eyes speak truth,With his keen scythe behind me came the youth.”
“At eve last midsummer no sleep I sought,
But to the field a bag of hemp-seed brought;
I scatter’d round the seed on every side,
And three times in a trembling accent cried,—
‘This hemp-seed with my virgin hand I sow,
Who shall my true love be, the crop shall mow.’
I straight look’d back, and, if my eyes speak truth,
With his keen scythe behind me came the youth.”
Gay’s Pastorals.
Gay’s Pastorals.
The practice of sowing hemp-seed on midsummer-eve is not especially a Cornish superstition, yet it was at one time a favourite practice with young women to try the experiment. Many a strange story have I been told as to the result of the sowing, and many a trick could I tell of, which has been played off by young men who had become acquainted withthe secret intention of some maidens. I believe there is but little difference in the rude rhyme used on the occasion,—
“Hemp-seed I sow,Hemp-seed I hoe,”
“Hemp-seed I sow,Hemp-seed I hoe,”
“Hemp-seed I sow,Hemp-seed I hoe,”
“Hemp-seed I sow,
Hemp-seed I hoe,”
(the action of sowing the seed and of hoeing it in, must be deliberately gone through;)—
“And heWho will my true love be,Come after me and mow.”
“And heWho will my true love be,Come after me and mow.”
“And heWho will my true love be,Come after me and mow.”
“And he
Who will my true love be,
Come after me and mow.”
A phantom of the true lover will now appear, and of course the maid or maidens retire in wild affright.
If a young unmarried woman stands at midnight on midsummer-eve in the porch of the parish church, she will see, passing by in procession, every one who will die in the parish during the year. This is so serious an affair that it is not, I believe, often tried. I have, however, heard of young women who have made the experiment. But every one of the stories relate that, coming last in the procession, they have seen shadows of themselves; that from that day forward they have pined, and ere midsummer has again come round, that they have been laid to rest in the village graveyard.
Owing to the uncertain character of the climate of Cornwall, the farmers have adopted the plan of gathering the sheaves of wheat, as speedily as possible, into “arish-mows.” These are solid cones from ten to twelve feet high, the heads of the stalks turned inwards, and the whole capped with a sheaf of corn inverted. Whence the term, I know not; but “arish” is commonly applied to a field of corn recently cut, as, “Turn the geese in upon the ‘arish’”—that is, the short stubble left in the ground.
After the wheat is all cut, on most farms in Cornwall and Devon, the harvest people have a custom of “crying the neck.” I believe that this practice is seldom omitted on any large farm in these counties. It is done in this way. An old man, or some one else well acquainted with the ceremonies used on the occasion, (when the labourers are reaping the last field of wheat,) goes round to the shocks and sheaves, and picks out a little bundle of all the best ears he can find; this bundle he ties up very neat and trim, and plats and arranges the straws very tastefully. This is called “the neck” of wheat, or wheaten-ears. After the field is cut out, and the pitcher once more circulated, the reapers, binders, and the women stand round in a circle. The person with “the neck” stands in the centre, grasping it with both his hands. He first stoops and holds it near the ground, and all the men forming the ring take off their hats, stooping and holding them with both hands towards the ground. They then all begin at once, in a very prolonged and harmonious tone, to cry, “The neck!” at the same time slowly raising themselves upright, and elevating their arms and hats above their heads; the person with the neck also raising it on high. This is done three times. They then change their cry to “We yen! we yen!” which they sound in the same prolonged and slow manner as before, with singular harmony and effect, three times. This last cry is accompanied by the same movements of the body and arms as in crying “the neck.” I know nothing of vocal music, but I think I may convey some idea of the sound by giving you the following notes in gamut:—
Music: Treble clef, two bars of two F half-notes each. Words, one per note: We yen! We yen! Tempo: Very slow.
Let these notes be played on a flute with perfectcrescendoesanddiminuendoes, and perhaps some notion of this wild-sounding cry may be formed. Well, after this they all burst out into a kind of loud joyous laugh, flinging up their hats and caps into the air, capering about, and perhaps kissing the girls. One of them then gets “the neck,” and runs as hard as he can down to the farmhouse, where the dairy-maid, or one of the young female domestics, stands at the door prepared with a pail of water. If he who holds “the neck” can manage to get into the house in any way unseen, or openly by any other way than the door at which the girl stands with the pail of water, then he may lawfully kiss her; but, if otherwise, he is regularly soused with the contents of the bucket. I think this practice is beginning to decline of late, and many farmers and their men do not care about keeping up this old custom. The object of crying “the neck” is to give notice to the surrounding country of theendof the harvest, and the meaning of “we yen” is “we have ended.” It may probably mean “we end,” which the uncouth and provincial pronunciation has corrupted into “we yen.” The “neck” is generally hung up in the farmhouse, where it often remains for three or four years.
In the eastern part of Cornwall, and in western Devonshire, it was the custom to take a milk-panful of cider, into which roasted apples had been broken, into the orchard. This was placed as near the centre of the orchard as possible, and each person, taking a “clomben” cup of the drink, goes to different apple-trees, and addresses them as follows:—
“Health to the good apple-tree;Well to bear, pocketfuls, hatfuls,Peckfuls, bushel-bagfuls.”
“Health to the good apple-tree;Well to bear, pocketfuls, hatfuls,Peckfuls, bushel-bagfuls.”
“Health to the good apple-tree;Well to bear, pocketfuls, hatfuls,Peckfuls, bushel-bagfuls.”
“Health to the good apple-tree;
Well to bear, pocketfuls, hatfuls,
Peckfuls, bushel-bagfuls.”
Drinking part of the contents of the cup, the remainder,with the fragments of the roasted apples, is thrown at the tree, all the company shouting aloud. Another account tells us, “In certain parts of Devonshire, the farmer, attended by his workmen, goes to the orchard this evening; and there, encircling one of the best bearing trees, they drink the following toast three times:—
‘Here’s to thee, old apple-tree;Hence thou mayst bud, and whence thou mayst blow,And whence thou mayst bear apples enow!Hats full! caps full!Bushel, bushel-sacks full!And my pockets full, too! Huzza!’
‘Here’s to thee, old apple-tree;Hence thou mayst bud, and whence thou mayst blow,And whence thou mayst bear apples enow!Hats full! caps full!Bushel, bushel-sacks full!And my pockets full, too! Huzza!’
‘Here’s to thee, old apple-tree;Hence thou mayst bud, and whence thou mayst blow,And whence thou mayst bear apples enow!Hats full! caps full!Bushel, bushel-sacks full!And my pockets full, too! Huzza!’
‘Here’s to thee, old apple-tree;
Hence thou mayst bud, and whence thou mayst blow,
And whence thou mayst bear apples enow!
Hats full! caps full!
Bushel, bushel-sacks full!
And my pockets full, too! Huzza!’
This done, they return to the house, the doors of which they are sure to find bolted by the females, who, be the weather what it may, are inexorable to all entreaties to open them, till some one has guessed what is on the spit, which is generally some nice little thing difficult to be hit on, and is the reward of him who first names it. The doors are then thrown open, and the lucky clodpole receives the tit-bit as his recompense. Some are so superstitious as to believe that if they neglect this custom, the trees will bear no apples that year.”[54]
Christmas-eve was selected in some parts of England as the occasion for wishing health to the apple-tree. Apples were roasted on a string until they fell into a pan of spiced ale, placed to receive them. This drink was calledlamb’s-wool, and with it the trees were wassailed, as in Devonshire and Cornwall.
Herrick alludes to the custom:—
“Wassaile the trees, that they may beareYou many a plum, and many a peare;For more or lesse fruits they will bring,And you do give them wassailing.”
“Wassaile the trees, that they may beareYou many a plum, and many a peare;For more or lesse fruits they will bring,And you do give them wassailing.”
“Wassaile the trees, that they may beareYou many a plum, and many a peare;For more or lesse fruits they will bring,And you do give them wassailing.”
“Wassaile the trees, that they may beare
You many a plum, and many a peare;
For more or lesse fruits they will bring,
And you do give them wassailing.”
May not Shakespeare refer to this?—
“Sometimes lurk I in a gossip’s bowl,In very likeness of a roasted crab;And when she drinks, against her lips I bob,And on her wither’d dew-lap pour the ale.”Midsummer Night’s Dream.
“Sometimes lurk I in a gossip’s bowl,In very likeness of a roasted crab;And when she drinks, against her lips I bob,And on her wither’d dew-lap pour the ale.”Midsummer Night’s Dream.
“Sometimes lurk I in a gossip’s bowl,In very likeness of a roasted crab;And when she drinks, against her lips I bob,And on her wither’d dew-lap pour the ale.”
“Sometimes lurk I in a gossip’s bowl,
In very likeness of a roasted crab;
And when she drinks, against her lips I bob,
And on her wither’d dew-lap pour the ale.”
Midsummer Night’s Dream.
Midsummer Night’s Dream.
In some localities apples are blessed on St James’s-day, July 25.
The ancient custom of providing children with a large apple on Allhallows-eve is still observed, to a great extent, at St Ives. “Allan-day,” as it is called, is the day of days to hundreds of children, who would deem it a great misfortune were they to go to bed on “Allan-night” without the time-honoured Allan apple to hide beneath their pillows. A quantity of large apples are thus disposed of, the sale of which is dignified by the term Allan Market.
The custom, apparently a very ancient one, of putting certain articles into a rich cake, is still preserved in many districts. Usually, sixpence, a wedding-ring, and a silver thimble are employed. These are mixed up with the dough, and baked in the cake. At night the cake is divided. The person who secures the sixpence will not want money for that year; the one who has the ring will be the first married; and the possessor of the thimble will die an old maid.
“Then also every householder,To his abilitieDoth make a mighty cake, that maySuffice his companie:Herein a pennie doth he put,Before it come to fire;This he divides according asHis household doth require,And every peece distributethAs round about they stand,Which in their names unto the poorIs given out of hand.But who so chanceth on the peeceWherein the money lies,Is counted king amongst them all;And is with shoutes and criesExalted to the heavens up.”Naogeorgus’s Popish Kingdom.
“Then also every householder,To his abilitieDoth make a mighty cake, that maySuffice his companie:Herein a pennie doth he put,Before it come to fire;This he divides according asHis household doth require,And every peece distributethAs round about they stand,Which in their names unto the poorIs given out of hand.But who so chanceth on the peeceWherein the money lies,Is counted king amongst them all;And is with shoutes and criesExalted to the heavens up.”Naogeorgus’s Popish Kingdom.
“Then also every householder,To his abilitieDoth make a mighty cake, that maySuffice his companie:Herein a pennie doth he put,Before it come to fire;This he divides according asHis household doth require,And every peece distributethAs round about they stand,Which in their names unto the poorIs given out of hand.But who so chanceth on the peeceWherein the money lies,Is counted king amongst them all;And is with shoutes and criesExalted to the heavens up.”
“Then also every householder,
To his abilitie
Doth make a mighty cake, that may
Suffice his companie:
Herein a pennie doth he put,
Before it come to fire;
This he divides according as
His household doth require,
And every peece distributeth
As round about they stand,
Which in their names unto the poor
Is given out of hand.
But who so chanceth on the peece
Wherein the money lies,
Is counted king amongst them all;
And is with shoutes and cries
Exalted to the heavens up.”
Naogeorgus’s Popish Kingdom.
Naogeorgus’s Popish Kingdom.
I remember, when a child, being told that all the oxen and cows kept at a farm, in the parish of St Germans, at which I was visiting with my aunt, would be found on their knees when the clock struck twelve. This is the only case within my own knowledge of this widespread superstition existing in Cornwall. Brand says, “A superstitious notion prevails in the western parts of Devonshire, that at twelve o’clock at night on Christmas-eve, the oxen in their stalls are always found on their knees, as in an attitude of devotion; and that, (which is still more singular,) since the alteration of the style, they continue to do this only on the eve of old Christmas-day. An honest countryman, living on the edge of St Stephen’s Down, near Launceston, Cornwall, informed me, October 28, 1790, that he once, with some others, made a trial of the truth of the above, and, watching several oxen in their stalls at the above time,—at twelve o’clock at night,—they observed the two oldest oxen only, fall upon their knees and, as he expressed it in the idiom of the country, make ‘a cruel moan, like Christian creatures.’ I could not, but with great difficulty, keep my countenance: he saw, and seemed angry, that I gave so little credit to his tale;and, walking off in a pettish humour, seemed to ‘marvel at my unbelief.’ There is an old print of the Nativity, in which the oxen in the stable, near the Virgin and the Child, are represented upon their knees, as in a suppliant posture. This graphic representation has probably given rise to the above superstitious notion on this head.”
The Christmas play is a very ancient institution in Cornwall. At one time religious subjects were chosen, but those gave way to romantic plays. The arrangements were tolerably complete, and sometimes a considerable amount of dramatic skill was displayed.