Tregagle.

In Cornwaile's fair land, bye the poole on the moore,Tregeagle the wicked did dwell.He once was a shepherde, contented and poore,But growing ambytious, and wishing for more,Sad fortune the shepherde befelle.John Penwarne.

John Penwarne.

ONE may almost every day hear West Country folks make allusion to Tregagle; for instance, a squalling child is called a Tregagle; and to a blusterer they often say, "Hold thy bleatan, thee art worse than Tregagle roaran before a storm."

But little is known here of the living man's history—which belonged for the most part to the neighbourhood of Bodmin—all our common sayings, connected with him, refer to his troublesome ghost at Gwenvor.

Our vague traditions, however, represent him as having been a most unscrupulous lawyer; and say that he rose from low estate, by taking bribes to lose his poorer client's cases, by bearing or procuring false witnesses; forging documents relating to the bequest of property; and other nefarious transactions which resulted in his acquisition of much riches and consequent power.

He is also said to have been so cruel in his domestic relations,—by having despatched several wives, who were rich heiresses—that he is regarded as a sort of Cornish Bluebeard, who sold his soul to the devil that he might have his wishes for a certain number of years.

All our western legends agree, however, in stating that the particular business which was the cause of his being "called from the grave" was this:—

A man who resided in the eastern part of the county, lent a sum of money to another without receiving bond or note or anything for security, as the transaction was witnessed by Tregagle; for whom the money was borrowed; and who died before the money was repaid.

Soon after Tregagle's death, the lender demanded his money, and his debtor denied ever having received it.

The case was brought before the court at Bodmin assizes; and when the plaintiff said that Tregagle was the only witness,the defendant denied it with an oath, and exclaimed, "If Tregagle ever saw it I wish to God that Tregagle may come and declare it."

The words were no sooner uttered than Tregagle stood before the court, and, pointing to the man, said, "I can no more be a false witness, thou hast had the money, and found it easy to bring me from the grave, but thou wilt not find it so easy to put me away." Wherever the terrified man moved about the court Tregagle followed him; he begged the judge and long-robed gentlemen to relieve him from the spirit. "That's thy business," said they, one and all, "thou hast brought him, thou may'st get him laid."

The man returned home, but whithersoever he went Tregagle followed, and would seldom quit his side or let him rest by night or by day.

He repaid the borrowed money, gave much in alms, and sought to get rid of the spirit by the aid of parsons, conjurors, and other wise men, before they succeeded in binding it, for a while, to empty Dosmery Pool with a crogan (limpet shell) that had a hole in its bottom.

Having soon finished that task, he returned to the man that brought him from his grave, and followed and tormented him worse than before, until he procured the help of other powerful exorcists who were more astute. The first thing they did was to draw a circle, out in the town-place, and put the man to stand within it. The spirit then took the form of a black bull and tried to get at him with horns and hoofs, but the man was safe within the line traced. A parson continued reading all the time, while others kept an eye on the spirit that took many shapes. At first the holy words of power made him furious; by turns, he bellowed like a mad bull, hissed like an adder, or roared like a wild beast, that he might be heard for miles away. Yet, by degrees, Tregagle became as gentle as a lamb, and allowed the spirit-quellers to bind him with a new hempen cord; and to lead him far away to Gwenvor Cove.

There they doomed him to make a truss of sand, to be bound with ropes made of the same material, and carry it up to Carn Olva.

Tregagle was a long while at his tiresome task without being able to accomplish it, until it came to a very cold winter, when, one hard frosty night, by taking water from Velan Dreath brook, and pouring it over his truss, he caused it to freeze together and bore it in triumph to Carn Olva.

He then flew back to the man who raised him, and he would have torn him in pieces, but, by good luck, he happened to have in his arms an innocent young child, so the spirit couldn't harm him.

Without delay the terrified man sent for the nearest parson, who, however, was not able, alone, to cope with Tregagle; the most he could do was to prevent him from harming the man until other spirit-quellers were brought to his assistance; with whose aid the furious spirit was again bound, led away to Gwenvor, and required to undertake the same task, without going near fresh water.

So Tregagle was matched at last, for he is still there on the shore of Whitsand Bay vainly trying to make his truss of sand; and he is frequently heard roaring for days before a northerly storm comes to scatter it.

I well remember that when a boy, and living in Rafra, St. Levan, how elderly men would go out into the town-place, last thing before they went to bed, to "look at the weather,"—in harvest particularly,—and come in saying, "Tregagle is roaring, so we shall surely have northerly wind and a dry day to-morrow," or, "the northern cleeves are calling," by which they meant the same, and unconsciously used somewhat poetical figures of speech.

A legend which connects Tregagle's escape from Gwenvor with the sanding up of Parcurnow has been noticed (on page140); other stories, however, say, that job was imposed on him as a separate task, which he quickly accomplished just before he was finally settled at Gwenvor.

There needs no other charm nor conjurer,To raise infernal spirits up, but fear.Butler.

There needs no other charm nor conjurer,To raise infernal spirits up, but fear.

Butler.

NOT long ago it was believed that Old Nick frequently appeared in the form of a bull, and that he often placed money to tempt the unwary. The following story—told us of the late Sir Rose Price's huntsman—will help to explain notions which are not yet wholly exploded.

When the huntsman was a boy his parents lived in Nancledra, and sent him daily to a school two or three miles off, till he was about thirteen years old. He had his dinner sent with him, and he often minched. One morning he wandered away over the moors in search of birds' nests and rabbits' burrows. He had a good pasty in his dinner-bag and the day passed pleasantly in birds-nesting, searching for young rabbits, and playing about a tin-stream, three miles or so up the Bottom, where he stayed till the streamers left work. Then he took his course for home, over hedges and ditches, wandering wherever his fancy led him, till almost dark, when he found himself in a large hilly field not far from Nancledra. In making a short cut for home he crossed this field, and, when near the middle of it, he heard a bull bellowing, and shortly saw a large black one making towards him with tail up and head down; sometimes it would stop to tear up the ground, and fling its horns as if to get in practice to toss the boy; who being far from any hedges, there seemed no way of escape from the field before the bull could overtake him. But, luckily, within a few yards, there was a large rock, to which he ran and climbed it, a moment only before the bull came to it.

The brute kept on, for a long time, going round and round the rock, bellowing and tearing up the turf as if in a rage, till at last, tired with his vain endeavours—as it seemed—to get at the boy, it hoisted its tail like a flag-staff, galloped off, and vanished in a minute.

The boy didn't venture from his fort for sometime after the bull left. At length he 'cramed' down over a shelving side of the rock on all fours, head foremost—it was too dark to see where to put his feet. When he touched ground with his hand he felt and took up what he thought, by the feel of it, to be a penny-piece or a large button. He ran home and saw, by light shining through a window, that he had found a penny. When the way was clear, he made a place to hide it, in a hole over the chimney-stool—the fire-place was a large open one for burning furze and turf.

Next night, about the same hour as on the preceding, he went on the rock, 'cramed' down again, and found two penny-pieces, which he hoarded in the hole; and, night after night, he visited the rock, found the money doubled each succeeding night, and picked up silver money in other places where one would the least expect to find it, till his hiding-place was nearly full in a few weeks.

How much longer this luck would have continued there is no knowing; for, one night, when he thought there was nobody about, his mother came in and found him standing on the chimney-stool so earnest about something that he didn't see her watching him, and he kept handling his money till she said,

"Whatever hast thee got there between the stones, that thee art always stealing into the chimney, whenever thee dost think nobody is noticing of thee."

"Only my buttons and marbles, mother," said he.

"I don't believe thee," replied his mother; "stand away, and I'll see for myself."

Saying this she took up the fire-hook, ran the point of it into the hole, and dragged out a lot of money.

"Now tell me, or I'll kill thee, thou lying thief," said she, "where didst thee get this money; if thee hast stole it I'll murder thee, I will."

The boy didn't much mind his mother's threats—terrific as they seem—he was used to it. Yet she made him tell how he came by the money.

"Oh! good gracious mercy on us," cried she, before he had finished telling her; "oh! thou wicked boy; thee hast frightened me out of my life. Now tell me true," moaned she, wringing her hands, "hast thee used any of the devil's money, put there to entice thee to sell thyself to him, body and soul?"

"No, mother, please sure I han't," said he, "I was savan all to buy a gun."

"Well, thank goodness," groaned his mother, "that I havefound all out in time to prevent thee shuttan thyself or somebody else with the devil's gun. I should never more rejoice if I thought thee hast used a farthing of en. Know, thou plague of my heart, that what seemed to thee a bull was the Old One hisself. He placed the money there for thee, and, when the bull seemed to vanish, he only changed to an adder, a toad, or something else that suited his purpose, and he was watchan thee all the time."

Whilst talking to the boy she raked all the money on to a fire-shovel, and threw it under a brandes, around which there was a good turf-fire. In a few minutes all the money melted away, and was gone like hailstones in sunshine.

Next morning she carried out all the ashes, strewed them about the town-place, and swept the hearth nine times before she lighted a new fire. The poor woman never rested till she told old Parson Stephens. He didn't altogether believe the boy's story, but said that if it was the devil's money she did right, or she might have—brought it to him.

The boy was so terrified by what his mother said, that, for years after, he never ventured to wander by night, even when he hunted for Sir Rose, and was as stout a man as one might see of a market day; and the sight of a black bull or anything he took for such would always make him tremble.

There are many stories of this class about people having been enticed with devil's money, but few of them have so fortunate an ending as the old huntsman's relation.

Trust me no tortures that the poets feignCan match the fierce, th' unutterable painHe feels who, day and night, devoid of rest,Carries his own accuser in his breast.Juvenal.

Trust me no tortures that the poets feignCan match the fierce, th' unutterable painHe feels who, day and night, devoid of rest,Carries his own accuser in his breast.

Juvenal.

THERE is a general belief, in the western part of Cornwall, that if a greatly injured person, the last thing before death, reads or recites the 109th Psalm, usually called the "Cursing Psalm," applying its comminations to the injurer, the dying maledictions are sure to take effect.

Nearly a hundred years ago there lived in Gwinear Church-town a young man called Thomas Thomas, who for many years courted his cousin, Elizabeth Thomas, of the same place. She was much attached to the young man, who often promised to make her his wife; but, when she had shown her utmost trust in him, on some little disagreement, he slighted her and proposed to wed another damsel of the same village.

One Sunday afternoon he took his new love for a walk, passing by his old sweetheart's door, purposely to spite her.

Soon after they had passed the cot of Elizabeth's parents, the betrayed and wronged girl, who was of a very hasty temper, took a rope and a prayer book, went into a road-way field, and hanged herself near the path by which her faithless lover and his new fiance had passed, and would, probably, return.

They came home, however, by another road. On their arriving in Church-town, somebody asked them if they had seen Elizabeth, and remarked that no one knew where she had gone, as she had been sought in vain all over Church-town.

"Good God," exclaimed Thomas, "has she made away with herself? For more than once she vowed that she would if I slighted her."

Then, as if tokened by her spirit, he went, followed by others, direct to the tree on which they found her hanging and dead.

On the ground, at her feet, was her open prayer book. He took it up and found a leaf turned down at the "Cursing Psalm;" on a leaf too he read her name followed by "When this you see remember me."

Thomas then knew how she had doomed him; and he exclaimed "I'm ruined, I'm ruined, for ever and ever."

For a long while he wandered about like one distracted, working in various parts of the country, sometimes at mining, other times at husbandry, and never returned to Gwinear Church-town.

Little was seen of him, by anyone who knew him, until after some years, when he went to live in Market-jew. He would never venture to church or chapel for fear of hearing read the 109th Psalm; he dreaded even to pass near a school for the same reason.

He was several times hurt in the mines, in which he worked; and he attributed all his misfortunes and bad luck to the curse of Elizabeth, whose avenging ghost often appeared to him—as well by day as by night—with an open prayer book in her hand.

He could never sleep without a comrade in his room; and seldom even then, for, after a short slumber, when worn-out with fatigue, he would start up in bed, crying in agony, "Oh,dear Betsy, shut the book. Do shut the book."

Notwithstanding the distraction of his mind, he was still a fine, strong, lusty, man, and many of his comrades advised him to get married, saying there was nothing like a living wife to drive away the spirit of a dead sweetheart. Taking their advice, he paid his addresses to several young women of the neighbourhood and others farther away; but they, one and all, flouted him with scorn, for the history of his unfortunate first love was blown far and near. If he persisted in his suit the indignant damsels would ask him with a sneer if he wished to bring all the ill-wishes of the "Cursing Psalm" on their heads, too.

At length, however, a widow in Market-jew took pity on Thomas and consented to venture her lot with him; and Betsy's ghost ceased persecuting him—for a bit.

But on the road to St. Hilary Church—whither Thomas and the widow proceeded to get married—the weather suddenly changed; from a calm and sunshine it became a tempest, with thunder and lightning; it was harvest time, and a cloud, black as night, hung over them, and rain poured along churchway-path, whilst they saw people binding barley in the fields on either hand.

Thomas, trembling with fear, saw his sweetheart's ghost, with her open book, standing menacingly in the path before him; and he would have turned back, had not the widow urged him on, saying that she saw no ghost, and didn't mind her nor yet her book; and got him married. He lived for a few years pretty tranquilly; and his wife bore him two children. Then he was again disturbed with visits from the avenging ghost; and some misfortune or sickness always closely followed its appearance; until Thomas—worn-out in body and mind—when less than forty years of age died, and was buried in St. Hilary.

Decorative Rule

WE are reminded by the above of the wreck of Admiral Sir Cloudesley Shovel's ship, the "Association," at Scilly; and of a tradition, common to the Islands, which attributes that disaster to the reading or reciting of the 109th Psalm, shortly before death, by one of Sir Cloudesley's crew, whom he unjustly condemned to be hanged.

The Admiral was returning with his fleet from Toulon, when, on the evening of the 22nd October, 1707, his ship struck on the Gilstone, about three miles and a half from St. Agnes; and in a few minutes afterwards she went down, and everybody on board perished, except one man, who saved himself by floating on a piece of timber to a rock called Hellweathers,—about two miles and a half from the Gilstone,—where he remained some days before the weather permitted any boat to approach and take him off to St. Agnes.

He is said to have stated that the day before the Admiral's ship was wrecked, one of the crew, who was a native of Scilly, and well acquainted with the channel, represented to Sir Cloudesley that the course the ship was taking would bring her on Scilly rocks. The Admiral and his officers were incensed at the man's interference; and because he persisted in affirming that the ship's way was wrong and would bring them to destruction, Sir Cloudesley Shovel—rather summarily, one might now think—condemned the man to be hanged for insubordination and endeavouring to excite a mutiny.

When the poor fellow was tied to the mast, preparatory to his being suspended by his neck, from the yard-arm, he begged, as a last favour, that a Psalm might be read before his execution. His request being granted, he selected the 109th, and repeated certain imprecatory portions of it after the reader; and the last words he uttered were to the effect that Sir Cloudesley Shovel and those who saw him hanged should never reach the land alive.

His body, shrouded in a hammock, with a shot to sink it, was cast into the deep, and but little heed paid to the dying sailor's sentence. Shortly after, however, the sky, which had been gloomy all day, became much darker; black, lowering, clouds, hung over the fleet like a funeral pall, and the gale rose to a violent tempest. Then the hanged man's curse was dreaded; and lo, to the crew's consternation, they beheld his corpse—divested of its rude winding-sheet—floating near the doomed ship, which it closely followed, with its face turned towards her,—in all her varying course, through eddying currents,—until she struck on the Gilstone; when the hanged man went down with the ship and his messmates.

At this unfortunate time there perished, besides the Admiral, several officers, and about two thousand men, belonging to the "Association" and other vessels of the fleet.

Sir Cloudesley Shovel's body was washed ashore at Porth-Hellick Bay, in St. Mary's, about eight miles from the Gilstone. It was quite naked, and on the hatch of a ship, on which he had endeavoured to save himself,—and a little dog lay by him,—when he was found by a soldier and his wife, who only knew him to bethe Admiral by a diamond ring on his finger. They buried him in the sand, where a pit on Porth-Hellick Bank still marks Sir Cloudesley Shovel's grave. The pit never fills up in the greatest storms; and no grass ever grows on this blasted grave, although the ground around it is often green.

"So the hanged seaman had as sweet a bit of revenge as one could wish for," said our narrator, with a motion of his head which showed his satisfaction at the Fates' award.

Connected with this unfortunate occurrence, there is a gratifying bit of true history—we cannot say so much for all the above—which says that Lady Shovel, on having her husband's ring,—by which his body was identified,—sent her by the soldier, she gave him a pension for life; and the Admiral was deposited in Westminster Abbey, where his monument recalls the direful tale.

Decorative Rule

No repares en eso, Sancho, que como estas cosas y estas volaterías van fuera de los cursos ordinarios, de mil leguas verás y oiras lo que quisieres, y no me aprietes tanto, que me derribas; y en verdad que no sé de qué te turbas ni te espantas, que osaré jurar que en todos los dias de mi vida he subido en cabalgadura de paso mas llano: no parece sino que no nos movemos de un lugar. Destierra, amigo, el miedo, que en efecto la cosa va como ha de ir, y el viento llevamos en popa.* * * * * * * *Bien es verdad que sentí que pasaba por la region del aire, y aun que tocaba á la del fuego; pero que pasásemos de allí no lo puedo creer.D. Quijote.

* * * * * * * *

Bien es verdad que sentí que pasaba por la region del aire, y aun que tocaba á la del fuego; pero que pasásemos de allí no lo puedo creer.

D. Quijote.

MANY persons, not at all given to lying, assert that they have been carried up and away by Old Nick, in the form of a horse. For the most part, they affirm that they were taken "towers high;" and, when their infernal steed descended it threw them off violently, and vanished in fire and smoke.

We know a man called Jackey—never mind his surname—who had long been a sober character, and was so particularly veracious that he prefaced all his stories by saying, "I won't tell 'e a word of a lie, and know it!" Indeed this common affirmation of his has become an every-day saying, when anythingdoubtful is related. Well, Jackey has often told us, and many others, that, when a young man, and not so good as he might have been, he dwelt in the north of St. Just, and courted a girl who lived in Tardinney with her parents, who either rented a few acres or some dairy cows. One Sunday afternoon he went early to see his sweetheart. Whilst she was out milking, and he with her, the old woman, her mother, made a nice heavy currant-cake for tea. All was ready on the board when they returned from milking. Jackey made a hearty tea, or supper, as we should say; but, when that was over, the old woman said, "I've made a junket for thee, Jackey, as it's the first Sunday in May; it's in the dairy, 'runn'd' by this time; I'll bring it to thee in a minute."

"Don't think I can find room for it," said he; "I'm as full as a tick."

"Hold thy tongue," said she; "go thee wayst out and take a few jumps down from the heaping-stock, and pack the tea and trade away! Junket is no fillan, any more than drink; it will only quaff (puff) one for a bit."

Jackey went out and exercised himself a few minutes, by leaping over a stile; came in and found on the table a basin of junket well spread with thick cream and honey. It was no shabby allowance either, for the bowl held a quart or more. Whilst Jackey dispatched his junket his sweetheart rigged herself in her best, and then away they went down to Sennen Church-town to Methodist meeting. There they met several of his comrades with their sweethearts. Preaching over, they all went into the "First and Last" for a drop of something to drink. Santusters are always free enough in treating the women—and everybody else for that matter—so each of the fair ones had a glass of gin-and-peppermint or of brandy and cloves, or both if they liked, and most of them did like to taste both cordials and a glass of shrub besides. The men had a few mugs of shenackrum (gin and beer) with a dram of rum all around to finish off. They were a score or more going to St. Just; and all kept together till they came to the Burying-place Downs, where they parted company, and all the Santusters went Brea way, singing snatches of some well-known revival hymns to lively song tunes, except Jackey, who had to put his sweetheart home by the other road.

It was between ten and eleven o'clock when they got to Tardinney, and found the old folks gone to bed. A glowing turf-fire burned on the hearth, and they stayed courting till about one in the morning. But before Jackey left, his kind-hearted dear had tempted him to a slight supper of half a dozen eggs that she had saved up during the week unknown to the "old 'oman," and which were boiled over the turfy-fire. Jackey ate them with some bread and butter, then he had a good piece of coldcake, left from tea, with a bowl of milk; kissed; said good-night; and started for home.

Jackey had been tramping about nearly all day. He had a tiresome walk before him of nearly four miles; and to foot it, all alone, seemed doubly wearisome. He walked on pretty fast till he came half-way over Kelynack Downs. There he sat down to rest a minute and felt tired enough to sleep in a pool of water. He couldn't help wishing, when he rose to proceed, that an old horse might come in his way,—there were generally plenty of them on the common. He hadn't gone more than a hundred yards, when he saw what appeared to be an old black horse standing stock-still, as if asleep, close by the road. Jackey untied and took the halter it was spanned (hobbled) with from its legs, placed it over its head, mounted, and did his utmost to keep it on the road. But, in spite of all he could do, it took off westward over the Downs, going slowly at first, but soon quickened its pace till it went like the wind, and he was nearly blown off sometimes, with the rush of air occasioned by their speed, for there was no wind to speak of.

The night was so clear that he saw the Longships light nearly all the time, till they came to the cliff near the Land's End, to the best of his judgment. He felt no fear to speak of. The thing he bestrode took him over cliff—not right down, but sloping away gently. It went off through the air—just skimming the sea—straight to Scilly, and arrived there very quickly:—he thought it might be in a quarter of an hour or thereaway, from the time he left the Longships behind his back till they came to St. Agnes flashing light.

There was no stay when it came to the islands; for away it went all around and across them so high up that he saw all Scilly isles spread out like a map, and so plainly that he always remembered their position. Then without any control from the rider, Jackey's steed turned tail on Scilly and brought him back—about daybreak—to Kelynack Downs again, within a stone's throw of the rock where he mounted, shook him off pretty gently, and vanished in flame and smoke—as usual.

The Devil carried Jackey easy enough; but, for nearly a week after his ride, he felt very stiff and sore all over.

If any doubting body questioned the truth of this story or hinted that perhaps he fell asleep on Kelynack Downs and had "the stag," or got "hilla-rodden," (night-mare) he would reply,

"Don't 'e believe it, my dear; not sure nuf; and, as a proof that what I tell 'e is true, if you will give me a piece of chalk I'll mark out all the islands as I seed them, and as correct as anyone who had lived there all his time. Yet I had never been to Scilly before, nor have I since that night. Bless the Lord, I had anarrow escape; but didn't stay so late a-courting any more, and a few months after that night's ride, Mally and me—we got married."

One can't see what motive Old Nick had in this case, to take such trouble, unless it were for a mere freak, because he never seemed to claim any recompense from his rider.

To be "hilla-ridden," and to have the "stag," are the only names known to old country folks for the "night-mare," which is a word one never hears among them. There is, however, some difference in the signification of our two local terms. The former means to pass the time in an agony of tormenting dreams; the latter is used for obstructed respiration, or a feeling of weight on the chest, that prevents a person from moving.

With the past and with the present,Quaint old manners still are link'd;Olden customs, grave and pleasant,Ling'ring still, though nigh extinct.C. T. C.

With the past and with the present,Quaint old manners still are link'd;Olden customs, grave and pleasant,Ling'ring still, though nigh extinct.

C. T. C.

SOME West Country folks still observe a few old-fashioned marriage usages; one of which the following sketch will explain. It was given us, as inserted, by a young man who was one of the wedding guests.

"In the winter of 1860 we were invited to a wedding at a place called the Grambler in Sancreed; with strict orders to be in time to accompany the "weddenars" to church at ten o'clock the following Saturday morning.

Not caring to take part in the ceremony, we only left Penzance at one o'clock in the afternoon. On our arriving at New Bridge we found a messenger awaiting our arrival to guide us to the bride's parents' house where the wedding was being held. He also brought a bottle of brandy which An' Nancy, the bride's mother, sent for the "strangers from Penzance to drink on the way, to keep out the cold."

On nearing the house, we heard music and dancing, when our guide hastened on before to let the party know we were come. "My dear boys," said An' Nancy, meeting us at the door, "come 'e in quick out of the cold, we've ben afeerd you woddan coman."

All the company received us with hearty kindness; being placed at the board, our host said, "We've had dennar, my dears, but there's plenty left for 'e," at the same time pitching on each of our plates a piece of roast beef of not less than four pounds, "Aet that fust," he continued, "then you shall have some more." My companion looking rather surprised at the liberal supply, An' Nancy exclaimed, "What's the matter weth thee my boy, dossena like et? Well than thee shust have somethan else;" and without waiting a reply, took away the plate of beef and replaced it with one of roast goose and a dish of boiled pudding, saying, "Now there, my dear boy, aet that, I s'ppose the beef was too tough for 'e."

Meanwhile the wedding-party—most of whom were young people—awaited us in another room; we soon joined them andfound good drink and cakes in abundance. Uncle Will, the bride's father, being called upon for a toast, he gave:—

"Here's to the bridegroom and the bride,May they stick to each other's side;I hope their life will be of joy,And that the fust will be a boy."

which was received with roars of laughter and stamping of feet. Aunt Nancy took from a buffet several bottles of cordials for the women and others who liked them; amongst others were poppy and blackberry syrups, sweet-drink (mead),—that had been kept some years for this happy occasion—and peppermint water, of her own distilling. Presently the fiddle struck up with a jig. "Les have the double shuffle, Uncle Will," said the young people. Up he jumped as lively as a kid, though he was near eighty, and footed it out to the delight of all.

Young Jan of Santust (St. Just) followed, making the fire fly from the heels of his boots, like flashes of lightning; and all the company were quickly whirling, in reels, without much order.

Now, whilst the gaiety was at its height, the newly-wedded couple had contrived to slip out quietly, and hasten to their new home. "They're off, they're off," cried several voices; "come on soas, or else we shall be too late; they will be in bed and lock the door." Away they all flew, like mad devils, scampering over hedges and ditches for nearly a mile. We followed—fortunately for us it was a clear moonlight night.

When we got to the house the foremost of the party were up stairs. "Come 'e up, boys," shouted they; up we went and found the bride and bridegroom in bed, with their clothes on, having had no time to lock the door even, as the wedding guests were close on their heels.

We shall long remember the scene we then witnessed; the guests were beating them in bed, with stockings, straps, braces, or anything they could lay hands on. "Give them pepper," shouted young Jan, the groom's best man; "give et them, boys," and pepper them they did right merrily. Not wishing to be behind the rest, we took off our braces and followed suit. They continued this strange sport for a good while, until the leader said, "Les go back, soas, or else we shall be all ill-wisht, for et's nearly twelve a'clock."

Away they again rushed back to the old folks' house; and each one on arriving, before speaking, touched the cravel, (lintel or head-stone of the hearth) with his or her head, for good luck.

The old couple seemed well satisfied when we returned, as it was not quite midnight.

Many elderly folks had arrived late in the evening to drink health and long life to the newly-married; they assured us that it was an old custom to tan young married people to bed, or else they would meet with bad luck all their days. The good old souls had arranged for us to stay over night; but as we deemed it best to return home, they made us take more to eat and drink, to keep out the cold and help us on the road, they said. Then amidst hearty leave-takings and promises to visit them again soon, they allowed us to depart.

Well, somehow, we arrived home about daybreak, but often wished that we had stopped at the Grambler till sunrise.

At more modish weddings the guests merely enter the bridal-chamber and throw stockings—in which stones or something to make weight are placed—at the bride and bridegroom in bed. The first one hit, of the happy couple, betokens the sex of their first-born.

It was an old custom, religiously observed, until lately, in Zennor and adjacent parishes on the north coast, to waylay a married couple on their wedding-night and flog them to bed with cords, sheep-spans, or anything handy for the purpose; believing that this rough treatment would ensure them happiness and the "heritage and gift that cometh from the Lord," of a numerous family.

Decorative Rule

ON passing over a stile and entering the moor in which the well is situated, cross the moor at a right-angle to the hedge, and a minute's walk will bring one to the noted spring, which is not seen until very near, as it has no wall above the surface, nor any mark by which it can be distinguished at a distance.

Much has been written of the remarkable cures effected by its holy waters, and the intercession of St. Madron, or Motran; when it was so famous that the maimed, halt, and lame, made pilgrimages from distant parts to the heathy moor.

It is still resorted to on the first three Wednesdays in May, by some few women of the neighbourhood, who bring children to be cured of skin diseases by being bathed in it. Its old repute as a divining fount has not yet quite died out, though young folks visit it now to drop pebbles or pins into the well, more for fun and the pleasure of each other's company, than through any belief that the falling together, or the separation of pins or pebbles, will tell how the course of love will run between the parties indicated by the objects dropped into the spring; or that the number of bubbles which rise in the water, on stamping near the well, mark the years, in answer to any question of time; but there was not such want of faith, however, half a century ago.

A short time since I visited an elderly dame of Madron, who was a highly reputed charmer for the cure of various skin ailments; I had known her from my childhood; and my object was to glean what I could about the rites practised, within her remembrance, at Madron Well, the Crick-stone, and elsewhere.

She gave the following account of the usages at Madron Well about fifty years ago. At that time, when she lived in Lanyon, scores of women from Morvah, Zennor, Towednack, and other places, brought their children to be cured of the shingles, wildfires, tetters, and other diseases, as well as to fortify them against witchcraft or being blighted with an evil eye.

An old dame called An' Katty, who mostly lived in the Bossullows, or some place near, and who did little but knitting-work, picked up a good living in May by attending at the well, to direct the high country folks how they were to proceed in using the waters.

First she had the child stripped as naked as it was born; then it was plunged three times against the sun; next the creature was passed quickly nine times around the spring, going from east to west, or with the sun; the child was then dressed, rolled up in something warm, and laid to sleep near the water; if it slept, and plenty of bubbles rose in the well, it was a good sign. I asked if a prayer, charm, or anything was spoken during the operations? "Why, no, to be sure," my old friend replied, "don't 'e know any better, there musn't be a word spoken all the time they are near the water, it would spoil the spell; and a piece rented, not cut, from the child's clothes, or from that of anybody using the well must be left near it for good luck; ever so small a bit will do. This was mostly placed out of sight between the stones bordering the brooklet, or hung on a thorn that grew on the chapel wall.

Whilst one party went through their rites at the spring, all the others remained over the stile in the higher enclosure, or by thehedge, because, if a word were spoken by anybody near the well during the dipping, they had to come again." The old woman, An' Katty, was never paid in money, but balls of yarn, and other things she might want, were dropped on the road, outside the well-moors, for her; she also got good pickings by instructing young girls how to "try for sweethearts" at the well. "Scores of maidens"—the dame's words—"used, in the summer evenings, to come down to the well from ever so far, to drop into it pins, gravels, or any small thing that would sink." The names of persons were not always spoken when the objects which represented them were dropped into the water; it sufficed to think of them; and as pins or pebbles remained together or separated, such would be the couple's fate. It was only when the spring was working (rising strongly) that it was of any use to try the spells; and it was unlucky to speak when near the well at such times.

The old woman that I visited said she had never heard that any saint had anything to do with the water, except from a person who told her there was something about it in a book; nor had she or anybody else heard the water called St. Madron's Well, except by the new gentry, who go about new naming places, and think they know more about them than the people who have lived there ever since the world was created. She never heard of any ceremony being performed at the old Chapel, except that some persons hung a bit of their clothing on a thorn tree that grew near it. High Country folks, who mostly resort to the spring, pay no regard to any saint or to anyone else, except some old women who may come down with them to show how everything used to be done.

There is a spring, not far from Bosporthenes, in Zennor, which was said to be as good as Madron Well; and children were often taken thither and treated in the same way.

Such is the substance of what the dame related; and she regarded the due observance of ancient customs as a very solemn matter.

In answer to the questions of "What was the reason for going round the well nine times? Leaving bits of clothing? Following the sun, &c.?" It was always the same reply, "Such were the old customs," and everybody knew it was unlucky to do any such work, and many things besides, against the sun's course; no woman, who knew anything, would place pans of milk in a dairy, so as to have to unream (skim) them, in turn, against the sun, nor stir cream in that direction to make butter.

By following down the well-stream or hedge, mentioned above, we come to the Chapel. In its southern wall may be noticed an opening for letting water from the brook, which runs near it,flow into a baptistry in the south-western corner of the Chapel. Entering the doorway, on the northern side, one may remark that this primitive fount appears to have been arched over, after the manner of our old bee-hive huts, by the upper rows of stones slightly over-hanging. The altar table-slab, or mensa—still remaining at the east end—has a square pit worked in its centre, probably to mark the spot—over reliques—on which the monstrance was placed. A step makes the division between the little nave and sacrarium; there are also the remains of stone seats which were carried all around against the walls.

Let no rude hand remove,Or spoil thee; for the spot is consecrateTo thee, and thou to it.

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