Chapter 67

Helston was one of the Stannary Towns, and it was said that vessels could at one time come quite near it. Daniel Defoe has described it as being "large and populous, with four spacious streets, a handsome church, and a good trade." The good trade was, however, disappearing, owing to the discovery of tin in foreign countries, notably in the Straits Settlements and Bolivia; the church which Defoe saw had disappeared, having since been destroyed by fire and rebuilt in 1763. We did not go inside, but in walking through the churchyard we casually came upon an ordinary headstone on which was an inscription to the effect that the stone marked the resting-place of Henry Trengrouse (1772-1854), who, being "profoundly impressed by the great loss of life by shipwreck, had devoted the greater portion of his life and means to the invention and design of the rocket apparatus for connecting stranded ships to the shore, whereby many thousands of lives have been saved."

We had seen many fine monuments to men who had been instrumental in killing thousands of their fellow creatures, but here was Trengrouse who had been the humble instrument in saving thousands of lives, and (though a suitable monument has since been erected to his memory) only the commonest stone as yet recorded his memory and the inestimable services he had rendered to humanity: the only redeeming feature, perhaps, being the very appropriate quotation on the stone:

They rest from their labours and their works do follow them.

Helston was another town where a lovely double stream of water ran down the main street, rendering the town by its rapid and perpetual running both musical and clean. The water probably came from the River Cober, and afterwards found its way into the Looe Pool at the foot of the town. This pool was the great attraction of Helston and district, as it formed a beautiful fresh-water lake about seven miles in circumference and two miles long, winding like a river through a forked valley, with woods that in the springtime were filled with lovely wild flowers, reaching to the water's edge. It must have been a paradise for one fisherman at any rate, as he held his tenure on condition that he provided a boat and net in case the Duke of Cornwall, its owner, should ever come to fish there; so we concluded that if the Duke never came, the tenant would have all the fish at his own disposal. The curious feature about the lake was that, owing to a great bank of sand and pebbles that reached across the mouth, it had no visible outlet where it reached the sea, the water having to percolate as best it could through the barrier. When heavy rain came on and the River Cober delivered a greater volume of water than usual into the lake, the land adjoining was flooded, and it became necessary to ask permission of the lord of the manor to cut a breach through the pebbles in order to allow the surplus water to pass through into the sea, which was quite near. The charge for this privilege was one penny and one halfpenny, which had to be presented in a leather purse; but this ancient ceremony was afterwards done away with and a culvert constructed. On this pebble bank one of the King's frigates was lost in 1807.

There is a passage in the book of Genesis which states that "there were giants in the earth in those days"--a passage which we had often heard read in the days of our youth, when we wished it had gone further and told us something about them; but Cornwall had been a veritable land of giants. The stories of Jack the Giant-Killer were said to have emanated from this county, and we now heard of the Giant Tregeagle, whose spirit appeared to pervade the whole district through which we were passing.

He was supposed to be the Giant of Dosmary Pool, on the Bodmin Downs, which was believed at one time to be a bottomless pit. When the wind howls there the people say it is the Giant roaring, and "to roar like Tregeagle" was quite a common saying in those parts. "His spirit haunts all the west of Cornwall, and he haunts equally the moor, the rocky coasts, and the blown sandhills; from north to south, from east to west, this doomed spirit was heard of, and to the Day of Judgment he was doomed to wander pursued by avenging fiends. Who has not heard the howling of Tregeagle? When the storms come with all their strength from the Atlantic, and hurl themselves upon the rocks about the Land's End, the howls of this spirit are louder than the roaring of the wind."

In this land of legends, therefore, it is not surprising that the raising of that extraordinary bank which blocks the end of the River Cober, at what should be its outlet into the sea, should be ascribed to Tregeagle. It appeared that he was an extremely wicked steward, who by robbery and other worse crimes became very wealthy. In the first place he was said to have murdered his sister, and to have been so cruel to his wife and children that one by one they perished. But at length his end came, and as he lay on his death-bed the thoughts of the people he had murdered, starved, and plundered, and his remorseful conscience, so haunted him, that he sent for the monks from a neighbouring monastery and offered them all his wealth if they would save his soul from the fiends. They accepted his offer, and both then and after he had been buried in St. Breock's Church they sang chants and recited prayers perpetually over his grave, by which means they kept back the demons from his departing soul. But a dispute arose between two wealthy families concerning the ownership of some land near Bodmin. It appeared that Tregeagle, as steward to one of the claimants, had destroyed ancient deeds, forged others, and made it appear that the property was his own. The defendant in the trial by some means or other succeeded in breaking the bonds of death, and the spirit of Tregeagle was summoned to attend the court as witness.

When his ghostly form appeared, the court was filled with horror. In answer to counsel's questions he had to acknowledge his frauds, and the jury returned a verdict for the defendants. The judge then ordered counsel to remove his witness, but, alas! it was easier to raise evil spirits than to lay them, and they could not get rid of Tregeagle. The monks were then sent for, and said that by long trials he might repent and his sins be expiated in that way. They would not or could not hand him over to the fiends, but they would give him tasks to do that would be endless. First of all they gave him the task of emptying Dosmary Pool, supposed to be bottomless, with a small perforated limpet shell. Here, however, he narrowly escaped falling into the hands of the demons, and only saved himself by running and dashing his head through the window of Roach Rock Church. His terrible cries drove away the congregation, and the monks and priests met together to decide what could be done with him, as no service could be held in the church.

They decided that Tregeagle, accompanied by two saints to guard him, should be taken to the coast at Padstow, and compelled to stay on the sandy shore making trusses of sand and ropes of sand to bind them, while the mighty sea rose continually and washed them away. The people at Padstow could get no rest day or night on account of his awful cries of fear and despair, and they sought the aid of the great Cornish Saint Petrox. The saint subdued Tregeagle, and chained him with bonds, every link of which he welded with a prayer. St. Petrox placed him at Bareppa, and condemned him to carry sacks of sand across the estuary of St. Looe and empty them at Porthleven until the beach was clean to the rocks. He laboured a long time at that work, but in vain, for the tide round Treawavas Head always carried the sand back again. His cries and wails disturbed the families of the fishermen, but a mischievous demon came along, and, seeing him carrying an enormous sack full of sand and pebbles, tripped him up. Tregeagle fell, and the sack upset and formed the bar that ruined the harbour of Helston, which up to that time had been a prosperous port, the merchant vessels landing cargoes and taking back tin in exchange. The townspeople, naturally very wroth, sought the aid of the priests, and once more bonds were placed upon Tregeagle. This time he was sent to the Land's End, where he would find very few people to hear his awful cries. There his task was to sweep the sands from Porthcurnow Cove, round the headland called Tol-Peden-Penwith, into Nanjisal Cove. At this task, it is said, Tregeagle is still labouring, his wails and moans being still borne on the breeze that sweeps over the Land's End; so as this was our destination, we had rather a queer prospect before us!

Between Gweek and Helston we crossed the famous promontory known as the Lizard, which in length and breadth extends about nine miles in each direction, although the point itself is only two miles broad. The rocks at this extremity rise about 250 feet above the stormy sea below, and are surmounted by a modern lighthouse.

Originally there was only a beacon light with a coal fire fanned with bellows, but oil was afterwards substituted. The Lizard Point in those days, with the neighbouring rocks, both when submerged and otherwise, formed a most dangerous place for mariners, especially when false lights were displayed by those robbers and murderers, the Cornish wreckers.

The Lizard, the Corinum of the ancients, is the most southerly point in England, and the fine rock scenery on the coast continues from there all the way to the Land's End, while isolated rocks in many forms and smugglers' caves of all sizes are to be seen. Weird legends connected with these and the Cornish coast generally had been handed down from father to son from remote antiquity, and the wild and lonely Goonhilly Downs, that formed the centre of the promontory, as dreary a spot as could well be imagined, had a legend of a phantom ship that glided over them in the dusk or moonlight, and woe betide the mariners who happened to see it, for it was a certain omen of evil!

The finest sight that we saw here was in broad daylight, and consisted of an immense number of sailing-ships, more in number than we could count, congregated together on one side of the Lizard. On inquiring the reason, we were told that they were wind-bound vessels waiting for a change in the wind to enable them to round the point, and that they had been known to wait there a fortnight when unfavourable winds prevailed. This we considered one of the most wonderful sights we had seen on our journey.

As we left Helston on our way to Penzance we had the agreeable company as far as St. Breage of a young Cornishman, who told us we ought to have come to Helston in May instead of November, for then we should have seen the town at its best, especially if we had come on the "Flurry" day. This he said was the name of their local yearly festival, held on or near May 8th, and he gave us quite a full account of what generally happened on that occasion. We could easily understand, from what he told us, that he had enjoyed himself immensely on the day of the last festival, which seemed to be quite fresh in his mind, although now more than six months had passed since it happened. In fact he made us wish that we had been there ourselves, as his story awoke some memories in our minds of--

The days we went a-gipsying a long time ago When lads and lasses in their best were dressed from top to toe, When hearts were light and faces bright, nor thought of care or woe, In the days we went a-gipsying a long time ago!

His description of the brass band of which he was a member, and the way they were dressed, and the adventures they met with during the day, from early morning till late at night, was both interesting and amusing. Their first duty was to play round the town to waken people who were already awake--sleep was out of the question--children too had a share in the proceedings. They knew that booths or standings would be erected all over the town, some even on the footpath, displaying all manner of cakes, toffy, and nuts that would delight their eyes and sweeten their mouths, if they had the money wherewith to buy, and if not, there was the chance of persuading some stranger to come to the rescue! But first of all they must rush to the woods and fields in search of flowers and branches, for the town had to be decorated before the more imposing part of the ceremonies began. Meantime the bandsmen were busy devouring a good breakfast, for bandsmen's appetites are proverbial. Perhaps they are the only class of men who play while they work and work while they play. In any case, after breakfast they sauntered round the town talking to the girls until the auspicious hour arrived when they had to assemble in the market square to head the procession of the notables of the town dressed in all kinds of costumes, from that of William the Conqueror onwards. My brother was anxious to know what quickstep they played, and if it was "Havelock's Quick March"; but our friend said it was not a quickstep at all, but something more like a hornpipe. Was it the College or the Sailor's Hornpipe? It was neither, was the reply, as it had to be played slowly, for the people danced to it while they marched in the procession, and occasionally twirled their partners round; and then after some further ceremonies they separated and all the people began to dance both in the streets and through the houses, going in at one door and out at another, if there was one, tumbling about and knocking things over, and then out in the street again, and if not satisfied with their partners, changing them, and off again, this kind of enjoyment lasting for hours. Sometimes, if a man-of-war happened to be in the neighbourhood, the sailors came, who were the best dancers of the lot, as they danced with each other and threw their legs about in a most astonishing fashion, a practice they were accustomed to when aboard ship.

There were also shows and sometimes a circus, and the crowds that came from the country were astonishing. Now and then there was a bit of a row, when some of them had "a drop o' drink," but the police were about, and not afraid to stop their games by making free use of their staves; this, however, was the shady side of the great "Flurry" day.

Meantime every one had learned the strange dance-tune by heart, which our friend whistled for us, whereby we could tell it had come down from remote times. Indeed, it was said that these rejoicings were originally in memory of the victory of the great Michael over the Devil, and no one thought of suggesting a more modern theory than that the "Flurry" was a survival of the Floralia observed by the Romans on the fourth of the Calends of May in honour of Flora, the Goddess of Flowers.

The very mention of the names of band and hornpipe was too much for my brother, who could not resist giving the Cornishman a few samples of the single and double shuffle in the College Hornpipe, and one or two movements from a Scotch Reel, but as I was no dancer myself, I had no means of judging the quality of his performances. I kept a respectful distance away, as sometimes his movements were very erratic, and his boots, like those of the Emperor Frederick, were rather heavy. We could not persuade our friend to come with us a yard farther than the village. As a fellow bandsman, he confided the reason why to my brother; he had seen a nice young lady at the "Flurry" who came from that village, and he was going to see her now. He was standing in the street on the "Flurry" day when the lady came along, and stopped to look at the bandsmen, who were then at liberty, and he said to her jocularly, "Take my arm, love--I'm in the band," and, "By Jove," he said, "if she didn't come and take it," to his great astonishment and delight. Apparently his heart went at the same time, and we surmised that everything else would shortly follow. After bidding him good-bye, we looked round the church, and then my brother began to walk at an appalling speed, which fortunately he could not keep up, and which I attributed in some way to the effect of the bandsman's story, though he explained that we must try to reach Penzance before dark.

The church of St. Breage was dedicated to a saint named Breaca, sister of St. Enny, who lived in the sixth century and came from Ireland. There was a holed sandstone cross in the churchyard, which tradition asserted was made out of granite sand and then hardened with human blood! The tower was said to contain the largest bell in Cornwall, it having been made in the time of a vicar who, not liking the peals, had all the other bells melted down to make one large one. The men of St. Breage and those of the next village, St. Germoe, had an evil reputation as wreckers or smugglers, for one old saying ran:

God keep us from rocks and shelving sands, And save us from Breage and Germoe men's hands.

Opposite Breage, on the sea-coast, was a place named Porthleven, where a Wesleyan chapel, with a very handsome front, had been built. No doubt there are others in the country built in a similar way, for to it and them the following lines might well apply:

They built the church, upon my word, As fine as any abbey; And then they thought to cheat the Lord, And built the back part shabby.

After a walk of about two miles we arrived at the village of St. Germoe. The saint of that name was said to have been an Irish bard of royal race, and the font in the church, from its plain and rough form, was considered to be one of the most ancient in the county. In the churchyard was a curious structure which was mentioned by Leland as a "chair," and was locally known as St. Germoe's Chair, but why it should be in the churchyard was a mystery, unless it had been intended to mark the spot where the saint had been buried. It was in the form of a sedilium, the seat occupied by the officiating priest near the altar in the chancel of a church, being about six feet high and formed of three sedilia, with two pillars supporting three arches, which in turn supported the roof; in general form it was like a portion of the row of seats in a Roman amphitheatre.

On the opposite coast, which was only about a mile away, was the famous Prussia Cove, named after a notorious smuggler who bore the nickname of the King of Prussia; and adjoining his caves might still be seen the channels he had cut in the solid rock to enable his boats to get close to the shore. His real name was Carter. He became the leader of the Cornish smugglers, and kept the "Old King of Prussia Inn," though having the reputation of being a "devout Methodist." He was said to be so named because he bore some resemblance to Frederick the Great, the King of Prussia. We had seen other inns in the south of the same name, but whether they were named after the king or the smuggler we could not say. He seemed to have had other caves on the Cornish coast where he stored his stolen treasures, amongst which were some old cannon.

One moonlight night, when he was anxiously waiting and watching for the return of his boats, he saw them in the distance being rapidly pursued by His Majesty's Revenue cutter the _Fairy_. The smuggler placed his cannon on the top of the cliff and gave orders to his men to fire on the _Fairy_, which, as the guns on board could not be elevated sufficiently to reach the top of the cliff, was unable to reply. Thus the boats escaped; but early the following morning the Revenue boat again appeared, and the officer and some of the crew came straight to Carter's house, where they met the smuggler. He loudly complained to the officer that his crew should come there practising the cutter's guns at midnight and disturbing the neighbourhood. Carter of course could give no information about the firing of any other guns, and suggested it might be the echo of those fired from the _Fairy_ herself, nor could any other explanation be obtained in the neighbourhood where Carter was well known, so the matter was allowed to drop. But the old smuggler was more sharply looked after in future, and though he lived to a great age, he died in poverty.

Our road crossed the Perran Downs, where, to the left, stood the small village of Perranuthnoe, a place said to have existed before the time of St. Piran and named Lanudno in the taxation of Pope Nicholas. It was also pointed out as the place where Trevelyan's horse landed him when he escaped the inrush of the sea which destroyed Lyonesse, "that sweet land of Lyonesse," which was inseparably connected with the name of King Arthur, who flourished long before the age of written records. Lyonesse was the name of the district which formerly existed between the Land's End and the Scilly Islands, quite twenty-five miles away. When the waves from the Atlantic broke through, Trevelyan happened to be riding on a white horse of great swiftness. On seeing the waters rushing forward to overwhelm the country, he rode for his life and was saved by the speed of his horse. He never stopped until he reached Perranuthnoe, where the rocks stopped the sea's farther progress. But when he looked back, he could see nothing but a wide expanse of water covering no less than 140 parish churches. He lived afterwards in the cave in the rocks which has ever since borne the name of Trevelyan's Cave. It was beyond doubt that some great convulsion of nature had occurred to account for the submerged forests, of which traces were still known to exist.

Soon afterwards we reached a considerable village bearing the strange name of Marazion, a place evidently once of some importance and at one time connected with the Jews, for there were the Jews' Market and some smelting-places known as the Jews' Houses. Here we came to the small rock surmounted by a castle which we had seen in front of our track for some miles without knowing what it was. Now we discovered it to be the far-famed St. Michael's Mount. According to legend this once stood in a vast forest of the mysterious Lyonesse, where wild beasts roamed, and where King Arthur fought one of his many battles with a giant at the "Guarded Mount," as Milton has so aptly named it.