The King's Head, Altarnun

The King's Head, a 16th century coaching inn, is visited occasionally by the ghost of a former occupant, called Peggy Bray.

Jamaica Inn, Bodmin Moor

Jamaica Inn was made famous by Daphne du Maurier's novel of the same name and reeks with atmosphere. It is not surprising that, amongst other things, Jamaica Inn has a ghost.

On the pretext that he was wanted outside, a seaman, journeying from Plymouth to Penzance, who had stopped for a drink, was lured out of the building, attacked and killed. Since then his silent ghost has been periodically seen, sitting on a stone wall outside, neither moving nor speaking. When approached the ghost invariably disappears.

Penfound Manor, Poundstock, nr Bude

An unhappy 17th century love affair has left its mark at Penfound Manor, in the form of the spectre of Kate Penfound, who was said to have haunted the manor certainly as late as the mid-20th century, as a result of the tragic death of both herself and her lover. Her ghost was certainly seen as late as 1920.

Penfound Manor was originally a Saxon dwelling and was given to Robert, Count of Mortain, by his half-brother, William the Conqueror, although the occupancy was still retained by a Saxon, called Briend. The Penfound Family, who took their name from the manor, moved in during the 12th century and remained there until the property was confiscated by the Crown as a result of the Jacobite Rebellion.

The Manor had a chimney built into the Great Hall as early as the 12th century, and was one of the first homes in the country to have a bedroom built in, solely for the use as a bedroom.

Kate Penfound was the daughter of Arthur Penfound, a prominent local Royalist during the time of the Civil War. It was her misfortune that she had fallen in love with John Trebarfoot, a member of another prominent family in the area. The Trebarfoot Family were staunch Parliamentarians. Had it not been for the Civil War it is almost certain that Arthur Penfound would have given his blessing to his daughter's prospective marriage. Indeed it was only nearly 50 years previously, in 1598, that another female member of the Penfound Family had married another John Trebarfoot. However, the war had turned brother against brother, neighbour against neighbour, and there seemed to be only one answer to Kate's plight. She and John Trebarfoot decided to elope.

On the night of 26th April, Kate climbed down a ladder from her bedroom window to the courtyard, where John was waiting for her. But before they were able to slip away, they were caught by her father. After a short struggle, John Trebarfoot was killed and Kate died later as a result of wounds inflicted by her father. Arthur Penfound was later to die of wounds inflicted in the same fight.

The ghost of Kate Penfound has been seen, sometimes gazing out of her bedroom window, sometimes wandering throughout the rest of the house, searching for her lost lover.

St Neot's Church, Poundstock, nr Bude

Near Penfound Manor can be found the little Church of St Neot, reputed to be haunted by the ghost of William Penfound, a 16th century priest of the parish, who was murdered there in December, 1536. Whilst William Penfound was celebrating Mass, several of the parishioners entered the church and at the close of the service murdered him in the chancel.

At the time there was a lot of bad feeling in the parish as to the choice of William Penfound as parish priest. He had earlier been thrown out by one of the influential families of the area but had been reinstated on the orders of the Pope. It is suspected that he had been fraternising a little too closely with some of the local wives.

In his Register for 1537, Grandisson, Bishop of Exeter, gave an account of what happened. During the course of Mass, on the Feast of St John the Apostle, several men, armed with swords and staves, entered the church, and on completion of the service, followed Penfound into the chancel, where they slew him. The two ringleaders of the mob were arrested. At their trial, both men, John Beville and Simon de St Gennys, were pardoned.

The ghost of the murdered priest still haunts the church, sometimes seen kneeling before the altar, sometimes being seen where he met his death.

Rough Tor, nr Camelford

In 1844, widowed Phillipa Peter made a hard living working the poor farmland, helped by her son, John, and three employees, John Stevens, Matthew Weeks and Charlotte Dymond. Life was very quiet, especially during the Winter months, and 18 year-old Charlotte was flattered by the attentions paid to her by Matthew, the lame labourer. Apart from the farm work, and the weekly visit to the chapel at Tremail, there was very little to do. Although she was very fond of Matthew, and was probably in love with him, she used to tease him about the other lads in the area. A deep jealousy brooded in Matthew's mind.

On Sunday, 14th April, 1844, Charlotte and Matthew went for a walk across the Tor, which was blossoming with Spring flowers. Charlotte was dressed in her "Sunday Best" and was very happy. She told Matthew about one of the local lads who she said had flirted with her. She invented other boys, who she said were always making eyes at her.

What she did not know was that Matthew was carrying a knife in his jacket. They walked on, she completely unaware of the jealousy in Matthew's heart, until they reached the ford in the stream, at the foot of the Tor, where he picked an argument with her. It was then that she realised that she had gone too far and that this was no longer a joke.

Matthew returned to the farm alone. He told Mrs Peters that he had left Charlotte at a farm in nearby Brown Willy, saying that she had decided to get a job at nearby Blisland. Her body was found, by the local constable, almost a month later and Thomas Good, a surgeon from nearby Lewannick, examined the body and said that the stab wounds could not have been self-inflicted.

A few days later, Matthew Weeks was arrested in Plymouth, attempting to board a ship. He was tried at Bodmin on 9th August, 1844, and found guilty of the murder. He was hanged three days later. A stone monument was erected at the spot where Charlotte's body was found.

Her ghost has been seen on many occasions since that time. Soldiers, standing sentry at a nearby camp, reported seeing her ghost walking down the path from the summit of the Tor to the stream. A man on a fishing trip also saw her and called out to her, but she ignored his call, appearing to be looking for somebody.

It has been reported from Spiritualist sources that Charlotte Dymond has stated quite categorically in seance that Matthew Weeks did not kill her. In that case who did, and why did Matthew Weeks invent the story of Charlotte leaving the Peters Farm to find a job in Blisland?

Looe

A white hare is said to haunt an old inn at Looe. The form is thought to be the spirit of a girl who committed suicide on the premises. The hare runs down the hill at Talland and vanishes at the door of the Jolly Tar Inn. The apparition is said to be a sign of impending misfortune.

Chapel Street, Penzance

Leading down from Queen Street to the South Pier, Chapel Street in the olden days housed a small orchard, which was owned by Mrs Elizabeth Baines. It seems that she was quite concerned about her fruit and employed a guard to protect it from being stolen.

Nearing harvest time, she went to check that the old man was doing his job. Thinking that she was a thief, he fired a shot and hit her.

Her ghost, wearing a bonnet and dark cloak, has been seen on many occasions near the top end of the street, where she has been observed disappearing through a wall.

The Dolphin Inn, Penzance

Standing on the quayside, the Dolphin Inn was used by Sir John Hawkins when enlisting local Cornishmen to fight the Spanish Armada, in 1588. The infamous Judge Jeffreys is said to have held one of his equally infamous courts there, and in the cellars there are still reminders of the prisoners that were held in custody before attending his "Bloody Assizes". It was also the local haunt of smugglers and was used as a hiding place for illicit spirits and wines. In the 1960's, two casks of brandy were found hidden in the cellars from those far-off days, and were found to be still in good condition.

Penzance was the first port of call for ships making their way from the New World to England and it is almost certain that the first pipe of tobacco to be smoked in this country was smoked at the Dolphin.

There are two ghosts at the inn. One is that of an old English sea-captain, in lace ruffles and three-cornered hat, who is said to have died there. The second is the ghost of a fair-haired young man, who fell to his death from the loft to the cellars in February, 1873. Both have been seen, but more frequently heard at the inn.

The Smugglers Cottage Guest House, Portreath

A smuggler haunts this aptly named guest house, which was built in the 16th century. The ghost is that of a small man in his twenties, dressed in 18th century clothing, who emerges out of the wood panelling on the first floor corridor, and walks in a surreptitious manner towards the staircase, where he disappears. The spot where he appears through the panelling is the entrance to a tunnel which leads down to the beach. This entrance was sealed up in the 20th century for security reasons.

In the 1950's, alterations being made at the guest house exposed a secret room, in which was found a small table with a skeleton seated at it. Remnants of a black cloak were still found round the seated frame. In the corner of the room was found an antique sea chest and a rusting sword. There is no evidence to show why the man was incarcerated there, although he was probably imprisoned for some disagreement with the local smuggling fraternity.

Perranzabuloe, nr St Agnes

Walking in Perranzabuloe Churchyard one day, an old woman was said to have spotted a pair of false teeth protruding from the soil. Thinking that she might have a use for them, and feeling sure that the previous owner would not, she dug them up and took them home. That night the poor old woman was terrified to be awoken by an unearthly noise outside her cottage.

"Give me back my teeth", came the unearthly wail, "give me back my teeth". Shivering with fear and not daring to look outside, she hurled the false teeth out of the cottage window and the noise ceased. She heard the faint sound of footsteps retreating in the direction of the churchyard.

Next morning, though she fearfully trod the grounds of her cottage, the old woman could find no sign of footprints, and there was no sign of the false teeth. She never heard the voice or the footsteps again.

Roche Chapel, nr St Austell

In this ruined 15th century chapel the sounds of an unseen entity have been heard moving about, and on several occasions a "fleeting shadow" has been seen darting within the chapel.

The ghost is thought to be that of a 19th century Cornish miner who, after a severe drinking bout of the local cider, thought he was being chased by demons and fled to the chapel for protection. He was fell and killed in the accident.

St Ives

One day the port of St Ives was aroused by the sound of horns and distress rockets coming from the westward of St Ives Head. Local fishermen launched their boat and proceeded towards the spot from where the sounds had come from. They reached the stricken vessel and noticed that, to their astonishment, her masts and rigging were covered with ice and there was nobody visible on deck. When they hailed her there was no reply.

The man in the bows of the St Ives boat stood up and tried to grasp the side of the ship, but as soon as he touched it the vessel vanished, leaving the man grasping at thin air, and only the presence of mind of another member of the crew saved him from falling into the sea and being swept away.

The men returned to St Ives convinced that they had gone to the aid of a phantom vessel. Shortly afterwards, they again heard the sound of horns and distress rockets. This time it was a real ship, the Neptune, an outward bound vessel from London, and to the amazement of the fishermen, it was identical to the ship that they had previously rowed out to and had vanished so mysteriously when it had been touched. The Neptune was wrecked in exactly the same spot where the original encounter had taken place. In some strange way the men had witnessed a spectre of the future, rather than a spectre of the past. The phantom ship has been seen since at St Ives Head, always before a local sea disaster.

An unfortunate victim of a shipwreck has also been seen wandering along the beach and cobbled streets of St Ives, searching by the light of a lantern for her lost baby, who was swept from her arms and away into the darkness by the raging seas, while she was being rescued by a lifeboat. Although she herself was saved from the wreck, she never fully recovered from the shock of losing her baby, and it was the shock that finally killed here. During her funeral, her figure was seen to drift from the churchyard towards the beach. It was believed that to see the pitiful wraith of the Lady with the Lantern was a warning that a ship would soon be wrecked.

St Just

A Cornish ghost was the means of helping a living man in distress. Without spectral help, John Thomas would certainly have died, trapped in an old clay-pit.

On Sunday, 21st December, 1783, John Thomas, who lived at Sancreed, a man of 64 who had lost his wife 15 years previously, notorious for his drinking habits, went to St Just for another night at the pub. After yet another bout of heavy drinking he was staggering home, when, he fell thirty feet down a clay-pit in the pitch dark. When he was reported missing a thorough search was made of the local area but John Thomas was not found.

The following Sunday, James Thethewy, a friend of John Thomas, looking for some of his sheep, noticed a rather strange figure standing on the edge of the clay-pit. As he drew near the pit, the figure walked round to the other side and vanished. James Trethewy heard a voice from the pit but took fright because he thought he had stumbled on a smugglers' lair. However, he returned a short while later and heard the voice again. Upon investigation he found it to be that of a much-weakened John Thomas. He had only survived by drinking the water at the bottom of the pit.
Several other people had also seen the strange figure on the top of the pit but had taken no notice of it.

Botathan, South Petherwin

The ghost of Dorothy Dinglet was seen on a number of occasions in a field, then known as Higher Brown Quartils, and also on a nearby road. Although she has been seen again in the 20th century, the main interest of her hauntings is centred around the period shortly after her death, in 1662.

Dorothy Dinglet was well acquainted with the Bligh Family, of Botathan House. It was about the time of Dorothy's death that the elder son of the Bligh Family moved away. It is thought that Dorothy died in childbirth and that the elder son was the father of the child.

Three years after her death she appeared to the younger son of the Bligh Family, who was crossing a field on his way to Launceston. He could see the woman coming towards him, pointing her finger at something distant. She appeared to take no notice of the lad and passed him by, gliding rather than walking. This apparition occurred several times whilst the lad was crossing the field, but Dorothy Dinglet was not seen by anyone else at this time.

The lad was upset by the constant appearances and in desperation his parents called in the parson, John Ruddell, then Curate of Launceston. The priest accompanied the Blighs back to their house and heard the full story from the boy. The next day he went with the boy to the field and they both saw the apparition coming towards them, over the grass, in the early January light. Mr Ruddell had intended speaking with the apparition, but when he saw her he was powerless to speak. He had no doubt, however, that he had seen a ghost and he applied to the Bishop for permission to exorcise her.

Having obtained the necessary permission, he prepared to meet Dorothy alone in the field. He wore a ring, on which was engraved the "Scrutum Davidis", and he carried a rowan stick. On 27th July, 1665, he awaited the arrival of Dorothy Dinglet in the field, and she in due course appeared. There followed a rather lengthy conversation and the ghost said that she haunted the field because of an unconfessed sin she had committed on this Plane. After her confession, she asked John Ruddell not to divulge the secret of their conversation, and in turn agreed not to haunt the lad, or the field, again. This promise she kept for over 300 years. However, quite recently she had once more appeared in the field, and on the nearby road. What can have provoked her into once more being seen?

Wadebridge

Edmund Norway was captain of the "Orient", a merchant ship that was proceeding from Manila to Cadiz. On 8th February, 1840, the Orient was sailing west of St Helena, and Edmund Norway was just finishing writing a letter to his brother, Nevell, in Cornwall. Captain Norway retired to his bed and fell asleep. He had a vivid dream that he brother had been killed. He recorded the dream as follows:

"About 7.30 pm, the Island of St Helena N.N.W. distant about 7 miles; shortened sail and rounded to with the ship's head to the eastward. A 8, set the watch and went below; wrote a letter to my brother, Nevell Norway. About 20 minutes, or a quarter before ten o'clock, went to bed, fell asleep and dreamt I saw two men attacking my brother and murder him. One caught the horse by the bridle and snapped a pistol twice, but I heard no report. he then struck him a blow and he fell off his horse. They struck him several blows and dragged him by the shoulders across the ground and left him. In my dream there was a house on the left hand side of the road.

"At four o'clock I was called and went on deck to take charge of the ship. I told the second officer, Mr Henry Wren, that I had a dreadful dream - namely that my brother was murdered on the road from St Columb to Wadebridge but I felt sure that it could not be there as the house would be on the right hand side of the road; so that it must have been somewhere else".

By the time that the Orient had reached England, two brothers, William and James Lightfoot, had been arrested for the murder of Nevell Norway. After conviction they were hanged at Bodmin on 13th April, 1840. Before going to the scaffold, William Lightfoot made a confession, describing how they had met Nevell Norway on the road to Wadebridge and the confession tallies in essentials with Edmund Norway's dream. William Lightfoot made light of his own part in the affair, placing the blame on his brother, James.

William described how James had grabbed Mr Norway's horse and had fired at him twice with his pistol. However, the pistol had not gone off and he had then knocked Nevell Norway down to the ground with his pistol, where they attacked him further. After robbing the body they dragged it to a stream on the left hand side of the road to Wadebridge, where it was eventually found.

Captain Norway was right in supposing that the house had been seen on the right hand side of the road when he last saw it. However, during alterations to the roadway during his absence, the house was now actually changed to the left hand side of the road.

The Old Rectory, Warleggan

The ghost of the Rev Frederick Densham, the last incumbent, has been seen walking through the grounds of the rectory, and the house itself. He is not an old ghost, for he did not die until 1953, but the story of his life is one of the oddest tales of a man, who at the very least was certainly eccentric.

Rev Densham was the incumbent at Warleggan from 1931 until his death. As soon as he arrived the parishioners found him very strange and treated him with a great deal of mistrust. He very quickly established himself as an "odd un" when he painted the rectory and the church in glaring colours, and it is recorded that the Bishop of Truro made him remove all the paint at the cost of £25, which Rev Densham had to pay for himself.

Fewer and fewer people turned up for his services, so to make up for the spaces which were rapidly increasing every Sunday, he cut out cardboard figures and propped them in the pews so that he could still preach to a full church.

In 1933, the Bishop of Truro was forced to order an inquiry into complaints made by the parishioners, who were getting more and more concerned at the decreasing number of people attending the church, and felt that the only way to stop the church becoming completely empty was to remove the vicar.

There were five complaints. The parishioners complained bitterly that the vicar had closed the Sunday School and that he had refused to hold services at times convenient to themselves. He had put up a barbed-wire fence around the rectory gardens, had threatened to sell the organ, which was a memorial to the Fallen of the First World War, and that he had misappropriated church property for his own use.

The Bishop listened to the Rev Densham's explanations and found that he had no reason to remove him from his post. With that, the Church Council resigned in a body and the whole congregation refused to enter the church again. This did not deter the Rev Densham, who merely cut out more cardboard figures and placed them in the remaining empty pews; the local congregation switching their allegiance to the Methodist Chapel. The services at Warleggan Church still continued.

In 1953, many years after he had preached to his last "live" congregation, Frederick Densham's body was found in a crumpled heap at the bottom of the stairs at the rectory. There was a dreadful expression of horror on his dead face.

(These descriptions were taken from Ghosts of the South West by Tony Ellis)

The Wellington Hotel, Boscastle

The Wellington Hotel, Boscastle's famous old coaching inn, has more than its fair share of ghostly inhabitants. Some years ago the Hotel's owner, Victor Tobutt, was working at the reception desk when the figure of a man drifted silently past him. Looking up, he was surprised to see that the man wore leather gaiters and boots, a frock coat and a frilled shirt, such as might have been worn by an 18th century coachman, and his hair tied back in the old fashioned style. "There was nothing insubstantial about him", Victor told, "he looked remarkably solid." To his shock, the apparition disappeared through the wall, but when he began to describe what he had seen to one of his employees, the man completed the description for him. Apparently he too had seen the ghostly visitor on more than one occasion.

Another employee at The Wellington Hotel, retired policeman Bill Searle has twice witnessed a misty shape wearing what appears to be a cloak drift across the landing and disappear through the wall of a guest room. It is thought to be the spirit of a young girl who, crossed in love, flung herself in despair from the ramparts of the hotel's tower. Victor also believes that another part of the building is haunted by a murdered man, and there is also an "animal friendly" spirit, which was eagerly pursued by the small dog belonging to the writer of ghost stories who stayed in the hotel. Ironically, the writer himself didn't see it, but his wife witnessed a shape move across the room, followed by the dog excitedly wagging his tail!

Several of the staff and customers have also witnessed a dark shape float down the stairs and disappear into the cellar late at night. Curiously, the two oldest hostelries in Boscastle bear the names of two of history's most famous adversaries. At the top of Boscastle's steep "corkscrew " hill, high above The Wellington Hotel stands The Napoleon Inn. It is said that the inn served as a recruiting office in the Napoleonic Wars, but the sympathies and interests of many Cornish smugglers lay more with their French suppliers than with King and Country. Legend has it that The Napoleon Inn was so named because it was actually used to recruit volunteers for the enemy!

Duporth Manor

The ancient manor house at Duporth was said to have been haunted by the ghost of a nun known affectionately as "Flo". A century ago she could be heard striking matches in adjoining rooms and at the same time almost every night someone - or something? - would click open the lock on the cabinet in the drawing rooms. The manor has now been demolished and the sight has become Duporth Holiday Village, but according to a night security guard "Flo" hasn't gone away. Many strange happenings have been witnessed in recent years. The roundabout in the children's playground has been seen to turn by itself, first one way then the next without a breath of wind in the air. A kettle boiled itself in a locked and unattended room and a sewing machine which whirred into life without human assistance abruptly stopped when a member of staff said "no thanks Flo - I don't need you today". People claim to be aware of an invisible presence near the old farmhouse. An elderly lady staying at the village with her 5 year old granddaughter heard the child talking to someone on the landing one afternoon. On investigating the grandmother could see no one, and when questioned the child said she had been chatting to a nice old lady in a black dress!

The Legend of Blackways Cove

Blackways Cove is an isolated inlet just along the coast from the golden North Cornwall beach of Trebarwith Strand. It is said to be haunted, but no one really knows by whom. Could it be the ghosts of shipwrecked sailors drowned when their vessels were torn apart on the treacherous rocks nearby? Or it could be the restless spirit of a local man doomed to haunt the scene of his crime - a crime with a curious twist in the tale? Many years ago a man with two sons farmed in the vicinity, and on his death left his entire estate to his eldest son, cutting out the younger one without a penny. The younger son went away wracked with jealousy that fomented over time to be an obsession until, convinced that he had been cheated of his birthright he set out to wreak revenge on his elder brother. One night he crept onto the farm and set fire to the buildings. The blaze took hold and the entire property was razed to the ground. The ruins of this once prosperous farm may still be seen near Backways - a few stones from the farmhouse and outbuildings were all that remained. Only in the morning did he discover that his brother had died the day before - and left the entire estate to him.

The Talland Ghost Hunter

Talland is a small village on Cornwall's East coast not far from the fishing villages of Looe and Polperro. Once an area notorious for smuggling, its worthy vicar, Parson Richard Dodge who served the church between 1713 and 1747 acquired a reputation as a Ghost hunter and Exorcist, almost certainly a convenient cover to disguise his smuggling activities! Dodge claimed the power to drive away the Devil and spread the story of having met The Devil himself driving a sable coach drawn by two headless horses. He spoke of demons on nearby Bridle Lane, a path that leads down to the beach, thereby ensuring that God-fearing folk would steer clear of the area at night and not disturb his illegal trade!

He also let it be known that on his approach evil spirits would cry out "Dodge is come! I must be gone!" and so his reputation as the scourge of evil spread far and wide in the county. Legend also has it that the original Church was to have been constructed at nearby Pulpit and work had actually commenced, but each following day the stones that had been laid had been mysteriously transported over to the present site. Then, a chilling voice is said to have been heard, commanding "if you would my wish fulfil build the church on Talland Hill". The superstitious masons duly acquiesced, and there it stands to this day.

The Phantom Coach

A lonely drive through quiet country lanes one wet November afternoon led to an extraordinary encounter for Mr Cliff Hocking of Mevagissey.

He was driving from Mevagissey to Truro to visit his wife in hospital when, to his shock and amazement he rounded a round bend and without warning was suddenly confronted with an old fashioned stagecoach thundering along the road towards him, drawn by four horses galloping at full speed. At the reigns sat a coachman in a greatcoat with wide blue lapels, whipping the horses into a frenzy of speed. Beside the driver blowing a posthorn sat the guard, clad in a scarlet coat and black hat. Horrified, Mr Hocking stamped on his brakes, stalling the car and throwing his hands up over his face. As the mysterious coach bore down on him, the thundering wheels, galloping hooves and urgent blast of the horn rising to a crescendo, he sat helplessly awaiting the imminent collision. Nothing happened. Instead, the terrifying sounds of the coach ceased abruptly and all was quiet again. When he looked up it had literally disappeared into thin air. The road was empty.

The phenomenon of phantom coaches drawn by ghostly horses is not an uncommon one, especially in the uncommonly haunted county of Cornwall, but to Mr Hocking this vision was a very real one. He remembers quite clearly that the coach was painted bright red, low bodied with small doors and windows and a sloping rear. Such a coach would once have carried the mail to towns and villages in the vicinity - some two hundred years ago. Why was the driver in such a hurry? Well perhaps he was late with the post - or maybe he had a rendezvous to meet. After all, Walter Cross - the Mevagissey man who had introduced the stagecoach service into Cornwall in 1796 was, among other things, a smuggler. Was it him at the reins?

(Taken from the Cornish Connexions website)

The Spectre Bridegroom

Long, long ago a farmer named Lenine lived in Boscean. He had but one son, Frank Lenine, who was indulged into waywardness by both his parents. In addition to the farm servants, there was one, a young girl, Nancy Trenoweth, who especially assisted Mrs. Lenine in all the various duties of a small farmhouse.

Nancy Trenoweth was very pretty, and although perfectly uneducated, in the sense in which we now employ the term education, she possessed many native graces, and she had acquired much knowledge, really useful to one whose aspirations would probably never rise higher than to be mistress of a farm of a few acres.

Frank Lenine and Nancy were thrown as much together as if they had been brother and sister. Although it was evident to all the parish that Frank and Nancy were seriously devoted to each other, the young man's parents were blind to it, and were taken by surprise when one day Frank asked his father and mother to consent to his marrying Nancy. The old man felt it would be a degradation for a Lenine to marry a Trenoweth, and, in the most unreasoning manner, he resolved it should never be.

The first act was to send Nancy home to Alsia Mill, where her parents resided; the next was an imperious command to his son never again to see the girl. The commands of the old are generally powerless upon the young where the affairs of the heart are concerned. So were they upon Frank. He, who was rarely seen of an evening beyond the garden of his father's cottage, was now as constantly absent from his home.

Rarely an evening passed that did not find Nancy and Frank together in some retired nook. The Holy Well was a favorite meeting place, and here the most solemn vows were made. Locks of hair were exchanged; a wedding ring, taken from the finger of a corpse, was broken, when they vowed that they would be united either dead or alive; and they even climbed at night the granite pile at Treryn, and swore by the Logan Rock the same strong vow.

Time passed onward thus unhappily, and, as the result of the endeavours to quench out the passion by force, it grew stronger under the repressing power, and, like imprisoned steam, eventually burst through all restraint. Nancy's parents discovered at length that moonlight meetings between two untrained, impulsive youths, had a natural result, and they were now doubly earnest in their endeavours to compel Frank to marry their daughter.

The elder Lenine could not be brought to consent to this, and he firmly resolved to remove his son entirely from what he considered the hateful influences of the Trenoweths. He resolved to send him away to sea, hoping thus to wean him from this love madness. Frank, poor fellow, with the best intentions, was not capable of any sustained effort, and consequently he at length succumbed to his father; and, to escape his persecution, he entered a ship bound for India, and bade adieu to his native land.

Frank could not write, and this happened in days when letters could be forwarded only with extreme difficulty, consequently Nancy never heard from her lover.

A baby had been born into a troublesome world, and the infant became a real solace to the young mother. Young Nancy lived for her child, and on the memory of its father. She felt that no distance could separate their souls, that no time could be long enough to destroy the bond between them.

The winter was coming on, and nearly three years had passed away since Frank Lenine left his country. It was All-Hallows' Eve, and two of Nancy's companions persuaded her--no very difficult task--to go with them and sow hemp seed.

At midnight the three maidens stole out unperceived into Kimyall town place to perform their incantation. Nancy was the first to sow, the others being less bold than she. Boldly she advanced, saying, as she scattered the seed:

'Hemp seed I sow thee,
Hemp seed grow thee;
And he who will my true love be,
Come after me
And shaw thee.'

This was repeated three times, when looking back over her left shoulder, she saw Lenine; but he looked so angry that she shrieked with fear, and broke the spell. One of the other girls, however, resolved now to make trial of the spell, and the result of her labours was the vision of a white coffin. Fear now fell on all, and they went home sorrowful, to spend each one a sleepless night.

November came with its storms, and during one terrific night a large vessel was thrown upon the rocks in Bernowhall Cliff, and, beaten by the impetuous waves, she was soon in pieces. Amongst the bodies of the crew washed ashore, nearly all of whom had perished, was Frank Lenine. He was not dead when found, but the only words he lived to speak were begging the people to send for Nancy Trenoweth, that he might make her his wife before he died.

Rapidly sinking, Frank was borne by his friends on a litter to Boscean, but he died as he reached the town place. His parents, overwhelmed in their own sorrows, thought nothing of Nancy, and without her knowing that Lenine had returned, the poor fellow was laid in his last bed, in Burian Churchyard.

On the night of the funeral, Nancy went, as was her custom, to lock the door of the house, and as was her custom too, she looked out into the night. At this instant a horseman rode up in hot haste, called her by name, and hailed her in a voice that made her blood boil.

The voice was the voice of Lenine. She could never forget that; and the horse she now saw was her sweetheart's favourite colt, on which he had often ridden at night to Alsia. The rider was imperfectly seen; but he looked very sorrowful, and deadly pale, still Nancy knew him to be Frank Lenine.

He told her that he had just arrived home, and that the first moment he was at liberty he had taken horse to fetch his loved one, and to make her his bride. Nancy's excitement was so great, that she was easily persuaded to spring on the horse behind him, that they might reach his home before the morning.

When she took Lenine's hand a cold shiver passed through her, and as she grasped his waist to secure herself in her seat, her arm became as stiff as ice. She lost all power of speech, and suffered deep fear, yet she know not why. The moon had arisen, and now burst out in a full flood of light, through the heavy clouds which had obscured it. The horse pursued its journey with great rapidity, and whenever in weariness it slackened its speed, the peculiar voice of the rider aroused its drooping energies. Beyond this no word was spoken since Nancy had mounted behind her lover. They now came to Trove Bottom, where there was no bridge at that time; they dashed into the river. The moon shone full in their faces. Nancy looked into the stream, and saw that the rider was in a shroud and other grave clothes. She now knew that she was being carried away by a spirit, yet she had no power to save herself; indeed, the inclination to do so did not exist.

On went the horse at a furious pace, until they came to the blacksmith's shop near Burian Church-town, when she knew by the light from the forge fire thrown across the road that the smith was still at his labours. She now recovered speech. "Save me! Save me! Save me!" she cried with all her might. The smith sprang from the door of the smithy, with a red-hot iron in his hand, and as the horse rushed by, caught the woman's dress and pulled her to the ground. The spirit, however, also seized Nancy's dress in one hand, and his grasp was like that of a vice. The horse passed like the wind, and Nancy and the smith were pulled down as far as the old Almshouses, near the churchyard. Here the horse for a moment stopped. The smith seized that moment, and with his hot iron burned off the dress from the rider's hand, thus saving Nancy, more dead than alive; while the rider passed over the wall of the churchyard, and vanished on the grave in which Lenine had been laid but a few hours before.

The smith took Nancy into his shop, and he soon aroused some of his neighbours, who took the poor girl back to Alsia. Her parents laid her on her bed. She spoke no word, but to ask for her child, to request her mother to give up her child to Lenine's parents, and her desire to be buried in his grave. Before the morning light fell on the world, Nancy had breathed her last breath.

A horse was seen that night to pass through the Church-town like a ball from a musket, and in the morning Lenine's colt was found dead in Bernowhall Cliff, covered with foam, its eyes forced from its head, and its swollen tongue hanging out of its mouth. On Lenine's grave was found the piece of Nancy's dress which was left in the spirit's hand when the smith burnt her from his grasp.

It is said that one or two of the sailors who survived the wreck related after the funeral, how, on the 30th of October, at night, Lenine was like one mad; they could scarcely keep him in the ship. He seemed more asleep than awake, and, after great excitement, he fell as if dead upon the deck, and lay so for hours. When he came to himself, he told them that he had been taken to the village of Kimyall, and that if he ever married the woman who had cast the spell, he would make her suffer the longest day she had to live for drawing his soul out of his body.

Poor Nancy was buried in Lenine's grave, and her companion in sowing hemp seed, who saw the white coffin, slept beside her within the year.

The Lovers of Porthangwartha

The names of the youth and maiden who fixed the term of the Lover's Cove upon this retired spot have passed from the memory of man. A simple story, however, remains, the mere fragment, without doubt, of a longer and more ancient tale.

The course of love with this humble pair did not run smooth. On one side or the other the parents were decidedly opposed to the intimacy which existed, and by their persecutions, they so far succeeded, that the young man was compelled to emigrate to some far distant land.

In this cove the lovers met for the last time in life, and vowed under the light of the full moon, that living or dead they would meet at the end of three years.

The young woman remained with her friends--the young man went to the Indies. Time passed on, and the three years, which had been years of melancholy to both, were expiring.

One moonlight night, when the sea was tranquil as a mirror, an old crone sat on the edge of the cliff "making her charms." She saw a figure--she was sure it was a spirit, very like the village maiden--descend into the cove, and seat herself upon a rock, around two-thirds of which the light waves were rippling. On this rock sat the maiden, looking anxiously out over the sea, until, from the rising of the tide, she was completely surrounded.

The old woman called; but in vain--the maiden was unconscious of any voice. There she sat, and the tide was rising rapidly around her. The old woman, now seeing the danger in which she was, resolved to go down into the cove, and, if possible, awaken the maiden to a sense of her danger. To do this, it was necessary to go round a projecting pile of rocks. While doing this, she lost sight of the object of her interest, and much was her surprise, when she again saw the maiden, to perceive a young sailor by her side, with his arm around her waist. Conceiving that help had arrived, the old woman sat herself down on the slope of the descending path, and resolved patiently to await the arrival of the pair on shore, and then to rate the girl soundly.

She sat watching this loving and lovely pair, lighted as they were on the black rock by a full flood of moonshine. There they sat, and the tide rose and washed around them. Never were boy and girl so made, and at last the terrified old woman shrieked with excitement. Suddenly they appeared to float off upon the waters. She thought she heard their voices; but there was no sound of terror. Instead of it a tranquil murmuring music, like the voice of doves, singing:

'I am thine
Thou art mine,
Beyond control;
In the wave
Be the grave
Of heart and soul.'

Down, down into the sea passed the lovers. Awestruck, the old woman looked on, until, as she said, "At last they turned round, looked me full in the face, smiling like angels, and, kissing each other, sank to rise no more."

They tell us that the body of the young woman was found a day or two after in a neighbouring cove, and that intelligence eventually reached England that the young man had been killed on this very night.

The Hooting Cairn

Cairn Kenidzhek, pronounced Kenidjack, signifying Hooting Cairn, is on the north road from St Just to Penzance, and is strikingly distinguished from other hills by its rugged character. Hoary stones, bleached by the sunshine of ages, are reared in fantastic confusion. The spirits of the Celts, possibly the spirits of a yet older people, dwell amidst those rocks. Within the shadow of this hill are mounds and barrows, and mystic circles, and holed stones, and rude altars, still telling of the past. The dead hold undisputed possession of all around; no plough share has dared to invade this sacred spot, and every effort made by modern man to mark his sway is indicated by its ruin. Nothing but what the Briton planted remains, and, if tales tell true, it is probable long years must pass before the Englishman can banish the Celtic powers who here hold sovereign sway.

"A weird tract is that of Kenidzhek and the Gump, and of ill repute. The old, half-starved horses on the common, with their hides grown rusty brown, like dried and withered grass, by exposure, are ridden by the archfiend at night. He is said to hunt lost souls over this heath; and an old stile hard by bears an evil name, for there the souls are sure to be caught, none being able to get over it. The people tell of midnight fights by demons, and of a shadowy form holding a lantern to the combatants."
-- Blight.

One of the tales which I have heard may be given as a strange mixture of the Celtic and the monastic legend.

Two miners who had been working in one of the now abandoned mines in Morvah, had, their labours being over, been, as was common, "half-pinting" in the public-house in Morvah Church.. town. It was after dark, but not late; they were very quiet men, and not drunk. They had walked on, talking of the prospects of the mine, and speculating on the promise of certain "pitches," and were now on the Common, at the base of the Hooting Cairn. No miner ever passed within the shadow of Cairn Kenidzhek who dared to indulge in any frivolous talk: at least, thirty years since, the influence akin to fear was very potent upon all.

Well, our two friends became silent, and trudged with a firm, a resolved footstep onward. There was but little wind, yet a low moaning sound came from the cairn, which now and then arose into a hoot. The night was dark, yet a strange gleaming light rendered the rocks on the cairn visible, and both the miners fancied they saw gigantic forms passing in and about the intricate rocks. Presently they heard a horse galloping at no great distance behind them. They turned and saw, mounted on a horse ~'hich they knew very well, since the bony brute had often worked the "whim" on their mine, a dark man robed in a black gown and a hood over his head, partly covering his face.
"Hallo! hallo!" shouted they, fearing the rider would ride over them.
"Hallo to you," answered a gruff voice.
"Where be'st goen then?" asked the bravest of the miners.
"Up to the cairn to see the wrastling," answered the rider; "come along! come along!"
Horse and rider rushed by the two miners, and, they could never tell why, they found themselves compelled to follow. They did not appear to exert themselves, but without much effort they kept up with the galloping horse. Now and then the dark rider motioned them onward with his hand, but he spoke not. At length the miners arrived at a mass of rocks near the base of the hill, which stopped their way; and, since it was dark, they knew not how to get past them. Presently they saw the rider ascending the hill, regardless of the masses of rock; passing unconcernedly over all, and, as it seemed to them, the man, the horse, and the rocks were engaged in a "three man's song," the chorus to which was a piercing hoot. A great number of uncouth figures were gathering together, coming, as it seemed, out of the rocks themselves. They were men of great size and strength, with savage faces, rendered more terrible by the masses of uncombed hair which hung about them, and the colours with which they had painted their cheeks. The plain in front of the rocks which had checked the miners' progress was evidently to be the wrestling ground. Here gathered those monstrous-looking men, all anxiety, making a strange noise. It was not long ere they saw the rider, who was now on foot, descending the hill with two giants of men, more terrible than any they had yet seen.

A circle was formed; the rider, who had thrown off his black gown, and discovered to the miners that he was no other than Old Nick, placed the two men, and seated himself in a very odd manner upon the ground.
The miners declared the wrestlers were no other than two devils, although the horns and tail were wanting. There was a shout, which, as if it indicated that the light was insufficient, was answered by the squatting demon by flashing from his eyes two beams of fire, which shed an unearthly glow over everything. To it the wrestlers went, and better men were never seen to the west of Penzance. At length one of them, straining hard for the mastery, lifted his antagonist fairly high in the air, and flung him to the ground, a fair back fall. The rocks trembled, and the ground seemed to thunder with the force of the fall. Old Nick still sat quietly looking on, and notwithstanding the defeated wrestler lay as one dead, no one went near him. All crowded around the victor, and shouted like so many wild beasts. The love of fair play was strong in the hearts of the miners; they scorned the idea of deserting a fallen foe; so they scrambled over the rocks, and made for the prostrate giant, for so, for size, he might well be called. He was in a dreadful strait. Whether his bones were smashed or not by the fall, they could not tell, but he appeared "passing away." The elder miner had long been a professor of religion. It is true he had fallen back; but still he knew the right road. He thought, therefore, that even a devil might repent, and he whispered in the ear of the dying man the Christian's hope.

If a thunderbolt had fallen amongst them, it could not have produced such an effect as this. The rocks shook with an earthquake; everything became pitchy dark; there was a noise of rushing hither and thither, and all were gone, dying man and all, they knew not whither. The two miners, terrified beyond measure, clung to each other on their knees; and, while in this position, they saw, as if in the air, the two blazing eyes of the demon passing away into the west, and at last disappear in a dreadfully black cloud. These two men were, although they knew the ground perfectly well, inextricably lost; so, after vainly endeavouring to find the right road off the Common, they lay down in each other's arms under a mass of granite rock, praying that they might be protected till the light of day removed the spell which was upon them.

Jago's Demon

The vicar of Wendron, who bore the name of Jago, appears to have had strange intercourse with the invisible world; or, rather, the primitive people of this district believe him to have possessed supernatural powers. Any one visiting the parish of Wendron will be struck with many distinguishing features in its inhabitants. It would appear as if a strange people had settled down amidst the races already inhabiting the spot, and that they had studiously avoided any intimate connection with their neighbours. The dialect of the Wendron people is unlike any other in Cornwall, and there are many customs existing amongst them which are not found in any other part of the county. Until of late years, the inhabitants of Wendron were quite uneducated;--. hence the readiness with which they associate ancient superstitions with comparatively modern individuals.

The Reverend Mr Jago was no doubt a man who impressed this people with the powers of his knowledge. Hence we are told that no spirit walking the earth could resist the spells laid upon him by Jago. By his prayers--or powers--many a night wanderer has been put back into his grave, and so confined that the poor ghost could never again get loose. To the evil-disposed Mr Jago was a terror. All Wendron believed that every act was visible to the parson at the moment it was done-- day or night it mattered not. He has been known to pick a thief at once out of a crowd, and criminal men or women could not endure the glance of his eye. Many a person has at once confessed to guilty deeds of which they have been suspected the moment they have been brought before Mr Jago.
We are told that he had spirits continually waiting upon him, though invisible until he desired them to appear. The parson rode far and wide over the moorland of his parish. He never took a groom with him; for, the moment he alighted from his horse, he had only to strike the earth with his whip, and up came a demon-groom to take charge of the steed.

Peter the Devil

The church at Altarnun is said to have been built from the remains of an ancient nunnery which had been founded in the early days of Christianity by the saint to whom it was dedicated. There was a peculiar sanctity about all that surrounded this little church and its holy well, and few were unfaithful enough to scoff at any of the holy traditions of the sacred place.
About the time of Charles II., an under-clerk or deacon of this church was called Peter, and he is said to have been a man of exceedingly bad character. He scoffed at holy things, and--unless he was belied--he made use of his position for merely temporal benefit, and was not remarkable for his honesty. He was, moreover, the terror of the neighbourhood. Common report insisting on it that Peter had been known to disentomb the dead, whether for the purpose of stealing rings and other trinkets which may have been buried, as some said, or for the purpose of renewing his youth, as others suggested, by mysterious contact with the dead, was not clearly made out. He was invariably called Peter Jowle, or Joule--that is, Peter the Devil. At the age of a hundred he was a gray-headed, toothless man; but then, by some diabolical incantation, he is said to have caused new black hairs to spring forth amongst those which were white with age, and then also new teeth grew in his jaws. Peter is said to have, died when he was more than a hundred and fifty years old.

Dando and his Dogs

In the neighbourhood of the lovely village of St Germans formerly lived a priest connected with the old priory church of this parish, whose life does not appear to have been quite consistent with his vows.

He lived the life of the traditional "jolly friar." He ate and drank of the best the land could give him, or money buy; and it is said that his indulgences extended far beyond the ordinary limits of good living. The priest Dando was, notwithstanding all his vices, a man liked by the people. He was good-natured, and therefore blind to many of their sins. Indeed, he threw a cloak over his own iniquities, which was inscribed "charity," and he freely forgave all those who came to his confessional.

As a man increases in years he becomes more deeply dyed with the polluted waters through which he may have waded. It rarely happens that an old sinner is ever a repentant one, until the decay of nature has reduced him to a state of second childhood. As long as health allows him to enjoy the sensualities of life, he continues to gratify his passions, regardless of the cost. He becomes more selfish, and his own gratification is the rule of his existence. So it has ever been, and so was it with Dando.
The sinful priest was a capital huntsman, and scoured the country far and near in pursuit of game, which was in those days abundant and varied, over this well-wooded district. Dando, in the eagerness of the chase, paid no regard to any kind of property. Many a corn-field has been trampled down, and many a cottage garden destroyed by the horses and dogs which this impetuous hunter would lead unthinkingly over them. Curses deep, though not loud, would follow the old man, as even those who suffered by his excesses were still in fear of his priestly power.
Any man may sell his soul to the devil without going through the stereotyped process of signing a deed with his blood. Give up your soul to Satan's daring sins, and he will help you for a season, until he has his chains carefully wound around you, when the links are suddenly closed, and he seizes his victim, who has no power to resist.

Dando worshipped the sensual gods which he had created, and his external worship of the God of truth became every year more and more a hypocritical lie. The devil looked carefully after his prize. Of course, to catch a dignitary of the church was a thing to cause rejoicings amongst the lost; and Dando was carefully lured to the undoing of his soul. Health and wealth were secured to him, and by and by the measure of his sins was full, and he was left the victim to self-indulgences--a doomed man. With increasing years, and the immunities he enjoyed, Dando became more reckless. Wine and wassail, a board groaning with dishes which stimulated the sated appetite, and the company of both sexes of dissolute habits, exhausted his nights. His days were devoted to the pursuits of the field; and to maintain the required excitement, ardent drinks were supplied him by his wicked companions. It mattered not to Dando,--provided the day was an auspicious one, if the scent would lie on the ground,--even on the Sabbath, horses and hounds were ordered out, and the priest would be seen in full cry.

One Sabbath morning, Dando and his riotous rout were hunting over the Earth estate; game was plenty, and sport first-rate. Exhausted with a long and eager run, Dando called for drink. He had already exhausted the flasks of the attendant hunters.
"Drink, I say; give me drink," he cried.
"Whence can we get it?" asked one of the gang.
"Go to hell for it, if you can't get it on Earth," said the priest, with a bitter laugh at his own joke on the Earth estate.

At the moment, a dashing hunter, who had mingled with the throng unobserved, came forward, and presented a richly-mounted flask to Dando, saying, "Here is some choice liquor distilled in the establishment you speak of. It will warm and revive you, I'll warrant. Drink deep, friend, drink."
Dando drank deep; the flask appeared to cling to his lips. The strange hunter looked on with a rejoicing yet malignant expression, a wicked smile playing over an otherwise tranquil face.
By and by Dando fetched a deep sigh, and removed the flask, exclaiming, "By hell! that was a drink indeed. Do the gods drink such nectar ?"
"Devils do," said the hunter.
"An they do, I wish I were one," said Dando, who now rocked to and fro in a state of thorough intoxication; "methinks the drink is very like "--The impious expression died upon his lips.
Looking round with a half-idiotic stare, Dando saw that his new friend had appropriated several head of game. Notwithstanding his stupid intoxication, his selfishness asserted its power, and he seized the game, exclaiming, in a guttural, half-smothered voice, "None of these are thine."
"What I catch I keep," said the hunter.
"By all the devils they 're mine," stammered Dando.
The hunter quietly bowed.

Dando's wrath burst at once into a burning flame, uncontrolled by reason. He rolled himself off his horse, and rushed, staggering as he went, at the steed of his unknown friend, uttering most frightful oaths and curses.
The strange hunter's horse was a splendid creature, black as night, and its eyes gleamed like the brightest stars with unnatural lustre. The horse was turned adroitly aside, and Dando fell to the earth with much force. The fall appeared to add to his fury, and he roared with rage. Aided by his attendants, he was 'speedily on his legs, and again at the side of the hunter, who shook with laughter, shaking the game in derision, and quietly uttering, "They 're mine."
"I 'll go to hell after them, but I'll get them from thee," shouted Dando.
"So thou shalt," said the hunter; and seizing Dando by the collar, he lifted him from the ground, and placed him, as though he were a child, before him on the horse.

With a dash, the horse passed down the hill, its hoofs striking fire at every tread, and the dogs, barking furiously, followed impetuously. These strange riders reached the banks of the Lynher, and with a terrific leap, the horse and its riders, followed by the hounds, went out far in its waters, disappearing at length in a blaze of fire, which caused the stream to boil for a moment, and then the waters flowed on as tranquilly as ever over the doomed priest. All this happened in the sight of the assembled peasantry. Dando never more was seen, and his fearful death was received as a warning by many, who gave gifts to the church. One amongst them carved a chair for the bishop, and on it he represented Dando and his dogs, that the memory of his wickedness might be always renewed. There, in St German's Church, stands to this day the chair, and all who doubt the truth of this tradition may view the story carved in enduring oak. If they please, they can sit in the chair until their faith is so far quickened that they become true believers. On Sunday mornings early, the dogs of the priest have been often heard as - if in eager pursuit of game. Cheney's hounds and the Wish hounds of Dartmoor are but other versions of the same legend.

The Devil and his Dandy-Dogs

A poor herdsman was journeying homeward across the moors one windy night, when he heard at a distance among the Tors the baying of hounds, which he soon recognised as the dismal chorus of the dandy-dogs. It was three or four miles to his house; and very much alarmed, he hurried onward as fast as the treacherous nature of the soil and the uncertainty of the path would allow; but, alas! the melancholy yelping of the hounds, and the dismal bolloa of the hunter came nearer and nearer. After a considerable run, they had so gained upon him, that on looking back,--oh horror! he could distinctly see hunter and dogs. The former was terrible to look at, and had the usual complement of saucer-eyes, horns, and tail, accorded by common consent to the legendary devil. He was hiack, of course, and carried in his hand a long hunting-pole. The dogs, a numerous pack, blackened the small patch of moor that was visible; each snorting fire, and uttering a yelp of indescribably frightful tone. No cottage, rock, or tree was near to give the herdsman shelter, and nothing apparently remained to him but to abandon himself to their fury, when a happy thought suddenly flashed upon him and suggested a resource. Just as they were about to rush upon him, he fell on his knees in prayer. There was strange power in the holy words he uttered; for immediately, as if resistance had been offered, the hell-hounds stood at bay, howling more dismally than ever, and the hunter shouted, 'Bo Shrove,' which (says my informant means in the old language, 'The boy trays,' at which they all drew off on some other pursuit and disappeared."

The Phantom Coach

The old vicarage-house at Talland, as seen from the Looe road, its low roof and grey walls peeping prettily from between the dense boughs of ash and elm that environed it, was as picturesque an object as you could desire to see. The' seclusion of its situation was enhanced by the character of the house itself. It was an odd-looking, old-fashioned building, erected apparently in an age when asceticism and self-denial were more in vogue than at present, with a stern disregard of the comfort of the inhabitant, and in utter contempt of received principles of taste. As if not secure enough in its retirement, a high wall, enclosing a courtelage in front, effectually protected its inmates from the prying passenger, and only revealed the upper part of the house, with its small Gothic windows, its slated roof, and heavy chimneys partly hidden by the evergreen shrubs which grew in the enclosure. Such was it until its removal a few years since; and such was it as it lay sweetly in the shadows of an autumnal evening one hundred and thirty years ago, when a stranger in the garb of a country labourer knocked hesitatingly at the wicket-gate which conducted to the court. After a little delay a servant-girl appeared, and finding that the countryman bore a message to the vicar, admitted him within the walls, and conducted him along a paved passage to the little, low, damp parlour where sat the good man. The Rev. Mr Dodge was in many respects a remarkable man.

You would have judged as much of him as he sat before the fire in his high-back chair, in an attitude of thought, arranging, it may have been, the heads of his next Sabbath's discourse. His heavy eyebrows throwing into shade his spacious eyes, and indeed the whole contour of his face, marked him as a man of great firmness of character and of much moral and personal courage. His suit of sober black and full-bottomed periwig also added to his dignity, and gave him an appearance of greater age. He was then verging on sixty. The time and the place gave him abundant exercise for the qualities we have mentioned, for many of his parishioners obtained their livelihood by the contraband trade, and were mostly men of unscrupulous and daring character, little likely to bear with patience reflections on the dishonesty of their calling. Nevertheless, the vicar was fearless in reprehending it, and his frank exhortations were, at least, listened to on account of the simple honesty of the man, and his well-known kindness of heart. The eccentricity of his life, too, had a wonderful effect in procuring him the respect, not to say the awe, of a people superstitious in a more than ordinary degree. Ghosts in those days had more freedom accorded them, or had more business with the visible world, than at present; and the parson was frequently required by his parishioners to- draw from the uneasy spirit the dread secret which troubled it, or by the aid of the solemn prayers of the Church to set it at rest for ever. Mr Dodge had a fame as an exorcist, which was not confined to the bounds of his parish, nor limited to the age in which he lived.
"Well, my good man, what brings you hither?" said the clergyman to the messenger.
"A letter, may it please your reverence, from Mr Mills of Lanreath," said the countryman, handing him a letter.
Mr Dodge opened it and read as follows
"My DEAR BROTHER D0DGE,-- I have ventured to trouble you, at the earnest request of my parishioners, with a matter, of which some particulars have doubtless reached you, and which has caused, and is causing, much terror in my neighbourhood. For its fuller explication, I will be so tedious as to recount to you the whole of this strange story as it has reached my ears, for as yet I have not satisfied my eyes of its truth. It has been told me by men of honest and good report (witnesses of a portion of what they relate), with such strong assurances that it behoves us to look more closely into the matter. There is in the neighbourhood of this village a barren bit of moor which had no owner, or rather more than one, for the lords of the adjoining manors debated its ownership between themselves, and both determined to take it from the poor, who have for many years past regarded it as a common, And truly, it is little to the credit of these gentlemen, that they should strive for a thing so worthless as scarce to bear the cost of law, and yet of no mean value to poor labouring people. The two litigants, however, contested it with as much violence as if it had been a field of great price, and especially one, an old man (whose thoughts should have been less set on earthly possessions, which he was soon to leave), had so set his heart on the success of his suit, that the loss of it, a few years back, is said to have much hastened his death. Nor, indeed, after death, if current reports are worthy of credit, does he quit his claim to it; for at night-time his apparition is seen on the moor, to the great terror of the neighbouring villagers. A public path leads by at no great distance from the spot, and on divers occasions has the labourer, returning from his work, been frightened nigh unto lunacy by sight and sounds of a very dreadful character. The appearance is said to be that of a man habited in black, driving a carriage drawn by headless horses. This is, I avow, very marvellous to believe, but it has had so much credible testimony, and has gained so many believers in my parish, that some steps seem necessary to allay the excitement it causes. I have been applied to for this purpose, and my present business is to ask your assistance in this matter, either to reassure the minds of the country people, if it be only a simple terror; or, if there be truth in it, to set the troubled spirit of the man at rest. My messenger, who is an industrious, trustworthy man, will give you more information if it be needed, for, from report, lie is acquainted with most of the circumstances, and will bring back your advice and promise of assistance.
"Not doubting of your help herein, I do, with my very hearty commendation, commit you to God's protection and blessing, and am,
"Your very loving brother,
"ABRAHAM MILLS."
This remarkable note was read and re-read, while the countryman sat watching its effects on the parson's countenance, and was surprised that it changed not from its usual sedate and settled character. Turning at length to the man, Mr Dodge inquired, "Are you, then, acquainted with my good friend Mills?"
"I should know him, sir," replied the messenger "having been sexton to the parish for fourteen years, and being, with my family, much beholden to the kindness of the rector."
"You are also not without some knowledge of the circumstances related in this letter. Have you been an eye-witness to any of those strange sights?"
"For myself, sir, I have been on the road at all hours of the night and day, and never did I see anything which I could call worse than myself. One night my wife and I were awoke by the rattle of wheels, which was also heard by some of our neighbours, and we are all assured that it could have been no other than the black coach. We have every day such stories told in the villages by so many creditable persons, that it would not be proper in a plain, ignorant man like me to doubt it."
"And how far," asked the clergyman, "is the moor from Lanreath?"
"About two miles, and please your reverence. The whole parish is so frightened, that few will venture far after nightfall, font has of late come much nearer the village. A man who is esteemed a sensible and pious man by many, though an Anabaptist in principle, went a few weeks back to the moor ('tis called Blackadon) at midnight, in order to lay the spirit, being requested thereto by his neighbours, and he was so alarmed at what he saw, that he hath been somewhat mazed ever since."
"A fitting punishment for his presumption, if it hath not quite demented him," said the parson. "These persons are like those addressed by St Chrysostom, fitly called the golden-mouthed, who said, 'Miserable wretches that ye be! ye cannot expel a flea, much less a devil!' It will be well if it serves no other purpose but to bring back these stray sheep to the fold of the Church. So this story has gained much belief in the parish."
"Most believe it, sir, as rightly they should, what hath so many witnesses," said the sexton, "though there be some, chiefly young men, who set up for being wiser than their fathers, and refuse to credit it, though it be sworn to on the book."
" If those things are disbelieved, friend," said the parson, "and without inquiry, which your disbeliever is ever the first to shrink from, of what worth is human testimony? That ghosts have returned to the earth, either for the discovery of murder, or to make restitution for other injustice committed in the flesh, or compelled thereto by the incantations of sorcery, or to communicate tidings from another world, has been testified to in all ages, and many are the accounts which have been left us both in sacred and profane authors. Did not Brutus, when in Asia, as is related by Plutarch, see "-- Just at this moment the parson's handmaid announced that a person waited on him in the kitchen,--or the good clergyman would probably have detailed all those cases in history, general and biblical, with which his reading had acquainted him, not much, we fear, to the edification and comfort of the sexton, who had to return to Lanreath, a long and dreary road, after nightfall. So, instead, he directed the girl to take him with her, and give him such refreshment as he needed, and in the meanwhile he prepared a note in answer to Mr Mills, informing him that on the morrow he was to visit some sick persons in his parish, but that on the following evening he should be ready to proceed with him to the moor.

On the night appointed the two clergymen left the Lanreath rectory on horseback, and reached the moor at eleven o'clock. Bleak and dismal did it look by day, but then there was the distant landscape dotted over with pretty homesteads to relieve its desolation. Now, nothing was seen but the black patch of sterile moor on which they stood, nothing heard but the wind as it swept in gusts across the bare hill, and howled dismally through a stunted grove of trees that grew in a glen below them, except the occasional baying of dogs from the farmhouses in the distance. That they felt at ease, is more than could be expected of them; but as it would have shown a lack of faith in the protection of Heaven, which it would have been unseemly in men of their holy calling to exhibit, they managed to conceal from each other their uneasiness. Leading their horses, they trod to and fro through the damp fern and heath with firmness in their steps, and upheld each other by remarks on the power of that Great Being whose ministers they were, and the might of whose name they were there to make manifest. Still slowly and dismally passed the time as they conversed, and anon stopped to look through the darkness for the approach of their ghostly visitor. In vain. Though the night was as dark and murky as ghost could wish, the coach and its driver came not.
After a considerable stay, the two clergymen consulted together, and determined that it was useless to watch any longer for that night, but that they would meet on some other, when perhaps it might please his ghostship to appear. Accordingly, with a few words of leave-taking, they separated, Mr Mills for the rectory, and Mr Dodge, by a short ride across the moor, which shortened his journey by half a mile, for the vicarage at Talland.

The vicar rode on at an ambling pace, which his good mare sustained up bill and down dale without urging. At the bottom of a deep valley, however, about a mile from Blackadon, the animal became very uneasy, pricked up her ears, snorted, and moved from side to side of the road, as if something stood in the path before her. The parson tightened the reins, and applied whip and spur to her sides, but the animal, usually docile, became very unruly, made several attempts to turn, and, when prevented, threw herself upon her haunches. Whip and spur were applied again and again, to no other purpose than to add to the horse's terror. To the rider nothing was apparent which could account for the sudden restiveness of his beast. He dismounted, and attempted in turns to lead or drag her, but both were impracticable, and attended with no small risk of snapping the reins. She was remounted with great difficulty, and another attempt was made to urge her forward, with the like want of success. At length the eccentric clergyman, judging it to be some special signal from Heaven, which it would be dangerous to neglect, threw the reins on the neck of his steed, which, wheeling suddenly round, started backward in a direction towards the moor, at a pace which rendered the parson's seat neither a pleasant nor a safe one. In an astonishingly short space of time they were once more a Blackadon.

By this time the bare outline of the moor was broken by a large black group of objects, which the darkness of the night prevented the parson from defining. On approaching this unaccountable appearance, the mare was seized with fresh fury, and it was with considerable difficulty that she could be brought to face this new cause of fright. In the pauses of the horse's prancing, the vicar discovered to his horror the much-dreaded spectacle of the black coach and the headless steeds, and, terrible to relate, his friend Mr Mills lying prostrate on the ground before the sable driver. Little time was left him to call up his courage for this fearful emergency; for just as the vicar began to give utterance to the earnest prayers which struggled to his lips, the spectre shouted, "Dodge is come! I must begone!" and forthwith leaped into his chariot, and 'disappeared across the moor.

The fury of the mare now subsided, and Mr Dodge was enabled to approach his friend, who was lying motionless and speechless, with his face buried in the heather.

Meanwhile the rector's horse, which bad taken fright at the apparition, and had thrown his rider to the ground on or near the spot where we have left him lying, made homeward at a furious speed, and stopped not until he had reached his stable door. The sound of his hoofs as he galloped madly through the village awoke the cottagers, many of whom had been some hours in their beds. Many eager faces, staring with affright, gathered round the rectory, and added, by their various conjectures, to the terror and apprehensions of the family.

The villagers, gathering courage as their numbers increased, agreed to go in search of the missing clergyman, and started off in a compact body, a few on horseback, but the greater number on foot, in the direction of Blackadon. There they discovered their rector, supported in the arms of Parson Dodge, and recovered so far as to be able to speak. Still there was a wildness in his eye, and an incoherency in his speech, that showed that his reason was, at least, temporarily unsettled by the fright. In this condition he was taken to his home, followed by his reverend companion.
Here ended this strange adventure; for Mr Mills soon completely regained his reason, Parson Dodge got safely back to Talland, and from that time to this nothing has been heard or seen of the black ghost or his chariot.

(Note: Parson Dodge was vicar of Talland from 1713 till his death. So that the name as well as the story is true to tradition. Bond (" History of East and west Love ") says of him: "About a century since the Rev. Richard Dodge was vicar of this parish of Talland, and was, by traditionary account, a very singular man. He had the reputation of being deeply skilled in the black art, and would raise ghosts, or send them into the Dead Sea, at the nod of his head. The common people, not only in his own parish, but throughout the neighbourhood, stood in the greatest awe of him, and to meet him on the highway at midnight produced the utmost horror; he was then driving shout the evil spirits; many of them were seen, in all sorts of shapes, flying and running before him, as he pursuing them with his whip in a most daring manner. Not unfrequently he would be seen in the churchyard at dead of night to the terror of passers by. He was a worthy man, and much respected, but had his eccentricities.")

Duffy and the Devil

Many of the superstitions of our ancestors are preserved in quaint, irregular rhymes, the recitation of which was the amusement of the people in the long nights of winter. These were sung, or rather said, in a monotone, by the professional Drolls, who doubtless added such things as they fancied would increase the interest of the story to the listeners. Especially were they fond of introducing known characters on the scene, and of mixing up events which had occurred within the memory of the old people, with the more ancient legend. The following story, or rather parts of it, formed the subject of one of the Cornish Christmas plays. When I was a boy, I well remember being much delighted with the coarse acting of a set of Christmas players, who exhibited in the "great hall" of a farmhouse at which I was visiting, and who gave us the principal incidents of Duffy and the Devil Terrytop; one of the company doing the part of Chorus, and filling up by rude descriptions--often in rhyme--the parts which the players could not represent.

It was in cider-making time. Squire Lovel of Trove, or more correctly, Trewoof, rode up to Burian Church-town to procure help. Boys and maidens were in request, some to gather the apples from the trees, others to. carry them to the cider-mill. Passing along the village as hastily as the dignity of a squire would allow him, his attention was drawn to a great noise--scolding in a shrill treble voice, and crying--proceeding from Janey Chygwin's door. The squire rode up to the cottage, and he saw the old woman beating her step-daughter Duffy about the head with the skirt of her swing-tail gown, in which she had been carrying out the ashes. She made such a dust, that the squire was nearly choked and almost blinded with the wood ashes.
"What cheer, Janey?" cries the squire; "what's the to-do with you and Duffy?"
"Oh, the lazy hussy!" shouts Janey, "is all her time courseying and courranting with the boys! she will never stay in to boil the porridge, knit the stockings, or spin the yarn."
"Don't believe her, your honour," exclaims Duffy; "my knitting and spinning is the best in the parish."

The war of tongues continued in this strain for some time, the old squire looking calmly on, and resolving in his mind to take Duffy home with him to Trove, her appearance evidently pleasing him greatly. Squire Level left the old and young woman to do the best they could, and went round the village to complete his hiring. When he returned, peace had been declared between them; but when Lovel expressed his desire to take Duffy home to his house to help the housekeeper to do the spinning, "A pretty spinner she is I" shouted old Janey at the top of her voice. "Try me, your honour," said Duffy, curtsying very low; "my yarns are the best in the parish."
"We 'll soon try that," said the squire; "Janey will be glad to get quits of thee, I see, and thou'It be nothing loath to leave her; so jump up behind me, Duffy."

No sooner said than done. The maid Duffy, without ceremony, mounted behind the squire on the horse, and they jogged silently down to Trove.
Squire Lovel's old housekeeper was almost blind--one eye had been put out by an angry old wizard, and through sympathy she was rapidly losing the power of seeing with the other.

This old dame was consequently very glad of some one to help her in spinning and knitting.

The introduction over, the housekeeper takes Duffy up into the garret where the wool was kept, and where the spinning .was done in the summer, and requests her to commence her work.

The truth must be told; Duffy was an idle slut, she could neither knit nor spin. Well, here she was left alone, and, of course, expected to produce a good specimen of her work.

The garret was piled from the floor to the key-beams with fleeces of wool. Duffy looked despairingly at them, and then sat herself down on the "turn "--the spinning-wheel--and cried out, "Curse the spinning and knitting! The devil may spin and knit for the squire for what I care."
Scarcely had Duffy spoken these words than she heard a rustling, noise behind some woolpacks, and forth walked a queer-looking little man, with a remarkable pair of eyes, which seemed to send out flashes of light. There was something uncommonly knowing in the twist of his mouth, and his curved nose had an air of curious intelligence. He was dressed in black, and moved towards Duffy with a jaunty air, knocking something against the floor at every step he took.
"Duffy dear," said this little gentleman, "I 'll do all the spinning and knitting for thee."
"Thank 'e," says Duffy, quite astonished.
"Duffy dear, a lady shall you be."
"Thank 'e, your honour," smiled Duffy.
"But, Duffy dear, remember," coaxingly said the queer little man,--" remember, that for all this, at the end of three years, you must go with me, unless you can find out my name."
Duffy was not the least bit frightened, nor did she hesitate long, but presently struck a bargain with her kind but unknown friend, who told her she had only to wish, and her every wish should be fulfilled; and as for the spinning and knitting, she would find all she required under the black ram's fleece. He then departed. How, Duffy could not tell, but in a moment the queer little gentleman was gone.

Duffy sung in idleness, and slept until it was time for her to make her appearance. So she wished for some yarns, and looking under the black fleece she found them. Those were shown by the housekeeper to the squire, and both declared "they had never seen such beautiful yarns."

The next day Duffy was to knit this yarn into stockings. Duffy idled, as only professed idlers can idle; but in due time, as if she had been excessively industrious, she produced a pair of stockings for the old squire. If the yarn was beautiful, the stockings were beyond all praise. They were as fine as silk, and as strong as leather.

Squire Lovel soon gave them a trial; and when he came home at night after hunting, he declared he would never wear any other than Duffy's stockings. He had wandered all day through brake and briar, furze and brambles; there was not a scratch on his legs, and he was as dry as a bone. There was no end to his praise of Duffy's stockings. Duffy had a rare time of it now--she could do what she pleased, and rove where she willed. She was dancing on the mill-bed half the day, with all the gossiping women who brought their grist to be ground.

In those "good old times" the ladies of the parish would take their corn to mill, and serge the flour themselves. When a few of them met together, they would either tell stories or dance whilst the corn was grinding. Sometimes the dance would be on the mill-bed, sometimes out on the green. On some occasions the miller's fiddle would be in request, at others the "crowd" was made to do the duty of a tambourine. So Duffy was always finding excuses to go to mill, and many "a round" would she dance with the best people in the parish.

Old Bet, the miller's wife, was a witch, and she found out who did Duffy's work for her, Duffy and old Bet were always the best of friends, and she never told any one about Duffy's knitting friend, nor did she ever say a word about the stockings being unfinished. There was always a stitch down.

On Sundays the people went to Burian Church, from all parts, to look at the squire's stockings; and the old squire would stop at the Cross, proud enough to show them. He could hunt:

"Through brambles and furze in all sorts of weather;
His old shanks were as sound as if bound up in leather."

Duffy was now sought after by all the young men of the country; and at last the squire, fearing to lose a pretty girl, and one who was so useful to him, married her himsçlf, and she became, according to the fashion of the time and place, Lady Lovel; but she was commonly known by her neighbours as the Duffy Lady.

Lady Lovel kept the devil hard at work. Stockings, all sorts of fine underclothing, bedding, and much ornamental work, the like of which was never seen, was produced at command, and passed off as her own.
Duffy passed a merry time of it, but somehow or other she was never happy when she was compelled to play the lady. She passed much more of her time with the old crone at the mill, than in the drawing-room at Trove. The squire sported and drank, and cared little about Duffy, so long as she provided him with knitted garments.

The three years were nearly at an end, Duffy had tried every plan to find out the devil's name, but had failed in all.

She began to fear that she should have to go off with her queer friend, and Duffy became melancholy. Old Bet endeavoured to rouse her, persuading her that she could from her long experience and many dealings with the imps of darkness, at the last moment put her in the way of escaping her doom.

Duffy went day after day to her garret, and there each day was the devil gibing and jeering till she was almost mad.

There was but another day. Bet was seriously consulted now, and, as good as her word, she promised to use her power.

Duffy Lady was to bring down to the mill that very evening a jack of the strongest beer she had in the cellar. She was not to go to bed until the squire returned from hunting, no matter how late, and she was to make no remark in reply to anything the squire might tell her. The jack of beer was duly carried to the mill, and Duffy returned home very melancholy to wait up for the squire.
No sooner had Lady Lovel left the mill than old Bet came out with the "crowd" over her shoulders, and the blackjack in her hand. She shut the door, and turned the water off the mill-wheel,--threw her red cloak about her, and away.

She was seen by her neighbours going towards Boleit. A man saw the old woman trudging past the Pipers, and through the Dawnse Main into the downs, but there he lost sight of her, and no one could tell where old Bet was gone to at that time of night.

Duffy waited long and anxiously. By and by the dogs came home alone. They were covered with foam, their tongues were hanging out of their mouths, and all the servants said they must have met the devil's hounds without heads. Duffy was seriously alarmed. Midnight came but no squire. At last he arrived, but like a crazy, crack-brained man, he kept singing,--

"Here's to the devil,
With his wooden pick and shovel."

He was neither drunk nor frightened, but wild with some strange excitement. After a long time Squire Lovel sat down, and began, "My dear Duffy, you haven't smiled this long time; but now I'll tell 'e something that would make ye laugh if ye're dying. If you'd seen what I 'ye seen to-night, ha, ha, ha!

'Here's to the devil,
With his wooden pick and shovel"

True to her orders, Duffy said not a word, but allowed the squire to ramble on as he pleased. At length he told her the following story of his adventures, with interruptions which have not been retained, and with numerous coarse expressions which are best forgotten.

The Squire's Story of the Meeting of the Witches in the Fugoe Hole

"Duffy dear, I left home at break of day this morning. I hunted all the moors from Trove to Trevider, and never started a hare all the livelong day. I determined to hunt all night, but that I 'd have a brace to bring home. So, at nightfall I went down Lemorna Bottoms, then up Brene Downses, and as we passed the Dawnse Main up started a hare, as fine a hare as ever was seen. She passed the Pipers, down through the Reens, in the mouth of the dogs half the time, yet they couldn't catch her at all. As fine a chase as ever was seen, until she took into the Fugoe Hole. [c] In went the dogs after her, and I followed, the owls and bats flying round my head. On we went, through water and mud, a mile or more, I 'm quite certain. I didn't know the place was so long before. At last we came to a broad pool of water, when the dogs lost the scent, and ran back past me howling and jowling, terrified almost to death! A little farther on I turned round a corner, and saw a glimmering fire on the other side the water, and there were St Leven witches in scores. Some were riding on ragwort, some on brooms, some were floating on their three-legged stools, and some, who had been milking the little good cows in Wales, had come back astride of the largest leeks they could find. Amongst the rest there was our Bet of the Mill, with her 'crowd' in her hand, and my own blackjack slung across her shoulders.

"In a short time the witches gathered round the fire, and blowed it up, after a strange fashion, till it burned up into a brilliant blue flame. Then I saw amongst the rest a queer little man in black, with a long forked tail, which he held high in the air, and twirled around. Bet struck her 'crowd' as soon as he appeared, and beat up the tune,--

'Here 'a to the devil
With his wooden pick and shovel,
Digging tin by the bushel,
With his tail cock'd up!'

Then the queer little devil and all danced like the wind, and went faster and faster, making such a clatter, 'as if they had on each foot a pewter platter.'

"Every time the man in black came round by old Bet, he took a good pull from my own blackjack, till at last, as if he had been drinking my best beer, he seemed to have lost his head, when he jumped up and down, turned round and round, and roaring with laughter, sung,--

'Duffy, my lady, you'll never know--what? --
That my name is Terrytop, Terrytop--top!'"

When the squire sung those lines, he stopped suddenly, thinking that Duffy was going to die. She turned pale and red, and pale again. However, Duffy said nothing, and the squire proceeded:--

"After the dance, all the witches made a ring around the fire, and again blew it up, until the blue flames reached the top of the 'Zawn.' Then the devil danced through and through the fire, and springing ever and anon amongst the witches, kicked them soundly. At last--I was shaking with laughter at the fun--I shouted, 'Go it, Old Nick!' and, lo, the lights went out, and I had to fly with all my speed, for every one of the witches were after me. I scampered home somehow, and here I am. Why don't you laugh, Duffy?" Duffy did laugh, and laugh right heartily now, and when tired of their fun, the squire and the lady went to bed.

The three years were up within an hour. Duffy had willed for an abundant supply of knitted things, and filled every chest in the house. She was in the best chamber trying to cram some more stockings into a big chest, when the queer little man in black appeared before her.
"Well, Duffy, ray dear," said he, "I have been to my word, and served you truly for three years as we agreed, so now I hope you will go with me, and make no objection." He bowed very obsequiously, almost to the ground, and regarded Duffy Lady with a very offensive leer.
"I fear," smiled Duffy, "that your country is rather warm, and might spoil my fair complexion."
"It is not so hot as some people say, Duffy," was his reply; "but come along, I 'ye kept my word, and of course a lady of your standing will keep your word also. Can you tell me my name?"
Duffy curtsied, and smilingly said, "You have behaved like a true gentlemen; yet I wouldn't like to go so far." The devil frowned, and approached as if he would lay forcible hands upon her. "Maybe your name is Lucifer?"
He stamped his loot and grinned horridly. "Lucifer! Lucifer! He's no other than a servant to me in my own country." Suddenly calming again, he said, quietly, "Lucifer! I would scarcely be seen speaking to him at court. But come along. When I spin for ladies I expect honourable treatment at their hands. You 'ye two guesses more. But they 're of little use; my name is not generally known on earth."
"Perhaps," smiled Duffy again, "my lord's name is Beelzebub?"
How he grinned, and his sides shook with convulsive joy.
"Beelzebub!" says he; "why, he's little better than the other, a common devil he. I believe he 's some sort of a cousin--a Cornish cousin, you know."
"I hope your honour," curtsied Duffy, "will not take offence. Impute my mistake to ignorance."
Our Demon was rampant with joy; he danced around Duffy with delight, and was, seeing that she hesitated, about to seize her somewhat roughly.
"Stop! stop!" shouts Duffy; "perhaps you will be honest enough to admit that your name is Terrytop."
The gentleman in black looked at Duffy, and she steadily looked him in the face. " Terrytop! deny it if you dare," says she.
"A gentleman never denies his name," replied Terrytop, drawing himself up with much dignity. "I did not expect to be beaten by a young minx like you, Duffy; but the pleasure of your company is merely postponed." With this Terrytop departed in fire and smoke, and all the devil's knitting suddenly turned to ashes.

Squire Lovel was out hunting, away far on the moors; the day was cold and the winds piercing. Suddenly the stockings dropped from his legs and the homespun from his back, so that he came home with nothing on but his shirt and his shoes, almost dead with cold. All this was attributed by the squire to the influence of old Bet, who, he thought, had punished him for pursuing her with his dogs when she had assumed the form of a hare.
The story, as told by the Drolls, now rambles on. Duffy cannot furnish stockings. The squire is very wroth. There are many quarrels--mutual recriminations. Duffy's old sweetheart is called in to beat the squire, and eventually peace is procured, by a stratagem of old Bet's, which would rather shock the sense of propriety in these our days.

The Ghost of Rose Warne

Ezekiel Grosse, gent., attorney-at-law," bought the land of Rosewarne from one of the De Rosewarnes, who had become involved in difficulties, by endeavouring, without sufficient means, to support the dignity of his family. There is reason for believing that Ezekiel was the legal adviser of this unfortunate Rosewarne, and that he was not over-honest in his transactions with his client. However this may be, Ezekiel Grosse had scarcely made Rosewarne his dwelling-place, before he was alarmed by noises, at first of an unearthly character, and subsequently, one very dark night, by the appearance of the ghost himself in the form of a worn and aged man. The first appearance was in the park, but he subsequently repeated his visits in the house, but always after dark. Ezekiel Grosse was not a man to be terrified at trifles, and for sometime he paid but slight attention to his nocturnal visitor. Howbeit, the repetition of visits, and certain mysterious indications on the part of the spectre, became annoying to Ezekiel. One night, when seated in his office examining some deeds, and being rather irritable, having lost an important suit, his visitor approached him, making some strange indications which the lawyer could not understand. Ezekiel suddenly exclaimed, "In the name of God, what wantest thou?"
"To show thee, Ezekiel Grosse, where the gold for which thou longest lies buried."
No one ever lived upon whom the greed of gold was stronger than on Ezekiel, yet he hesitated now that his spectral friend had spoken so plainly, and trembled in every limb as the ghost slowly delivered himself in sepulchral tones of this telling speech.
The lawyer looked fixedly on the spectre, but he dared not utter a word. He longed to obtain possession of the secret, yet he feared to ask him where he was to find this treasure. The spectre looked as fixedly at the poor trembling lawyer, as if enjoying the sight of his terror. At length, lifting his finger, he beckoned Ezekiel to follow him, turning at the same time to leave the room. Ezekiel was glued to his seat; he could not exert strength enough to move, although he desired to do so.
"Come!" said the ghost, in a hollow voice. The lawyer was powerless to come.
"Gold!" exclaimed the old man, in a whining tone, though in a louder key.
"Where?" gasped Ezekiel.
"Follow me, and I will show thee," said the ghost. Ezekiel endeavoured to rise, but it was in vain.
"I command thee, come!" almost shrieked the ghost. Ezekiel felt that he was compelled to follow his friend; and by some supernatural power rather than his own, he followed the spectre out of the room, and through the hall, into the park.

They passed onward through the night--the ghost gliding before the lawyer, and guiding him by a peculiar phosphorescent light, which appeared to glow from every part of the form, until they arrived at a little dell, and had reached a small cairn formed of granite boulders. By this the spectre rested; and when Ezekiel had approached it, and was standing on the other side of the cairn, still trembling, the aged man, looking fixedly in his face, said, in low tones--"Ezekiel Grosse, thou longest for gold, as I did. I won the glittering prize, but I could not enjoy it. Heaps of treasure are buried beneath those stones; it is thine, if thou diggest for it.
Win the gold, Ezekiel. Glitter with the wicked ones of the world; and when thou art the most joyous, I will look in upon thy happiness." The ghost then disappeared, and as soon as Grosse could recover himself from the extreme trepidation,--the result of mixed feelings,--he looked about him, and finding himself alone, he exclaimed, "Ghost or devil, I will soon prove whether or not thou liest!" Ezekiel is said to have heard a laugh, echoing between the hills, as he said those words.

The lawyer noted well the spot; returned to his house; pondered on all the circumstances of his case; and eventually resolved to seize the earliest opportunity, when he might do so unobserved, of removing the stones, and examining the ground beneath them.

A few nights after this, Ezekiel went to the little cairn, and by the aid of a crowbar, he soon overturned the stones, and laid the ground bare. He then commenced digging, and had not proceeded far when his spade struck against some other metal. He carefully cleared away the earth, and he then felt--for he could not see, having no light with him--that he had uncovered a metallic urn of some kind. He found it quite impossible to lift it, and he was therefore compelled to cover it up again, and to replace the stones sufficiently to hide it from the observation of any chance wanderer.
The next night Ezekiel found that this urn, which was of bronze, contained gold coins of a very ancient date. He loaded himself with his treasure, and returned home. From time to time, at night, as Ezekiel found he could do so without exciting the suspicions of his servants, he visited the urn, and thus by degrees removed all the treasure to Rosewarne house. There was nothing in the series of circumstances which had surrounded Ezekiel which he could less understand than the fact that the ghost of the old man had left off troubling him from the moment when he had disclosed to him the hiding-place of this treasure.

The neighbouring gentry could not but observe the rapid improvements which Ezekiel Grosse made in his mansion, his grounds, in his personal appearance, and indeed in everything by which he was surrounded. In a short time he abandoned the law, and led in every respect the life of a country gentleman. He ostentatiously paraded his power to procure all earthly enjoyments, and, in spite of his notoriously bad character, he succeeded in drawing many of the landed proprietors around him.
Things went well with Ezekiel. The man who could in those days visit London in his own carriage and four was not without a large circle of flatterers. The lawyer who had struggled hard, in the outset of life, to secure wealth, and who did not always employ the most honest means for doing so, now found himself the centre of a circle to whom he could preach honesty, and receive from them expressions of the admiration in which the world holds the possessor of gold. His old tricks were forgotten, and he was put in places of honour. This state of things continued for some time; indeed, Grosse's entertainments became more and more splendid, and his revels more and more seductive to those he admitted to share them with him. The Lord of Rosewarne was the Lord of the West. To him every one bowed the knee he walked the Earth as the proud possessor of a large share of the planet.

It was Christmas eve, and a large gathering there was at Rosewarne. In the hail the ladies and gentlemen were in the full enjoyment of the dance, and in the kitchen all the tenantry and the servants were emulating their superiors. Everything went joyously; and when mirth was in full swing, and Ezekiel felt to the full the influence of wealth, it appeared as if in one moment the chill of death had fallen over every one. The dancers paused, and looked one at another, each one struck with the other's paleness; and there, in the middle of the hail, every one saw a strange old man looking angrily, but in silence, at Ezekiel Grosse, who was fixed in terror, blank as a statue.

No one had seen this old man enter the hail, yet there he was in the midst of them. It was but for a minute, and he was gone. Ezekiel, as if a frozen torrent of water had thawed in an instant, roared with impetuous laughter.
"What do you think of that for a Christmas play? There was an old Father Christmas for you! Ha! ha! ha! ha! How frightened you all look! Butler, order the men to hand round the spiced wines! On with the dancing, my friends! It was only a trick, ay, and a clever one, which I have put upon you. On with your dancing, my friends!"
Notwithstanding his boisterous attempts to restore the spirit of the evening, Ezekiel could not succeed. There was an influence stronger than any which he could command; and one by one, framing sundry excuses, his guests took their departure, every one of them satisfied that all was not right at Rosewarne.

From that Christmas eve Grosse was a changed man. He tried to be his former self; but it was in vain. Again and again he called his gay companions around him; but at every feast there appeared one more than was desired. An aged man--weird beyond measure--took his place at the table in the middle of the feast; and although he spoke not, he exerted a miraculous power over all. No one dared to move; no one ventured to speak. Occasionally Ezekiel assumed an appearance of courage, which he felt not; rallied his guests, and made sundry excuses for the presence of his aged friend, whom he represented as having a mental infirmity, as being deaf and dumb. On all such occasions the old man rose from the table, and looking at the host, laughed a demoniac laugh of joy, and departed as quietly as he came.

The natural consequence of this was that Ezekiel Grosse's friends fell away from him, and he became a lonely man, amidst his vast possessions--his only companion being his faithful clerk, John Call.

The persecuting presence of the spectre became more and more constant; and wherever the poor lawyer went, there was the aged man at his side. From being one of the finest men in the county, he became a miserably attenuated and bowed old man. Misery was stamped on every feature -- terror was indicated in every movement. At length he appears to have besought his ghostly attendant to free him of his presence. It was long before the ghost would listen to any terms; but when Ezekiel at length agreed to surrender the whole of his wealth to any one whom the spectre might indicate, he obtained a promise that upon this being carried out, in a perfectly legal manner, in favour of John Call, that he should no longer be haunted.

This was, after numerous struggles on the part of Ezekiel to retain his property, or at least some portion of it, legally settled, and John Call became possessor of Rosewarne and the adjoining lands. Grosse was then informed that this evil spirit was one of the ancestors of the Rosewarne, from whom by his fraudulent dealings he obtained the place, and that he was allowed to visit the earth again for the purpose of inflicting the most condign punishment on the avaricious lawyer. His avarice had been gratified, his pride had been pampered to the highest; and then' he was made a pitiful spectacle, at whom all men pointed, and no one pitied. He lived on in misery, but it was for a short time. He was found dead: and the country people ever said that his death was a violent one; they spoke of marks on his body, and some even asserted that the spectre of fle Rosewarne was seen rejoicing amidst a crowd of devils, as they bore the spirit of Ezekiel over Cam Brea. Hals thus quaintly tells this story -
"Rosewarne, in this parish, gave to its owner the name of fle Rosewarne, one of which tribe sold those lands, temp. James I., to Ezekiel Grosse, gent., attorney-at-law, who made it his dwelling, and in this place got a great estate by the inferior practice of the law; but much more, as tradition saith, by nseans of a spirit or apparition that haunted him in this place, till he spake to it (for it is notable that sort of things called apparitions are such proud gentry, that they never speak first); whereupon it discovered to him where much treasure lay hid in this mansion, which, according to the (honest) ghost's direction, he found, to his great enriching. After which, this phantasm or spectrum became so troublesome and direful to him, day and night, that it forced him to forsake this place (as rich, it seems, as this devil could make him), and to quit his claim thereto, by giving or selling it to his clerk, John Call; whose son, John Call, gent., sold it again to Robert Hooker, gent., attorney-at-law, now in possession thereof. The arms of Call were, in a field three trumpets--in allusion to the name in English; but in Cornish-British, 'call,' 'cal,' signifies any hard, flinty, or obdurate matter or thing, and 'hirgurue' is a trumpet."

The Suicide's Spearman

A family of the name of Spearman has lived in Cornwall for many ages, their native centre having been somewhere between Ludgvan and St Ives.
Years long ago, an unfortunate man, weary of life, destroyed himself; and the rude laws of a remote age, carrying out, as they thought, human punishments even after death, decreed that the body should be buried at the four cross-roads, and quicklime poured on the corpse.

Superstition stepped in, and somewhat changed the order of burial. To prevent the dead man from "walking," and becoming a terror to all his neighbours, the coffin was to be turned upside down, and a spear was to be driven through it and the body, so as to pin it to the ground.

It was with some difficulty that a man could be found to perform this task. At length, however, a blacksmith undertook it. He made the spear; and after the coffin was properly placed, he drove his spear-headed iron bar through it. From that day he was called "the spearman," and his descendants have never lost the name.

In making a new road not many years since, the coffin and spear were found, and removed. From that time several old men and women have declared that the self-murderer "walks the earth."

The Suicide's Ghost

On the bleak road between Helston and Wendron Church-town, at its highest and wildest spot, three roads meet about a quarter of a mile from the latter place. Here, at "Three Cross," as the place is called, years ago, when the Downs being unenclosed, it was more desolate than it is even now, a poor suicide, named "Tucker," was buried. Few liked to pass up Row's Lane, leading there, after nightfall; for Tucker's shade had more than once been seen. One man, however, valiant in his cups, on his return from Helston market, cracked his whip, and shouted lustily, "Arise, Tucker!" as he passed the place. It is said Tucker did arise, and fixed himself on the saddle behind the man as he rode on horseback, and accompanied him--how far it is not said. This was often repeated, until the spirit, becoming angry, refused any more to quit his disturber, and continued to trouble him, till "Parson Jago" was called in to use his skill, which was found effectual, in "laying" Tucker's spirit to rest.

The Warning

The following instance is given me, as from the party to whom it happened, "a respectable person, of undoubted veracity." "When a young man, fearing and caring for no one, I was in the habit of visiting Sancreed from Penzance, and of returning in the evening. One night I took up my hat to return, and went out at the door. It was a most beautiful night, when, without the most remote assignable reason, I was seized in a manner I never experienced either before or since. I was absolutely 'terror-stricken,' so that I was compelled to turn back to the house, a thing I had never done before, and say, 'I must remain here for the night.' I could never account for it; and without caring to be called superstitious, have regarded it as a special interposition of Providence. It was reported that shortly before, a lad, who had driven home a farmer's daughter to her father's house in the neighbourhood, had suddenly been missed, and no clue to his whereabouts had ever been found. About four or six weeks after my adventure, a gang of sheep-stealers who had carried on their depredations for a long time previous, were discovered in the neighbourhood; their abode, indeed, adjoined the road from Sancreed to Penzance, and I cannot help believing it probable, that had I returned that night I should have encountered the gang, and perhaps lost my life. Years afterwards, one of the gang confessed that the boy had come suddenly upon them during one of their nefarious expeditions. He was seized, and injudiciously said, 'Well, you may get off once or twice, but you 're sure to be hanged in the end.' 'Thee shan't help to do it,' said one, and the poor boy was murdered, and his body thrown into a neighbouring shaft."

Laying a Ghost

To the ignorance of men in our age in this particular and mysterious part of philosophy and religion,--namely, the communication between spirits and men,--not one scholar out of ten thousand, though otherwise of excellent learning, knows anything of it, or the way how to manage it. This ignorance breeds fear and abhorrence of that which otherwise might be of incomparable benefit to mankind."

Such is the concluding paragraph of "An Account of an Apparition, attested by the Rev. Wm. Ruddell, Minister at Launceston, in Cornwall," 1665.

A schoolboy was haunted by Dorothy Dingley; we know not why, but the boy pined. He was thought to be in love; but when, at the wishes of his friends, the parson questioned him, he told him of his ghostly visitor, and he took the parson to the field in which he was in the habit of meeting the apparition; and the reverend gentleman himself saw the spectral Dorothy, and afterwards he showed her to the boy's father and mother. Then comes the story of the laying. "The next morning being Thursday, I went out very early by myself, and walked for about an hour's space in meditation and prayer in the field next adjoining to the Quartiles. Soon after five, I stepped over the stile into the disturbed field, and had not gone above thirty or forty paces before the ghost appeared at the further stile. I spoke to it with a loud voice, in some such sentences as the way of these dealings directed me; whereupon it approached, but slowly, and when I came near it it moved not. I spoke again, and it answered again in a voice which was neither very audible nor intelligible. I was not the least terrified, therefore I persisted until it spake again and gave me satisfaction. But the work could not be finished at this time; wherefore the same evening, an hour after sunset, it met me again, near the same place, and after a few words on each side it quietly vanished, and neither doth appear since, nor ever will more to any man's disturbance."

A Flying Spirit

About the year 1761 a pinnacle was thrown down, by lightning, from the tower of the church at Ludgvan. The effect was then universally imputed to the vengeance of a perturbed spirit, exorcised from Treassow, and passing eastward, towards the usual place of banishment --THE RED SEA.
The following story is given as a remarkable example of the manner in which very recent events become connected with exceedingly old superstitious ideas. The tales of Tregeagle have shown us how the name of a man who lived about two centuries since is made to do duty as a demon belonging to the pagan times. In this story we have the name of a woman who lived about the commencement of the present century, associated with a legend belonging to the earliest ages.

The Execution and Wedding

A woman, who had lived at Ludgvan, was executed at Bodmin for the murder of her husband. There was but little doubt that she had been urged on to the diabolical deed by a horse dealer, known as Yorkshire Jack, with whom, for a long period, she was generally supposed to have been criminally acquainted.

Now, it will be remembered that this really happened within the present century. One morning, during my residence in Penzance, an old woman from Ludgvan called on me with some trifling message. While she was waiting for my answer, I made some ordinary remark about the weather.
"It's all owing to Sarah Polgrain," said she.
"Sarah Polgrain!" said I; "and who is Sarah Polgrain?"
Then the voluble old lady told me the whole story of the poisoning, with which we need not, at present, concern ourselves. By and by the tale grew especially interesting, and there I resume it.
Sarah had begged that Yorkshire Jack might accompany her to the scaffold when she was led forth to execution. This was granted; and on the dreadful morning, there stood this unholy pair, the fatal beam on which the woman's body was in a few minutes to swing, before them.
They kissed each other, and whispered words passed between them.
The executioner intimated that the moment of execution had arrived, and that they must part. Sarah Polgrain, looking earnestly into the man's eyes, said,
" You will? "
Yorkshire Jack replied, "I will!" and they separated. The man retired amongst the crowd, the woman was soon a dead corpse, pendulating in the wind.
Years passed on. Yorkshire Jack was never the same man as before, his whole bearing was altered. His bold, his dashing air deserted him. He walked, or rather wandered, slowly about the streets of the town, or the lanes of the country. He constantly moved his head from side to side, looking first over one, and then over the other shoulder, as though dreading that some one was following him. The stout man became thin, his ruddy cheeks more pale, and his eyes sunken. At length he disappeared, and it was discovered--for Yorkshire Jack had made a confidant of some Ludgvan man--that he had pledged himself, "living or dead, to become the husband of Sarah Polgrain, after the lapse of years."
To escape, if possible, from himself, Jack had gone to sea in the merchant service.

Well, the period had arrived when this unholy promise was to be fulfilled. Yorkshire Jack was returning from the Mediterranean in a fruit-shin. He was met by the devil and Sarah Polgrain far out at sea, off the Land's-End. Jack would not accompany them willingly; so they followed the ship for days, during all which time she was involved in a storm. Eventually Jack was washed from the-deck, by such a wave as the oldest sailor had never seen; and presently, amidst loud thunders and flashing lightnings, riding as it were in a black cloud, three figures were seen passing onward. These were the devil, Sarah Polgrain, and Yorkshire Jack; and this was the cause of the storm.

"It is all true, as you may learn if you will inquire," said the old woman; "for many of her kin live in Church-town."

The Lugger of Croft Pasco Pool

In the midst of the dreary waste of Goonhilly, which occupies a large portion of the Lizard promontory, is a large piece of water known as "Croft Pasco Pool," where it is said at night the form of a ghostly vessel may be seen floating with lug-sails spread. A more dreary, weird spot could hardly be selected for a witches' meeting; and the Lizard folks were always--a fact--careful to be back before dark, preferring to suffer inconvenience, to risking a sight of the ghostly lugger. Unbelieving people attributed the origin of the tradition to a white horse seen in a dim twilight standing in the shallow water; but this was indignantly rejected by the mass of the residents.

(All taken from Robert Hunt, Popular Romances of the West of England)

The Hound of St Austell

Samuel Drew (1765-1833) was a self taught man of letters; his special interest was metaphysics, which is perhaps why he is little known now. He was apprenticed to a shoemaker, and gave the following account of a childhood experience.

'There were several of us, boys and men, out about twelve o'clock on a bright moonlit night. I think we were poaching. The party were in a field adjoining the road leading from my master's to St Austell, and I was stationed outside the hedge to watch and give the alarm if any intruder should appear. While thus occupied I heard what appeared to be the sound of a horse approaching from the town, and I gave a signal. My companions paused and came to the hedge where I was, to see the passenger [passer-by]. They looked through the bushes, and I drew myself close to the hedge, that I might not be observed. The sound increased and the supposed horseman seemed drawing near. The clatter of the hoofs became more and more distinct.

'We all looked to see who and what it was, and I was seized with a strange, indefinable feeling of dread; when, instead of a horse, there appeared, coming towards us, at an easy pace, but with the same sound that first caught my ear, a creature about the height of a large dog. It went close by me, and as it passed, it turned upon me and my companions huge fiery eyes that struck terror to all our hearts. The road where I stood branched off in two directions, in one of which there was a gate across. Towards the gate it moved, and, without any apparent obstruction, went on at its regular trot, which we heard several minutes after it had disappeared. Whatever it was, it put an end to our occupation, and we made the best of our way home.

'I have often endeavoured in later years, but without success, to account on natural principles for what I then heard and saw. As to the facts, I am sure there was no deception. It was a night of unusual brightness, occasioned by a cloudless full moon. The creature was unlike any animal I had then seen, but from my present recollections it had much the appearance of a bear, with a dark shaggy coat. Had it not been for the unearthly lustre of its eyes, and its passing through the gate as it did, there would be no reason to suppose it anything more than an animal escaped perhaps from some menagerie. That it did pass through the gate without pause or hesitation I am perfectly clear. Indeed, we all saw it, and saw that the gate was shut, from which we were not distant more than twenty or thirty yards. The bars were too close to admit the passage of an animal of half its apparent bulk; yet this creature went through with out effort or variation of its pace"

(Found on the internet here)

The Headless Horseman of Plaidy Beach

It was said that Plaidy Beach at Looe was a place to be avoided when there was a full moon, for a headless horseman would ride out of the sea and take anyone he found there back into his watery grave.

(Note: The late Myghal Colgan, Cornish writer and father of the Cornish Folklore Society's Steve Colgan was told this story when he was growing up in Looe. You can therefore imagine his delight when he discovered that the origin of the story was one of his own ancestors. Myghal, a keen genealogist, had been researching one branch of his family and found evidence that one Harry Shapcott had ridden his horse into the sea at Plaidy having been crossed in love. And when the bodies were washed up, the horse had lost its head but still had a rider, even in death …)

The Leedstown Ghost

Inland from Breage is the small hamlet of Leeds-town called after the Duke of Leed who has property in Cornwall. It is the seat of the following story:

The Leed's-town ghost runs up and down stairs during the night, and then sits in a corner of the room weeping and sleeking her hair. It is the ghost of a young woman who was engaged to be married to a man who refused to become her husband until she gave him certain deeds kept in a box in the above room.

As soon as the deeds were in his possession, he realized the property and fled to America, leaving the luckless girl to bemoan her loss.

She went mad: night and day she was searching for the deeds; sometimes she would sit and wail in the spot where the box had been.
At length she died: her spirit, however, had no rest, and still constantly returns to keep alive the memory of the man's perfidy.

The Turbulent Sailor's Spirit

Sometimes the ghostly visitors of old houses became so obnoxious that they ousted the living inhabitants.

An instance occurred near the quay at Penzance at the beginning of the nineteenth century. A nocturnal spirit, deprived of his rest, apparently was determined to do the same to the house's inhabitants.

Old people of the neighbourhood could remember the house as a public-house where a sailor who was know to possess money had previously disappeared in its neighbourhood.

In 1813, the house was purchased and part was torn down. During this work, a human skeleton was found beneath the floorboards, greatly decayed. This was thought to be the sailor whose ghost had so long disturbed the precincts where he had been murdered.

The well-dressed Spirit of St Ives

These spirits were often prevented from wandering and disturbing the living by being locked in certain rooms by an exorcist.

An aged St. Ives lady recounts how she remembers a room in John Knill's house, in Fore Street, which had long be kept locked because of a spirit of a lady "dressed very fine with all her jewellery upon her," which she had been laid to rest in.

She often visited that house as a child and remembered the fear of the inhabitants as they passed the door of this room after dark.

(All taken from Robert Hunt, Popular Romances of the West of England)

For even more Cornish Ghost stories, visit Bill Rowe's superb Gandolf site here.