Old folks of Gulval say that, in their grandparents’ time, the ancient mansion of Kenegie and its grounds were constantly haunted by three “sperats,” and, on some nights by many more.

The following stories respecting them were told by an aged tinner of Lelant, as they had been often related to him by his mother, who had lived for many years in service at Kenegie, previous to her marriage, about fourscore years ago; some incidents are also taken from other versions.

The first ghost, of whom there is any remembrance, and the one which remained longest, was the spirit of a thrifty old Harris, who made great additions to the house and walled-gardens, and was most unwilling to die and leave them. This spirit, however, gave but little trouble. He merely came on a certain night in every year—which was known to his descendants—to review the place in which he had taken so much delight; and only required that, on the night of his accustomed visit, the principal entrance door should be left open, as well as one opposite, opening into a paved court surrounded by offices.

At that time the grand entrance was approached by a straight, stately avenue, flanked by a bowling green, with a picturesque two-storied summer-house or “look-out” at its further end.

It was believed that any negligence in leaving open these doors, at the stated time, would be a cause of misfortune to the Harris family, or a token of its decline.

Consequently, this custom was duly observed from farther back than there is any remembrance, until within a few years of the time when the last Harris of Kenegie disposed of his ancestral home. ’Tis said that when the spirit came and found the doors closed—through some mistake, it is supposed,—he made much unearthly wailing, till cock-crowing, then went moaning away and never returned.

It is surmised that when the old family residence, in which he so much delighted, came into the possession of strangers, he neither desired to see it nor to hear of it again; and that he has, ever since, shut himself up in his family vault, where he has plenty of company, as one may judge from the great number of monuments in Gulval Church, recording the virtues of his descendants. Before [22]that unlucky time, crickets were heard chirriping around the hearths of their old home all night long; but afterwards not one was heard or seen,—sure token of impending misfortune.

The next ghostly visitor, and a more troublesome one, had been housekeeper and a great favourite with a later Squire Harris, much to the prejudice of his son and heir. The very night after her funeral, disturbances began; the whole household were annoyed by this husey of a ghost prancing along stone-paved passages, from one room to another—doors clashing and banging behind her,—till she entered the kitchen, where she would next be heard winding-up the great roasting-jack,—one of the old fashioned noisy clock-work machines, kept in motion by a heavy weight passing through the chamber floors, and attached to a rope or chain working over screeching pullies, fixed somewhere in the upper regions of the mansion.

After an interval of scolding, shrieking, and the other accessories of a row, she would beat the table or dresser-bed with a rolling-pin, and make the pewter-plates rattle, by way of announcing, as she was wont to do, that the roast was ready, and to summon the servants to dish it up. Between the thumps, she screeched “Quick, come quick!” and another voice replied “Anon, anon!” Then the parlour furniture would be shifted, as if preparations were in progress for entertaining a large company. At length the inmates were glad to hear her high-heeled shoes patting over stairs and along the gallery, until they stopped at her late master’s bed-chamber door, which was usually the conclusion of her noisy exploits for the night.

The shadowy figure of this old woman, in a long-bodied gown and kirtle, was frequently seen passing quickly through the court. Now and then it happened that a new servant, wishing to get ahead with her work—on washing days especially,—and not hearing any disturbance, ventured downstairs in the small hours of the morning; but, on entering the kitchen, her light was almost always blown out, and she got a slap in the face, from an invisible hand, that “made her see fire before her eyes;” and, on turning to leave the room, received a kick behind which made her remember to stay abed till cock-crowing.

This housekeeper was “put to rest,” however, many years before the Harrises left their old home, and bound to perform such a task as she richly deserved. There are no particulars known of the way in which this was done; it is only stated that some powerful exorcists—neighbouring clergymen, who were then supposed to possess power over ghostly visitants—succeeded, after much conjuration, in quelling her, in some measure; but, as she absolutely refused to leave the place, they compromised matters by confining her to a small room, on the eastern or northern side of the [23]mansion; with her were placed a fleece of black wool, a pair of cards, a “pole and kiggal” (distaff and spindle) and knitting needles. With these she was required to card the black fleece until it became white, and then to spin it and knit stockings of the yarn. Her closet door is walled up or plastered over, so that few know exactly where it is situated, though old folks who served the Harris family say they have often heard the clicking of cards in some remote part of the buildings, and that there was always a little hole, such as sparrows might nest in, through and through the wall; if filled up, it was sure to be opened over night, without being touched by mortal hands.

Whether this old jade’s ghost still gives signs of her presence, is best known to the inmates. One would gladly dismiss her, but we shall have to mention her again in connection with “Wild Harris,” who next came back and haunted the place, down almost to recent times.

The last Ghost of Kenegie—at least of whom there is any trustworthy tradition—was that of a spendthrift heir, known as “Wild Harris,” who is best remembered, because ordinary parsons’ collective power was found insufficient to lay him. He extended his walks all over the grounds and far away down in the “bottom” towards the mill. He was also often seen on horseback, chasing with one hound, on Kenegie Downs and elsewhere.

Belated market folks and others dreaded to pass Kenegie Gate, for they frequently saw the “Squire’s sperat” standing in an alcove, just over this grand entrance. The ghost mostly wore a steeple-crown and feather, hunting-coat and riding-boots, or a long, black gown and flat cap, with lace and plume.

He usually stood beside his family coat-of-arms, which may still be seen, and glared down on the road with a look as immovable as that of the lions carved in stone, that, on either hand, then guarded the gate. Sometimes, too, he was beheld seated beside the churchway-stile, a few yards further up the hill. Often on approaching this spot, people were made aware of the spirit being near, though invisible, by a sulpherous smell which pervaded the place.

On winter nights, the Squire’s ghost, with a dozen or more of his “old comrades,” or such-like spirits, would assemble in the bowling-green summer-house, where they might be seen and heard from the mansion even, talking, singing, swearing, and shouting, in a state of uproarious mirth. Altogether, Kenegie must have been a lively place of nights, with the old housekeeper reacting scenes of her former rule within, and “Wild Harris’s” nocturnal carouse in the “look-out.” Few servants, however, lived there long; they didn’t relish such ghostly merriment, in which they had no other share than to be kept awake and terrified all night. [24]

No satisfactory account is handed down as to why these troublesome spirits could not or would not rest; there are, however, fragments of misty traditions which throw a little light on the subject.

Of the old improving gentleman, who delighted in building, no more seems to be known than what has been stated. The other unresting Harris is said to have been an eager sportsman, with much wild-oats in his composition, who cared for little else but his hunter and hounds, except a young lady, a poor relation, dependent on his family, with whom she lived much like a fish out of water, being regarded as too low for the parlour on grand occasions; and, at all times, as too high for the kitchen, where she was treated as an intruder by the housekeeper and her creatures.

This unfortunate damsel passed much of her time in the pleasant upper room of the summer-house with old maiden ladies of the family, who here wrought everlasting tapestry, fine lace, or embroidery, varying their labours by spinning, to stretch their legs, and by doing much other useful and ornamental work,—then regarded as necessary accomplishments. Here, too, the ancient dames sipped choice cordials of their own distilling or compounding; perhaps, in latter days, enjoyed their tea and gossip; and, from the balcony-like outer stair-landing, have watched the gentlemen’s healthy exercise and sports on the bowling-green. This choice retreat was finished with decorative wood and plaster-work; over the fireplace may yet be seen the family coat-of-arms; a broad window, opposite the entrance, commanded a delightful view over miles of rich pasture, orchards, and gardens; the western hills, with several parish churches; St. Buryan tower, standing boldly out, like a lofty landmark, against the sky. In the ground apartment, which also contains a fireplace, gentlemen, after their exercise on the bowling-green, rested and partook of refreshments with more enjoyment than—

When the poor gentlewoman was in her bloom, “Wild Harris’s” father was a widower, in his dotage, and too much influenced by his housekeeper, who had been, during his wife’s lifetime, and was still, a special favourite with him. The old faggot, may she never cease carding, and her wool never become white! She ever disliked her young master, and detested the poor orphan lady, of whom she was jealous, fearing lest she might supplant her one day in governing the household. The dame was a malicious spy on the lovers, who frequently met in the summer-house and retired walks down the vale. Their interviews were all the sweeter for being stolen; yet soon, alas, they resulted in sorrow to the young lady. [25]

The old gentleman was much prejudiced against his poor cousin by being persuaded that, only for this unfortunate attachment, his son would have wedded a rich heiress, whose lands lay near the Harrises’ “up-country” property. He declared that the day his son married his cousin, he would wed his housekeeper, so that she should still rule the roost. In spite of all opposition, however, the young man would have made an “honest woman” of his betrothed, but was hindered by the malice of the old dame and his father until too late; for the poor damsel, distracted with grief, wandered away one night, she knew not whither, and next morning was found, by her lover, drowned in a mill-pond.

Shortly after this tragic event the old Squire died, and “Wild Harris” found himself master of Kenegie, but disinherited of much other property, bequeathed to his brothers in the army or navy. He had some satisfaction, however, in turning to doors the old mischief-making minion, but not much; she soon fretted herself to death, and was hardly laid in her grave ere she was back again, making such a din, out of mere spite, as hindered the inmates from getting a wink of sleep during the dead hours of night.

The master of Kenegie became more reckless than ever; his days were spent in hunting, or holding games on the bowling-green; and his nights were passed in revelry.

He kept open house, for rich or poor, who chose to partake of his hospitality. One and all were cordially welcomed. With all his faults, he had an open heart and hand; but, in a few years, he came to an untimely end, whilst still in his prime, by a fall from his horse when hunting on the Castle Downs. It is said that his horse was startled by a white hare that often followed him, and was believed to be the unfortunate lady’s spirit.

He was borne to Gulval Church and laid in the vault at night, as was the fashion then with some of our old families. His burial was attended by many friends; and when some of them—who remained late at the funeral supper—came down the avenue to return home, they beheld him, as natural, seemingly, as life, standing by the summer-house steps, arrayed in his hunting-dress, and, by his side, a favourite old dog that had died when his master breathed his last.

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