Cornish Characters and Strange Events

Stephen Tillie was under-sheriff, and he received orders to eject Rogers, and place Anne, the widow, in possession. On June 18th, 1734, he accordingly went to Skewis to serve the summons. But Henry stood at an upper window armed with a gun, and dared the under-sheriff to approach. Tillie shouted to him that he had the King's writ and must have possession, but assured him that he would not meddle with his person.

By this time a crowd of some two or three hundred persons had assembled, all sympathizers with Henry Rogers, and murmuring their disapproval of the ejectment.

Henry, from his window, called out that the Lord Chancellor had made an unjust decree.

Tillie replied that Henry Rogers might appeal against the decision, but surrender the house he must.

Rogers, in reply, fired, and, as the under-sheriff stated, "burned his wig and singed his face."

This so frightened Tillie that he withdrew, and sent to Helston for some soldiers; and Captain Sadler, then in charge of the military there, despatched some to his aid.

So reinforced, on the morrow Tillie went again to Skewis, and found the door shut, and a hole cut in it, with a gun-barrel protruding.

Again the under-sheriff demanded admittance, and for reply the gun was fired, and a bailiff named William Carpenter was mortally wounded. Another gun was then discharged, and Hatch, the under-sheriff's servant, was struck. Anne Rogers, the plaintiff, was in the rear animating the soldiers against the occupants of the house. Mrs. Henry Rogers was within, loading and serving out the guns to her husband and to his servant John Street. A soldier was shot in the groin, and two other men were wounded. Thereupon the soldiers fired upon the house, and though the bullets flew in at the window, none of those within were hurt.

Woolsten, the soldier shot in the groin, was taken to the rear, where he died. A bullet whizzed through Stephen Tillie's hat. Discretion is the better part of valour. Accordingly the under-sheriff gave orders to beat a retreat, and like the King of France's men who marched up a hill and then marched down again, Tillie and his posse of bailiffs and military retired from the battlefield, carrying their dead and wounded, without having effected an entry. In a kindly spirit Rogers offered Tillie a dram, but the under-sheriff's courage was too much quailed to allow him to draw near enough to accept the hospitable offer.

Indeed, it took Mr. Tillie nine months to gather up sufficient courage to resume the attack, and then not till he had ordered up cannon from Pendennis Castle. On the former occasion there had been at least ten soldiers under the command of an officer. Within the house were only Henry Rogers, his wife, his small children, and his servant-man.

On March 16th, in the year following, another party was sent to apprehend Rogers and take possession of the house. On this occasion, apparently Mr. Stephen Tillie did not put in his appearance, but left the duty to be discharged by the constables. Henry Rogers was prepared for them, and fired, when one named Andrew Willis, alias Tubby, was shot dead. Rogers then, with the utmost coolness, came out of the door and walked round the man he had shot, and again on this occasion offered the besiegers a drink. The besiegers then retired, but not till a second man had been shot.

During the night Henry Rogers effected his escape. He travelled on foot to Salisbury, with the intention of making his case known to the King.

Sir John S. Aubyn, of Clowance, now took an active part in endeavouring to secure the fugitive, and handbills descriptive of Rogers were circulated along the road to London, whither it was known he was making his way. Near Salisbury a postboy, driving homewards a return post-chaise, was accosted by a stout man walking with a gun in his hand, who requested to be given a lift. The boy drove him to the inn, where he procured a bed; but the circumstances and description had excited strong suspicion, and he was secured in his sleep. The prisoner was removed to Cornwall. He and his man Street were tried at the assizes at Launceston on August 1st, 1735, were both found guilty of murder, and were both hanged.

It is not possible to withhold sympathy from both men, especially Street, who acted on the belief that it was his duty to be true to his master, and to defend him and his property to the utmost.

Mr. Davies Gilbert gives the minutes of an interesting conversation he had with the son of Henry Rogers who was hanged.

"On the 30th October, 1812, I called on Mr. Henry Rogers, formerly a saddler at Penzance, but then residing there in great poverty, being supported by a small allowance from a club, and by half a crown a week given him by the Corporation, nominally for yielding up the possession of a house, but in truth to prevent his becoming a common pauper.

"Mr. Henry Rogers was then eighty-four years of age and remembered the unfortunate transactions at Skewis perfectly well; he was between seven and eight years old at the time. He recollected going out with his father into the court after there had been some firing. His father had a gun in his hand, and inquired what they wanted. On this his father was fired at, and had a snuff-box and powder-horn broken in his pocket by a ball, whilst he stood on the other side.

"He recollected that whilst he was in bed, several balls came in through the windows of the room, and after striking the wall rolled about on the floor.

"One brother and a sister, who were in the house, went out to inquire what was wanted of their father, and they were not permitted to return.

"On the last night, no one remained in the house but his father, himself, and the servant-maid. In the middle of the night they all went out, and got some distance from the house. In crossing a field, however, they were met by two soldiers, who inquired their business. The maid answered that they were looking for a cow, when they were permitted to proceed. The soldiers had their arms, and his father had his gun. The maid and himself were left at a farmhouse in the neighbourhood, and Mr. Rogers proceeded on his way towards London."

The authorities for the story of the siege of Skewis are: Richard Hooker's Weekly Miscellany, 9 August, 1735; George Harris's Life of Lord Chancellor Hardwick, I, pp. 295-303; Caulfield's Portraits of Remarkable Persons, 1813; and Davies Gilbert's Parochial History of Cornwall.

THE VOYAGE OF JOHN SANDS

Lanarth, in the parish of S. Keverne, in the Lizard district, was for many generations the residence of the family of Sands. The family was not represented at the Heralds' Visitation of 1620, and did not record its arms and pedigree, but was nevertheless regarded in the eighteenth century as "gentle," and was united to other families of respectability.

Sampson Sands, who died in 1696, was married to Jane, daughter of John Coode, of Breage, but he died without issue and left his estate to his brother's son, John Sands, married to a daughter of Hamley, of S. Neot.

This John Sands, one afternoon in January, 1702-3, and seven other persons, men and women, of S. Keverne, were returning from Falmouth in a fishing boat of about five tons burden, without deck or covering, after having done their marketing at a fair there.

When they had got to sea, about a league from the mouth of the Fal and about two leagues off S. Keverne, suddenly there rose a storm of wind from the west, and the sea rising and rolling in great crested waves round the terrible points of the Manacles, the rowers were unable to make headway against it. If they could not reach Porthoustock, for which they were bound, they hoped at least to run into Porthallow. But even this they were unable to effect. The fury of the blast and the great masses of water heaved against the little boat made progress impossible, and they resolved on running back into Falmouth harbour. Accordingly the vessel was turned, but the raging wind and sea and the tide setting out from the land swept them from the coast. Moreover, the short winter day was closing in. The sun went down behind a wild and inky bank of cloud, and speedily night set in dark and terrible. The unfortunate boatload of marketers could do no more than invoke God's protection, and bail out the water as fast as it poured over the gunwale. The oars were shipped, and the boatmen declared that there was nothing to be done but to let loose the helm and allow the boat to drive.

The night was cold as well as tempestuous. On the blast of the wind came down torrents of rain. The men and women alike laboured hard to cast out of the boat the water that poured in. For sixteen hours darkness lasted. How may each have said with Gonzalo: "Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea for an acre of barren ground, long heath, brown furze, anything. I would fain die a dry death." At length there rose a raw light in the south-east, against which the billows stood up black as ink. As the light grew, those in the boat found themselves encircled with sea, out of sight of land, and with the clouds scudding overhead, as if running a race. The storm continued all that day and the night following. Not only so, but also the third day and night the battle with the influx of water continued. There was no sleep for any; all had to fight the water for their lives. Happily they were not starving, for Mr. Sands had taken over to Falmouth in the boat a woman, the taverner's wife of the "Three Tuns," who had brought with her from Falmouth a shilling's worth of bread and three or four gallons of brandy. On this they subsisted.

On the fourth day in the morning, the gale abated, and at ten o'clock land was descried. Forthwith the rowers bent to their oars and steered towards it. When the whole party landed they discovered that they had been wafted over to the coast of Normandy; and they found themselves on French soil at the time that Queen Anne was engaged in war with Louis XIV. Marlborough had been in the Netherlands, and had reduced Venloo, Ruremonde, and the citadel of Liége. At sea Rooke had captured six vessels and sunk thirteen at Vigo, and Admiral Benbow had done wonders against a French fleet in the West Indies. The French were sore and irritated. So soon as Mr. Sands and his little party stepped on shore they were encountered by several men armed, who demanded who they were. They replied that they were English. One of the party stopping them understood our language, and inquired the occasion of these visitors landing on the enemy's shores, and by what expedient they had come over. They replied, and gave an account of their perilous voyage of three nights and four days.

Upon this a gentleman of the company asked Mr. Sands from what part of England he came, and when he replied that they were all from Cornwall, the same gentleman inquired further whether the leader of the party was named Sands; to this he replied, in some surprise, that he was.

"Then, monsieur," said the Frenchman, "I know you, and I can well remember your kindness and hospitality when I was wrecked off the Lizard some years ago. Then you received me into your house, and entertained me most generously."

This was an unexpected and welcome encounter. The gentleman then required the party to surrender what arms and money they had with them, and Mr. Sands handed over forty guineas that he had received at Falmouth for pilchards just before he was driven out to sea in the boat. He and his companions were required to yield themselves prisoners of war; and Mr. Sands was received into the gentleman's home. All next day were brought before a magistrate and examined, and orders were given that they should not be kept in custody as prisoners of war, but should be permitted to go about at liberty, and beg alms of the people. And the kind-hearted Normandy peasants and gentlemen showed them great favour, and supplied all their pressing wants.

The news of the event not only flew over the country, but reached the ears of the King, who thereupon ordered that the whole party should be sent back to England by the first transport ship for prisoners of war; which happened soon after.

Mr. Sands took leave of his kind host in whose house he had been hospitably entertained, and begged him to accept the forty guineas as some acknowledgment of his kindness. This, however, the gentleman refused to do, saying that he would take nothing at his hands, since God in such a wonderful manner had preserved him and his companions from the perils of the deep. Then Mr. Sands pressed five guineas on the wife of his host, begging her with that sum to purchase something which might remind her of him and his party; and this she reluctantly received.

So they parted, and all went on board a transport ship and were safely landed at Portsmouth; and in eight weeks after their departure from England returned to S. Keverne, to the great joy and surprise of their friends and relations, who had concluded that all of them had been drowned.

The Rev. Sampson Sandys was grandson of the gentleman who was carried over to France, as described. He lived at Lanarth to a great age. His daughter Eleanor married Admiral James Kempthorne, r. n. He was succeeded at Lanarth by his nephew, William Sandys, a colonel in the army of the East India Company, who rebuilt the house. It must be added that the original name of the family was not Sandys but Sands, and that it assumed the former name as more euphonious and as supposing a connection which, however, has not been proved to exist, with Lord Sandys of The Vine, and Ombersley, Worcestershire, and the Cumberland family of Graythwaite. At the same time, it assumed the arms of the same distinguished family, or, a fesse dancetté between three crosses crosslet fichée gules.

CHARLES INCLEDON

This, one of the sweetest tenor singers England has produced, was born at S. Keverne in Cornwall, in 1764, and was the son of a petty local surgeon and apothecary practising there.

At the age of seven he was introduced by Mr. Snow, one of the minor canons of Exeter Cathedral, to the organist, then named Langdon, and he afterwards became the pupil of William Jackson the composer, who was for many years organist of the cathedral. Jackson took great notice of the boy, and made him sing his own compositions at concerts in the city. On one occasion, when the assizes were on at Exeter, Judge Nares attended in state at the morning service in the cathedral, when Incledon sang the solo "Let my soul love," in the anthem, "Let my complaint come before Thee, O Lord," with such effect and beauty that the tears rolled down the judge's cheeks, and at the conclusion of Divine service he sent for the boy and presented him with five guineas.

Incledon was wont, on summer evenings, to seat himself on a rail in the cathedral close and sing, to the delight of an audience that always collected as soon as his bird-like voice was heard. On one such occasion he was singing the song "When I was a shepherd's maid," from The Padlock, when a gentleman in regimentals stepped forward and asked his name. Next day this officer, the Hon. Mr. Trevor, called on Jackson and asked permission to take the lad with him to Torquay, where he was going to visit Commodore Walsingham of the Thunderer, and he desired to give his friend and all on board ship the pleasure of hearing Incledon sing. Permission was accorded, and the boy was on board the vessel for three days, and sang several nautical and other songs, beginning with "Blow high, blow low." The Commodore was so delighted that he wrote to Incledon's parents and asked that the lad might be placed under him in the vessel; but the mother declined, and well was it that she did, for the Thunderer went down in a storm in the West Indies, and all hands on board were lost.

The kind reception accorded to Charles Incledon on board induced him to harbour the resolution to become a sailor, and accompanied by a fellow chorister, and carrying a bundle of linen, he ran away, hoping to reach Plymouth; but he was overtaken and brought back, and as a punishment was not allowed to wear his surplice in choir for a week.

But when his voice broke, then he was allowed to follow his bent, and he embarked on board the Formidable under Captain Stanton, and remained in her two years, till, disabled by a wound, he was left at Plymouth, and on his recovery was placed in a vessel commanded by Lord Harvey, afterwards Earl of Bristol. With this nobleman he sailed to Sta. Lucia, where the whole fleet was at anchor. Whilst there, Lord Harvey gave a dinner on board to his fellow commanders and other officers. At the same time the sailors before the mast enjoyed themselves with grog and songs. When Incledon sang, the lieutenant on deck ran to the cabin where the officers were regaling themselves, and told them that they had a nightingale on board, and would do well to hear it sing. Lord Harvey at once proceeded to the quarter-deck, heard Incledon sing the fine old traditional ballad, "'Twas Thursday in the Morn," and was so impressed that he bade him at once change his apparel and come to the state cabin. He did so and sang there "The Fight of the Monmouth and Foudroyant," "Rule Britannia," and some of Jackson's favourite canzonets. The officers applauded enthusiastically, and jocularly appointed him Singer to the British Fleet. He was released from the performance of manual duty, and sent for to assist at every entertainment that succeeded. He rose high in the favour of Admiral Pigot, the Commander-in-Chief, and made numerous friends and patrons.

In 1782 Incledon was in the engagement between the English fleet under Admiral Sir George Bridges, afterwards Lord Rodney, and the French fleet commanded by the Count de Grasse, when the former gained a complete victory.

At the expiration of the war Incledon was discharged at Chatham and proceeded to London, with strong recommendations from Lord Mulgrave and others to Mr. Colman of the Haymarket Theatre. Colman received him coldly, and gave him no hopes of an engagement. Then he went to Southampton, where he obtained an engagement at ten shillings and sixpence a week. But soon after, owing to some dispute, he left the company and went to Salisbury with a travelling company, and fell into great poverty and misery. However, he succeeded in obtaining an engagement at Bath with Mr. Palmer, the well-known theatrical manager, and the man who introduced mail-coaches into England. Here he received thirty shillings a week. He attracted the attention of Ranzzini, the arbiter of the musical entertainments at Bath; and this able man gave him valuable instruction in scientific singing. One evening, hearing Incledon sing Handel's "Total Eclipse," the Italian was so delighted that, catching hold of his hand, he left the piano, and leading him to the front of the platform exclaimed, "Ladies an jentleman, dis is my scholar!"

Thomas Harris, hearing him at Bath, proposed that he should sing and act at Covent Garden Theatre, and engaged him for three years at six, seven, and eight pounds a week. Hardly was this agreement made, when Linley, of Drury Lane, offered him twelve pounds a week, and to retain him for five years. But, although only a verbal agreement had been entered into with Harris, Incledon, to his honour, rejected the offer of Linley. It was unfortunate in more ways than one, as he would have profited by Linley's exquisite taste and instruction, as well as have earned nearly double what Harris offered. Moreover, he was very badly treated at Covent Garden, and often not given parts in which he could do himself justice. In 1809 came a rupture, and the managers dismissed him, and Incledon quitted London on a provincial tour. After two years he was re-engaged by Harris, at a salary of seventeen pounds a week, for a term of five years; but he stipulated that he should be given such rôles as suited him. This engagement was not fulfilled, and a fresh quarrel ensued that led to a final rupture at the end of three years, and he quitted Covent Garden for ever, refusing even to sing in the Oratorios performed there during Lent.

He had made his first appearance at Covent Garden in October, 1790, as Dermont in The Poor Soldier, by Shield. His vocal endowments were certainly great; he had a voice of uncommon power and sweetness, both in the natural and falsetto. The former was from A to G, a compass of about fourteen notes; the latter he could use from D to E or even F, or about ten notes. His natural voice was full and open, and of such ductility, that when he sang pianissimo it retained its original quality. His falsetto was rich, sweet, and brilliant, and totally unlike the other. He could use it with facility, and execute in it ornaments of a certain class with volubility and sweetness. His shake was good, and his intonation much more correct than is common to singers so imperfectly educated. But he never quite got over his West-country pronunciation. His strong point was the ballad, and that not the modern sentimental composition, but of the robust old school. When Ranzzini first heard him at Bath, rolling his voice upwards like a surge of the sea, till, touching the top note, it expired in sweetness, he exclaimed in rapture, "Corpo di Dio! it was ver' lucky dere vas some roof above or you would be heard by de angels in Heaven, and make dem jealous."

Incledon himself used to tell a story of the effect he produced upon Mrs. Siddons: "She paid me one of the finest compliments I ever received. I sang 'The Storm' after dinner; she cried and sobbed like a child. Taking both my hands, she said: 'All that I and my brother ever did is nothing to the effect you produce.'"

"I remember," says William Robson, in The Old Playgoer, "when the élite of taste and science and literature were assembled to pay the well-deserved compliment of a dinner to John Kemble, and to present him with a handsome piece of plate on his retirement, Incledon sang, when requested, his best song, 'The Storm.' The effect was sublime, the silence holy, the feeling intense; and while Talma was recovering from his astonishment, Kemble placed his hand on the arm of the great French actor, and said in an agitated, emphatic, and proud tone, 'That is an English singer.'" Marsden adds that Talma jumped up from his seat and embraced him.

Incledon sang with great feeling, and in "The Storm" he was able to throw his whole heart into the ballad, for not only had he encountered many a storm at sea, but he had been shipwrecked on a passage from Liverpool to Dublin, on the bar. Some of those on board were lost, but he saved himself and his wife by drawing her up to the round-top and lashing her and himself to it. From this perilous position, after a duration of several hours, they were rescued by some fishermen who saw the wreck from the shore.

Incledon belonged in town to "The Glee Club," composed of Shield, Bannister, Dignum, himself, and one or two others. It met on Sunday evenings during the season at the Garrick Coffee House, in Bow Street, once a fortnight. At one of these little gatherings Incledon was amusingly hoaxed. Though an admirable singer, he was a shockingly bad actor. When he came in one of the party informed him that an intended musical performance for a charitable purpose, in which he, Incledon, was to sing, had been abandoned, on account of the Bishop of London objecting to an actor performing in church. Incledon, who was an extremely irritable man, broke out in a violent strain, conceiving the word actor to have been employed as a term of reproach, and addressing himself to Bannister, said with great vehemence, "There, Charles, do you hear that?" "Why," said Bannister, "if I were you, I'd make his lordship prove his words."

Incledon one day was at Tattersall's, when Suett, the actor, also happened to be there, and asked him whether he had come to buy a horse. "Yes," said Charles, "I have. I must ride, it is good for my health. But why are you here, Dickey? Do you think that you know the difference between a horse and an ass?"