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 Introduction

Sometime between 1660 and 1670, Nicholas Boson, gentleman merchant

of Newlyn, wrote a short story, partly in the Cornish language but mainly
in English, for the amusement of his children. Entitled The Duchesse of
Cornwall’s Progresse to see the Land’s end and visit the mount, the tale has a
sea-monster and mermaid and a wicked hermit who can conjure up storms,
a delightfully heady mix calculated to excite the attention of young minds.
But behind the folklore, according to Matthew Spriggs in this collection,
was a yet deeper significance, for the story may have echoed ‘a confused
folk memory of rebellion nearly two centuries before’, a dim remembrance
of the Cornish risings of 1497.1
It is possible, maybe even likely, argues Spriggs, that the ‘Duchesse’ in ques-
tion was none other than Katherine, wife of the pretender Perkin Warbeck,
perpetrator of the second of the 1497 rebellions. There is no evidence that
Warbeck styled himself ‘Duke of Cornwall’ (although he was proclaimed
‘Richard IV’ at Bodmin) but again it seems probable, and his wife Katherine
was reputedly ensconced in St Michael’s Mount when she surrendered to the
King’s forces in the aftermath of the rebellion. Significantly, too, in one of
Boson’s Cornish-language interludes in the ‘Duchesse’ story, there is an insist-
ence that ‘we’ (the Cornish) will have to fight for the Duchess of Cornwall:

‘Rag gun Arlothas da

Ny en gweel gun moyha’
(For our most excellent Dutchesse Right
Unto the utmost we will fight)

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That the story so enthralled Nicholas Boson’s eldest son, John, is evidenced,
perhaps, in the fact that he christened his own daughter Katherin[e],
perpetuating the association into the next generation.
One cannot tell how widespread ‘a confused memory of rebellion nearly
two hundred years before’ may have been, nor whether it existed far (or
even at all) beyond the Cornish-language heartland of the far west. But
what is surely remarkable, is the possibility of a continuous popular memory
over two centuries of the events of 1497, passed in this instance from
father to son and on to his daughter. It lends credence to the argument that
there were threads of continuity between the rebellions of 1497 and 1549
and the events of the Civil War in Cornwall, in which elements of a
dynamic Cornish identity—or identities—coalesced and metamorphosed
to produce an enduring resistance to external intrusion and a stout defence
of the territory of Cornwall during the upheavals of Tudor and Stuart state
formation in the ‘Atlantic Archipelago’, the British and Irish Isles.
Although some recent scholarship has cast doubt on the strength (or even
existence) of such continuity, preferring to see the Cornish ‘commotions’
as discrete events, each with its own causes and motivations,2 it seems
clear that Cornwall ‘in the age of rebellion’ was characterized by a habitual
resistance to outside interference—political, cultural, religious, military—
which ultimately created the modern territorial identity so readily observ-
able by the end of the seventeenth century.
This argument is outlined in Chapter 1, newly written, where the ‘St
Tudy fragment’ of the late seventeenth century, with its catch-cry ‘And
shall Trelawny die?’, is presented as evidence of this continuity, popular
sentiment having not only ‘survived’ but been moulded and perpetuated
by the series of upheavals during the preceding two hundred years.
Subsequent chapters, some extensively rewritten, first appeared in the
series Cornish Studies, published by University of Exeter Press between
1993 and 2013, a period during which the place of Cornwall in the ‘new
British historiography’—the debates about the making of the Tudor and
Stuart state in the early modern period, not least the complex interactions
between England, Ireland, Scotland and Wales—was discussed with a
vigorous intensity. They culminate in this collection in the Annex ‘The
Recent Historiography of Early Modern Cornwall’, first published in
Cornish Studies in 2002, by the principal architect of the Cornish debate,
Mark Stoyle. As relevant today as when it was first written, Stoyle’s

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commentary, as well as reviewing recent contributions, looked to the

future. Presciently, he predicted a more nuanced examination of the
cultural diversity of Tudor and Stuart Cornwall, then only recently advo-
cated by Bernard Deacon, and called for a more careful analysis of the
nature of the avowedly conservative Anglican Church in Cornwall
between the Reformation and the Civil War, especially in its relationship
with Cornish identity. The latter has largely failed to materialize, as has
Stoyle’s other major prediction, that after the flurry of ‘Kernowcentric’
writing there would surely be a ‘Kernowsceptic backlash’, intent on deny-
ing Cornwall’s newly won place in the ‘new British historiography’ and
forcing the study of Cornwall in this period back into the confines of
‘English local history’.
John Chynoweth’s unimaginatively titled Tudor Cornwall (shades of
A.L. Rowse), published in 2002, appeared at the time to herald such a
backlash but, as Stuart Dunmore has observed, Chynoweth’s attempt to
reject ‘the theory of Cornish distinctiveness’ is inadequate, based as it is on
his plainly stated hostility to the nineteenth- and twentieth-century
‘Celtic revival’ in Cornwall, including the contemporary Cornish-language
revival which, Chynoweth contends, ‘cannot be regarded as genuine’.3 As
Dunmore explains in his shrewd assessment of Chynoweth’s intervention,
by ‘setting out his ideological perspective so early in his work Chynoweth
appears to undermine his own analysis, and his interpretation of the
historical sources seems to be coloured by his attitudes to the revival’.4
A more robust challenge, at least at first sight, was J.P.D. Cooper’s
Propaganda and the Tudor State, published in 2003, which both rejected the
notion of Cornwall (and Devon) as a hotbed of rebellion in this period
(positing instead a loyal and obedient locality) and adopted a Devon-and-
Cornwall regional approach. Yet even as he defended his Devon-and-
Cornwall model, Cooper found himself having to admit to a Cornish
distinctiveness in many of the aspects he examined, weakening his argu-
ment, so that his intervention was hardly the ‘Kernowsceptic backlash’
that perhaps he had intended. Moreover, as Bernard Deacon demonstrates
in Chapter 2, Cooper’s argument was fatally flawed. Flimsy evidence to
support the ‘obedience’ thesis was drawn mainly from the far borders of
Cornwall, including North Petherwin which was then actually part of
Devon. Equally seriously, ignoring recent research and relying instead on
outdated secondary sources, Cooper consigned the Cornish language to

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the far west of Cornwall, to the parishes west and south of Helston on the
Lizard and Penwith peninsulas, an error that again illustrated his limited
grasp of the cultural geography of early modern Cornwall. As Deacon
remarks, this limited grasp was a pity, for a better-informed discussion of
cultural diversity within Cornwall might have prompted that more
nuanced examination that he had called for, and which Mark Stoyle
had echoed.
In fact, evidence for this cultural diversity had already existed in a
number of forms, as the subsequent chapters in this book illustrate. Taken
together, they broadly support this volume’s theme: that against the back-
ground of Cornish cultural diversity, there was an enduring resistance to
intrusion from beyond the Tamar and a growing identification with the
territory of Cornwall itself. In Chapter 3, Matthew Spriggs asks ‘Where
was Cornish spoken and when?’. Drawing upon the research of Ken
George, Julyan Holmes, Oliver Padel and others, he arrives at an impres-
sive synthesis which, among other things, maps the retreat of Cornish
during the early modern period. In marked contrast to J.P.D. Cooper,
Spriggs indicates that by 1500 Cornish was still spoken in Cornwall up to
the Fowey-Camel line, and that even by 1600 was still on the lips of those
in many parts of mid-Cornwall as well as in the west. Given that external
intrusion was one of those factors influencing the retreat of Cornish, it is
interesting to note Spriggs’s comments on language decline and survival.
Anglo-centric historians have long considered the demise of Cornish to
have been ‘inevitable’, no matter how much this was to be regretted, but
Spriggs provides a new perspective when he observes that ‘minority’
languages under pressure from colonialism and assimilation can and do
survive. He cites the example of present-day Vanuatu, with its multiplicity
of separate languages, and notes how that in Melanesia as a whole, language
has been used effectively as a vehicle of community cohesion and resist-
ance. The wonder, then, as he says, may not be that Cornish died out but
rather that it did not survive as a community language.
In Chapter 4, the focus is on the aftermath of the 1497 rebellions.
A.L. Rowse imagined that post-1497 the Cornish may have retreated into
introspective isolation, stunned by defeat and impoverished by punish-
ment, licking their wounds as they turned in on themselves. Chapter 4,
however, offers an alternative interpretation, one that detects a lingering
resentment bubbling beneath the surface in Cornwall. Henry VII, it is

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 Introduction

pointed out, was quick to restore the Stannaries, a key mechanism of

Cornwall’s constitutional accommodation, even to the extent of enhanc-
ing the Convocation’s legislative powers, and he likewise acted to reverse
the attainders that had outlawed key figures in Cornwall. Furthermore, the
play Beunans Meriasek, written (and performed) at about this time, not
only dwelt on the underlying theme of tyranny but also presented a
dramatic contest between the evil king Teudar (for which read Henry
Tudor?) and the good Duke of Cornwall.
This is a theme pursued in greater depth in Chapter 5, where Lynette
Olson asks whether Beunans Meriasek can be considered a ‘political play’.
She presents an extended analysis, showing how the theme of tyranny
links the play’s otherwise apparently separate components, providing as
she does an array of insights into Cornish-language culture, including a
sense of Cornwall-wide territory (‘I am Duke of all Cornwall’) and inti-
mate links with Brittany. She agrees with J.P.D. Cooper’s assessment that
this is an essentially religious play but parts company with Cooper in her
judgement that Beunans Meriasek could well have had political undertones
in post-1497 Cornwall, especially when performed for an audience that
would have readily understood its ‘hidden’ meanings. In an intriguing
addition to the debate, Olson alights upon the section of the play where
Teudar in the midst of battle calls for a horse in a manner strikingly remi-
niscent of Richard III’s plaintive cry at Bosworth Field in Shakespeare’s
play. Of course, Shakespeare was writing much later but, as Olson observes,
the story about Richard III was already well known across the realm, so the
comparative allusion in Beunans Meriasek to a recent political event would
have resonated with the audience. A nice touch is that Teudar, unlike
Richard III, does actually flee the battlefield—an act of cowardice no
doubt appreciated by a Cornish audience.
Chapter 6 moves the action closer to 1549, courtesy of Joanna
Mattingly’s micro-history of the rules of the shoemakers’ gild of the Holy
Trinity at Helston, which were discovered quite by chance in 1933 at the
back of a drawer in Penzance. She charts the provenance of this docu-
ment, which is a mixture of religious clauses and craft regulations, as well
as discussing the inherent difficulties in arriving at a precise date for its
compilation, deciding finally that 1549 is the best fit. However, in decid-
ing upon 1549, she considers it a ‘potentially subversive and revolutionary
document’, which in turn ‘offers an important insight into Cornwall’s (and

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particularly Helston’s) reaction to the changes wrought by the Tudor

Reformation’. Interestingly, it was written in English. Set against the
recent history of religious conservatism in Helston—the short-lived
‘commotion’ of 1548—it is significant, as Mattingly indicates, that what is
actually contained in the Helston gild rules broadly echoes the stance
taken more widely by the 1549 rebels in Cornwall. From the restoration of
former chantry lands to the practice of Latin masses, the gild rules can be
seen as a microcosm of the religious preoccupations and anxieties of the
Cornish on the eve of the Prayer Book rebellion. As Mattingly also
observes, further elaborating the climate of rebellion in the locality,
Helston men had joined the earlier uprisings in 1497, while one Carpyssack
of St Keverne (a rebel centre in both 1497 and 1548–49) had probably
been hung in chains at the town’s end in 1537 for commissioning a sub-
versive banner of Christ’s Five Wounds.
During the brief reign of Mary Tudor (1553–58) there was an equally
brief return to Catholicism; the so-called ‘Tregear Homilies’, compiled in
this period, provide an important insight into both the Cornish language
and Catholic teaching in Cornwall in the aftermath of 1549. The princi-
pal author is thought to have been John Tregear, originally from Crowan
but vicar of St Allen from 1544 to 1583, with additional work by Thomas
Stephyn, curate and vicar of the neighbouring parish of Newlyn East from
1557. The homilies in question were Cornish translations of those issued
by Edmund Bonner, Bishop of London, during Mary’s reign. As D.H. Frost
notes in Chapter 7, before its dissolution in 1548, Glasney College at
Penryn was the centre of learning in the Cornish language, with many
scholars today assuming that most surviving Middle Cornish texts were
collated and copied there. However, Frost considers that Glasney’s efforts
were more diffuse, with much of this work actually carried out in local
churches in parishes directly or indirectly under the College’s influence.
This, in turn, reflected Glasney’s responsibility for pastoral care in many of
these parishes and villages. Thus, when Glasney was dissolved, parish
priests in such places were still able to carry on as before, attempting, as
Frost puts it, ‘to preserve the treasury of Cornish traditional religion
through the medium of the Cornish language’.
In the case of John Tregear and Thomas Stephyn, Frost detects the
guiding influence of Ralph Trelobys (alias Trebilcok?), a canon at Glasney
before the Dissolution who, among other things, may have been

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implicated in an ‘illegal’ pilgrimage to Brittany in 1537 to participate in a

pardon at Treguier. It also seems possible that there was a link, via Trelobys,
between Tregear and Stephyn on the one hand and Rad (Ralph/Richard?)
Ton, signatory to the 1504 performance edition of Beunans Meriasek, who
appears to have been Trelobys’s curate at Crowan. If so, then there is a nice
link here between the aftermaths of 1497 and 1549. It is not clear whether
John Tregear and Thomas Stephyn had themselves participated in the
Prayer Book Rebellion in 1549. They were not among the list of Cornish
clergy implicated as rebels, and if they had joined the rising, then must
have slipped back to their parishes unnoticed. Indeed, Tregear was an
especially discreet operator, translating the bulk of Bonner’s homilies
during Mary’s reign and yet surviving as parish priest at St Allen in the
subsequent and very different Elizabethan political and religious regime.
Stephyn, however, seems to have disappeared after Mary’s death. Of
course, religious conservatism survived in Cornwall long after Mary’s reign.
The vicar of Kilkhampton could protest in 1589 that he had never heard
of the new Prayer Book, while it was said that mass was still being cele-
brated in St Columb Major in 1590.
Documentation of a different sort, as opposed to homilies and plays, is
that engraved in stone. As Paul Cockerham shows in Chapter 8, the
sixteenth- and seventeenth-century slate slab memorials of Cornwall are a
significant insight into Cornish society and culture in this period. They
display what Cockerham sees as a passion for physical memorialization
which was highly unusual, if not unique, in Tudor and Stuart Britain, the
slabs themselves being extraordinarily conservative in style and appear-
ance. They are, Cockerham argues, to be numbered among the important
signifiers of Cornish cultural ‘difference’ between 1500 and 1700. Located
in Cornish churches, the slabs reflected the social status of the deceased
but, importantly, they were also seen as a means of ensuring intercessory
prayer for the soul as a permanent reminder of their deaths. This ‘Cornish
tenacity to Catholic eschatology’, as Cockerham terms it, was also
evidenced in parish bede-rolls and gilds, especially popular among the
lesser gentry and lower social orders. The Reformation, therefore, provoked
something of a crisis, especially after the dissolution of the religious houses
at Bodmin, Launceston and St Germans, with such memorialization
abruptly curtailed. This sudden loss of intercessory means may well have
been one important motivation for the rebels of 1549.

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Yet, in the years after the Reformation, memorialization revived in

Cornwall. It may have lost its salvitic role but assumed a more secular
purpose in providing permanent remembrance and celebration of the
departed. Indeed, by the late sixteenth century, enormous, elaborate struc-
tures were appearing in otherwise plainly decorated church interiors, and
during the seventeenth century some 500 such structures appeared across
Cornwall. The only area not to participate in this upsurge was Penwith.
Cockerham contends that the ‘topographical and ethnic self-containment’
of the Cornish in the far west ‘did away with the need for such didactic
status symbols’, although Mark Stoyle has commented (see his Annex)
that as few in Penwith below the level of gentry could read English, there
was little point in erecting expensive inscribed monuments. Be that as it
may, memorialization positively boomed in other parts of Cornwall, and
after the Restoration in 1660 memorials were also appearing in church-
yards. As Cockerham observes, despite cataclysmic interventions such as
the Reformation and the Civil War, it was remarkable that the Cornish
not only returned to memorialization but embraced it with increasing
enthusiasm. As he concludes, it is ‘this continuity of memorialization,
expressive of a constant and acute demand by the Cornish people to be
remembered, that is so distinctive’.
Cultural continuity and the enhancement of identity against the back-
ground of periodic upheaval is a constant theme in this collection, exem-
plified in Paul Cockerham’s treatment of memorialization. Further
evidence is observed in Mark Stoyle’s detailed examination of the Cornish
and the Civil War in Chapters 9 and 10. The former is devoted to the
fortunes of the five infantry regiments, known collectively as ‘the Cornish
army’, raised for the King by Sir Ralph Hopton in October 1642, and said
to have been ‘among the most celebrated military formations’ of the Civil
War. This renown was the result of a series of stunning victories, culminat-
ing in the successful assault on Bristol in July 1643. Thereafter, according
to conventional wisdom, these ‘Old Cornish’ regiments began to fade, a
shadow of their former selves until absorbed into the King’s main ‘Oxford’
field army in December 1644. Stoyle, however, offers a corrective, which
not only illuminates the continuing exploits of the ‘Old Cornish’ regi-
ments after July 1643 but also shows how they retained their identity as
‘the Cornish army’, even after merger with other units and changes of
leadership, participating in the defeat of Essex’s Roundhead force in

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Cornwall and its surrender at Fowey on 2 September 1644. It was only

then, Stoyle argues, that the ‘Old Cornish’ began to disintegrate, many of
its soldiers reluctant to march out of Cornwall again after their victory
over Essex’s invading army. It was rumoured that some had stayed behind
to help out with the harvest, or were still at home celebrating their trounc-
ing of the enemy, but it was also clear that a considerable number had now
enlisted instead in Sir Richard Grenville’s force, the ‘New Cornish tertia’,
intent on containing the Parliamentarian garrison in Plymouth and ensur-
ing the safety of Cornwall. Those who did return to their old units soon
found themselves facing a superior enemy at Newbury, where the Royalists,
Cornish among them, fled the field in disarray. Before the end of the year,
the sorry remnants of the ‘Old Cornish’ had been subsumed in the main
field army at Oxford, and the once proud ‘Cornish army’ was in effect
no more.
Nevertheless, as Stoyle then reveals in Chapter 10, those who had
defected to Sir Richard Grenville’s force, the ‘New Cornish tertia’, helped
swell the numbers of Royalist troops besieging Plymouth. From modest
beginnings in September 1644, Grenville’s tertia had risen to some 5,000
foot and 1,000 horse by the end of the year. Grenville presented himself as
a specifically Cornish leader, with the defence of Cornwall a primary
objective, and this no doubt explained his appeal to deserters from the
‘Old Cornish’ regiments as well as to new recruits in Cornwall itself.
Grenville, in an exemplary manner, trained, paid and fed his Cornish
soldiers, but this was not enough to secure victory in their determined
assault on Plymouth in January 1645. Shortly after, Grenville was ordered
to Taunton, leaving a small force behind to continue the watch on
Plymouth. It was at Taunton that Grenville was shot in the groin by a
Roundhead sniper, and he was evacuated to Exeter, leaving his Cornish
tertia to suffer badly in a further series of engagements. When Grenville
was fit enough to return to active service, the situation had deteriorated
considerably, and by December 1645 his Cornish tertia was now quartered
on the west bank of the Tamar, in a defensive position. It was at this point
that Grenville floated his idea of a neutral, semi-independent statelet,
consisting of Cornwall and those parts of west Devon still held by the
Royalists, a plan that, as Stoyle puts it, may well ‘have appealed to Cornish
particularist sentiment—and boosted Sir Richard’s credit among ordinary
Cornish people’. But it was not to be, and Royalist fortunes were by now

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sinking fast, with Grenville imprisoned first at Launceston and then at St

Michael’s Mount, Royalist leaders having taken fright at his bid for Cornish
autonomy. The war in Cornwall was now all but over, Royalist forces
surrendering at Tresillian bridge, near Truro, on 12 March 1646 and
Pendennis castle holding out until 17 August.
Among those who had fought in the Cornish Royalist forces during the
Civil War was William Scawen, from Molenick in St Germans in East
Cornwall, who had been lieutenant-colonel to Colonel Piers Edgcumbe.
As Matthew Spriggs explains in Chapter 11, William Scawen, born in
1600, had initially supported the imprisoned Parliamentarian, Sir John
Eliot (a neighbour in St Germans), but by 1642 had shifted his allegiance
to the Royalist cause. Among other things, following the Restoration, he
became Vice-Warden of the Stannaries. Today he is remembered chiefly as
author of the several versions of Antiquities Conubrittanic, the most
complete of which remains unpublished, the basis for his reputation as
both Cornish patriot and an early Cornish-language revivalist. Scawen’s
interest in the Cornish language may have been stimulated by service
alongside Cornish-speaking soldiers from West Cornwall during the Civil
War but was also probably influenced by the earlier marriage of his sister
Elizabeth to Martin Keigwin of Mousehole, a Cornish speaker whose son
John (Scawen’s nephew) went on to translate the Cornish Passion Poem
into English. A further stimulus, later in life, was an inquiry about the state
of the language from Lord Chief Justice North at Launceston Assizes in
1678. Scawen also made contact with Edward Lhuyd, the Celtic philolo-
gist, and actively encouraged Lhuyd’s correspondence with John Keigwin,
part of Scawen’s strenuous efforts to promote scholarship in the Cornish
language. As Spriggs shows, William Scawen made no secret of his commit-
ment to what ‘had been often spoaken, seldome written, and now almost
lost, the Originall Cornish speech and Mother Tongue antiquated’ of
Cornwall.
A similar commitment, as Spriggs also indicates (in Chapter 12), like-
wise motivated the Boson family of Newlyn, not least Nicholas Boson
(1624–1708), the author of Nebbaz Gerriau dro tho Carnoack (‘A few words
about Cornish’) and Jowan Chy-an-Horth (‘John of Chyannor’), as well as
The Duchesse of Cornwall’s Progresse to see the Land’s end and to visit the
mount noted above. Appearing towards the end of the period under discus-
sion, Nicholas Boson’s writings evince a remarkable determination to

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preserve and revive the Cornish language, restoring its esteem as some-
thing of intrinsic value and worthy of study, now that, presumably, its
unflattering reputation as a subversive speech had begun to fade. But, as
we have seen, Nicholas Boson tied the Cornish language unequivocally to
the story of the ‘Duchesse of Cornwall’, and in so doing entwined it in
what appears to have been a half-remembered allusion to the rebellions of
1497, almost two centuries before. Reading against the grain, as it were, we
can see that Cornish retained echoes of its erstwhile status as the language
of resistance in the ‘age of rebellion’: ‘Rag gun Arlothas da / Ny en gweel
gun moyha’.

Notes
1 See Chapter 12.
2 Stuart Dunmore, ‘Language Decline and the “Theory of Cornish
Distinctiveness”: The Historiography of Language and Identity in Early
Modern Cornwall’, in A. Furchgott (ed.), Proceedings of the Harvard Celtic
Colloquium 31 (Cambridge, MA, 2011), pp. 91–105; see also Bernard Deacon,
Chapter 2.
3 John Chynoweth, Tudor Cornwall (Stroud, 2002), p. 23.
4 Dunmore, ‘Language Decline’, p. 93.

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