{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_45316/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_45316","id":"gutenberg_45316","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/45316","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Archaeology & Anthropology","Category: Biographies","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Cornwall (England : County) -- History"],"text":"Transcriber's Note\n\nSuperscript text is indicated by caret signs, e.g. \"Esq^{re}\".\n\n\n\n\n  FOOTPRINTS OF FORMER\n  MEN IN FAR CORNWALL\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: Yours thankfully\n\nRS Hawker]\n\n\n\n\n  FOOTPRINTS OF\n  FORMER MEN IN\n  FAR CORNWALL\n\n  BY R. S. HAWKER\n\n  VICAR OF MORWENSTOW\n  EDITED WITH INTRODUCTION\n  BY C. E. BYLES\n  WITH ILLUSTRATIONS\n  BY J. LEY PETHYBRIDGE\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n  LONDON AND NEW YORK\n  JOHN LANE . MDCCCCIII\n\n  EXETER: JAMES G. COMMIN\n  LAUNCESTON: WALTER WEIGHELL\n  TRURO: JOSEPH POLLARD\n\n\n\n\nWILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BECCLES.\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE\n\n\nHawker\u2019s prose sketches appeared originally as contributions to various\nperiodicals, and in 1870 they were published for him in book form by\nMr. John Russell Smith, as \u201cFootprints of Former Men in Far Cornwall.\u201d\nIn 1893, eighteen years after his death, a new edition was issued by\nMessrs. Blackwood, entitled \u201cThe Prose Works of Rev. R. S. Hawker,\u201d\ncontaining two essays previously unpublished, \u201cHumphrey Vivian\u201d and\n\u201cOld Trevarten.\u201d The late Mr. J. G. Godwin, who was Hawker\u2019s friend\nand adviser in literary matters, edited the volume, and added the\nbibliographical footnotes to the several papers. In the present\nedition it has been thought appropriate to revert to Hawker\u2019s own more\npicturesque title, and this is to be done also in the case of his\npoetical works, which will shortly be re-issued as \u201cCornish Ballads\nand other Poems.\u201d The two books will thus form companion volumes. It\nis interesting to read them concurrently, and to compare his treatment\nof the same themes in prose and verse. An attempt has been made in\nthe notes to assist such a comparison by indicating some of the more\nobvious parallels. In the prose, as in the poems, there is the same\ndeep and peculiar love of symbol and miracle and superstition, but\nthe prose further reveals, what might not be suspected from the poems\nalone, that Hawker was a humourist as much as a mystic.\n\nHawker won his literary reputation as a ballad-writer, but his prose\nalso deserves a share in his fame. He has the gift of style. Like his\nhandwriting, which makes a manuscript of his a thing of beauty in\nitself, it is bold and clear, free from prettiness or affectation, but\nwith the massive grace of his native rocks, and made distinctive by\na characteristic touch of archaism. The rugged scenery of his abode\nhad its influence upon his work. He was a hewer of words, as Daniel\nGumb was a hewer of stone, and his language has the strength of rough\nmasonry wrought in a broad and homely manner out of solid granite. The\nsea, and the great spaces of lonely moorland that surrounded him, gave\nto his work a sense of breadth and freedom. He is always at his best in\ndescribing his own dearly loved Cornwall, and in particular the wild\ncoast by which all his years were spent. Perhaps the finest passage of\nthis kind is that which concludes the legend of Daniel Gumb, and which\nforms a prose counterpart to that grand ending of \u201cThe Quest of the\nSangraal:\u201d\n\n    \u201cHe ceased; and all around was dreamy night:\n    There stood Dundagel, throned: and the great sea\n    Lay, a strong vassal at his master\u2019s gate,\n    And, like a drunken giant, sobb\u2019d in sleep.\u201d\n\nThere is an element of fiction in Hawker\u2019s biographical studies.\nHe never let facts, or the absence of them, stand in the way of\nhis imagination, and he had a Chattertonian habit of passing off\ncompositions of his own as ancient manuscripts.\n\nHis letters are full of complaints that legends \u201cinvented\u201d by himself\nhave been regarded by others as common property. But this is not\nsurprising when the said inventions wear the solemn garb of history.\nHawker had many of the qualities necessary to historical romance. His\nrich native humour, and his rare gift for telling a story; his vivid\npresentment of scene, character, and situation, make it a matter of\nregret that he did not apply his powers more fully in this direction,\njust as it is a matter of regret that his fine poem, \u201cThe Quest of the\nSangraal,\u201d is only a fragment, though a fragment worthy to rank beside\n\u201cHyperion.\u201d\n\nBoth in his prose and his poetry there is a disappointing lack of\nsustained effort. His literary manner and antiquarian tastes bear\nmany points of resemblance to those of Scott, whose novels it was his\ncustom to re-read every year as Christmas-time came round. In his local\nand scanty degree Hawker has done for the legends and worthies of old\nCornwall what Sir Walter did for those of Scotland.\n\nThe prose impulse seems to have moved Hawker somewhat late in life,\nall the following papers having been published since 1850, when he had\nreached the age of forty-seven. These papers, as a matter of fact,\nrepresent a brave effort in years of increasing pecuniary anxiety to\nadd to his income by his pen. His letters contain many interesting\nallusions to his literary struggles and his dealings with the\neditors of his day, among whom were Froude and Dickens. He also met\nor corresponded with several other famous contemporaries, including\nTennyson, Longfellow, Kingsley, and Cardinals Newman and Manning.\nEarlier, too, he had a correspondence with Macaulay. But on these\nmatters it will be more fitting to enlarge in the new memoir of Hawker,\nwhich is in course of preparation.\n\nIt remains for me to express my warmest thanks to those who have\nhelped in the production of this volume. Mr. R. Pearse Chope has been\nindefatigable in collecting matter for the Appendix, and his are the\nnotes on \u201cMorwenstow,\u201d \u201cDaniel Gumb\u2019s Rock,\u201d \u201cCruel Coppinger,\u201d\nand \u201cThomasine Bonaventure.\u201d This Appendix, it is hoped, will be\nof interest both in itself and as showing the sources of Hawker\u2019s\ninformation. It enables us, too, to judge his power of imparting colour\nand romance to a plain record of facts. The account of old Stowe and\nthe Granvilles, and their gigantic retainer, Antony Payne, has been\nkindly furnished by a descendant of the great Sir Bevill, the Rev.\nPrebendary Roger Granville, and it has thus a double interest. Mrs.\nWaddon Martyn of Tonacombe Manor, Morwenstow, and her son, Mr. N. H.\nLawrence Martyn, have been especially kind and helpful. The Rev. John\nTagert, Vicar of Morwenstow, and his daughter, Miss Tagert, Miss Rowe\nof Poughill, Miss Louisa Twining, Mr. and Mrs. William Shephard, the\nRev. Canon Bone, the Rev. Ll. W. Bevan of Stratton, Mr. J. Sommers\nJames, and the Rev. H. Upton Squire of Tetcott, have also rendered\ngenerous and valuable assistance. The portraits of Black John, Arscott\nof Tetcott, and Parson Rudall have been reproduced from pictures\nkindly lent by Mrs. Calmady, Mrs. Ford of Pencarrow, and the Rev. S.\nBaring-Gould respectively. The portrait of Black John was formerly in\nthe possession of Mr. Hawker.\n\nThese acknowledgments would be incomplete if they did not refer to\nthe zealous care bestowed by Mr. J. Ley Pethybridge on his charming\nillustrations. His work has been to a large extent a labour of\nlove. Thanks are also due to the various photographers, amateur and\nprofessional, who have lent their aid. Mr. George Penrose, Curator of\nthe Royal Institution of Cornwall at Truro, kindly photographed the\npainting of Antony Payne and the flask which formerly belonged to the\ngiant. The Manning tomb is from a photo by Mr. T. W. Woodruffe. The\ninterior of Morwenstow Church as it was in Hawker\u2019s time is by S. Thorn\nof Bude, as is also the piscina.\n\n  C. E. BYLES.\n\n  _June, 1903._\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\n                                               PAGE\n\n  MORWENSTOW                                      1\n\n  THE FIRST CORNISH MOLE                         27\n\n  THE GAUGER\u2019S POCKET                            32\n\n  THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS                        41\n\n  THE REMEMBRANCES OF A CORNISH VICAR            46\n\n  BLACK JOHN                                     79\n\n  DANIEL GUMB\u2019S ROCK                             90\n\n  ANTONY PAYNE, A CORNISH GIANT                 109\n\n  CRUEL COPPINGER                               123\n\n  THOMASINE BONAVENTURE                         139\n\n  THE BOTATHEN GHOST                            158\n\n  A RIDE FROM BUDE TO BOSS                      176\n\n  HOLACOMBE                                     199\n\n  HUMPHREY VIVIAN                               216\n\n  OLD TREVARTEN: A TALE OF THE PIXIES           234\n\n  APPENDICES                                    241\n\n\n\n\nLIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS\n\n\n\n\n  PORTRAIT OF REV. R. S. HAWKER       _Frontispiece_\n\n  _From a photograph by the late Dr. Budd, of Barnstaple._\n\n  THE PISCINA IN MORWENSTOW CHURCH\n\n  _From a photograph by S. Thorn, of Bude._\n\n  THE SHIELD OF DAVID (Fig. 1) AND THE PENTACLE OF\n  SOLOMON (Fig. 2), ON BOSSES IN THE ROOF OF\n  MORWENSTOW CHURCH\n\n  _From engravings in J. T. Blight\u2019s \u201cAncient Crosses and\n  other Antiquities in the East of Cornwall.\u201d_\n\n  Fig. 3, ANTONY PAYNE\u2019S FLAGON (see p. 120)\n\n  _From a photograph by Mr. George Penrose._\n\n  INTERIOR OF MORWENSTOW CHURCH IN HAWKER\u2019S TIME\n\n  _From a photograph by S. Thorn, of Bude._\n\n  OLD DOORWAY AT STANBURY\n\n  _Drawn in lithography by Mr. J. Ley Pethybridge._\n\n  THE MANNING TOMB IN MORWENSTOW CHURCHYARD\n\n  _From a photograph by Mr. T. W. Woodruffe._\n\n  TONACOMBE MANOR\n\n  _Drawn in lithography by Mr. J. Ley Pethybridge._\n\n  \u201cBLACK JOHN\u201d\n\n  _From a picture lent by Mrs. Calmady, and formerly\n  belonging to Mr. Hawker._\n\n  ARSCOTT OF TETCOTT\n\n  _From a picture in the possession of Mrs. Ford, of\n  Pencarrow._\n\n  THE DEVIL\u2019S WRING, COMMONLY KNOWN AS THE CHEESEWRING\n\n  _Drawn in lithography by Mr. J. Ley Pethybridge._\n\n  ANTONY PAYNE\u2019S HOUSE AT STRATTON, NOW THE TREE INN\n\n  _Drawn in lithography by Mr. J. Ley Pethybridge._\n\n  STOWE. THE SECOND HOUSE, BUILT BY JOHN, EARL OF BATH,\n  SON OF SIR BEVILL GRANVILLE, AND PULLED DOWN IN 1739\n\n  _From the picture in the possession of Mrs. Waddon\n  Martyn, at Tonacombe Manor._\n\n  ANTONY PAYNE\n\n  _From the picture by Sir Godfrey Kneller, now in the\n  Museum of the Royal Institution of Cornwall at Truro._\n\n  GALSHAM, ONCE THE HOME OF CRUEL COPPINGER\n\n  _Drawn in lithography by Mr. J. Ley Pethybridge._\n\n  ST. STEPHEN\u2019S CHURCH, DUNHEVED, BY LAUNCESTON\n\n  _Drawn in lithography by Mr. J. Ley Pethybridge._\n\n  DOORWAY OF THE OLD CHANTRY AND SCHOOL AT WEEK ST. MARY,\n  FOUNDED BY THOMASINE BONAVENTURE\n\n  _Drawn in lithography by Mr. J. Ley Pethybridge._\n\n  \u201cPARSON RUDALL\u201d\n\n  _From a picture in the possession of Rev. S. Baring-Gould._\n\n  \u201cTHE PLACE\u201d OF BOTATHEN\n\n  _Drawn in lithography by Mr. J. Ley Pethybridge._\n\n  BOSCASTLE HARBOUR\n\n  _Drawn in lithography by Mr. J. Ley Pethybridge._\n\n\nThe Design on the Title-page, by Mr. J. Ley Pethybridge, represents the\nCarving of THE FRUITFUL VINE, in Welcombe Church.\n\nThe Panel Design on the Front Cover represents a BENCH END in\nMorwenstow Church; that of the Border is the VINE CARVING of the Roof\n(see p. 15).\n\nThe Panel Design on the Back represents the Carving of THE BARREN\nFIG-TREE, in Welcombe Church.\n\n\n\n\nFOOTPRINTS OF FORMER MEN IN FAR CORNWALL\n\n\n\n\nMORWENSTOW[1]\n\n\nThere cannot be a scene more graphic in itself, or more illustrative\nin its history of the gradual growth and striking development of the\nChurch in Celtic and Western England, than the parish of St. Morwenna.\nIt occupies the upper and northern nook of the county of Cornwall; shut\nin and bounded on the one hand by the Severn Sea, and on the other by\nthe offspring of its own bosom, the Tamar River, which gushes, with its\nsister stream the Torridge, from a rushy knoll on the eastern wilds\nof Morwenstow.[2] Once, and in the first period of our history, it\nwas one wide wild stretch of rocky moorland, broken with masses of\ndunstone and the sullen curve of the warrior\u2019s barrow, and flashing\nhere and there with a bright rill of water or a solitary well. Neither\nlandmarks nor fences nor walls bounded or severed the bold, free,\nuntravelled Cornish domain. Wheel-tracks in old Cornwall there were\nnone; but strange and narrow paths gleamed across the moorlands, which\nthe forefathers said in their simplicity, were first traced by angel\u2019s\nfeet.[3] These, in truth, were trodden and worn by religious men--by\nthe pilgrim as he paced his way toward his chosen and votive bourn, or\nby the palmer, whose listless footsteps had neither a fixed keblah nor\na future abode. Dimly visible by the darker hue of the crushed grass,\nthese straight and narrow roads led the traveller along from chapelry\nto cell, or to some distant and solitary cave. On the one hand, in\nthis scenery of the past, they would guide us to the \u201cChapel-piece of\nSt. Morwenna,\u201d a grassy glade along the gorse-clad cliff, where to\nthis very day neither will bramble cling nor heather grow; and, on the\nother, to the walls and roof and the grooved stone for the waterflow,\nwhich still survive, halfway down a headlong precipice, as the relics\nof St. Morwenna\u2019s Well.[4] But what was the wanderer\u2019s guidance along\nthe bleak, unpeopled surface of these Cornish moors? The wayside\ncross. Such were the crosses of St. James and St. John, which even\nyet give name to their ancient sites in Morwenstow, and proclaim to\nthe traveller that, or ever a church was reared or an altar hallowed\nhere, the trophy of old Syria stood in solemn stone, a beacon to the\nwayfaring man, and that the soldiers of God\u2019s army had won their\nhonours among the unbaptised and barbarous people!\n\nHere, then, let us stand and survey the earliest scenery of pagan\nMorwenstow. Before us lies a breadth of wild and rocky land; it is\nbounded by the billowy Atlantic, with its arm of waters, and by the\nslow lapse of that gliding stream of which the Keltic proverb said,\nbefore King Arthur\u2019s day,--\n\n    \u201cLet Uter Pendragon do what he can,\n    The Tamar water will run as it ran.\u201d\n\nBarrows curve above the dead; a stony cross stands by a mossed and\nlichened well; here and there glides a shorn and vested monk, whose\nfunction it was, often at peril of life and limb, to sprinkle the brow\nof some hard-won votary, and to breathe the Gospel of the Trinity on\nthe startled ear of the Keltic barbarian. Let us close this theme of\nthought with a few faint echoes from the River of the West:--\n\n    \u201cFount of a rushing river! wild flowers wreathe\n      The home where thy first waters sunlight claim:\n    The lark sits hushed beside thee while I breathe,\n      Sweet Tamar spring, the music of thy name!\n\n    On! through thy goodly channel, to the sea:\n      Pass amid heathery vale, tall rock, fair bough,\n    But never more with footsteps pure and free,\n      Or face so meek with happiness as now!\n\n    Fair is the future scenery of thy days,\n      Thy course domestic, and thy paths of pride;\n    Depths that give back the soft-eyed violet\u2019s gaze;\n      Shores where tall navies march to meet the tide!\n\n    Thine, leafy Tetcott, and those neighbouring walls,\n      Noble Northumberland\u2019s embowered domain:\n    Thine, Cartha Martha, Morwell\u2019s rocky falls,\n      Storied Cotehele, and ocean\u2019s loveliest plain.\n\n    Yet false the vision, and untrue the dream,\n      That lures thee from thy native wilds to stray:\n    A thousand griefs will mingle with that stream:\n      Unnumbered hearts shall sigh those waves away.\n\n    Scenes fierce with men thy seaward current laves,\n      Harsh multitudes will throng thy gentle brink;\n    Back! with the grieving concourse of thy waves;\n      Home! to the waters of thy childhood shrink!\n\n    Thou heedest not! thy dream is of the shore;\n      Thy heart is quick with life,--on! to the sea!\n    How will the voice of thy far streams implore\n      Again amid these peaceful weeds to be!\n\n    My soul! my soul! a happier choice be thine;\n      Thine the hushed valley and the lonely sod:\n    False dream, far vision, hollow hope resign,\n      Fast by our Tamar spring--alone with God!\u201d\n\nThen arrived, to people this bleak and lonely boundary with the\nthoughts and doctrines of the Cross, the piety and the legend of St.\nMorwenna. This was the origin of her name and place.\n\nThere dwelt in Wales in the ninth century a Keltic king, Breachan[5] by\nname--it was from him that the words \u201cBrecon\u201d and \u201cBrecknock\u201d received\norigin; and Gladwys was his wife and queen. They had, according to the\nrecord of Leland, the scribe, children twenty-and-four. Now either\nthese were their own daughters and sons, or they were, according to the\nusage of those days, the offspring of the nobles of their land, placed\nfor loyal and learned nurture in the palace of the king, and so called\nthe children of his house.\n\nOf these Morwenna was one. She grew up wise, learned, and holy above\nher generation; and it was evermore the strong desire of her soul to\nbring the barbarous and pagan people among whom she dwelt to the\nChristian font. Now so it was that when Morwenna was grown up to\nsaintly womanhood there was a king of Saxon England, and Ethelwolf\nwas his noble name. This was he who laid the endowment of his realm\nof England on the altar of the Apostles at Rome, the first and eldest\nChurch-king of the islands who occupied the English throne. He,\nEthelwolf, had likewise many children; and while he intrusted to the\nfamous St. Swithun the guidance of his sons, he besought King Breachan\nto send to his court Morwenna, that she might become the teacher of the\nPrincess Edith and the other daughters of his royal house.[6] She came.\nShe sojourned in his palace long and patiently; and she so gladdened\nKing Ethelwolf by her goodness and her grace, that at last he was fain\nto give her whatsoever she sought.\n\nNow the piece of ground, or the acre of God, which in those old days\nwas wont to be set apart or hallowed for the site of a future shrine\nand church, was called the \u201cstation,\u201d or in native speech the \u201cstowe,\u201d\nof the martyr or saint whose name was given to the altar-stone. So, on\na certain day thus came and so said Morwenna to the King: \u201cLargess,\nmy lord the king, largess, for God\u2019s sake!\u201d \u201cLargess, my daughter?\u201d\nanswered Ethelwolf the king; \u201clargess! be it whatsoever it may.\u201d Then\nsaid Morwenna: \u201cSir, there is a stern and stately headland in thy\nappanage of the Tamar-land, it is a boundary rugged and tall, and\nit looks along the Severn Sea; they call it in that Keltic region\nHennacliff--that is to say, the Raven\u2019s Crag--because it hath ever been\nfor long ages the haunt and the home of the birds of Elias.[7] Very\noften, from my abode in wild Wales, have I watched across the waves\nuntil the westering sun fell red upon that Cornish rock, and I have\nsaid in my maiden vows, \u2018Alas! and would to God a font might be hewn\nand an altar built among the stones by yonder barbarous hill.\u2019 Give me,\nthen, as I beseech thee, my lord the king, a station for a messenger\nand a priest in that scenery of my early prayer, that so and through\nme the saying of Esaias the seer may come to pass, \u2018In the place of\ndragons, where each lay, there may be grass with reeds and rushes.\u2019\u201d\n\nHer voice was heard; her entreaty was fulfilled. They came at the cost\nand impulse of Morwenna; they brought and they set up yonder font, with\nthe carved cable coiled around it in stone, in memory of the vessel\nof the fishermen of the East anchored in the Galil\u00e6an Sea. They built\nthere altar and arch, aisle and device in stone. They linked their\nearliest structure with Morwenna\u2019s name, the tender and the true;\nand so it is that notwithstanding the lapse of ten whole centuries of\nEnglish time, at this very day the bourn of many a pilgrim to the West\nis the Station of Morwenna, or, in simple and Saxon phrase, Morwenstow.\nSo runs the quaint and simple legend of our Tamar-side; and so ascend\ninto the undated era of the ninth or tenth age the early Norman arches,\nfont, porch, and piscina of Morwenstow church.[8]\n\nThe endowment, in abbreviated Latin, still exists in the registry of\nthe diocese.[9] It records that the monks of St. John at Bridgewater,\nin whom the total tithes and glebe-lands of this parish were then\nvested, had agreed, at the request of Walter Brentingham, the Bishop\nof Exeter, to endow an altar-priest with certain lands, bounded on the\none hand by the sea, and on the other by the Well of St. John of the\nWilderness, near the church. They surrendered, also, for this endowment\nthe garb\u00e6 of two bartons of vills, Tidnacomb[10] and Stanbury, the\naltarage, and the small tithes of the parish. But the striking point\nin this ancient document is that, whereas the date of the endowment\nis A.D. 1296, the church is therein referred to by name as an old\nand well-known structure. To such a remote era, therefore, we must\nassign the Norman relics of antiquity which still survive, and which,\nalthough enclosed within the walls and outline of an edifice enlarged\nand extended at two subsequent periods, have to this day undergone no\nmaterial change.\n\nWe proceed to enumerate and describe these features of the first\nfoundation of St. Morwenna,[11] and to which I am not disposed to\nassign a later origin than from A.D. 875 to A.D. 1000.\n\nFirst among these is a fine Norman doorway at the southern entrance\nof the present church. The arch-head is semicircular, and it is\nsustained on either side by half-piers built in stone, with capitals\nadorned with different devices; and the curve is crowned with the\nzigzag and chevron mouldings. This moulding is surmounted by a range\nof grotesque faces--the mermaid and the dolphin, the whale, and other\nfellow-creatures of the deep; for the earliest imagery of the primeval\nhewers of stone was taken from the sea, in unison with the great\nsources of the Gospel,--the Sea of Galilee, the fishing men who were\nto haul the net, and the \u201ccatchers of men.\u201d The crown of the arch is\nadorned with a richly carved, and even eloquent, device: two dragons\nare crouching in the presence of a lamb, and underneath his conquering\nfeet lies their passive chain.\n\nBut it is time for us to unclose the door and enter in. There stands\nthe font in all its emphatic simplicity. A moulded cable girds it on to\nthe mother church; and the uncouth lip of its circular rim attests its\norigin in times of a rude taste and unadorned symbolism. For wellnigh\nten centuries the Gospel of the Trinity has sounded over this silent\ncell of stone, and from the Well of St. John[12] the stream has glided\nin, and the water gushed withal, while another son or daughter has\nbeen added to the Christian family. Before us stand the three oldest\narches of the Church in ancient Cornwall. They curve upon piers built\nin channelled masonry, a feature of Norman days which presents a\nstrong contrast with the grooved pillars of solid or of a single stone\nin succeeding styles of architecture. The western arch is a simple\nsemicircle of dunstone from the shore, so utterly unadorned and so\nsevere in its design that it might be deemed of Saxon origin, were\nit not for its alliance with the elaborate Norman decoration of the\nother two. These embrace again, and embody the ripple of the sea and\nthe monsters that take their pastime in the deep waters. But there is\none very graphic \u201csermon in stone\u201d twice repeated on the curve and on\nthe shoulder of the arch. Our forefathers called it (and our people\ninherit their phraseology) \u201cThe Grin of Arius.\u201d The origin of the name\nis this. It is said that the final development of every strong and\nbaleful passion in the human countenance is a fierce and angry laugh.\nIn a picture of the Council of Nic\u00e6a, which is said still to exist, the\nbaffled Arius is shown among the doctors with his features convulsed\ninto a strong and demoniac spasm of malignant mirth. Hence it became\none of the usages among the graphic imagery of interior decoration to\ndepict the heretic as mocking the mysteries with that glare of derision\nand gesture of disdain, which admonish and instruct, by the very name\nof \u201cThe Grin of Arius.\u201d Thence were derived the lolling tongue and\nthe mocking mouth which are still preserved on the two corbels of\nstone in this early Norman work. To this period we must also allot the\npiscina,[13] which was discovered and rescued from desecration by the\npresent vicar.\n\nThe chancel wall one day sounded hollow when struck; the mortar was\nremoved, and underneath there appeared an arched aperture, which had\nbeen filled up with jumbled carved work and a crushed drain. It was\ncleared out, and so rebuilt as to occupy the exact site of its former\nexistence. It is of the very earliest type of Christian architecture,\nand, for aught we know, it may be the oldest piscina in all the land.\nAt all events, it can scarcely have seen less than a thousand years.\nIt perpetuates the original form of this appanage of the chancel; for\nthe horn of the Hebrew altar,[14] as is well known to architectural\nstudents, was in shape and in usage the primary type of the Christian\npiscina. These horns were four, one at each corner, and in outline like\nthe crest of a dwarf pillar, with a cup-shaped mouth and a grooved\nthroat, to receive and to carry down the superfluous blood and water of\nthe sacrifices into a cistern or channel underneath. Hence was derived\nthe ecclesiastical custom that, whenever the chalice or other vessel\nhad been rinsed, the water was reverently poured into the piscina,\nwhich was usually built into a carved niche of the southward chancel\nwall. Such is the remarkable relic of former times which still exists\nin Morwenstow church, verifying, by the unique and remote antiquity of\nits pillared form, its own primeval origin.\n\n[Illustration: THE PISCINA IN MORWENSTOW CHURCH\n\n_From a photo by S. Thorn, Bude_]\n\nBut among the features of this sanctuary none exceed in singular and\neloquent symbolism the bosses of the chancel roof. Every one of these\nis a doctrine or a discipline engraven in the wood by some Bezaleel or\nAholiab of early Christian days. Among these the Norman rose and the\n_fleur-de-lis_ have frequent pre-eminence. The one, from the rose of\nSharon downward, is the pictured type of our Lord; the other, whether\nas the lotus of the Nile or the lily of the vale, is the type of\nHis Virgin Mother; and both of these floral decorations were employed\nas ecclesiastical emblems centuries before they were assumed into the\nshields of Normandy or England. Another is the double-necked eagle,\nthe bird of the Holy Ghost in the patriarchal and Mosaic periods of\nrevelation, just as the dove afterwards became in the days of the\nGospel; and, mythic writers having asserted that when Elisha sought\nand obtained from his master \u201ca double portion of Elijah\u2019s spirit,\u201d\nthis miracle was portrayed and perpetuated in architectural symbolism\nby the two necks of the eagle of Elisha. Four faces cluster on another\nboss,--three with masculine features, and one with the softer impress\nof a female countenance, a typical assemblage of the Trinity and the\nMother of God. Again we mark the tracery of that \u201cpiety of the birds,\u201d\nas devout writers have named the fabled usage of the pelican.[15] She\nis shown baring and rending her own veins to nourish with her blood her\nthirsty offspring,--a group which so graphically interprets itself to\nthe eye and mind of a Christian man that it needs no interpretation.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 2\n\nTHE PENTACLE OF SOLOMON\n\nON A BOSS IN THE CHANCEL ROOF AT MORWENSTOW]\n\nBut very remarkable, in the mid-roof, is the boss of the pentacle[16]\nof Solomon. This was the five-angled figure which was engraven on\nan emerald, and wherewith he ruled the demons;[17] for they were\nthe vassals of his mighty seal: the five angles in their original\nmythicism, embracing as they did the unutterable name, meant, it may\nbe, the fingers of Omnipotence as the symbolic Hand subsequently came\nforth in shadows on Belshazzar\u2019s wall. Be this as it may, it was the\nconcurrent belief of the Eastern nations that the sigil of the Wise\nKing was the source and instrument of his supernatural power. So Heber\nwrites in his \u201cPalestine\u201d--\n\n    \u201cTo him were known, so Hagar\u2019s offspring tell,\n    The powerful sigil and the starry spell:\n    Hence all his might, for who could these oppose?\n    And Tadmor[18] thus and Syrian Balbec rose.\u201d\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 1\n\nTHE SHIELD OF DAVID\n\nON A BOSS IN THE CHANCEL ROOF AT MORWENSTOW]\n\nHence it is that we find this mythic figure, in decorated delineation,\nas the signal of the boundless might of Him whose Church bends over\nall, the pentacle of Omnipotence! Akin to this graphic imagery is the\nshield of David, the theme of another of our chancel-bosses. Here the\noutline is six-angled: Solomon\u2019s device with one angle more, which,\nI would submit, was added in order to suggest another doctrine--the\nmanhood taken into God, and so to become a typical prophecy of the\nIncarnation. The framework of these bosses is a cornice of vines. The\nroot of the vines on each wall grows from the altar-side; the stem\ntravels outward across the screen towards the nave. There tendrils\ncling and clusters bend, while angels sustain the entire tree.\n\n    \u201cHearken! there is in Old Morwenna\u2019s shrine,\n      A lonely sanctuary of the Saxon days,\n      Reared by the Severn Sea for prayer and praise,\n    Amid the carved work of the roof a vine.\n      Its root is where the eastern sunbeams fall\n      First in the chancel, then along the wall,\n    Slowly it travels on--a leafy line\n      With here and there a cluster; and anon\n      More and more grapes, until the growth hath gone\n    Through arch and aisle. Hearken! and heed the sign;\n      See at the altar-side the steadfast root,\n      Mark well the branches, count the summer fruit.\n    So let a meek and faithful heart be thine,\n    And gather from that tree a parable divine!\u201d\n\nA screen[19] divides the deep and narrow chancel from the nave. A\nscroll of rich device runs across it, wherein deer and oxen browse on\nthe leaves of a budding vine. Both of these animals are the well-known\nemblems of the baptised, and the sacramental tree is the type of the\nChurch grafted into God.\n\n[Illustration: INTERIOR OF MORWENSTOW CHURCH AS IT WAS IN HAWKER\u2019S\nTIME, SHOWING HIS ROOD SCREEN\n\n_From a photo by S. Thorn, Bude_]\n\nA strange and striking acoustic result is accomplished by this and by\nsimilar chancel-screens: they act as the tympanum of the structure, and\nincrease and reverberate the volume of sound. The voice uttered at the\naltar-side smites the hollow work of the screen, and is carried onward,\nas by some echoing instrument, into the nave and aisles; so that the\nlattice-work of the chancel, which at first thought might appear to\nimpede the transit of the voice, does in reality grasp and deliver into\nstronger echo the ministry of tone.\n\nJust outside the screen, and at the step of the nave, is the grave\nof a priest. It is identified by the reversed position of the carved\ncross on the stone, which also indicates the self-same attitude in\nthe corpse. The head is laid down toward the east, while in all\nsecular interment the head is turned to the west. Until the era of\nthe Reformation, or possibly to a later date, the head of the priest\nupon the bier for burial, and afterwards in the grave, was always\nplaced \u201cversus altare;\u201d and, according to all ecclesiastical usage,\nthe discipline was doctrinal also. The following is the reason as laid\ndown by Durandus and other writers. Because the east, \u201cthe gate of the\nmorning,\u201d is the keblah of Christian hope, inasmuch as the Messiah,\nwhose symbolic name was \u201cThe Orient,\u201d thence arrived, and thence, also,\nwill return on the chariots of cloud for the Judgment: we therefore\nplace our departed ones with their heads westward, and their feet and\nfaces towards the eastern sky,[20] that at the outshine of the Last\nDay, and the sound of the archangel, they may start from their dust,\nlike soldiers from their sleep, and stand up before the Son of man\nsuddenly! But the apostles were to sit on future thrones and to assist\nat the Judgment: the Master was to arrive for doom amid His ancients\ngloriously, and the saints were to judge the world. These prophecies\nwere symbolised by the burial of the clergy, and thence, in contrast\nwith other dead, their posture in the grave. It was to signify that it\nwould be their office to arise and to \u201cfollow the Lord in the air,\u201d\nwhen He shall arrive from the east and pass onward, gathering up\nHis witnesses toward the west. Thus, in the posture of the departed\nmultitudes, the sign is, \u201cWe look for the Son of Man: ad Orientem\nJudah.\u201d And in the attitude of His appointed ministers, thus saith the\nlegend on the tombs of His priests, \u201cThey arose and followed Him.\u201d\n\nThe eastern window of the chancel,[21] as its legend records, is the\npious and dutiful oblation of Rudolph, Baron Clinton, and Georgiana\nElizabeth his wife. The central figure embodies the legend of St.\nMorwenna, who stands in the attitude of the teacher of the Princess\nEdith, daughter of Ethelwolf the Founder King; on the one side is shown\nSt. Peter, and on the other St. Paul. The upper spandrels are filled\nwith a Syrian lamb, a pelican with her brood, and the three first\nletters of the Saviour\u2019s name. The window[22] itself is the recent\noffering of two noble minds; and while on this theme we may be pardoned\nfor the natural boast that the patrons of this chancel have called by\nthe name of Morwenna one of the fair and graceful daughters of their\nhouse. \u201cNomen, omen,\u201d was the Roman saying,--\u201cNomen, numen,\u201d be our\nproverb now! But before we proceed to descend the three steps of the\nchancel floor, so obviously typical of Faith, Hope, and Charity, let us\nlook westward through the tower-arch; and as we look we discover that\nthe builders, either by chance or design, have turned aside or set out\nof proportional place the western window of the tower. Is this really\nso, or does the wall of the chancel swerve? The deviation was intended,\nnor without an error could we render the crooked straight. And the\nreason is said to be this: when our Redeemer died, at the utterance\nof the word \u03c4\u03b5\u03c4\u03ad\u03bb\u03b5\u03c3\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9, \u201cIt is done!\u201d His head declined towards His\nright shoulder, and in that attitude He chose to die. Now it was to\ncommemorate this drooping of the Saviour\u2019s head, to record in stone\nthis eloquent gesture of our Lord, that the \u201cwise in heart,\u201d who traced\nthis church in the actual outline of a cross, departed from the precise\nrules of architect and carpenter.\n\nThe southern aisle, dedicated to St. John the Baptist, with its\ngranite and dunstone pillars, is of the later Decorated order, and\nis remarkable for its singular variety of material in stone. Granite\npillars are surmounted by arches of dunstone; and, _vice versa_,\ndunstone arches by pillared granite. This is again a striking example\nof doctrine proclaimed in structure, and is symbolic of the fact\nthat the Spiritual Church gathered into one body every hue and kind\nof belief; whereas \u201cJew and Greek, Barbarian and Scythian, bond and\nfree,\u201d were to be all one in Christ Jesus: so the material building\npersonified, in its various and visible embrace, one Church to grasp,\nand a single roof to bend over all. This, the last addition to the\nancient sanctuary of St. Morwenna, bears on the capital of a pillar\nthe date A.D. 1475,[23] and thus the total structure stands a graphic\nmonument of the growth and stature of a scene of ancient worship, which\nhad been embodied and completed before the invention of printing and\nother modern arts had worked their revolution upon Western Europe.\n\nThe worshipper must descend three steps of stone as he enters into this\naisle of St. John; and this gradation is intended to recall the time\nand the place where the multitude went down into the river of Dan \u201cat\nBethabara, beyond Jordan, where John was baptising.\u201d\n\nThe churchyard of Morwenstow is the scene of other features of a remote\nantiquity. The roof of the total church--chancel, nave, northern and\nsouthern aisles--is of wood. Shingles of rended oak occupy the place of\nthe usual, but far more recent, tiles which cover other churches; and\nit is not a little illustrative of the antique usages of this remote\nand lonely sanctuary, that no change has been wrought, in the long\nlapse of ages, in this unique and costly, but fit and durable, roofing.\nIt supplies a singular illustration of the Syriac version of the 90th\nPsalm, wherein, with prophetic reference to these commemorations of the\ndeath-bed of the Messias, it is written, \u201cLord, Thou hast been our\nroof from generation to generation.\u201d\n\nThe northern side of the churchyard is, according to ancient usage,\ndevoid of graves.[24] This is the common result of an unconscious sense\namong the people of the doctrine of regions--a thought coeval with\nthe inspiration of the Christian era. This is their division.[25] The\neast was held to be the realm of the oracles, the especial gate of the\nthrone of God; the west was the domain of the people--the Galilee of\nall nations was there; the south, the land of the mid-day, was sacred\nto things heavenly and divine; but the north was the devoted region\nof Satan and his hosts, the lair of the demon and his haunt. In some\nof our ancient churches, and in the church of Welcombe,[26] a hamlet\nbordering on Morwenstow, over against the font, and in the northern\nwall, there is an entrance named the Devil\u2019s door: it was thrown open\nat every baptism, at the Renunciation, for the escape of the fiend;\nwhile at every other time it was carefully closed. Hence, and because\nof the doctrinal suggestion of the ill-omened scenery of the northern\ngrave-ground, came the old dislike[27] to sepulture on the north side,\nso strikingly visible around this church.\n\nThe events of the last twenty years have added fresh interest to\nGod\u2019s acre, for such is the exact measure of the grave ground of St.\nMorwenna. Along and beneath the southern trees, side by side, are\nthe graves of between thirty and forty seamen, hurled by the sea, in\nshipwreck, on the neighbouring rocks, and gathered up and buried there\nby the present vicar and his people. The crews of three lost vessels,\ncast away upon the rocks of the glebe and elsewhere, are laid at rest\nin this safe and silent ground. A legend for one recording-stone\nthus commemorates a singular scene. The figurehead[28] of the brig\n_Caledonia_, of Arbroath, in Scotland, stands at the graves of her\ncrew, in the churchyard of Morwenstow:--\n\n    \u201cWe laid them in their lowly rest,\n      The strangers of a distant shore;\n    We smoothed the green turf on their breast,\n      \u2019Mid baffled ocean\u2019s angry roar!\n    And there--the relique of the storm--\n    We fixed fair Scotland\u2019s figured form.\n\n    She watches by her bold--her brave--\n      Her shield towards the fatal sea;\n    Their cherished lady of the wave\n      Is guardian of their memory!\n    Stern is her look, but calm, for there\n    No gale can rend, or billow bear.\n\n    Stand, silent image, stately stand!\n      Where sighs shall breathe and tears be shed;\n    And many a heart of Cornish land\n      Will soften for the stranger-dead.\n    They came in paths of storm--they found\n    This quiet home in Christian ground.\u201d\n\n[Illustration: DOORWAY AT STANBURY, showing the initials of Kempthorne\nand Manning.]\n\nHalfway down the principal pathway of the churchyard is a granite\naltar-tomb. It was raised, in all likelihood, for the old \u201cmonth\u2019s\nmind,\u201d or \u201cyear\u2019s mind,\u201d of the dead: and it records a sad parochial\nhistory of the former time. It was about the middle of the sixteenth\ncentury that John Manning, a large landowner of Morwenstow, wooed and\nwon Christiana Kempthorne, the vicar\u2019s daughter. Her father was also a\nwealthy landlord of the parish in that day. Their marriage united in\ntheir own hands a broad estate, and in the midst of it the bridegroom\nbuilt for his bride the manor-house of Stanbury, and labelled the\ndoor-heads and the hearths with the blended initials[29] of the married\npair. It was a great and a joyous day when they were wed, and the\nbride was led home amid all the solemn and festal observances of the\ntime. There were liturgical benedictions of the mansion-house, the\nhearth, and the marriage-bed; for a large estate and a high place\nfor their future lineage had been blended in the twain. Five months\nafterwards, on his homeward way from the hunting-field, John Manning\nwas assailed by a mad bull, and gored to death not far from his home.\nHis bride, maddened at the sight of her husband\u2019s corpse, became\nprematurely a mother and died. They were laid, side by side, with their\nburied joys and blighted hopes, underneath this altar-tomb--whereon the\nsimple legend records that there lie \u201cJohn Manning and Christiana his\nwife, who died A.D. 1546, without living issue.\u201d\n\n[Illustration: THE MANNING TOMB IN MORWENSTOW CHURCHYARD (P. 24)\n\n_From a photo by Mr. T. W. Woodruffe_]\n\nWhen the vicar of the parish arrived, in the year 1836, he brought\nwith him, among other carved oak furniture, a bedstead of Spanish\nchestnut, inlaid and adorned with ancient veneer: and it was set up,\nunwittingly, in a room of the vicarage which looked out upon the tombs.\nIn the right-hand panel of the framework, at the head, was grooved\nin the name of John Manning; and in the place of the wife, the left\nhand, Christiana Manning, with their marriage date between. Nor was\nit discovered until afterwards that this was the very couch of wedded\nbenediction, a relic of the great Stanbury marriage, which had been\nbrought back and set up within sight of the unconscious grave; and\nthus that the sole surviving records of the bridegroom and the bride\nstood side by side, the bedstead and the tomb, the first and the last\nscene of their early hope and their final rest.\n\nAnother and a lowlier grave bears on its recording-stone a broken\nsnatch of antique rhythm, interwoven with modern verse. A young\nman[30] of this rural people, when he lay a-dying, found solace in\nhis intervals of pain in the remembered echo of, it may be, some\nlong-forgotten dirge; and he desired that the words which so haunted\nhis memory might somehow or other be engraved on his stone. He died,\nand his parish priest fulfilled his desire by causing the following\ndeath-verse to be set up where he lies. We shall close our legends of\nMorwenstow with these simple lines.[31] The fragment which clung to the\ndying man\u2019s memory was the first only of these lines:--\n\n    \u201c\u2018Sing! from the chamber to the grave!\u2019\n      Thus did the dead man say,--\n    \u2018A sound of melody I crave\n      Upon my burial-day.\n\n    \u2018Bring forth some tuneful instrument,\n      And let your voices rise:\n    My spirit listened as it went\n      To music of the skies!\n\n    \u2018Sing sweetly while you travel on,\n      And keep the funeral slow:\n    The angels sing where I am gone;\n      And you should sing below!\n\n    \u2018Sing from the threshold to the porch,\n      Until you hear the bell;\n    And sing you loudly in the church\n      The Psalms I love so well.\n\n    \u2018Then bear me gently to my grave:\n      And as you pass along,\n    Remember, \u2019twas my wish to have\n      A pleasant funeral-song!\n\n    \u2018So earth to earth--and dust to dust--\n      And though my bones decay,\n    My soul shall sing among the just,\n      Until the Judgment-day?\u2019\u201d\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[1] The foundations of this article first appeared in Mr. Blight\u2019s\n\u201cAncient Cornish Crosses,\u201d Penzance, 1850; in an article entitled\n\u201cA Cornish Churchyard,\u201d in _Chambers\u2019s Journal_, 1852; also, as the\n\u201cLegend of Morwenstow,\u201d in _Willis\u2019s Current Notes_, 1856; and in its\npresent extended form, in \u201cFootprints of Former Men in Far Cornwall,\u201d\n1870, embodying the author\u2019s latest corrections and impressions.\n\n[2] Woolley Moor.\n\n[3]\n\n    \u201cAh! native Cornwall, throned upon the hills,\n    Thy moorland pathways worn by Angel feet.\u201d\n\n  _Quest of the Sangraal._\n\n[4]\n\n    \u201cIf, traveller, thy happy spirit know\n    That awful Fount whence living waters flow,\n    Then hither come to draw: thy feet have found\n    Amidst these rocks a place of holy ground.\u201d\n\n  _The Well of St. Morwenna._\n\n[5] Breachan figures as a saint on a window in St. Neot\u2019s church,\ncalled \u201cThe Young Women\u2019s Window,\u201d erected in 1529 at the cost of the\nmaidens of the village. Mr. Baring-Gould says that \u201cBrychan\u201d lived in\nthe fifth century, and that Morwenna was probably his grand-daughter.\n\n[6] According to Mr. Baring-Gould, this story is full of anachronisms,\narising from the confusion of three different saints, Morwenna of\nCornwall, Modwenna of Burton-on-Trent, and Monynna of Newry.\n\n[7] Compare Hawker\u2019s poem \u201cA Croon on Hennacliff.\u201d\n\n[8] This prose description of Morwenstow church has its metrical\ncounterpart in \u201cMorwenn\u00e6 Statio.\u201d The poetry in stone has never been\nmore beautifully expressed than by those strong and simple lines.\n\n[9] See Appendix A.\n\n[10] A mistake for \u201cTunnacomb.\u201d See Appendix A.\n\n[11] See Appendix A_a_.\n\n[12] The water for baptisms at Morwenstow is always drawn from this\nwell, which Hawker won for the glebe by a law-suit soon after his\nappointment to the living.\n\n[13] See Appendix A.\n\n[14] In Blight\u2019s book on \u201cAncient Cornish Crosses,\u201d etc., there is an\nengraving of the Morwenstow Piscina and a Hebrew altar, with a note by\nHawker.\n\n[15] Among some unpublished MSS. of Hawker\u2019s is the following verse,\ndated 1840:--\n\n    \u201cThus said the pious Pelican unto her thirsty Young,\n    \u2018Drink, drink! my desert children: be beautiful and strong.\n    What tho\u2019 it be the lifeblood from my veins ye drain away;\n    Ye will grow and glide in glory, and for me, O let me die.\u2019\u201d\n\n[16] Hawker had a seal engraved with this pentacle. Compare the lines\nin his poem \u201cBaal-Zephon.\u201d\n\n    \u201cOh for the Sigil! or the chanted spell!\n    The pentacle that Demons know and dread.\u201d\n\nIn a letter to Miss Louisa Twining, Hawker writes: \u201cThe pentacle of\nSolomon, or five-pointed figure, was derived from his seal wherewith\nhe ruled the genii. It was a sapphire, and it contained a hand _alive_\nwhich grasped a small serpent, also alive. Through the bright gem both\nwere visible, the hand and the \u2018worm\u2019 as of old they called it. When\ninvoked by the king, the fingers moved and the serpent writhed and\nmiracles were wrought by spirits which were vassals of the gem....\nBecause of this mystic Hand the pentacle or five-pointed (fingered)\nfigure became the Sigil of Signomancy in the early ages.\u201d\n\n[17] For an instance of its use in exorcism, see the \u201cBotathen Ghost\u201d\nstory, p. 158.\n\n[18] \u201cAnd Solomon built ... Baalath, and Tadmor in the Wilderness\u201d (1\nKings ix. 17-18).\n\n[19] This screen was constructed by Mr. Hawker from the rescued\nremnants of an older screen, pieced together with ironwork. It has\nsince been taken down, and the old carving placed in other parts of the\nchurch.\n\n[20] See Appendix A_b_.\n\n[21] The chancel has been restored by Lord Clinton. The old altar\nornaments used by Mr. Hawker are preserved in the vestry.\n\n[22] See note on p. 6. Two new lancet windows have since been placed\nin the chancel, one by Mrs. Waddon Martyn, of Tonacombe, in memory of\nher husband, the other by friends of the Rev. J. Tagert, to commemorate\nthe restoration of the church during his vicariate. A larger memorial\nwindow has also been placed by the Martyn family at the east end of the\nnorth aisle.\n\n[23] This appears to be an error, as the date on the pillar (in Roman\nfigures) is 1564. (See Appendix A.)\n\n[24] See Appendix A_b_.\n\n[25] Compare the apportionment of the regions among the four great\nknights, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristan, and Galahad, in \u201cThe Quest of the\nSangraal.\u201d\n\n                        \u201cLet us arise\n    And cleave the earth like rivers; like the streams\n    That win from Paradise their immortal name:\n    To the four winds of God, casting the lot....\u201d\n\nThe mystic attributes of the four regions are told in lines of\nincomparable grandeur.\n\n[26] More about this village is to be found in the article \u201cHolacombe.\u201d\n\n[27] This dislike is disappearing. When I was at Welcombe recently\na grave was being dug on the northern side of the church. The\ngrave-digger said he had been christened and married by Mr. Hawker:\n\u201cone of the best passons,\u201d he added, \u201cus ever had.\u201d--ED.\n\n[28] See p. 62.\n\n[29] These initials are still to be seen at Stanbury, now a farmhouse.\nThe scene of Mr. Baring-Gould\u2019s novel \u201cThe Gaverocks\u201d is partly laid\nthere.\n\n[30] Richard Cann, who died February 15, 1842. Compare Hawker\u2019s\nhead-note to the poem in \u201cCornish Ballads,\u201d where it is called \u201cThe\nDirge.\u201d\n\n[31] It may be said that the first editions of some of Hawker\u2019s poems\nare on the grave-stones in Morwenstow churchyard. Other verses of\nthis kind are those \u201cOn the Grave of a Child,\u201d and some of the prose\ninscriptions bear traces of the same authorship.\n\n\n\n\nTHE FIRST CORNISH MOLE[32]\n\nA MORALITY FROM THE ROCKY LAND\n\n\nA lonely life for the dark and silent mole! Day is to her night. She\nglides along her narrow vaults, unconscious of the glad and glorious\nscenes of earth and air and sea. She was born, as it were, in a grave;\nand in one long, living sepulchre she dwells and dies. Is not existence\nto her a kind of doom? Wherefore is she thus a dark, sad exile from the\nblessed light of day? Hearken!\n\nHere, in our bleak old Cornwall, the first mole was once a lady of\nthe land. Her abode was in the far west, among the hills of Morwenna,\nbeside the Severn Sea. She was the daughter of a lordly race, the only\nchild of her mother; and the father of the house was dead: her name\nwas Alice of the Combe. Fair was she and comely, tender and tall; and\nshe stood upon the threshold of her youth. But most of all did men\nmarvel at the glory of her large blue eyes. They were, to look upon,\nlike the summer waters, when the sea is soft with light. They were\nto her mother a joy, and to the maiden herself, ah! _benedicite_, a\npride. She trusted in the loveliness of those eyes, and in her face\nand features and form; and so it was that the damsel was wont to\npass the whole summer day in the choice of rich apparel and precious\nstones and gold. Howbeit this was one of the ancient and common usages\nof those old departed days. Now, in the fashion of her stateliness\nand in the hue and texture of her garments, there was none among the\nmaidens of old Cornwall like Alice of the Combe. Men sought her far and\nnear, but she was to them all, like a form of graven stone, careless\nand cold. Her soul was set upon a Granville\u2019s love, fair Sir Beville\nof Stowe--the flower of the Cornish chivalry--that noble gentleman!\nThat valorous knight! he was her star. And well might she wait upon\nhis eyes; for he was the garland of the west. The loyal soldier of a\nStuart king--he was that stately Granville who lived a hero\u2019s life and\ndied a warrior\u2019s death! He was her star. Now there was signal made of\nbanquet in the halls of Stowe, of wassail and dance. The messenger\nhad sped, and Alice of the Combe would be there. Robes, precious and\nmany, were unfolded from their rest, and the casket poured forth jewel\nand gem, that the maiden might stand before the knight victorious. It\nwas the day--the hour--the time--her mother sate at her wheel by the\nhearth--the page waited in the hall--she came down in her loveliness,\ninto the old oak room, and stood before the mirrored glass--her robe\nwas of woven velvet, rich and glossy and soft; jewels shone like stars\nin the midnight of her raven hair, and on her hand there gleamed afar\noff a bright and glorious ring! She stood--she gazed upon her own fair\ncountenance and form, and worshipped! \u201cNow all good angels succour\nthee, my Alice, and bend Sir Beville\u2019s soul! Fain am I to greet thee\nwedded wife before I die! I do yearn to hold thy children on my knee!\nOften shall I pray to-night that the Granville heart may yield! Ay,\nthy victory shall be thy mother\u2019s prayer.\u201d \u201cPrayer!\u201d was the haughty\nanswer: \u201cnow, with the eyes that I see in that glass, and with this\nvesture meet for a queen, I lack no trusting prayer!\u201d[33] Saint Juliot\nshield us! Ah! words of fatal sound--there was a sudden shriek, a sob,\na cry, and where was Alice of the Combe? Vanished, silent, gone! They\nhad heard wild tones of mystic music in the air, there was a rush, a\nbeam of light, and she was gone, and that for ever! East sought they\nher, and west, in northern paths and south; but she was never more\nseen in the lands. Her mother wept till she had not a tear left; none\nsought to comfort her, for it was vain. Moons waxed and waned, and the\ncrones by the cottage hearth had whiled away many a shadowy night with\ntales of Alice of the Combe. But at the last, as the gardener in the\npleasaunce[34] leaned one day on his spade, he saw among the roses a\nsmall round hillock of earth, such as he had never seen before, and\nupon it something which shone. It was her ring! It was the very jewel\nshe had worn the day she vanished out of sight! They looked earnestly\nupon it, and they saw within the border, for it was wide, the tracery\nof certain small fine runes in the ancient Cornish tongue, which said--\n\n    \u201cBeryan erde\n    Oyn und perde!\u201d\n\nThen came the priest of the place of Morwenna, a grey and silent man!\nHe had served long years at his lonely altar, a worn and solitary form.\nBut he had been wise in language in his youth, and men said that he\nheard and understood voices in the air when spirits speak and glide. He\nread and he interpreted thus the legend on the ring,--\n\n    \u201cThe earth must hide,\n    Both eyes and Pride!\u201d\n\nNow as on a day he uttered these words, in the pleasaunce, by the\nmound, on a sudden there was among the grass a low faint cry. They\nbeheld, and oh, wondrous and strange! There was a small dark creature,\nclothed in a soft velvet skin in texture and in hue like the Lady\nAlice her robe, and they saw, as it groped into the earth, that it\nmoved along without eyes, in everlasting night! Then the ancient man\nwept, for he called to mind many things and saw what they meant; and he\nshowed them how that this was the maiden, who had been visited with a\ndoom for her Pride! Therefore her rich array had been changed into the\nskin of a creeping thing; and her large proud eyes were sealed up, and\nshe herself had become\n\n\nTHE FIRST MOLE OF THE HILLOCKS OF CORNWALL!\n\nAh, woe is me and well-a-day! that damsel so stately and fair, sweet\nLady Alice of the Combe, should become, for a judgment, the dark mother\nof the Moles! Now take ye good heed, Cornish maidens, how ye put on\nvain apparel to win love! And cast down your eyes, all ye damsels of\nthe west, and look meekly on the ground! Be ye ever good and gentle,\ntender and true; and when ye see your own image in the glass, and ye\nbegin to be lifted up with the loveliness of that shadowy thing, call\nto mind the maiden of the vale of Morwenna, her noble eyes and comely\ncountenance, her vesture of price, and the glittering ring! Set ye by\nthe wheel as of old they sate, and when ye draw forth the lengthening\nwool, sing ye evermore and say--\n\n    \u201cBeryan erde\n    Oyn und perde!\u201d\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[32] From _Notes & Queries_, 1st ser., vol. ii. p. 225. 1850. See\nAppen. B.\n\n[33] Compare \u201cThe Silent Tower of Bottreaux.\u201d\n\n    \u201cThank God, thou whining knave! on land,\n    But thank, at sea, the steersman\u2019s hand.\u201d\n\n[34] The scene of this legend is pointed out in the garden at Tonacombe\nManor.\n\n\n\n\nTHE GAUGER\u2019S POCKET[35]\n\n\nPoor old Tristram Pentire! How he comes up before me as I pronounce his\nname! That light, active, half-stooping form, bent as though he had a\nbrace of kegs upon his shoulders still; those thin, grey, rusty locks\nthat fell upon a forehead seamed with the wrinkles of threescore years\nand five; the cunning glance that questioned in his eye, and that nose\ncarried always at half-cock, with a red blaze along its ridge, scorched\nby the departing footstep of the fierce fiend Alcohol, when he fled\nbefore the reinforcements of the coast-guard.\n\nHe was the last of the smugglers; and when I took possession of my\nglebe, I hired him as my servant-of-all-work, or rather no-work, about\nthe house, and there he rollicked away the last few years of his\ncareless existence, in all the pomp and idleness of \u201cThe parson\u2019s man.\u201d\nHe had taken a bold part in every landing on the coast, man and boy,\nfull forty years; throughout which time all kinds of men had largely\ntrusted him with their brandy and their lives, and true and faithful\nhad he been to them, as sheath to steel.\n\nGradually he grew attached to me, and I could but take an interest in\nhim. I endeavoured to work some softening change in him, and to awaken\na certain sense of the errors of his former life. Sometimes, as a sort\nof condescension on his part, he brought himself to concede and to\nacknowledge, in his own quaint, rambling way--\n\n\u201cWell, sir, I do think, when I come to look back, and to consider what\nlives we used to live,--drunk all night and idle abed all day, cursing,\nswearing, fighting, gambling, lying, and always prepared to shet\n[shoot] the gauger,--I do really believe, sir, we surely was in sin!\u201d\n\nBut, whatever contrite admissions to this extent were extorted\nfrom old Tristram by misty glimpses of a moral sense and by his\ndesire to gratify his master, there were two points on which he was\ninexorably firm. The one was, that it was a very guilty practice in\nthe authorities to demand taxes for what he called run goods; and the\nother settled dogma of his creed was, that it never could be a sin\nto make away with an exciseman. Battles between Tristram and myself\non these themes were frequent and fierce; but I am bound to confess\nthat he always managed, somehow or other, to remain master of the\nfield. Indeed, what Chancellor of the Exchequer could be prepared to\nencounter the triumphant demand with which Tristram smashed to atoms\nmy suggestions of morality, political economy, and finance? He would\nlisten with apparent patience to all my solemn and secular pleas\nfor the revenue, and then down he came upon me with the unanswerable\nargument--\n\n\u201cBut why should the king tax good liquor? If they _must_ have taxes,\nwhy can\u2019t they tax something else?\u201d\n\nMy efforts, however, to soften and remove his doctrinal prejudice as to\nthe unimportance, in a moral point of view, of putting the officers of\nhis Majesty\u2019s revenue to death, were equally unavailing. Indeed, to my\ninfinite chagrin, I found that I had lowered myself exceedingly in his\nestimation by what he called standing up for the exciseman.\n\n\u201cThere had been divers passons,\u201d he assured me, \u201cin his time in the\nparish, and very learned clergy they were, and some very strict; and\nsome would preach one doctrine and some another; and there was one\nthat had very mean notions about running goods, and said \u2019twas a wrong\nthing to do; but even he, and the rest, never took part with the\ngauger--never! And besides,\u201d said old Trim, with another demolishing\nappeal, \u201cwasn\u2019t the exciseman always ready to put _us_ to death when he\ncould?\u201d\n\nWith such a theory it was not very astonishing--although it startled\nme at the time--that I was once suddenly assailed, in a pause of his\nspade, with the puzzling inquiry, \u201cCan you tell me the reason, sir,\nthat no grass will ever grow upon the grave of a man that is hanged\nunjustly?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, indeed, Tristram. I never heard of the fact before.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, I thought every man know\u2019d that from the Scripture: why, you\ncan see it, sir, every Sabbath-day. That grave on the right hand of\nthe path, as you go down to the porch-door, that heap of airth with no\ngrowth, not one blade of grass on it--that\u2019s Will Pooly\u2019s grave that\nwas hanged unjustly.\u201d\n\n\u201cIndeed! but how came such a shocking deed to be done?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, you see, sir, they got poor Will down to Bodmin, all among\nstrangers, and there was bribery, and false swearing; and an unjust\njudge came down--and the jury all bad rascals, tin-and-copper-men--and\nso they all agreed together, and they hanged poor Will. But his friends\nbegged the body and brought the corpse home here to his own parish; and\nthey turfed the grave, and they sowed the grass twenty times over, but\n\u2019twas all no use, nothing would ever grow--he was hanged unjustly.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, but, Tristram, you have not told me all this while what this man\nPooly was accused of: what had he done?\u201d\n\n\u201cDone, sir! Done? Nothing whatever but killed the exciseman!\u201d\n\nThe glee, the chuckle, the cunning glance, were inimitably\ncharacteristic of the hardened old smuggler; and then down went the\nspade with a plunge of defiance, and as I turned away, a snatch of his\nfavourite song came carolling after me like the ballad of a victory:--\n\n    \u201cOn, through the ground-sea, shove!\n      Light on the larboard bow!\n    There\u2019s a nine-knot breeze above,\n      And a sucking tide below!\n\n    Hush! for the beacon fails:\n      The skulking gauger\u2019s by.\n    Down with your studding-sails,\n      Let jib and foresail fly!\n\n    Hurrah for the light once more!\n      Point her for Shark\u2019s-Nose Head;\n    Our friends can keep the shore,\n      Or the skulking gauger\u2019s dead.\n\n    On, through the ground-sea, shove!\n      Light on the larboard bow!\n    There\u2019s a nine-knot breeze above,\n      And a sucking tide below!\u201d\n\nAmong the \u201cking\u2019s men,\u201d whose achievements haunted the old man\u2019s memory\nwith a sense of mingled terror and dislike, a certain Parminter and\nhis dog occupied a principal place. This officer appeared to have been\na kind of Frank Kennedy[36] in his way, and to have chosen for his\nwatchword the old Irish signal, \u201cDare!\u201d\n\n\u201cSir,\u201d said old Tristram once, with a burst of indignant wrath--\u201cSir,\nthat villain Parminter and his dog murdered with their shetting-irons\nno less than seven of our people at divers times, and they peacefully\nat work in their calling all the while!\u201d\n\nI found on further inquiry that this man Parminter was a bold and\ndetermined officer, whom no threats could deter and no money bribe. He\nalways went armed to the teeth, and was followed by a large, fierce,\nand dauntless dog, which he had thought fit to call Satan. This animal\nhe had trained to carry in his mouth a carbine or a loaded club, which,\nat a signal from his master, Satan brought to the rescue. \u201cAy, they was\nbold audacious rascals--that Parminter and his dog--but he went rather\ntoo far one day, as I suppose,\u201d was old Tristram\u2019s chuckling remark, as\nhe leaned on his spade, and I stood by.\n\n\u201cDid he, Trim; in what way?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, sir, the case was this. Our people had a landing down at\nMelhuach,[37] in Johnnie Mathey\u2019s hole, and Parminter and his dog\nfound it out. So they got into the cave at ebb tide, and laid in wait,\nand when the first boat-load came ashore, just as the keel took the\nground, down storms Parminter, shouting for Satan to follow. The dog\nknew better, and held back, they said, for the first time in all his\nlife: so in leaps Parminter smash into the boat alone, with his cutlass\ndrawn; but\u201d (with a kind of inward ecstasy) \u201che didn\u2019t do much harm to\nthe boat\u2019s crew----\u201d\n\n\u201cBecause,\u201d as I interposed, \u201cthey took him off to their ship?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, not they; not a bit of it. Their blood was up, poor fellows; so\nthey just pulled Parminter down in the boat, and chopped off his head\non the gunwale!\u201d\n\nThe exclamation of horror with which I received this recital elicited\nno kind of sympathy from Tristram. He went on quietly with his work,\nmerely moralising thus--\u201cAy, better Parminter and his dog had gone now\nand then to the Gauger\u2019s Pocket at Tidnacombe[38] Cross, and held their\npeace--better far.\u201d\n\nThe term \u201cThe Gauger\u2019s Pocket,\u201d in old Tristram\u2019s phraseology, had\nno kind of reference to any place of deposit in the apparel of the\nexciseman, but to a certain large grey rock, which stands upon a\nneighbouring moorland, not far from the cliffs which overhang the\nsea. It bears to this day, among the parish people, the name of the\nWitan-stone--that is to say, in the language of our forefathers, the\nRock of Wisdom; because it was one of the places of usual assemblage\nfor the Grey Eldermen of British or of Saxon times--a sort of speaker\u2019s\nchair or woolsack in the local parliaments. It was, moreover, there is\nno doubt, one of the natural altars of the old religion; and, as such,\nit is greeted with a fond and legendary reverence still. Hither Trim\nguided me one day, to show, as he told me, \u201cthe great rock set up by\nthe giants, so they said--long, long ago, before there was any bad laws\nsuch as they make now.\u201d It was indeed a wild, strange, striking scene;\nand one to lift and fill, and, moreover, to subdue the thoughtful mind.\nAround was the wild, half-cultured moor; yonder, within reach of sight\nand ear, that boundless, breathing sea, with that shout of waters which\ncame up ever and anon to recall the strong metre of the Greek[39]--\n\n    \u201cHark! how old ocean laughs with all his waves!\u201d\n\nAnd there, before me, stood the tall, vast, solemn stone: grey and\nawful with the myriad memorials of ancient ages, when the white fathers\nbowed around the rocks and worshipped!\n\n\u201cAnd now, sir,\u201d clashed in a shrill, sharp voice, \u201clet me show you the\nwonderfullest thing in all the place, and that is, the Gauger\u2019s Pocket.\u201d\n\nAccordingly I followed my guide, for it seems \u201cI had a dream that was\nnot all a dream,\u201d as he led the way to the back of the Witan-stone;\nand there, grown over with moss and lichen, with a movable slice of\nrock to conceal its mouth, old Tristram pointed out, triumphantly, a\ndry and secret crevice, almost an arm\u2019s-length deep. \u201cThere, sir,\u201d said\nhe, with a joyous twinkle in his eye,--\u201cthere have I dropped a little\nbag of gold, many and many a time, when our people wanted to have the\nshore quiet and to keep the exciseman out of the way of trouble; and\nthere he would go, if so be he was a reasonable officer, and the byword\nused to be, when \u2019twas all right, one of us would go and meet him, and\nthen say, \u2018Sir, your pocket is unbuttoned;\u2019 and he would smile and\nanswer, \u2018Ay, ay! but never mind, my man, my money\u2019s safe enough;\u2019 and\nthereby we knew that he was a just man, and satisfied, and that the\nboats could take the roller in peace; and that was the very way, sir,\nit came to pass that this crack in the stone was called for evermore\n\u2018The Gauger\u2019s Pocket.\u2019\u201d\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[35] From _Household Words_, vol. vi. pp. 515-517. 1853.\n\n[36] A character in \u201cGuy Mannering.\u201d\n\n[37] A cove some six miles S.W. of Bude. Hawker has a poem on the death\nof a noted smuggler, \u201cMawgan of Melhuach.\u201d\n\n[38] A mistaken spelling: see Appendix A.\n\n[39] The allusion is to a passage in \u00c6schylus, \u201cProm. Vinct.\u201d 90.\n\n            \u03c0\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03af\u03c9\u03bd \u03c4\u03b5 \u03ba\u03c5\u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03c9\u03bd\n    \u1f00\u03bd\u03ae\u03c1\u03b9\u03b8\u03bc\u03bf\u03bd \u03b3\u03ad\u03bb\u03b1\u03c3\u03bc\u03b1.\n\nIt was a favourite metaphor of Hawker\u2019s, and occurs over and over again\nin his poetry. The best instance is in \u201cThe Quest of the Sangraal,\u201d\nwhere he apostrophises Cornwall.\n\n    \u201cThy streams that march in music to the sea,\n    \u2019Mid Ocean\u2019s merry noise, his billowy laugh.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nTHE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS[40]\n\n\nThe life and adventures of the Cornish clergy during the eighteenth\ncentury would form a graphic volume of ecclesiastical lore. Afar off\nfrom the din of the noisy world, almost unconscious of the badge-words\nHigh Church and Low Church, they dwelt in their quaint grey vicarages\nby the churchyard wall, the saddened and unsympathising witnesses of\nthose wild, fierce usages of the west which they were utterly powerless\nto control. The glebe whereon I write has been the scene of many an\nunavailing contest in the cause of morality between the clergyman and\nhis flock. One aged parishioner recalls and relates the run--that\nis, the rescue--of a cargo of kegs underneath the benches and in the\ntower-stairs of the church. \u201cWe bribed Tom Hockaday, the sexton,\u201d so\nthe legend ran, \u201cand we had the goods safe in the seats by Saturday\nnight. The parson did wonder at the large congregation, for divers\nof them were not regular church-goers at other times; and if he had\nknown what was going on he could not have preached a more suitable\ndiscourse, for it was, \u2018Be not drunk with wine, wherein is excess.\u2019\nOne of his best sermons; but there it did not touch us, you see, for\nwe never tasted anything but brandy or gin. Ah! he was a dear old man\nour parson, mild as milk; nothing ever put him out. Once I mind, in\nthe middle of morning prayer, there was a buzz down by the porch, and\nthe folks began to get up and go out of church one by one. At last\nthere was hardly three left. So the parson shut the book and took off\nhis surplice, and he said to the clerk, \u2018There is surely something\namiss.\u2019 And so there certainly was; for when we came out on the cliff\nthere was a king\u2019s cutter in chase of our vessel, the _Black Prince_,\nclose under the land, and there was our departed congregation looking\non. Well, at last Whorwell, who commanded our trader, ran for the\nGullrock (where it was certain death for anything to follow him), and\nthe revenue commander sheered away to save his ship. Then off went our\nhats, and we gave Whorwell three cheers. So, when there was a little\npeace, the parson said to us all, \u2018And now, my friends, let us return\nand proceed with divine service.\u2019 We did return; and it was surprising,\nafter all that bustle and uproar, to hear how Parson Trenowth went on,\njust as nothing had come to pass: \u2018Here beginneth the Second Lesson.\u2019\u201d\nBut on another occasion, the equanimity and forbearance of the parson\nwere sorely tired. He presided, as the custom was, at a parish feast,\nin cassock and bands, and had, with his white hair and venerable\ncountenance, quite an apostolic aspect and mien. On a sudden, a busy\nwhisper among the farmers at the lower end of the table attracted his\nnotice, interspersed as it was by sundry nods and glances towards\nhimself. At last one bolder than the rest addressed him, and said that\nthey had a great wish to ask his reverence a question if he would\nkindly grant them a reply: it was on a religious subject that they had\ndispute, he said. The bland old man assured them of his readiness to\nyield them any information or answer in his power.\n\n\u201cBut what was the point in debate?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, sir, we wish to be informed if there were not sins which God\nAlmighty would never forgive?\u201d\n\nSurprised and somewhat shocked, he told them \u201cthat he trusted there\nwere no transgressions, common to themselves, but, if repented of and\nabjured, they might clearly hope to be forgiven.\u201d But, with a natural\ncuriosity, he inquired what kind of iniquities they had discussed as\ntoo vile to look for pardon. \u201cWhy, sir,\u201d replied their spokesman, \u201cwe\nthought that if a man should find out where run goods was deposited and\nshould inform the gauger, that such a villain was too bad for mercy.\u201d\n\nHow widely the doctrinal discussions of those days differed from our\nown! Let us not, however, suppose that all the clergy were as gentle\nand unobtrusive as Parson Trenowth. A tale is told of an adjacent\nparish, situate also on the sea-shore, of a more stirring kind. It\nwas full sea in the evening of an autumn day when a traveller arrived\nwhere the road ran along by a sandy beach, just above high-water\nmark. The stranger, who was a native of some inland town, and utterly\nunacquainted with Cornwall and its ways, had reached the brink of\nthe tide just as a \u201clanding\u201d was coming off. It was a scene not only\nto instruct a townsman but also to dazzle and surprise. At sea, just\nbeyond the billows, lay the vessel well moored with anchors at stem and\nstern. Between the ship and the shore boats laden to the gunwale passed\nto and fro. Crowds assembled on the beach to help the cargo ashore. On\nthe one hand a boisterous group surrounded a keg with the head knocked\nin, for simplicity of access to the good cognac, into which they dipped\nwhatsoever vessel came first to hand: one man had filled his shoe. On\nthe other side they fought and wrestled, cursed and swore. Horrified\nat what he saw, the stranger lost all self-command, and, oblivious of\npersonal danger, he began to shout, \u201cWhat a horrible sight! Have you no\nshame? Is there no magistrate at hand? Cannot any justice of the peace\nbe found in this fearful country?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo--thanks be to God,\u201d answered a hoarse, gruff voice; \u201cnone within\neight miles.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, then,\u201d screamed the stranger, \u201cis there no clergyman hereabout?\nDoes no minister of the parish live among you on this coast?\u201d\n\n\u201cAy! to be sure there is,\u201d said the same deep voice.\n\n\u201cWell, how far off does he live? Where is he?\u201d\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s he yonder, sir, with the lanthorn.\u201d And sure enough there he\nstood, on a rock, and poured, with pastoral diligence, the light of\nother days on a busy congregation.\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[40] From _Household Words_, vol. viii. pp. 305, 306. 1853.\n\n\n\n\nTHE REMEMBRANCES OF A CORNISH VICAR[41]\n\n\nIt has frequently occurred to my thoughts that the events which have\nbefallen me since my collation to this wild and remote vicarage, on the\nshore of the billowy Atlantic sea, might not be without interest to\nthe reader of a more refined and civilised region. When I was collated\nto the incumbency in 18--,[42] I found myself the first resident\nvicar for more than a century. My parish was a domain of about seven\nthousand acres, bounded on the landward border by the course of a\ncurving river,[43] which had its source with a sister stream[44] in a\nmoorland spring within my territory, and, flowing southward, divided\ntwo counties in its descent to the sea. My seaward boundary was a\nstretch of bold and rocky shore, an interchange of lofty headland and\ndeep and sudden gorge, the cliffs varying from three hundred to four\nhundred and fifty feet of perpendicular or gradual height, and the\nvalleys gushing with torrents, which bounded rejoicingly towards the\nsea, and leaped at last, amid a cloud of spray, into the waters. So\nstern and pitiless is this iron-bound coast, that within the memory of\none man upwards of eighty wrecks have been counted within a reach of\nfifteen miles, with only here and there the rescue of a living man. My\npeople were a mixed multitude of smugglers, wreckers, and dissenters\nof various hue. A few simple-hearted farmers had clung to the grey old\nsanctuary of the church and the tower that looked along the sea; but\nthe bulk of the people, in the absence of a resident vicar, had become\nthe followers of the great preacher[45] of the last century who came\ndown into Cornwall and persuaded the people to alter their sins. I was\nassured, soon after my arrival, by one of his disciples, who led the\nforay among my flock, that my \u201cparish was so rich in resources for his\nbenefit, that he called it, sir, the garden of our circuit.\u201d The church\nstood on the glebe, and close by the sea. It was an old Saxon station,\nwith additions of Norman structure, and the total building, although of\ngradual erection, had been completed and consecrated before the middle\nof the fifteenth century. The vicarage, built by myself, stood, as it\nwere, beneath the sheltering shadow of the walls and tower. My land\nextended thence to the shore. Here, like the Kenite,[46] I had \u201cbuilt\nmy nest upon the rock,\u201d and here my days were to glide away, afar from\nthe noise and bustle of the world, in that which is perhaps the most\nthankless office in every generation, the effort to do good against\ntheir will to our fellow-men. Mine was a perilous warfare. If I had\nnot, like the apostle, to \u201cfight with wild beasts at Ephesus,\u201d I had to\nsoothe the wrecker, to persuade the smuggler, and to \u201chandle serpents,\u201d\nin my intercourse with adversaries of many a kind. Thank God! the\npromises which the clergy inherit from their Founder cannot fail to\nbe fulfilled. It was never prophesied that they should be popular, or\nwealthy, or successful among men; but only that they \u201cshould endure to\nthe end,\u201d that \u201ctheir generation should never pass away.\u201d Well has this\nword been kept!\n\nAmong my parishioners there were certain individuals who might be\ntermed representative men,--quaint and original characters, who\nembodied in their own lives the traditions and the usages of the\nparish. One of these had been for full forty years a wrecker--that is\nto say, a watcher of the sea and rocks for flotsam and jetsam, and\nother unconsidered trifles which the waves might turn up to reward the\nzeal and vigilance of a patient man. His name was Peter Burrow, a man\nof harmless and desultory life, and by no means identified with the\ncruel and covetous natives of the strand, with whom it was a matter of\npastime to lure a vessel ashore by a treacherous light, or to withhold\nsuccour from the seaman struggling with the sea. He was the companion\nof many of my walks, and the witness with myself of more than one\nthrilling and perilous scene. Another of my parish notorieties, the\nhero of contraband adventure, and agent for sale of smuggled cargoes\nin bygone times, was Tristram Pentire,[47] a name known to the readers\nof these pages. With a merry twinkle of the eye, and in a sharp and\nringing tone, it was old Tristram\u2019s usage to recount for my instruction\nsuch tales of wild adventure and of \u201cderring-do\u201d as would make the\nfoot of an exciseman falter and his cheek turn pale. But both these\ncronies of mine were men devoid of guile, and in their most reckless\nof escapades innocent of mischievous harm. It was not long after my\narrival in my new abode that I was plunged all at once into the midst\nof a fearful scene of the terrors of the sea. About daybreak of an\nautumn day I was aroused by a knock at my bedroom-door; it was followed\nby the agitated voice of a boy, a member of my household, \u201cOh, sir,\nthere are dead men on vicarage rocks!\u201d\n\nIn a moment I was up, and in my dressing-gown and slippers rushed\nout. There stood my lad, weeping bitterly, and holding out to me in\nhis trembling hands a tortoise alive. I found afterwards that he had\ngrasped it on the beach, and brought it in his hand as a strange and\nmarvellous arrival from the waves, but in utter ignorance of what it\nmight be. I ran across my glebe, a quarter of a mile, to the cliffs,\nand down a frightful descent of three hundred feet to the beach. It was\nindeed a scene to be looked on once only in a human life. On a ridge of\nrock, just left bare by the falling tide, stood a man, my own servant;\nhe had come out to see my flock of ewes, and had found the awful\nwreck. There he stood, with two dead sailors at his feet, whom he had\njust drawn out of the water stiff and stark. The bay was tossing and\nseething with a tangled mass of rigging, sails, and broken fragments\nof a ship; the billows rolled up yellow with corn, for the cargo of\nthe vessel had been foreign wheat; and ever and anon there came up out\nof the water, as though stretched out with life, a human hand and arm.\nIt was the corpse of another sailor drifting out to sea. \u201cIs there\nno one alive?\u201d was my first question to my man. \u201cI think there is,\nsir,\u201d he said, \u201cfor just now I thought I heard a cry.\u201d I made haste\nin the direction he pointed out, and, on turning a rock, just where\na brook of fresh water fell towards the sea, there lay the body of a\nman in a seaman\u2019s garb. He had reached the water faint with thirst,\nbut was too much exhausted to swallow or drink. He opened his eyes at\nour voices, and as he saw me leaning over him in my cassock-shaped\ndressing-gown, he sobbed, with a piteous cry, \u201cO mon p\u00e8re, mon p\u00e8re!\u201d\nGradually he revived, and when he had fully come to himself with the\nhelp of cordials and food, we gathered from him the mournful tale of\nhis vessel and her wreck. He was a Jersey man by birth, and had been\nshipped at Malta, on the homeward voyage of the vessel from the port of\nOdessa with corn. I had sent in for brandy, and was pouring it down his\nthroat, when my parishioner, Peter Burrow, arrived. He assisted, at my\nrequest, in the charitable office of restoring the exhausted stranger;\nbut when he was refreshed and could stand upon his feet, I remarked\nthat Peter did not seem so elated as in common decency I expected he\nwould be. The reason soon transpired. Taking me aside, he whispered in\nmy ear, \u201cNow, sir, I beg your pardon, but if you\u2019ll take my advice, now\nthat man is come to himself, if I were you I would let him go his way\nwherever he will. If you take him into your house, he\u2019ll surely do you\nsome harm.\u201d Seeing my surprise, he went on to explain, \u201cYou don\u2019t know,\nsir,\u201d he said, \u201cthe saying on our coast--\n\n    \u201c\u2018Save a stranger from the sea,\n    And he\u2019ll turn your enemy.\u2019\n\nThere was one Coppinger[48] cast ashore from a brig that struck up at\nHartland, on the Point. Farmer Hamlyn dragged him out of the water\nand took him home, and was very kind to him. Lord, sir! he never would\nleave the house again! He lived upon the folks a whole year, and at\nlast, lo and behold! he married the farmer\u2019s daughter Elizabeth, and\nspent all her fortin rollicking and racketing, till at last he would\ntie her to the bedpost and flog her till her father would come down\nwith more money. The old man used to say he wished he\u2019d let Coppinger\nlie where he was in the waves, and never laid a finger on him to save\nhis life. Ay, and divers more I\u2019ve heerd of that never brought no good\nto they that saved them.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd did you ever yourself, Peter,\u201d said I, \u201cbeing, as you have told\nme, a wrecker so many years--did you ever see a poor fellow clambering\nup the rock where you stood, and just able to reach your foot or hand,\ndid you ever shove him back into the sea to be drowned?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, sir, I declare I never did. And I do believe, sir, if I ever had\ndone such a thing, and given so much as one push to a man in such a\ncase, I think verily that afterwards I should have been troubled and\nuncomfortable in my mind.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, notwithstanding your doctrine, Peter,\u201d said I, \u201cwe will take\ncharge of this poor fellow; so do you lead him into the vicarage and\norder a bed for him, and wait till I come in.\u201d\n\nI returned to the scene of death and danger, where my man awaited me.\nHe had found, in addition to the two corpses, another dead body jammed\nunder a rock. By this time a crowd of people had arrived from the land,\nand at my request they began to search anxiously for the dead. It was,\nindeed, a terrible scene. The vessel, a brig of five hundred tons, had\nstruck, as we afterwards found, at three o\u2019clock that morning, and by\nthe time the wreck was discovered she had been shattered into broken\npieces by the fury of the sea. The rocks and the water bristled with\nfragments of mast and spar and rent timbers; the cordage lay about in\ntangled masses. The rollers tumbled in volumes of corn, the wheaten\ncargo; and amidst it all the bodies of the helpless dead--that a few\nbrief hours before had walked the deck the stalwart masters of their\nship--turned their poor disfigured faces toward the sky, pleading\nfor sepulture. We made a temporary bier of the broken planks, and\nlaid thereon the corpses, decently arranged. As the vicar, I led the\nway, and my people followed with ready zeal as bearers, and in sad\nprocession we carried our dead up the steep cliff, by a difficult path,\nto await, in a room at my vicarage which I allotted them, the inquest.\nThe ship and her cargo were, as to any tangible value, utterly lost.\n\nThe people of the shore, after having done their best to search for\nsurvivors and to discover the lost bodies, gathered up fragments of\nthe wreck for fuel, and shouldered them away,--not perhaps a lawful\nspoil, but a venal transgression when compared with the remembered\ncruelties of Cornish wreckers. Then ensued my interview with the\nrescued man. His name was Le Daine. I found him refreshed, and\ncollected, and grateful. He told me his Tale of the Sea. The captain\nand all the crew but himself were from Arbroath, in Scotland. To that\nharbour also the vessel belonged. She had been away on a two years\u2019\nvoyage, employed in the Mediterranean trade. She had loaded last at\nOdessa. She touched at Malta, and there Le Daine, who had been sick in\nthe hospital, but recovered, had joined her. There also the captain\nhad engaged a Portuguese cook, and to this man, as one link in a\nchain of causes, the loss of the vessel might be ascribed. He had\nbeen wounded in a street-quarrel the night before the vessel sailed\nfrom Malta, and lay disabled and useless in his cabin throughout the\nhomeward voyage. At Falmouth whither they were bound for orders, the\ncook died. The captain and all the crew, except the cabin-boy, went\nashore to attend the funeral. During their absence the boy, handling in\nhis curiosity the barometer, had broken the tube, and the whole of the\nquicksilver had run out. Had this instrument, the pulse of the storm,\nbeen preserved, the crew would have received warning of the sudden\nand unexpected hurricane, and might have stood out to sea. Whereas\nthey were caught in the chops of the Channel, and thus, by this small\nincident, the vessel and the mariners found their fate on the rocks of\na remote headland in my lonely parish. I caused Le Daine to relate in\ndetail the closing events.\n\n\u201cWe received orders,\u201d he said, \u201cat Falmouth to make for Gloucester to\ndischarge. The captain, and mate, and another of the crew, were to be\nmarried on their return to their native town. They wrote, therefore, to\nArbroath from Falmouth, to announce their safe arrival there from their\ntwo years\u2019 voyage, their intended course to Gloucester, and their hope\nin about a week to arrive at Arbroath for welcome there.\u201d\n\nBut in a day or two after this joyful letter, there arrived in Arbroath\na leaf torn out of my pocket-book, and addressed \u201cTo the Owners of the\nVessel,\u201d the _Caledonia_ of Arbroath, with the brief and thrilling\ntidings, written by myself in pencil, that I wrote among the fragments\nof their wrecked vessel, and that the whole crew, except one man, were\nlost \u201cupon my rocks.\u201d My note spread a general dismay in Arbroath,\nfor the crew, from the clannish relationship among the Scots, were\nconnected with a large number of the inhabitants. But to return to the\ntouching details of Le Daine.\n\n\u201cWe rounded the Land\u2019s End,\u201d he said, \u201cthat night all well, and came\nup Channel with a fair wind. The captain turned in. It was my watch.\nAll at once, about nine at night, it began to blow in one moment as\nif the storm burst out by signal; the wind went mad; our canvas burst\nin bits. We reeved fresh sails; they went also. At last we were under\nbare poles. The captain had turned out when the storm began. He sent\nme forward to look out for Lundy Light. I saw your cliff.\u201d (This was\na bluff and broken headland just by the southern boundary of my own\nglebe.) \u201cI sung out, \u2018Land!\u2019 I had hardly done so when she struck with\na blow, and stuck fast. Then the captain sung out, \u2018All hands to the\nmaintop!\u2019 and we all went up. The captain folded his arms, and stood\nby, silent.\u201d\n\nHere I asked him, anxious to know how they expressed themselves at such\na time, \u201cBut what was said afterwards, Le Daine?\u201d\n\n\u201cNot one word, sir; only once, when the long-boat went over, I said to\nthe skipper, \u2018Sir, the boat is gone!\u2019 But he made no answer.\u201d\n\nHow accurate was Byron\u2019s painting--\n\n    \u201cThen shrieked the timid, and stood still the brave\u201d!\n\n\u201cAt last there came on a dreadful wave, mast-top high, and away went\nthe mast by the board, and we with it, into the sea. I gave myself up.\nI was the only man on the ship that could not swim, so where I fell in\nthe water there I lay. I felt the waves beat me and send me on. At\nlast there was a rock under my hand. I clung on. Just then I saw Alick\nKant, one of our crew, swimming past. I saw him lay his hand on a rock,\nand I sung out, \u2018Hold on, Alick!\u2019 but a wave rolled and swept him away,\nand I never saw his face more. I was beaten onward and onward among\nthe rocks and the tide, and at last I felt the ground with my feet. I\nscrambled on. I saw the cliff, steep and dark, above my head. I climbed\nup until I reached a kind of platform with grass, and there I fell down\nflat upon my face, and either I fainted away or I fell asleep. There I\nlay a long time, and when I awoke it was just the break of day. There\nwas a little yellow flower just under my head, and when I saw that I\nknew I was on dry land.\u201d This was a plant of the bird\u2019s-foot clover,\ncalled in old times Our Lady\u2019s Finger. He went on: \u201cI could see no\nhouse or sign of people, and the country looked to me like some wild\nand desert island. At last I felt very thirsty, and I tried to get down\ntowards a valley where I thought I should find water; but before I\ncould reach it I fell and grew faint again, and there, thank God, sir,\nyou found me.\u201d\n\nSuch was Le Daine\u2019s sad and simple story, and no one could listen\nunmoved or without a strong feeling of interest and compassion for the\npoor solitary survivor of his shipmates and crew. The coroner arrived,\nheld his \u2019quest, and the usual verdict of \u201cWrecked and cast ashore\u201d\nempowered me to inter the dead sailors, found and future, from the\nsame vessel, with the service in the Prayer-book for the Burial of the\nDead. This decency of sepulture is the result of a somewhat recent\nstatute, passed in the reign of George III. Before that time it was\nthe common usage of the coast to dig, just above high-water mark, a\npit on the shore, and therein to cast, without inquest or religious\nrite, the carcasses of shipwrecked men. My first funeral of these lost\nmariners was a touching and striking scene. The three bodies first\nfound were buried at the same time. Behind the coffins, as they were\nsolemnly borne along the aisle, walked the solitary mourner, Le Daine,\nweeping bitterly and aloud. Other eyes were moist, for who could hear\nunsoftened the greeting of the Church to these strangers from the sea,\nand the \u201ctouch that makes the whole earth kin,\u201d in the hope we breathed\nthat we, too, might one day \u201crest as these our brethren did\u201d? It was\nwell-nigh too much for those who served that day. Nor was the interest\nsubdued when, on the Sunday after the wreck, at the appointed place in\nthe service, just before the General Thanksgiving, Le Daine rose up\nfrom his place, approached the altar, and uttered, in an audible but\nbroken voice, his thanksgiving for his singular and safe deliverance\nfrom the perils of the sea.\n\nThe text of the sermon that day demands its history. Some time before,\na vessel, the _Hero_ of Liverpool, was seen in distress, in the offing\nof a neighbouring harbour, during a storm. The crew, mistaking a\nsignal from the beach, betook themselves to their boat. It foundered,\nand the whole ship\u2019s company, twelve in number, were drowned in sight\nof the shore. But the stout ship held together, and drifted on to\nthe land so unshattered by the sea that the coast-guard, who went\nimmediately on board, found the fire burning in the cabin. When the\nvessel came to be examined, they found in one of the berths a Bible,\nand between its leaves a sheet of paper, whereon some recent hand had\ntranscribed verses the twenty-first, twenty-second, and twenty-third of\nthe thirty-third chapter of Isaiah. The same hand had also marked the\npassage with a line of ink along the margin. The name of the owner of\nthe book was also found inscribed on the fly-leaf. He was a youth of\neighteen years of age, the son of a widow, and a statement under his\nname recorded that the Bible was \u201ca reward for his good conduct in a\nSunday-school.\u201d This text, so identified and enforced by a hand that\nsoon after grew cold, appeared strangely and strikingly adapted to the\nfuneral of shipwrecked men; and it was therefore chosen as the theme\nfor our solemn day. The very hearts of the people seemed hushed to hear\nit, and every eye was turned towards Le Daine, who bowed his head\nupon his hands and wept. These are the words: \u201cBut there the glorious\nLord will be unto us a place of broad rivers and streams; wherein shall\ngo no galley with oars, neither shall gallant ship pass thereby.\nFor the Lord is our judge, the Lord is our lawgiver, the Lord is our\nking; He will save us. The tacklings are loosed; they could not well\nstrengthen their mast, they could not spread the sail: then is the prey\nof a great spoil divided; the lame take the prey.\u201d Shall I be forgiven\nfor the vaunt, if I declare that there was not literally a single\nface that day unmoistened and unmoved? Few, indeed, could have borne,\nwithout deep emotion, to see and hear Le Daine. He remained as my guest\nsix weeks, and during the whole of this time we sought diligently, and\nat last we found the whole crew, nine in number. They were discovered,\nsome under rocks, jammed in by the force of the water, so that it\ntook sometimes several ebb-tides, and the strength of many hands, to\nextricate the corpses. The captain I came upon myself lying placidly\nupon his back, with his arms folded in the very gesture which Le Daine\nhad described as he stood amid the crew on the maintop. The hand of\nthe spoiler was about to assail him when I suddenly appeared, so that\nI rescued him untouched. Each hand grasped a small pouch or bag. One\ncontained his pistols; the other held two little log-reckoners[49] of\nbrass; so that his last thoughts were full of duty to his owners and\nhis ship, and his latest efforts for rescue and defence. He had been\nmanifestly lifted by a billow and hurled against a rock, and so slain;\nfor the victims of our cruel sea are seldom drowned, but beaten to\ndeath by violence and the wrath of the billows. We gathered together\none poor fellow in five parts; his limbs had been wrenched off, and\nhis body rent. During our search for his remains, a man came up to me\nwith something in his hand, inquiring, \u201cCan you tell me, sir, what is\nthis? Is it a part of a man?\u201d It was the mangled seaman\u2019s heart, and we\nrestored it reverently to its place, where it had once beat high with\nlife and courage, with thrilling hope and sickening fear. Two or three\nof the dead were not discovered for four or five weeks after the wreck,\nand these had become so loathsome from decay, that it was at peril of\nhealth and life to perform the last duties we owe to our brother-men.\nBut hearts and hands were found for the work, and at last the good\nship\u2019s company--captain, mate, and crew--were laid at rest, side by\nside, beneath our churchyard trees. Groups of grateful letters from\nArbroath[50] are to this day among the most cherished memorials of my\nescritoire. Some, written by the friends of the dead, are marvellous\nproofs of the good feeling and educated ability of the Scottish people.\nOne from a father breaks off in irrepressible pathos, with a burst of\n\u201cO my son! my son!\u201d We placed at the foot of the captain\u2019s grave the\nfigurehead[51] of his vessel. It is a carved image, life-size, of his\nnative Caledonia, in the garb of her country, with sword and shield.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAt the end of about six weeks Le Daine left my house on his homeward\nway, a sadder and a richer man. Gifts had been proffered from many a\nhand, so that he was able to return to Jersey, with happy and grateful\nmien, well clothed, and with \u00a330 in his purse. His recollections of\nour scenery were not such as were in former times associated with the\nCornish shore; for three years afterward he returned to the place of\nhis disaster accompanied by his uncle, sister, and affianced wife, and\nhe had brought them that, in his own joyous words, \u201cthey might see the\nvery spot of his great deliverance:\u201d and there, one summer day, they\nstood, a group of happy faces, gazing with wonder and gratitude on\nour rugged cliffs, that were then clad in that gorgeous vesture of\npurple and gold which the heather and gorse wind and weave along the\nheights; and the soft blue wave lapping the sand in gentle cadence,\nas though the sea had never wreaked an impulse of ferocity, or rent a\nhelpless prey. Nor was the thankfulness of the sailor a barren feeling.\nWhensoever afterward the vicar sought to purchase for his dairy a\nJersey cow, the family and friends of Le Daine rejoiced to ransack the\nisland until they had found the sleekiest, loveliest, best of that\nbeautiful breed; and it is to the gratitude of that poor seaman and\nstranger from a distant abode that the herd of the glebe has long been\nfamous in the land, and hence, as Homer would have sung--hence came\n\n    \u201cBleehtah, and Lilith, Neelah, Evan Neelah, and Katy.\u201d\n\nStrange to say, Le Daine has been twice shipwrecked since his first\nperil--with similar loss of property, but escape of life; and he is now\nthe master of a vessel in the trade of the Levant.\n\nIn the following year a new and another wreck was announced in the\ngloom of night. A schooner under bare poles had been watched for many\nhours from the cliffs, with the steersman fastened at the wheel. All\nat once she tacked and made for the shore, and just as she had reached\na creek between two reefs of rock, she foundered and went down. At\nbreak of day only her vane was visible to mark her billowy grave.\nNot a vestige could be seen of her crew. But in the course of the\nday her boat was drifted ashore, and we found from the name on the\nstern that the vessel was the _Ph\u0153nix_ of St. Ives. A letter from\nmyself by immediate post brought up next day from that place a sailor\nwho introduced himself as the brother of a young man who had sailed\nas mate in the wrecked ship. He was a rough plain-spoken man, of\nsimple religious cast, without guile or pretence: one of the good old\nseafaring sort--the men who \u201cgo down to the sea in ships, and occupy\ntheir business in great waters:\u201d these, as the Psalmist chants, \u201csee\nthe wonders of the Lord, and His glories in the deep.\u201d At my side he\npaced the shore day after day in weary quest of the dead. \u201cIf I could\nbut get my poor brother\u2019s bones,\u201d he cried out yearningly again and\nagain, \u201cif I could but lay him in the earth, how it would comfort dear\nmother at home!\u201d We searched every cranny in the rocks, and we watched\nevery surging wave, until hope was exchanged for despair. A reward of\nmeagre import, it is true, offered by the Seaman\u2019s Burial Act, to which\nI have referred, and within my own domain doubled always by myself,\nbrought us many a comrade in this sickening scrutiny, but for long it\nwas in vain. At last one day, while we were scattered over a broken\nstretch of jumbled rocks that lay in huddled masses along the base of\nthe cliffs, a loud and sudden shout called me where the seaman of St.\nIves stood. He was gazing down into the broken sea--it was on a spot\nnear low-water mark--and there, just visible from underneath a mighty\nfragment of rock, was seen the ankle of a man and a foot still wearing\na shoe. \u201cIt is my brother!\u201d yelled the sailor, bitterly; \u201cit is our own\ndear Jem--I can swear to that shoe!\u201d We gathered around; the tide ebbed\na very little after this discovery, and only just enough to leave dry\nthe surface of the rock under which the body lay. Soon the sea began\nagain to flow, and very quickly we were driven by the rising surges\nfrom the spot. The anguish of the mourner for his dead was thrilling\nto behold and terrible to hear. \u201cO my brother! my brother!\u201d was his\nsob again and again; \u201cwhat a burial-place for our own dear merry boy!\u201d\nI tried to soothe him, but in vain: the only theme to which he could\nbe brought to listen was the chance--and I confess it seemed to my own\nsecret mind a hopeless thought--that it might be possible at the next\nebb-tide, by skill and strength combined, to move, if ever so little,\nthe monstrous rock, and so recover the corpse. It was low water at\nevening tide, and there was a bright November moon. We gathered in\nnumbers, for among my parishioners there were kind and gentle-hearted\nmen, such as had \u201cpity, tenderness, and tears,\u201d and all were moved\nby the tale of the sailor, hurled and buried beneath a rock, by the\nstrong and cruel sea. The scene of our first nightly assemblage was a\nweird and striking sight. Far, far above loomed the tall and gloomy\nheadlands of the coast: around us foamed and raged the boiling waves:\nthe moon cast her massive lowering shadows on rock and sea--\n\n    \u201cAnd the long moonbeam on the cold wet sand\n    Lay, like a jasper column, half upreared.\u201d[52]\n\nStout and stalwart forms surrounded me, wielding their iron bars,\npickaxes, and ropes. Their efforts were strenuous but unavailing. The\ntide soon returned in its strength, and drove us, baffled, from the\nspot before we had been able to grasp or shake the ponderous mass. It\nwas calculated by competent judges that its weight was full fifteen\ntons: neither could there be a more graphic image of the resistless\nstrength of the wrathful sea than the aspect of this and similar blocks\nof rifted stone, that were raised and rolled perpetually, by the power\nof the billows, and hurled, as in some pastime of the giants, along\nthe shuddering shore! Deep and bitter was the grief of the sailor\nat our failure and retreat. His piteous wail over the dead recalled\nthe agony of those who are recorded in Holy Writ, they who grieved\nfor their lost ones, \u201cand would not be comforted because they were\nnot!\u201d That night an inspiration visited me in my wakeful bed. At a\nneighbouring harbour[53] dwelt a relative[54] of mine, who was an\nengineer, in charge of the machinery on a breakwater and canal. To\nhim at morning light I sent an appeal for succour, and he immediately\nresponded with aidance and advice. Two strong windlasses, worked by\niron chains, and three or four skilful men, were sent up by him next\nday with instructions for their work. Again at evening ebb we were all\non the spot. One of our new assistants, a very Tubal-Cain in aspect\nand stature, and of the same craft with that smith before the Flood,\nplunged upon the rock as the water reluctantly revealed its upper\nside, and drilled a couple of holes in the surface with rapid energy,\nto receive, each of them, that which he called a Lewis-wedge and a\nring. To these the chains of the windlasses were fastened on. They\nthen looped a rope around the ankle of the corpse and gave it as the\npost of honour to me to hold. It was on the evening of Sunday that all\nthis was done, and I had deemed it a venial breach of discipline to\nomit the nightly service of the Church in order to suit the tide. A\nPuseyite bishop might have condemned my breach of Rubric and Ritual,\nbut I exercise episcopal authority in my own parish, and accordingly I\nabsolved myself. Forty strong parishioners, all absentees from evening\nprayer, manned the double windlass power; I intoned the pull; and by\na strong and blended effort the rocky mass was slowly, silently, and\ngently upheaved: a slight haul at the rope, and up to our startled\nview, and to the sudden lights, came forth the altered, ghastly,\nflattened semblance of a man! \u201cMy brother! my brother!\u201d shrieked a\nwell-known voice at my side, and tears of gratitude and suffering\ngushed in mingled torrent over his rugged cheek. A coffin had been\nmade ready, under the hope of final success, and therein we reverently\nlaid the poor disfigured carcass of one who a little while before had\nbeen the young and joyous inmate of a fond and happy home. We had to\nclamber up a steep and difficult pathway along the cliff with the\nbody, which was carried by the bearers in a kind of funeral train.\nThe vicar of course led the way. When we were about halfway up a\nsingular and striking event occurred, which moved us all exceedingly.\nUnobserved--for all were intent on their solemn task--a vessel had\nneared the shore; she lay to, and, as it seemed, had watched us with\nnight-glasses from the deck, or had discerned us from the torches and\nlanterns in our hands. For all at once there sounded along the air\nthree deep and thrilling cheers! And we could see that the crew on\nboard had manned their yards. It was manifest that their loyal and\nhearty voices and gestures were intended to greet and gratulate our\nfulfilment of duty to a brother mariner\u2019s remains. The burial-place of\nthe dead sailors in this churchyard is a fair and fitting scene for\ntheir quiet rest. Full in view and audible in sound for ever rolls the\nsea. Is it not to them a soothing requiem that\n\n    \u201cOld Ocean, with its everlasting voice,\n    As in perpetual Jubilee proclaims\n    The praises of the Almighty\u201d?\n\nTrees stand, like warders, beside their graves; and the Saxon and\nshingled church, \u201cthe mother of us all,\u201d dwells in silence by, to watch\nand wail over her safe and slumbering dead. It recalls the imagery of\nthe Holy Book wherein we read of the gathered relics of the ancient\nslain: \u201cAnd Rizpah the daughter of Aiah took sackcloth and spread it\nfor her upon the rock from the beginning of harvest until water dropped\nupon them out of heaven, and suffered neither the birds of the air to\nrest on them by day, nor the beasts of the field by night.\u201d In such\na shelter we laid our brother at rest, rescued from the unhallowed\nsepulture of the rock; and there the faithful voice of the mourner\nbreathed a last farewell. \u201cGood-bye,\u201d he said, \u201cgood-bye! Safe and\nquiet in the ground!\u201d\n\nA year had passed away when the return of the equinox admonished us\nagain to listen for storms and wrecks. There are men in this district\nwhose usage it is at every outbreak of a gale of wind to watch and ward\nthe cliffs from rise to set of sun. Of these my quaint old parishioner,\nPeter Burrow, was one. On a wild and dreary winter day I found myself\nseated on a rock with Peter standing by, at a point that overhung\nthe sea. We were both gazing with anxious dismay at a ship which was\nbeating to and fro in the Channel, and had now drifted much too near\nto the surges and the shore. She had come into sight some hours before\nstruggling with Harty Race, the local name of a narrow and boisterous\nrun of sea between Lundy and the land, and she was now within three or\nfour miles of our rocks. \u201cAh, sir,\u201d said Peter, \u201cthe coastmen say,\n\n    \u201c\u2018From Padstow Point to Lundy Light,\n    Is a watery grave, by day or night.\u2019\n\nAnd I think the poor fellows off there will find it so.\u201d All at\nonce, as we still watched the vessel labouring on the sea, a boat\nwas launched over her side, and several men plunged into it one by\none. With strained and anxious eyes we searched the billows for the\ncourse of the boat. Sometimes we caught a glimpse as it rode upon some\nsurging wave; then it disappeared a while, and no trace was visible\nfor long. At last we could see it no more. Meanwhile the vessel held\ndown Channel, tacked and steered as if still beneath the guidance of\nsome of her crew, although it must have been in sheer desperation that\nthey still hugged the shore. What was to be done? If she struck, the\nmen still on board must perish without help, for nightfall drew on; if\nthe boat reappeared, Peter could make a signal where to land. In hot\nhaste, then, I made for the vicarage, ordered my horse, and returned\ntowards the cliffs. The ship rode on, and I accompanied her way along\nthe shore. She reached the offing of a neighbouring haven, and there\ngrounded on the sand. No boatman could be induced to put off, and thick\ndarkness soon after fell. I returned worn, heart-sick, and weary on\nmy homeward way; there strange tidings greeted me,--the boat which we\nhad watched so long had been rolled ashore by the billows empty. Peter\nBurrow had hauled her above high-water mark, and had found a name,\n\u201c_The Alonzo_, of Stockton-on-Tees,\u201d on her stern. That night I wrote\nas usual to the owner, with news of the wreck, and the next day we\nwere able to guess at the misfortunes of the stranded ship: a boat had\nvisited the vessel, and found her freighted with iron from Gloucester\nfor a Queen\u2019s yard round the Land\u2019s End. Her papers in the cabin showed\nthat her crew of nine men had been reported all sound and well three\ndays before. The owner\u2019s agent arrived, and he stated that her captain\nwas a brave and trusty officer, and that he must have been compelled\nby his men to join them when they deserted the ship. They must all\nhave been swamped and lost not long after the launch of the boat, and\nwhile we watched for them in vain amid the waves. Then ensued what has\nlong been with me the saddest and most painful duty of the shore: we\nsought and waited for the dead. Now there is a folk-lore of the beach\nthat no corpse will float or be found until the ninth day after death.\nThe truth is, that about that time the body proceeds to decompose,\nand as a natural result it ascends to the surface of the current, is\nbrought into the shallows of the tide, and is there found. The owner\u2019s\nrepresentative was my guest for ten days, and with the help of the\nship\u2019s papers and his own personal knowledge we were able to identify\nthe dead. First of all the body of the captain came in; he was a fine,\nstalwart, and resolute-looking man. His countenance, however, had a\ngrim and angry aspect, and his features wore somewhat of a fierce and\nreproachful look--just such an expression as would verify the truth\nof our suspicion that he had been driven by the violence of others to\nforsake his deck. The face of the dead man was as graphic a record of\nhis living character as a physiognomist could portray. Then arrived the\nmate and three other men of the crew. None were placid of feature or\ncalm and pleasant in look, as those usually are who are accidentally\ndrowned or who die in their beds. But many of them had _that_ awful\nexpression of countenance which reminded me of a picture once described\nto me as the result of an experiment by certain artists in France. It\nwas during the Revolution, and amid the anarchy of those times, that\nthey bought a criminal who had been condemned to die, fastened him\nto a cross, and painted him for a crucifixion; but his face wore the\naspect, not of the patient suffering which they intended to portray,\nbut a strong expression of _reluctant agony_. Such has been the look\nthat I myself have witnessed in many a poor disfigured corpse. The\ndeath-struggle of the conscious victim in the strong and cruel grasp of\nthe remorseless sea was depicted in harsh and vivid lines on the brow\nof the dead.\n\nBut one day my strange old man, Peter Burrow, came to me in triumphant\nhaste with the loud greeting, \u201cSir, we have got a noble corpse down\non your beach! We have just laid him down above high-water mark, and\nhe is as comely a body as a man shall see!\u201d I made haste to the spot,\nand there lay, with the light of a calm and wintry day falling on his\nmanly form, a fine and stately example of a man: he was six feet two\ninches in height, of firm and accurate proportion throughout; and he\nmust have been, indeed, in life a shape of noble symmetry and grace.\nOn his broad smooth chest was tattooed a rood--that is to say, in\nartist phrase, our blessed Saviour on His cross, with, on the one hand,\nHis mother, and on the other St. John the evangelist: underneath were\nthe initial letters of a name, \u201cP. B.\u201d His arms also were marked with\ntracery in the same blue lines. On his right arm was engraved \u201cP. B.\u201d\nagain, and \u201cE. M.,\u201d the letters linked with a wreath; and on his left\narm was an anchor, as I imagined the symbol of hope, and the small\nblue forget-me-not flower. The greater number of my dead sailors--and\nI have myself said the burial service over forty-two such men rescued\nfrom the sea--were so decorated with some distinctive emblem and\nname; and it is their object and intent, when they assume these\npictured signs, to secure identity for their bodies if their lives\nare lost at sea, and then, for the solace of their friends, should\nthey be cast on the shore and taken up for burial in the earth. What\na volume of heroism and resignation to a mournful probability in this\ncalm foresight and deliberate choice, to wear always on their living\nflesh, as it were, the signature of a sepulchral name! The symbolic\nfigures and the letters which were supposed to designate our dead were\nall faithfully transcribed and duly entered in the vicar\u2019s book. We\ncarried the strangely decorated man to his comrades of the deck; and\ngradually, in the course of one month, we discovered and carefully\nburied the total crew of nine strong men. These gathered strangers, the\nunited assemblage from many a distant and diverse abode, now calmly\nslept among our rural and homely graves, the stout seamen of the ship\n_Alonzo_, of Stockton-on-Tees! The boat which had foundered with them\nwe brought also to the churchyard, and there, just by their place of\nrest, we placed her beside them, keel upward to the sky, in token that\nher work, too, was over and her voyage done. There her timbers slowly\nmoulder still, and by-and-by her dust will mingle in the scenery of\ndeath with the ashes of those living hearts and hands that manned her,\nin their last unavailing launch and fruitless struggle for the mastery\nof life! But the history of the _Alonzo_ is not yet closed. Three years\nafterwards a letter arrived from the Danish consul at a neighbouring\nseaport town, addressed to myself as the vicar of the parish; and the\nhope of the writer was that he might be able to ascertain through\nmyself, for two anxious and grieving parents in Denmark, tidings of\ntheir lost son. His name, he said, was Philip Bengstein, and it was in\nthe correspondence that this strange and touching history transpired.\nThe father, who immediately afterward wrote to my address, told me in\ntearful words, that his son, bearing that name, had gone away from his\nnative home because his parents had resisted a marriage which he was\ndesirous to contract. They found that he had gone to sea before the\nmast, a position much below his station in life; and they had traced\nhim from ship to ship, until at last they found him on the papers\nof the _Alonzo_, of Stockton-on-Tees. Then their inquiry as to the\nfate of that vessel had led them to the knowledge through the owners\nthat the vicar of a parish on the seaboard of North Cornwall could in\nall likelihood convey to them some tidings of their long-lost son. I\nrelated in reply the history of the death, discovery, and burial of\nthe unfortunate young man. I was enabled to verify and to understand\nthe initial letters of his own name, and of her who was not to become\nhis bride--although she still clung to his memory in loving loneliness\nin that foreign land! Ample evidence, therefore, verified his corpse,\nand I was proudly enabled to certify to his parents the reverent\nburial of their child. A letter is treasured among my papers filled to\noverflowing with the strong and earnest gratitude of a stranger and a\nDane for the kindness we had rendered to one who loved \u201cnot wisely,\u201d\nperchance, \u201cbut too well,\u201d to that son who had been lost and was found\ntoo late: one, too, \u201cwhose course of true love\u201d had brought him from\ndistant Denmark to a green hillock among the dead, beneath a lonely\ntower among the trees, by the Cornish sea! What a picture was that\nwhich we saw painted upon the bosom and the limbs of a dead man, of\nfond and faithful love, of severed and broken hearts, of disappointed\nhope, of a vacant chair and a hushed voice in a far-away Danish\nhome! Linked with such themes as these which I have related in this\nRemembrance are the subjoined verses, which were written on a rock by\nthe shore.\n\n\nTHE STORM\n\n    War! \u2019mid the ocean and the land!\n    The battle-field Morwenna\u2019s strand,\n    Where rock and ridge the bulwark keep,\n    The giant warders of the deep!\n\n    They come! and shall they not prevail,\n    The seething surge, the gathering gale?\n    They fling their wild flag to the breeze,\n    The banner of a thousand seas!\n\n    They come, they mount, they charge in vain,\n    Thus far, incalculable main!\n    No more! thine hosts have not o\u2019erthrown\n    The lichen on the barrier stone!\n\n    Have the rocks faith, that thus they stand\n    Unmoved, a grim and stately band,\n    And look, like warriors tried and brave,\n    Stern, silent, reckless, o\u2019er the wave?\n\n    Have the proud billows thought and life\n    To feel the glory of the strife,\n    And trust one day, in battle bold,\n    To win the foeman\u2019s haughty hold?\n\n    Mark, where they writhe with pride and shame,\n    Fierce valour, and the zeal of fame;\n    Hear how their din of madness raves,\n    The baffled army of the waves!\n\n    Thy way, O God! is in the sea;\n    Thy paths where awful waters be:\n    Thy Spirit thrills the conscious stone;\n    O Lord! Thy footsteps are not known.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[41] From _All the Year Round_, vol. xiii. pp. 153-156. 1865.\n\n[42] 1834.\n\n[43] The Tamar.\n\n[44] The Torridge.\n\n[45] John Wesley.\n\n[46] And like Daniel Gumb. See p. 107.\n\n[47] _Vide_ p. 32, _et seq._\n\n[48] See the essay, \u201cCruel Coppinger,\u201d and Appendix F.\n\n[49] These are still preserved. They are little sand-glasses, shielded\nwith brass, cylindrical in shape. The sand in one takes twenty-eight\nseconds to run, that in the other fourteen.\n\n[50] Hawker is not forgotten in Arbroath. A lecture was delivered there\non February 18, 1903, by the Rev. A. E. Crowder, on \u201cCornwall: its\nScenery, People, Antiquities, and Folklore.\u201d The lecturer referred to\nHawker and the wreck of the _Caledonia_.\n\n[51] For Hawker\u2019s poem on this occasion, see p. 22.\n\n[52] \u201cGebir,\u201d Book I., lines 216, 217. The usual version has \u201c_hard_\nwet sand.\u201d Hawker and Landor (it may be remarked by the way) were in\nmany respects kindred spirits.\n\n[53] Bude.\n\n[54] Probably Mr. George Casebourne, Civil Engineer, who married a\nsister of Mr. Hawker\u2019s, and was for some years superintendent of the\nBude Canal.\n\n\n\n\nBLACK JOHN[55]\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: \u201cBLACK JOHN\u201d\n\n_From a picture formerly belonging to R. S. Hawker, now in the\npossession of Mrs. Calmady_]\n\nA picture hangs in my library--and it is one of my most treasured\nrelics of old Cornwall--the full-length and \u201ccounterfeit presentment,\u201d\nin oil, of a quaint and singular dwarf. It exhibits a squat figure,\nuncouth and original, just such a one as Frederick Taylor would delight\nto introduce in one of his out-of-door pieces of Elizabethan days,\nas an appendage to the rural lady\u2019s state when she rode afield with\nher hawk on her wrist. His height is under four feet, hump-backed\nand misshapen; his head, with tangled elfy hair falling wildly on\nhis shoulders, droops upon his chest. Negro features and a dark skin\nsurround a loose and flabby mouth, which teeth have long ceased to\nharmonise and fill out. He is clad in a loose antique russet gaberdine,\nthe fashion of a past century: one hand leans on a gnarled staff, and\nthe other holds a wide-brimmed felt hat, with humble gesture and look,\nas though his master stood by.\n\nThe traditionary name of this well-remembered character on the\nTamar-side is Black John. He lived from the commencement to the\nmiddle of the eighteenth century in the household of an honoured\nname, Arscott of Tetcott,[56] an ancestor of one of the distinguished\nfamilies of Cornwall; and as his master was wellnigh the last of the\njovial open-housed squires of the West of England, so was Black John\nthe last of the jesters or makers of mirth. When the feast was over,\nand the \u201cwrath of hunger\u201d[57] had been assuaged, while the hare\u2019s or\nfox\u2019s head, the festive drinking-cup of silver, went round with the\nnectar of the Georgian era, \u201cstrong punch for strong heads,\u201d the jester\nwas called in to contribute by merry antic and jocose saying to the\nloud enjoyment of the guests. Such were the functions sustained by\nmy pictured and storied dwarf, and many an anecdote still survives\naround us in hearth and hall of the feats and stories of the \u201cTetcott\nmerry-man.\u201d Two of his usual after-dinner achievements were better\nsuited to the rude jollity and coarse mirth of our forefathers than to\nthe refinements of our own time; although they are said to exist here\nand there, among the \u201cunderground men\u201d and miners of Western Cornwall,\neven to this day. These were \u201csparrow-mumbling\u201d and swallowing\nliving mice, which were tethered to a string to ensure their safe\nreturn to light and life. In the first of these accomplishments, a\nsparrow, alive, was fastened to the teeth of the artist with a cord,\nand he was expected to mumble off the feathers from the fluttering\nand astonished bird, with his lips alone, until he was plucked quite\nbare without the assistance or touch of finger or hand. A couple of\nprojecting tusks or fangs, such as are called by the Italians Bourbon\nteeth, were of singular value as sparrow-holders to Black John; but\nthese were one day drawn by violence from his mouth by an exasperated\nblacksmith, whose kitten had been slain, and who had been persuaded by\na wretch, who was himself the actual assassin, that it was the jester\nwho had guillotined the poor creature with his formidable jaws. The\npassage of the mouse was accomplished very often, amid roars of rude\napplause, down and up the gullet of the dwarf.\n\nA tale is told of him, that one day, after he had for some time amused\nthe guests, and had drank his full share of the ale, he fell, or seemed\nto fall, asleep. On a sudden he started up with a loud and terrified\ncry. Questioned as to the cause of his alarm, he answered, \u201cO sir,\u201d to\nhis master, \u201cI was in a sog [sleep], and I had such a dreadful dream! I\nthought I was dead, and I went where the wicked people go!\u201d\n\n\u201cHa, John,\u201d said Arscott of Tetcott, in his grim voice, wide awake for\na jest or a tale, \u201cthen tell us all about what you heard and saw.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, master, nothing particular.\u201d\n\n\u201cIndeed, John!\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, sir; things was going on just as they do upon airth--here in\nTetcott Hall--the gentlefolks nearest the fire.\u201d\n\nHis master\u2019s house was surrounded with all kinds of tame animals and\nbirds so bold and confiding, from long safety and intercourse, that\nthe rooks would come down at a call and pick up food like pigeons at\nthe very feet of a man. Among the familiar creatures of the Hall were\ntwo enormous toads: these were especial favourites with Mr. Arscott,\nwho was a very Chinese in his fondness for the bat and the toad, and\nwho used to feed them very often with his own hands. One morning the\nfamily were aroused by sounds near the porch, of battle and fight. A\nguest from a distant town, who had arrived the night before on a visit,\nwas discovered prone upon the grass, and over him stood as conqueror\nBlack John, belabouring him with his staff. His story was, when rescued\nand set upon his feet, that on going out to breathe the morning air he\nhad encountered and slain a fierce and venomous reptile--a big bloated\ncreature that came towards him with open mouth. It turned out to be one\nof the enormous toads, an old and especial pet of master and man,\nwho had heard a sound of feet, and came as usual to be fed, and was\nruthlessly put to death; not, however, unavenged, for a wild man of the\nwoods (so the townsman averred) had rushed upon him and knocked him\ndown. When Mr. Arscott had heard the story, he turned on his heel, and\nnever greeted his guest[58] with one farewell word. Black John sobbed\nand muttered vengeance in his den for many a day for the death of \u201cOld\nDawty\u201d--the household name of the toad.\n\n[Illustration: ARSCOTT OF TETCOTT\n\n    \u201cThe good old Squire! once more along the glen,\n    Oh, for the scenes of old! the former men!\u201d\n\n    _R. S. Hawker_\n\n    _From the picture by F. Northcote, R.A._\n]\n\nBlack John\u2019s lair was a rude hut, which he had wattled for a snug\nabode, close to the kennel. He loved to retire to it, and sleep near\nhis chosen companions, the hounds. When they were unkennelled, he\naccompanied and ran with them afoot, and so sinewy and so swift was his\nstunted form that he was very often in their midst at the death. Then,\nwith the brush of the fox elaborately disposed as the crest of his felt\nhat, John would make his appearance on the following Sunday at church,\nwhere it was displayed, and pompously hung up above his accustomed\nseat, to his own great delight and the envy of many among the\ncongregation. When the pack found the fox, and the huntsman\u2019s ear was\ngladdened by their shrill and sudden burst into full cry, Black John\u2019s\nshout would be heard in the field, with his standing jest, \u201cThere they\ngo! there they go! like our missus at home in one of her storms!\u201d As he\ngrew older, and less equal to the exertion of his strong and youthful\ndays, John took to wandering, gipsy-fashion, about the country-side;\nand he found food and welcome at every cottage and farmhouse. His\nusual couch was among the reeds or fern of some sheltering brake or\nwood, and he slept, as he himself used to express it, \u201crolled up, as\nwarm as a hedgeboar, round his own nose.\u201d One day, in bitter snowy\nweather, he was found wanting from his accustomed haunts--\u201cone morn\nthey missed him on the usual hill\u201d--and after long search he was\ndiscovered shrouded in snow, cold, stiffened, and to all outward\nappearance dead. He was carried home, and in due course was coffined\nand borne towards the grave. But there, just as the clergyman[59] who\nread the service had reached the solemn words which commit the body\nto the ground, a loud thumping noise was heard within the coffin.\nThe bystanders rent open the lid in hot haste, and up started Black\nJohn alive, in amazement, and in furious wrath. He had been in a long\n_deliquium_, or death-trance,[60] from cold, and had been restored to\nlife by the motion and warmth of his own funeral ride. As he told the\nastonished mourners, \u201cHe heard the words \u2018dust to dust,\u2019 and then,\u201d\nsaid he, \u201cI thought it was high time to bumpy.\u201d His words passed into\na proverb; and to this very day, when Cornish men in these parts are\nplaced in some sudden extremity, and it becomes necessary to take\nstrong and immediate measures for extrication, the saying is, \u201cIt is\ntime to bumpy, as Black John said.\u201d In his anger and mental confusion,\nBlack John ever after attributed his attempted burial to the conspiracy\nand ill-will of the clergyman, whose words he had interrupted by his\nsudden resurrection. More than once the reverend gentleman was suddenly\nassaulted in his walks by a stone hurled at him from a hedge, followed\nby an angry outcry, in a well-known voice, of \u201cHa! old Dust-to-dust;\nhere I be, alive and kicking!\u201d\n\nIt may be easily believed that Black John was a very refractory subject\nfor clerical interference and admonition. The result of frequent\nclerical attempts to reform his habits, was a rooted dislike on his\npart of the black coat and white neckcloth in all its shades and\ndenominations. The visit of the first field-preacher to the precincts\nof the Hall was signalised by an exhibition of this feeling. John\nwaylaid the poor unsuspecting man, and offered to guide him on his\nroad by a short cut across the park, which, John alleged, would save\nhim a \u201cconsiderable bit of way.\u201d The treacherous guide led him\nalong a narrow path into a paddock, wherein was shut up for safety\nMr. Arscott\u2019s perilous favourite bull. This animal had grown up\nfrom calf-hood the wanton but docile companion of Black John, whose\nwonderful skill in taming all manner of wild animals had made the \u201csire\nof the herd\u201d so familiar with his strange warder, that he would follow\nhim and obey his signals and voice like a dog. What took place between\nthe bull and the preacher could only be guessed at.[61] A rush was\nheard by a passer-by, and a yell; then the rustling of the branches\nof a tree, and finally a dead thud upon the grass. From the paddock\ngate some little time after emerged Black John with a fragment of a\nwhite cravat in his hand, and this was all, so he steadfastly averred,\nthat ever he could find of \u201cthe preacher\u2019s body.\u201d Actually, it was the\nsole relic of his arrival and existence that survived in those wild\nparts. He was never heard of more in that region. And although there\nwere rural sceptics who doubted that the bull could have made such\nquick work of a full-grown man, the story was fearful enough to scare\naway all wandering preachers from that district while the dwarf lived.\nOn the Sunday following the terrific interview between the preacher\nand the bull, John took his usual place in church, but, to the\nastonishment of those who were not in the secret, instead of the usual\nfox\u2019s brush, a jaunty pennon of white rag floated as the crest of the\nwell-known felt hat.\n\nBlack John was long and fondly cherished by his generous master. Mr.\nArscott lived like Adam in the garden, surrounded by his animals and\npets, each with its familiar and household name; and no man ever more\nfully realised the truth of the saying that \u201clove makes love,\u201d and that\nthe surest way to kindle kindness is to be kind. Accurately has it been\nsaid of him--\n\n    \u201cOh, for the Squire! that shook at break of morn\n    Dew from the trees with echo of his horn!\n    The gathering scene, where Arscott\u2019s lightest word\n    Went, like a trumpet, to the hearts that heard;\n    The dogs, that knew the meaning of his voice,\n    From the grim foxhound to my lady\u2019s choice:\n    The steed that waited till his hand caressed:\n    And old Black John that gave and bare the jest!\u201d[62]\n\nNone, high or low, during the lifetime of the squire, were allowed\nwith impunity to injure or harass his cross-grained jester, and many\na mischievous escapade was hushed up, and the sufferer soothed or\npacified by money or influence. When gout and old age had imprisoned\nMr. Arscott in his easy-chair, Black John snoozed among the ashes of\nthe vast wood fires of the hearth, or lay coiled upon his rug like\nsome faithful mastiff, watching every look and gesture of his master;\nstarting up to fill the pipe or the tankard of old ale, and then\ncrouching again.\n\n    \u201cThis lasted long; it fain would last\n    Till autumn rustled on the blast,\u201d[63]\n\nand the good old squire, in the language of the Tamar-side, \u201cpassed out\nof it.\u201d At his death and funeral, the agony of his misshapen retainer\nwas unappeasable. He had to be removed by force from the door of the\nvault, and then he utterly refused to depart from the neighbourhood\nof the grave. He made himself another lair, near the churchyard wall,\nand there he sobbed away the brief remnant of his days, in honest and\nunavailing grief for the protector whom he had so loved in life, and\nfrom whom in death he would not be divided. Thus and there, not long\nafter, he died, as the old men of the parish used to relate, for the\n\u201csecond and last time.\u201d He had what is called in those parts a decent\nfuneral, for his master had bequeathed to him an ample allowance for\nlife and death in his last will. The mourners ate of the fat and drank\nof the strong, as their Celtic impulses would suggest; and although\nsome among them, who remembered John\u2019s former funeral, may have\nlistened again for a token or sign, poor Black John, alas for him! had\nno master to come back to now, and declined \u201cto bumpy\u201d any more.\n\nA singular and striking circumstance attended the final funeral of\nBlack John. An aged crone, bent and tottering, \u201cworn Nature\u2019s mournful\nmonument,\u201d was observed following the bier, and the people heard her\nmuttering ever and anon, \u201cOh, is he really dead? He came to life again\nonce you know, and lived long after.\u201d When assured that all indeed was\nover, even her wild hope, she cried with a great sob, \u201cO poor dear\nJohnny! he was so good-looking and so steady till they spoilt him up\nat the Hall!\u201d Her words recalled her to the memory of some old men who\nwere there, and they knew her as a certain Aunty Bridget, who had been\nteased and worried, long years agone, at markets and fairs, as \u201cBlack\nJohn\u2019s sweetheart.\u201d\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[55] From _All the Year Round_, vol. xiii. pp. 454-456. 1865.\n\n[56] See Appendix C.\n\n[57] Compare Hawker\u2019s fine description of the feast at Dundagel in \u201cThe\nQuest of the Sangraal\u201d--\n\n    \u201cStrong men for meat, and warriors at the wine,\n    They wreak the wrath of hunger on the beeves,\n    They rend rich morsels from the savoury deer,\n    And quench the flagon like Brun-guillie dew!\u201d\n\n[58] Another version of the story says that he was a shoemaker come on\nbusiness, and that he never made boots for Mr. Arscott again. For the\nfate of the other toad, see end of Appendix C.\n\n[59] The Rev. Robert Martyn, then Vicar of Stratton.\n\n[60] On another occasion Black John awoke from a less serious trance.\nThe parson in his sermon was speaking of \u201cthat blessedness which on\nearth it is impossible to find,\u201d when a well-known voice from the\ngallery shouted, \u201cNot find! Us be sartain to find un to-morrow in\nSwannacott Wood!\u201d\n\n[61] In another version of the tale, Black John said to the preacher,\n\u201cOnly just take your hat off and say two words of gospel to \u2019im, and\nher won\u2019t touch \u2019ee.\u201d\n\n[62] This is one stanza from Hawker\u2019s own poem, \u201cTetcott, 1831; in\nwhich year Sir William Molesworth caused the old house to be taken\ndown, and a new one built.\u201d (See Appendix C.)\n\n[63] These lines are from Hawker\u2019s poem, \u201cA Legend of the Hive.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nDANIEL GUMB\u2019S ROCK[64]\n\n\nThere is no part of our native country of England so little known, no\nregion so seldom trodden by the feet of the tourist or the traveller,\nas the middle moorland of old Cornwall. A stretch of wild heath and\nstunted gorse, dotted with swelling hills, and interspersed with\nrugged rocks, either of native granite or rough-hewn pillar, the rude\nmemorial of ancient art, spreads from the Severn Sea on the west to the\ntall ridge of Carradon on the east, and from Warbstow Barrow on the\nnorth to the southern civilisation of Bodmin and Liskeard. Throughout\nthis district there is, even in these days, but very scanty sign of\nsettled habitation. Two or three recent and solitary roads traverse\nthe boundaries; here and there the shafts and machinery of a mine\nannounce the existence of underground life; a few clustered cottages,\nor huts, for the shepherds, are sprinkled along the waste; but the\nvast and uncultured surface of the soil is suggestive of the bleak\nsteppes of Tartary or the far wilds of Australia, and that in the very\nheart of modern England. Yet is there no scenery that can be sought\nby the antiquary or the artist that will so kindle the imagination or\nrequite the eye or the mind of the wanderer as this Cornish solitude.\nIf he travel from our storied Dundagel, eastward, Rowter,[65] the\nRed Tor, so named from its purple tapestry of heather and heath, and\nBrunguillie,[66] the Golden Hill, crested with yellow gorse like a\ncrown, will win his approach and reward, with their majestic horizon,\nthe first efforts of his pilgrimage. The summits and sides of these\nmountains of the west are studded with many a logan-rock[67] or\nshuddering-stone of the old superstition. This was the pillar of ordeal\nin Druid times, so poised that while it shook at the slight faint touch\nof the innocent finger, it firmly withstood the assailing strength of\nthe guilty man.\n\nPassing onward, the traveller will pause amid a winding outline of\nunhewn granite pillars, and he will gradually discover that these\nare set up to represent the coils of a gigantic serpent, traced,\nas it were, in stone. This is a memorial of the dragon-crest of a\nViking, or the demon-idol and shrine of an older antiquity. Not far\noff there gleams a moorland lake or mimic sea, with its rippling laugh\nof waters--the Dozmere Pool[68] of many an antique legend and tale,\nthe mystic scene[69] of the shadowy vessel and the Mort d\u2019Arthur of\nour living bard. A sheep-track--for no other visible path will render\nguidance along the moor--leads on to Kilmarth Tor, from the brow of\nwhich lofty crag the eye can embrace the expanse of the two seas which\nare the boundaries of Cornwall on the right and left. There, too, looms\nin the distance rocky Carradon, with the valley of the Hurlers at its\nfoot. These tall shapes of granite, grim and grotesque, were once,\nas local legends say, nine bold upstanding Cornish men who disdained\nthe Sabbath-day; and as they pursued their daring pastime and \u201cput\nthe stone\u201d in spite of the warning of the priest, they were changed,\nby a sudden doom, where they stood up to play, and so were fixed for\never in monumental rock. Above them lowers the Devil\u2019s Wring, a pile\nof granite masses, lifted, as though by giant or demon strength, one\nupon another; but the upper rocks vast and unwieldy, and the lower\ngradually lessening downward, until they rest, poised, on a pivot of\nstone so slender and small that it seems as though the wind sweeping\nover the moor would overtopple it with a breath; and yet centuries\nmany and long have rolled over the heath, and still it stands unshaken\nand unswerved. Its name is derived from the similitude of the rocky\nstructure to the press wherein the ancient housewives of rude Cornwall\nwere accustomed to \u201cwring\u201d out the milk from their cheese.\n\n[Illustration: THE CHEESEWRING (or The Devil\u2019s Wring).]\n\nNot far off from this singular monument of \u201cages long ago\u201d there is\nfound to this day a rough and rude assemblage of moorstone slabs,\nsome cast down and others erect, but manifestly brought together and\narranged by human hands and skill. There is still traceable amid the\nfragments the outline of a human habitation, once divided into cells,\nand this was the origin and purpose of this solitary abode. It was\nthe work and the home of a remarkable man--an eccentric and original\ncharacter among the worthies of the west--and the place has borne ever\nsince the early years of the last century the name of Daniel Gumb\u2019s\nRock. He was a native Cornishman, born in a cottage that bordered on\nthe moor, and in the lowlier ranks of labouring life. In his father\u2019s\nhousehold he was always accounted a strange and unsocial boy. In his\nchildhood he kept aloof from all pastime and play, and while his\ncompanions resorted to their youthful amusements and sports, Daniel\nwas usually seen alone with a book or a slate whereon he worked, at a\nvery early age, the axioms of algebra or the diagrams of Euclid. He had\nmastered with marvellous rapidity all the books of the country-side,\nand he had even exhausted the instructions of the schoolmaster of the\nneighbouring town. Then it became his chosen delight to wander on the\nmoors with some favourite volume in his hand, and a crust from his\nmother\u2019s loaf in his bag; with his inseparable tools, also, the chisel\nand the mallet, wherewithal to chip and gather the geological specimens\nof his own district. Often he would be absent whole nights, and when he\nwas questioned as to his place of shelter, he would reply, \u201cWhere John\nthe Baptist slept,\u201d or \u201cAt Roche, in the hermit\u2019s bed;\u201d for the ruined\ncell of a Christian anchorite stood, and yet stands, above the scenery\nof the wanderings of that solitary boy.\n\nBut Daniel\u2019s principal ambition was to know and name the planets\nand the stars. It was at the time when the discoveries of foreign\nastronomers had peopled the heavens with fresh imagery, and our\nown Newton had given to the ethereal phenomena of the sky a \u201clocal\nhabitation and a name.\u201d It is very striking to discover when the minds\nof any nation are flooded with new ideas and original trains of\nthought, how soon the strange tidings will reach the very skirts of the\npopulation, and borne, how we know not, will thrill the hamlet and the\nvillage with the wonders that have roused and instructed the far-off\nand civilised city. Thus even Daniel\u2019s distant district became aware\nof the novel science of the stars, and this intelligence failed not to\nexcite and foster the faculties of his original mind. Local legends\nstill record and identify the tall and craggy places where the youthful\n\u201cscholar\u201d was wont to ascend and to rest all night with his face turned\nupward to the sky, \u201clearning the customs of the stars,\u201d and \u201cfinding\nout by the planets things to come.\u201d Nor were his studies unassisted\nand alone. A master-mind of those days, Cookworthy[70] of Plymouth, a\nlearned and scientific man, still famous in the west, found out and\nfostered the genius of the intelligent youth. He gave him access to\nhis library, and allowed him to visit his orrery and other scientific\ninstruments; and the result of this kindness was shown in the tastes\nand future peculiarities of the mind of Gumb. The stern necessities\nof life demanded, in the course of time, that Daniel should fulfil\nthe destiny of his birth, and win his bread by the sweat of his brow;\nfor the meagre resources of his cottage-home had to be augmented by\nhis youthful labour. In the choice of an occupation his early habits\nwere not without their influence. He selected the craft of a hewer of\nstone, a very common calling on the surrounding moors; and there he\ntoiled for several years of his succeeding life, amid the cyclopean\nmodels of the early ages. The pillared rocks of that wild domain were\nthe monoliths of Celtic history, and the vast piles of the native moor\nwere the heaped and unhewn pyramids of an ancient and nameless people.\nAll these surrounding scenes acted on his tastes and impulses. \u201cSo\nthe foundations of his mind were laid!\u201d His father died, and Daniel\nbecame his own master, and had to hew his way through the rugged world\nby what the Cornish call \u201cthe pith of his bones.\u201d That he did so his\nfuture history will attest; but it was not unsoothed nor alone; nor\nwas it without the usual incident of human existence. No man ever yet\nbecame happily great or joyfully distinguished without that kindling\nstrength, the affectionate presence of a woman.\n\n                    \u201cHe who Joy would win,\n    Must share it: Happiness was born a twin.\u201d\n\nSuch was the solace that arrived to soothe the dreary path of Daniel\nGumb. He wooed and won a maiden of his native village, who, amid the\nrugged rocks and appellatives of Cornwall, had the soft Italian name\nof Florence. But where, amid the utter poverty of his position and\nprospects, could he find the peaceful and happy wedding-roof that\nshould bend over him and his bride? His friends were few, and they\ntoo poor and lowly to aid his start in life. He himself had inherited\nnothing save a strong head and heart, and two stalwart hands. He looked\naround him and afar off, and there was no avenue for house or home.\nSuddenly he recalled to mind his wandering days and his houseless\nnights, the scanty food, the absorbing meditation, and the kindly\nshelter of many a nook in the hollow places of the granite rock. He\nformed his plan, and made it known to his future and faithful bride;\nshe assented with the full-hearted strength and trusting sacrifice of a\nwoman\u2019s love. Then he went forth in the might of his simple and strong\nresolve,--his tools in his scrip, and a loaf or two of his accustomed\nhousehold bread. He sought the well-known slope under Carradon,\nsearched many a mass of Druid rock, and paced around cromlech and\npillared stone of old memorial,[71] until he discovered a primeval\nassemblage of granite slabs suited to his toil. One of these, grounded\nupon several others, the vast boulders of some diluvian flood, had the\nrude semblance of a roof. Underneath this shelving rock he scooped\naway the soil, finding, as he dug on, more than one upright slice of\nmoorstone, which he left to stand as an inner and natural wall. At\nlast, at the end of a few laborious days, Daniel stood before a large\ncavern of the rocks, divided into chambers by upstanding granite, and\nsheltered at a steep angle by a mountainous mass of stone. Nerved and\nsustained by the hopeful visions which crowded on his mind, and of\nwhich he firmly trusted that this place would be the future scene,\nhe toiled on until he had finally framed a giant abode such as that\nwherein Cyclops shut in Ulysses and his companions, and promised to\n\u201cdevour No-man the last.\u201d Materials for the pavement and for closing\nup the inner walls were scattered abundantly around--nay, the very\nfurniture for that mountain-home was at once ready for his hand; for\nas Agag,[72] king of the Amalekites, had his vaunted iron bed, so\ndid Gumb frame and hew for himself and Florence, his wife, table and\nseat and a bedstead of native stone. Then he smoothed out and shot\ninto a groove a thick and heavy door, so that, closed like an Eastern\nsepulchre, it demanded no common strength to roll away the stone. When\nall had been prepared, the bridegroom and the bride met at a distant\nchurch; the simple wedding-feast was held at her father\u2019s house; and\nthat night the husband led the maiden of his vows, the bride of his\nyouth, to their wedding-rock! If he had known the ode, he might have\nchanted, in Horatian[73] verse, that day--\n\n    \u201cNunc scio quid sit amor, duris in cotibus illum\u201d\n\n    \u201cNow know I what true love is; in rugged dens he dwells.\u201d\n\nHere the wedded pair dwelt in peace long and happy years, mingling\nthe imagery of old romance with the sterner duties of practical life.\nAs a far-famed hewer of stone, the skill and energy of this singular\nman never lacked employ, nor failed to supply the necessities of his\nmoorland abode. Like a patriarch in his tent amid the solitudes of\nSyria, he was his own king, prophet, and priest. He paid neither rent,\nnor taxes, nor tithe. When children were born to him, he exercised\nunwittingly the power of lay-baptism which was granted in the primitive\nChurch to the inhabitants of a wilderness, afar from the ministry of\nthe priesthood, and his wife was content to be \u201cchurched\u201d by her own\ncherished husband, among the altars of unhewn stone that surrounded\ntheir solitary cell. Who shall say that this simple worship of the\nfather and the mother with their household, amid the paradise of hills,\nwas not as sweet, with the balsam of the soul, as the incense-breathing\npsalm of the cathedral choir? Rightly or wrongly, it is known that\nDaniel entertained an infinite contempt for \u201cthe parsons\u201d whose\nterritories bordered on the moor. Not one of them, it was his wont to\naver, could cross the Asses\u2019 Bridge of his favourite Euclid, a feat\nhe had himself accomplished in very early youth; nor could the most\nlearned among them all unravel the mysteries of his chosen companions,\nthe wandering stars that travelled over Carradon every night. Long\nand frequent were his vigils for astronomical researches and delight.\nTo this day the traveller will encounter on the face of some solitary\nrock a mathematical diagram carefully carved by some chisel and hand\nunknown; and while speculation has often been rife as to the Druidical\norigin of the mystic figure, or the scientific knowledge of the early\nKelts, the local antiquary is aware that these are the simple records\nof the patient studies of Daniel Gumb.\n\nWhen the writer of this article visited the neighbourhood in 183-,\nthere still survived relics and remembrances of this singular man.\nThere were a few written fragments[74] of his thoughts and studies\nstill treasured up in the existing families of himself and his wife.\nHere is a transcript: \u201cMr. Cookworthy told me, when I saw him last,\nthat astronomers in foreign parts, and our great man Sir Isaac here at\nhome, had thought that the planets were so vast, and so like our earth\nin their ways, that they might have been inhabited by men; but he said,\n\u2018their elements and atmosphere are thought to be unfit for human life\nand breath.\u2019 But surely God would not have so wasted His worlds as to\nhave made such great bright masses of His creation to roll along all\nbarren, as it were, like desert places of light in the sky. There must\nbe people of some kind there: how I should like to see them, and to go\nthere when I die!\u201d\n\nAnother entry on the same leaf: \u201cFlorence asked me to-day if I thought\nthat our souls, after we are dead, would know the stars and other\nwise things better than we can now. And I answered her, Yes; and if I\ncould--that is, if I was allowed to--the first thing I would try should\nbe to square the circle true, and then, if I could, I would mark it and\nwork it out somewhere hereabouts on a flat rock, that my son might find\nit there, and so make his fortune and be a great man. N.B.--Florence\nasked me to write this down.\u201d\n\nOn a thick sheet of pasteboard, with a ground-plan of a building on\nthe other side, he had written: \u201c_January 16, 1756_.--A terrible storm\nlast night. Thunder and lightning and hail, with a tempest of wind. Saw\nseveral dead sheep on the moor. Shipwrecks, no doubt, at sea. A thought\ncame into my mind, Why should such harm be allowed to be done? I read\nsome reasons once in a book that Mr. Cookworthy lent me, called \u2018The\nOrigin of Evil;\u2019 but I could not understand a word of it. My notion is,\nthat when evil somehow came into the world, God did not destroy it at\nonce, because He is so almighty that He let it go on, to make manifest\nHis power and majesty; and so He rules over all things, and turns them\ninto good at the last. N.B.--The devil is called in the Bible the\nPrince of the Powers of the Air: so he may be, but he must obey his\nMaster. The poor wretch is but a slave after all!\u201d\n\nOn the fly-leaves of an old account-book the following strange\nstatement appears: \u201c_June 23, 1764_.--To-day, at bright noon, as I was\nat my work upon the moor, I looked up, and saw all at once a stranger\nstanding on the turf, just above my block. He was dressed like an old\npicture I remember in the windows of St. Neot\u2019s Church, in a long\nbrown garment, with a girdle; and his head was uncovered and grizzled\nwith long hair. He spoke to me, and he said, in a low, clear voice,\n\u2018Daniel, that work is hard!\u2019 I wondered that he should know my name,\nand I answered, \u2018Yes, sir; but I am used to it, and don\u2019t mind it,\nfor the sake of the faces at home.\u2019 Then he said, sounding his words\nlike a psalm, \u2018Man goeth forth to his work and to his labour until\nthe evening; when will it be night with Daniel Gumb?\u2019 I began to feel\nqueer; it seemed to me that there was something awful about the unknown\nman. I even shook. Then he said again, \u2018Fear nothing. The happiest man\nin all the earth is he that wins his daily bread by his daily sweat,\nif he will but fear God and do no man wrong.\u2019 I bent down my head like\nany one confounded, and I greatly wondered who this strange appearance\ncould be. He was not like a preacher, for he looked me full in the\nface; nor a bit like a parson, for he seemed very meek and kind. I\nbegan to think it was a spirit, only such ones always come by night,\nand here was I at noonday, and at work. So I made up my mind to drop\nmy hammer and step up and ask his name right out. But when I looked\nup he was gone, and that clear out of my sight, on the bare wide moor\nsuddenly.[75] I only wish that I had gone forward at once and felt him\nwith my hand, and found out if he was a real man or only a resemblance.\nWhat could it mean! Mem. to ask Mr. C.\u201d\n\nThis event is recorded in a more formal and painful handwriting than\nthe other MSS. which survive. Nothing could be further removed from\nsuperstition or fear than this man\u2019s whole character and mind. Hard as\none of his native rocks, and accurate as a diagram, yet here is a tinge\nof that large and artless belief which is so inseparable from a Keltic\norigin, and which is so often manifested by the strongest and loftiest\nminds. Another paragraph, written on the blank page of an almanac, runs\nthus: \u201cFound to-day, in the very heart of a slab rock that came out\nbelow the granite, the bony skeleton of a strange animal, or rather\nsome kind of fish. The stone had never been broken into before, and\nlooked ages older than the rocks above. Now, how came this creature\nto get in, and to die and harden there? Was it before Adam\u2019s time, or\nsince? What date was it? But what can we tell about dates after all?\nTime is nothing but Adam\u2019s clock--a measurement that men invented to\nreckon by. This very rock with the creature in it was made, perhaps,\nbefore there was any such thing as time. In eternity may be--that is,\nbefore there were any dates begun. At all events, when God did make\nthe rock, He must have put the creature there.\u201d This appears to be\na singular and rude anticipation of modern discovery, and a simple\nsolution of a question of science in our own and later time. It is to\nbe lamented that these surviving details of a thoughtful and original\nlife are so few and far between.\n\nGumb appears to have united in his native character the simplicity of\nan ancient hermit and the stern contempt of the solitary student for\nthe busy hum of men, with the brave resolution and independent energy\nof mind which have won success and fame for some of our self-made sons\nof science and skill. But his opportunities were few, and the severance\nof his life and abode from contact with his fellow-men forbade that\naccess to the discoveries and researches of his kind which might have\nrendered him, in other days, the Hugh Miller of the rocks, or the\nStephenson or Watt of a scientific solitude. He and his wife inhabited\ntheir wedded cell for many years and long. The mother on her stony\ncouch gladdened her anxious husband with sons and daughters; but\nshe had the courage to brave her woman\u2019s trials alone, for neither\nmidwife nor doctor were ever summoned to \u201cthe rock.\u201d These, as may\nwell be imagined, were all literally educated at home; but only one\nof their children--his name was John--appears to have inherited his\nfather\u2019s habits or energy. He succeeded to the caverned home after\nDaniel\u2019s death, and when his mother had returned to her native village\nto die also, the existence of John Gumb is casually seen recorded\nas one of the skilful hewers of stone at the foot of Carradon. But\nDaniel died \u201can old man full of days,\u201d and he was carried after all\n_ad plures_, and to the silent society of men, in the churchyard of\nthe parish wherein stood afar off his rocky home. He won and he still\ndeserves a nook of remembrance among the legendary sons of the west,\n\u201cthe giants\u201d of Keltic race, \u201cthe mighty men that were of old, the men\nof renown.\u201d His mind, though rough-hewn, like a block of his native\ngranite, must have been well balanced: resolute and firm reliance on a\nman\u2019s own resources, and disdain of external succour, have ever been\na signal of native genius. To be able to live alone, according to the\nadage of an ancient sage, a man must be either an angel or a demon.\nGumb was neither, but a simple, strong-hearted, and intellectual man.\nHe had the \u201cmens sana in corpore sano\u201d of the poet\u2019s aspiration. A\nscenic taste and a mind \u201cto enjoy the universe\u201d he revealed in the\nvery choice of his abode. In utter scorn of the pent-up city, and\ndislike for the reek of the multitude, he built like \u201cthe Kenite, his\nnest in the rock;\u201d[76] nor did he pitch his stony tent by chance, or\nin a casual place in the wild. He chose and he fixed his home where\nhis eye could command and exult in a stretch of circumferent scenery\na hundred and fifty miles in surrounding extent. In the east, he\ngreeted the morning sun, as he mounted the rugged saddle of Dartmoor\nand Exmoor for his daily career. To the west, Roche, the rock of the\nruined hermitage, lifted a bold and craggy crest to the sky, where long\ncenturies before another solitary of more ascetic mind lay, like the\npatriarch on his pillow of granite, and reared a ladder to heaven by\nthe energy of nightly prayer. Far, far away to the westward the haughty\nsun of England went into the storied sea of Arthur and his knights,\nand touched caressingly the heights of grim Dundagel with a lingering\nhalo of light. These were the visions that soothed and surrounded the\nworker at his daily toil, and roused and strengthened the energies of\nthe self-sustaining man. The lessons of the legend of Daniel Gumb are\nsimple and earnest and strong. The words of supernatural wisdom might\nbe graven as an added superscription on his rock, \u201cWhatsoever thou\ndoest, do it with all thine heart.\u201d If thou be a man friendless and\nalone, the slave of the hammer or the axe, and doomed to the sweat\nof labour day by day till the night shall come that no man can work,\n\u201caide-toi et Dieu t\u2019aidera\u201d--aid thyself and God will succour thee.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[64] From _All the Year Round_, vol. xv. pp. 206-210. 1866. See\nAppendix D.\n\n[65] Spelt \u201cRoutorr\u201d in the lines quoted on p. 234. It seems more\nnatural to take the word as meaning \u201crough, or rugged, tor.\u201d Hawker\nspells it \u201cRoughtor\u201d on p. 124.\n\n[66] Now called \u201cBrown Willy.\u201d See the lines quoted on p. 80.\n\n[67] Compare the lines on Sir Lancelot in \u201cThe Quest of the Sangraal,\u201d\nand Hawker\u2019s note--\n\n    \u201cAh me! that logan of the rocky hills,\n    Pillar\u2019d in storm, calm in the rush of war,\n    Shook at the light touch of his lady\u2019s hand!\u201d\n\nThe ballad on \u201cThe Doom Well of St. Madron\u201d records a similar test of\ninnocence. For Carew\u2019s description of a logan-rock, see end of Appendix\nD.\n\n[68] See Appendix D_a_.\n\n[69]\n\n    \u201cOn one side lay the Ocean, and on one\n    Lay a great water, and the moon was full.\u201d\n\n[70] William Cookworthy (1705-1780) started life as a small druggist in\nNut Street, Plymouth. He had been educated by the Society of Friends,\nand at thirty-one he retired from trade, became a Quaker minister, and\ncontinued so for twenty-five years. About 1758, having discovered a\nnew process of making porcelain, he set up a manufactory at Plymouth,\nwhich was after his death transferred to Bristol, and thence to the\nPotteries. \u201cCookworthy is said to have been a believer in the _dowsing_\nor divining-rod for discovering mineral veins, and we learn that he\nbecame a disciple of Swedenborg.... As a lover of science he was much\nappreciated, as is proved by the fact that Sir Joseph Banks, Dr.\nSolander, and Captain Cook, dined with him at Plymouth before their\nvoyage round the world\u201d (\u201cDictionary of National Biography\u201d). His\nduties led him to travel about the mining districts of Cornwall, and\nhe was a great friend of Nancarrow of Godolphin, a superintendent of\nmines. It would be on these journeys, no doubt, that he came across\nDaniel Gumb. Cookworthy died on October 16, 1780, aged 76.\n\n[71]\n\n    \u201cOn many a cairn\u2019s grey pyramid,\n    Where urns of mighty chiefs lie hid.\u201d\n\n    _Lay of the Last Minstrel._\n\n[72] It was not Agag, but Og, the king of Bashan, who had the bedstead\nof iron. See Deuteronomy iii. 11.\n\n[73] This is probably a slip of the pen for \u201cVirgilian.\u201d The line\noccurs in Virgil\u2019s \u201cEclogues,\u201d 8, 43. There is no stop at \u201cillum.\u201d The\nsentence is carried on to the next lines--\n\n    \u201cAut Tmaros aut Rhodope aut extremi Garamantes\n    Nec generis nostri puerum nec sanguinis edunt.\u201d\n\nConington translates the passage thus: \u201cNow know I what love is; it\nis among savage rocks that he is produced by Tmarus or Rhodope or the\nGaramantes at earth\u2019s end; no child of lineage or blood like ours.\u201d\nHawker\u2019s translation, it must be owned, is preferable as far as it goes.\n\n[74] Evidences of thought and style make it almost certain that these\ningenious \u201cfragments\u201d are Hawker\u2019s \u201cown invention.\u201d See note on p. 104.\n\n[75] It was a trick of Hawker\u2019s style to end a sentence with this\nor similar adverbs. Instances occur on pp. 17 and 172. Elsewhere he\nwrites: \u201cAs the lightning leaps from the dark cloud suddenly.\u201d Little\npoints like this suggest the real authorship of Daniel Gumb\u2019s diary.\n\n[76] Numbers xxiv. 21, \u201cAnd he (Balaam) looked on the Kenites, and\ntook up his parable, and said, Strong is thy dwelling-place, and thou\nputtest thy nest in a rock.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nANTONY PAYNE, A CORNISH\n\nGIANT[77]\n\n\nOn the brow of a lofty hill, crested with stag-horned trees, commanding\na deep and woodland gorge wherein \u201cthe Crooks of Combe\u201d[78] (the curves\nof a winding river) urge onward to the \u201cSevern Sea,\u201d still survive\nthe remains of famous old Stowe,--that historic abode of the loyal\nand glorious Sir Beville,[79] the Bayard of old Cornwall, \u201csans peur\net sans reproche,\u201d in the thrilling Stuart wars. No mansion on the\nTamar-side ever accumulated so rich and varied a store of association\nand event. Thither the sons of the Cornish gentry were accustomed to\nresort, to be nurtured and brought up with the children of Sir Beville\nGranville and Lady Grace; for the noble knight was literally the \u201cglass\nwherein\u201d the youth of those ancient times \u201cdid dress themselves.\u201d There\ntheir graver studies were relieved by manly pastime and athletic\nexercise. Like the children of the Persians, they were taught \u201cto\nride, to bend the bow, and to speak the truth.\u201d At hearth and hall\nevery time-honoured usage and festive celebration was carefully and\nreverently preserved. Around the walls branched the massive antlers\nof the red deer of the moors, the trophies of many a bold achievement\nwith horse and hound. At the buttery-hatch hung a tankard marked with\nthe guests\u2019 and the travellers\u2019 peg, and a manchet, flanked with\nnative cheese, stood ready on a trencher for any sudden visitant who\nmight choose to lift the latch; for the Granville motto was, \u201cAn open\ndoor and a greeting hand.\u201d A troop of retainers, servants, grooms,\nand varlets of the yard, stood each in his place, and under orders to\nreceive with a welcome the unknown stranger, as well as their master\u2019s\nkinsman and friend.\n\n[Illustration: ANTONY PAYNE\u2019S HOUSE, STRATTON, now the Tree Inn.]\n\nAmong these, at the beginning of the seventeenth century, appeared a\nremarkable personage. He was the son of an old tenant on the estate,\nwho occupied the manor-house of Stratton, a neighbouring town. His\nparents were of the yeoman rank in life, and possessed no singularity\nof personal aspect or frame, although both were comely. But Antony,\ntheir son, was from his earliest years a wonderful boy. He shot up\ninto preternatural stature and strength. His proportions were so vast\nthat, when he was a mere lad, his schoolmates were accustomed to\n\u201cborrow his back,\u201d and, for sport, to work out their geography lessons\nor arithmetic on that broad disc in chalk; so that, to his mother\u2019s\namazement and dismay, he more than once brought home, like Atlas, the\nworld on his shoulders, for her to rub out. His strength and skill in\nevery boyish game were marvellous, and, unlike many other large men,\nhis mental and intellectual faculties increased with his amazing growth.\n\nIt was Antony Payne\u2019s delight to select two of his stoutest companions,\nwhom he termed \u201chis kittens,\u201d and, with one under each arm, to climb\nsome perilous crag or cliff in the neighbourhood of the sea, \u201cto show\nthem the world,\u201d as he said. He was called in the school \u201cUncle Tony,\u201d\nfor the Cornish to this day employ the names \u201cuncle and aunt\u201d as titles\nof endearment and respect. Another relic of his boyhood is extant\nstill: the country lads, when they describe anything of excessive\ndimensions, call it, \u201cAs long as Tony Payne\u2019s foot.\u201d\n\nHe grew on gradually, and in accurate proportion of sinews and thews,\nuntil, at the age of twenty-one, he was taken into the establishment at\nStowe. He then measured seven feet two inches without his shoes,[80]\nand he afterwards added a couple of inches more to his stately growth.\nWide-chested, full-armed, and pillared like a rock on lower limbs of\nample and exact symmetry, he would have gladdened the critical eyes of\nQueen Elizabeth, whose Tudor taste led her to exult in \u201clooking on a\nman.\u201d If his lot had fallen in later days, he might have been hired by\nsome wonder-monger to astonish the provincial mind, or the intellect of\ncities, as the Cornish Chang. But in good, old, honest, simple-hearted\nEngland, they utilised their giants, and deemed that when a cubit was\nadded to the stature of a man, it was for some wise good end, and they\nlooked upon their loftier brother with added honour and respect.\n\nSo for many years Payne continued to fulfil his various duties as Sir\nBeville\u2019s chief retainer at Stowe. He it was who was the leader and\nthe authority in every masculine sport. He embowelled and flayed the\nhunted deer, and carried the carcass on his own shoulders to the Hall,\nwhere he received as his guerdon the horns and the hide. The antlers,\ncleansed and polished, were hoisted as a trophy on the panelled wall;\nand the skins, dressed and prepared, were shaped into a jerkin for\nhis goodly chest. It took the spoils of three full-grown red deer to\nmake the garment complete. His master\u2019s sons and their companions, the\nvery pride of the West, who were housed and instructed at Stowe, when\nreleased from their graver studies, were under his especial charge.\nHe taught them to shoot, and fish, and to handle arms. Tilt-yard and\nbowling-green, and the hurler\u2019s ground, can still be identified at\nStowe. In the latter, the poising-place and the mark survive, and a\nrough block of graywacke is called to this day \u201cPayne\u2019s cast;\u201d it lies\nfull ten paces beyond the reach whereat the ordinary players could \u201cput\nthe stone.\u201d\n\nIt is said that one Christmas-eve the fire languished in the Hall.\nA boy with an ass had been sent to the woodland for logs, and the\ndriver loitered on his homeward way. Lady Grace lost patience, and\nwas displeased. All at once a sudden outcry was heard at the gate,\nand Sir Beville\u2019s Giant appeared with the loaded animal on his mighty\nback. He threw down his burden in triumph at the hearth-side, shouting\nmerrily, \u201cAss and fardel! ass and fardel for my lady\u2019s Yule!\u201d Another\ntime he strode along the path from Kilkhampton village to Stowe with\na bacon-hog of three hundredweight thrown across his shoulders, and\nmerely because a taunting butcher had doubted his strength for the\nfeat. Among the excellences of Sir Beville\u2019s Giant, it is told of him\nthat he was by no means clumsy or uncouth, as men of unusual size\nsometimes are, but as nimble and elastic, and as capable of swift and\ndexterous movement, as a light and muscular man. Added to this, his\nwas a strong and acute intellect; so happy also in his language, and\nof such a ready wit, that he was called by a writer[81] of the last\ncentury, from his resemblance, in these points only, to Shakespeare\u2019s\nknight, \u201cthe Falstaff of the West.\u201d\n\nBut a great and sudden change was about to come over the happy halls\nof Stowe. The king and his Parliament were at fatal strife; and there\ncould be but one place in the land for the true-hearted and chivalrous\nSir Beville, and that was at his royal master\u2019s side.[82] The\nwell-known rallying cry went through the hills and valleys of Cornwall,\n\u201cGranville\u2019s up!\u201d and the hearts and hands of many a noble knight and\nman-at-arms turned towards old Stowe. Mounted messengers rode to and\nfro. Strange and stalwart forms arrived to claim a place in the ranks.\nRetainers were enrolled day and night; and the smooth sward of the\nbowling-green and the Fawn\u2019s Paddock were dinted by the hoofs of horses\nand the tread of serried men. Foremost among these scenes we find, as\nbody-guard of his master, the bulky form of Antony Payne. He marshalled\nand man\u0153uvred the rude levies from the western mines, \u201cthe underground\nmen.\u201d He served out arms and rations, and established order, by the\nmere terror of his presence and strength, among the wild and mixed\nmultitude that gathered \u201cfor the king and land.\u201d\n\nInstead of the glad and hospitable scenery of former times, Stowe\nbecame in those days like a garrison surrounded by a camp. At last,\none day tidings arrived that the battalions of the Parliament, led by\nLord Stamford, were on their way northwards, and not many miles off. A\npicked and goodly company marched forth from the avenue of Stowe, and\namong them Payne, on his Cornish cob Samson, of pure Guinhilly breed.\nThe next day, eight miles towards the south, the battle of Stratton\nHill was fought and won by the royal troops. The Earl of Stamford\nwas repulsed, and fled, bequeathing, by a strange mischance, his own\nname, though the defeated commander, to the field of battle. It is\ncalled to this day Stamford Hill.[83] Sir Beville returned that night\nto Stowe, but his Giant remained with some other soldiers to bury the\ndead. He had caused certain large trenches to be laid open, each to\nhold ten bodies side by side. There he and his followers carried in the\nslain. On one occasion they had laid down nine corpses, and Payne was\nbringing in another, tucked under his arm, like one of \u201cthe kittens\u201d\nof his schoolboy days, when all at once the supposed dead man was heard\npleading earnestly with him, and expostulating, \u201cSurely you wouldn\u2019t\nbury me, Mr. Payne, before I am dead?\u201d \u201cI tell thee, man,\u201d was the grim\nreply, \u201cour trench was dug for ten, and there\u2019s nine in already; you\nmust take your place.\u201d \u201cBut I bean\u2019t dead, I say; I haven\u2019t done living\nyet; be massyful, Mr. Payne--don\u2019t ye hurry a poor fellow into the\nearth before his time.\u201d \u201cI won\u2019t hurry thee: I mean to put thee down\nquietly and cover thee up, and then thee canst die at thy leisure.\u201d\nPayne\u2019s purpose, however, was kinder than his speech. He carried his\nsuppliant carefully to his own cottage not far off, and charged his\nwife to stanch, if possible, her husband\u2019s rebellious blood. The man\nlived, and his descendants are among the principal inhabitants of the\ntown of Stratton to this day.[84]\n\nThat same year the battle of Lansdown, near Bath, was fought. The\nforces of the Parliament prevailed, and Sir Beville nobly died. Payne\nwas still at his side, and, when his master fell, he mounted young\nJohn Granville, a youth of sixteen, whom he had always in charge, on\nhis father\u2019s horse, and he led the Granville troop into the fight. A\nletter[85] which the faithful retainer wrote to his lady at Stowe still\nsurvives. It breathes in the quaint language of the day a noble strain\nof sympathy and homage. Thus it ran:--\n\n    \u201cHONOURED MADAM,--Ill news flieth apace. The heavy tidings no doubt\n    hath already travelled to Stowe that we have lost our blessed\n    master by the enemy\u2019s advantage. You must not, dear lady, grieve\n    too much for your noble spouse. You know, as we all believe, that\n    his soul was in heaven before his bones were cold. He fell, as he\n    did often tell us he wished to die, in the great Stuart cause, for\n    his country and his king. He delivered to me his last commands,\n    and with such tender words for you and for his children as are\n    not to be set down with my poor pen, but must come to your ears\n    upon my best heart\u2019s breath. Master John, when I mounted him on\n    his father\u2019s horse, rode him into the war like a young prince, as\n    he is, and our men followed him with their swords drawn and with\n    tears in their eyes. They did say they would kill a rebel for every\n    hair of Sir Beville\u2019s beard. But I bade them remember their good\n    master\u2019s word, when he wiped his sword after Stamford fight; how\n    he said, when their cry was, \u2018Stab and slay!\u2019 \u2018Halt, men! God will\n    avenge.\u2019 I am coming down with the mournfullest load that ever a\n    poor servant did bear, to bring the great heart that is cold to\n    Kilkhampton vault. Oh, my lady, how shall I ever brook your weeping\n    face? But I will be trothful to the living and to the dead.\n\n    \u201cThese, honoured madam, from thy saddest, truest servant,\n\n  \u201cANTONY PAYNE.\u201d\n\n[Illustration: ANTONY PAYNE (p. 118)\n\n_From the picture by Sir Godfrey Kneller_]\n\nAt the Restoration the Stowe Giant reappears upon the scene in\nattendance on his young master, John Granville. Sir Beville\u2019s son\nhad been instrumental in the return of the king, and had received\nfrom Charles II. largess of money, great offices, and the earldom\nof Bath. Among other places of trust, he was appointed Governor\nof the Garrison at Plymouth. There Payne received the appointment\nof Halberdier of the Guns, and the king, who held him in singular\nfavour, commanded his portrait to be painted by the Court artist, Sir\nGodfrey Kneller.[86] The fate of this picture was one of great\nvicissitude. It hung in state for some years in the great gallery at\nStowe; thence, when that mansion was dismantled at the death of the\nEarl of Bath, it was removed to Penheale, another manor-house of the\nGranvilles, in Cornwall; but it ceased to be highly esteemed, from\nignorance of the people and the oblivion of years, insomuch so that\nwhen Gilbert, the Cornish historian, travelled through the county to\ncollect materials for his work, he discovered the portrait rolled up\nin an empty room, and described by the farmer\u2019s wife as \u201ca carpet with\nthe effigy of a large man upon it.\u201d It was a gift to her husband, she\nsaid, from the landlord\u2019s steward, and she was glad to sell it as she\ndid for \u00a38! When Gilbert died his collection of antique curiosities\nwas sold by auction at Devonport, where he lived, and this portrait\nof Payne, which had been engraved as the frontispiece to the second\nvolume of his \u201cHistory of Cornwall,\u201d was bought by a stranger who\nwas passing through the town, and who had strolled in to look at the\nsale, at the price of forty guineas. The value had been apparently\nenhanced by oil, and varnish, and frame. This stranger proved to be a\nconnoisseur in paintings: he conveyed it to London, and there it was\nascertained to be one of the masterpieces of Kneller; it was resold\nfor the enormous sum of \u00a3800. This picture, or even the engraving in\nGilbert\u2019s work, reveals still to the eye the Giant of Old Stowe, \u201cin\nhis natural presentment\u201d as he lived. There he stands before the eye,\na stalwart soldier of the guard. One hand is placed upon a cannon, and\nthe other wields the tall halberd of his rank and office as yeoman\nof the guns. By a strange accident this very weapon[87] and a large\nflask or flagon,[88] sheathed in wicker-work, which is said to have\nheld \u201cAntony\u2019s allowance,\u201d a gallon of wine, and which is placed in\nthe picture on the ground at his feet--both these relics of the time\nand the man are now in the possession of the writer of this article,\nin the Vicarage House, near Stowe. It was in Plymouth garrison, and\nin his later days, that an event is recorded of Payne which testifies\nthat even after long years \u201chis eye had not grown dim, neither was his\nnatural force abated.\u201d The Revolution had come and gone, and William\nand Mary had been enthroned. At the mess-table of the regiment\nin garrison, on the anniversary of the day when Charles I. had been\nbeheaded, a sub-officer of Payne\u2019s own rank had ordered a calf\u2019s head\nto be served up in a \u201cWilliam-and-Mary dish.\u201d This, in those days of\nnew devotion to the house of Hanover, was a coarse and common annual\nmockery of the beheaded king; and delf, with the faces of these two\nsovereigns for ornament, was a valued ware (the writer has one large\ndish). When Payne entered the room, his comrades pointed out to him the\ninsulting and practical jest--to him, too, most offensive, for he was\na Stuart man. With a ready and indignant gesture he threw out of the\nwindow the symbolic platter and its contents.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 3\n\nANTONY PAYNE\u2019S FLAGON (P. 120)]\n\nA fierce quarrel ensued and a challenge, and at break of day Payne\nand his antagonist fought with swords on the ramparts. After a strong\ncontest--for the offender was a master of his weapon--Payne ran his\nadversary through the sword-arm and disabled him. He is said to have\naccompanied the successful thrust with the taunting shout, \u201cThere\u2019s\nsauce for thy calf\u2019s head!\u201d When the strong man at last began to bow\nhimself down at the approach of one stronger than he, the Giant of\nStowe obtained leave to retire. He returned to Stratton, his native\nplace, and found shelter and repose in the very house and chamber\nwherein he was born.\n\nAfter his death, neither the door nor the stairs would afford egress\nfor the large and coffined corpse. The joists had to be sawn through,\nand the floor lowered with rope and pulley, to enable the Giant to pass\nout towards his mighty grave. Relays of strong bier-men carried him\nto his rest, and the bells of the tower, by his own express desire,\n\u201cchimed him home.\u201d He was buried outside the southern wall of Stratton\nchurch.[89] When the writer was a boy, the sexton one day broke, by\naccident, through the side wall of a vast but empty sepulchre. Many\nwent to see the sight, and there, marked by a stone in the wall, was a\nvault, like the tomb of the Anakim, large enough in these days for the\ninterment of three or four of our degenerate dead. But it was empty,\ndesolate, and bare. No mammoth bones nor mysterious relics of the\nunknown dead. A massive heap of silent dust!\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[77] From _All the Year Round_, vol. xvi. pp. 247-249. 1866. See\nAppendix E.\n\n[78] See Appendix B.\n\n[79] Compare Hawker\u2019s poem, \u201cSir Beville--the Gate Song of Stowe.\u201d See\nalso Appendix E_a_.\n\n[80] It is said locally that Antony\u2019s stocking would hold a peck of\nwheat.\n\n[81] C. S. Gilbert in his \u201cHistory of Cornwall.\u201d\n\n[82]\n\n    \u201cRide! ride! with red spur, there is death in delay,\n      \u2019Tis a race for dear life with the devil;\n    If dark Cromwell prevail, and the king must give way,\n      This earth is no place for Sir Beville.\u201d\n\n    _The Gate Song of Stowe._\n\n[83] There is a description of this battle in Q\u2019s novel, \u201cThe Splendid\nSpur,\u201d one of the most vivid and stirring battle pictures in modern\nfiction.\n\n[84] In a letter dated September 21, 1866, to his brother-in-law, the\nlate Mr. John Sommers James, Hawker says, \u201cHe (Antony Payne) was an\nAncestor of Captain Parsons and Sam. He was going to bury your Great\nGrandfather at Stamford Hill alive, wounded among the other Rebels, but\nhe spared him, and, as I have stated, his \u2018descendants are among the\nmost conspicuous of the Inhabitants of Stratton to this day.\u2019\u201d\n\n[85] The authenticity of this letter is doubtful. If spurious, however,\nit is interesting as an example of Hawker\u2019s Chattertonian propensities\nand his skill in catching the antique style. (See Appendix E.)\n\n[86] Sir Godfrey Kneller (1646-1723), a German by birth, was Court\npainter to five English sovereigns, Charles II., James II., William\nIII., Anne, and George I. He came to England in 1675, and if Charles\nII., who died in 1685, commanded him to paint the portrait of Antony\nPayne, it must have been between those years that the picture was\nexecuted. According to the dedication under Gilbert\u2019s engraving,\nhowever, it was done at the expense of the Earl of Bath. The Royal\nInstitution of Cornwall, Truro, has published a pamphlet (price 2_d._)\nentitled \u201cA Short Account of Anthony Payne, the Cornish Giant, and the\nHistory of his Portrait.\u201d This states that the picture was painted\nin 1680. \u201cTen reigning sovereigns in all sat to Kneller for their\nportraits. His sitters included almost all persons of rank, wealth, or\neminence, in his day, and examples of his brush may be found in nearly\nevery historic mansion or palace in the kingdom.... Kneller can best be\nstudied at Hampton Court\u201d (\u201cDictionary of National Biography\u201d).\n\n[87] In the letter to Mr. J. Sommers James quoted above Hawker refers\nto Antony Payne as \u201cowner of the spear your brother Henry gave me years\nago.\u201d\n\n[88] This flagon was given by Mr. Hawker to Mr. Thomas Shephard, of\nStratton, whose daughter, Mrs. William Shephard, of Barnstaple, has\npresented it to Truro Museum. (See illustration facing p. 14.) The\nShephards are descendants of Antony Payne, and Mr. William Shephard has\nin his possession a pewter shaving cup that belonged to Antony\u2019s father.\n\n[89] Gilbert says \u201cin the north aisle.\u201d Possibly Hawker altered this\nin accordance with the superstition mentioned on p. 21. See end of\nAppendix E.\n\n\n\n\nCRUEL COPPINGER[90]\n\n\nA record of the wild, strange, lawless characters that roamed along\nthe north coast of Cornwall during the middle and latter years of the\nlast century would be a volume full of interest for the student of\nlocal history and semi-barbarous life. Therein would be found depicted\nthe rough sea-captain, half smuggler, half pirate, who ran his lugger\nby beacon-light into some rugged cove among the massive headlands of\nthe shore, and was relieved of his freight by the active and diligent\n\u201ccountry-side.\u201d This was the name allotted to that chosen troop of\nnative sympathisers who were always ready to rescue and conceal the\nstores that had escaped the degradation of the gauger\u2019s brand. Men\nyet alive relate with glee how they used to rush at some well-known\nsignal to the strand, their small active horses shaved from forelock\nto tail, smoother than any modern clip, well soaped or greased from\nhead to foot, so as to slip easily out of any hostile grasp; and then,\nwith a double keg or pack slung on to every nag by a single girth,\naway went the whole herd, led by some swift well-trained mare, to the\ninland cave or rocky hold, the shelter of their spoil. There was a\nfamous dun mare--she lived to the age of thirty-seven, and died within\nlegal memory--almost human in her craft and fidelity, who is said to\nhave led a bevy of loaded pack-horses, unassisted by driver or guide,\nfrom Bossinney Haun to Roughtor Point. But beside these travellers by\nsea, there would be found ever and anon, in some solitary farmhouse\ninaccessible by wheels, and only to be approached by some treacherous\nfoot-path along bog and mire, a strange and nameless guest--often a\nforeigner in language and apparel--who had sought refuge with the\nnative family, and who paid in strange but golden coins for his shelter\nand food; some political or private adventurer, perchance, to whom\nsecrecy and concealment were safety and life, and who more than once\nlived and died in his solitary hiding-place on the moor.\n\n[Illustration: INTERIOR OF GALSHAM, once the home of Cruel Coppinger.]\n\nThere is a bedstead of carved oak still in existence at Trevotter--a\nfarm among the midland hills--whereon for long years an unknown\nstranger slept. None ever knew his nation or name. He occupied a\nsolitary room, and only emerged now and then for a walk in the evening\nair. An oaken chest of small size contained his personal possessions\nand gold of foreign coinage, which he paid into the hands of his host\nwith the solemn charge to conceal it until he was gone thence or\ndead--a request which the simple-hearted people faithfully fulfilled.\nHis linen was beautifully fine, and his garments richly embroidered.\nAfter some time he sickened and died, refusing firmly the visits of\nthe local clergyman, and bequeathing to the farmer the contents of\nhis chest. He wrote some words, they said, for his own tombstone,\nwhich, however, were not allowed to be engraved, but they were simply\nthese--\u201cH. De R. Equees & Ecsul.\u201d The same sentence was found, after\nhis death, carved on the ledge of his bed, and the letters are, or\nlately were, still traceable on the mouldering wood.\n\nBut among the legends of local renown a prominent place has always been\nallotted to a personage whose name has descended to our times linked\nto a weird and graphic epithet--\u201cCruel Coppinger.\u201d There was a ballad\nin existence within human memory which was founded on the history of\nthis singular man, but of which the first verse[91] only can now be\nrecovered. It runs--\n\n    \u201cWill you hear of the Cruel Coppinger?\n      He came from a foreign kind;\n    He was brought to us by the salt-water,\n      He was carried away by the wind.\u201d\n\nHis arrival on the north coast of Cornwall was signalised by a terrific\nhurricane. The storm came up Channel from the south-west. The shore and\nthe heights were dotted with watchers for wreck--those daring gleaners\nof the harvest of the sea. It was just such a scene as is sought for in\nthe proverb of the West--\n\n    \u201cA savage sea and a shattering wind,\n    The cliffs before, and the gale behind.\u201d\n\nAs suddenly as if a phantom ship had loomed in the distance, a strange\nvessel of foreign rig was discovered in fierce struggle with the waves\nof Harty Race. She was deeply laden or waterlogged, and rolled heavily\nin the trough of the sea, nearing the shore as she felt the tide.\nGradually the pale and dismayed faces of the crew became visible, and\namong them one man of herculean height and mould, who stood near the\nwheel with a speaking-trumpet in his hand. The sails were blown to\nrags, and the rudder was apparently lashed for running ashore. But the\nsuck of the current and the set of the wind were too strong for the\nvessel, and she appeared to have lost her chance of reaching Harty\nPool. It was seen that the tall seaman, who was manifestly the skipper\nof the boat, had cast off his garments, and stood prepared upon the\ndeck to encounter a battle with the surges for life and rescue. He\nplunged over the bulwarks, and arose to sight buffeting the seas. With\nstalwart arm and powerful chest he made his way through the surf, rode\nmanfully from billow to billow, until with a bound he stood at last\nupright upon the sand, a fine stately semblance of one of the old\nVikings of the northern seas. A crowd of people had gathered from the\nland, on horseback and on foot, women as well as men, drawn together\nby the tidings of a probable wreck. Into their midst, and to their\nastonished dismay, rushed the dripping stranger: he snatched from a\nterrified old dame her red Welsh cloak, cast it loosely around him, and\nbounded suddenly upon the crupper of a young damsel, who had ridden\nher father\u2019s horse down to the beach to see the sight. He grasped her\nbridle, and, shouting aloud in some foreign language, urged on the\ndouble-laden animal into full speed, and the horse naturally took his\nhomeward way. Strange and wild were the outcries that greeted the\nrider, Miss Dinah Hamlyn, when, thus escorted, she reached her father\u2019s\ndoor in the very embrace of a wild, rough, tall man, who announced\nhimself by a name--never afterwards forgotten in those parts--as\nCoppinger, a Dane. He arrayed himself without the smallest scruple in\nthe Sunday suit of his host. The long-skirted coat of purple velveteen\nwith large buttons, the embroidered vest, and nether garments to match,\nbecame him well. So thought the lady of his sudden choice. She, no\ndoubt, forgave his onslaught on her and on her horse for the compliment\nit conveyed. He took his immediate place at the family board, and on\nthe settle by the hearth, as though he had been the most welcome and\nlong-invited guest in the land. Strange to say, the vessel disappeared\nimmediately he had left her deck, nor was she ever after traced by land\nor sea. At first the stranger subdued all the fierce phases of his\nsavage character, and appeared deeply grateful for all the kindness he\nreceived at the hands of his simple-hearted host. Certain letters which\nhe addressed to persons of high name in Denmark were, or were alleged\nto be, duly answered, and remittances from his friends were supposed\nto be received. He announced himself as of a wealthy family and\nsuperior rank in his native country, and gave out that it was to avoid\na marriage with a titled lady that he had left his father\u2019s house and\ngone to sea. All this recommended him to the unsuspecting Dinah, whose\naffections he completely won. Her father\u2019s sudden illness postponed\ntheir marriage. The good old man died to be spared much evil to come.\n\nThe Dane succeeded almost naturally to the management and control\nof the house, and the widow held only an apparent influence in\ndomestic affairs. He soon persuaded the daughter to become his wife,\nand immediately afterwards his evil nature, so long smouldering, broke\nout like a wild beast uncaged. All at once the house became the den\nand refuge of every lawless character on the coast. All kinds of wild\nuproar and reckless revelry appalled the neighbourhood day and night.\nIt was discovered that an organised band of desperadoes, smugglers,\nwreckers, and poachers were embarked in a system of bold adventure, and\nthat \u201cCruel Coppinger\u201d was their captain. In those days, and in that\nunknown and far-away region, the peaceable inhabitants were totally\nunprotected. There was not a single resident gentleman of property or\nweight in the entire district; and the clergyman, quite insulated from\nassociates of his own standing, was cowed into silence and submission.\nNo revenue officer durst exercise vigilance west of the Tamar; and to\nput an end to all such surveillance at once, it was well known that one\nof the \u201cCruel\u201d gang had chopped off a gauger\u2019s head on the gunwale of a\nboat, and carried the body off to sea.[92]\n\nAmid such scenes Coppinger pursued his unlawful impulses without check\nor restraint. Strange vessels began to appear at regular intervals on\nthe coast, and signals were duly flashed from the headlands to lead\nthem into the safest creek or cove. If the ground-sea were too strong\nto allow them to run in, they anchored outside the surf, and boats\nprepared for that service were rowed or hauled to and fro, freighted\nwith illegal spoil. Amongst these vessels, one, a full-rigged schooner,\nsoon became ominously conspicuous. She bore the name of the Black\nPrince, and was the private property of the Dane, built to his own\norder in a dockyard of Denmark. She was for a long time the chief\nterror of the Cornish Channel. Once with Coppinger on board, when under\nchase, she led a revenue cutter into an intricate channel near the Gull\nRock, where, from knowledge of the bearings, the Black Prince escaped\nscathless, while the king\u2019s vessel perished with all on board. In those\ntimes, if any landsman became obnoxious to Coppinger\u2019s men, he was\neither seized by violence or by craft, and borne away handcuffed to\nthe deck of the Black Prince; where, to save his life, he had to enrol\nhimself, under fearful oaths, as one of the crew. In 1835, an old man\nof the age of ninety-seven related to the writer that, when a youth, he\nhad been so abducted, and after two years\u2019 service had been ransomed by\nhis friends with a large sum. \u201cAnd all,\u201d said the old man, very simply,\n\u201cbecause I happened to see one man kill another, and they thought I\nshould mention it.\u201d\n\nAmid such practices ill-gotten gold began to flow and ebb in the hands\nof Coppinger. At one time he chanced to hold enough money to purchase\na freehold farm bordering on the sea. When the day of transfer arrived,\nhe and one of his followers appeared before the astonished lawyer with\nbags filled with various kinds of foreign coin. Dollars and ducats,\ndoubloons and pistoles, guineas--the coinage of every foreign country\nwith a seaboard--were displayed on the table. The man of law at first\ndemurred to such purchase-money; but after some controversy, and an\nominous oath or two of \u201cthat or none,\u201d the lawyer agreed to take it\nby weight. The document bearing Coppinger\u2019s name is still extant.\nHis signature is traced in stern, bold, fierce characters, as if\nevery letter had been stabbed upon the parchment with the point of a\ndirk. Underneath his autograph, also in his own writing, is the word\n\u201cThuro.\u201d[93]\n\nLong impunity increased Coppinger\u2019s daring. There were certain byways\nand bridle-roads along the fields over which he exercised exclusive\ncontrol. Although every one had a perfect right by law to use these\nways, he issued orders that no man was to pass over them by night, and\naccordingly from that hour none ever did. They were called \u201cCoppinger\u2019s\nTracks.\u201d They all converged at a headland which had the name of\nSteeple Brink. Here the cliff sheered off, and stood three hundred\nfeet of perpendicular height, a precipice of smooth rock toward the\nbeach, with an overhanging face one hundred feet down from the brow.\nThere was a hollow entrance into the cliff, like a huge cathedral\ndoor, crowned and surrounded with natural Saxon arches, curved by the\nstrata of native stone. Within was an arched and vaulted cave, vast\nand gloomy; it ran a long way into the heart of the land, and was as\nlarge and tall--so the country-people said--as Kilkhampton church.\nThis stronghold was inaccessible by natural means, and could only be\napproached by a cable-ladder lowered from above and made fast below\non a projecting crag. It received the name of \u201cCoppinger\u2019s Cave,\u201d and\nwas long the scene of fierce and secret revelry that would be utterly\ninconceivable to the educated mind of the nineteenth century. Here\nsheep were tethered to the rock, and fed on stolen hay and corn till\ntheir flesh was required for a feast: kegs of brandy and hollands\nwere piled around; chests of tea; and iron-bound sea-chests contained\nthe chattels and the revenues of the Coppinger royalty of the sea.\nNo man ever essayed the perilous descent into the cavern except the\ncaptain\u2019s own troop, and their loyalty was secured, not only by their\nparticipation in his crimes, but by a terrible oath.\n\nThe terror linked with Coppinger\u2019s name throughout the coast was so\nextreme that the people themselves, wild and lawless as they were,\nsubmitted to his sway as though he had been the lord of the soil\nand they his vassals. Such a household as Coppinger\u2019s was of course\nfar from happy or calm. Although when his wife\u2019s father died he had\ninsensibly acquired possession of the stock and farm, there remained\nin the hands of the widow a considerable amount of money as her dower.\nThis he obtained from the poor helpless woman by instalments; and when\npretext and entreaty alike failed, he resorted to a novel mode of levy.\nHe fastened his wife to the pillar of her oak bedstead, and called her\nmother into the room. He then explained that it was his purpose to\nflog Dinah with the sea-cat, which he flourished in his hand, until\nher mother had transferred to him such an amount as he required of\nher reserved property. This deed of atrocity he repeated until he had\nutterly exhausted the widow\u2019s store. He had a favourite mare, so fierce\nand indomitable that none but Coppinger himself could venture on her\nback, and so fleet and strong that he owed his escape from more than\none menacing peril by her speed and endurance. The clergyman had spoken\nabove his breath of the evil doings in the cave, and had thus aroused\nhis wrath and vengeance.[94] On a certain day he was jogging homeward\non his parish cob, and had reached the middle of a wide and desolate\nheath. All at once he heard behind him the clattering of horse-hoofs\nand a yell such as might have burst from the throat of the visible\ndemon when he hurled the battle on the ancient saint. It was Cruel\nCoppinger with his double-thonged whip, mounted on his terrible mare.\nDown came the fearful scourge on his victim\u2019s shuddering shoulders.\nEscape was impossible. The poor parson knew too well the difference\nbetween his own ambling galloway, that never essayed any swifter pace\nthan a jog-trot, and that awful steed behind him with footsteps like\nthe storm. Circling, doubling like a hare, twisting aside, crying aloud\nfor mercy,--all was vain. He arrived at last at his own house, striped\nlike a zebra, and as he rushed in at the gate he heard the parting\nscoff of his assailant, \u201cThere, parson, I have paid my tithe in full;\nnever mind the receipt!\u201d\n\nIt was on the self-same animal that Coppinger performed another freak.\nHe had passed a festive evening at a farmhouse, and was about to take\nhis departure, when he spied at the corner of the hearth a little old\ntailor of the country-side, who went from house to house to exercise\nhis calling. He was a half-witted, harmless old fellow, and answered\nto the name of Uncle Tom Tape.\n\n\u201cHa, Uncle Tom!\u201d cried Coppinger; \u201cwe both travel the same road, and I\ndon\u2019t mind giving thee a hoist behind me on the mare.\u201d\n\nThe old man cowered in the settle. He would not encumber the\ngentleman,--was unaccustomed to ride such a spirited horse. But all\nhis excuses were overborne. The other guests, entering into the joke,\nassisted the trembling old man to mount the crupper of the capering\nmare. Off she bounded, and Uncle Tom, with his arms cast with the\nstrong gripe of terror around his bulky companion, held on like grim\ndeath. Unbuckling his belt, Coppinger passed it around Uncle Tom\u2019s\nthin haggard body, and buckled it on his own front. When he had firmly\nsecured his victim, he loosened his reins, and urged the mare with\nthong and spur into a furious gallop. Onward they rushed till they fled\npast the tailor\u2019s own door at the roadside, where his startled wife,\nwho was on the watch, afterwards declared \u201cshe caught sight of her\nhusband clinging on to a rainbow.\u201d Loud and piteous were the outcries\nof Tailor Tom, and earnest his shrieks of entreaty that he might be\ntold where he was to be carried that night, and for what doom he had\nbeen buckled on. At last, in a relaxation of their pace going up a\nsteep hill, Coppinger made him a confidential communication.\n\n\u201cI have been,\u201d he said, \u201cunder a long promise to the devil that I would\nbring him a tailor to make and mend for him, poor man; and as sure as I\nbreathe, Uncle Tom, I mean to keep my word to-night!\u201d\n\nThe agony of terror produced by this revelation produced such\nconvulsive spasms, that at last the belt gave way, and the tailor fell\noff like a log among the gorse at the roadside. There he was found next\nmorning in a semi-delirious state, muttering at intervals, \u201cNo, no; I\nnever will. Let him mend his breeches with his own drag-chain, as the\nsaying is. I will never so much as thread a needle for Coppinger nor\nhis friend.\u201d\n\nOne boy was the only fruit of poor Dinah\u2019s marriage with the Dane. But\nhis birth brought neither gladness nor solace to his mother\u2019s miserable\nhearth. He was fair and golden-haired, and had his father\u2019s fierce,\nflashing eyes. But though perfectly well formed and healthful, he was\nborn deaf and dumb. He was mischievous and ungovernable from his birth.\nHis cruelty to animals, birds, and to other children was intense. Any\nliving thing that he could torture appeared to yield him delight. With\nsavage gestures and jabbering moans he haunted the rocks along the\nshore, and seemed like some uncouth creature cast up by the sea. When\nhe was only six years old he was found one day upon the brink of a tall\ncliff, bounding with joy, and pointing downward towards the beach with\nconvulsions of delight. There, mangled by the fall and dead, they found\nthe body of a neighbour\u2019s child of his own age, who was his frequent\ncompanion, and whom, as it was inferred, he had drawn towards the steep\nprecipice, and urged over by stratagem or force. The spot where this\noccurred was ever afterwards his favourite haunt. He would draw the\nnotice of any passer-by to the place, and then point downward where\nthe murdered child was found with fierce exultant mockery. It was a\nsaying evermore in the district, that, as a judgment on his father\u2019s\ncruelty, his child had been born without a human soul. He lived to be\nthe pestilent scourge of the neighbourhood.\n\nBut the end arrived. Money had become scarce, and the resources of the\ncave began to fail. More than one armed king\u2019s cutter were seen day and\nnight hovering off the land. Foreigners visited the house with tidings\nof peril. So he \u201cwho came with the water went with the wind.\u201d His\ndisappearance, like his arrival, was commemorated by a turbulent storm.\nA wrecker, who had gone to watch the shore, saw, as the sun went down,\na full-rigged vessel standing off and on. By-and-by a rocket hissed up\nfrom the Gull Rock, a small islet with a creek on the landward side\nwhich had been the scene of many a run of smuggled cargo. A gun from\nthe ship answered it, and again both signals were exchanged. At last a\nwell-known and burly form stood on the topmost crag of the island rock.\nHe waved his sword, and the light flashed back from the steel. A boat\nput off from the vessel with two hands at every oar--for the tide runs\nwith double violence through Harty Race. They neared the rocks, rowed\ndaringly through the surf, and were steered by some practised coxswain\ninto the Gull Greek. There they found their man. Coppinger leaped on\nboard the boat, and assumed the command. They made with strong efforts\nfor their ship. It was a path of peril through that boiling surf.\nStill, bending at the oar like chained giants, the man watched them\ntill they forced their way through the battling waters. Once, as they\ndrew off the shore, one of the rowers, either from ebbing strength or\nloss of courage, drooped at his oar. In a moment a cutlass gleamed over\nhis head, and a fierce stern stroke cut him down. It was the last blow\nof Cruel Coppinger. He and his boat\u2019s crew boarded the vessel, and\nshe was out of sight in a moment, like a spectre or a ghost. Thunder,\nlightning, and hail ensued. Trees were rent up by the roots around the\npirate\u2019s abode. Poor Dinah watched, and held in her shuddering arms\nher idiot-boy, and, strange to say, a meteoric stone, called in that\ncountry a storm-bolt, fell through the roof into the room at the very\nfeet of Cruel Coppinger\u2019s vacant chair.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[90] From _All the Year Round_, vol. xvi. pp. 537-540. 1866. For the\nhistorical basis of this article, see Appendix F.\n\n[91] In the original form of this article, a second verse was added,\nand the first was slightly different.\n\n    \u201cWill you hear of the bold, brave Coppinger?\n      How he came of a foreign kind?\n    He was brought to us by the salt water;\n      He\u2019ll be carried away by the wind.\n\n    For thus the old wives croon and sing,\n      And so the proverbs say,\n    That whatsoever the wild waves bring\n      The winds will bear away.\u201d\n\n[92] See p. 38.\n\n[93] Hawker himself used a seal engraved with the one word, \u201cThorough,\u201d\nthe motto, as he said, of Archbishop Laud.\n\n[94] Mr. Baring-Gould, in his \u201cVicar of Morwenstow\u201d (Edition 1899, p.\n110), gives another reason for Coppinger\u2019s wrath:--\u201cThe Kilkhampton\nparson hated rook-pie. Coppinger knew it. He invited him to dine with\nhim one day. A large rook-pie was served at one end of the table, and\nroast rooks at the other, and the parson, who was very hungry, was\nforced to eat of them. When he departed he invited Coppinger to dine\nwith him on the following Thursday. The smuggler arrived, and was\nregaled on pie, whether rabbit or hare he could not decide. When he\ncame home he found a cat\u2019s skin and head stuffed into his coat pocket,\nand thereby discovered what he had been eating.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nTHOMASINE BONAVENTURE[95]\n\n\nThe aspect of rural England during the fifteenth and sixteenth\ncenturies must have presented a strange and striking contrast, in\nthe eye of a traveller, to the agricultural scenery of our own time.\nThinly peopled--for the three millions of our chief city nowadays are\nin excess of the total population of the whole land of the Edwards and\nthe Henrys--the inhabitants occupied hamlets few and far between, and\na farm or grange signified usually a moated house amid a cluster of\ncultivated fields, gathered within fences from the surrounding forest\nor wold, and gleaming in the distance with rich or green enclosures,\nrescued from the wilderness, to give \u201cfodder to the cattle, and bread\nto strengthen the heart of man.\u201d But the great domains of the land for\nthe most part expanded into woodland and marsh and moor, with glades\nor grassy avenues here and there for access to the lair of the red\ndeer or the wild boar, or other native game, which afforded in that\nday a principal supply of human food. Yonder in the distance appeared\never and anon a beacon-tower, which marked the place and ward for the\nwarning of hostile advances by night, and for the gathering rest of the\nhobbelars or horsemen, whose office it was to scour the country and to\nkeep in awe the enemies of God and the king. Wheel-roads, except in\nthe neighbourhood of cities or on the line of a royal progress, there\nwere none; and among the bridle-paths men urged their difficult path\nin companies, for it was seldom safe for an honest or well-to-do man\nto travel alone. Rivers glided in silence to the sea without a sail\nor an oar to ruffle their waters; and there were whole regions, that\nnow are loud with populous life, that might then have been called void\nplaces of the uninhabited earth. But more especially did this character\nof uncultured desolation pervade the extreme borders of the west of\nEngland, the country between the Tamar and the sea. There dwelt in\nscattered villages, or town-places as they are called to this day, the\nbold and hardy Keltic people, few in number, but, like the race of the\nEastern wild man, never taught to bear the yoke. Long after other parts\nof England had settled into an improved agriculture, and submitted to\nthe discipline of more civilised life, the Cornish were wont to hew\ntheir resources out of the bowels of their mother earth, or to haul\ninto their nets the native harvest of the sea. Thus the merchandise\nof fish, tin, and copper became the vaunted staple of their land.\nThese, the rich productions of their native county, were, even in\nremote periods of our history, in perpetual request, and formed,\ntogether with the wool of their moorland flocks, the great trade of\nthe Cornish people. From all parts, and especially from that storied\ncity whose merchants were then, as now, princes of the land, men were\nwont to encounter the perilous journey from the Thames to the Tamar,\nto pursue their traffic with the \u201cunderground folk,\u201d as they termed\nthe inhabitants of Cornwall, that rocky land of strangers, as, when\nliterally interpreted, is the exact meaning of its name.\n\nIt was in the year 1463, when Edward IV. occupied the English throne,\nthat a tall and portly merchant, in the distinctive apparel of the\ntimes, rode along the wilds of a Cornish moor. He sat high and firm\nupon his horse, a bony gelding, with demipique saddle. A broad\nbeaver, or, as it was then called, a Flanders hat, shaded a grave and\nthoughtful countenance, wherein shrewdness and good-humour struggled\nfor the mastery and the latter prevailed, and his full brown beard was\nforked--a happy omen, as it was always held, of prosperous life. His\nriding garb displayed that contrast of colours which was then so valued\nby native taste, insomuch that the phrase \u201cmotley\u201d had in its origin a\ncomplimentary and not an invidious sound. Behind him and near rode his\nservant, a stout and active-looking knave, armed to the teeth.\n\nThe traveller had crossed the ford of a moorland stream, when he halted\nand reined up at a scene that greeted him on the bank. There, on a\ngreen and rushy knoll and underneath a gnarled and wind-swept tree, a\ndamsel in the blossom of youth stood leaning on her shepherd-staff: her\ncompanion, a peasant boy, drew back, half shaded by a rock. Sheep of\nthe native breed, the long-forgotten Cornish Knott, gathered around.\nAs he drew nigh, the stranger discovered that the maiden was tall and\nwell formed, and that her rounded limbs had the mould and movement\nof a natural grace that only health and exercise could develop or\nbestow. The sure evidence of her Keltic origin was testified by her\neyes of violet-blue and abundant hair of rich and radiant brown--the\nhue that Italian poets delight to describe as the colour of the ripe\nchestnut,[96] or the stalks and fibres of the maidenhair fern. She had\nalso the bashful nose that appears to retreat from the lip with the\nunmistakable curve of the Kelt. She was clad in a grey kirtle of native\nwool, and her bodice also was knitted at the hearth by homely hands.\nThe merchant was first to speak.\n\n\n\u201cBe not scared,\u201d said he, \u201cfair damsel, by a stranger\u2019s voice. My name\nis John Bunsby, of the city of London, and I am bound for the hostel of\nWike St. Marie, which must be somewhere nigh this moor. What did thy\ngossips call thee, maiden, at the font?\u201d\n\n\u201cMy name, kind sir,\u201d she answered, modestly, \u201cis Thomasine Bonaventure,\nand my father\u2019s house is hard by at Wike. These are my master\u2019s sheep.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe evening falls fast,\u201d said the traveller; \u201cI would fain hire safe\nguidance to yonder inn.\u201d\n\nShe beckoned to the youth and whispered a word in his ear, to which,\nhowever, he seemed to listen with reluctance or dislike, and then, with\nher crook still in her hand, she herself went on to guide the stranger\non his way. They arrived in due course at the hostel-door, at the sign\nof the Rose: but it was the Rose, mere, and without an epithet; for\nmine host had wisely omitted, in those dangerous days, to designate\nthe hue of that symbolic flower. The traveller dismounted at the door,\nthanked and requited his gentle guide, and signified that as soon as\nhis leisure allowed he would find his way to her father\u2019s house. After\na strict command to his own servant and the varlet of the stable that\nhis horses should receive due vigilance and abundant food, Master\nBunsby at last entered the inn. A hecatomb of wood blazed on the earth,\nshedding light as well as heat around the panelled room--for in those\ntimes of old simplicity a single apartment was allotted for household\npurposes and for the entertainment of guests. The traveller took an\noffered seat on the carved oak settle, in the place of honour by the\nfire, and looked on with interest at the homely but original scene. At\nhis right hand a vast oven, with an entrance not unlike a church-door,\nwas about to disgorge its manifold contents. Rye-loaves led the way,\nsweet and tasty to the final crust (wheat was in those days a luxury\nunknown in Cornwall); barley-bread and oaten cakes came forth in due\nprocession from the steaming cave; and, last of all, the merchant\u2019s\nsight and nostrils were greeted by the arrival of a huge and mysterious\npie from its depths. The achievements of the dame, who was both cook\nand hostess in her own person, were duly and triumphantly arrayed upon\nthe board, and the stranger-guest took the accustomed seat at the right\nhand of \u201cmine host.\u201d His eyes were fixed with curiosity and interest\non the hillock of brown dough which stood before him, and reeked like\na small volcano with steaming puffs of savoury vapour. At last, when\nthe massive crust which lay like a tombstone over the mighty dish had\nbeen broken up, the pie revealed its strange contents. Conger-eels,\npilchards, and oysters were mingled piecemeal in the mass beneath,\ntheir intervals slushed with melted butter and clotted cream, and\nthe whole well seasoned, not without a savour of garlic, with spices,\npepper, and salt. The stranger\u2019s astonishment was manifest in gesture\nand look, although he by no means repulsed the trencher which came\ntowards him loaded with his bountiful share.\n\n\u201cSir guest,\u201d said the host, \u201cyou doubtless know the byword--\u2018The\nCornish cooks make everything into a pie.\u2019 Our grandames say that the\ndevil never dared cross the Tamar, or he would have been verily put\nunder a crust.\u201d\n\nSatisfied with his fare, the merchant now inquired for the\ndwelling-place of his guide. It was not far off. The parents of the\nshepherdess inhabited a thatched hut in the village, with the usual\nwalls of beaten cob, moulded of native clay: all within and without\nbespoke extreme poverty and want, but there Master John Bunsby soon\nfound himself an honoured visitor seated by the hearth, with a blazing\nfire of dry gorse gathered from the moor to greet his arrival. There,\nwhile the mother stood by her turn or wheel, and span, and the maiden\u2019s\nnimble fingers flashed her knitting-needles to and fro by the fitful\nlight of the fire, the old man her father and the merchant conversed\nin a low voice far into the night, on a theme of deep interest to\nboth. The talk was of Thomasine, the child of the house. The merchant\nrelated his own prosperous affairs, and spoke of his goodly house\nin London, governed by a thrifty and diligent wife: the household\nwas one of grave and decent demeanour, with good repute in the vast\ncity wherein dwelt the king. He had taken an immediate interest, he\ndeclared, in the old man\u2019s daughter, and desired to rescue her from the\nlife she led on the bleak, unsheltered moor. He pledged himself, if\nthey should consent, to convey her in safety to London, and to place\nher in especial attendance on his wife; and there, if her conduct were\nin unison with her looks, he doubted not she would win many friends,\nand secure a happy livelihood for the rest of her days. He would await\ntheir decision at the inn, where he should be detained by business\ntwo or three days. Earnest and anxious were their thoughts and their\nlanguage in the cottage that night and the next day. The aspect and\nspeech of the rich patron were such as invited confidence and trust;\nbut there were the love and fear of two aged hearts to satisfy and\nsubdue. There was the fierce and stubborn repugnance also of the youth,\nthe companion of the maid, who stood with her under the tree upon the\nmoor. He was her cousin, John Dineham,[97] of Swannacote, and they had\ngrown up together from childhood, till, unconsciously to themselves,\nthe tenderness of kindred had strengthened into love. The damsel\nherself could not conceal a natural longing to visit the great city,\nwhere, they said, but it might be untrue, \u201cthat the houses were stuck\nas close together as Wike St. Marie church and tower;\u201d but she would at\nall events behold for once in her life the dwelling-place of the king.\n\u201cShe would store up every coin, and come back with money enow to buy a\nflock of sheep of her own, which she and John would tend together, as\naforetime, on the moor.\u201d All this shook the scale.\n\nWhen the merchant arrived to seek their decision, it was made, and in\nfavour of his wish. A pillion or padded seat was obtained from some\nneighbouring farm, and belted behind the saddle of the merchant\u2019s man.\nThereon, with a small fardel in her hand, which held all her worldly\ngoods and gear, mounted Thomasine Bonaventure, while all the villagers\ncame around to bid her farewell--all but one, and it was her cousin\nJohn. He had gone, as he had told her, to the moor, and there among the\nbranches of the tree which marked the greeting-place of Master Bunsby\nthe youth waited to watch her out of sight. He lifted up his hand and\nwaved it as she passed on with a gesture of warning, but which she\ninterpreted and returned as a silent caress.\n\nThe travellers arrived at their journey\u2019s end after being only a\nfortnight on the road--a speed so satisfactory and unusual, that it was\nDame Bunsby\u2019s emphatic remark that she verily thought they must have\nflown.\n\nHer mistress received Thomasine with a kind and hearty welcome, and\nratified, by her everyday approval, her husband\u2019s choice of the Cornish\nmaid. When she was first told that her name was Bonaventure, and\nher husband explained that it signified good luck, she said, \u201cWell,\nsweetheart, when I was a girl they used to say that the name was a\nfore-sign of the life, and God grant that thine may turn out [so] to\nbe.\u201d\n\nTime passed on, and in a year or two the wild Cornish lass had\ngrown into a frame of thorough symmetry, firmness, and health. Her\nstrong thews, of country origin, rendered her capable of long and\nactive labour, and she had acquired with gradual ease the habits\nand appliances of city life. She was very soon the favoured and the\nfavourite manager of the household. Her mistress, born and reared in a\ntown, had been long a frail and delicate woman; and life in London in\nthose days, as now, was fraught with the manifold perils of pestilent\ndisease. To one of those ancient scourges of the population, the\nsweating-sickness, Dame Bunsby succumbed. Her death drew nigh, and,\nwith the touching simplicity of the times, she told her true and tender\nhusband, with smiling tears, that she thought he could not do better\nthan, if they so agreed, to put Thomasine in her place when she was\ngone. \u201cTell her it was my last wish.\u201d\n\nThis gentle desire so uttered--her strong and grateful feelings\ntowards the master who had taken her, as she expressed it in her\nrural speech, lean from the moor, and fed her, so that her very bones\nbelonged to him--her happy home, and the power she would acquire to\nmake the latter days in the cottage at Wike St. Marie prosperous\nand calm,--all these impulses flocked into Thomasine\u2019s heart, and\ncontrolled for the time even the remembrance of Cousin John. That poor\nyoung man, when the tidings came that she was about to become her\nmaster\u2019s wedded wife, suddenly disappeared, and for a while the place\nof his retreat was unknown; but it afterwards transpired that he had\ncrossed the moor to a \u201chouse of religious men,\u201d called the White Monks\nof St. Cleer, and pleaded for reception there as a needy novice of the\ngate. His earnest entreaties had prevailed; and six months after his\nfirst love, and his last, had put on her silks as a city dame, and\nbegun her rule as the mistress of a goodly house in London, her cousin\nhad taken the vows of his novitiate, and received the first tonsure of\nSt. John.\n\nHer married life did not, however, long endure. Three years after the\nmaster became the husband, he took the \u201cplague sore,\u201d and died. They\nwere childless; but he bequeathed \u201call his goods and chattel property,\nand his well-furnished mansion, to his dear wife Thomasine Bonaventure,\nnow Bunsby;\u201d and the maid of the moor became one of the wealthy widows\nof London city. Among the MSS. which still survive, there is a letter\nwhich announces the event of her husband\u2019s death and bequest, and then\nproceeds to notify her solemn donation, as a year\u2019s-mind of Master\nBunsby, of ten marks to the Reeve of Wike St. Marie, \u201cto the intent\nthat he shall cause skeelful masons to build a bridge at the Ford of\nGreen-a-Moor: yea, and with stout stonework well laid; and see,\u201d she\nwrote, \u201cthat they do no harm to that tree which standeth fast by the\nbrook, neither dispoyle they the rushes and plants that grow thereby;\nfor there did I passe many goodly hours when I was a simple mayde,\nand there did I first see the kind face of a fathful frend.\u201d But in\nanother missive to her mother, about the same date, there is a touch of\ntenderness which shows that her woman\u2019s nature survived all changes,\nand was strong within her still. She writes: \u201cI know that Cousin John\nis engaged to the monks of St. Cleer. Hath he been shorn, as they do\ncall it, for the second time? Inquire, I beseech, if he seeketh to\ndispart from that cell? And will red gold help him away? I am prospered\nin pouch and coffer, and he need not shame to be indebted unto me,\nthat owe so much to him.\u201d But this frank and kindly effort--\u201cthe\nlate remorse of love\u201d--did not avail. John had broken the last link\nthat bound him to the world, and was lost to love and her. Reckless\nthenceforward, therefore, if not fancy-free, and it may be somewhat\nschooled by the habits and associations of city life, she did not wear\nthe widow\u2019s wimple long. After an interval of years, we find her the\nhonoured wife \u201cof that worshipful merchant-adventurer, Master John Gall\nof St. Lawrence, Milk Street.\u201d\n\nGall was very rich, and he appears to have emptied his money-bags into\nhis wife\u2019s lap, as the gossip of the city ran, for it is on record that\nsoon after her second marriage she manifested her prosperity like a\ntrue-hearted Cornish woman by ample \u201cgifts\u201d and largess to the borough\nof St. Marie, \u201cmy native place.\u201d Twenty acres of woodland copse in the\nneighbourhood were bought and conveyed by that kind and gracious lady,\nDame Thomasine Gall, to feoffees and trust-men for the perpetual use of\nthe poor of the paroche, \u201cfor fewel to be hewn in parcels once a-year,\nand justly and equally divided for evermore on the vigil of St. Thomas\nthe twin.\u201d To her mother she sends by \u201ca waggon which has gone on an\nenterprise into Cornwall for woollen merchandise, a chest with array of\nclothing, fair weather and foul, head-gear and body raiment to boot,\nall the choice and costly gifts to my loving parents of my goodman\nGall, and in remembrance, as he chargeth me to say, that ye have reared\nfor him a kindly and loving wife.\u201d But the graphic and touching passage\nin this letter is the message which succeeds: \u201cLo! I do send you also\nherewithal in the coffer a litel boke: it is for a gift to my Cousin\nJohn. Tell him it is not written as the whilom usage was, and he was\nwont to teach me my Christ Cross Rhime;[98] but it is what they do call\nemprinted with a strange device of an iron engin brought from forrin\nparts. Bid him not despise it, for although it is so small that it\nwill lie on the palm of your hand, yet it did cost me full five marks\nin exchange.\u201d But her marriage life was doomed to bring her only brief\nand transitory intervals of wedded happiness. Five years after the date\nof her letter above quoted, she was again alone in the house. Master\nGall died, but not until he had endowed his \u201ctender wife with all and\nsingular his moneys and plate, bills, bonds, and ventures now at sea,\u201d\netc., with a long inventory of the \u201cprecious things beneath the moon,\u201d\ntoo long to rehearse, but each and all to the sole use, enjoyment,\nand behoof of Dame Thomasine, whose maiden name of Bonaventure was\nliterally interpreted and fulfilled in every successive change of\nstation.\n\nWe greet her then once more as a rich and buxom widow of city fame.\nHer wealth, added to her comeliness--for she was still in the prime of\nlife--brought many \u201ca potent, grave, and reverend seignor\u201d to her feet,\nand to sue for her hand. Nor did she long linger in her choice. The\nfavoured suitor now was Sir John Perceval, goldsmith and usurer--that\nis to say, banker, in the phrase of that day; very wealthy, of\nhigh repute, alderman of his ward, and in such a position of civic\nadvancement that he would have been described in modern language as\nnext the chair. He wooed and won the \u201cGolden Widow\u201d--for so, because\nof her double inheritance of the wealth of two rich husbands, she was\nmerrily named. Their wedding was a kind of public festival, and the\nbride, in acknowledgment of her own large possessions, was invested\nwith a stately dower at the church-door. One year after their marriage\nher husband, Sir John, was elected to that honourable office which is\nstill supposed by foreign nations to be only second in rank to that of\nthe monarch on the throne, Lord Mayor of the city of London.\n\nThus, by a strange succession of singular events, the barefooted\nshepherdess of a Cornish moorland became the Lady Mayoress of\nmetropolitan fame; and the legend of Thomasine Bonaventure--for it was\nnow well known--was the popular theme of royal and noble interest among\nthe lords and ladies of the Court. She demeaned herself bravely and\ndecorously in her ascent among the great and lofty ones of the land.\nLike all noble natures, her spirit rose with her personal elevation,\nand took equal place with her compeers of each superior rank. Nor did\nher true and simple woman\u2019s nature undergo any depreciation or change.\nIt breathes and survives in every sentence of her family letters,\ntranscripts of which have been perpetuated and preserved to our own\ntimes. One part of her personal history is illustrative of a scene of\nlife and manners when Henry VII. was king.\n\n\u201cSweet mother,\u201d she wrote, \u201cthy daughter hath seen the face of the\nking. We were bidden to a banket at the royal palace, and Sir John and\nI dared not choose but go. There was such a blaze of lords and ladies\nin silks and samite, and jewels and gold, that it was like the city\nof New Jerusalem in the Scriptures; and I, thy maid Thomasine, was\narrayed so fine, that they brought up the saying that I was dressed\nlike an altar. When we were led into the chamber of dais, where his\nhighness stood, the king did kiss me on the cheek, as the manner is,\nand he seemed gentle and kind. But then did he turn to my good lord\nand husband, and say, with a look stark and stern enow, \u2018Ha, Sir John!\nsee to it that thy fair dame be liege and true, for she comes of the\nburly Cornish kind, and they be ever rebels in blood and bone. Even\nnow they be one and all for that knave Warbeck,[99] who is among them\nin the West.\u2019 You will gesse, dear mother, how my heart did beat.\nBut withal the king did drink to me at the banket, and did merrily\ncall, \u2018Health to our Lady Mayoress, Dame Thomasine Perceval, which now\nfeedeth her flock in the rich pastures of our city of London.\u2019 And\nthereat they did laugh, and fleer, and shout, and there was flashing of\ntankards and jingling of cups all down the hall.\u201d\n\n[Illustration: THE TOWER OF ST. STEPHEN\u2019S CHURCH, DUNHEVED, to which\nDame Thomasine Perceval contributed 40 marks.]\n\nWith increase of wealth came also many a renewed token of affectionate\nregard and sterling bounty to her old and well-beloved dwelling-place\nof Wike St. Marie. As her wedding-gift of remembrance she directed that\n\u201ca firm and steadfast road should be laid down with stones,\u201d at her\nwhole cost, along the midst of Green-a-Moor, and fit for man and beast\nto travel on, with their lawful occasions, from Lanstaphadon to the\nsea. At another time, and for a New Year\u2019s gift, she gave the sum of\nforty marks towards the building of a tower for St. Stephen\u2019s church,\nabove the causeway of Dunheved; and it was her desire that they should\ncarry their pinnacles so tall that \u201cthey might be seen from Swannacote\nCross, by the moor, to the intent that they who do behold it from the\nBurgage Mound may remember the poor maid which is now a wedded dame of\nLondon citie.\u201d\n\nDuring her three marriages she had no children, and it was her singular\nlot to survive her third husband, Sir John: it was in long widowhood\nafter him that she lived and died. Her will, bearing date the vigil\nof the Feast of Christmas, A.D. 1510, is a singular document, for\ntherein the memory and the impulses of her early life are recalled\nand condensed. She bequeaths large sums of money to be laid out and\ninvested in land for the welfare of the village borough, whereto, amid\nall the strange vicissitudes of her existence, her heart had always\nclung with fond and lingering regret. She directs that a chantry[100]\nwith cloisters was to be built near the church of Wike St. Marie, at\nthe discretion and under the control of her executor and cousin, John\nDineham, the unforgotten priest. She endows it with thirty marks by\nthe year, and provides that there shall be established therein \u201ca\nschole for young children born in the paroche of Wike St. Marie; and\nsuch to be always preferred as are friendless and poor.\u201d They are to\nbe \u201ctaught to read with their fescue from a boke of horn, and also to\nwrite, and both as the manner was in that country when I was young.\u201d\nThe well-remembered days of her girlhood appear to tinge every line\nof her last will. Her very codicil is softened with a touch of her\nfirst and fondest love. In it she gives to the priest of the church,\nwhere she well knew that her cousin John would serve and sing,[101]\n\u201cthe silver chalice gilt, which good Master Maskelyne the goldsmith had\ndevised for her behoof, with a leetle blue flower which they do call\na forget-me-not wrought in Turkess at the bottom of the bowl, to the\nintent that whensoever it is used the minister may remember her who was\nonce a simple shepherd-maid by the wayside of Wike St. Marie, and who\nwas so wonderfully brought by many great changes to be the Mayoress of\nLondon citie before she died.\u201d\n\n[Illustration: DOORWAY OF OLD COLLEGE, WEEK ST. MARY.]\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[95] From _All the Year Round_, vol. xvii. pp. 276-280. 1867. For the\norigins of this story, see Appendix G.\n\n[96]\n\n    \u201cStraight, but as lissome as a hazel wand;\n    Her eyes a bashful azure, and her hair\n    In gloss and hue the chestnut, when the shell\n    Divides threefold to show the fruit within.\u201d\n\n    TENNYSON, _The Brook_.\n\n[97] One of Mr. Hawker\u2019s sisters was the wife of John Dineham, surgeon,\nof Stratton.\n\n[98] Hawker has a pretty poem for children with this title--\n\n    \u201cTeach me, Father John, to say\n    Vesper-verse and matin-lay:\n    So when I to God shall plead,\n    Christ His Cross shall be my speed.\u201d\n\n[99] The love of the Lady Katherine Gordon for Perkin Warbeck is the\nsubject of Hawker\u2019s poem, \u201cThe Lady of the Mount.\u201d\n\n[100] The remains of this old building have been embodied in some\ncottages. The doorway shown in the illustration forms the front door of\none of these. The other is occupied by the Cornwall County Police, and\nthe unsuspecting pilgrim who rambles round without permission is liable\nto be startled by the gruff remark, \u201cYou\u2019m trespassing!\u201d Thus are we\nrecalled from \u201cthe baseless fabric\u201d of the past to the stern realities\nof the living present.\n\n[101] Hawker gives a romantic turn of his own to this part of the story.\n\n\n\n\nTHE BOTATHEN GHOST[102]\n\n\nThere was something very painful and peculiar in the position of the\nclergy in the west of England throughout the seventeenth century. The\nChurch of those days was in a transitory state, and her ministers,\nlike her formularies, embodied a strange mixture of the old belief\nwith the new interpretation. Their wide severance also from the great\nmetropolis of life and manners, the city of London (which in those\ntimes was civilised England, much as the Paris of our own day is\nFrance), divested the Cornish clergy in particular of all personal\naccess to the masterminds of their age and body. Then, too, the barrier\ninterposed by the rude rough roads of their country, and by their\nabode in wilds that were almost inaccessible, rendered the existence\nof a bishop rather a doctrine suggested to their belief than a fact\nrevealed to the actual vision of each in his generation. Hence it\ncame to pass that the Cornish clergyman, insulated within his own\nlimited sphere, often without even the presence of a country squire\n(and unchecked by the influence of the Fourth Estate--for until the\nbeginning of this nineteenth century, _Flindell\u2019s Weekly Miscellany_\ndistributed from house to house from the pannier of a mule, was the\nonly light of the West), became developed about middle life into an\noriginal mind and man, sole and absolute within his parish boundary,\neccentric when compared with his brethren in civilised regions, and\nyet, in German phrase, \u201ca whole and seldom man\u201d in his dominion of\nsouls. He was \u201cthe parson,\u201d in canonical phrase--that is to say, The\nPerson, the somebody of consequence among his own people. These men\nwere not, however, smoothed down into a monotonous aspect of life and\nmanners by this remote and secluded existence. They imbibed, each in\nhis own peculiar circle, the hue of surrounding objects, and were\ntinged into distinctive colouring and character by many a contrast\nof scenery and people.[103] There was the \u201clight of other days,\u201d\nthe curate by the sea-shore, who professed to check the turbulence\nof the \u201csmugglers\u2019 landing\u201d by his presence on the sands, and who\n\u201cheld the lantern\u201d for the guidance of his flock when the nights were\ndark, as the only proper ecclesiastical part he could take in the\nproceedings.[104] He was soothed and silenced by the gift of a keg\nof hollands or a chest of tea. There was the merry minister of the\nmines, whose cure was honeycombed by the underground men. He must needs\nhave been artist and poet in his way, for he had to enliven his people\nthree or four times a-year, by mastering the arrangements of a \u201cguary,\u201d\nor religious mystery, which was duly performed in the topmost hollow\nof a green barrow or hill, of which many survive, scooped out into\nvast amphitheatres and surrounded by benches of turf, which held two\nthousand spectators. Such were the historic plays, \u201cThe Creation\u201d and\n\u201cNoe\u2019s Flood,\u201d which still exist in the original Celtic as well as the\nEnglish text, and suggest what critics and antiquaries Cornish curates,\nmasters of such revels, must have been,--for the native language of\nCornwall did not lapse into silence until the end of the seventeenth\ncentury. Then, moreover, here and there would be one parson more\nlearned than his kind in the mysteries of a deep and thrilling lore\nof peculiar fascination. He was a man so highly honoured at college\nfor natural gifts and knowledge of learned books which nobody else\ncould read, that when he \u201ctook his second orders\u201d the bishop gave him\na mantle of scarlet silk to wear upon his shoulders in church, and\nhis lordship had put such power into it that, when the parson had it\nrightly on, he could \u201cgovern any ghost or evil spirit,\u201d and even \u201cstop\nan earthquake.\u201d\n\nSuch a powerful minister, in combat with supernatural visitations,\nwas one Parson Rudall,[105] of Launceston, whose existence and exploits\nwe gather from the local tradition of his time, from surviving letters\nand other memoranda, and indeed from his own \u201cdiurnal\u201d[106] which fell\nby chance into the hands of the present writer. Indeed the legend of\nParson Rudall and the Botathen Ghost will be recognised by many Cornish\npeople as a local remembrance of their boyhood.\n\n[Illustration: \u201cPARSON RUDALL\u201d (P. 161)]\n\nIt appears, then, from the diary of this learned master of the\ngrammar-school--for such was his office as well as perpetual curate\nof the parish--\u201cthat a pestilential disease did break forth in our\ntown in the beginning of the year A.D. 1665; yea, and it likewise\ninvaded my school, insomuch that therewithal certain of the chief\nscholars sickened and died.\u201d \u201cAmong others who yielded to the malign\ninfluence was Master John Eliot, the eldest son and the worshipful\nheir of Edward Eliot, Esquire of Trebursey, a stripling of sixteen\nyears of age, but of uncommon parts and hopeful ingenuity.[107] At his\nown especial motion and earnest desire I did consent to preach his\nfuneral sermon.\u201d It should be remembered here that, howsoever strange\nand singular it may sound to us that a mere lad should formally solicit\nsuch a performance at the hands of his master, it was in consonance\nwith the habitual usage of those times. The old services for the dead\nhad been abolished by law, and in the stead of sacrament and ceremony,\nmonth\u2019s mind and year\u2019s mind, the sole substitute which survived was\nthe general desire \u201cto partake,\u201d as they called it, of a posthumous\ndiscourse, replete with lofty eulogy and flattering remembrance of the\nliving and the dead. The diary proceeds:--\n\n\u201cI fulfilled my undertaking, and preached over the coffin in the\npresence of a full assemblage of mourners and lachrymose friends. An\nancient gentleman, who was then and there in the church, a Mr. Bligh of\nBotathen,[108] was much affected with my discourse, and he was heard to\nrepeat to himself certain parentheses therefrom, especially a phrase\nfrom Maro Virgilius, which I had applied to the deceased youth, \u2018Et\npuer ipse fuit cantari dignus.\u2019\n\n\u201cThe cause wherefore this old gentleman was thus moved by my\napplications was this: He had a first-born and only son--a child who,\nbut a very few months before, had been not unworthy the character I\ndrew of young Master Eliot, but who, by some strange accident, had of\nlate quite fallen away from his parent\u2019s hopes, and become moody, and\nsullen, and distraught. When the funeral obsequies were over, I had\nno sooner come out of church than I was accosted by this aged parent,\nand he besought me incontinently, with a singular energy, that I would\nresort with him forthwith to his abode at Botathen that very night; nor\ncould I have delivered myself from his importunity, had not Mr. Eliot\nurged his claim to enjoy my company at his own house. Hereupon I got\nloose, but not until I had pledged a fast assurance that I would pay\nhim, faithfully, an early visit the next day.\u201d\n\n[Illustration: \u201cTHE PLACE\u201d OF BOTATHEN.]\n\n\u201cThe Place,\u201d as it was called, of Botathen, where old Mr. Bligh\nresided, was a low-roofed gabled manor-house of the fifteenth century,\nwalled and mullioned, and with clustered chimneys of dark-grey stone\nfrom the neighbouring quarries of Ventor-gan. The mansion was flanked\nby a pleasaunce or enclosure in one space, of garden and lawn, and\nit was surrounded by a solemn grove of stag-horned trees. It had the\nsombre aspect of age and of solitude, and looked the very scene of\nstrange and supernatural events. A legend might well belong to every\ngloomy glade around, and there must surely be a haunted room somewhere\nwithin its walls. Hither, according to his appointment, on the morrow,\nParson Rudall betook himself. Another clergyman, as it appeared, had\nbeen invited to meet him, who, very soon after his arrival, proposed\na walk together in the pleasaunce, on the pretext of showing him, as\na stranger, the walks and trees, until the dinner-bell should strike.\nThere, with much prolixity, and with many a solemn pause, his brother\nminister proceeded to \u201cunfold the mystery.\u201d\n\n\u201cA singular infelicity,\u201d he declared, \u201chad befallen young Master\nBligh, once the hopeful heir of his parents and of the lands of\nBotathen. Whereas he had been from childhood a blithe and merry\nboy, \u2018the gladness,\u2019 like Isaac of old, of his father\u2019s age, he had\nsuddenly, and of late, become morose and silent--nay, even austere and\nstern--dwelling apart, always solemn, often in tears. The lad had at\nfirst repulsed all questions as to the origin of this great change, but\nof late he had yielded to the importunate researches of his parents,\nand had disclosed the secret cause. It appeared that he resorted,\nevery day, by a pathway across the fields, to this very clergyman\u2019s\nhouse, who had charge of his education, and grounded him in the studies\nsuitable to his age. In the course of his daily walk he had to pass a\ncertain heath or down where the road wound along through tall blocks of\ngranite with open spaces of grassy sward between. There in a certain\nspot, and always in one and the same place, the lad declared that he\nencountered, every day, a woman with a pale and troubled face, clothed\nin a long loose garment of frieze, with one hand always stretched\nforth, and the other pressed against her side. Her name, he said, was\nDorothy Dinglet,[109] for he had known her well from his childhood, and\nshe often used to come to his parents\u2019 house; but that which troubled\nhim was, that she had now been dead three years, and he himself had\nbeen with the neighbours at her burial; so that, as the youth alleged,\nwith great simplicity, since he had seen her body laid in the grave,\nthis that he saw every day must needs be her soul or ghost. \u2018Questioned\nagain and again,\u2019 said the clergyman, \u2018he never contradicts himself;\nbut he relates the same and the simple tale as a thing that cannot be\ngainsaid. Indeed, the lad\u2019s observance is keen and calm for a boy of\nhis age. The hair of the appearance, sayeth he, is not like anything\nalive, but it is so soft and light that it seemeth to melt away while\nyou look; but her eyes are set, and never blink--no, not when the\nsun shineth full upon her face. She maketh no steps, but seemeth to\nswim along the top of the grass; and her hand, which is stretched out\nalway, seemeth to point at something far away, out of sight. It is\nher continual coming; for she never faileth to meet him, and to pass\non, that hath quenched his spirits; and although he never seeth her by\nnight, yet cannot he get his natural rest.\u2019\n\n\u201cThus far the clergyman; whereupon the dinner clock did sound, and\nwe went into the house. After dinner, when young Master Bligh had\nwithdrawn with his tutor, under excuse of their books, the parents did\nforthwith beset me as to my thoughts about their son. Said I, warily,\n\u2018The case is strange, but by no means impossible. It is one that I will\nstudy, and fear not to handle, if the lad will be free with me, and\nfulfil all that I desire.\u2019 The mother was overjoyed, but I perceived\nthat old Mr. Bligh turned pale, and was downcast with some thought\nwhich, however, he did not express. Then they bade that Master Bligh\nshould be called to meet me in the pleasaunce forthwith. The boy came,\nand he rehearsed to me his tale with an open countenance, and, withal,\na modesty of speech. Verily he seemed \u2018ingenui vultus puer ingenuique\npudoris.\u2019 Then I signified to him my purpose. \u2018To-morrow,\u2019 said I, \u2018we\nwill go together to the place; and if, as I doubt not, the woman shall\nappear, it will be for me to proceed according to knowledge, and by\nrules laid down in my books.\u2019\u201d\n\nThe unaltered scenery of the legend still survives, and, like the\nfield of the forty footsteps in another history, the place is still\nvisited by those who take interest in the supernatural tales of old.\nThe pathway leads along a moorland waste, where large masses of rock\nstand up here and there from the grassy turf, and clumps of heath and\ngorse weave their tapestry of golden and purple garniture on every\nside. Amidst all these, and winding along between the rocks, is a\nnatural footway worn by the scant, rare tread of the village traveller.\nJust midway, a somewhat larger stretch than usual of green sod expands,\nwhich is skirted by the path, and which is still identified as the\nlegendary haunt of the phantom, by the name of Parson Rudall\u2019s Ghost.\n\nBut we must draw the record of the first interview between the minister\nand Dorothy from his own words. \u201cWe met,\u201d thus he writes, \u201cin the\npleasaunce very early, and before any others in the house were awake;\nand together the lad and myself proceeded towards the field. The youth\nwas quite composed, and carried his Bible under his arm, from whence\nhe read to me verses, which he said he had lately picked out, to have\nalways in his mind. These were Job vii. 14, \u2018Thou scarest me with\ndreams, and terrifiest me through visions;\u2019 and Deuteronomy xxviii. 67,\n\u2018In the morning thou shalt say, Would to God it were evening, and in\nthe evening thou shalt say, Would to God it were morning; for the fear\nof thine heart wherewith thou shalt fear, and for the sight of thine\neyes which thou shalt see.\u2019\n\n\u201cI was much pleased with the lad\u2019s ingenuity in these pious\napplications, but for mine own part I was somewhat anxious and out of\ncheer. For aught I knew this might be a _d\u00e6monium meridianum_, the most\nstubborn spirit to govern and guide that any man can meet, and the\nmost perilous withal. We had hardly reached the accustomed spot, when\nwe both saw her at once gliding towards us; punctually as the ancient\nwriters describe the motion of their \u2018lemures, which swoon along the\nground, neither marking the sand nor bending the herbage.\u2019 The aspect\nof the woman was exactly that which had been related by the lad. There\nwas the pale and stony face, the strange and misty hair, the eyes firm\nand fixed, that gazed, yet not on us, but on something that they saw\nfar, far away; one hand and arm stretched out, and the other grasping\nthe girdle of her waist. She floated along the field like a sail upon a\nstream, and glided past the spot where we stood, pausingly. But so deep\nwas the awe that overcame me, as I stood there in the light of day,\nface to face with a human soul separate from her bones and flesh, that\nmy heart and purpose both failed me. I had resolved to speak to the\nspectre in the appointed form of words, but I did not. I stood like one\namazed and speechless, until she had passed clean out of sight. One\nthing remarkable came to pass. A spaniel dog, the favourite of young\nMaster Bligh, had followed us, and lo! when the woman drew nigh, the\npoor creature began to yell and bark piteously, and ran backward and\naway, like a thing dismayed and appalled. We returned to the house, and\nafter I had said all that I could to pacify the lad, and to soothe the\naged people, I took my leave for that time, with a promise that when I\nhad fulfilled certain business elsewhere, which I then alleged, I would\nreturn and take orders to assuage these disturbances and their cause.\n\n_\u201cJanuary 7, 1665._--At my own house, I find, by my books, what is\nexpedient to be done; and then, Apage, Sathanas!\n\n_\u201cJanuary 9, 1665._--This day I took leave of my wife and family, under\npretext of engagements elsewhere, and made my secret journey to our\ndiocesan city, wherein the good and venerable bishop then abode.\n\n_\u201cJanuary 10._--_Deo gratias_, in safe arrival at Exeter; craved and\nobtained immediate audience of his lordship; pleading it was for\ncounsel and admonition on a weighty and pressing cause; called to the\npresence; made obeisance; and then by command stated my case--the\nBotathen perplexity--which I moved with strong and earnest instances\nand solemn asseverations of that which I had myself seen and heard.\nDemanded by his lordship, what was the succour that I had come to\nentreat at his hands? Replied, licence for my exorcism, that so I\nmight, ministerially, allay this spiritual visitant, and thus render\nto the living and the dead release from this surprise. \u2018But,\u2019 said\nour bishop, \u2018on what authority do you allege that I am intrusted with\nfaculty so to do? Our Church, as is well known, hath abjured certain\nbranches of her ancient power, on grounds of perversion and abuse.\u2019\n\u2018Nay, my lord,\u2019 I humbly answered, \u2018under favour, the seventy-second\nof the canons ratified and enjoined on us, the clergy, anno Domini\n1604, doth expressly provide, that \u201cno minister, _unless he hath_ the\nlicence of his diocesan bishop, shall essay to exorcise a spirit, evil\nor good.\u201d Therefore it was,\u2019 I did here mildly allege, \u2018that I did not\npresume to enter on such a work without lawful privilege under your\nlordship\u2019s hand and seal.\u2019 Hereupon did our wise and learned bishop,\nsitting in his chair, condescend upon the theme at some length with\nmany gracious interpretations from ancient writers and from Holy\nScripture, and I did humbly rejoin and reply, till the upshot was that\nhe did call in his secretary and command him to draw the aforesaid\nfaculty, forthwith and without further delay, assigning him a form,\ninsomuch that the matter was incontinently done; and after I had\ndisbursed into the secretary\u2019s hands certain moneys for signitary\npurposes, as the manner of such officers hath always been, the bishop\ndid himself affix his signature under the _sigillum_ of his see, and\ndeliver the document into my hands. When I knelt down to receive his\nbenediction, he softly said, \u2018Let it be secret, Mr. R. Weak brethren!\nweak brethren!\u2019\u201d\n\nThis interview with the bishop, and the success with which he\nvanquished his lordship\u2019s scruples, would seem to have confirmed Parson\nRudall very strongly in his own esteem, and to have invested him with\nthat courage which he evidently lacked at his first encounter with the\nghost.\n\nThe entries proceed: _\u201cJanuary 11, 1665._--Therewithal did I hasten\nhome and prepare my instruments, and cast my figures for the onset of\nthe next day. Took out my ring of brass, and put it on the index-finger\nof my right hand, with the _scutum Davidis_[110] traced thereon.\n\n_\u201cJanuary 12, 1665._--Rode into the gateway at Botathen, armed at\nall points, but not with Saul\u2019s armour, and ready. There is danger\nfrom the demons, but so there is in the surrounding air every day. At\nearly morning then, and alone,--for so the usage ordains,--I betook me\ntowards the field. It was void, and I had thereby due time to prepare.\nFirst, I paced and measured out my circle on the grass. Then did I\nmark my pentacle[111] in the very midst, and at the intersection of\nthe five angles I did set up and fix my crutch of _raun_[112] [rowan].\nLastly, I took my station south, at the true line of the meridian, and\nstood facing due north.[113] I waited and watched for a long time. At\nlast there was a kind of trouble in the air, a soft and rippling sound,\nand all at once the shape appeared, and came on towards me gradually. I\nopened my parchment-scroll, and read aloud the command. She paused, and\nseemed to waver and doubt; stood still; then I rehearsed the sentence\nagain, sounding out every syllable like a chant. She drew near my ring,\nbut halted at first outside, on the brink. I sounded again, and now at\nthe third time I gave the signal in Syriac--the speech which is used,\nthey say, where such ones dwell and converse in thoughts that glide.\n\n\u201cShe was at last obedient, and swam into the midst of the circle, and\nthere stood still, suddenly.[114] I saw, moreover, that she drew back\nher pointing hand. All this while I do confess that my knees shook\nunder me, and the drops of sweat ran down my flesh like rain. But now,\nalthough face to face with the spirit, my heart grew calm, and my\nmind was composed. I knew that the pentacle would govern her, and the\nring must bind, until I gave the word. Then I called to mind the rule\nlaid down of old, that no angel or fiend, no spirit, good or evil,\nwill ever speak until they have been first spoken to. _N.B._--This is\nthe great law of prayer. God Himself will not yield reply until man\nhath made vocal entreaty, once and again. So I went on to demand, as\nthe books advise; and the phantom made answer, willingly. Questioned\nwherefore not at rest? Unquiet, because of a certain sin. Asked what,\nand by whom? Revealed it; but it is _sub sigillo_, and therefore _nefas\ndictu_; more anon. Inquired, what sign she could give that she was\na true spirit and not a false fiend? Stated, before next Yule-tide\na fearful pestilence would lay waste the land and myriads of souls\nwould be loosened from their flesh, until, as she piteously said, \u2018our\nvalleys will be full.\u2019 Asked again, why she so terrified the lad?\nReplied: \u2018It is the law: we must seek a youth or a maiden of clean\nlife, and under age, to receive messages and admonitions.\u2019 We conversed\nwith many more words, but it is not lawful for me to set them down. Pen\nand ink would degrade and defile the thoughts she uttered, and which\nmy mind received that day. I broke the ring, and she passed, but to\nreturn once more next day. At even-song, a long discourse with that\nancient transgressor, Mr. B. Great horror and remorse; entire atonement\nand penance; whatsoever I enjoin; full acknowledgment before pardon.\n\n_\u201cJanuary 13, 1665._--At sunrise I was again in the field. She came\nin at once, and, as it seemed, with freedom. Inquired if she knew my\nthoughts, and what I was going to relate? Answered, \u2018Nay, we only know\nwhat we perceive and hear; we cannot see the heart.\u2019 Then I rehearsed\nthe penitent words of the man she had come up to denounce, and the\nsatisfaction he would perform. Then said she, \u2018Peace in our midst.\u2019\nI went through the proper forms of dismissal, and fulfilled all as\nit was set down and written in my memoranda; and then, with certain\nfixed rites, I did dismiss that troubled ghost, until she peacefully\nwithdrew, gliding towards the west. Neither did she ever afterward\nappear, but was allayed until she shall come in her second flesh to the\nvalley of Armageddon on the last day.\u201d\n\nThese quaint and curious details from the \u201cdiurnal\u201d of a simple-hearted\nclergyman of the seventeenth century appear to betoken his\npersonal persuasion of the truth of what he saw and said, although\nthe statements are strongly tinged with what some may term the\nsuperstition, and others the excessive belief, of those times. It is a\nsingular fact, however, that the canon which authorises exorcism under\nepiscopal licence, is still a part of the ecclesiastical law of the\nAnglican Church, although it might have a singular effect on the nerves\nof certain of our bishops[115] if their clergy were to resort to them\nfor the faculty which Parson Rudall obtained. The general facts stated\nin his diary are to this day matters of belief in that neighbourhood;\nand it has been always accounted a strong proof of the veracity of the\nParson and the Ghost, that the plague, fatal to so many thousands, did\nbreak out in London at the close of that very year. We may well excuse\na triumphant entry, on a subsequent page of the \u201cdiurnal,\u201d with the\ndate of July 10, 1665: \u201cHow sorely must the infidels and heretics of\nthis generation be dismayed when they know that this Black Death, which\nis now swallowing its thousands in the streets of the great city, was\nforetold six months agone, under the exorcisms of a country minister,\nby a visible and suppliant ghost! And what pleasures and improvements\ndo such deny themselves who scorn and avoid all opportunity of\nintercourse with souls separate, and the spirits, glad and sorrowful,\nwhich inhabit the unseen world!\u201d\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[102] From _All the Year Round_, vol. xvii. pp. 501-504. 1867. The story\noccurs in C. S. Gilbert\u2019s \u201cHistorical Survey of Cornwall,\u201d in Mrs.\nBray\u2019s \u201cTrelawny of Trelawn,\u201d and in \u201cHistories of Launceston,\u201d by R.\nand O. B. Peter.\n\n[103] All this is singularly applicable to Hawker himself.\n\n[104] See p. 45.\n\n[105] John Ruddle, or Rudall, A.M., was instituted Vicar of St. Mary\nMagdalene, Launceston, on Christmas Day, 1663, on which day he began\nhis ministry. He is entered in the Visitation Book of 1665 as vicar,\nand in that of 1692 as curate. He became a prebendary of Exeter. On\nJuly 15, 1671, he married Mary Bolitho, a widow. He was buried on\nJanuary 22, 1698. (See Appendix H.)\n\n[106] It is a question whether these documents ever existed outside\nHawker\u2019s brain. See note on p. 101.\n\n[107] See Vivian\u2019s \u201cVisitations of Cornwall,\u201d p. 148.\n\n[108] For the pedigree of the family of Bligh, of Botathen, see\nVivian\u2019s \u201cVisitations of Cornwall,\u201d p. 38. William Bligh, baptized May\n18, 1657, was the son of William, who was baptized June 9, 1633, and\nwas, therefore, only thirty-two in 1665. According to ancestries given\nby Carew and Gilbert, it is probable that the Earls of Darnley are\ndescended from the Blighs of Botathen. (See App. H.)\n\n[109] This is no doubt a mis-spelling for \u201cDingley.\u201d A James Dingley\nwas vicar of the parish of South Petherwin, where the ghost appeared,\nin the same reign, and assisted Parson Rudall in his ministrations at\nLaunceston. The name Dingley exists in that town and district at the\npresent day.\n\n[110] See p. 15.\n\n[111] The pentacle of Solomon. See p. 14.\n\n[112] Compare the lines on Merlin in \u201cThe Quest of the Sangraal\u201d--\n\n    \u201cHe raised his prophet-staff: that runic rod,\n    The stem of Igdrasil--the crutch of Raun,\u201d\n\nto which Hawker appends the following note: \u201cIgdrasil, the mystic tree,\nthe ash of the Keltic ritual. The Raun, or Rowan, is also the ash of\nthe mountain, another magic wood of the northern nations.\u201d\n\n[113] See Appendix A_b_.\n\n[114] See note on p. 104.\n\n[115] Hawker was quite capable of submitting a poser of this kind to\nhis own bishop, Dr. Phillpotts. It is on record that he once exorcised\na rebellious vestry, but whether he obtained the bishop\u2019s licence in\nthis case is not stated.\n\n\n\n\nA RIDE FROM BUDE TO BOSS[116]\n\nBY TWO OXFORD MEN[117]\n\n\nDear old Oxford![118] amid the brawl and uproar of the latter days, and\nwith many a frailty in the curtains of the Ark which the weapons of\nthe Philistines have found and pierced, yet _alma mater_, mother mild,\nlike our native England, \u201cwith all thy faults I love thee still.\u201d And\nwhen I recall my own undergraduate life of thirty years and upwards\nagone, I feel, notwithstanding modern vaunt, the _laudator temporis\nacti_ earnest within me yet and strong. Nowadays, as it seems to me,\nthere is but little originality of character in the still famous\nUniversity; a dread of eccentric reputation appears to pervade College\nand Hall; every \u201cOxford man,\u201d to adopt the well-known name, is subdued\ninto sameness within and without, controlled as it were into copyism\nand mediocrity by the smoothing-iron of the nineteenth century.[119]\nWhereas in my time, and before it, there were distinguished names,\nfamous in every mouth for original achievements and \u201cdeeds of\ndaring-do.\u201d There were giants in those days--men of varied renown--and\nthey arose and won for themselves, in strange fields of fame, record\nand place. Each became in his day a hero of the \u201cIliad\u201d or \u201cOdyssey\u201d\nof Oxford life--a kind of Homeric man. Once and again in the course\nof every term, the whole University would ring with some fearless and\npractical jest, conceived and executed with a dash of original genius\nwhich betokened future victories in the war of wit and the world of\nmen. How well do I remember a bold travesty of discipline[120] which\nonce set the common-rooms in a roar, and even among \u201cmine ancients,\u201d\nmade it\n\n        \u201cmerry in hall\n    Where beards wagged all\u201d!\n\nA decree had been issued by the \u201cauthorities\u201d of a well-known College\n(it was in the pre-ritual days) that no undergraduate should present\nhimself at morning chapel service with his scarlet hunting-coat\nunderneath his surplice--a costume neither utterly secular nor\ncompletely ecclesiastical, and therefore a motley garb which it did\nnot seem unjust or unreasonable to forbid in a sacred place. However,\nthe order was implicitly obeyed at the ensuing matins, with solemn\nand suspicious exactitude. Alas! it was \u201cthe torrent\u2019s smoothness\nere it dash below;\u201d for on the third morning, when the College\nservants arrived to take down the shutters and to light the fires,\nthey discovered that \u201ca change had come over the spirit of their\ndream.\u201d Every one of the panelled doors throughout the Quadrangle of\nthe Canons, the very seat of hoar and reverend authority, had been\nartistically painted during the night with the hue of Nimrod, a glowing\nhunter\u2019s red! The gates were immediately closed and barred, and every\nmember of the College convened before a grand divan of the Dons, to\nundergo immediate scrutiny on the origin of that which some of the\nundergraduates irreverently termed this ultra-observance of the rubric\n(their wit would be obscure to those who are unaware that _rubrica_,\nthe etymon of our Church rules, signifies ruddy or red). The authors of\nthis outrage escaped detection, although every painter in Oxford was\nsummoned for examination, and all the dealers in colours and oils.\nIt was subsequently whispered among the initiated that the artist,\nwith his brushes and materials, had been brought down from London in a\npost-chaise-and-four, secretly introduced through an unnoted postern,\nand when his work was done, hospitably feasted and paid, and then sent\nback at full speed through the night to town.\n\nAnother \u201cmerrie jest,\u201d but with a lowlier scene and an humbler\n_dramatis person\u00e6_, raised the laugh of many a common-room and\nwine-party about the same period of my own undergraduate recollections.\nThere was an ancient woman, blear-eyed and dim-sighted, \u201cworn nature\u2019s\nmournful monument,\u201d[121] who had the far and wide repute of witchcraft\namong the College servants and the \u201cbaser sort\u201d in the suburbs of the\ntown; but in reality she was a mere \u201cwreck of eld,\u201d a harmless and\nhelpless old creature, who stood at more than one college-gate for\nalms. Her well-known name was Nanny Heale. Her cottage, or rather\ndecayed old hut, leaned against a steep mound by the castle-wall, and\nwas so hugged in by the ground that, from a path along the ramparts\na passer-by might cast a bird\u2019s-eye look down Nanny\u2019s chimney, and\nwatch well her hearth and home. One winter evening certain frolicsome\nwights, out of College in search of a channel for the exuberant spirits\nof their age, were pacing, like Hardicanute, the wall east and west,\nwhen a glance down the witch\u2019s chimney revealed a quaint and simple\nscene of humble life. There she crouched, close by the smoking embers,\npeering into the fire; and before her very nose there hung, just over\nthe fire, a round iron vessel, called in the western counties a crock,\nfilled to the brim with potatoes, and without a cover or lid. This\nutensil was suspended by its swing-handle to an iron bar, which went\nfrom side to side of the chimney-wall. To see and to assail the weak\npoint in a field of battle is evermore the signal of a great captain.\nThe onslaught was instantly planned. A rope, with a hook of iron at the\nend, was slowly and noiselessly lowered down the chimney, and, unnoted\nby poor Nanny\u2019s blinking sight, the handle of the iron pot was softly\ngrasped by the crook, and the vessel with its mealy contents began to\nascend in silent majesty towards the upper air. Thoroughly roused by\nthis unnatural and ungrateful demeanour of her lifelong companion of\nthe hearth, old Nanny arose from her stool, peered anxiously upward to\nwatch the ascent, and shouted at the top of her voice: \u201cMassy \u2019pon my\nsinful soul! art gwain off--taties and all?\u201d[122]\n\nThe vessel was quietly grasped, carried down in hot haste, and planted\nupright outside the cottage-door. A knock, given for the purpose,\nsummoned the inmate, who hurried out and stumbled over, as she\nafterwards interpreted the event, her penitent crock.\n\n\u201cSo then,\u201d was her joyful greeting--\u201cso then! theer\u2019t come back to\nholt, then! Ay, \u2019tis a cold out o\u2019 doors.\u201d\n\nGood came out of evil; for her story, which she rehearsed again and\nagain, with all the energy and firm persuasion of truth, at last\nreached the ears of the parish authorities, and they, on inquiry into\nthe evidence, forthwith decreed the addition of a shilling a-week to\npoor old Nanny\u2019s allowance, on the plea that her faculties had quite\nfailed her, and that she required greater charity because of her\nwandering mind. Yet the fact which she testified met the criterion of\nevidence demanded by Hume, for the event occurred within the experience\nof the witness herself.\n\nIt was by outbreaks of animal spirits such as these that the monotony\nof collegiate life in those days was relieved, for the University\nsupplied but little excitement of mental kind. The battle-cries of High\nChurch and Low Church--\u201cthat bleating of the sheep and that lowing of\nthe oxen\u201d which nowadays we hear--had not yet begun to rouse the Oxford\nmind;[123] and the only war about vestments that I recollect was our\nhot fierce struggle after a festive assembly to get first out into\nthe lobby, and to grasp as a spoil the best caps and gowns one by one,\nuntil the unhappy freshman who arrived last had to put up with such\nragged specimens of University costume as would hardly have satisfied\nthe veriest Puritan for the performance of divine service.\n\n\nWell, for us two--the subjects of this paper--the life of Oxford,\nwith its freaks and its discipline, for a time was over; we had each\npassed the final examination so graphically named \u201cthe Great Go;\u201d and\nthat so as to be, what man so seldom is in this world, satisfied. In\nhigh heart, and with spirits running over, my friend and I appointed\na tryst in a small watering-place on the north coast of Cornwall as\na starting-point for a ride \u201call down the thundering shores of Bude\nand Boss.\u201d In due time, and on a glorious summer day, we mounted our\n\u201cGalloway nags,\u201d and, like the knights of ancient ballad, \u201cwe laughed\nas we rode away.\u201d The start was from Bude, and we made our first halt\nat a place twelve miles towards the south-west; a scene of general\nlocal renown, and which bears the parochial name of Warbstow Barrow.\nIt stands upon a lofty hill that soars and swells upward into a vast\ncircular mound, enthroned, as it were, amid a wild and boundless\nstretch of heathy and gorsy moorland. It was soothing to the sight to\nlook down and around on the tapestry of purple and gold intermingled\nin natural woof, and flowing away in free undulation on every side.\nThe view from this mountain-top was of wonderful extent, but wild,\ndesolate, and bare. Beneath, on three sides, spread the moor, dotted\nhere and there with a grey old church, that crouched toward the shadow\nof its low Saxon battlemented tower, as if it still sought shelter,\nafter so many ages, from the perils of surrounding barbarism. On the\nfourth side swelled the sea. But the brow of this hill, like that of\nmany others in the west, dropped into the shape of a mighty circular\nbowl--a kind of hollow valley turfed with grass, and surrounded by\na rim; an amphitheatre, however, large enough to hold five thousand\npeople at once.[124] On the flat level floor of this round crater, and\nin the exact midst, still swells up uninjured the outline of a viking\u2019s\ngrave, unlike other burial-mounds[125] so common in Cornwall and\nelsewhere,\n\n    \u201cWhere the brown barrow curves its sullen breast\n    Above the bones of some dead gentile\u2019s soul,\u201d[126]\n\nand that on every hillside and plain. The shape of the great hillock\nat Warbstow is neither oval nor round, but survives the exact image\nof the dragon-ship of northern piracy and war.[127] Moreover, not\nthe shape only, but the size of the ancient vessel of the dead, is\nperpetuated here. Measured and graduated by scale, this oblong, curved,\nand narrow grave would yield the dimensions of a boat of fifty tons,\nwhich would be about the weight of a Scandinavian serpent of the sea.\n\nWe saw that an effort had been made to open this barrow at one of the\nends; but an old woman, whom we found at a cottage not far off, assured\nus \u201cthat they that tried it were soon forced to give up their digging\nand flee, for the thunders came for \u2019em, and the lightnings also.\u201d\n\nWe endeavoured to sound the local mind of our informant as to the\nhistory of the place and origin of the grave; but all we could drag\nout of her, after questions again and again, was \u201cgreat warriors,\nsupposing, in old times.\u201d Such was the dirge of the mighty dead, and\ntheir requiem, at Warbstow Barrow. But the sun had begun to lean, and\nwe were bound for Boscastle, the breviate of Bottreau[128] Castle, and\nthe abode of the earls[129] of that name.\n\n[Illustration: BOSCASTLE HARBOUR.]\n\nStrange, striking, and utterly unique is the first aspect of this\nvillage by the sea. The gorge or valley lies between two vast and\nprecipitous hills, that yawn asunder as though they had been cleft by\nthe spells of some giant warlock[130] of the West, like the Eildon\nHill by Michael Scott.[131] As you descend the hill from the north\nyou discover on the opposite side clusters of quaint old-fashioned\nhouses, grotesque and gabled, that appear as though they clung together\nfor mutual support on the slope of that perilous cliff. Between the\nhouses, and sheer down the mountain side, descended, or rather fell, a\nsteep and ugly road; which led, however, to the \u201csafety of the vale,\u201d\nand landed the traveller at last in a deep cut or gash between the\nhills, where the creek ebbed and flowed, which was called by strangers\nin their courtesy, and by the inhabitants, with aboriginal pride,\n\u201cthe Harbour\u201d--_Cornice_ \u201cHawn.\u201d There \u201cwent the ships,\u201d so that\nthey did not exceed sixty tons in freight; and thither arrived, at\ncertain intervals, coals and timber in bulk and quantity, which can be\nascertained, no doubt, by the return of imports laid before Parliament\nby the Chancellor of the Exchequer.\n\nWe reached in safety our bourn for the night at the bottom of the\nhill, and discovered the hostelry by the sign which swung above the\ndoor. This appeared to us to represent a man\u2019s shoe; but when we\nhad read the legend, we found that it signified the Ship Inn, and\nwas the \u201cactual effigy\u201d of a vessel which belonged to the port. Here\nwe received a smiling welcome from the hostess, a ruddy-visaged\nwidow,--Joan Treworgy was her Keltic name--fubby and interjectional in\nfigure, and manifestly better adapted for her abode at the foot of the\nhill than at any mansion further up. She was born, as she afterwards\nrelated, two doors off: and, except that she had travelled up the hill\nto Forraburry church to be married there, it appeared that a diameter\nof five yards would have defined the total circumference of her\nwandering life.\n\nAs soon as we arrived, she called up from some vasty deep underneath\nher house a grim and shaggy shape, who answered to the name of Tim,\nbut whom we identified as Caliban on the spot, and charged him to take\nproper care of the Captains\u2019 horses (for by that title all strangers\nin sound garments and whole hats are saluted in the land of the\nquarry and the mine), and to be sure that they had plenty of whuts.\nShe then invited us to enter her \u201cparrolar,\u201d a room rather cosy than\nmagnificent; for when our landlady had followed in her two guests,\nand stood at the door, no one beside could have forced an entrance\nany more than a cannon-ball could cleave through a feather-bed.\nWe then proceeded to confer about beds for the night, and, not\nwithout misgiving, inquired if she could supply a couple of those\nindispensable places of repose. A demur ensued. All the gentry in the\ntown, she declared, were accustomed to sleep \u201ctwo in a bed,\u201d and the\nofficers that travelled the country, and stopped at her house, would\nmostly do the same; but, however, if we commanded two beds for only\ntwo people, two we must have; only, although they were both in the\nsame room, we must certainly pay for two, and sixpence a piece was her\nregular price. We assented, and then went on to entreat that we might\ndine. She graciously agreed; but to all questions as to our fare her\nsole response was, \u201cMeat--meat and taties.\u201d \u201cSome call \u2019em,\u201d she added,\nin a scornful tone, \u201c\u2018purtaties,\u2019 but we always say \u2018taties\u2019 here.\u201d\nThe specific differences between beef, mutton, veal, etc., seemed to\nbe utterly or artfully ignored, and to every frenzied inquiry her calm\ninexorable reply was, \u201cMeat--nice wholesome meat and taties.\u201d\n\nIn due time we sat down in that happy ignorance as to the nature of our\nviands which a French cook is said to desire; and although we both made\na not unsatisfactory meal, it is a wretched truth that by no effort\ncould we ascertain what it was that was roasted for us that day by\nwidow Treworgy, hostess of the Ship, and which we consumed. Was it a\npiece of Boscastle baby? as I suggested to my companion in the midst of\nhis enjoyment; and the question caused him to arise and rush out to\ninquire once again, and insist on knowing the whole truth; but he soon\ncame back baffled, and shouting, \u201cMeat and taties!\u201d There was not a\nvestige of bone nor any outline that could identify the joint, and the\nnot unsavoury taste was something like tender veal. It was not until\nyears afterwards that light was thrown on our mysterious dinner that\nday by a passage which I accidentally turned up in an ancient history\nof Cornwall. Therein I read \u201cthat the sillie people of Bouscastle and\nBoussiney do catch in the summer seas divers young soyles [seals],\nwhich, doubtful if they be fish or flesh, conynge housewives will\nnevertheless roast, and do make thereof very savoury meat.\u201d \u201cAy, ay,\u201d\nsaid my friend and fellow-traveller, when I had transcribed and sent\nhim this extract--\u201cAy! clear as day--meat and taties; how I wish I had\nold mother Treworgy now by the throat! I would make her walk up that\nhill every day for a month, and stop her meat and taties till she was\nthe size of other people.\u201d When the hour arrived that should have been\nthe time of rest, we mounted a cabin-ladder, which our hostess assured\nus was \u201cthe stairs.\u201d We found the two beds which had been allotted\nto us, but, as it was foretold, in one small, hot, stuffy room. As\nwe entered the narrow door, a solitary casement twinkled on one side\nof the opposite wall, flanked by a glazed cupboard door, paned to\nmatch, on the other. This latter, the false light, my friend opened\nby mistake--he was near-sighted, and our single dip was dim--to sniff,\nas he said, the evening air; but he shut it up again in quick disgust,\ndeclaring that the whole atmosphere of the village was impregnated with\nonions and cheese. To bed, but not to rest. Every cubic inch of ozone\nwas exhausted long before midnight, and, as the small hours struck on\nthe kitchen clock below, we found that \u201cBoscastle had murdered sleep,\nand therefore Oxford could sleep no more.\u201d With the first faint glimmer\nof day we arose and stole gently out into the dawn. Before us stood the\none-arched bridge spanning the river bed. Lower down the creek the mast\nand rigging of a sloop at anchor was visible, like network traced upon\nthe morning sky. But the lowly level had no attraction for our path:\nthere lay the sluggish mist of night, and it seemed to our distempered\nfancy like the dull heavy breath of the snorers in that village glen;\nbut above and upwards stretched the tall ascending road, like Jacob\u2019s\nladder resting on the earth and reaching to the sky. Surely on the\nbrow of that mountain top there must be breath and room. We turned,\ntherefore, to climb, and for once \u201cvaulting ambition did not o\u2019erleap\nitself.\u201d Slow and difficult was the way, but cooler and more bracing\nthe air every yard that we achieved.\n\nWe stood at last on the brow of the vast gorge, and full five hundred\nfeet above the sea, where church and tower crowned the cliff like a\ncrest. The scene we looked upon was indeed exhilarating, stately, and\ngrand. On the right hand, and to the west, arose and stood the craggy\nheights of Dundagel, island and main, ennobled by the legends of old\nhistoric time. To the left, a boundless reach of granite-sprinkled\nmoor, where barrow, logan rock, and cromlech stood, the mute memorials\nof Keltic antiquity.[132] Beneath, and afar off, the sea, at that\nsilent hour, like some boundless lake, \u201cits glad waves murmuring all\naround the soul;\u201d near, and at our feet, the jumbled village, crouching\non either side of the steepy road, and clinging to its banks as if the\ninhabitants sought to secure access for escape when the earthquake\nshould rend or the volcano pour. We prepared to return and descend; but\nthis was by no means an easy feat, from the extreme angle at which the\nroadway fell. At the first look on the inclined plane it seemed easier\nto sit down and slide; but on the whole we thought it better to walk,\nand pause, and creep.\n\nAnother and a new feature in the scene now met our gaze. Annexed to\nevery human abode a small hut had been stuck on to the walls for\nthe home of the \u201cgentleman\u201d that, in Cornwall as in Ireland, pays\nthe rent--_Keltice_, the pig. The hovels of these bristly vassals,\nlike the castles of their lords, were cabined and circumscribed in\nthe extreme. There was just room enough to breathe, but not to snore\nwithout impediment of tone. A sudden inspiration awoke in our minds.\nSurely it would be an act of humanity and kindness to enable these poor\nsuffocating creatures once in their lives to taste the balmy breath of\na summer morning. It will be to us, we said and thought, a personal\ndelight to see them emerge from their close and festering abodes and\nrush out in the free, soft radiance of the dawn! Action followed close\non thought. Hastily, busily, every rude rough bar was drawn back,\ndoor and substitute for door unclosed; and a general jail-delivery of\nimprisoned swine was ruled and accomplished on the spot. Undetected by\na single human witness, without interruption from slumbering master\nor lazy hind, the total deed was done. Gradually descending the hill,\nand scattering, like ancient heroes and modern patriots, freedom and\ndeliverance as we went, never did the children of liberty so exult\nin their unshackled deliverance as these Boscastle hordes. There was\none result, however, which we had not foreseen, and its perilous\nconsequences had quite escaped anticipation. The inmates of every\nsty, as soon as their opportunities of egress had been ascertained\nby marching out of their prison-doors and arriving unchecked at the\nroadside--when they looked upward and surveyed the steep and difficult\nascent, and counted mentally the cost of attempting to surmount the\nsteep, they all, as with one hoof and mind, turned down the hill.\nSire and dam, lean and corpulent, farrow and suckling, all _uno\nimpetu_, selected and rushed down the _facilis descensus Averni_; and\nalthough, in all likelihood, they had never pondered the contrast of\nthe Roman poet, yet they spontaneously moved and seconded, and carried\nthe unanimous resolution that _revocare gradum, his labor, hoc opus\nest_. The consequence of this choice of way was too soon apparent.\nJust as we had drawn the last bar, and were approaching the bottom of\nthe steep, we looked back and saw that we were pursued, and should\nspeedily be surrounded, by a mixed multitude of porcine advocates for\nfree discussion in the open air, such as might have gladdened the\nheart of any critic on the original and cultivated breeds of the west\nof England. Prominent among them the old Cornish razor-back asserted\nits pre-eminence of height and bone, nor were punchy representatives\nof the Berkshire[133] and Suffolk genealogies absent on this festive\noccasion. Growing now apprehensive of the consequences of discovery,\nif an early rising owner should ascertain the authors of this daring\neffort to \u201cdeliver their dungeons from the captive,\u201d we hastened to\nsecure ourselves in the shelter of our hostelry of the Ship, and\nfortunately found, on reaching our \u201clittle chamber on the wall,\u201d that\nthe widow and her household were still fast asleep. We fastened the\ndoor and listened for results. The outcries and yells were fearful.\nBy-and-by human voices began to mingle with the tumult; there were\nshouts of inquiry and surprise, then sounds of apparent expostulation\nand entreaty, and again a \u201cstorm of hate and wrath and wakening fear.\u201d\nMany a battle of soldiers must have fought and ended with less uproar.\nAt last the tumult pierced even the ears of our hostess Joan Treworgy.\nWe heard her puff and blow, and call for Tim. At last, after waiting\na prudent time, we thought it best to call aloud for shaving-water,\nand to inquire with astonishment into the cause of that horrible\ndisturbance which had roused us from our morning sleep. This brought\nthe widow in hot haste to our door.\n\n\u201cWhy, they do say, Captain,\u201d was her doleful response, \u201cthat all the\npegs up-town have a-rebelled, and they\u2019ve a-be, and let one the wother\nout, and they be all a-gwain to sea huz-a-muz, bang!\u201d\n\nAlthough this statement was somewhat obscure in its phraseology, and\nthe Keltic byword at the close, wherein the \u201csense is kindred to the\nsound,\u201d yet we understood too well that the main facts of the history\nwere as true as if Macaulay had recorded them; so we pretended to dress\nin great haste, and hurried down to see the war. It was indeed an\noriginal scene;\n\n    \u201cFor chief intent on deeds of strife,\n      Or bard of martial lay,\n    \u2019Twere worth ten years of peaceful life,\n      One glance at their array!\u201d\n\nHere a decently dressed woman made many fruitless endeavours to\ncoax out of the brawl five or six squealing farrows, the offspring\nof a gaunt old dam that, like the felon sow of Rokeby,[134] was \u201cso\ndistraught with noise\u201d that \u201cher own children she mought clean devour.\u201d\nThere a stalwart quarryman, finding all other efforts fruitless,\nhad seized his full-grown porker by the legs and hoisted him on his\nshoulders to ride home pickaback uttering all the while yells of fierce\nexpostulation and defiance. One hot little man, with a red face and\ngesticulating hands, had grasped a long pole, and laid about him in mad\nfury, promiscuously, until a tall and bristly hog rushed at him from\nbehind, and carried him off down the hill seated at full charge like a\nknight of King Arthur\u2019s Court, with \u201csemblance of a spear,\u201d and tilted\nhim at last head over heels in the bed of the stream. But some way up\nthe hill we came suddenly upon a scene which demanded all our sympathy;\nhelp there was none. A panting old woman had singled out her hog and\nseparated him from the crowd; and a fine fat animal he was--four\nhundred-weight at least--and so unfitted for the slightest exertion,\nthat unless he had resorted to sliding and rolling, it was difficult\nto conceive how he had accomplished even his downhill journey from the\nsty. But up hill--as his obdurate mistress appeared to propose,--no,\nno. There was a look in his eye, as he glanced back at his despairing\nowner, that seemed to suggest a grunt in strong German emphasis, _das\ngeht nicht_. He had thrust his snout and half his nose through the\nbars of a gate; and there he stuck, and manifestly meant to stick\nfast, while she belaboured him with strokes like a flail. She paused\nas we approached the spot, and with an appealing look for our assent,\nshe piteously exclaimed, \u201cMy peg\u2019s surely mazed, maister, or he\u2019s\nill-wished; some ennemie hath a-dond it!\u201d My thought responded to her\ncharge; it was certainly no enemy of the pig that \u201cdond it,\u201d whatsoever\nhe might be to his owner.\n\nWe left \u201cher alone in her glory,\u201d and returned to the inn, communing\nas we went on the store of legend, tale, and history we had laid up\nfor future generations in thus opening a field of achievement for the\nBoscastle swine. What themes of marvel would travel down by the cottage\nhearth, there to be rehearsed by wrinkled eld!--the wondrous things\nalways the more believed as they became more incredible. Doubtless the\nlocal event would very soon be resolved into demoniac agency, because,\never since the miracle of Gadara, the people have always linked the\nassociation of demons and swine; and they refer to the five small\ndark punctures always visible on the hoof of the hog as the points of\nentrance and departure for the fiend.[135]\n\nOnce in after-life did this fitful freak[136] recur to our minds. We\nseparated, my companion of this ride and myself--I to a country cure,\nand my friend back to Oxford, \u201cto climb the steep where fame\u2019s proud\ntemple shines afar.\u201d He ascended step by step until he became Dean of\nthe College[137] to which we both belonged. In course of time, after\nthe usual interval, I went up to take my M.A. degree. Now the custom\nwas, and is, that the Dean takes the candidate by the hand, leads him\nup to the chair of the Vice-Chancellor, and presents him for his degree\nin a Latin speech. We were all assembled in the appointed place, the\nDean, my friend, taking us up in turn one by one. Among the group was\na stout burly man, a gentleman commoner, sleek and fat, and manifestly\nwell-to-do in life. With him the Dean had trouble; unwieldy and\nconfused and slow, it was difficult to get him through the crowd and\nup to his place in time. They passed me in a kind of struggle,--the\nDean leading and endeavouring to guide, the candidate hanging back and\ngetting pitched in the throng. Just then I managed to whisper--\n\n\u201cWhy, your peg\u2019s surely mazed, maister!\u201d\n\nI was hardly prepared for the result when I \u201cstruck the electric chain\nwherewith we are darkly bound.\u201d The association came back; the words\ncalled up the scene among the swine; and when the crowd gave way, there\nstood the Dean before the Vice-Chancellor\u2019s chair, greeting him, not\nwith a Latin form, but in spasms of uncontrollable laughter!\n\nTo return to the original scene. We ordered Caliban with our ponies to\nbe ready at the door, and we in the meanwhile called on our hostess to\nproduce her bill. She hum\u2019d and ha\u2019d and hesitated, and seemed at a\nloss to produce the \u201clittle dockyment,\u201d which is usually supposed to\nbe a matter of very fluent composition at an inn. It was not until we\nhad again and again explained that we desired her to state in writing\nwhat we had to pay, that she seemed at last to comprehend. A deal of\nscuffling about the kitchen ensued. There was a quick passing to and\nfro, in and out; there were several muttered discussions of the lower\nhouse; a neighbour, who appeared to be a glazier, was sent for; and\nat last the door opened, and our red pursy little hostess bustled in,\nbobbed a curtsey, and presented for our perusal her small account,\nchalked upon the upper lid of the kitchen bellows, which she gracefully\nheld towards us by the snout. Poor old Joan Treworgy! how utterly\ndid thy rough simplicity put to shame the vaunting tariff and the\n\u201cestablishment charges\u201d of this nineteenth century of Messrs. Brag and\nSham! The bill, which we duly transcribed, and which was then paid and\nrubbed out, thus ran:--\n\n  CAPTENS.\n\n                             _s._ _d._\n\n  T for 2                        0     6\n  Sleep for 2                    1     0\n  Meat and Taties and Bier       1     6\n  Bresks                         1     6\n\nFour shillings and sixpence for bed and board for two wolfish appetites\nfor a night and a day, to say nothing of the pantomime performed\ngratuitously for our behoof, at a very early hour, by Boscastle\namateurs! Good day, Mrs. Treworgy! good day! \u201cTo-morrow to fresh woods\nand pastures new.\u201d\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[116] From _Belgravia_, vol. iii. pp. 328-337. 1867.\n\n[117] The author and Rev. Dr. Jeune, afterwards Bishop of Peterborough,\nfather of Sir Francis Jeune.\n\n[118]\n\n    \u201cO type of a far scene! the lovely land,\n      Where youth wins many a friend, and I had one;\n    Still do thy bulwarks, dear old Oxford, stand?\n      Yet, Isis, do thy thoughtful waters run?\u201d\n\n    _The Token Stream of \u2018Tidna\u2019 Combe._\n\n(See Appendix A.)\n\n[119] Compare Tennyson, \u201cIn Memoriam\u201d--\n\n      \u201cFor, \u2018ground in yonder social mill\n    We rub each other\u2019s angles down,\n\n    \u2018And merge,\u2019 he said, \u2018in form and gloss,\n      The picturesque of man and man.\u2019\u201d\n\n[120] Such things have been known to occur even in these degenerate\ndays.\n\n[121] A variant of a line in Hawker\u2019s poem, \u201cA Legend of the Hive.\u201d\n\n[122] The Oxford crone speaks with a Cornish accent, and some think\nthat she hailed from Stratton.\n\n[123] Hawker came in contact, however, with some of the leaders of\nthe Oxford Movement, as we learn from a letter where he says: \u201cHow I\nrecollect their faces and words--Newman, Pusey, Ward, Marriott; they\nused to be all in the common-room every evening, discussing, talking,\nreading.\u201d Hawker went up to Oxford in 1822, and won the Newdigate in\n1827, when Newman was a Tutor of Oriel and Keble was publishing \u201cThe\nChristian Year.\u201d\n\n[124] One of the kind so often used by Wesley for his open-air sermons\nin Cornwall. See p. 160.\n\n[125] Compare Hawker\u2019s poem,\u201cTrebarrow,\u201d and his footnote thereto.\n\n[126] From the description of Carradon in \u201cThe Quest of the Sangraal.\u201d\n\n[127]\n\n    \u201cKings of the main their leaders brave,\n    Their barks the dragons of the wave.\u201d\n\n    _Lay of the Last Minstrel._\n\n[128] Compare Hawker\u2019s well-known ballad, \u201cThe Silent Tower of\nBottreaux.\u201d\n\n[129] There were no \u201cearls\u201d of Bottreaux. Knights, or barons, would be\nmore correct.\n\n[130] Wizard.\n\n[131] See Appendix J.\n\n[132] Compare Tennyson--\n\n                  \u201cthat gray king, whose name, a ghost,\n    Streams like a cloud, man-shaped, from mountain peak,\n    And cleaves to cairn and cromlech still.\u201d\n\n[133]\n\n    \u201cOne breed may rise, another fall;\n    The Berkshire hog survives them all.\u201d\n\nIt was, perhaps, in commemoration of this episode that Hawker when\nafterwards curate of North Tamerton, kept a tame Berkshire pig. Another\nparson-poet, Robert Herrick, is also said to have had a pet porker.\n\n[134] Compare p. 204.\n\n[135] Compare p. 202.\n\n[136] An escapade with pigs occurs in Tennyson\u2019s poem, \u201cWalking to the\nMail.\u201d\n\n[137] Pembroke.\n\n\n\n\nHOLACOMBE\n\n\nThere is a small outlying hamlet[138] in my parochial charge, about two\nmiles from my vicarage, with a population of about two hundred souls,\ninhabiting a kind of plateau shut in by lofty hills and skirted by the\nsea. These rural and simple-hearted people, secluded by their remote\nplace of abode from the access of the surrounding world, present a\nstriking picture of old and Celtic England such as it existed two or\nthree hundred years ago. A notion of their solitude and simplicity may\nbe gathered from the fact that, whereas they have no village postman\nor office, their only mode of intercourse with the outer life of\ntheir kind is accomplished through the weekly or other visit of their\nclergyman. He carries their letters, which contain \u201cthe short and\nsimple annals of the poor,\u201d and he receives and returns their weekly\nand laborious literary compositions to edify and instruct their distant\nand more civilised correspondents. The address on each letter is often\nsuch as to baffle all ordinary curiosity, and unless deciphered\nby the skill of the experts of the post-office, must often furnish\nhieroglyphics for the study of the Postmaster-General as obscure, if\nnot so antique, as the legends on a pyramid or Rosetta stone. A visit\nto a distant market-town is an achievement to render a man an authority\nor an oracle among his brethren; and one who has accomplished that\njourney twice or thrice is ever regarded as a daring traveller, and\nconsulted about foreign countries with a feeling of habitual respect.\n\nThey have amongst them no farrier for their cattle, no medical man for\nthemselves, no beerhouse, no shop; a man who travels for a distant town\nsupplies them with tea by the ounce, or sugar in smaller quantities\nstill. Not a newspaper is taken in throughout the hamlet, although they\nare occasionally astonished and delighted by the arrival from some\nalmost forgotten friend in Canada of an ancient copy of the _Toronto\nGazette_. This publication they pore over to weariness, and on Sunday\nthey will worry the clergyman with questions about Transatlantic places\nand names of which he is obliged to confess himself utterly ignorant,\na confession which consciously lowers him in their veneration and\nrespect. An ancient dame once exhibited her Prayer-book, very nearly\nworn out, printed in the reign of George II., and very much thumbed at\nthe page from which she assiduously prayed for the welfare of Prince\nFrederick, without one misgiving that she violated the article of our\nChurch which forbids prayer for the dead.\n\nAmong the singular traits of character which are developed amid\nthese, whom I may designate in the German phrase as my mossy[139]\nparishioners, there is one which I should define, in their extreme\nsimplicity, as exuberant belief, or rather faith in excess. I do not,\nhowever, intend by this term any kind of religious peculiarity of tenet\nor creed, but only a prostration of the intellect before certain old\ntraditionary and inherited impulses of the human mind. They share and\nthey embrace those instinctive tendencies of their Celtic nature which\nin all ages have led their race to cherish a credence in the existence\nand power of witches, fairies, and the force of charms and spells. It\nis well known that all such supernatural influences on ordinary life\nare singularly congenial to the ancient and the modern Cornish mind. I\ndo not exaggerate when I affirm at all events my own persuasion, that\ntwo-thirds of the total inhabitants of Tamar-side implicitly believe\nin the power of the _Mal Occhio_, as the Italians name it, or the Evil\nEye. Is this incredible in a day when the spasms and raps and bad\nspelling of a familiar spirit are received with acquiescent belief in\npolished communities, and even in intellectual London? The old notion\nthat a wizard or a witch so became by a nefarious bargain with the\nenemy of man, and by a surrender of his soul to his ultimate grasp,\nalthough still held in many a nook of our western valleys, and by the\ncrooning dame at her solitary hearth, appears to have been exchanged\nin my hamlet of Holacombe (for such is its name) for a persuasion that\nthese choosers of the slain inherit their faculty from their birth.\nWhispers of forbidden ties between their parents, and of monstrous and\nunhallowed alliances of which these children are the issue, largely\nprevail in this village. There it is held that the witch, like the\npoet, is so born. I have been gravely assured that there are well-known\nmarks which distinguish the ill-wishers from all beside. These are\nblack spots under the tongue; in number five, diagonally placed: \u201cLike\nthose, sir, which are always found in the feet of swine,\u201d[140] and\nwhich, according to the belief of my poor people, and which, as a\nScriptural authority, I was supposed unable to deny, were first made in\nthe unclean animals by the entrance of the demons into the ancestral\nherd at Gadara. A peculiar kind of eyeball, sometimes bright and clear,\nand at others covered with a filmy gauze, like a gipsy\u2019s eye, as it is\nsaid, by night; or a double pupil, ringed twice; or a larger eye on\nthe left than on the right side; these are held to be tokens of evil\nomen, and accounted to indicate demoniac power, and certain it is that\na peculiar glare or a glance of the eye does exist in those persons\nwho are pointed out as in possession of the craft of the wizard or\nwitch. But an ancient man, who lived in a lone house in a gorge near\nthe church, once actually disclosed to me in mysterious whispers, and\nwith many a gesture of alarm and dread, a plan which he had heard from\nhis grandfather, and by which a person evilly inclined, and anxious for\nmore power than men ought to possess, might at any time become a master\nof the Evil Eye.\n\n\u201cLet him go to chancel,\u201d said he, \u201cto sacrament, and let him hide\nand bring away the bread[141] from the hands of the priest; then,\nnext midnight let him take it and carry it round the church,\nwiddershins--that is, from south to north,[142] crossing by east\nthree times: the third time there will meet him a big, ugly, venomous\ntoad,[143] gaping and gasping with his mouth opened wide, let him put\nthe bread between the lips of the ghastly creature, and as soon as ever\nit is swallowed down his throat he will breathe three times upon the\nman, and he will be made a strong witch for evermore.\u201d\n\nI did not fail to express the horror and disgust with which I had\nlistened to this grandsire\u2019s tale, and to assure him that any man\ncapable of performing such an atrocious ceremony for such a purpose,\nmust be by his very nature fit for every evil desire, and prepared, of\nhis own mere impulse, to form the most unhallowed wishes for the harm\nof his fellow-creatures, such as a demon only could delight to fulfil.\nBut the feats which are supposed to be achieved by the witch--for the\nquestion proposed by the sapient King Jamie has been solved by the\nCornish people, whether the Devil doth not oftener dally with ancient\nwomen than men--are invariably deeds of loss and harm: Some felon sow,\nlike her of Rokeby,[144] becomes the grunting mother of a large family\nof farrows; all at once, like Medea,[145] she hates her own offspring\nwith a fiendish hatred, and spurns them all away from her milk. They\npine and squeal, and at last sit upright on their hinder parts like\npleading children, put their little paws together in piteous fashion,\nand die one by one. All this would never have come to pass had not the\ndame, the day before, refused a bottle of milk to one who \u201cshould\nhave been a woman,\u201d \u201cbut that her beard forbade them to interpret\nthat such she were.\u201d What graphic tales of \u201cthings ill-wished\u201d have\nI not heard around and within this wild and lonely hamlet! All at\nonce a flock or herd would begin to pine away with some strange and\nnameless disease, the shepherd\u2019s ewes yeaned dead lambs, and were found\nstanding over their lost offspring aghast. Or his cows, \u201cthe milky\nmothers of the herd,\u201d would rush from field to field, \u201cquite mad,\u201d\nwith their tails erect towards the sky, like the bare poles of a ship\nin distress scudding before the gale; or the brown mare would refuse\nto be harnessed, and signify her intention to remain in the stall on\na busy day, to her master\u2019s infinite disgust. In the more civilised\npart of my parish the well-to-do farmer would have a remedy. He would\nmount his horse one break of day on some secret expedition, and be\nabsent for another day or two. Then he returns armed with a packet of\nwhite powders, which he scatters carefully, one at every gate on his\nfarm, and his men hear him as he goes muttering in solemn fashion some\nstrange set words, which turn out, when the scroll is submitted to the\nschoolmaster afterwards, to contain the blessings of the twenty-eighth\nchapter of Deuteronomy, copied in writing for his use. He has paid\na visit, it appears, to a distant town, and been closeted with a\nwell-known public character of the west, popularly called the White\nWitch, and it is he who has not only exposed the name and arts of the\nparish practitioner of evil, but has supplied an antidote in the shape\nof baffling powders and \u201ccharms of might.\u201d\n\nSome years agone a violent thunderstorm passed over the hamlet of\nHolacombe, and wrought great damage in its course. Trees were rooted\nup, cattle killed, and a rick or two set on fire. It so befell that I\nvisited, the day after, one of the chief agricultural inhabitants of\nthe village, and I found the farmer and his men standing by a ditch\nwherein lay, heels upward, a fine young horse quite dead. \u201cHere sir,\u201d\nhe shouted, as I came on, \u201conly please to look! is not this a sight to\nsee?\u201d I looked at the poor animal, and uttered my sympathy and regret\nat the loss.\n\n\u201cOne of the fearful results,\u201d I happened to say, \u201cof the storm and\nlightning yesterday.\u201d \u201cThere, Jem,\u201d said he to one of his men,\ntriumphantly, \u201cdidn\u2019t I say the parson would find it out? Yes, sir,\u201d\nhe said, \u201cit is as you say: it is all that wretched old Cherry[146]\nParnell\u2019s doing, with her vengeance and her noise!\u201d I stared with\nastonishment at this unlooked-for interpretation which he had put into\nmy mouth, and waited for him to explain. \u201cYou see, sir,\u201d he went on\nto say, \u201cthe case was this: old Cherry came up to my place, tottering\nalong and mumbling that she wanted a fagot of wood. I said to her,\n\u2018Cherry,\u2019 says I, \u2018I gave you one only two days agone, and another\ntwo days before that, and I must say that I didn\u2019t make up my woodrick\naltogether for you.\u2019 So she turned away, looking very grany, and\nmuttering something about \u2018Hotter for me hereafter.\u2019 Well, sir, last\nnight I was in bed, I and my wife, and all to once there bursted a\nthunderbolt, and shaked the very room and house. Up we started, and my\nwife says, \u2018O father, old Cherry\u2019s up! I wish I had gone after her with\nthat there fagot.\u2019 I confess I thought in my mind I wish she had; but\nit was too late then, and I would try to hope for the best. But now,\nsir, you see with your own eyes what that revengeful old woman hath\nbeen and done. And I do think, sir,\u201d he went on to say, changing his\ntone to a kind of indignant growl--\u201cI _do_ think that when I call to\nmind how I\u2019ve paid tithe and rates faithfully all these years, and kept\nmy place in church before your reverence every Sabbath-day, and always\nvoted in the vestries that what hath a be ought to be, and so on, I do\nthink that such ones as old Cherry Parnell never ought to be allowed to\nmeddle with such things as thunder and lightning.\u201d What could I--what\ncould any man in his senses--say to this?\n\nThe great charmer of charms[147] in this strange corner of the world\nis a seventh son born in direct succession from one father and one\nmother. Find such a person, and you have \u201cthe sayer of good words\u201d\nalways at your command. He is called in our folk-lore the doctor of the\ndistrict. There is such an old man in my hamlet, popularly called Uncle\nTony Cleverdon. He was baptised Anthony; but this has been changed by\nkindly village parlance and the usage of the West. For with us the\npet name is generally the short name, and any one venerable from age\nand amiable in nature is termed, without relationship, but merely for\nendearment, \u201cuncle\u201d and \u201caunt.\u201d[148] Uncle Tony has inherited this\nendowment in a family of thirteen children, he being the seventh born.\nHe often says that his lucky birth has been as good as \u201ca fortin\u201d to\nhim all his life; for although he is forbidden by usage and tradition\nto take money for the exercise of his functions, nothing has hindered\nthat he should always be invited to sit as an honoured guest at the\ntable furnished with good things in the houses of his votaries. Uncle\nTony allowed me, as a vast favour, to take down from his lips some of\nhis formularies: they had never been committed to writing before, he\nsaid; not, as I believe, for more than three centuries, for they smack\nof the Middle Ages. He very much questioned whether their virtue would\nnot be utterly destroyed when he was gone, by their being \u201cput into\nink.\u201d\n\nUncle Tony was like an ancient augur in the science of birds. \u201cWhenever\nyou see one magpie alone by himself,\u201d said he, with a look of\ninimitable sagacity, \u201cthat bird is upon no good: spit over your right\nshoulder three times, and say--\n\n    \u201cClean birds by sevens,\n      Unclean by twos,\n    The dove in the heavens\n      Is the one I choose!\u201d\n\nAmong the myriads of sea and land birds that throng this coast, the\nraven is king of the rock.[149] The headland and bulwark of the slope\nof Holacombe is a precipice of perpendicular rock. There, undisturbed\n(for no bribe would induce a villager to slay them, old or young), the\nravens dwell, revel, and reign. One day, as we watched them in their\nflapping flight, said Uncle Tony to me, \u201cSometimes, sir, these wild\ncreatures will be so merciful that they will even save a man\u2019s life.\u201d\n\u201cIndeed! how?\u201d \u201cWhy, sir, it came to pass on this wise. There was once\na noted old wrecker called Kinsman: he lived in my father\u2019s time; and\nwhen no wreck was onward, he would get his wages by raising stone in a\nquarry by the sea-shore. Well, he was to work one day over yonder, half\nway down Tower Cliff, and all at once he heard a buzz above him in the\nair, and he looked up, and there were two old ravens flying round and\nround very near his head. They kept whirling and whirling and coming\nso nigh, and they seemed so knowing, that the old man thought verily\nthey were trying to speak, as they made a strange croak; but after\nsome time they went away, and old Kinsman went on with his work. Well,\nsir, by-and-by they both came back again, flying above and round as\nbefore; and then at last, lo and behold! the birds dropped right down\ninto the quarry two pieces of wreck-candle just at the old man\u2019s feet.\u201d\n(Very often the wreckers pick up Neapolitan wax-candles from vessels in\nthe Mediterranean trade that have been lost in the Channel.) \u201cSo when\nKinsman saw the candles, he thought in his mind, \u2018There is surely wreck\ncoming in upon the beach:\u2019 so he packed his tools together and left\nthem just where he stood, and went his way wrecking. He could find no\njetsam, however, though he searched far and wide, and he used to say\nhe verily believed that the ravens must have had the candles at hand\nin their holt, to be so ready with them as they were. Next day he went\nback to quarry to his work, and he always used to say it was as true\nas a proverb: there the tools were all buried deep out of sight, for\nthe craig above had given way and fallen down, and if he had tarried\nonly one hour longer he must have been crushed to death! So you see,\nsir, what knowledge those ravens must have had; how well they knew\nthe old man, and how fond he was of wreck; how crafty they were to\nhit upon the only plan that would ever have slocked him away: and the\nbirds, moreover, must have been kind creatures, and willing to save a\npoor fellow\u2019s life. There is nothing on airth so knowing as a bird is,\nunless it may be a snake. Did you ever hear, sir, how I heal an adder\u2019s\nbite? You cut a piece of hazelwood, sir, and you fasten a long bit and\na short one together into the form of a cross; then you lay it softly\nupon the wound, and you say, thrice, blowing out the words aloud like\none of the commandiments--\n\n    \u201c\u2018Underneath this hazelin mote\n    There\u2019s a Braggoty worm with a speckled throat,\n      Nine double is he:\n    Now from nine double to eight double,\n    And from eight double to seven double,\n    And from seven double to six double,\n    And from six double to five double,\n    And from five double to four double,\n    And from four double to three double,\n    And from three double to two double,\n    And from two double to one double,\n    And from one double to no double,\n      No double hath he!\u2019\n\n\u201cThere, sir,\u201d said uncle Tony, \u201cif David had known that charm he never\nwould have wrote the verse in the Psalms about the adder that was so\ndeaf that she would not hear the voice of the charmer, charm he never\nso wisely. I never knew that charm fail in all my life!\u201d Tony added,\nafter a pause--\u201cFail! of course, sometimes a body may fail, but then\n\u2019tis always from people\u2019s obstinacy and ignorance. I dare say, sir,\nyou\u2019ve heard the story of Farmer Colly\u2019s mare, how she bled herself to\ndeath; and they say he puts the blame on me. But what\u2019s the true case?\nHis man came rapping at my door after I was in bed. I got up and opened\nthe casement and looked out, and I asked what was amiss. \u2018O Tony,\u2019\nsays he, \u2018master\u2019s mare is blooding streams, and I be sent over to\nyou to beg you to stop it.\u2019 \u2018Very well,\u2019 I said, \u2018I can do it just as\nwell here as if I came down and opened the door: only just tell me the\nname of the beast, and I\u2019ll proceed.\u2019 \u2018Name,\u2019 says he, \u2018why, there\u2019s\nno name that I know by; we allus call her the black mare.\u2019 \u2018No name?\u2019\nsays I; \u2018then how ever can I charm her? Why, the name\u2019s the principal\nthing! Fools! never to give her a name to rule the charm by. Be off!\nbe off! I can\u2019t save her.\u2019 So the poor old thing died in course.\u201d \u201cAnd\nwhat may your charm be, Tony?\u201d said I. \u201cJust one verse in Ezekiel, sir,\nbeginning, \u2018I said unto thee when thou wast in thy blood, Live.\u2019 And\nso on. I say it only twice, with an outblow between each time. But the\nfinest by-word that I know, sir, is for the prick of a thorn.\u201d And here\nit follows from my diary in the antique phraseology which Uncle Tony\nhad received from his forefathers through descending generations:--\n\n    \u201cHappy man that Christ was born!\n    He was crown\u00e8d with a thorn:\n    He was pierc\u00e8d through the skin,\n    For to let the poison in;\n    But His five wounds, so they say,\n    Closed before He passed away.\n    In with healing, out with thorn:\n    Happy man that Christ was born!\u201d\n\nAnother time Uncle Tony said to me, \u201cSir, there is one thing I want to\nask you, if I may be so free, and it is this, Why should a merry-maid\u201d\n(the local name for mermaid), \u201cthat will ride about upon the waters in\nsuch terrible storms, and toss from sea to sea in such ruxles as there\nbe upon the coast--why should she never lose her looking-glass and\ncomb?\u201d \u201cWell, I suppose,\u201d said I, \u201cthat if there are such creatures,\nTony, they must wear their looking-glasses and combs fastened on\nsomehow--like fins to a fish.\u201d[150] \u201cSee!\u201d said Tony, chuckling\nwith delight; \u201cwhat a thing it is to know the Scriptures like your\nreverence! I never should have found it out. But there\u2019s another point,\nsir, I should like to know, if you please; I\u2019ve been bothered about\nit in my mind hundreds of times. Here be I, that have gone up and\ndown Holacombe cliffs and streams fifty years come next Candlemas, and\nI\u2019ve gone and watched the water by moonlight and sunlight, days and\nnights, on purpose, in rough weather and smooth (even Sundays, too,\nsaving your presence), and my sight as good as most men\u2019s, and yet\nI never could come to see a merry-maid in all my life! How\u2019s that,\nsir?\u201d \u201cAre you sure, Tony,\u201d I rejoined, \u201cthat there are such things\nin existence at all?\u201d \u201cOh, sir, my old father seen her twice! He was\nout once by night for wreck (my father watched the coast like most of\nthe old people formerly), and it came to pass that he was down by the\nduck-pool on the sand at low-water tide, and all at once he heard music\nin the sea. Well, he croped on behind a rock, like a coastguard-man\nwatching a boat, and got very near the noise. He couldn\u2019t make out the\nwords, but the sound was exactly like Bill Martin\u2019s voice, that singed\nsecond counter in church. At last he got very near, and there was the\nmerry-maid very plain to be seen, swimming about upon the waves like a\nwoman bathing--and singing away. But my father said it was very sad and\nsolemn to hear--more like the tune of a funeral hymn than a Christmas\ncarol by far--but it was so sweet that it was as much as he could do\nto hold back from plunging into the tide after her. And he an old man\nof sixty-seven, with a wife and a houseful of children at home! The\nsecond time was down here by Holacombe Pits. He had been looking out\nfor spars: there was a ship breaking up in the Channel, and he saw some\none on the move just at half-tide mark. So he went on very softly, step\nand step, till he got nigh the place, and there was the merry-maid\nsitting on a rock, the bootifullest merry-maid that eye could behold,\nand she was twisting about her long hair, and dressing it just like one\nof our girls getting ready for her sweetheart on the Sabbath-day. The\nold man made sure he should greep hold of her before ever she found\nhim out, and he had got so near that a couple of paces more and he\nwould have caught her by the hair as sure as tithe or tax, when, lo and\nbehold! she looked back and glimpsed at him. So in one moment she dived\nhead-foremost off the rock, and then tumbled herself topsy-turvy about\nin the waters, and cast a look at my poor father, and grinned like a\nseal!\u201d\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[138] Welcombe, to which Mr. Hawker became curate in 1850, and which he\ncontinued to serve until his death. There is an allusion to Welcombe\nchurch on p. 21.\n\n[139] Hawker writes in one of his letters: \u201cAnd now enough of myself.\nSolitude makes men self-praisers, and a Bem\u00f6\u00f6ster Herr--as the Germans\ncall lonely readers--a mossy vicar likes to talk about his own\nimportance.\u201d\n\n[140] Compare p. 196.\n\n[141] A similar sacrilege occurs in Hawker\u2019s poem, \u201cA Legend of the\nHive.\u201d\n\n[142] See Appendix A_b_.\n\n[143] An echo from Shakespeare--\n\n          \u201c... the toad, ugly and venomous,\n    Wears yet a precious jewel in his head.\u201d\n\n[144] Compare p. 194.\n\n[145] Horace, \u201cArs Poetica,\u201d 185--\n\n    \u201cNe pueros coram populo Medea trucidet.\u201d\n\n[146] _Charity_ is the full name.\n\n[147] There is a chapter on charms in Hunt\u2019s \u201cPopular Romances of the\nWest of England.\u201d\n\n[148] Compare Hawker\u2019s poem, \u201cModryb Marya\u201d--\n\n    \u201cNow the holly with her drops of blood for me:\n    For that is our dear Aunt Mary\u2019s tree.\u201d\n\n[149] Compare the poem, \u201cA Croon on Hennacliff.\u201d\n\n[150] Hawker was no doubt reminded of his own impersonation of a\nmermaid at Bude. For many quaint legends about mermaids and mermen, see\nHunt\u2019s \u201cPopular Romances of the West of England.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nHUMPHREY VIVIAN\n\n\nAmong the changes that have passed over the face of our land with\nsuch torrent-like rapidity in this wondrous nineteenth century of\nmarvel and miracle, none are more striking and complete than that\nwhich has transformed the torpid clergy of past periods into the\nactive and energetic ministers of our own Church and time. The country\nincumbent of Macaulay\u2019s \u201cHistory,\u201d the guests at the second table of\nthe patron and the squire--the Trullibers and the Parson Adams of\nFielding and Smollett--would find no deuterotype in the present day.\nBut in the transition period of our ecclesiastical history there are\nhere and there fossil memorials of the former men that would enable a\nthoughtful mind to construct singular specimens of character which,\nwhile embodying the past, would also indicate the future lineaments of\ngradual change and improvement. Among these is one, a personal friend\nof the writer when he first entered the ministry, whose kindliness\nof heart and originality of character may supply sundry graphic and\ninteresting reminiscences. As old Johnson would have said, had he\nwritten his life, so let me say of Humphrey Vivian, that he was at once\nthe stately priest, the genial companion, and the faithful, facetious\nfriend. Let me indulge some of these recollections, and gather up some\nmaterials of personal history, which are by no means wanting. For it\nwas his great delight, when a guest at my table, after he had done more\nthan justice to the viands set before him, when his gold snuff-box had\nbeen produced and ceremoniously offered to all around, and his glass\nfilled with his favourite wine--\u201csound old Tory port\u201d--to recall in\nwhole volumes the events of his youth and manhood, and to dilate with\nemphatic gusto on the contrasts of the age and times.\n\nThe personal aspect of my friend presented an imposing solemnity to\nthe eye. Tall, even to the measure of six feet two inches, but slender\nwithal as the bole of a poplar-tree, with small features and twinkling\neye, and a round undersized head, and yet with a demeanour so pompous,\nsuch a frequency of condescending bows, and such a roll of words, that\nhe took immediate rank as a gentleman of the old school. And as to his\nmental endowments, be it enough to record that there were few men as\nwise as he looked. His garb was that of a pluralized clergyman of the\ndays of the Georges,--fine black broadcloth, that hung around him in\nfestive moments like mourning on a Maypole. His vest was of rich silk\nwith wide pockets, roomy enough to hold the inevitable snuff-box, the\ngold _\u00e9tui_, and the small cock-fighter\u2019s saw, which was used to cut\naway the natural spur of the bird when it was replaced with steel. This\nlast was a common equipment of a country gentleman, lay or clerical, in\nthose days. His apparel terminated in black silk stockings and nether\ngarments, buckled with gold or silver at the knee. Buckles also clasped\nhis shoes. Thus attired, he was no unfit representative of the clergy\nwho ruled and reigned in their parochial domain in the west of England\nin the early part of the eighteenth century. His conversational powers\nwere ample and amusing; but it was when he could be brought to dilate\non his own adventures and history in earlier life that he most surely\nriveted and requited the attention of his auditors.\n\nAt my table one day the topic of discourse was the marriage of the\nclergy. \u201cThe young curates,\u201d said he, \u201cshould always marry, and that\nas soon as ever they are ordained. Nothing brightens up a parsonage\nlike the ribbons of a merry wife. I, you know, have buried three Mrs.\nVivians; and when I come to look back, I really can hardly decide\nwhich it was that made the happiest home. If I had to live my life\nover again, I should certainly marry all three. And yet I did not win\nmy first love, after all. Her grumpy old father came between us and\nblighted our days, as the Psalmist puts it. Ah! the very sound of her\nname is like a charm to me still. Bridget Morrice! But \u2018Biddy\u2019 she was\nalways called at home; and very soon she was \u2018Biddy dear\u2019 to me.\n\n\u201cI was at Oxford then, and when I came down for the \u2018Long\u2019 I used to\nbe very duly at church, because there I could see Biddy. Her pew was\nopposite to mine; and there was I in full rig as we used to dress in\nthose days,--long scarlet coat, silk waistcoat with a figured pattern,\nand tights. One Sunday after prayers up comes old Morrice, roaring like\na bull. \u2018Mr. Vivian,\u2019 he growled, \u2018I\u2019ll trouble you to take your eyes\noff my daughter\u2019s face in church. I saw you, sir, when you pretended\nto be bowing in the Creed. You were bowing to Biddy, my daughter, sir,\nacross the aisle; and that you call attending divine service, do you,\nsir?\u2019 However, in spite of the old dragon, we used to meet in the\ngarden, and there, in the arbour, what fruit Biddy used to give me!\nSuch peaches, plums, and sometimes cheesecakes and tarts? Talk of a\nsweet tooth! I think that in those days I had a whole set; and now I\nhave but one left of any kind, and that is a stump. But Biddy treated\nme very unkindly after all. There was a regiment of soldiers stationed\nin the town, and of course lots of gay young officers fluttering about\nin feathers and lace. Well, one day it was rumoured about that old\nMorrice and his wife were going to give a spread, and these captain\nfellows were to be there, head and chief. There were to be dinner and\na dance, and I of course thought that, somehow or other, Biddy would\nmanage with her mother to get me a card and a corner. I waited and\nwatched; but no--none came. So at last away I went to the house, angry\nand fierce, and determined to have matters cleared up. Old Morrice,\nluckily, was out, and his wife with him; but there was Biddy, up to\nher elbows in jellies and jams, fussing and fuming like a maid to get\nthings nice and toothsome for cockering up those red rascals, that\nI hated like grim death. \u2018Well, Biddy,\u2019 I said, \u2018do you call this\npretty, to serve me so? Here you ask everybody to your feasts and your\njunkets--yes, every one in the town but me!\u2019 And what with the vexation\nand the smell of the cookery, I actually burst out sobbing like a boy.\nThis made Biddy cry too, and there was a scene, sure enough. \u2018It is\nfather\u2019s fault, Henry, utterly and entirely: he is so mad against you\nbecause he thinks you want me for the sake of my money.\u2019 \u2018Money, Biddy\ndear!\u2019 I said--\u2018money! Now I do think that if I bring blood your father\nought to bring groats!\u2019\n\n\u201cJust then some one lifted the latch, and poor Biddy began to scream:\n\u2018O Henry, dear! what shall I do? That\u2019s father come back. He\u2019ll surely\nkill you or me, or do some rash deed. What can I do? Here, here,\u2019 she\nsaid, opening a kind of closet-door, \u2018step in, that\u2019s a dear, and\nwait till I can get you out. Don\u2019t cough or sneeze, but keep quiet\nand still as a mouse till I come to call you.\u2019 In I went, and Biddy\nshut the door. Well, do you know, I found she had put me in a sort of\nstoreroom, where they kept the sweets; and on a long table there was\nsuch a spread: raspberry-creams, ices, jellies, all kinds of flummery,\nand in the middle a thing I never could resist--a fine sugary cake.\nDidn\u2019t I help myself! and when I began to think that all these niceties\nwere got up to fill up the waistcoats of those rollicking fellows that\nhad cut me out of my Biddy\u2019s heart, it did make me half mad. However,\nwhen I thought of that cake, I said to myself, \u2018Not one crumb of that\nlovely thing shall go down their horrid throats after all--see if it\ndoes!\u2019 We wore long wide pockets in those days, big enough to hold a\nChristmas-pie. So in went the cake; and there was room besides for a\nwhole plate of macaroons. Presently Biddy was at the door, and in such\na way. \u2018Make, haste, Henry, dear--quick; and do go straight home! I\nwould not have you meet father for the world!\u2019 You may guess how I\nscudded away through the streets with my skirts bulging out, and the\nboys shouting after me, \u2018There goes the Oxford scholar with his humps\nslipped down!\u2019\n\n\u201cNext time I met Biddy, it was coming out of church. She could hardly\ntell whether to laugh or cry. \u2018How could you, Henry, dear?\u2019 she\nsaid,--\u2018how could you carry off our beautiful cake?\u2019 \u2018How? Biddy,\ndear,\u2019 said I; \u2018why, in my pocket, to be sure.\u2019\n\n\u201cBut the worst of all was that Biddy was cold to me from that very\ntime; and when I came home from college the next year I heard that she\nwas engaged to a Captain Upjohns, and she was married to him not long\nafter. So he had Biddy and I had the cake. But she was my first love;\nand I do think, after all, notwithstanding the three Mrs. Vivians, she\nwas verily my last love also. People say that Queen Mary declared that\nif she was opened after her death, Calais would be found graven on her\nheart.[151] And I, too, say often, that if my dead bosom were examined,\nit would be found that Biddy Morrice was carved on mine.[152]\n\n\u201cWell, well; time passed away--years upon years. I was ordained, and\nserved half-a-dozen curacies--three at once for some time; and then I\ngot, one after another, my two first livings. I was a widower. I had\nlost the first--no, no, I am sorry to say the second Mrs. Vivian, when\none day I heard that Biddy Morrice was a rich widow. Old Upjohns, it\nseems, had died and left her no end of money. And then the thought\noccurred to me that we two might come together after all. \u2018\u2019Twould be\nlike a romance,\u2019 I said. I found out that she was settled in great\nstyle at Bath. So up I went and found, sure enough, she had a splendid\nhouse. A fine formal old butler received me, and I sent up my name. I\nwas shown into a splendid drawing-room, with rich furniture, like a\nbishop\u2019s palace, all velvet and gold. I sat down, thinking over old\ntimes, when Biddy used to come to meet me with her rosy cheeks and her\nstrawberry mouth, and a waist you might span with your hand. At last\nthe door opened, and in she came. But alack, alas! such a cat! oh dear,\noh dear! and with such a bow-window: it was surprising,--more like old\nMrs. Morrice than my Biddy. I was aghast. I never kissed her, as I\nintended, but I stood staring like a gawky. I remember I offered her a\npinch of snuff, which she took. We had a talk, but it was all prisms\nand prunes with Biddy. However, she invited me to dinner the next day,\nand I went. Everything first-rate,--turbot and haunch, and so on,\nall upon silver; fine old Madeira, and glorious port; and that sleek\nfellow, the butler, ruling over all! There was a moderate dessert, and\non the middle dish there was such a cake! \u2018I remember,\u2019 said Biddy, but\nwithout the shadow of a smile--\u2018I remember that you are fond of cake.\u2019\nWell, after the cloth was removed, I felt all the better for my dinner,\nand it is at that time I always have most courage, particularly after\nthe third glass. As I looked on the sleek butler and his pompous ways,\nI thought to myself, \u2018I should like to dethrone that rule, and reign\nmyself over her cellar.\u2019\n\n\u201cSo I broached the subject of my wishes. \u2018Don\u2019t you think, Biddy dear,\u2019\nsaid I, \u2018now that my second Mrs. V. has gone, and old Upjohns also out\nof the way, that we two----?\u2019 \u2018O Henry, Henry,\u2019 she broke in; \u2018the old\nAdam is still, I see, strong as ever in you. As sweet Mr. Cheekey says\nat our Bethesda, \u201cWe are all criminally minded to our dying day.\u201d\u2019\nNever believe me if Bridget had not turned Methodist, and all that. And\nso, in short, she cut me dead. However, she sent me this snuff-box, and\nI had her picture put under the lid. Sweet face, isn\u2019t it? But then it\nwas taken thirty years before that dinner at Bath.\u201d\n\nBut it was when the conversation turned upon curacies, and stipends,\nand the usual topers among clerical guests, that our friend Humphrey\u2019s\nremembrances became of chief interest and value. \u201cOh, the changes\nthat I have lived to see!\u201d was his favourite phrase. \u201cI remember\nso well when I was ordained deacon, and came down in my brand-new\nbombasine bachelor\u2019s gown, and a hood that made me look behind like\na two-year-old goat, and bands half a yard long, what a swell I used\nto think myself to be! Talk of your one good curacy! why, when I\nbegan to work I served four. Ay, and I had \u00a310 apiece for them, and\nthought myself in paradise. I remember there were three of us. John\nBraddon--he had two curacies and the evening lecture; and Millerford we\nthought very low down--he had two and no more. We all lived, sir, in\nthe town, and boarded and lodged together. \u00a320 a year each we paid the\nunfortunate fellow that took us in. Our first landlord was old Geake,\nthe grocer. He stood it twelve months, and then broke all to pieces,\nand was made bankrupt by his creditors. He actually said in court that\nwe had eaten and drunk all his substance. Well, then, a man called Stag\nundertook us. He was a market-gardener; and, do you know, after a time\nhe went too! He said it was not so much the meat we consumed, but he\nhad no more vegetables to sell. So we cut him. At last an old fellow\nnamed Brewer came forward, and said he would try his luck with us. He\nstood it pretty well, but then his wife had private property of her\nown; but she used to say it all went under the waistcoats of the young\nclergy. She had no family; but she said she would rather have had six\nchildren of her own than keep us three. But, no doubt, she exaggerated.\nWomen will do so sometimes.\u201d\n\n\u201cDid you live well, Mr. Vivian?\u201d we interposed.\n\n\u201cLike fighting-cocks, sir. We insisted on good breakfasts, plain joints\nand plenty for dinner, and nice hot suppers. We didn\u2019t care much about\ntea--nobody did in those days. But then, behind the parlour door there\nwas always a keg of brandy on tap, and we had a right to go with our\nlittle tin cups and draw the spigot twice a day.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo doubt, Mr. Vivian, you worked hard in those days?\u201d\n\n\u201cDidn\u2019t we? To be sure it was only on Sundays, but it was enough for\nall the week. We used to start in the morning and travel on foot to\nall the points of the compass, every man of us with his umbrella. My\nfirst service was at nine o\u2019clock in the morning, prayers and sermon.\nThen on to Tregare at half-past eleven, West Lariston at two o\u2019clock,\nand Kimovick at four, and home in the evening, pretty well done up.\nBraddon and Millerford just the same tramp. But then, how we did enjoy\nour roast goose, sirloin, or leg of mutton afterwards! We bargained\nexpressly for a hot dinner on Sundays, and we had it too. Then what\nfun afterwards! Every man had something to tell about his parish. I\nremember Millerford had to call and see an old woman, a reputed witch.\nHe was to examine her mouth, and see if the roof had the five black\nmarks[153] that stamped an old woman as a witch. He wished to save her,\nand he declared that she had but four, and one of them doubtful. One\nday Braddon had christened a man-child, as he thought, Thomas; but the\nnext week the father came in great perplexity. \u2018\u2019Twas the mistake of\nthe nurse. \u2019Tis a girl. How shall us do? Us can never call a maid Tom.\nYou must christen her over again, sir.\u2019 As this could not be, we had\nto put our heads together, and at last we advised Braddon to alter the\nname to Thomasine (pronounced Tamzine), and so he just saved her sex.\n\n\u201cOne day I had a good story of my own to relate about a pinch of snuff.\nIt was always the custom in those days for the clergyman after the\nmarriage to salute the bride first, before any other person. Well,\nit was so that I had just married a very buxom, rosy young lady, and\nwhen it was over I proceeded to observe the usual ceremony. But I had\njust before taken an enormous finger-and-thumb-ful of snuff; so no\nsooner had the bride received my kiss--and I gave her a smart kiss\nfor her good looks--than she began to sneeze. The bridegroom kissed\nher, of course, and he began also. Then the best man advanced to\nthe privilege. Better he hadn\u2019t, for he began to sneeze awfully; and\nby-and-by the bridesmaids also, for they were all kissed in turn, till\nthe whole party went sneezing down the aisle, and the last thing I\nheard outside the church door was _\u2019tchu, \u2019tchu, \u2019tchu_, till the noise\nwas drowned by the bells from the tower.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut I suppose, Mr. Vivian, you did not remain long a curate; you must\nhave received some of your several livings at an early period of life?\u201d\n\n\u201cSo I did, sir, sure enough. My text on such subjects was, \u2018_Ask not,\nand you shall never receive_.\u2019 First of all, I had the vicarage of\nPercombe, up towards the moors. This came from a private friend. Next,\nthe Duchy gave me the rectory of South Wingley. I had trouble enough\nto get it. I went up to London, and besieged the Council two or three\ntimes a day. People said they gave me the living to get rid of me\nfrom town. But it wasn\u2019t so. Next I had Trelegh from the second Mrs.\nVivian\u2019s uncle. Yes, yes, preferment enough for one man. By-the-by, did\nyou ever hear how near I was once to the lawn-sleeves and the bench?\nThat was a close shave! I was staying in Bath, at the York House, and\nthere I always dined in the coffee-room. Well, one day a gentleman came\nin and ordered dinner in the next box to mine--a sole and a chop. I\nobserved a bottle of Madeira wine; and from his nicety and parlour\nways, I judged him to be some big-wig, and very rich. I saw he looked\nabout for a news _Gazette_, so I offered him mine, and exchanged a\nfew words by way of getting known to him. He offered me a glass of\nwine, and of course I took it, and sat down to converse. We grew very\nfriendly, and by-and-by it turned out that his name was Vivian, and\nspelt exactly like mine. It was growing late, and he took leave, but,\nto my surprise, invited me to dine with him the next day at Lansdowne\nCrescent. I was only too glad to go. It was a noble house, with a troop\nof servants and superb furniture, and, what was most to the purpose,\na glorious feed. After dinner, at dessert-time, while we were talking\nover our wine, I saw, over the mantelpiece, a fine picture of Perceval,\nthe Prime Minister at that time.[154] So I ventured to ask, \u2018Is Mr.\nPerceval, sir, a relative of your family?\u2019 \u2018No, sir, no,\u2019 he said. \u2018I\nhave his picture because I like his politics, and respect him as a\nMinister and as a man. I have been introduced to him, however, and I\ncan claim some personal acquaintance with him. \u2018Have you, my friend?\u2019\nthought I. \u2018Then, take my word for it, I will make use of you as a\nstepping-stone in life.\u2019 So, when it was nearly time to wish him good\nnight, I said, \u2018I have a favour to ask you, sir. I am going to town in\na day or two, and I shall be deeply obliged if you will write a letter\nto Mr. Perceval, merely telling him that the bearer is a friend of\nyours, a clergyman in quest of some preferment, and that as he is the\npatron of so many good things in the Church, you will be much obliged\nto him if he will bestow something valuable on your friend.\u2019 He looked\nrather glum at this, and twirled his fingers a bit, and at length said,\n\u2018Why, no, Mr. Vivian, I can\u2019t go so far as that. Consider, I have known\nyou only a few hours, and have never heard you officiate--although, no\ndoubt, you are well qualified to hold preferment in the Church. But\nI\u2019ll tell you what I will do. I have a friend, the rector of the parish\nwhere Mr. Perceval lives, and I know he always attends his church. I\nwill give you a letter to him, and he may suggest some opportunity\nof promoting your plan.\u2019 Of course I jumped at this, took my letter,\nand was off by the mail the very next day. The first man I called on\nwas, of course, the clergyman. It was on a Saturday, and by good luck\nhe had been taken ill. I was shown in where he lay on a sofa, looking\nquite ghastly. \u2018Have you got a sermon with you, Mr. Vivian?\u2019 said\nhe; \u2018anything will do.\u2019 I always took with me, wherever I went, some\nhalf-dozen, and I said so. \u2018Because, as you see, I cannot go to church\nto-morrow, and a friend who was to have taken my duty has disappointed\nme. I shall be indeed thankful if you will undertake the work.\u2019 This\nwas the very thing; and accordingly I was in the vestry-hall the next\nmorning, an hour before time, rigged out in full canonicals, hired\nfor the day--silk and sarcenet--and my hair well frizzed, as you may\nsuppose. Just before service I said to the clerk, \u2018I am told that\nMr. Perceval attends your church; can you point out to me his pew?\u2019\n\u2018That I can, sir,\u2019 said he, \u2018in a moment. There it is in full front\nof the desk and pulpit, the third pew down, with the brass rods and\nsilk curtains.\u2019 Well, the service began; but the said pew was empty\ntill the end of the Belief, when, lo and behold! in came the beadle,\nmarching with great pomp, and after him Mr. Perceval and some friends.\nYou may guess after that what eyes and ears I had for the rest of the\ncongregation. There was the Prime Minister; I see him now, in his\npurple coat and cuffs, silk waistcoat--fine as Sisera\u2019s--and with a\nwig that looked like wisdom itself. He was very attentive. I watched\nhim, and saw how careful he was to keep time with all the service. At\nlength came the last psalm, and up I went. The pulpit fitted me as if\nit had been made for me; and the cushion, I remember, was all velvet\nand gold. My text was, \u2018Where is the wise man? where is the scribe?\nwhere is the disputer?\u2019 etc. I saw that Mr. Perceval never took his\neyes off my face all through the discourse. It was one of my very best\nsermons. I saw that he was delighted with it; and when I came to the\nend, I observed that he turned round and looked up at me, and whispered\nsomething to a gentleman who was with him, and then they both looked\nup at me and smiled. Said I to myself, \u2018Humphrey, the golden ball is\ncast; thy fortune is made, as sure as rates and taxes. Look out for\na bishopric, and that soon!\u2019 I never was so happy in all my life. I\ndined that night at the Mitre in Fleet Street, on a rump-steak; and\nI often caught myself smiling and slapping my thigh and muttering. I\nsaw the waiter stare when I said to myself, but in an audible voice,\n\u2018Done for a guinea! Make way for my lord!\u2019 Next day I went into the\nCity to meet ----, who was in town on business. After he had settled\nwhat he came to do, he walked some way home with me. Well, sir, when\nwe came to the Strand there was a dreadful uproar, people talking very\nlow and seriously. At length a gentleman said to my companion, \u2018Have\nyou heard the dreadful news? A rascal called Bellingham[155] has shot\nMr. Perceval dead in the lobby of the House of Commons!\u2019 It was like\na deathblow to me. Poor fellow! It cut me through like a knife. I was\nindeed a crushed man, clean dissolved, as the psalm says. And from\nthat very hour I have been convinced and persuaded--ay, I do believe\nit like the Creed--that the very same ball that shot poor Perceval cut\naway a mitre from my head as clean as a whistle. Yes, I have never\nswerved from that belief all these years; and up to this day, when I\nsay my prayers, as I do after I am in bed, I always begin with the\nConfirmation from \u2018Defend, etc., this Thy servant.\u2019\u201d\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[151] Compare Browning\u2019s lines--\n\n    \u201cItaly, my Italy!\n    Queen Mary\u2019s saying serves for me--\n      (When fortune\u2019s malice\n      Lost her--Calais)--\n      Open my heart and you will see\n      Graved inside of it, \u2018Italy.\u2019\u201d\n\n[152] The same conceit, humorously applied, occurs in Calverley--\n\n    \u201cAnd the lean and hungry raven,\n      As he picks my bones, will start\n    To observe \u2018M.N.\u2019 engraven\n      Neatly on my blighted heart.\u201d\n\n[153] See pp. 196, 202.\n\n[154] Perceval was Prime Minister from 1809 to 1812, in the time of the\nRegency and the Peninsular War.\n\n[155] The \u201cDictionary of National Biography\u201d gives the following\naccount of this event: \u201cThere was a certain bankrupt named John\nBellingham, a man of disordered brain, who had a grievance against the\nGovernment originating in the refusal of the English Ambassador at St.\nPetersburg to interfere with the regular process of Russian law under\nwhich he had been arrested. He had applied to Perceval for redress,\nand the inevitable refusal inflamed his crazy resentment. On Monday,\nMay 11 (1812), the House of Commons went into Committee on the orders\nin Council, and began to examine witnesses. Brougham complained of\nPerceval\u2019s absence, and he was sent for. As he passed through the lobby\nto reach the house, Bellingham placed a pistol to his breast and fired.\nPerceval was dead before a doctor could be found.... Bellingham was\ntried at the Old Bailey on May 15, and the plea of insanity being set\naside by the court, he was hanged on May 18.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nOLD TREVARTEN:\n\nA TALE OF THE PIXIES[156]\n\n    \u201cMount and follow! stout and cripple!\n      Horse and hattock, \u2018but and ben;\u2019[157]\n    Horses for the Pixie people,\n      Hattock for the Brownie men.\u201d\n\n    R. S. HAWKER.\n\n\nPeople may talk if they please about the march of agriculture, and they\nmay boast that by the discoveries of science a man will soon be able to\ncarry into a large field enough manure for its soil in his coat-pocket,\nbut there has been the ready answer, \u201cYes, and bring away the produce\nin his fob.\u201d I am half inclined to agree with an old parishioner of\nmine, who used often to say, \u201cIt was an unlucky time for England when\nthe phrase \u2018gentleman farmer\u2019 came up, and folks began to try their\nnew-fangled plans--such as clover for horses and turnips for sheep.\u201d\n\u201cRents,\u201d he declared, \u201cwere never lower than when a tenant would pare\nand burn,[158] and take their crops out of every field, so as to carry\noff the land as much as he brought on it\u201d--a theory on which, being\na renter himself, he had thriven, and put by money for full fifty\nyears. Equally original, by the way, were the devices cherished by\nmy aged friend for the repair of roads. When Macadam had driven his\nfirst turnpike through the West, a public dinner was given in honour\nof the event; and being presented with a free ticket, and well coaxed\ninto the bargain, Old Trevarten made his appearance as a guest. But it\nwas observed that, amid all the jingling of glasses and cheering of\ntoasts, he sat motionless and mute, if not actually sulky. At length\nthe engineer, somewhat piqued at his silence, said, during a pause,\n\u201cWhy, sir, I am afraid that I have not had the honour of gaining your\napproval in this undertaking of mine.\u201d\n\n\u201cTo tell you the truth, sir,\u201d was the slow and sturdy answer, \u201cI don\u2019t\nlike your road at all, by no means.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, but what are your reasons, sir, for disliking what most people\nare pleased with?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, sir, you have had a brave lot of money out of the country, and\nthere\u2019s nothing as I see to show for it--\u2019tis all gone!\u201d\n\n\u201cGone, sir, gone! Why, bless me, isn\u2019t there the road--the fine, wide,\nlevel road?\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, yes, sartainly; but where\u2019s they matereyals that cost such a\nsight of taxes? You\u2019ve smashed mun to nort: there\u2019s pilm [dust] in the\ndrought, and there\u2019s mucks [mud] in the rain, but nowt else that I\nsee. Now, when I wor way-warden of Wide Widger, I let the farmers have\nsomething to show for their money. Why, sir, \u2019tis ten year agone come\nCandlemas that I wor in office for the ways, and I put down stones as\nbig as beehives, and there they be now!\u201d\n\nAccess to such a living volume of bygone usages and notions was an\nadvantage not to be despised, and it was long my custom to resort to\n\u201cmine ancient\u201d for information difficult to be obtained elsewhere. Once\n\u201cI do remember me\u201d that I encountered him in the middle of a reedy\nmarsh on his farm. He paused, and awaited my approach, leaning on his\nstaff just where the path crossed a bed of the cotton-rush, then in\nfull bloom. I had gathered a handful of the stalks, each with its pod\nof fine white gossamer threads, like a bunch of snowy silk.\n\n\u201cHa!\u201d said he, with a kind of half alarm, \u201cyou bean\u2019t afeared to pick\nthat there?\u201d\n\n\u201cAfraid? No; why should I be?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, some people think it\u2019s unlucky to carry off the pisky wool; but\nperhaps you know from the Scriptures how to keep off any harm.\u201d\n\nI did know better than to reason against such fancies with a Cornish\nyeoman of threescore and fifteen, and I thought it a good opening for a\nsaw or ancient instance.[159] \u201cPixies!\u201d was my leading answer; \u201cand who\nare they?\u201d\n\n\u201cAncient inhabitants,\u201d was the grave reply--\u201cfolks that used to live in\nthe land before us Christians comed here. So, at least, I\u2019ve heerd my\nmother say. They are a small people.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd what about this wool? What use do they make of it.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, they spin it for clothing, and to keep \u2019em warm by night. They\u2019d\ndo a power of work for the farmers, and for a very small matter to eat\nand drink, too; and they would sing, evenings--sing and crowdie like a\nChristmas choir.\u201d\n\nThe solemn tones of his voice, and the grim gravity of visage with\nwhich old Trevarten made known these mysteries, attested his own deep\nbelief in their reality and truth. \u201cHad I never seen those rings on the\ngrass upon Hennacleave Hill--circles about a foot wide, of a darker\ncolour than the rest of the turf?\u201d he inquired, well knowing that I\nhad, but rather rejoicing in an opportunity of enlightening me with\nscientific revelations of his own. \u201cDid I know how they came there, and\nwho made them?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, that was surprising: he thought that the college teached\nsuch things, or why did it cost so much money to go there to learn?\nHowsomever, _he_ would let me know about they rings. The piskies made\nmun, dancing hand-in-hand by night. They rise about midnight, and they\nput on their Sunday clothes, and they agree to meet in such or such a\nspot, and there one will crowdie and the others daunce, and beat out\nthe time with their feet, till they\u2019ve worn the shape of a round-about\nin the grass, and nort will wear out that ring for evermore!\u201d\n\nDeeply grateful for this information, I ventured to inquire, \u201cAnd did\nyou ever see any of these pixy people yourself?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, I can\u2019t say for sartain that I didno seed mun; my mother hath--so\nI\u2019ve yeerd her tell divers times. No; but I\u2019ve seed their works, such\nas tying up the manes of the colts in stirrups for riding by night, and\nterrifying the cows into the clover till they wor jist a bosted with\nthe wet grass. And I\u2019ve been pisky-eyed more than once coming home from\nthe market or fair; and I\u2019ve yeerd mun at their rollicking night-times\nfrayquently, but I can\u2019t say that I ever seed their faytures, so as to\nknow \u2019em again another time.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d said I, as a sort of closing and clenching remark, \u201call I can\nsay is that I wish I could lay hold of one of these pixies, just to\nlook at--that\u2019s all.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you?\u201d was his quick rejoinder; \u201cdo you really desire it? I daresay\nI can oblige you one day. It is not a month agone that I\u2019d all but\ncatched one.\u201d\n\n\u201cIndeed!\u201d said I, half bewildered. \u201cHow? Where was it?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, sir, you see the case was this. I\u2019d a bin to Simon Jude fair,\nand I stayed rather latish settling with the jobber Brown for some\nsheep, and so it wor past twelve o\u2019clock at night before I come through\nStowe wood; and just as I crossed Combe Water, sure enough I yeerd the\npiskies. I know\u2019d very well where their ring was close by the gate,\nand so I stopped my horse and got off. Well, on I croped afoot till\nthere was nothing but a gap between me and the pisky ring, and I could\nhear every word they said. One had got the crowder, and he was working\naway his elbow to the tune of \u2018Green Slieves\u2019 bravely, and the rest\nwor dauncing and singing and merrymaking like a stage-play. It made\nme just \u2019mazed in my head to look at \u2019em. Well, I thort to myself, if\nI could but catch one of these chaps to carry home! I\u2019ve yeerd that\nthere\u2019s nothing so lucky in a house as a tame pisky. So I stooped down\nand I picked up a stone, oh, as big as my two fistes, and I swinged my\narm and I scrashed the stone right into the ring. What a screech there\nwas! Such a yell! and one in pertickler I yeerd screaming and hopping\nwith a leg a-brok like a drashel. That one I was pretty sure of. But\nstill, as it was very late, and my wife would be looking for me home,\nand it was dark also, so I thout I might as well come down and fetch my\npisky in the morning by daylight. Well, sure enough, soon as I rose, I\ntook one of these baskets with a cover that the women have invented--a\nridicule, they call it--and down I goes to the ring. And do you know,\nsir, they\u2019d a be so cunning--they\u2019d a had the art for to carry their\ncomrade clear off, and there wasn\u2019t so much as a screed of one left!\nBut, however,\u201d said my venerable friend, seeing that I did not look\nquite satisfied with the evidence, \u201chowever, there the stone was that I\ndrashed in amongst mun!\u201d\n\nAlas! alas! how often in after-days, when I have encountered the\ntheories of men learned in the \u2019ologies, and pondered the prodigious\ninferences which they had deduced from a stratum here and a deposit\nthere,--how irresistibly have my thoughts recurred to old Trevarten and\nhis amount of proof, \u201cThere the stone was that I drashed in amongst\nmun\u201d!\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[156] Robert Hunt has a delightful chapter on \u201cThe Elfin Creed of\nCornwall,\u201d in his \u201cPopular Romances of the West of England.\u201d\n\n[157] Compare \u201cThe Doom-Well of St. Madron\u201d--\n\n    \u201c\u2018Now horse and hattock, both but and ben,\u2019\n    Was the cry at Lauds, with Dundagel men,\n    And forth they pricked upon Routorr side,\n    As goodly a raid as a king could ride.\u201d\n\n[158] A reference to a custom, still followed to some extent in Devon\nand Cornwall, of paring the turf of grass-fields and burning the sods.\nIt is called \u201cbait-burning,\u201d or \u201cburning bait.\u201d\n\n[159] \u201cFull of wise saws and modern instances.\u201d--_As You Like It._\n\n\n\n\n  APPENDICES\n\n  BY\n  THE REV. PREBENDARY ROGER GRANVILLE,\n  THE LATE REV. W. WADDON MARTYN\n  AND\n  R. PEARSE CHOPE\n\n\n\n\nAPPENDIX A (p. 8)\n\nMORWENSTOW\n\nBY R. PEARSE CHOPE\n\n\nThe \u201cendowment\u201d referred to by Mr. Hawker is a copy of the original\ndocument, which was executed on May 20th, 1296, by Bishop Thomas de\nBytton. The church was appropriated by his predecessor, Bishop Peter\nQuivil, to the Hospital of St. John the Baptist at Bridgwater, on\nNovember 16th, 1290. Bishop Bytton\u2019s Register having been lost, the\n\u201cendowment\u201d was copied by William Germyne, Registrar to John Woolton,\nBishop from 1579 to 1593-94, on a blank page of the Register of\nThomas de Brantyngham, Bishop from 1370 to 1394. The name \u201cWalter\nBrentingham\u201d is probably due to some confusion between this Thomas\nde Brantyngham and Bishop Walter de Stapeldon, for there was no\nBishop of Exeter having the first name. Germyne\u2019s copy is printed in\nfull in the Register of Bishop Brantyngham, edited by the Rev. F. C.\nHingeston-Randolph (Part I. p. 106), and is here reproduced.\n\n    \u201cUniversis presentes Literas inspecturis Thomas, permissione\n    Divina Exoniensis Episcopus, salutem et pacem in Domino\n    sempiternam.--Noverit Universitas vestra quod, cum olim bone\n    memorie Petrus, tunc Exoniensis Episcopus, Ecclesiam de\n    Morewinstowe, cum juribus suis et pertinenciis, Religiosis viris,\n    Magistro et Fratribus Hospitalis Sancti Johannis de Bridgwater,\n    Bathoniensis Diocesis, de consensu Capituli sui appropriasset,\n    et concessisset eisdem in usus proprios imperpetuum possidendam,\n    salva competenti Vicaria, per ipsum et Successores suos taxanda\n    et ordinanda juxta juris exigenciam in eadem; nos, eidem\n    postmodum succedentes in onere et honore, cum res integra adhuc\n    existeret, pensatis ejusdem Ecclesie facultatibus, habita super\n    hoc cognicione debita que requiritur in hac parte, de expresso\n    consensu dictorum Magistri et Fratrum, ipsam Vicariam, quod in\n    subscriptis porcionibus consistat imperpetuum, tenore Presentium\n    ordinamus; videlicet, quod Vicarius qui pro tempore in Ecclesia\n    supradicta fuerit habeat et percipiat, nomine Vicarie, omnes\n    fructus, proventus, et obvenciones totius alterlagii Ecclesie\n    supradicte; sub quo, preter ceteros proventus, decimam feni totius\n    Parochie, simul cum tota decima molendinorum ejusdem Parochie,\n    volumus comprehendi; cum Sanctuario jacente a parte Occidentali\n    curie et croftarum Parsonatus Ecclesie supradicte, sursum a veteri\n    via que ducit usque ad mare et usque ad deorsum ad rivulum in\n    valle, cum duabus croftis subter Ecclesiam a parte Boreali, et\n    cetera terra ibidem usque ad quendam fontem Johannis, quatuor\n    acras terre continente et ultra; cum tota decima garbarum ville de\n    Stanburie et trium villarum de Tunnacombis; volentes et ordinantes\n    quod dicta Religiosi omnes Libros et Ornamenta dicte Ecclesie,\n    si que deficiunt, vel usu seu vetustate consumpta fuerint, que,\n    tamen, ad ipsos parochianos non pertinent, suis sumptibus de novo\n    invenient; alia, vero, si per reparacionem fuerint per tempus\n    non breve duratura, in statum congruum et sufficientem reparent\n    et reficiant hac vice prima; quodque extunc custodia eorundem\n    et reparacio pro tempore successuro, una cum omnibus oneribus\n    ordinariis integraliter, et extraordinariis pro quarta parte\n    dumtaxat, ad Vicarium qui pro tempore fuerit pertineant; residua\n    parte dictorum onerum extraordinariorum, una cum sustentatione,\n    reparatione, et reedificatione Cancelli ipsius Ecclesie dictis\n    Religiosis totaliter incumbente.--In cujus rei testimonium nos,\n    Thomas, Exoniensis Episcopus supradictus, sigillum nostrum, et nos,\n    prefati Magister et Fratres sigillum nostrum commune Presentibus\n    duximus apponendum.--Data apud Chidleghe, xiij^o Calendas Junii\n    [May 20th], Anno Domini Millesimo ducentesimo nonagesimo sexto.\n\n  \u201cHec Taxatio vere est Registrata,\n  \u201cWILLELMUS GERMYNE.\u201d\n\nThe Editor points out, in an interesting note, that the certified copy\nof this, which was used by Mr. Hawker, has \u201cTidnacombis\u201d instead of\n\u201cTunnacombis.\u201d In the Register itself the letter \u201cu\u201d is turned up at\nthe end, the usual contracted form of \u201cun,\u201d but the writing is obscure;\nand, although experts would read it correctly without hesitation, it\nmight easily, in this case, be mistaken for \u201cid\u201d by others. One of Mr.\nHawker\u2019s most beautiful poems is entitled \u201cThe Token Stream of Tidna\nCombe.\u201d It is interesting to note that Stanbury was the birthplace of\nJohn Stanbury, Bishop of Hereford, who died 1474. He was confessor\nto Henry VI., and was nominated the first Provost of Eton College,\nalthough he never took up the office.\n\nThe following curious tradition relating to the extremely rude font is\nquoted by Lieut.-Colonel Harding in a paper on Morwenstow Church in the\n\u201cTransactions of the Exeter Diocesan Architectural Society\u201d (Second\nSeries, vol. i. p. 216). It has been preserved among some valuable MSS.\nwhich belong to the Coffin family of Portledge, near Bideford, and were\ncollected by an antiquary of that family about three hundred years ago.\n\n    \u201cMoorwinstow, its name is from St. Moorin. The tradition is, that\n    when the parishioners were about to build their church, this saint\n    went down under the cliff and chose a stone for the font which she\n    brought up upon her head. In her way, being weary, she lay down the\n    stone and rested herself, out of which place sprang a well, from\n    thence called St. Moorin\u2019s well. Then she took it up and carried\n    it to the place where now the church standeth. The parishioners\n    had begun their church in another place, and there did convey this\n    stone, but what was built by day was pulled down by night, and the\n    materials carried to this place; whereupon they forbare, and built\n    it in the place they were directed to by a wonder.\u201d\n\nThe date on one of the capitals seems to be 1564 instead of 1475. The\ninscription runs round the capital, each of the twenty letters being on\na separate face, thus--\n\n  \u201cTHIS WAS MADE ANNO MVCLX4\u201d\n\nThe next capital has the following inscription, _upside down_--\n\n  \u201cTHIS IS THE HOVSE OF THE L.\u201d\n\nThe supposed piscina, according to the Rev. S. Baring-Gould, is merely\n\u201cthe base of a small pillar, Norman in style, with a hole in it for\na rivet which attached to it the slender column it supported\u201d (\u201cThe\nVicar of Morwenstow,\u201d ed. 1899, p. 60). It has also been stated that\nMr. Hawker obtained the piscina from the ruined chapel at Longfurlong,\nHartland, and placed it in his church at Morwenstow (Rev. T. H. Chope,\n\u201cHartland Parish,\u201d 1896, p. 17).[160]\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[160] Hawker\u2019s account (on p. 11) of the discovery of the piscina in\nthe chancel wall at Morwenstow is, however, very circumstantial. If\n\u201cthe jumbled carved work and a crushed drain,\u201d which, he says came to\nlight when the mortar was removed, proceeded from his imagination, it\nis a touch of genius in fabrication. In a letter to Mr. Richard Twining\ndated October 25th, 1855, Hawker writes: \u201cWill you have the kindness\nto present the inclosed drawing to Miss L. Twining in my name and with\nmy best regards. It is of a piscina discovered by me in the south wall\nof my chancel, where it has been hidden by mortar full 300 years, and\nexisted there before that date full 500 years more.\u201d\n\nThe whole passage from Mr. Baring-Gould is as follows: \u201cThe ancient\npiscina in the wall is of early English date. Mr. Hawker discovered\nunder the pavement in the church, when reseating it, the base of a\nsmall pillar, Norman in style, with a hole in it for a rivet which\nattached to it the slender column it supported. This he supposed was\na piscina drain, and accordingly set it up in the recess beside his\naltar.\u201d Mr. Baring-Gould evidently uses the word \u201cpiscina\u201d as meaning\nthe whole \u201crecess\u201d beside the altar. Mr. Chope appears to use it for\nthe pillared structure within the recess. Hawker\u2019s own words seem to\nshow that he found the whole piscina, _i.e._ the recess with the drain\ninside it, \u201cin the chancel wall.\u201d He says nothing of any discovery\n\u201cunder the pavement,\u201d and Mr. Baring-Gould does not give his authority\nfor this statement.\n\nAt any rate, if the piscina, or piscina drain, or pillar-base,\nwhichever it be, was abstracted from the ruined chapel at Longfurlong,\nit presumably was not discovered under the pavement of Morwenstow\nChurch, unless by another stroke of genius.\n\nIt may be of interest to add that, on thrusting a piece of grass\ndown the hole which Hawker took for a piscina drain, and which Mr.\nBaring-Gould says is a rivet-hole, I found that it went right through\nto the floor of the recess, a depth of about 13 inches. It is quite\npossible, therefore, that, if connected with another hole through the\nwall, it might at one time have served the purpose of a drain.--EDITOR.\n\n\n\n\nAPPENDIX A_a_ (p. 9 and foll.)\n\nMORWENSTOW CHURCH\n\nBY THE LATE REV. W. WADDON MARTYN\n\n\nOne of the most beautiful of Mr. Hawker\u2019s poems commences with the\nwords \u201cMy Saxon shrine.\u201d It becomes of interest, therefore, to examine\nas far as possible into the dates which attach to the different periods\nof architecture of the truly venerable church of Morwenstow.\n\nIt is very likely that Mr. Hawker is correct when he speaks of the\nfirst church here dedicated to God\u2019s service as being of Saxon times,\nbut it is equally true that, with the exception of perhaps the font,\nno trace of that early building remains. The earliest portion of the\npresent building consists of the south porch and the three Norman\narches which form the western portion of the north arcade. There is a\ndifference in the elaboration of the work of these three arches, but\nit is scarcely likely that they could have been erected at different\ntimes. It is more probable that they are intended to show the varied\nmethods of dealing with the semi-circular arch at that early period. It\nis of perhaps more interest to decide whether the pattern of the Norman\narch bisected, which occurs on the easternmost of the Norman pillars,\nwas placed there at the time of the Norman church or at the time of the\nconstruction of the two Gothic arches on the same side. If the former\nsupposition be correct, it will signify, of course, that the whole\nstructure was made at the close of the purely Norman period; if the\nlatter, it would be intended to explain the reason why the architecture\nof that period passed so strangely from the round to the pointed arch.\n\nBefore passing on to speak of the second date of architecture, which\nwas certainly of the pure Gothic or early English character, it may be\ninteresting to speak of the size and shape of the church as it stood in\nthe early Norman times. Taking everything into consideration, it would\nseem likely that the Norman church consisted of a nave, north aisle,\nand chancel. The Norman porch consequently stood twelve or fourteen\nfeet further in than at present, the boundary of this church being\nclearly marked by the foundation plainly visible outside the north wall.\n\nWe pass on to consider the next step in the work of enlargement, which\nconsisted in the extension of the north aisle and the erection of two\nfine, though somewhat rudely constructed, arches with circular pillars.\nBy this means the chancel became absorbed in the new portion of the\naisle, and consequently the present chancel was erected further on to\nthe eastward.\n\nThe next step consisted in the erection of the three bays of very\nbeautiful polyphant stone on the south side exactly co-extensive\nwith the three Norman arches, so that a line drawn from the\nfoundation-stones of the Norman church southwards through the church\nwould mark the boundary of the polyphant extension also. It is\ndifficult to assign a date to this very beautiful addition, but we must\nsuppose that the present wall-plate, with its richly and boldly carved\nfoliage, dated from this period. There would seem to be good ground for\nthis argument, inasmuch as the last addition to the church in 1564,\nwhen the two granite arches were erected on the south-eastern side of\nthe church, had a piece of wall-plate specially carved for that new\nportion. It is quite certain that the whole roof of the church was put\nup in 1564 at the time of the erection of the granite arches, and I\nhave no doubt that this roof was placed upon the older and magnificent\nwall-plate, since much injured by the leaks which a defective roof\nhas caused in so many places. It is worth noting that, although the\npolyphant arches were erected prior to the granite ones, yet they were\ntaken down and the whole arcade entirely rebuilt at the same time. This\nI consider proved by the fact that the relieving arches are so very\nsimilar in character. The effect, meanwhile, on the wall-plate on the\nsouth side of the nave was not good, the exactly perpendicular line of\nthe pillars and arches not catching it on every point, and thus giving\nit a somewhat ragged appearance which it will require care to rectify.\n\nA word here on the height of the building. It is probable that the\npresent height was attained when the early English arches were erected.\nBefore that time the church was evidently lower. This, again, may be\nproved by the additional stonework which was added above the Norman\narches, and which must have been so added at the next additional work,\nas the two lofty arches (especially that at the east) would really\nrequire it.\n\nA very interesting question remains, as to whether the portion of\nground now spanned by the granite arches was formerly disused, or\nwhether it formed a Baptistery or other building in connection with the\nchurch, such as priests\u2019 chambers, etc. That it was separated off from\nthe portion of the church at the west end of the south aisle is evident\nby the discovery of a portion of the wall which so separated it,\nrunning southwards from the westernmost of the granite pillars. I may\nadd that in the same way traces of the Norman chancel further to the\nwest than the present chancel were found when the workmen were engaged\nin the work of restoration.\n\nThere only remains to notice the last period of restoration, the\nfirst time in which, as far as we can judge, granite was introduced\ninto the building. The date may be found on the westernmost of the\ntwo pillars--MDLX4: on the other the words, \u201cThis is the House of the\nLord.\u201d It is noticeable that the half polyphant pillar, which had at\none time formed the boundary of the arcade towards the east, was then\ncarried forwards and placed against the wall of the chancel. It thus\nseems to mark, not only that the arcade was designed at different\nperiods, but that it was ultimately (the former portion being taken\ndown) all built together.\n\nIt was at this time (c. 1564) that the whole fabric of the church\n(possibly not the chancel) was built [it may be clearly seen where\nthe new work stands on the old early English foundations on the north\nside], the only remaining portion untaken down being the Norman and\nearly English pillars, and a portion of the wall by the south porch,\nand (as before observed) possibly the chancel.\n\nThe tower was, we may consider, built at the same time as the church,\nin 1564.\n\nThe seats, with their magnificent carving, followed in 1575, as is\ntestified by an inscription[161] on the rail of the front seat touching\nthe pulpit. This will, however, be removed in due course, the position\nof these few seats being contrary to the original plan. I should think\nthat this rail and the seats also were formerly fixed where the font at\npresent stands at the end of the church.\n\nAs we stand within the walls and beneath the bending roofs of this\nmagnificent building, our mind naturally inquires what teaching its\ndesigns serve to afford us--the cable on its font, the dog-tooth\npattern on its Norman arches. Is it really true that, following out\nthe established teaching of the nave, whereby the ship with inverted\nside was depicted to us--is it really true that, following out this\nidea, the cable implied the anchor by which every soul baptized into\nChrist was bound _to_ Christ? Does the pattern, with its many points\n(\u201cdog-tooth,\u201d as it is generally spoken of), really signify the ripple\non the Lake of Gennesaret? Do the three steps by which we enter allude\nin very deed to the Baptism of John, the saint of dedication? It would\ncertainly seem probable that, having acknowledged the church to be the\nnave or ship, we should not find that the imagery would end here, but\nthat it would pass into other matters which the medi\u00e6val times knew\nso well how to formulate. If so, we have a rich vein of thought to be\nwrought out from this ancient sanctuary of the West, all untouched as\nit is by ruthless and destructive hands. Solemn be the thoughts of all\nwho enter here! Lowly and humble the hearts that here bend at the feet\nof their great Liberator and Saviour! In the words of one who will long\nbe remembered in the parish which he loved so well, Robert Stephen\nHawker--\n\n    \u201cPace we the ground! our footsteps tread\n      A cross--the builder\u2019s holiest form:\n    That awful couch, where once was shed\n      The blood, with man\u2019s forgiveness warm.\n    And here, just where His mighty breast\n      Throbb\u2019d the last agony away,\n    They bade the voice of worship rest,\n      And white-robed Levites pause and pray.\u201d\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[161] The inscription runs as follows: \u201cTHIS \u00b7 WAS \u00b7 MADE \u00b7 IN \u00b7 THE \u00b7\nYERE \u00b7 OF \u00b7 OURE \u00b7 LORDE \u00b7 GOD \u00b7 1575.\u201d The pew bearing it now stands\n(1903) at the east end of the north aisle, facing south.--EDITOR.\n\n\n\n\nAPPENDIX A_b_ (pp. 16, 20, 203)\n\nSUPERSTITIONS ABOUT NORTH AND EAST\n\n\nHunt, in his \u201cPopular Romances of the West of England,\u201d quotes\nthe following translation by the Rev. J. C. Atkinson from Hylten\nCuvalliec\u2019s \u201cW\u00e4rend och Wirdurne,\u201d pp. 287-88. It agrees with many of\nHawker\u2019s ideas.\n\n    \u201cInasmuch as all light and all vigour springs from the sun, our\n    Swedish forefathers always made their prayers with their faces\n    turned towards that luminary. When any spell or charm in connection\n    with an \u2018earth-fast stone\u2019 is practised, even in the present day,\n    for the removal of sickness, the patient invariably turns his face\n    towards the east, or the sun. When a child is to be carried to\n    church to be baptized, the W\u00e4rend usage is for the godmother first\n    to make her morning prayer, face towards the east, and then ask the\n    parents three several times what the child\u2019s name is to be. The\n    dead are invariably interred with their feet lying eastward, so as\n    to have their faces turned towards the rising sun. _Fr\u00e5nsols_, or\n    with or in a northerly direction, is, on the other hand, according\n    to an ancient popular idea, _the home of the evil spirits. The\n    Old Northern Hell was placed far away in the North._ When any\n    one desires to remove or break any witch-spell, or the like,\n    by means of \u2018reading\u2019 (or charms), it is a matter particularly\n    observed that the stone (_i.e._ an \u2018earth-fast\u2019 one) is sought\n    to the northward of the house. In like manner also the \u2018bearing\n    tree\u2019 (any tree which produces fruit, or quasi fruit, apples,\n    pears, &c., _rowan tree_, especially, and white thorn herbs), or\n    the shrew mouse, by means of which it is hoped to remedy an evil\n    spell, must be met with in a northerly direction from the patient\u2019s\n    home. Nay, if one wants to charm away sickness over (or into) a\n    running stream, it must always be one which runs northwards. On\n    the self-same grounds it has ever been the practice of the people\n    of the W\u00e4rend district, even down to the present time, not to\n    bring their dead _fr\u00e5nsols_--or to the northward--of the church.\n    In that part of the churchyard the contemned _fr\u00e4mlings h\u00f6gen_\n    (strangers\u2019 burial-place) always has its site, and in it are buried\n    malefactors, friendless wretches, and utter strangers. A very old\n    idea, in like manner, connects the north side of the church with\n    suicides\u2019 graves,\u201d etc.\n\n\n\n\nAPPENDIX B (pp. 27 and 109)\n\n\nThe following quaint verses have been found among some unpublished\nmanuscripts in Hawker\u2019s handwriting:--\n\nTHE MAID OF THE CROOKS OF COMBE.\n\n    There\u2019s a Face will o\u2019ershadow all faces!\n      There\u2019s an Eye that will brighten a room:\n    There\u2019s a Form that would win mid the Graces:\n      The Maid of the Crooks of Combe!\n\n    There\u2019s a Heart that is harder than Granite:\n      There\u2019s a Voice that will thrill you with gloom:\n    There\u2019s a Look--how a Lover would ban it--\n      The Maid of the Crooks of Combe!\n\n    Good Lord! what a World we do pine in!\n      Where the Rose on the Bramble will bloom:\n    Where a Fiend like an Angel is shining:\n      The Maid of the Crooks of Combe.\n\nThe \u201cCrooks of Combe\u201d is a name given to the windings of the stream\nthat runs down Combe Valley to the sea (see p. 109). It seems possible\nthat these verses may have been written to accompany the story of Alice\nof the Combe, and then discarded. On the other hand, the legend of\nthe mole is associated with Tonacombe Manor, and Tonacombe and Combe\nare two different valleys. The poem may have been addressed to Miss\nKuczynski (afterwards Mrs. Hawker), who used to visit Combe and was\nfond of riding about the valley. The third line of the last verse is an\necho from Coleridge\u2019s poem \u201cLove.\u201d This poem was marked in a copy of\nColeridge given by Hawker to his future wife.\n\n[Illustration: TONACOMBE MANOR.]\n\n\n\n\nAPPENDIX C (pp. 80 and 87)\n\nARSCOTT OF TETCOTT\n\n\nThis was John Arscott, whose epitaph in the parish church of Tetcott\nran as follows:--\n\n    \u201cSacred to the memory of John Arscott late of Tetcott in the\n    Parish, Esq^{re}, who died the 14^{th} day of January 1788.\n\n    What his character was need not here be recorded. The deep\n    impression which his extensive benevolence and humanity has left\n    in the minds of his friends and dependents will be transmitted by\n    tradition to late Posterity.\u201d\n\nA little paper-covered book, entitled \u201cJ. Arscott, Esq., of Tetcote,\nand his Jester, Black John,\u201d was published at Plymouth in 1880 by W. H.\nLuke. From this we take the following:--\n\n    \u201cThe Arscotts, of Tetcot, were descended from the Arscotts, of\n    Holsworthy, an ancient family that ramified into the several\n    branches of Annery, Tidwell, Holsworthy and Tetcot. A descendant\n    of the Arscotts of Holsworthy, at a remote period, purchased the\n    manor and demesne of Tetcot from the Earl of Huntingdon and made\n    it his principal residence, and the other branches of the family\n    having become dispersed, and married into different houses,\n    the representation of the family and property at Holsworthy\n    and elsewhere became vested in Arscott, of Tetcot. The last\n    descendant of that name--John Arscott,--the subject of the annexed\n    song, died without issue, and devised Tetcot, with its manor\n    and appurtenances, to his relation, the late Sir Arscott Ourry\n    Molesworth, Bart., of Pencarrow. The late celebrated Dartmoor\n    sportsman, known as the Foxhunter Rough and Ready, Paul Ourry\n    Treby, Esq., of Goodamoor, was a near connection of the Tetcot\n    patriarch, and inherited the tastes and followed the pursuits of\n    this collateral ancestor. The lairds of Tetcot had been Sheriffs\n    of the County of Devon, A.D. 1633-38. C.I., 1678-28. C. II., and\n    1755-15. G. III. The family was noted for its loyalty, and the\n    Tetcott dependents mustered in full force and did their duty at\n    Stratton fight on May 16, 1643, whilst hunters and men were in full\n    working condition.\u201d\n\nThe writer proceeds to say that the hunting song in honour of Mr.\nArscott was written \u201c170 years ago\u201d (_i.e._ 1710), but as the last\nJohn Arscott lived till 1788, he would hardly have been of an age to\ninspire hunting songs in 1710. There was an earlier John Arscott, whose\nepitaph, with that of his wife, is also to be seen in Tetcott church.\nThese epitaphs read as follows:--\n\n    \u201cHere lieth the body of John Arscott Esq^{re} who married the\n    daughter of Sir Shilston Calmady. He died while Sheriffe of the\n    County the 25^{th} day of September 1675 aetatis suae 63.\n\n    Here also lieth the body of Gertrude wife of the deceased John\n    Arscott Esq^{re} who died the 18^{th} day of October 1699 aged 77.\u201d\n\nIf the song existed in 1710, and referred to this John Arscott, it was\nno doubt written still earlier. The last of the Arscotts, however,\nBlack John\u2019s master, would seem more likely to be the subject of it.\nMr. Baring-Gould, who includes it among his \u201cSongs of the West,\u201d says\nthat one of the many versions supplied to him was dated 1772, which\nwould suit this theory. Hawker himself published the song in \u201cWillis\u2019s\nCurrent Notes\u201d for December, 1853, and it has since his death been\nerroneously included in his poems, for apparently he only claimed\nto have been the first to print it, though he doubtless added some\ntouches of his own. Black John is mentioned in his version, and Mr.\nBaring-Gould says that \u201cthe author of the song is said to have been\none Dogget, who used to run after Arscott\u2019s fox-hounds on foot.\u201d A\nsearch for this name in the parish registers of Tetcott and Stratton\nhas proved unsuccessful. Mr. R. P. Chope found a version of the song\ncurrent at Hartland, and an old man there (over eighty in 1903) says\nthat his father used to sing it seventy years ago.\n\nFrom Luke\u2019s book we learn that--\n\n    \u201cThe Old house at Tetcott, which, as well as the mansion of\n    Dunsland, had been built under the superintendence of the Architect\n    sent by the government of Charles II. to build Stowe for the Earl\n    of Bath, was taken down in 1831, and a Gothic cottage constructed\n    in its stead. The demolition of the ancient structure was a very\n    unpopular act, and the old crones of the neighbourhood shake their\n    heads and say that Black John and Driver (a staghound), when the\n    Cottage was burnt down a few years only after it had been built,\n    were seen yelling and dancing round the flames. The origin of that\n    fire was never ascertained.\u201d\n\n[Illustration: STOWE: THE RESIDENCE OF JOHN, EARL OF BATH, SON OF SIR\nBEVILL GRANVILLE]\n\nHawker\u2019s poem, \u201cTetcott, 1831,\u201d which is all his own, is an elegy on\nthe destruction of the old house. He quotes one stanza of it on p. 87\nof the present volume. The present representative of John Arscott\u2019s\nfamily, Mrs. Ford, of Pencarrow, describes Tetcott as \u201can imposing\nQueen Anne\u2019s house,\u201d and speaks of \u201cthe front door steps under which\nJohn Arscott\u2019s pet toad resided, and every morning came out to be fed\nby his kind master till the envious peacock killed him.\u201d\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nMrs. Calmady, of Great Tree, Chagford, writes as follows:--\n\n    \u201cAn old retainer, called Oliver Abbot, who, with his forefathers,\n    had worked at Tetcott for generations, told me that Arscott of\n    Tetcott kept not only a well-known pack of foxhounds, but a pack of\n    foumart hounds, which he hunted by night.[162] The song, \u2018Arscott\n    of Tetcott,\u2019 was undoubtedly not written concerning the Arscott\n    who married Gertrude Calmady, but of the more recent John Arscott,\n    who died in 1788, and was Black John\u2019s master. Gossips will still\n    tell how Black John, though pleasant and amusing enough when things\n    went smoothly, became dangerous when roused. One day, Sir William\n    Molesworth playfully tried to push him into one of the fishponds,\n    when Black John, wrathfully exclaiming, \u2018Turn sides, brother\n    Willie, turn sides\u2019 (and, although a dwarf, he was very strong),\n    soon had Sir William in the water, and, in his rage, would have\n    drowned him, had not a man named Beare come to the rescue.\n\n    \u201cIt is said that Arscott of Tetcott still appears on a phantom\n    horse, with a phantom pack, on the wild moors he used to hunt,\n    and that their cry portends death or misfortune to the unlucky\n    wayfarer; but I am inclined to agree with the man who, when told\n    the devil appeared to people on Cookworthy Moor, replied, \u2018I\u2019ve\n    been out on the moor all hours of the day and night; had there\n    been e\u2019er a devil, I must a seen un.\u2019 During the thirty years that\n    Mr. Calmady lived at Tetcott, he kept up with zeal the sporting\n    reputation of the place by keeping a pack of foxhounds and otter\n    hounds, and showing such sport as will long be remembered in\n    the West. During those years, I heard many a story of the olden\n    times. One ascribed, whether rightly or wrongly, to that grand old\n    sportsman, Paul Treby, was to the effect that, on some one asking\n    the meaning of Dosmary Pool, he replied, \u2018Don\u2019t e knaw? Why, Do,\n    Dos, Dot damme Mare, give\u2019d up from the Zay, to be Zure.\u2019\n\n    \u201cSome years ago I obtained from a cottage in Tetcott an old\n    Staffordshire jug, decorated with game. It was said to have been\n    formerly in the possession of Arscott of Tetcott. This jug I have\n    since given to Mr. Lane, the publisher.\u201d\n\nThe surname of Black John, and the place and date of his birth, death,\nand burial are unknown. The editor would be glad to hear from any one\nwho could supply information on these points.\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[162] The foumart is now extinct in England, though, I believe, to be\nmet with in parts of Scotland.\n\n\n\n\nAPPENDIX D (p. 90)\n\nDANIEL GUMB\u2019S ROCK\n\nBY R. PEARSE CHOPE\n\n\nA long account of Daniel Gumb is given in C. S. Gilbert\u2019s \u201cHistorical\nSurvey of Cornwall\u201d (vol. i. p. 166). When Gilbert visited the spot\nin 1814, some remains of the habitation could still be traced, and on\nthe entrance, graven on a rock, was inscribed \u201cD. Gumb, 1735.\u201d (See\nalso Bond\u2019s \u201cLooe,\u201d p. 203.) \u201cUnfortunately they have now altogether\ndisappeared before the march of the barbarians known as quarrymen.\u201d\n\nThe Cheesewring itself was claimed by Dr. Borlase as a Rock Idol, in\naccordance with the quaint Druidical theories of the early antiquaries.\nHe says--\n\n    \u201cFrom its having Rock-basons, from the uppermost Stone\u2019s being\n    a Rocking-stone, from the well-poised structure and the great\n    elevation of this groupe [of rocks], I think we may truely reckon\n    it among the Rock-Deities, and that its tallness and just balance\n    might probably be intended to express the stateliness and justice\n    of the Supreme Being. Secondly, as the Rock-basons shew that it was\n    usual to get upon the top of this Karn, it might probably serve\n    for the Druid to harangue the Audience, pronounce decisions, and\n    foretell future Events.\u201d (\u201cAntiquities of Cornwall,\u201d p. 174.)\n\nThe Rev. S. Baring-Gould gives in his \u201cBook of the West\u201d (vol. ii. p.\n107) a curious instance of the persistency of tradition in connection\nwith a cairn near the Cheesewring, in which a gold cup was found a few\nyears ago.\n\n    \u201cThe story long told is that a party were hunting the wild boar\n    in Trewartha Marsh. Whenever a hunter came near the Cheesewring a\n    prophet--by whom an Archdruid is meant--who lived there received\n    him, seated in the stone chair, and offered him to drink out of\n    his golden goblet, and if there were as many hunters approach,\n    each drank, and the goblet was not emptied. Now on this day of\n    the boar-hunt one of those hunting vowed that he would drink the\n    cup dry. So he rode up to the rocks, and there saw the grey Druid\n    holding out his cup. The hunter took the goblet and drank till he\n    could drink no more, and he was so incensed at his failure that he\n    dashed what remained of the wine in the Druid\u2019s face, and spurred\n    his horse to ride away with the cup. But the steed plunged over the\n    rocks and fell with his rider, who broke his neck, and as he still\n    clutched the cup he was buried with it.\u201d\n\nIn Carew\u2019s \u201cSurvey of Cornwall\u201d (1602) occurs the following quaint\ndescription of a logan-stone called Mainamber:--\n\n    \u201cAnd a great rocke the same is, aduaunced upon some others of a\n    meaner size, with so equal a counterpeyze, that the push of a\n    finger, will sensibly moue it too and fro: but farther to remooue\n    it, the united forces of many shoulders are ouer-weake. Wherefore\n    the Cornish wonder-gatherer, thus descrybeth the same.\n\n    Be thou thy mother natures worke,\n      Or proof of Giants might:\n    Worthlesse and ragged though thou shew,\n      Yet art thou worth the sight.\n    This hugy rock, one fingers force\n      Apparently will moue;\n    But to remooue it, many strengths\n      Shall all like feeble prooue.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nAPPENDIX D_a_ (p. 92)\n\nDOZMERE POOL\n\n\nThe following is extracted from Hunt\u2019s \u2018Popular Romances of the West of\nEngland.\u2019\n\n    \u201cMr. Bond, in his \u2018Topographical and Historical Sketches of the\n    Boroughs of East and West Looe,\u2019 writes--\n\n    \u2018This pool is distant from Looe about twelve miles off. Mr. Carew\n    says--\n\n    Dosmery Pool amid the moores,\n      On top stands of a hill;\n    More than a mile about, no streams\n      It empt, nor any fill.\n\n    It is a lake of freshwater about a mile in circumference, the only\n    one in Cornwall (unless the Loe Pool near Helston may be deemed\n    such), and probably takes its name from _Dome-Mer_, sweet or fresh\n    water sea. It is about eight or ten feet deep in many parts. The\n    notion entertained by some, of there being a whirlpool in its\n    middle, I can contradict, having, some years ago, passed all over\n    in a boat then kept there.\u2019\n\n    Such is Mr. Bond\u2019s evidence; but this is nothing compared with\n    the popular belief, which declares the pool to be bottomless,\n    and beyond this, is it not known to every man of faith that a\n    thorn-bush thrown into Dosmery Pool has sunk in the middle of it,\n    and after some time has come up in Falmouth (? Fowey) Harbour?\n\n    Notwithstanding that Carew says that \u2018no streams it empt, nor any\n    fill,\u2019 James Michell, in his parochial history of St. Neot\u2019s, says:\n    \u2018It is situate on a small stream called St. Neot\u2019s River, a branch\n    of the Fowey, which rises in Dosmare Pool.\u2019\n\n    There is a ballad, \u2018Tregeagle; or Dozmar\u00e9 Poole: an Anciente\n    Cornish Legende, in two parts,\u2019 by John Penwarne.... Speaking of\n    Dozmar\u00e9 Pool, Mr. Penwarne says--\n\n    \u2018There is a popular story attached to this lake, ridiculous enough,\n    as most of those tales are. It is, that a person of the name of\n    Tregeagle, who had been a rich and powerful man, but very wicked,\n    guilty of murder and other heinous crimes, lived near this place;\n    and that, after his death, his spirit haunted the neighbourhood,\n    but was at length exorcised and laid to rest in Dozmar\u00e9 Pool. But\n    having in his lifetime, in order to enjoy the good things of this\n    world, disposed of his soul and body to the devil, his infernal\n    majesty takes great pleasure in tormenting him, by imposing on him\n    difficult tasks, such as spinning a rope of sand, dipping out the\n    pool with a limpet shell, etc., and at times amuses himself with\n    hunting him over the moors with his hell-hounds, at which time\n    Tregeagle is heard to roar and howl in a most dreadful manner, so\n    that, \u201croaring or howling like Tregeagle\u201d is a common expression\n    amongst the vulgar in Cornwall.\u2019\u201d\n\n\n\n\nAPPENDIX E (p. 109)\n\nANTHONY PAYNE\n\nBY THE REV. PREBENDARY ROGER GRANVILLE\n\n\nAccording to the Episcopal Registers of the diocese of Exeter, a\nmarriage license was granted on September 12th, 1612, to \u201cAnthony Payne\nof Stratton, and Gertrude Deane of the same.\u201d These were evidently the\nparents of the famous Cornish giant, who served as henchman to Sir\nBevill Grenvile at Stowe.\n\nWhen the Civil War broke out, Anthony Payne followed Sir Bevill to the\nbattlefield, and was doubtless present with him at the engagements of\nBradock Down, Modbury, and Sourton, in the early months of 1643. On the\n16th of May the battle scene had shifted to his own home at Stratton,\nwhere every inch of ground must have been perfectly familiar to him.\nThe Earl of Stamford had occupied a strong position on a hill within\na mile of the little town. From five in the morning till three in the\nafternoon the battle raged, and though the Parliamentarians had the\nsuperiority both of numbers and position, they could not prevail over\nthe brave Royalists. At three word was brought to Hopton and Grenvile\nthat their scanty stock of powder was almost exhausted. To retreat\nwould have been fatal. A supreme effort had to be made. Trusting\nto pike and sword alone, the lithe Cornishmen pressed onwards and\nupwards, led, can we doubt it, by Anthony Payne?\n\n    \u201cHis sword was made to match his size,\n      As Roundheads did remember;\n    And when it swung, \u2019twas like the whirl\n      Of windmills in September.\u201d\n\nThe boldness of the attack seems to have struck their opponents with\nterror. Stamford\u2019s Horse turned and fled, and in vain Chudleigh\nattempted to rally his Foot. He was surrounded and captured, and his\nmen, left without a commander, at once gave way and retreated, and\nsoon the victorious commanders embraced one another on the hard-won\nhill-top, thanking God for a success for which, at one time, they had\nhardly ventured to hope.\n\nThe following July Anthony Payne was at the battle of Lansdowne, near\nBath, where his brave master was mortally wounded. When Sir Bevill fell\nthe fight would have been lost for the King, and in another moment the\nCornish would have crowded down the hill. It was the quick nobility of\nAnthony Payne which won the battle, and the deed should give him an\nenduring place in history.\n\n    \u201cCatching his master\u2019s horse, with a fine knightly impulse, he\n    set little John Grenville, a lad of sixteen, who had followed his\n    gallant father close, on the hacked and gory saddle, and led him to\n    the head of his father\u2019s troop. There was no more giving way after\n    this sight, and the Cornish followed the lad up the hill like men\n    possessed. By this time, too, the musketry had practically routed\n    the Parliament Horse, which were already retreating; and so, while\n    Sir Bevill lay dead on the hillside, his own regiment, led by\n    his giant servant and his little son, gained the top.\u201d (Norway\u2019s\n    \u201cHighways and Byways in Devon and Cornwall,\u201d p. 196.)\n\nThere is surely \u201cno finer story to be told than this; nor can there\nhave been, since first men began to slay each other, many sights more\nnoble than that of the child, tearful, excited, triumphant, set upon\nthe great charger, a world too high for him, and led up the hill at the\nhead of his dying father\u2019s troop.\u201d What wonder that the King knighted\nthe boy-warrior at Bristol on the 3rd of August following, for his\nbravery at Lansdowne fight (cf. Metcalfe\u2019s \u201cBook of Knights,\u201d p. 200),\nor that Prince Charles, his own contemporary in age, attracted by his\nheroism, chose him out of all others to be his personal attendant and\nintimate friend ever afterwards--a friendship that was only broken by\ndeath!\n\nWe wish that we could bring ourselves to believe that the letter (on\npage 117), breathing the spirit of rare nobility, and stated by Mr.\nHawker to have been written to Lady Grace Grenvile after her valiant\nhusband\u2019s death by his true-hearted giant retainer, was authentic. We\nfear, however, that it originated in the study at Morwenstow, and is\nthe product of Mr. Hawker\u2019s own versatile and gifted pen.\n\nWhat became of Anthony Payne after this is not certainly known. Did he\nreturn with his master\u2019s body to Stowe, and remain on there to protect\nhis mistress during the four unquiet years of her widowhood? There\nis, indeed, a tradition which would bear out this supposition, if it\nis true. It relates that the poor Queen, in her flight (within a week\nafter her confinement) from Exeter, to avoid capture by Lord Essex,\nescaped to Okehampton with a small body of attendants, where she was\nmet by Anthony Payne, who guided her to Stowe by a series of tracks and\nlanes, in order to secure greater secrecy, and that from Stowe she went\nto Lanherne, and so on to Falmouth, whence she escaped to France. In\nconfirmation of this theory a letter is said to have been seen from\nLady Grace, in which she mentions the fact of the Queen having slept at\nStowe, and of her departure to Lanherne. But the letter is no longer\nextant, if it ever existed, and it has been proved pretty conclusively\nby Mr. Paul Q. Karkeek, in a very interesting paper on the subject of\nthe Queen\u2019s flight, that from Okehampton the Queen went to Launceston,\nthe most direct route, under the escort of Prince Maurice, and from\nLaunceston to Falmouth.\n\nOr did Anthony Payne remain on with his young master, who narrowly\nescaped meeting his father\u2019s fate at the second battle of Newbury, and\nafterwards took a prominent part in the defence of the West under his\nuncle, Sir Richard Grenvile, and who so gallantly defended the Scilly\nIslands, the last rallying point of the Royalists, against Admiral\nBlake, in 1651, that he obtained exceptionally favourable terms when he\nwas at last compelled to capitulate?\n\nNothing is heard of Payne again till the Restoration. Then honours were\nshowered thickly on the Grenviles in recognition of all that they had\ndone and sacrificed for the royal cause, and especially of the signal\nservices they had rendered, in conjunction with their cousin, George\nMonk, in restoring the Monarchy. Sir John Grenvile was created Earl\nof Bath, and made Governor of Plymouth, where he at once undertook to\nrebuild and strengthen the fortifications, which had been much damaged\nin the late war. Upon their completion Lord Bath appointed Payne, whom\nhe evidently still held in great favour, as a yeoman of the guard and\nhalberdier of the guns. The King made a surprise visit by sea in July,\n1671, to inspect the new citadel, accompanied by the Dukes of York and\nMonmouth and a large retinue. They were entertained by Lord Bath at his\nown cost with great profusion, and the Merry Monarch professed himself\nhighly pleased with his visit. It was probably on this occasion that\nhe commanded Sir Godfrey Kneller to paint Payne\u2019s portrait,[163]\nwhich is now in possession of the Royal Institution of Cornwall, at\nTruro, and which was engraved as a frontispiece to the first volume of\nGilbert\u2019s \u201cHistory of Cornwall.\u201d\n\nPayne remained at Plymouth until old Time pulled the giant down.\nObtaining leave to retire, he returned home to Stratton, and died in\nthe same house in which he was born. It is now \u201cThe Tree Inn.\u201d On the\nwall is the following inscription, on a tablet which formerly marked\nthe battle-field.\n\n        In this Place\n  Y^e Army of y^e Rebels under y^e command\n  of y^e Earl of Stamford received a signal\n  overthrow by y^e valour of Sir Bevill Grenville\n  and y^e Cornish Army on Tuesday y^e\n  16th of May 1643.\n\nBut the only memento of poor Anthony Payne is a hole in the ceiling,\nthrough which his coffin, being too large to be taken out of the window\nor down the stairs in the usual way, was lowered from the room above.\nEven the very place of his burial is uncertain. Some say he was buried\nin the _north_, others in the _south_ aisle of Stratton Church, on July\n13th, 1691, at an age which was little short of eighty years. Let us\nhope that a sufficient number of appreciative friends may shortly be\nfound who shall be willing to contribute towards the erection of some\nmemorial in Stratton Church worthy of one who proved himself all his\ndays a faithful, loyal, true-hearted servant.\n\n\nNOTE BY THE EDITOR.\n\nIn the parish register of Stratton, which begins in the year 1687, the\nfollowing entries appear:--\n\n  _Burials._\n\n  Sibilla, wife of Anthony Payne     9 July,  1691\n  Anthony Payne                     13   \u201e     \u201e\n  William and Mary Payne            20 Aug.,   \u201e\n  William Payne                      \u201e  \u201e     1697\n  Richard, son of Anthony Payne     27 March, 1699\n  George    \u201e    \u201e    \u201e    \u201e                  1708\n  Nicholas Payne                     1 Aug.,  1710\n\nThe occurrence of four deaths so close together in 1691 suggests that\nthey may have been caused by some epidemic. The previous book has\nunfortunately been lost, so that it is impossible to verify the dates\nof Anthony\u2019s baptism and marriage.\n\nThe sexton points out a spot in the south aisle where he says that he\nsaw a large grave opened, 8 ft. by 3 ft., at the restoration of the\nchurch in 1887, and that this was generally supposed to be the grave of\nAnthony Payne. Among the many skeletons unearthed at that time was a\nthigh bone 2 ft. 9 in. long.\n\nDuring some excavations in the west end of the north aisle a slate\nstone came to light, very thin and decayed, bearing the names of\nNicholas and Grace Payne. These were thought locally to be the parents\nof the giant, but there is no proof of this.\n\nThe Rev. Canon Bone, of Lanhydrock, who was Vicar of Stratton when the\nchurch was restored, has kindly supplied a copy of the inscription on\nthe stone. One corner had been broken off, and the remainder bore the\nfollowing words:--\n\n  \u201cNicholas Payne of Hols in this towne\n  Yeoman ... nd also neer by him lieth\n  Grace his wife buried the 22 day of\n  January 1637.\u201d\n\nCanon Bone says--\n\n    \u201cThe stone was removed to the Vicarage, but it had worn so thin\n    that it broke up, and unfortunately the fragments were lost. I do\n    not know whether the attribution of the stone to Antony Payne\u2019s\n    parents was more than a likely guess.\u201d\n\nThe Paynes were evidently a numerous clan in Stratton about that time,\nbut though many names and dates are available, there is little to\nestablish the relationship of the different members of the family.\nAccording to a pedigree in the possession of Mr. Herbert Shephard, an\nAnthony Payne married a Miss Dennis, and had by her a son Hugh. No date\nappears on the document, but it will be seen below that a Hugh Payne is\nmentioned as riding to Launceston in 1688. As the giant died in 1691,\nthis Hugh might be his son.\n\nIt should be mentioned that in the old registers his Christian name is\nspelt \u201cAnthony,\u201d the omission of the \u201ch\u201d being peculiar to Hawker.\n\nIn the records of the Blanchminster Charity in the parish of Stratton\n(compiled by R. W. Goulding, 1898) the names of several Paynes appear.\nThe following are some of the entries:--\n\n    (1603) \u201cPaid to Nicholas Paine for writtinge of the Quindecem booke\n    8 [_d._].\u201d\n\n    By a \u201cFeoffment,\u201d dated \u201c12 Jan., 1618-9,\u201d Walter Yeo and another\n    make over to William Arundell and others, including Anthony Payne\n    and Nicholas Payne, certain property at Mellhoc and elsewhere.\n\n    (Either of these, Anthony or Nicholas, might be the father of the\n    giant.)\n\n    In a \u201cFeoffment\u201d dated \u201c20 March, 14 Charles II. (1662),\u201d the\n    names of Nicholas and William Payne appear.\n\n    \u201c18 March 1688. Item pd Hugh Payne p Riding to Launceston upon the\n    Report yt (that) the ffrench were landed 00 02 06.\u201d\n\n    \u201cAfter the Stockwardens\u2019 account for 1719 there is a statement by\n    Anthony Payne,\u201d etc.\n\n    (This Anthony Payne might be a son of the giant.)\n\nThe flagon which contained the giant\u2019s allowance of liquor is mentioned\nby Hawker in a private letter. He says--\n\n    \u201cIt is now safe in its usual place under my Escritoire.... The\n    Bottle itself is Antony Payne\u2019s Allowance which used to be filled\n    for him every morning at Stowe, and as I measured it last week and\n    found it Six Quarts it ought to have sufficed him.\u201d\n\nFrom \u201cCollectanea Cornubiensia,\u201d by G. C. Boase (1890), we get the\nfollowing details as to the portrait of Anthony Payne. In August,\n1888, the collection of antiquities at Trematon Castle, near Saltash,\nwas sold by auction on behalf of the executors of Admiral Tucker. One\nof the lots was the portrait of Payne, and it was sold to a Plymouth\ndealer for about \u00a34. Through the good offices of Major Parkyn of Truro,\nMr. Harvey, on February 12th, 1889, purchased the picture from Skardon\n& Sons of Plymouth, and presented it to the Royal Institution of\nCornwall at Truro.\n\n[The Editor will be very glad to hear from any reader who may be able\nto supply further information about Anthony Payne, his birth, life,\nwill, etc., that could be added to a future edition of this book.]\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[163] See note on p. 118.\n\n\n\n\nAPPENDIX E_a_ (p. 109)\n\nSTOWE AND THE GRANVILLES\n\nBY THE REV. PREBENDARY ROGER GRANVILLE\n\n\nHals states that Sir Thomas Grenvile (_temp._ Henry VI.) was the first\nof the family who resided at Stowe, but Bishop Brantyngham licensed a\nchapel there for Sir John de Grenvile on August 30th, 1386, and Henry\nde Grenvile was buried at Kilkhampton about 1327, and the inquisition\nafter his death was taken there, and I believe that Henry de Grenvile\nwas the first to reside regularly at Stowe. His father, Bartholomew,\nconstantly signed deeds at Bideford, and Bishop Stapledon granted him\na license for the celebration of divine service \u201cin capell\u00e2 su\u00e2 de\nBydeford.\u201d So that I think it is safe to say that the Grenviles resided\nat Stowe from at least the reign of Edward III.\n\nThe place was maintained in much style, I expect, in the time of Sir\nRoger de Grenvile, \u201cthe great housekeeper,\u201d famed far and wide for his\nprincely hospitality. Charles Kingsley\u2019s description of the old house\nin Elizabethan times is probably pretty accurate.\n\n    \u201cA huge rambling building, half castle, half dwelling-house. On\n    three sides, to the north, west, and south, the lofty walls of\n    the old ballium still stood, with their machicolated turrets,\n    loop-holes, and dark downward crannies for dropping stones and fire\n    on the besiegers, but the southern court of the ballium had become\n    a flower-garden, with quaint terraces, statues, knots of flowers,\n    clipped yews and hollies, and all the pedantries of the topiarian\n    art. And towards the east, where the vista of the valley opened,\n    the old walls were gone, and the frowning Norman keep, ruined in\n    the wars of the Roses, had been replaced by the rich and stately\n    architecture of the Tudors. Altogether the house, like the time,\n    was in a transitionary state, and represented faithfully enough the\n    passage of the old Middle Age into the newer life that had just\n    burst into blossom throughout Europe, never, let us pray, to see\n    its autumn and winter,\u201d etc.\n\nHawker\u2019s reference to Stowe having been turned into an academy for all\nthe young men of family in the county is correct. He is quoting from\nGeorge Granville\u2019s (Lord Lansdowne) letter to his nephew, who tells us\nthat Sir Bevill--\n\n    \u201cprovided the best masters for all kinds of education, and the\n    children of his neighbours shared the advantage with his own.\n    Thus, in a manner, he became the father of his county, and not\n    only engaged the affection of the present generation, but laid a\n    foundation of friendship for posterity which has not worn out to\n    this day.\u201d\n\nJohn Granville, Earl of Bath, pulled down old Stowe, and in its\nplace, though on a different site a little farther from the shore,\nbuilt a magnificent new mansion (covering 3-1/2 acres of ground, and\ncontaining, it is said, 365 windows) out of the moneys he had received\nfrom the Government as a debt owing to himself and his father for their\nsacrifices to the royal cause. Dr. Borlase describes this new house as\n\u201cby far the noblest in the west of England, though with not a tree to\nshelter it.\u201d And in the MS. diary of Dr. Yonge, F.R.S., a distinguished\nphysician of the latter part of the seventeenth century, the following\nentry occurs in the year 1685:--\n\n    \u201cI waited on my lord of Bathe, then Governor of Plymouth, to his\n    delicious house Stowe. It lyeth on y^e ledge of y^e North Sea of\n    Devon,--a most curious fabrick beyond all description.\u201d\n\nHere lived John, Earl of Bath. His son Charles, Lord Granville, shot\nhimself (accidentally the jury found) while preparing for the journey\ninto Cornwall to take down his father\u2019s body for burial, and they were\nboth buried together in Kilkhampton Church, September 27th, 1701. His\nboy, William Henry, then nine years of age, succeeded, but died of\nsmall-pox, unmarried, May 17th, 1711, aged nineteen.\n\nThe next male heir was George Granville the poet, who presented\nhis cousin, Chamond Granville, to the Rectory of Kilkhampton on\nOctober 22nd, 1711, and on December 31st, 1711 (after serving in the\nParliaments called in the fourth and seventh years of Queen Anne), he\nwas created Lord Lansdowne of Bideford, \u201ca promotion justly remarked to\nbe not invidious, inasmuch as he was at that time the heir of a family\nin which two peerages, that of the Earl of Bath and Lord Granville of\nPotheridge, had recently become extinct.\u201d\n\nLord Lansdowne\u2019s claim to the estates of the Earls of Bath was,\nhowever, disputed by the two surviving daughters of John, first Earl of\nBath, viz. Lady Jane Leveson-Gower and Lady Grace Carteret. A family\nlaw suit was the result of this claim, which lasted for some years.\nWith the death of Queen Anne (who had specially honoured him with her\nfavour, making him Comptroller of her household, and also Secretary of\nState for War, and afterwards Treasurer) Lord Lansdowne\u2019s prospects\ndarkened. He was supposed to be in favour of the exiled Stuarts rather\nthan of the House of Hanover; and there seems no little doubt that he\nwas more or less implicated in the scheme for raising an insurrection\nin the West of England, which Lord Bolingbroke and the Duke of Ormonde\nwere at the head of. At any rate, Lord Lansdowne was seized as a\nsuspected person, and on September 26th, 1715, was committed, along\nwith Lady Lansdowne, to the Tower, where they were confined as close\nprisoners. Whilst there he compromised the law suit for \u00a330,000, and\nthe Devonshire property passed to Lady Jane Leveson-Gower, and the\nCornish to Lady Grace Carteret, who was created Countess Granville in\nher own right.\n\nStowe, having stood for a little over half a century, was pulled down\nin 1739. In Polwhele\u2019s \u201cHistory of Cornwall\u201d it is stated that a man\nof Stratton lived long enough to see its site a cornfield before the\nbuilding existed, and after the building was destroyed a cornfield\nagain. The materials were sold piecemeal by auction. The carved cedar\nwood in the chapel, executed by Michael Chuke,[164] was bought by Lord\nCobham and applied to the same purpose at his mansion of Stowe in\nBuckinghamshire. The staircase is at Prideaux Place, Padstow, while the\nCorporation of South Molton, who were then building a new Town Hall,\nCouncil Chamber, etc., purchased the following:--\n\n  Lady\u2019s fine Bed-chamber and planching          35    0    0\n  9 shash windows at 10/6 and 2 at 11/6           5   17    6\n  no. 27 y^e winscott w^{th}out y^e chimney\n    and door casings                             11   13    0\n  6 squares of Planching                          1   16    0\n  A Tunn and 1/2 of Sheet & Pipe at 13/          19   10    0\n  7 p^{rs.} of winscott window shutters at 8/     2   16    0\n  172 rustic quoins at 1                          8   12    0\n  4 Corinthian Capitalls & Pillasters             2    2    0\n  Y^e caseing and ornaments of 3 windows          1   11    6\n  3 Architraves w^{th} Pedem^{ts.} for doors &\n    27 y^{ds.} of winscott in the Lobby           2    2    0\n  A carved Cornish and Triumph of K.\n    Charles II.                                   7    7    0\n  2 right panel doors                             1    1    0\n\nThese articles, with many others, were taken to Bude, shipped to\nBarnstaple, and thence carted to South Molton. The outlay for the whole\nonly amounted to \u00a3178! The \u201ccarved Cornish and Triumph of Charles II.\u201d\nis still to be seen over the fireplace in the old dining-room in the\nTown Hall at South Molton.\n\nNo doubt the isolated position of Stowe, and the long distance from\nLondon was one cause of its being destroyed. Lord Carteret was\nappointed Lord Lieutenant of Devonshire in 1716, and the previous\nyear he had been doing all he could in support of the new Hanoverian\nestablishment. While the Jacobite rebellion was at its height in\nthe north, Carteret was writing from Stowe to Robethon, the French\nSecretary of George I.--\n\n    \u201cI am now two hundred long miles from you, situated on a cliff\n    overlooking the sea, and every tide have fresh prospects in viewing\n    ships coming home. _In this corner of the earth_ have I received\n    your letter, and without that I should have heard nothing since I\n    came. Sept. 25, 1715.\u201d--Brit. Mus. Sloane MSS. 4107, fol. 171, etc.\n\nAnother cause may have been the bursting of the \u201cSouth Sea Bubble,\u201d in\nwhich Countess Granville and the Carterets had invested a good deal of\nmoney. Lord Carteret wrote to a friend in October, 1720--\n\n    \u201cI don\u2019t know exactly how the fall of the South Sea has affected\n    my family, but they have lost considerably of what they had once\n    gained.\u201d\n\nThe stables alone remain, and these have been converted into a\nfarmhouse, the tennis-court into a sheepcote, and the great quadrangle\ninto a rick-yard, and civilisation, spreading wave after wave so fast\nelsewhere, has surged back from that lovely corner of the land, let us\nhope only for a while.\n\nReferring to this ruined mansion, Edward Moore exclaimed--\n\n    \u201cAh! where is now its boasted beauty fled?\n      Proud turrets that once glistened in the sky,\n    And broken columns, in confusion spread,\n      A rude mis-shapen heap of ruins lie!\n\n    Where, too, is now the garden\u2019s beauty fled,\n      Which every clime was ransacked to supply?\n    On the dread spot see desolation spread,\n      And the dismantled walls in ruin lie.\n\n    Along the terrace walks are straggling seen\n      The thickly bramble and the noisome weed,\n    Beneath whose covert crawls the toad obscene,\n      And snakes and adders unmolested breed.\u201d\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[164] The cedar wainscot which lined the chapel is said to have been\nbought out of a Spanish prize, and the carving is mentioned by Defoe,\nin his \u201cWestern Tour,\u201d as the work of Michael Chuke, and not inferior\nto Gibbon\u2019s. (C. S. Gilbert, \u201cSurvey of Cornwall,\u201d vol. ii. p. 554.)\n\n\n\n\nAPPENDIX F (p. 123)\n\nCRUEL COPPINGER\n\nBY R. PEARSE CHOPE\n\n\nThe real Coppinger, around whose name Mr. Hawker has woven such a\nfascinating legend, has been identified by the Rev. S. Baring-Gould,\nin a footnote to his account of \u201cThe Vicar of Morwenstow\u201d (edit. 1899,\np. 113), with an Irishman of that name, having a wife at Trewhiddle,\nnear St. Austell, by whom he had a daughter, who married a son of Lord\nClinton. However, there can be little doubt that the Coppinger Mr.\nHawker had in his mind lived nearer at hand, in the adjoining parish\nof Hartland, where several of these tales, together with others of a\nsimilar nature, are still told about him. His name was Daniel Herbert\nCoppinger or Copinger, and he was wrecked, probably at Welcombe Mouth,\nthe end of the romantic glen which separates Welcombe from Hartland, on\nDecember 23rd, 1792. He was hospitably received and entertained, not by\nMr. Hamlyn, but by Mr. William Arthur, another yeoman farmer, at Golden\nPark in Hartland. While there he scratched the following inscription\non a window-pane, which was preserved for many years, but has now\ndisappeared:--\n\n    \u201cD. H. Coppinger, shipwrecked December 23rd, 1792; kindly received\n    by Mr. Wm. Arthur.\u201d\n\nIn the following year he married Ann Hamlyn, the elder of the two\ndaughters of Mr. Ackland Hamlyn, of Galsham, and his wife Ann, who was\none of the last of the ancient and gentle family of Velly of Velly,\na family which had held a prominent position in the parish for at\nleast five hundred years. The marriage is thus entered in the parish\nregister:--\n\n    \u201cDaniel Herbert Coppinger of the King\u2019s Royal Navy and Ann Hamlyn\n    mar^d (by licence) 3 Aug.\u201d\n\nFar from being \u201ca young damsel,\u201d the bride was of the mature age of\nforty-two. Two years later her sister, Mary, was married to William\nRandal, but there is no record or local tradition of any issue from\neither marriage. What rank Coppinger held in the Navy is not known, but\nhis name does not appear in the lists of commissioned officers.\n\nFor about two years he carried on his nefarious business of smuggling,\nand stories are still told of the various methods he adopted of\noutwitting the gauger. His chief cave was in the cliff at Sandhole,\nbut another is pointed out in Henstridge Wood, a couple of miles\ninland. On one occasion, perhaps after Coppinger\u2019s time, the caves\nwere watched so closely that the kegs of brandy which had been landed\nwere deposited at the bottom of the _zess_, as the pile of sheaves in\na barn is called, of an accommodating farmer. The gauger, who had his\nsuspicions, wished to search the zess, but the farmer was so willing to\nhelp him in turning over the sheaves that his suspicions were allayed,\nand he went away without finding any of the incriminating articles. On\nanother occasion the result was not so satisfactory for the farmer. On\nthe arrival of the gauger, he produced some empty kegs in order to give\nhis wife an opportunity of hiding a supply of valuable silks which had\nbeen left in their care. The safest place she could think of in her\nhurry was the oven, but she forgot that it had been heated for baking\na batch of bread. The result was that, although the gauger failed to\nfind them, they were burnt to ashes.\n\nMrs. Coppinger\u2019s mother went to live with her other daughter and\nson-in-law at Cross House in Harton. She was the owner of Galsham, and\nretained possession of her husband\u2019s money, and the tale runs that,\nin order to obtain money from her, Coppinger, having been refused\nadmission, had been known to stand, with a pistol in each hand, on the\n_lepping-stock_, or horse-block, in front of the house and threaten to\nshoot any person who appeared at the door or any of the windows unless\nthe required sum was produced. It is even said that once, as he was\npassing the house, he saw his brother-in-law, Randal, at the window,\nand fired at him without provocation, but luckily missed his aim.\n\nMrs. Ann Hamlyn was buried on September 7th, 1800, after which date the\nfarm became the property of Mrs. Coppinger. Coppinger spent what he\ncould, but apparently became bankrupt, for in October, 1802, he was a\nprisoner in the King\u2019s Bench, in company with a Richard Copinger, who\nis stated to have been a merchant in the island of Martinique. What\nbecame of him afterwards does not seem to be known, but it is said\nthat he lived for many years at Barnstaple, in receipt of an allowance\nfrom his wife. She herself went there to live out her days, and died\nthere on August 31st, 1833, at the age of eighty-two. She was buried\nin the chancel of Hartland Church, in the grave of her friend, Alice\nWestern, and by the side of her mother. Coppinger\u2019s name can still be\nseen, inscribed in bold characters \u201cD. H. Copinger\u201d on a window-pane at\nGalsham. Galsham is now the property of Major Kirkwood of Yeo Vale.\n\nWriting to his brother-in-law, Mr. J. Sommers James, in September,\n1866, Mr. Hawker asks him, \u201cDo you remember Bold Coppinger the\nMarsland Pirate? He died eighty-seven (?) years ago. I am collecting\nmaterials for his Life for _All the Year Round_;\u201d and again in November\nof the same year, \u201cHadn\u2019t you an Aunt called Coppinger?\u201d\n\nIt is interesting to note that Coppinger has \u201centered fiction\u201d through\nthe pages of Mr. Baring-Gould\u2019s \u201cIn the Roar of the Sea.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nAPPENDIX G (p. 139)\n\nTHOMASINE BONAVENTURE\n\nBY R. PEARSE CHOPE\n\n\nThe tale of the shepherdess who became Lady Mayoress was told by Carew\nin his \u201cSurvey of Cornwall,\u201d and her biography has since been sketched\nby many different authors, such as Lysons in \u201cMagna Britannia,\u201d W. H.\nTregellas in \u201cCornish Worthies,\u201d and in the \u201cDictionary of National\nBiography,\u201d and G. C. Boase in \u201cCollectanea Cornubiensia.\u201d An account\nappears also in the \u201cParochial History of Cornwall;\u201d and a book by E.\nNicolls, entitled \u201cThomazine Bonaventure; or, the Maid of Week St.\nMary,\u201d was published at Callington in 1865, only two years before Mr.\nHawker\u2019s article appeared in _All the Year Round_. The Churchwardens\u2019\nAccounts of St. Mary Woolnoth, from which extracts were given in\nthe _Gentleman\u2019s Magazine_ for 1854 (vol. xlii. p. 41), and in the\n\u201cTranscript of the Registers of the United Parishes of St. Mary\nWoolnoth and St. Mary Woolnoth Haw,\u201d by J. M. S. Brooke and A. W. C.\nHallen (1886, p. xvi.), contain the following entries:--\n\n    \u201c1539.--Item receyved of the Master and Wardens of the Merchint\n    Tayllours for the beame light of this church according to the\n    devyse of Dame Thomasyn Percyvall widow late wyf of Sir John\n    Percyvall Knight deceased\n\n  xxvj^{s.} viij^{d.}\n\n    Item receyved more of the Master and Wardens of Merchint Tayllors\n    for ij tapers thoon of vij _lb._ and the other of v LB. to brenne\n    about the Sepulture in this Church at Ester ij^{s.} iiij^{d.} and\n    for the churchwardens labor of this church to gyve attendance at\n    the obit of Sir John Percyvall and otherwyse according to the\n    devyse of Dame Thomasyn Percyvall his wyf\n\n  iiij^{s.} vj^{s.} iiij^{d.}\n\n    Item receyved of the said Master and Wardens of Merchint Taillors\n    for the Repacions of the ornaments of this church according to the\n    will of the said Sir John Percyvall\n\n  vj^{s.}\n\n    Item receyved of the Maister and Wardens of Merchint taillors for a\n    hole yere for our Conduct for kepying the Antempur afore Saint John\n    with his children according to the will of the said Dame Thomasyn\n    Percyvall\n\n  xx^{s.}\u201d\n\nA monument erected to Sir John Percival in the old church is mentioned\nby Stow, but it is no longer in existence. Sir John\u2019s will hangs in the\npresent church.\n\nThe following account of the chantry founded by Dame Percival at Week\nSt. Mary was extracted by Oliver from the Chantry Rolls of Devon and\nCornwall, preserved among the records of the Court of Augmentations:--\n\n    \u201cSAYNT MARYE WEKE.--See Cert. 9, No. 6. The chauntrye called Dame\n    Percyvalls, at the altar of Seynt John Baptist, in the north yeld\n    within the same church. Founded by Dame Tomasyne Percyvall, wyf of\n    syr John Percival, knt., and alderman of London. To fynd a pryste\n    to praye for her sowle in the paryshe churche of Saynt Marye Weke;\n    also [to] teach children freelye in a scole founded by [her] not\n    farr distant from the sayd parishe churche; and he to receyve for\n    his yerelye stipend xij^{li.} vj^{s.} To fynde a mancyple also\n    to instructe children under the sayd scolemaster, and he to have\n    yerelye xxvj^{s.} viij^{d.} To a laundresse for the scolemaster and\n    mancyple yerelye xiij^{s.} iiij^{d.} And the remayne of the lands\n    (all charges of reparacons of the tenements and houses, chalys and\n    ornaments, being first allowed) should be expended in an obytt\n    yerelye for her in the paryshe church.--Cert. 10, No. 8, xiij^{s.}\n    iiij^{d.} to y^e pore peple yerelye.\n\n    \u201cThe yerelye value of the lands and possessions,\n\n  xv^{li.} xiiij^{s.} viij^{d.}\n\n    \u201cCert. 9, No. 6. M^{d.}That one John Denham, of Tyston [Devon], one\n    of y^e feoffees of founders of the said scole, kepyth land named\n    Ashe in Broadworth and other quylytts thereto adjoinyng, parcel of\n    possessions gyven for sayd scole; and with y^e profytts thereof\n    payeth iiij^{li.} yerely to y^e manciple ther, and xiij^{s.}\n    iiij^{d.} to y^e launder of y^e said scole-house.\u201d (Oliver,\n    \u201cMonasticon Dioecesis Exoniensis,\u201d p. 483.)\n\nCarew\u2019s quaint account is worth quoting in full:--\n\n    \u201c_S. Marie Wike_ standeth in a fruitfull soyle, skirted with a\n    moore, course for pasture, and combrous for travellers. This\n    village was the birth-place of _Thomasine Bonaventure_, I know not,\n    whether by descent, or event, so called: for whiles in her girlish\n    age she kept sheepe on the fore-remembred moore, it chanced, that a\n    London marchant passing by, saw her, heeded her, liked her, begged\n    her of her poore parents, and carried her to his home. In processe\n    of time, her mistres was summoned by death to appeare in the other\n    world, and her good thewes, no lesse than her seemely personage, so\n    much contented her master, that he advanced her from a servant to\n    a wife, and left her a wealthy widow. Her second marriage befell\n    with one _Henry Gall_: her third and last, Sir _John Percival_,\n    Lord Maior of London, whom she also overlived. And to shew, that\n    vertue as well bare a part in the desert, as fortune in the meanes\n    of her preferment, she employed the whole residue of her life and\n    last widdowhood, to works no lesse bountifull, than charitable:\n    namely, repayring of high waies, building of bridges, endowing\n    of maydens, relieving of prisoners, feeding and apparelling the\n    poor, &c. Amongst the rest, at this _S. Mary Wike_, she founded a\n    Chauntery and free-schoole, together with faire lodgings, for the\n    Schoolemasters, schollers, and officers, and added twenty pound\n    of yeerely revennue, for supporting the incident charges: wherein\n    as the bent of her desire was holy, so God blessed the same with\n    al wished successe: for divers the best Gent. sonnes of _Devon_\n    and _Cornwall_ were there vertuously trained up, in both kinds of\n    divine and humane learning, under one _Cholwel_, an honest and\n    religious teacher, which caused the neighbours so much the rather,\n    and the more to rewe, that a petty smacke onely of Popery, opened a\n    gap to the oppression of the whole, by the statute made in _Edw._\n    the 6. raigne, touching the suppression of Chaunteries.\u201d (Carew,\n    \u201cSurvey of Cornwall,\u201d edit. 1769, p. 119.)\n\nMr. W. H. Tregellas states that at the death of Sir John Percyvall,\nabout 1504, his widow retired to her native place; but Carew\u2019s words\ndo not appear to justify this inference, and it is stated in the\nStocken MSS. in the Guildhall Library that she was buried at St. Mary\nWoolnoth. Mr. Tregellas does not appear to have been able to trace the\nwill; but Lysons, whose account was published in 1814, says definitely\nthat the will was dated 1512, and this statement has been accepted by\nsubsequent writers. By this will she bequeathed to her brother, John\nBonaventer, \u00a320; she made her cousin, John Dinham, who had married her\nsister\u2019s daughter, residuary legatee, and committed to his discretion\nthe chantry and grammar school founded in her lifetime; she gave a\nlittle gilt goblet, having a blue flower in the bottom, to the Vicar\nof Liskeard, to the intent that he should pray for her soul; and\ntowards the building of the tower of St. Stephen\u2019s by Launceston she\nleft 20 marks. Robert Hunt, in his \u201cPopular Romances of the West of\nEngland,\u201d says that Berry Comb, in Jacobstow, was once the residence of\nThomasine, and was given at her death to the poor of Week St. Mary. The\n\u201cParochial History of Cornwall\u201d gives 1530 as the approximate date of\nher death.\n\n\n\n\nAPPENDIX H (pp. 161-62)\n\nEPITAPHS OF RUDDLE AND BLIGH\n\n\nThe following is extracted from a little book entitled \u201cSome Account\nof the Church of St. Mary Magdalene, Launceston,\u201d by S. R. Pattison,\n1852:--\n\n    \u201cAdjoining is a marble monument, in memory of Sarah, the wife of\n    the Rev. John Ruddle, interred near this place, in 1667. Below\n    the family arms is the following epitaph, entitled \u201cThe Husband\u2019s\n    Valediction:\u201d--\n\n    \u201cBlest soul, since thou art fled into the slumbers of the dead,\n              Why should mine eyes\n    Let fall unfruitful tears, the offspring of despair and fears,\n              To interrupt thine obsequies.\n    No no, I won\u2019t lament to see thy day of trouble spent;\n              But since thou art gone,\n    Farewell! sleep, take thy rest, upon a better Husband\u2019s breast,\n              Until the resurrection.\u201d\n\n    A stately monument of fine variegated marble, in the south aisle,\n    is charged with the arms of Bligh, and the following Latin\n    inscription:--\n\n  \u201cJuxta hoc marmor jacet Carolus Bligh, Gen.\n  Aldermanus et hujus municipii s\u00e6pius Pr\u00e6tor\n  Qui cum sibe satis, suis parum diu vixerat\n  Pietate plenus obiit A.D. 1716, Die 8bris 2do\n  Hunc jam \u00c6ternitatem inhians Iudith uxor 27 Maii\n  An. Dni.\n  1717mo secuta est.\u201d\n\nThe Botathen Ghost story, as told by \u201cthe Rev. Mr. Ruddell\u201d himself,\noccupies five pages of C. S. Gilbert\u2019s \u201cHistory Survey of Cornwall,\n1817\u201d (vol. i. pp. 115-119). Gilbert does not mention how he came by\nit. Hawker\u2019s version is obviously a paraphrase of this, with some\nembellishments of his own.\n\n\n\n\nAPPENDIX J (p. 185)\n\nMICHAEL SCOTT AND EILDON HILL\n\n\nMichael Scott, the Wizard of the North, was a medi\u00e6val scientist around\nwhose memory many traditions have gathered. Compare \u201cThe Lay of the\nLast Minstrel,\u201d canto 2, stanza 13. The Monk speaks.\n\n    \u201cIn these far climes it was my lot\n    To meet the wondrous Michael Scott;\n      A wizard of such dreaded fame,\n    That when, in Salamanca\u2019s cave,\n    Him listed his magic wand to wave,\n      The bells would ring in Notre Dame!\n    Some of his skill he taught to me,\n    And, warrior, I could say to thee\n    The words that cleft Eildon Hills in three,\n      And bridled the Tweed with a curb of stone:\n    But to speak them were a deadly sin;\n    And for having but thought them my heart within,\n      A treble penance must be done.\u201d\n\nIn the note on this passage Sir Walter says--\n\n    \u201cIn the South of Scotland any work of great labour or antiquity\n    is ascribed either to the agency of Auld Michael, of Sir William\n    Wallace, or of the devil.\u201d\n\nGilfillan tells an amusing anecdote that--\n\n    \u201cwhen Sir Walter was in Italy he happened to remark to Mr. Cheney\n    that it was mortifying to think how Dante thought none worth\n    sending to hell except Italians, on which Mr. C. remarked that he\n    of all men had no right to make this complaint, as his ancestor\n    Michael is introduced in the \u2018Inferno.\u2019 This seemed to delight\n    Scott.\u201d\n\nThe passage in the \u201cInferno\u201d occurs in Canto 20--\n\n    \u201cQuell\u2019 altro che ne\u2019 fianchi \u00e8 cos\u00ec poco,\n      Michele Scotto fu, che veramente\n      Delle magiche frode seppe il giuocho.\u201d\n\ntranslated by Cary thus:--\n\n                \u201cThat other, round the loins\n    So slender of his shape, was Michael Scott,\n    Practised in every slight of magic wile.\u201d\n\nBoccaccio also mentions him (Dec. Giorn. VIII., Nov. 9): \u201cIt is\nnot long since there was in this city (Florence) a great master\nin necromancy, who was called Michele Scotto, because he was from\nScotland.\u201d Legend has obscured the real fame of Michael Scott. He\nlived between 1175 and 1234, studied at Oxford, Paris, Palermo, Toledo\n(where he translated Aristotle from Arabic), and became court physician\nand astrologer to the Emperor Frederick II. He took Holy Orders, but\ndeclined the Pope\u2019s offer of an Irish archbishopric on the ground of\nnot knowing the Irish language. He probably died in Italy, but fable\nconnects his burial with Holme Coltrame in Cumberland, or with Melrose\nAbbey. It is said that Sir Walter Scott confused him with another\nMichael Scott, of Balwearie, and that he \u201cmore probably belonged to\nthe border country whence all the families of Scot originally came,\nand where the traditions of his magic power are common\u201d (\u201cDict. of\nNat. Biog.\u201d). The best book on the subject is the \u201cLife and Legend of\nMichael Scot (1175-1232),\u201d by Rev. J. Wood Brown, M.A., 1897.\n\n\n\n\n  [_IN PREPARATION_]\n\n  The Life and Letters\n\n  of\n\n  Robert Stephen Hawker\n\n  Vicar of Morwenstow\n\n\nA full and authentic biography of the late Rev. R. S. Hawker, by his\nson-in-law, is in course of preparation, and will be issued next\nSpring. It was originally intended to prefix this as an introduction\nto the present volume, but so much new material has come to light that\nit could not well be compressed within the limits of a short memoir.\nThis new material includes a most interesting account, written by\nHawker himself, of Tennyson\u2019s visit to Morwenstow in 1848, and their\nconversation. Many unpublished letters of Hawker\u2019s have also been\ncollected. The book will contain numerous illustrations, consisting\npartly of photographic reproductions, and partly of lithographic\ndrawings by Mr. J. Ley Pethybridge. No pains or expense will be spared\nto produce a picturesque record of the man and his environment, both so\npicturesque and romantic in themselves.\n\nShould this notice meet the eye of any one who knew Hawker, or could\nin any way supply further material for the biography, in the shape of\nletters, manuscripts, relics, anecdotes, or reminiscences, such will\nbe gladly received, and may be addressed to the editor of the present\nvolume, care of the publisher.\n\n  _July, 1903._\n\nJOHN LANE, PUBLISHER, LONDON & NEW YORK\n\n\n\n\n  [_IN PREPARATION_]\n\n  Cornish Ballads\n  and\n  Other Poems\n\n  by\n  ROBERT STEPHEN HAWKER\n  Vicar of Morwenstow\n\n  Illustrated by\n  J. LEY PETHYBRIDGE\n\n  Price 5_s._ net.\n\n\nThis book will be issued in the Autumn of the present year (1903).\nIt is a revised edition of Hawker\u2019s Complete Poems, published in\n1899 at 7_s._ 6_d._ The chief differences consist of the reduction\nin price, the inclusion of a number of fresh illustrations and a few\nadditional poems, and a general improvement in the \u201cget-up\u201d of the\nbook. In binding it will be uniform with \u201cFootprints of Former Men in\nFar Cornwall.\u201d The new illustrations will include some or all of the\nfollowing:--\n\n    ILLUSTRATION.      _To illustrate_         POEM.\n\n  Clovelly                            \u201cClovelly.\u201d\n  The Black Rock, Widemouth           \u201cFeatherstone\u2019s Doom.\u201d\n  St. Nectan\u2019s Kieve                  \u201cThe Sisters of Glen Nectan.\u201d\n  Morwenstow Church (Exterior)        \u201cMorwennae Statio.\u201d\n  The Well of St. Morwenna            \u201cThe Well of St. Morwenna.\u201d\n  The Well of St. John                \u201cThe Well of St. John.\u201d\n  The Source of the Tamar             \u201cThe Tamar Spring.\u201d\n  Launcells Church                    \u201cThe Ringers of Launcells Tower.\u201d\n  The Figure-head of the              \u201cThe Figure-head of the _Caledonia_\n    _Caledonia_                          at her Captain\u2019s Grave.\u201d\n  Boscastle cliffs in a storm         \u201cThe Silent Tower at Bottreaux.\u201d\n  Hartland Church                     \u201cThe Cell by the Sea.\u201d\n  St. Madron\u2019s Well                   \u201cThe Doom-Well of St. Madron.\u201d\n  Hennacliff                          \u201cA Croon on Hennacliff.\u201d\n  Tintagel                            \u201cThe Quest of the Sangraal.\u201d\n  Effigy of Sir Ralph de              \u201cSir Ralph de Blanc-Minster of\n    Blanc-Minster in Stratton Church     Bien-Aim\u00e9.\u201d\n  Sharpnose Point                     \u201cThe Smuggler\u2019s Song.\u201d\n  Portrait of Sir Bevill Granville    \u201cThe Gate Song of Stowe.\u201d\n  The Font in Morwenstow Church       \u201cThe Font.\u201d\n\nJOHN LANE, PUBLISHER, LONDON & NEW YORK\n\n\n\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\n\nTranscriber's Note\n\n\nIllustrations have been moved next to the text to which they relate.\nThe back cover referred to in the List of Illustrations was not\nincluded in the scanned book.\n\n\nThe following apparent errors have been corrected:\n\np. 86 (note) \"\u2019ee.\u2019\" changed to \"\u2019ee.\u201d\"\n\np. 158 (note) \"1867\" changed to \"1867.\"\n\np. 186 \"canon-ball\" changed to \"cannon-ball\"\n\np. 199 footnote anchor added\n\np. 203 (note) \"head.\" changed to \"head.\u201d\"\n\n\nThe following possible errors have been left as printed:\n\np. 221 \u2018Make, haste,\n\np. 237 of it.\n\n\nInconsistent hyphenation has not been changed, nor has use of both\nMorwenn\u00e6 and Morwennae. An inscription is given as both MVCLX4 (p. 246)\nand MDLX4 (p. 251).","title":"Footprints of Former Men in Far Cornwall","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":73869}