{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_46690/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_46690","id":"gutenberg_46690","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/46690","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Humour","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Travel Writing","Cornwall (England : County) -- Description and travel","Legends -- England -- Cornwall (County)"],"text":"Cornish Saints and Sinners\n\n\n _By the Same Author_\n\n THE FISHERS\n\n Crown 8vo.\n\n\n[Illustration: THE SMUGGLERS.]\n\n\n CORNISH\n SAINTS & SINNERS\n\n BY\n J. HENRY HARRIS\n WITH NUMEROUS DRAWINGS BY\n L. RAVEN-HILL\n\n [Illustration: THE ARMS OF CORNWALL.]\n\n LONDON: JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD\n NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY. MCMXV\n\n\n NEW EDITION\n\n\n PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,\n LONDON AND BECCLES, ENGLAND\n\n\n\n\n_ILLUSTRATIONS_\n\n\n THE SMUGGLERS _Frontispiece_\n\n THE ARMS OF CORNWALL _page_ 1\n\n FATHER JOHN AND THE CIDER _facing_ \" 6\n\n PADDLING \" 9\n\n ST. MICHAEL'S MOUNT \" 10\n\n ST. MICHAEL AND THE CONGER _facing_ \" 16\n\n THE KEIGWIN ARMS, MOUSEHOLE \" 19\n\n DOLLY PENTREATH _facing_ \" 22\n\n LAND'S END \" 27\n\n LIGHT WINDS \" 35\n\n ASHORE \" 36\n\n THE VILLAGE SHOP, MOUSEHOLE _facing_ \" 36\n\n SMUGGLERS \" 43\n\n A SHORT CUT _facing_ \" 48\n\n LANYON QUOIT \" 55\n\n PADSTOW _facing_ \" 60\n\n COTTAGE, ST. IVES \" 63\n\n KING TEWDRIG AND THE SAINTS _facing_ \" 64\n\n ST. IA \" \" 66\n\n ST. AGNES \" 75\n\n THE SMUGGLERS' CAVE \" 76\n\n THE LEGEND OF THE CHEESE-WRING _facing_ \" 82\n\n TRURO CATHEDRAL \" 84\n\n \"TAKING SNUFF AND LOOKING LEXICONS\" _facing_ \" 88\n\n THE PORCH, LAUNCESTON CHURCH \" \" 92\n\n SMILER'S PIOUS CAT \" 94\n\n A CORNISH FISH-WIFE _facing_ \" 98\n\n A SIDE STREET \" 100\n\n OLD COINAGE STREET, PENZANCE \" 114\n\n BOSCASTLE HARBOUR _facing_ \" 118\n\n BRETON ONION-BOY \" 122\n\n MEVAGISSEY _facing_ \" 126\n\n A FISH-HAWKER \" 136\n\n TWO COTTAGES, MEVAGISSEY _facing_ \" 144\n\n AN OLD CORNER, ST. IVES \" 147\n\n ON THE SANDS \" 156\n\n THE PILLORY, LOOE \" 157\n\n MAKING CRAB POTS _facing_ \" 158\n\n A TAIL-PIECE \" 167\n\n AN ALLEY \" 168\n\n OLD NEWLYN _facing_ \" 168\n\n A CORNISH INTERIOR \" 178\n\n THE OLD MILL _facing_ \" 178\n\n PERRAN PORTH \" 187\n\n GORRAN HARBOUR \" 188\n\n HOMEWARD BOUND \" 197\n\n PRINCESS OLWEN IS CHANGED INTO A BRAMBLE _facing_ \" 202\n\n POLPERRO \" 205\n\n CARN BREA \" 212\n\n THE CHAPEL ROCK, BUDE _facing_ \" 216\n\n HIGH AND DRY \" 222\n\n \"KNACKED BALS\" (_disused mines_) \" 223\n\n MORWENSTOW CLIFFS _facing_ \" 226\n\n THE MANACLES \" 232\n\n \"ONE DAY THE DEVIL, HAVING NOTHING TO DO,\n BUILT A GREAT HEDGE FROM LERRIN TO LOOE\"\n _facing_ \" 234\n\n THE ROCHE ROCK \" 237\n\n NEWQUAY SANDS \" 238\n\n NEWQUAY _facing_ \" 240\n\n \"THE SOUL OF TREGEAGLE IN PAIN\" _facing_ \" 244\n\n FRONT DOORS \" 248\n\n A FAIR PROSPECT \" 254\n\n JOHN BURTON \" 255\n\n BARRACKS HOPP, FALMOUTH _facing_ \" 256\n\n THE PENRYN STOCKS \" 263\n\n ST. GOELAND AND THE SEA-GULL _facing_ \" 268\n\n THE DOG-FISH \" 271\n\n THREE MINUTES WITH A DOG-FISH _facing_ \" 274\n\n A STREET CORNER, ST. IVES \" 280\n\n FIGURE-HEAD OF THE \"CALEDONIA,\" MORWENSTOW _facing_\" 284\n\n TINTAGEL \" 291\n\n YSEULT AND TRISTAN _facing_ \" 294\n\n THE DIGEY \" 298\n\n KING ARTHUR'S CASTLE _facing_ \" 298\n\n A CORNISH STILE \" 309\n\n LOW TIDE \" 312\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: THE ARMS OF CORNWALL.]\n\n\n_CORNISH SAINTS AND SINNERS_\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\n\nWe were three.\n\nGuy Moore, who had scraped through his \"final,\" and eaten his call\ndinner, and talked sometimes of full-bottomed wigs and woolsacks.\n\nGeorge Milner, surnamed the \"Bookworm.\"\n\nMyself.\n\nIt was an old arrangement between Guy and myself to go somewhere as\nsoon as the Long Vacation commenced, and the Bookworm, a relation of\nGuy's, was included on account of his health. The doctor told him that\nif he did not take a timely rest now he'd never read all the books in\nthe British Museum library, which he had set himself to do before going\nto Paris to read there, and then some other place, and so on. Bookworms\nare like that. Our mutual friend was an earnest young man, and had the\nreader's look about the eyes; and when he went to bed he read unknown\nbooks in his sleep. The doctor said, \"Get him away--plenty of air,\nplenty of walking, no books.\"\n\nWe met in Guy's chambers, and talked Cornwall; but the trouble was with\nthe Bookworm, who wanted to take a truck-load of books with him.\n\nWe decided on going to Penzance, and then rambling just where we would.\nA visit to the land of a lost language attracted the Bookworm, who at\nonce added a few score books to be read on the spot.\n\nGuy was appointed guardian of the common purse, and empowered to make\nall arrangements.\n\nThe books were left behind.\n\n * * * * *\n\nA splendid day in August we had for our run westward. The Bookworm\nhad a corner, and by-and-by the spirit of wonder crept over him as\nhe looked at the blue skies and the green grass. There was a world\noutside of books, after all.\n\n\"Here's the briny! Out with your head, man, and suck it all in; it's\nthe wine of life,\" shouted Guy.\n\nUp went all the blinds, and down went all the windows, and every one\nwho could gazed upon the blue sea shoaling into green with white-flaked\nedging on the frizzling sands. It is the custom to pay this homage to\nthe sea for being good enough to be just where it is, between Starcross\nand Teignmouth. Right and left, the Bookworm saw heads thrust out and\nfaces in ecstasy, as though the whole human freight of the flying\ntrain was in rapt adoration. White handkerchiefs waved, and the pure\nvoices of children trilled spontaneous anthems whenever the vexatious\ntunnels permitted them to gaze upon old England's symbol of power and\nfreedom. It was a new experience to the Bookworm, and it surprised him\nthat anything not printed and stitched and bound should stir so much\nemotion. It was Nature's book in red sandstone and blue sea illuminated\nby the sun, on which his tired eyes rested for a few moments; he felt\nrefreshed by the mere vision, his pulses throbbing with new sensations.\nAnd when the vision passed in the broad valley of the Teign, he asked\nsimply--\n\n\"Is there more of this?\"\n\n\"Plenty,\" said Guy, promptly.\n\nAccording to Guy's account, we were to have just whatever we liked,\nwhen we liked, and where we liked. Seascape and moorscape, hill and\nvale, sailing and fishing, riding and driving, and golfing, and all\nthat sort of thing. And then there were certain mysterious regions\nwhere we were to find tracks of the fairies, and come across odds and\nends of things, and people too. We were not to have any guide-books; he\ninsisted on that. What was the good of guide-books to fellows on their\nrambles? Who cared how many yards he was from anywhere, or how many\nmiles it was from one place to another? All that was worth remembering\ncould be picked up on the spot, and then there wouldn't be any danger\nof everything running into one blurred outline of travel, just as\nhappened to a fellow after tramping for weeks through picture-galleries\nand curio-shops, and all that sort of thing. Guy said he knew a fellow\nwho did the whole county most thoroughly guide-book in hand. He started\nfrom Bude, and did the north coast; and then he turned around and did\nthe south coast. He scored his guide-book like a chart of navigation,\nand his marginal notes played leap-frog all over the show. When he got\nto Plymouth he lost the precious book, and if it wasn't for railway\nlabels and hotel bills, he wouldn't have known where he'd been.\n\nA commercial man, having totted up his accounts, seemed greatly\ninterested in Guy's remarks, and glided into the conversation. He told\nus he hadn't had a holiday for thirty years, and never expected another\nin this life. He became quite confidential, and gave us his views\nabout happiness in the world to come. He never intended going \"on the\nroad\" again for a living in the next world, he said, if there were any\ntelephones about. He didn't like telephones when the boss was always at\nthe other end.\n\nWe ran through the apple country, and the commercial man said these\norchards were simply nothing to be compared with those a few miles\naway, where the real Devon cider was made. He told some funny\nstories about cider and its makers--the way in which sweet cider was\ndiscovered, and the hand that Old Nick had in the matter.\n\n\"It's a short story,\" said he, good-naturedly. \"Old John Bowden had\nthe finest orchard land in South Devon, and it appears that in the\nolden times the land was the property of Tavistock Abbey, and the good\nFathers used to come over every season to make cider and have a frolic.\nSometimes the good old cider, being no respecter of persons, got into\nthe good Fathers' heads. Now, you must know that the best of cider is\na trifle sharp to the palate--the natives call it 'rough'--and the\nFathers were in the habit of toning some rare good stuff, reserved for\nhigh days and holidays, in empty wine-casks. One season, the wine-casks\nfalling short, the Abbot of Tavistock drew up a sort of prize\ncompetition, like the magazines do now, offering something tasty to the\ninventor of a process for making 'rough' cider sweet without the use of\nwine, which, I suppose, worked out expensive, and, moreover, encouraged\nmore drinking than was allowed under the tippling act. I must now tell\nyou that, for a very long time, things hadn't gone on smoothly between\nthe monks of Tavistock Abbey and Old Nick, who was constantly prowling\nabout the premises, picking up little bits of information, and making\nthe good Fathers uncomfortable. Well, he chanced upon this prize\ncompetition notice on an old door covered over with cast horse-shoes\nand vermin nailed up for 'good luck' and to keep his satanic majesty\noff the premises. However, there he was, and read the notice.\n\n[Illustration: FATHER JOHN AND THE CIDER.]\n\n\"A very obliging little old man turned up at the orchards one season,\nand offered his services, and was taken in to do odd jobs about the\npound-house, and as he wasn't particular about his bed, he was allowed\nto curl himself up in one of the big empty cider-casks. In truth, after\nthe work was over for the day, the good Fathers had other fish to fry,\nand thought no more about him; but the strange workman was most busy\nwhen he was supposed to be sound asleep.\n\n\"Of all the Fathers of the Abbey, Brother John was the keenest on\nwinning the prize for turning 'rough' cider into sweet, and he spent\nhours in the pound-house alone, spoiling good stuff, without getting\none foot forrarder. 'Dang my old buttons!' said he, after another\nfailure.\n\n\"It wasn't so much the language as the temper of Brother John which\nattracted the notice of the little old man who slept in the cask,\nand he whispered something which made the good brother turn pale and\ntremble in his shoes. He was not above temptation, it is true, but\nhe was a brave man for all that, and dissimulated so well that the\nstranger was so off his guard as to sleep in his cask and leave one\nof his cloven feet sticking out of the bung-hole. Brother John bided\nhis time and covered the bung-hole, and then arranged for such a flow\nof cider into the cask upon the sleeping stranger as to settle his\nhash, unless it was the very old Nick himself. Old Nick it was, and\nwhen he awoke to the situation he was so hot with passion that the\ncider bubbled in the cask, and he disappeared, leaving the strongest\nof strong smell of brimstone behind. Brother John kept the secret to\nhimself, not knowing what might come of it; but when he tasted the\ncider his eyes sparkled, for it was as sweet as honey, and when sweet\ncider was wanted at the Abbey, he used to pour it 'rough' upon the\nfumes of burning sulphur, and, lo and behold! it became sweet. It was\nOld Nick who gave away the secret to Brother John, who was smart enough\nto learn it. A Devon man calls sweet cider 'matched,' on account of its\nconnection with old Brimstone.\"\n\n\"Did Brother John patent the process?\" asked Guy.\n\n\"No, he didn't, though Old Nick tempted him; but Brother John was\ntoo wide awake to have his fingers burnt by patent lawyers and their\nagents.\"\n\n\"Is that story in print?\" asked the Bookworm, preparing to make a note\nfor future reference.\n\n\"I should say not. It's just one of those trifles you pick up on the\nroad. Plenty about when Old Nick is concerned. They say his majesty\ndidn't cross the Tamar in olden days; or, if he did, then he hopped\nback again in double-quick time. That may be, but he's a season\nticket-holder now, and has good lodgings, and I ought to know, for I do\nbusiness all through the country,\" said the man of samples, stepping\nout of the carriage.\n\n\"A trifle rough on us lawyers,\" said Guy. \"Poor beggar has suffered, I\nsuppose.\"\n\nAcross the bridge, and we are in the land of pasties and cream--the\nland of a lost language, of legend and romance, where the old seems new\nand the new seems old, and the breath of life everywhere.\n\nPenzance.\n\n[Illustration: PADDLING.]\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: ST. MICHAEL'S MOUNT]\n\nCHAPTER II\n\n\nThe proper thing to do when you awake at Penzance is to run down to\nthe sea and bathe. We were told all about it in the smoking-room. It\nis a sort of ceremony with something belonging to it. When once you've\nbathed in the sea you're free of the country, like the Israelites,\nafter swimming the Jordan. Everybody asks his neighbour, \"Have you\nbathed?\" If you have, it's all right.\n\nWe missed the Bookworm soon after breakfast, but Guy said we would soon\nfind him if we drew the libraries. Guy supposed that reading was like\ndram-drinking to a fellow who had got himself into the Bookworm's\ncondition, and it would be just as well to let him have a dose\noccasionally. We decided to \"do\" Penzance on our own account.\n\nThere's nothing much to \"do.\" All the streets run down to the sea, and\nthen run up again. It is a capital arrangement and saves one asking\nquestions. It is humiliating for a Londoner to be seen asking his way\nabout, and takes the fine bloom off his swagger not to be able to find\nhis way to the next street, in a town all the inhabitants of which\ncould be put into one corner of the Crystal Palace. Guy said he'd\nrather walk miles than ask such a silly question.\n\nPenzance had a reputation long before any modern rivals were heard of,\nand was the Madeira of England before the Riviera made its _d\u00e9but_ as\na professional beauty in the sunny south. Professional beauties want\n\"touching up\" sometimes, and Penzance has been doing a little in that\nway lately, though without destroying the charm which draws admirers,\nand keeps them. It is one of those towns in which you seem to be always\nwalking in the shadow of a long yesterday. Go into the market, and buy\na rib of beef, and you are brought face to face with an ancient cross\nwhose age no man can surely tell. You buy a fish, still panting, from\nthe creel of a wrinkled specimen of human antiquity which takes snuff,\nand bargains in unfamiliar words. Shops with modern frontages are\nfilled with dark serpentine, which carries you back to geologic time;\nand at the photographers, the last professional beauty on the stage is\nsurrounded by monuments in stone, weathered and hoary before the Druids\nused them for mystic rites. And the names are strange. A sound of\nbitter wailing is in Marazion, and Market Jew brings to mind the lost\nten tribes. You learn in time that Market Jew has nothing to do with\nJewry, nor Marazion with lamentation; but all this comes gradually, and\nthere is ever the sensation of having an old and vanished past always\nwith you. You may step from Alverton Street, Pall Mall and Piccadilly\nrolled into one, with its motor-cars and bikes, knickers and chiffons,\ninto Market Jew, reminding you of antiquity and gabardines, or _vice\nvers\u00e2_, just as you happen to be taking your walks abroad.\n\nPenzance has one \"lion\"--Sir Humphry Davy. Sir Humphry and his little\nlamp is a story with immortal youth, like that of Washington and\nhis little hatchet. Sir Humphry meets you at unexpected places and\ntimes--there was something _\u00e0 la_ Sir Humphry on the breakfast menu.\nWe heard about him soon after our arrival, from an American tourist of\nindependent views. He said that Sir Humphry would not be a boss man\nnow because he didn't know a good thing when he had it, and gave away\nhis invention in a spirit of benevolence, which was destructive of all\nsound commercial principles. Then he figured out how many millions,\nin dollars, Sir Humphry might have made, if only he had patented his\nlittle lamp and run the show himself.\n\nSir Humphry is a sort of patron saint, and some people feel all the\nbetter for looking at his statue in marble outside the Market House.\nHe was born here, but his bones rest in peace at Geneva. They may\nbe brought over at the centenary of his death, and canonized by the\nminers, whose saint he is, and God reward him for placing science at\nthe service of humanity.\n\nWe found ourselves in the Morrab Gardens; the Public Library is there,\nand Guy said we might surprise the Bookworm if he came out to breathe.\nWe didn't see him, but we saw the gardens--a little paradise with\nexotic blooms, and fountains playing, and the air laden with perfume.\nWe sat down, but didn't feel like talking--a delicious, do-nothing sort\nof feeling was over us. We didn't know then what it was, but found that\nit was the climate--the restful, seductive climate.\n\nA couple of fishwomen with empty baskets passed us, and they talked\nloud enough, but it might have been Arabic for all we knew. The letters\nof the alphabet seemed to be waltzing with the s's and z'z to the old\nwomen's accompaniment, and words reached us from a distance like the\nhum of bees. We were inclined to sleep, so moved on; but the feeling\nwhile it lasted was delicious. It may be only coincidence, but the\nBookworm discovered that Morrab is a Semitic word, and means \"the place\nof the setting sun.\" The Morrab Gardens face the west; and to sit in a\nlibrary in a miniature garden of Eden with an Arabic name is, in his\nopinion, the height of human enjoyment. The natives think a lot of the\ngarden.\n\nSerpentine and saints are common--the former is profitable; but there\nwas an over-production of the latter a long time ago, and the market is\nstill inactive. Some parishes had more than one saint, and some saints\nhad more than one _alias_, to the great confusion of all saint lovers.\nThe memory of saints, however, will last as long as the Mount stands.\nThe Mount, dedicated to St. Michael, makes one curious about the early\nhistory of the good people who came here long ago, when the sea was\nsalt enough to float millstones. The cheapest way of coming across in\nthose days from the \"distressful country,\" was to sit on a millstone\nand wait for a fair breeze. The saints were quite ready to grind any\nother man's corn as soon as they landed, and the millstones were\nconvenient for that purpose. The rights of aliens to eat up natives\nwere articles of belief and practice.\n\nPenzance appeared on the saints' charts as the \"Holy Headland,\" which\nwas a mark to steer by; but St. Michael, it appears, drifted out of his\ncourse, and landed at the Mount, where the giant lived, and thereby\nhangs a tale.\n\n\nSAINT MICHAEL AND THE CONGER.\n\nThere are more St. Michaels than one, but the hero of this story landed\nat the Mount in a fog. The Mount was then the marine residence of\nan ancient giant, well known as keeping a sharp look-out for saints\nthrough a telescope, which he stole from an unfortunate Phoenician\nship laden with tin and oysters. The giant had an evil reputation, but\ndid nothing by halves. He was asleep when St. Michael landed; and when\nhe slept, he snored, and when he snored, the Mount shook.\n\nThe poor saint was in a terrible funk, wandering about for days,\nreading the notices which the giant posted up warning saints not to\nland, unless they wished to be cooked in oil, after the manner of\nsardines. There was nothing to be picked up just then but seaweed, and\nthe dry bones which the giant threw away--and there wasn't enough on\nthe bones to support a saint after he had done with them. St. Michael\nhad got rid of the very last drop of the best LL. whisky, and sat on\nthe empty keg, and dreamed of his own peat fire at Ballyknock, and the\nlittle shebeen where a drop was to be had for the asking. It was fear\nof the fierce giant above which alone kept him from singing the poem\nwhich he had composed about \"Home, sweet home.\"\n\nThe saint was very sad, and had almost given up hope, when something in\nthe sea attracted his attention, and he saw a great conger rise, tail\nfirst, and stretch itself, until the tail topped the rock. Its head\nremained in the sea. The giant was snoring, and the Mount shook. St.\nMichael was the gold medallist of his college, and could put two and\ntwo together with the help of his fingers. \"A sign,\" said he, girding\non his sword, and putting on his best pair of spurs. The conger was to\nbe for him a Jacob's ladder.\n\nSo he dug his spurs well into the fish's side, and climbed and\nclimbed until he reached the top, and, with one mighty stroke, cut\noff the giant's head. There wasn't much personal estate--only the\ntelescope--and the saint took that, but forgot to send a \"return\" to\nSomerset House, and pay death duties. The conger wagged his tail, by\nway of saying he was tired and wanted to be off, so the saint slipped\ndown quite easily--so easily that he found the earth hard when he\ntouched bottom. Those who have eyes to see may see the mark to this day.\n\n[Illustration: ST. MICHAEL AND THE CONGER.]\n\nThen the conger disappeared in the sea, but returned again, this time\nhead first, and licked the saint's hand, who blessed it. Now the\nconger is very fine and large, and abundant in its season, and the\nwhite scars down its sides are the marks of the saint's spurs, which\ntell the story of the climb. There are some who say it was a bean-stalk\nwhich grew in the night for the saint to climb, and those who believe\nit, may.\n\nThe giant's blood flowed over the cliff, and a church sprung up, which\nSt. Michael dedicated to himself, and then went away, for the Mount was\nnot inhabited in those days.[A]\n\n [A] Story-books, please copy. No rights reserved.\n\nThis was the beginning of the war between the saints and giants, which\ncontinued for centuries, and might have lasted until now, only the\nsaints came out on top.\n\nSaint Michael crops up in various places, and, for convenience, I may\nadd here what is known of him. He became the patron saint of the county\nafter meeting with the arch-enemy at Helston. There was no time to\nadvise the newspapers, and get special correspondents on the spot, but\nit was reported that the battle was tough and long. The enemy carried a\nred-hot boulder under his arm, and hurled it at the saint; but he was\nout of practice, and the ball went wide. Then the saint got in with his\ntrusty blackthorn, and basted the enemy so well that he couldn't fly\naway fast enough for comfort.\n\nN.B.--The boulder was picked up when cool, and is still on view at the\nAngel Hotel.\n\nSaint Michael, having now done enough for mere reputation, grew\nambitious, and turned author, and that finished him. He wrote \"The\nStory of my Life,\" but the publishers returned the manuscript with\ncompliments; and when he found he had to pay double postage on the\nunstamped parcels, his great heart broke.\n\nThe Bookworm got back in time for dinner. He had been to all the\nlibraries, and made friends of all the curators, and was going to have\na good time.\n\nWe met the American gentleman in the smoking-room, and he gave us more\nopinions. He said this part of the world was a durned sight too slow\nfor the twentieth century. It was, say, two hundred years behind the\nage. He expected that an American citizen would come across one day,\nand just show the people what to do, and how to do it. This Cornwall\nwas a big show for the man who knew how to handle it. He took a special\ninterest in the matter, because of the Gulf Stream, and he wasn't sure\nwhether or no this part of the old country came within the Monroe\ndoctrine. If it's England where the British flag waves, then isn't\nit America where American water runs? And if the Gulf Stream wasn't\nAmerica, what was? He told us frankly that he, John B. Bellamy, Kansas\nCity, Mo., U.S.A., had ideas.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: KEIGWIN ARMS, MOUSEHOLE.]\n\nCHAPTER III\n\n\nDolly Pentreath, the fishwife of Mousehole, had a reputation as wide,\nbut different, as Sir Humphry's. Her portrait is sold in Penzance,\nwherein Dolly is only a name now. She belonged to the adjoining parish\nof Paul, and so there is no statue to her in the Market-place, where\nshe sold fish, and talked the old Cornish with the real twenty-two\ncarat stamp upon it. The Bookworm said Dolly's fame had done a good\ndeal towards advertising the land of a lost language. He showed us the\nportrait of a determined-looking, passionate old party in short skirts,\nand a creel on her back. We had seen already several ancient dames\ncarrying fish quite as capable of taking care of themselves, which\nindicated that if the language is lost, the race survives. It's a nice\nwalk along the shore to Mousehole. We might have lingered at Newlyn,\nonly the Bookworm wanted to get upon classic ground, where old Dolly\nused to smoke her pipe, and drink her flagon of beer with the best, and\ntalk Cornish--the real old lingo, hot, sweet, and strong, so that those\nwho heard her once never forgot it. Dolly lived to one hundred and\ntwo, and then departed, carrying with her, in her queer old brain, the\ncompletest vocabulary of the Cornish language upon earth. This is the\nlegend, to which is to be added that she had the reputation of being\na \"witch.\" There exists an ancient corner in the village where Dolly\nwould be at home again if she could come back; and the Bookworm walked\nup and down, and in and out, touching the stones and rubbing shoulders\nagainst the pillars, as though he expected to feel an electric shock,\nor receive the straight tip from the old lady that he'd touched the\nspot, like Homocea. He may have passed over it, but he was happy. If he\ncould only have found an old clay pipe that Dolly had smoked!\n\nAn old man sitting on a post watched us out of a corner of his eye. He\nknew what we were up to, and that there was a trifle at the end of it.\nGuy tackled him.\n\n\"Dolly Pentreath? Oh yes; she died poor, and was buried in the parish\nchurchyard of Paul. People came in shoals to see her monument and read\nthe inscription.\"\n\n\"Had anybody got anything belonging to her?\"\n\nNot that he knew by. \"She might have had a Bible or a hymn-book, but\nshe wasn't given that way much. So many people wanted 'relics,' and if\nthere ever were any, they would have been sold long ago.\"\n\nAll this was straight enough, and his blue eye looked as clear as the\nwell of truth. We stood around him as an oracle, and he began his story.\n\n\"Dolly Pentreath was a fine woman, with a voice that you could hear\nto Newlyn. She had the heart of a lion, and it was told of her that\nwhen a press-gang landed in search of men for the navy, Dolly took up\na hatchet and fought them back to their boats, and so cursed them in\nold Cornish that that crew never ventured to come again.[B] And she was\nartful as well as brave, and saved a man, 'wanted' by the law for the\npurpose of hanging, by hiding him in her chimney. Dolly lived in an old\nhouse overlooking the quay, the walls of which were thick, and in the\nchimney was a cavity in which a man could stand upright, and it was a\nconvenient hiding-place for many things. 'Back along' Mousehole was one\nfamily, and the ties of blood spoke eloquently; so, when a man rushed\ninto Dolly's cottage, saying the officers were after him, and would\nhang him to the yardarm of the ship out in the bay, from which he had\ntaken French leave the week before, he did not appeal in vain.\n\n[B] The old lady's eloquence in her native tongue did not run greatly\nto swear-words, of which, according to Carew, there were only \"two or\nthree natural.\" \"But then,\" saith Carew, \"this want is relieved with a\nflood of most bitter curses and spiteful nicknames.\" The mouth hath its\npearls; and our Dolly's was well filled, when her blood was stirred.\n\n\"There was no time to lose, and Dolly rose to the occasion. Up the\nchimney she popped the man; then, taking an armful of dried furze, she\nmade a fire in the wide open grate, and filled the crock with water.\nInto the middle of the kitchen she pulled a 'keeve,' which she used for\nwashing, and when the naval officer and his men burst into the kitchen,\nDolly was sitting on a stool, with her legs bare, and her feet dangling\nover the 'keeve.' This was the situation.\n\n[Illustration: DOLLY PENTREATH.]\n\n\"'A man, indeed!' quoth Dolly; 'and me washing my feet!' She was only\nwaiting for the water to 'het,' and they might all wash their own, if\nthey liked. Search? Of 'coose' they might, and be sugared. (This was\nold Cornish, of course.) Would they like to look into the crock, and\nsee if a man was boiling there?\n\n\"Search they did, and found no man; but Dolly found her tongue, and\nlet them have it; and then she found her thick shoes and let them\nfly; and then she made for the chopper, and that cleared the house.\nDolly made the most noise when she heard the poor man cough in his\nhiding-place. The aromatic smoke from the burning furze tickled his\nthroat, and though life depended on silence, he could not keep it.\nThen Dolly gave tongue, and old Cornish--the genuine article--rattled\namongst the rafters, like notes from brazen trumpets blown by tempests.\nShe threw wide her door, and, with bare legs and feet, proclaimed to\nall the world the mission of the young lieutenant and his men, who now\nsaw anger in all eyes, and made good their retreat whilst in whole\nskins. Then Dolly liberated the man in the chimney. In the dark night a\nfishing lugger stole out of Mousehole with the deserter on board, and\nmade for Guernsey, which, in those days, was a sort of dumping-ground\nfor all who were unable to pay their debts at home, or were 'wanted'\nfor the hangman.\"\n\nThe old man, with true blue eyes, turned a quid in his mouth, and said,\nwith the simplicity of a child, \"And that man was my mother's father.\"\n\nGuy was preparing to cross-examine the man of truth, but we would\nnot have it. It was his own witness. He had found him sitting on an\niron stump, and was bound to treat him as a witness of truth. Why\nshouldn't his own mother's father have been a deserter from the king's\nship, and been saved by Dolly Pentreath? Guy agreed; but, said he, it\nwas suspicious that that man should have been sitting on that very\nstump, at the very right moment, and have the right story on the tip\nof his tongue for the right people to listen to. There was too much\n\"coincidence.\" We let it go at that.\n\nThe Bookworm had the old man with the truthful blue eyes all to himself\nfor a time, and discovered the very room in the Keigwin Arms in which\nDolly was wont to take her pint and her pipe at her ease, and the\nwindow out of which she would thrust her hard old face and shout to\nthe fishers when they came to the landing-place. The old lady was keen\non her bargains, and when she had bought her \"cate,\" she trudged into\nPenzance with \"creel\" on back, and spoiled the Egyptians, according\nto the rules of art. The costume of the fishwife is the same now as\nthen--the short skirt, the turned-up sleeves, the pad for resting the\ncreel. Newhaven fishwives, but with less colour.\n\nThe Bookworm tried some old Cornish, which he had picked up the\nprevious day, upon the old man with the truthful blue eyes, but he\nshook his head mournfully. \"_Karenza whelas karenza_,\" repeated the\nBookworm; but the old man looked blank, and did not blush at not\nknowing the family language. The finest chords of his heart were\nuntouched; but he brightened up when the Bookworm sought his hand\nfurtively, and left something there. Guy said he was perpetuating\ntestimony.\n\nThe old fellow offered to go with us to Paul, and show us Dolly's\nmonument, but Guy said the place was consecrated ground, and something\ntragic might happen if he refreshed his memory too largely on the spot.\nThe truthful-looking eyes were unabashed.\n\n\"I don't care,\" said the Bookworm, as we walked along the road--\"I\ndon't care; we have received from the old fellow the impressions which\nhe received from those who saw Dolly Pentreath in life--her passionate\nself-will and pluck, her artfulness, her readiness of tongue, and\nquickness in making a situation. What could be more dramatic in a\ncottage with only a fireplace, a wash-tray, and a stool in it for\naccessories? I don't care how much is invention--the living impression\nis that Dolly would have done this under the circumstances, and so the\ntrue woman has been presented to us.\"\n\n\"I wish you joy of her, only I'm glad she doesn't cook my dinner,\" said\nGuy. \"Let us reckon up her virtues--she snuffed, she smoked, she took\nher pint, and she cussed upon small provocation; these are the four\ncardinal virtues in your heroine. I wonder how often she was before\nher betters for assault and battery, and using profane language in an\nunknown tongue?\"\n\nWe saluted the monolith in the churchyard in memory of Dolly Pentreath,\nbut no one can say for certain that it covers the ashes of that ancient\nvolcano in petticoats. Guy said he could not thrill unless he was sure\nthe old lady was there, and the Bookworm ought to do all the thrilling\nfor the party.\n\nWe were glad to have seen the monument, and the Bookworm said it was a\nsign of the _bonne entente_ which is to be. \"The Republic of Letters is\nsuperior to public prejudices and racial antipathies,\" he added, with a\nmagnificent wave of the hand.\n\nWe saluted, the monument, including the shades of Dolly and Prince\nLucian, if they happened to be around, and departed with the conviction\nthat we had behaved very nicely towards the lost language and the\n\"Republic of Letters.\"\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: LAND'S END.]\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\n\nThe American citizen was not very interested in our doings. He thought\nthat one language was good enough for the whole earth, and that was\nEnglish, improved by the United States. There were languages still\nspoken in America which, he guessed, wouldn't be missed if they died\nout, as well as the people who spoke them. He wasn't gone on lost\nlanguages, or lost trades, or lost anything, but was a living man, and\nwanted people about him to show life. He had been told to take back\nsome \"relics\" of the late King Arthur, because there was money in them,\nand he was going to Tintagel to look round--a button, or shoe-lace, or\nlock of hair picked up on the spot would fetch something considerable.\nThere was a market for \"relics\" on the other side. We told him we\nweren't keen on \"relics\" for commercial purposes, and were going the\nother way first, so he would have it all his own way as far as we were\nconcerned.\n\nWe reached the Land's End at the lowest of low water, and touched the\nvery last bit of rock visible, so as to be able to say we'd touched the\nvery last stone of dry England. We left it there for future generations\nto touch.\n\nCornwall is a tract of land with one-third in pickle, and what can't\nbe walked over can be sailed over. When you sail far enough you reach\nthe Scilly Isles, which is a sort of knuckle-end to the peninsula which\nonce was land. There isn't very much to be found out in books about the\nland under the sea. Of course it is there, or water wouldn't be on top.\n\nThe Cornwall under the sea is the land of romance, where, some say,\nKing Arthur was born. There is no getting away from this land under the\nsea, for the old fairies rise from it still, and spread enchantment.\nWe were told that every little boy and girl born in the peninsula is\nbreathed over by the fairies, and in after-life, wherever they may be,\nthey turn their faces in sleep towards the west, and dream. From under\nthe sea there rises, morn and eve, the sound of bells, telling their\nown tale with infinite charm. The stranger who comes into the county\nmust hear these sounds and thrill, and see in sunshine and shadow,\non hill and in coombe, on moor and fen, the fluttering of impalpable\nwings; for if he hears and sees them not, he will depart the stranger\nhe came, though he live a lifetime in the land. In Cornwall everything\nis alive--the mine, the moor, the sea, the deep pools, the brooks, the\ngroves, the sands, the caves; everything has its moan and harmony and\ninspiration. And the land under the sea, which is called Lyonesse by\nthe poets, was a fairy zone, and some say it sank in the night, and\nsome say other things harder to believe.\n\nCornwall under the sea has been there a long time. Some people, who\nlike to be accurate above all things, say it disappeared in the year\n1089, and contained 140 parish churches, and God wot how many chapels,\nand baptistries, and holy wells, and places. The only survivor was a\nTrevelyan, of Basil, near Launceston, who was on the back of a swimming\nhorse. As it is not improbable that the inhabitants of Lyonesse traded\nwith somebody elsewhere and owed them money, it is wonderful that the\nbad debts should have been wiped out without a murmur, and that no\nentry has been found in any court, or in the accounts and deeds of\nabbeys and priories of any interest in the 140 parish churches, and\nchapels, and holy wells, and baptistries. The Trevelyans seem to have\nbeen a larkish family, for when one of them was arrested for debt, he\nfetched a beehive and presented it to the bailiffs, who ran away from\nhoney and honeycomb as fast as they could. The chimes which rise from\nthe 140 parish churches under the sea are very beautiful to those who\nhear them. The square-set man who tacked himself on to us smiled when\nwe asked him to say honestly if he had heard them. He had heard people\nsay that they had. Some people are wonderfully quick at hearing.\n\nThe fact remains that from Land's End to Scilly is blue water, and from\nScilly to Sandy Hook is blue water also. There are some other facts\nof almost equal interest, if one cares about them; but the first and\nforemost fact is, that every one standing for the first time upon the\nbluff, perpendicular cliffs at the Land's End, turns his face seawards,\nand says, \"There's nothing between me and America.\" Many people also\nthink that the waves breaking on the dark rocks travel all the way from\nSandy Hook without stopping for the privilege of dying on English soil.\nWherever they come from they're welcome, and so also are the winds\nladen with Atlantic brine, which certainly have touched no land since\nthey left the other side. No American tourist ever comes as far west as\nPenzance without rushing to the Land's End to get a lung-full of home\nair, as pure and unadulterated as it can be got in this old country.\n\nGuy was particularly interested in the Gulf Stream, which we found was\nanother matter of unfailing interest to everybody, and at all times and\nseasons. Some things may be explained every hour of the day without\nbeing explained away, like the sun's light, or a rainbow, or a new\nbaby's eyes. Guy wanted to have the Gulf Stream pointed out to him,\njust as though it were painted red on the chart, or sent up clouds of\nsteam. There wasn't much fun in looking for the Gulf Stream, only,\nbeing on the spot, one was obliged to do it. We had heard such a lot\nabout it at the hotel, and the square-set man told us that people\nalways made a dash for the Gulf Stream when they came here. His story\nof the old lady bringing eggs with her to cook in the Stream kept us\nin good temper when we found for ourselves that the water was just\nthe same as any other sea-water, as far as we could tell, and that we\nshould not have suspected the Gulf Stream of being near if we hadn't\nbeen told. Guy said it was a fine thing to know it was somewhere about,\neven if we couldn't see it, because it was a sort of link between the\nold world and the new, and made it easy to understand why Mr. Choate\nwas made a Bencher. Guy promised to think the matter out, and put it in\nanother way if we couldn't quite understand the reference.\n\nThe square-set man said he was sure there was a Gulf Stream, because\nforeign seaweed was picked up sometimes; and if it wasn't for the\nStream, early potatoes and broccoli wouldn't be early, and the flowers\nat Scilly would be just the same as at other places. It's a long way\nfor a stream to come, and the square-set man told us that at one time\nit must have been stronger than now, for it carried away the mainland\nbetween us and Scilly; but when Guy cross-examined him on what he\ncalled a question of fact, he broke down, and finished off by saying\nthat that was what \"people said.\" Guy was willing that there should\nbe a Gulf Stream, but he bristled when told that the peninsula was\nsnapped off like a carrot, and carried away by a stream from the Gulf\nof Mexico. His English pride was hurt, and he declared that he'd rather\ndo without early potatoes and broccoli and flowers from Scilly for\nthe rest of his life than that foreign water should ever be said to\nhave carried away English acres, and so many of them. The invasion of\nEngland by the Gulf Stream indeed! Then where were the Navy League,\nand the Coast Defence Committee, and Mr. Balfour's great speech in the\nHouse of Commons?\n\nThere was one spot that we must see and stand upon, and the square-set\nman was sure of himself this time. We must go and stand upon the rock\nwhere Wesley stood before composing the hymn, \"Lo, on a narrow neck\nof land.\" People come from all quarters of the universe for this\nprivilege, and some people actually go away and compose hymns and send\ncopies to the square-set man. He did not say what he did with them, but\nhe did not talk respectfully of an absent lady who mailed him a poem\nfrom New York and forgot the postage stamps.\n\nIt was Guy's idea to stay where we were. He put it very nicely to the\nBookworm about \"communing with Nature, the great unwritten book, and\nall that sort of thing, you know.\" Guy was afraid that he would make a\nbee-line for the library if we returned to Penzance, and that we should\nhave to dig him out again. \"We'll keep him in the open, and let the\nsquare-set man stuff him with pre-historic monuments--something solid,\nyou know, after the Gulf Stream.\" Guy's mind was constantly running on\nthe Gulf Stream. He didn't care a fig for the stream, he said, in the\ncourse of the evening, and it was welcome to travel where it would; but\nwhen it came to taking away English soil, he wouldn't hear it; no, not\nif all the scientists in the universe were against him.\n\nMost people carry away something--pebbles, or blooms, or bits of\nseaweed, or something of that sort--and there's plenty left; and all\nseem to carry away \"impressions.\" The guide-books don't help the\nimpressionists much, for everything appears different to every other\nperson, as though the local fairies had a hand in it.\n\nThe square-set man called upon us in the evening, and told us stories\nof people whom he had conducted around the cliffs, and from monument to\nmonument. The cliffs, we found, were \"grand,\" \"sublime,\" or \"terrible;\"\nand the rest was summed up in \"charming,\" \"queer,\" \"fantastic,\"\n\"unaccountable,\" \"odd,\" \"sweet,\" and the like. Specialists, of course,\nhad their own pet phrases; but our friend was particularly struck\nwith the fancy of the gentleman who saw in the cliffs only admirable\nsituations for solving the great mystery. The higher the point, the\nmore he seemed delighted. \"Now, this is what I call a grand place\nfor committing suicide,\" he finished off by saying, and \"tipped\" so\nliberally that Mr. Square-set is on the look-out for his return. An\nemotion once so deeply stirred will surely need be stirred again, he\nhinted.\n\nWhen we asked Square-set to sit down and chat a bit, he said he'd be\nvery pleased to \"tich-pipe;\" and when I passed him my pouch, he said he\nhadn't smoked since he was a young man.\n\n\"What you want to touch-a-pipe for if you don't smoke, I can't\nimagine,\" said Guy; and then we found that \"tich-pipe\" had nothing to\ndo with the weed, but simply meant an interval of rest.\n\nThe Bookworm made a note.\n\n[Illustration: LIGHT WINDS.]\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: ASHORE.]\n\nCHAPTER V\n\n\nNo one ever comes here without inquiring for \"wreckers\"--Cornish\nwreckers are in demand. Guy put artful questions artfully, but could\nget no admissions beyond that--that he had \"heard tell\" that in ancient\ndays things were done which no honest, God-fearing man should do. He\nwas always being asked about wreckers and their doings, and a real,\nlive sample on show would be a fortune to any man. What was called\n\"wrecking\" now was simply picking up and carrying away little odds and\nends which the sea threw up high and dry upon the beaches. And why not?\nWho had a better title to them?\n\n[Illustration: THE VILLAGE SHOP, MOUSEHOLE.]\n\nGuy said he supposed it was all right; and he remembered there was\nauthority for saying that the king is rex because all wrecks belong to\nhim. If so, then wreckers are rexers in their own right, and can\ndo no wrong. Mr. Square-set was not impressed, but he assured us that\nthe double-dyed villain of Cornish romances innumerable was extinct\nnow, and Mr. Carnegie's millions could not purchase a specimen for the\nBritish Museum. It was a disappointment not to find a \"wrecker\"--the\nbold, bad man who tied lanterns to cows' tails, and sent up false\nlights to lure passing ships to destruction. We wanted to shake hands\nwith one and stand him drinks, and make notes of his bushy eyebrows and\nthe colour of his eyes, and then turn him inside out to discover what\nhis secret thoughts were when hatching diabolical plans. Our faith in\nCornish romances received a great shock just then, and Guy's cherished\nambition to write \"The Chronicles of Joseph Penruddock, Wrecker,\"\nsuffered frost-bite. The world will never know more.\n\nOf deeds of derring-do for the saving of life our square-set friend was\nfull. This was another picture--a picture of black night and tempest,\nand noble souls wrestling with death and destruction, with scarce one\nfaint chance in their favour. He told us of a man who hung over the\nprecipitous cliff which we had stood on that morning, shuddering as we\nlooked down in the full light of day, and the sea calm as the surface\nof a mirror; he told us of a man who descended that cliff by a rope\nwhen a storm was raging, and the sea \"boiling\" beneath him, and how he\nbrought back in his arms a burden, battered, but still living, and\nhow, in mid-air, the strands of the rope were chafed, so that those\nabove trembled as they hauled. And as he spoke an inward glow spread\nover the man's face and revealed him. Guy seized the man's hands in\nboth his own and wrung them, saying, \"Great Scott! and you are the\nman who did this thing!\" He told us afterwards that he couldn't help\nhimself, and wasn't the least ashamed of being a bit \"soft\" just then.\nTo think that this hero was the man we picked up scratching himself\nagainst a cromlech and looking for a job!\n\nWe couldn't get away from the sea now, and Mr. Square-set told us how\ndifferently sailors in misfortune were treated now than formerly--how\nthey were fed and clothed and sent from one end of the country to the\nother, wherever they wished to go--in fact, by rail. In his young\ndays it was not so, and a shipwrecked mariner was compelled to tramp\nwherever he chose to go, either to his own home or to the next port, in\nthe hope of getting a berth. But a tramp in fine weather, sleeping in\nthe fields and outhouses at night, and begging at decent houses by day,\nwas very much enjoyed by the men, who became heroes when they returned\nhome. He told us the story of\n\n\n TWO ANCIENT MARINERS\n\nwho hailed from Cornwall, and once found themselves stranded in the\nport of London, with little but what they stood upright in. They were\nyoung men and merry-hearted, and stood by each other in fair weather or\nfoul, as shipmates should. They hailed from the same fishing village,\nand wished to be home during the \"feast\" week, which was near at hand.\nFailing to find a coasting vessel bound west, they started to walk,\nand part of their arrangement was to take it in turns to call at\ngentlemen's houses and ask for assistance. They preferred not to go to\nthe same house together, but to leave one on the look-out, in case of\n\"squalls.\" They got on well enough for some days, sleeping where they\ncould, and telling yarns of peril and disaster, most likely, in their\nopinion, to melt the hearts of hearers. And the story went like this--\n\n\"They came to a great gentleman's house, and it was Tommy Hingston's\nturn to go in, and Bill Baron's to watch outside. Tommy went up, as\nbold as brass, and asked for the gentleman, who was at home, and\nreceived him very kindly; and when he found he had come from London, he\nasked him for the latest news.\n\n\"'There's fine news, sure 'nuff,' says Tom.\n\n\"'Then let me have it, my man.'\n\n\"'Haven't 'ee heard it, yer honour? Haven't 'ee heard that London was\nas black as night at noon-day?'\n\n\"'Most remarkable,' said the gentleman; 'and can you tell me what\ncaused the darkness?'\n\n\"'Sartin sure I can. A monstrous great bird flew over the town, and\nshut out the sun with his wings.'\n\n\"'That is astonishing. And did you hear anything else?'\n\n\"'Ess; they've a-turned Smithfield Market into a kitchen, and all the\npeople are to be fed upon whitepot.'\n\n\"'You really mean it?'\n\n\"'I tasted it, yer honour,' replied Tom.\n\n\"'And was there anything else worthy of notice?'\n\n\"Tom scratched his head. 'There was something else,' he added, in a\nsort of hardly-worth-talking-about style. 'The River Thames catched on\nfire.'\n\n\"'Ah,' said the gentleman, rising and ringing the bell; 'and I have\n\"catched\" a rank imposter, and, being a magistrate, will commit you\nforthwith to prison as a rogue and a vagabond.'\n\n\"Billy Baron was keeping watch outside, and as his mate did not return,\nhe grew uneasy. By-and-by he marched up and 'faced the brass knocker,'\nand was brought before the gentleman, who was now writing out a\ncommittal order, and Tom he saw standing, bolt upright, by the side of\na man who had charge of him.\n\n\"Billy was a soft-hearted man, and burst into tears. Then the gentleman\ntold Billy, in very straight terms, what he thought of his mate--a\nlying imposter, whom he was sending to prison.\n\n\"'Never!' said Billy, firmly. 'I'll lay my life on him.'\n\n\"'Very well; then, tell me, did you see a great bird fly over London,\nso large as to hide the light of the sun with its wings?'\n\n\"'No, sir,' replied Billy. 'I didn't see the bird, but I seed four\nhorses dragging an egg, which people said a great bird had laid.'\n\n\"'You _are_ a truthful man,' said the gentleman.\n\n\"'I hope so,' said Billy, with one eye on his mate.\n\n\"'I hope so, too. Then, tell me, did you eat some whitepot at\nSmithfield Market?'\n\n\"'No, I didn't, yer honour, but I seed a store full of gurt horn\nspoons.'\n\n\"'He told me something else, and I'm sure you'll answer truthfully. He\ntold me he saw the River Thames on fire.'\n\n\"'However cud 'ee have said that, Tom?' blurted out Billy,\nreproachfully. 'He never seed the river on fire, but what we did see\nwas waggon and waggon-loads of fish carted away with burnt fins and\ntails.'\n\n\"'And they would have been taken from the burning river?'\n\n\"'I do not doubt it; but, mind, I dedn't zee it,' said Billy, with the\nair of a martyr to the truth.\n\n\"The gentleman, no longer able to contain himself, sent Tom and Billy\ndown to the kitchen, and gave them the best 'blaw out' they had on the\njourney. And, when they left, he told them, by way of compliment, that\nthey were 'real Cornish diamonds, and the best pair of liars' he had\never known.\n\n\"And they were hard to beat,\" said Mr. Square-set.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: SMUGGLERS.]\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\n\nOur square-set friend owned up to smuggling as one of the virtues of\nhis countrymen. The real thing is getting scarce now. One evening he\nbrought an old acquaintance with him, introducing him crisply as \"Uncle\nBill.\" We saw a good deal of Uncle Bill afterwards, who was ninety\nnext birthday, and ready and willing to \"fight, wrassel, or run\" with\nany man of his age in this country or the next. We did not doubt him,\nfor his blue eye was clear, he moved easily, and his pink finger-tips\nand filbert-shaped nails showed breed. Uncle Bill looked as though\nhe intended to carry out his bat for a century or more. He was, he\nsaid, as sound as a bell, except that he was a bit \"tiched on the\nwind\" when walking against a hill. Never took \"doctor's traade,\" as he\ncontemptuously called physic, and his cure for all ills was a pipe of\n'bacca to smoke and a pen'ard of gin mixed with a pen'ard of porter.\nHe said he had done a little smuggling, in the old-fashioned way, in\na small lugger, running for dear life across the Channel in a gale of\nwind when the King's cutters were all snug in harbour, and then landing\nthe tubs of spirits and parcels of lace and other things under the\nvery noses of the preventive men. \"They dedn't prevent we,\" said Uncle\nBill, his face all a-glow with the pleasures of memory. He told us that\nhe settled down to fishing when his \"calling,\" and that of his father\nbefore him, was interfered with; but the dash and peril and the fame of\nsuccessful smuggling suited him, and warmed up the cockles of his heart\nnow only to think about. He spoke of himself as an injured man because\nhe received no compensation for disturbance.\n\nGuy worked at the subject, and came to the conclusion that Cornwall\nwas as intended by Nature for smuggling as the inhabitants were for\ncarrying it on. Every little bay and creek and cavern, villages\nand farmhouses, even the tombs in the parish churches, could tell\ntales. And the women, they were hand in glove with their husbands and\nsweethearts, fathers and brothers; and all that made life worth living\nthen was made dependent on a successful \"run\" from a little French port\nwith goods honestly bought and paid for, but--the sorrow and shame of\nit!--made contraband the moment they touched English soil.\n\n\"Bad laws made smugglers,\" said the Bookworm, provokingly, to Guy, who\nalways fires up with professional wrath when he hears of anything bad\nin connection with the law.\n\n\"Bad fiddlesticks! People smuggled because they liked it--just as you\nliked it when you smuggled those nice little Tauchnitz editions last\nyear, and without thinking of the poor devil of an author in England\nthat you were robbing,\" replied Guy.\n\n\"That never occurred to me,\" said the Bookworm, meekly.\n\n\"Of course not. You are only a petty smuggler, but a smuggler all the\nsame. And do you mean to tell me that 'bad laws,' forsooth, made you\nsmuggle the books? Not a bit of it. You liked the game, and you know\nit.\"\n\nThere is a grandeur about the old smuggler which increases with age.\nHe put his little all upon a venture--nothing of the limited liability\nprinciple about him. The lugger which left a Cornish fishing cove\nwas, as a rule, family property, owned by father and sons, or by two\nor three brothers. The family capital was put into one purse, carried\naway, and converted into honest brandy, wines, and other articles\nof commerce. Then the struggle commenced between the individual who\npitted his own cunning and frail boat against the King's cruisers and\nall the resources of a mighty State. He was surrounded by \"spies\" from\nthe moment his cargo was on board until he was ready to slip from his\nmoorings. He could trust no man. And then his voyage across the Channel\nwas a race for life--in fog, in tempest, when only a madman would run\nthe risk, the old smuggler would \"up sail and off;\" and if a King's\nofficer liked to follow, then all he'd see would be the drippings from\nthe smuggler's keel. The god of storms was the smuggler's divinity,\nand he loved his little craft, which was, for the time, a thing of\nlife fleeing from pursuit, from imprisonment, and even death when\ncannon-balls flew about. How the old smuggler prayed for storm and\nnight, for any peril which would enable him to show courage and\nmastery over the elemental forces which should drive his pursuers to\ndestruction!\n\nAnd how he would fight when brought to bay! When becalmed, the King's\ncutter would send a boat alongside to board the lugger, every man\narmed with pistol and cutlass, and wearing the uniform of authority.\nThen the smuggler would fight for property and life, cast off the\ngrappling-irons, and cut down the man who ventured to set foot upon his\nlittle craft. And all the while the old man at the helm looked fixedly\nat the heavens and across the water to see if, perchance, a \"breath of\nwind\" was stirring--only a breath might be his salvation when he was\ntoo far inshore for the King's cutter to venture, and his men fighting\noff the cutters crew like heroes. Then a puff, and the sail draws; then\nmore wind, and, inch by inch, the lugger sails away from cutter and\ncutter's crew, only, perhaps, to fall in with another enemy which has\nto be out-sailed, or out-manoeuvred, or fought off, as best serves\nthe purpose. No surrender when boat and cargo is the bread of the\nfamily.\n\nThen the old smuggler reaches home, and every shadow may spell ruin;\nand all that is done is done in fear, and he has to be cunning always,\nand ready to fight to the death. The old smuggler belonged to the\nheroic age, and in all genuine stories he bulks colossal against a\nmidnight sky black with tempest. The race has not disappeared; the\nconditions have changed, that is all. Uncle Bill told us that he could\nfind a crew to-morrow if there was but a fair prospect of making five\nhundred pounds on the venture. And \"I'd be one,\" said he.\n\nIf Nature intended a county for smuggling, it is Cornwall, which seems\nsomehow to have been caught when cooling between two seas and pressed\ninward and upward, so that it is full of little bights and bays and\ncaverns, which might have been vents for the gases to escape when the\nsea pressure at the sides became unbearable, and the earth groaned like\nthe belle of the season in tight corsets. The caverns are given up to\nbats and otters and slimy things now, but in the \"good old days!\" The\nwomen, by all accounts, took kindly to smuggling, and stood shoulder to\nshoulder with their men when there was a fight with the preventive men,\nand ran off with the \"tubs\" of spirit and whatever they could carry,\nwhilst the men held the King's officers in check. A young man who was\ncontent with a \"living wage\" on sea or on land wasn't thought much of\nby the black-haired, black-eyed damsels of the coast, who were up to\nsnuff in the free-trade principles of their day and generation. The\nchildren were taught to look upon the sea as their own, and to regard\nsmuggling as an honourable calling, and thousands of infant tongues\nprayed at night for God's blessing on smuggling ventures. And the\nChurch was with the people, and blessed them, and shared their profits\nwhen there was no danger of being found out. \"Nothing venture, nothing\nhave\" was the good old motto bound upon the smugglers' arms and\nhearts like phylacteries, and was to them as prayer.\n\n[Illustration: A SHORT CUT.]\n\nUncle Bill had a pen'ard of gin in his beer to clear his pipes one\nevening, and told us some yarns which he had heard from his father, who\nwas called Enoch, who died in his bed at the age of ninety-six, and\nwould have lived longer, only he \"catched a cauld dru washing his feet\nin fresh water.\"\n\nUncle Bill was a young man, but not too young to go courting when\nhis father made his last run across the Channel for a cargo of\nspirits. It came about in this way. Enoch and his family possessed\nfive hundred one-pound notes issued by a bank which had failed, and\nso were practically worthless. This was a serious matter, and Enoch\nproposed, at the family council, to run across to Brittany and exchange\nthe worthless notes for tubs of good brandy. Everything was done in\nsecrecy and in hot haste to prevent suspicion, and to get the cargo\nof contraband on board before news of the bank's failure reached the\nFrench merchants. Had they been members of the Japanese Intelligence\nDepartment they could not have kept the secret better. They had a\nsplendid run, landed the cargo all serene, and cleared cent. per cent.\n\n\"I have often blessed God that there were no telegraphs in those days,\"\nsaid Uncle Bill, fervently.\n\n\"What became of the notes?\" asked Guy.\n\n\"I don't know,\" replied Uncle Bill, with a lively wink. \"All I know is\nwe had the brandy.\"\n\n\"Is this genuine, or only make-up?\" asked Guy.\n\n\"As true as the Gospel,\" replied Uncle Bill.\n\nHe told us many other stories, but we thought this best worth\npreserving, as it showed native cunning, promptness, and audacity.\n\n\"And I have lived to hear a man bless God that there were no such\nthings as electric telegraphs,\" said the Bookworm, realizing that he\nwas now in an England of a century ago.\n\nUncle Bill was a good old sort, and once when he came to see us he\npulled a medicine-bottle from the folds of his knitted frock, and,\ntaking out the cork, invited us to taste. It was pure cognac, and its\nflavour was what the old man called \"rich.\" The spirit had not been\ncoloured, and had a history, which the old man told with relish. News\nwas one day brought to the coastguard station by a boatman that a cask\nwas stranded on an adjacent beach, and the coastguard officer, who\nloved his joke and good company, summoned numerous good men and true\n(Uncle Bill being one) to go to the beach, and there hold an inquest\nupon the said cask and its contents.\n\n\"My men,\" said the coastguard officer, \"I summon you in the name of the\nQueen (God bless her) to come with me to Treganna beach, and to taste\nthe contents of a cask which we shall find there. I think it's a brandy\ncask,\" he added, \"and you are to act as Queen's tasters. Now, my men,\nif you declare that the contents of the cask are wines or spirits, then\nthe same will be seized on behalf of the Crown, and the Excise will\nclaim it; and if you further declare that the contents taste of salt\nwater, then the cask will be staved in, and the contents run out upon\nthe beach. You are the jurors, and meet me here in half an hour. If any\nof 'ee have a tin can it might be handy\" said he, with a wink.\n\nWhen the jurors met again, they all had something in their hands in the\nshape of tin cans or pitchers; and there were men upon this jury who\nhad not tasted spirits at their own expense for many years, and they\ncarried the largest pitchers.\n\nThe coastguard officer produced a gimlet, and broached the cask, and\nevery man tasted.\n\n\"The smell of it was enough for me,\" said Uncle Bill; \"but I tasted,\nlike the rest. It went down 'ansum, sure nuff. And some of us tasted\nagain, to make sure for sartin.\"\n\nSays the coastguard officer, \"What is it, my men?\"\n\n\"Cognac.\"\n\n\"So say you all?\"\n\n\"One and all, for sure.\"\n\n\"Then I seize the cask, in the Queen's name.\"\n\nHe took out a bit of chalk, and marked the broad arrow upon it; but our\njugs were empty. The best of the game was to come.\n\n\"Now, my men, tell me, as good men and true, whether the brandy has\nbeen touched with salt water.\"\n\nSo we all tasted again, and said it was sickly, and brackish, and made\nsuch faces that you might think we were poisoned.\n\n\"And so say you all?\"\n\n\"Ess, one and all.\"\n\n\"And your verdict is that the cask of brandy, seized in the Queen's\nname, is brackish?\"\n\n\"That is our verdict.\"\n\n\"Then I order the cask to be stove in and its contents run upon the\nbeach.\"\n\nAnd when the head was stove in, he turned his back upon us, and every\ncan and jug and pitcher was filled, and, if we'd only known, we'd have\nhad more pails and buckets and pitchers.\n\n\"I've got a drop still left, and 'tis precious,\" said Uncle Bill.\n\nThis medicine-bottle was his gift to us, and we now knew the flavour of\ncognac cast upon the shore, which had never paid the Queen's penny.\n\n\"I don't wonder that smuggling was popular,\" said Guy.\n\nSmuggling made the sort of sailor that Nelson loved, a man who could\nfight and forgive when worsted, like the old smuggler of Talland, who\nhad it recorded on his tombstone that he prayed God to pardon those\nwicked preventive men who shed his innocent blood.\n\nIt was in the Lizard district that smuggling reached its zenith. The\nBookworm put a copy of the \"Autobiography of a Smuggler\" into his\npocket when he tramped over to Prussia Cove, a place which Nature and\na little art intended for an emporium for smugglers. Blind harbours,\nblind caves, hidden galleries, mysterious inlets and exits form a\ndelicate network of safety and concealment. Only a century ago, the\nman who lived here was the king of Cornish smugglers and privateers,\nand defended himself with his own cannon.[C] Now the fine caves are\nfern-arched, and the water drips, drips, drips upon nothing precious.\nThe smugglers borrowed these caves from the piskies who have re-entered\ninto possession, for here are the piskie sands and piskie caves.\n\n\"Here, in cool grot, the piskies dwell,\" hummed Guy.\n\n [C] All ranks engaged in smuggling. Mr. Philip Hawkins, M.P.\n for Grampound, left \u00a3600 to the King as \"conscience\" money. But\n privateering was a royal game, and men made money rapidly at the\n expense of the enemies of England. People used, it is said, to\n measure their gold in pint pots, instead of counting it.\n\nThe caves seemed none the worse for having been smugglers' storehouses;\nbut the gingerbeer and sandwich man left his trail, as usual. What he\ncouldn't reach or cut down, he left alone, but broken glass he left\nbehind.\n\nGuy ran across a gentleman anxious to tell us things. He was a\n\"pensioner.\" The man with a pension is a common object by the seashore.\nAfter a time, you get to know him as a superior sort of being reduced\nfrom his high estate, and only making the two ends meet by the grace\nof God. \"Get a pension, and don't worry\" is very good advice when\nthe pension is big enough; but generally the pension-man is a trifle\nseedy--his pension won't spread all over him, but leaves him minus\ngloves, with patched shoes, and short everywhere. This honest old\ngentleman was Guy's find, and he was so eager to tell all he knew, and\nmore on top of it, that Guy was glad, at last, to get rid of him with\nsome excuse covered deftly with a small consideration.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: LANYON QUOIT.]\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\n\nThere is a good deal of history in Cornwall. Some may be read in\nstones, and some in books. The stone reading is very interesting to\nthose who like it, and affords a good scope for imagination. Without\nimagination, stone reading is a trifle dull. Stones are everywhere at\nthe Land's End and Lizard--some are stationary, and some \"rock,\" and\nall are weather-worn. The Bookworm had a trick of running his hands\nover the surfaces of pre-historic monuments, like a blind man reading.\nIt was just a fancy of his that he was shaking hands with antiquity.\nOur Mr. Square-set put his pencil mark in our Murray against what is\ncalled the \"show-stones,\" and he couldn't tell us much more than we\ncould find out for ourselves. We thought it best to let ancient stone\nhistory alone until we had a dull Sunday, or a wet day; and look out\nfor what was nearer our own times.\n\nWe found that the Cornishman's motto is \"One and All,\" and that\n\"One\" comes first, so he says, \"I and the King;\" and, when he speaks\ngeographically, it is Cornwall first, then England, and then the rest.\nFormerly, everything outside of England was Cornwall, but he is not so\nsure now. However, he always takes a bit of the old county with him\nwhen he travels, so that the piskies may find him. A Cornishman abroad\nis given to \"wishtness,\" and so he gets up clubs in London and other\nplaces, and talks of pasties and cream, blue skies and sapphire seas,\nand sings \"Trelawney,\" and dances the \"Flurry\" dance, and One and All's\nit generally.\n\nThe Cornish had their own kings and queens--and as the kings were\nliberal to themselves in the matter of queens, they were not always\nhappy. The Bookworm helped us a good deal at times, and told us that\nthe ancient kings were not much given to diplomatic correspondence, nor\nto the keeping of \"memorials of the reign,\" so that modern historians\nhad a pretty free hand. The kings, however, must have been numerous at\none time, as there was a king at Gweek and another at Marazion--as\nthick as tenants on a gentleman's estate. Cornish history had, however,\nbeen worked up by poets, and the characters of the old kings drawn\nby Tennyson and Kingsley were not too amiable. There was Tennyson's\nCornish king, who had an uncomfortable way of sneaking round on tiptoe\nand striking a man in the back. The poet had not made allowance for\nthe fact that King Modred lived in days before private inquiry offices\nwere invented, and so was obliged to do his own dirty work, instead\nof employing a professional spy at per hour and expenses. For real\nknowledge of Cornish kings, Kingsley whips creation. Listen!\n\n\"Fat was the feasting, and loud was the harping, in the halls of Alef,\nKing of Gweek.\" There was going to be a wedding, so that may pass. Then\nwe come to details worthy of the poet historian: \"Savory was the smell\nof fried pilchard and hake; more savory still that of roast porpoise;\nmost savory of all that of fifty huge squab pies, built up of layers of\napples, bacon, onions, and mutton, and at the bottom of each a squab,\nor young cormorant, which diffused both through the pie and through\nthe ambient air, a delicate odour of mingled guano and polecat.\" There\nwas a little toddy, of course, to wash it down, and a few songs with\nharp accompaniment, and the bride, being properly elated with the\nperfume of \"guano and polecat,\" was very civil, and, being a princess\nin her own right, and queen of Marazion, gave the vocalist a ring to\nremember her by. The next morning the newly-wedded pair start off on\ntheir honeymoon, and this is what happens. The King of Marazion grips\nhis bride's arm until she screams, and says, \"And you shall pass your\nbridal night in my dog-kennel, after my dog-whip has taught you not to\ngive rings again to wandering harpers.\"\n\nTennyson and Kingsley have been read pretty generally by men and\nwomen of the Anglo-Saxon race, and some people may even think that\nthe Cornish kings were like these portraits, and fed upon \"guano\nand polecat\" flavoured pies, and whipped their brides to sleep in\ndog-kennels in their bridal garments. Poets have always been privileged.\n\nThere were Cornish \"kings,\" of course, just as there were Cornish\n\"saints\" and a Cornish language, and all three played their little\nparts, and went off the stage, without even the lights being turned\ndown for them. With regard to the kings, this seemed to have happened:\nwhen the local rates and taxes were getting too high, and trouble was\nbrewing about the Education Act, the kings saw that they must go under,\nand gave way to a Duke. Edward the Black Prince, having won his spurs\nin the Crusades, the kings asked him to take over what they could no\nlonger keep, or didn't want, and so, \"like a Cornishman's gift, what he\ndoes not want for himself\" became a proverb. The proverb may be relied\non as authentic. The Prince of Wales has been the Duke of Cornwall\never since, so the Cornish people have had a very close connection\nwith royalty from pre-historic times, as the Bookworm discovered; then\nthrough Kingsley's \"guano and polecat\" period, and then from Edward the\nBlack Prince down to the present, which we can verify for ourselves\nevery year, when the Duchy accounts are published, and the ancient\ntribute passes into the noble Duke's banking account. History loses\nmuch of its charm for poets and romantic souls when it enters the\nprosaic region of banker's ledger and cheque book, but this sort of\nprose has advantages.\n\nThe Cornish had a long way to walk when they wanted just to talk\nmatters over with their sovereign. They went in their thousands to\nLondon on several occasions when things were not to their liking, and\nthe late Queen was the first sovereign of the realm to come into the\ncounty and \"God bless\" the people on their own doorsteps. Charles I.\ncame into the county under very peculiar circumstances, and, though he\nwas qualifying for martyrdom, he found time to write a very handsome\nletter of thanks \"to the Inhabitants of the county of Cornwall\" for\ngiving the Cromwelliams more than they bargained for, or wanted even,\non several occasions. This letter is still to be found painted on\nboards in parish churches, and as conspicuously placed as the Lord's\nPrayer or the Ten Commandments. The practice of reading the letter in\nchurches and chapels has long been discontinued, but the testimony to\nunselfish devotion and gallant defence of a sovereign whose star was\nsetting in blood remains.\n\nGood Queen Bess rather liked Cornishmen, or said she did, which\nanswered the same purpose. She said that \"Cornish gentlemen were all\nborn courtiers, with a becoming confidence,\" two qualities which\nnaturally attracted her as woman and lady. Climate probably has\nsomething to do with native politeness, and that is why the Eastern\nraces are so civil to one another.\n\nThe people are like Japs for politeness to one another on a deal. When\na man is drawing the long bow and coming it too strong, the other\nfellow will say, \"I wonder if it is so,\" with the slightest possible\naccent of suspicion in his tone. We were present when two men were\ntrying to make a deal in horseflesh, \"halter for halter,\" as the\nsaying is. The owner of a weedy-looking chestnut wished to swop with\nthe owner of a useful black cob, and his rhetoric was florid. Sometimes\nhe drew on his imagination in praise of the chestnut, and the owner\nof the black cob would say, \"I wonder now,\" just by way of note of\nadmiration. Then the chestnut's owner, growing bolder and more vigorous\nin his style, garnished his language with many fancy words, and wound\nup by asking, \"Doan't 'ee believe me?\" And the other man replied, as\npolitely as a Chesterfield, \"I'll believe 'ee to oblige 'ee.\" The\nForeign Office couldn't beat it.\n\n[Illustration: PADSTOW.]\n\nThe Bookworm discovered that Cornwall had somehow linked itself with\ngreat names in history, or, rather, that some great names had linked\nthemselves with Cornwall, using her as a gallant for a season, and\nthen passing out of her life. Camelford had three successful wooers in\nLord Lansdowne, Lord Brougham, and \"Ossian\" Macpherson; Lostwithiel\nwas wooed and won by Joseph Addison; then Horace Walpole, jilted at\nCallington, made up to East Looe, still attractive, when the great Lord\nPalmerston came along with a buttonhole in his coat and the blarney.\nThen John Hampden found a first love in Grampound, and Sir Francis\nDrake a soft place in the bosom of Bossiney, a mere village close to\nthe angry roar of Tintagel's sea. But all these seats were mere lights\no' love, and some were swept away on account of their dissoluteness\nbefore the great Reform Bill, and then the rest went, and none were\nremembered on account of their gallant political lovers. Guy said it\ndidn't make a bit of difference what the constituency was, or where, so\nlong as the man was right. He saw a great many advantages in the old\npocket borough; and if he ever went into Parliament (which he might) as\na stepping-stone to the Woolsack (like the veteran Lord Chancellor, who\nfound comfortable quarters at Launceston), he'd like to have the fewest\nnumber of constituents, and those all of one mind. But the Bookworm\nwould not have it that way, and stuck to his guns that it was the\nconstituency which really had a seat in Parliament, and constituency\nand member were one and indivisible; and when not, there was failure\nsomewhere in first principles. The Bookworm always takes these things\nso seriously, Guy says.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: COTTAGE, ST IVES.]\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\n\nMost of the saints came into Cornwall, dropping little bits of fame\nand reputation as they travelled from parish to parish, and from holy\nwell to holy well. Old Fuller says they were born under a travelling\nplanet, \"neither bred where born, nor beneficed where bred, nor buried\nwhere beneficed,\" but wandering ever. Cornwall is known as the \"Land\nof Saints,\" and county teams are usually \"Saints.\" \"The Saints _v_.\nWeek-enders. Six goals to three. Five to one on Saints.\" It sounds a\nbit curious, but you get used to it.\n\nThe true story of the saints is a little mixed; the giants and the\npiskies come in, and wherever the saints went there was sure to be\ntrouble. We picked up a few stories, not all in one place, but here and\nthere. Those already published we weeded out, together with some which\nappeared doubtful. Some needed a little patching up in places, and the\nBookworm said the most imperfect were the most genuine. The following\nwere thought worthy of survival.\n\n[Illustration: KING TEWDRIG AND THE SAINTS.]\n\n\n KING TEWDRIG AND THE SAINTS.\n\nIrish saints swarmed as thick as flies in summer in the reign of\nTewdrig the King, who built his castle on the sands at Hayle, wherein\nit now is, only the X-rays are not strong enough to make it visible.\nThis Tewdrig was a good old sort, and was called Theodore by the saints\nas long as he had anything to give. But the saints letting it be known\nin the distressful land that they had struck oil, their friends and\nrelatives swarmed across the Channel in such crowds that the King was\nin danger of being eaten out of house and home. He summoned the Keeper\nof the Victuals, and asked for a report. He had it; and it was short\nand sad--as sad in its way as an army stores inquiry. Every living\nthing in air and field and wood had been devoured. All the salted meats\nin the keeves had disappeared, \"and if you don't stop this immigration\nof Irish saints,\" said the unhappy official, \"we shall be eaten up\nalive.\" The good King became serious. Whilst they were talking, a\nmessenger came with the news that a great batch of saints had come\nashore. The King and his Keeper of the Victuals--when there were any\nto keep--looked at each other solemnly. \"Put the castle in mourning,\"\nsaid the King. When the new arrivals danced up to the gate, with teeth\nwell set for action and stomachs empty, the Keeper of the Victuals\nspoke sadly. \"The good King died,\" he said, \"the moment he heard that\nmore saints had arrived. Those who came first ate all his substance and\nemptied his keeves, and there was nothing left of him now but bones.\nThe last words of the good King were, 'Give them my bones.'\" The Keeper\nof the Victuals turned, as though to fetch the good King's bones for\nthe saints to feast on; but they one and all departed and spread the\nstory. The King played the game and ordered his own funeral; and when\nthe time came, he got up and looked through a peep-hole to see the\nprocession. \"The saints,\" said he, \"have spared my bones, but they will\nsurely come and see the last of me.\" But he was mistaken. The story\nthat all the keeves were empty spread, and there wasn't a \"saint\" left\nin the land on the morrow. Then the King showed himself to his own\npeople, and a law was passed, intituled \"An Act against Alien Saints'\nImmigration.\" The country recovered its ancient prosperity, and the\nKeeper of the Victuals filled the keeves with salted meats, and there\nwere wild birds in the air, and beasts in the field, and the King once\nmore feasted in his own hall.\n\nSt. Ia came across the Channel on a cabbage leaf, and the wind and tide\ncarried her gaily to King Tewdrig's shore, but when the Customs asked\nher what she had to declare, she only held up the cabbage leaf. As she\nwas a princess in her own right, and good-looking for an emigrant,\nthe Customs officers were sad, but showed her a printed paper, rule\nxli, which stated that \"foreigners without luggage, or visible means\nof subsistence, must not be allowed to land.\" The saint pointed to\nthe cabbage leaf, and argued that it was \"luggage\" and \"visible means\nof subsistence,\" and would have made good her point but for the\nKing's Chancellor, who said that the cabbage leaf, being \"pickled,\"\nwas a manufactured article, and liable to duty under the new fiscal\nregulations. St. Ia always left her purse at home when she travelled,\nso she was unable to pay the duty. Once more she committed herself to\nthe mercies of the sea on her cabbage leaf, and was carried to St.\nIves, where she landed, and was made much of. She stayed there for\na time, planted her leaf, and was blessed with a wonderful crop of\npickled cabbages, the like of which had never before been seen or heard\nof. But she revenged herself upon King Tewdrig by writing to all the\npapers, and the saints, who deserted the King when they had almost\neaten him up, made a fine how-de-doo, and an \"Irish grievance,\" and the\nbad name which they gave the King stuck to him. The saints wrote the\nbooks in those days, and those who came after repeated what they wrote,\nuntil the people believed, and called it \"history.\"\n\n[Illustration: ST. IA.]\n\nGuy said it was very unconstitutional to lay the fault upon the King,\nwho, it was well known, could do no wrong. It was the duty of the\nPrime Minister to bear all faults, and it was noticeable that many\nprime ministers were round-shouldered, so that they might carry faults\nlightly.\n\n\n THE BATTLE OF ST. BREAGE.\n\nThe saints and piskies had a battle-royal at St. Breage. A three-line\nwhip was sent over to Ireland, and as soon as it was known that there\nwas a little fighting to do, and a cracked skull almost certain, for\nthe glory of God, the saints sent up a shout, straightened their\nblackthorns, and came across the water in whole battalions. The cause\nwas popular. St. Patrick had driven the snakes into the sea, and why\nnot the saints drive the piskies out of Cornwall? Hooroo! Paddy's blood\nwas up, and he was spoiling for a bit of fun. The saints had the best\nof it, but so much blood was spilt on both sides that the sand was\nturned into stone. There is no other such stone in the district, and\nSt. Breage had a block carved into a cross, and set up as a memorial,\nwhich may be seen to this day, only it has a hole in it which was made\nby the Giant Golons, who wore it on his watchchain until the date of\nhis conversion.\n\n\"When anything has to be accounted for in this land, put it down to the\nsaints, or the piskies, or Old Artful, and you're sure to be right.\nNothing ever took place in the ordinary course of things. A month of\nCornwall would be enough to drive a modern scientist stark, staring\nmad,\" said Guy.\n\n\"It would be curious to speculate what sort of world we should be\nliving in to-day if things really happened, as they are said to\nhave happened, between fairies and piskies, saints and giants, each\npossessing supernatural powers. And yet law and custom grew out of\nbeliefs in the invisible-visible,\" said the Bookworm.\n\n\n THE STORY OF AN ARTFUL MAID.\n\nThere were women as well as men saints, and when a woman came to the\nfront she made a sensation. St. Agnes was a woman. She was not born\na saint, but became one. She was christened Ann, plain Ann, and was a\ngood little girl, with blue eyes, and light brown hair much given to\ncurl into love locks. She stayed at home until she grew up, and became\nrestless, and wanted to see the world for herself. She did not complain\nmore than other girls that her dresses were not tailor-made, and she\nhad no particular grievance, only she felt that she must have a change.\nShe wrote a dear little note, and enclosed one of her love locks to\nher dear and loving parents, freely forgiving them all the trouble and\nexpense she had been to them, and went on her own.\n\nShe was supposed to be delicate on the chest, and Cornwall having a\ngreat reputation, she made all haste to get there. In those days there\nwere a good many pilgrims on the road who used to entertain one another\nwith stories of many lands and their adventures therein, and delicate\nlittle Agnes heard in this way about a famous Cornish giant, named\nBolster. Mr. Bolster was in many respects a monster, and his story had\ngreat interest for little Agnes, because it was said he changed his\nwife every New Year's Day. He was called \"Bolster\" because he used to\nsmother the old ones. Agnes wanted an adventure, and as her saint-like\nqualities developed, she felt more and more drawn towards Mr. Bolster,\nuntil she determined to try her hand upon him. It was a bold thing;\nbut Agnes was bold, and when she felt at all timid she said aloud,\n\"Courage!\"\n\nMr. Bolster was a very fine fellow, the Colossus of his age. When his\nright foot rested on the summit of one hill his left foot rested on the\nsummit of another, and the only thing that troubled him was corns, and\nwhen the weather changed, sometimes he had such twinges that he often\nthought he had a \"conscience,\" and wished to get rid of it. At other\ntimes his conscience was \"passive.\" Agnes heard about the corns, and a\nlight played in her eyes of heavenly blue. She had an idea.\n\nNew Year was approaching, and Mr. Bolster was on the look-out for a\nfresh partner of his joys. When Agnes sighted him he was standing\nwith one foot on Carn Brea and the other on Beacon, looking at the\nlittle virgins round about playing at \"touch.\" His habit was to make\na selection, watch the young lady home, and then, at New Years dawn,\nto carry her off just when she was busiest dreaming of mince-pies.\nAgnes guessed that the psychological moment had come, so she walked up\nCarn Brea and tickled Mr. Bolster's right foot with a bramble, quite\nclose to his pet corn. Mr. Bolster, thinking that conscience was at\nhim again, lifted his foot angrily; but, happily for Agnes, saw her\nkneeling at his foot.\n\n\"Hulloa!\" he shouted.\n\nAgnes presented her card.\n\n +---------------------------------------------+\n | BEAUTIFUL FOR EVER! |\n | |\n | MISS AGNES. |\n | |\n | _Corns Extracted, Bunions Attended to._ |\n +---------------------------------------------+\n\nBeauty at his feet, and the New Year near. Corns extracted. Was there\never such luck? So he took the little maiden up in his arms and\npromised, then and there, that she should be the next Mrs. Bolster.\n\"Not long to wait,\" he added with a chuckle, the present Mrs. B. not\nhaving turned out to his liking.\n\nMr. Bolster had neglected his personal appearance very much lately, and\nwhen he sat Agnes on his knee in the gloaming, she began his education.\n\"Beautiful for Ever!\" was her trade mark. If Bolster only wore curls,\nwhat a head! Hyacinthine locks, what an Apollo! Bolster looked at her\ndear little love locks, and then put his great hand over his own hair,\nwhich was long and matted, and began to think that, after all, short,\ncrisp curls would be an improvement. He did not surrender at once,\nbut Agnes said she couldn't, she really couldn't, be the next Mrs.\nBolster and trim his pet corns unless he had hyacinthine locks, like\nan up-to-date hero in a novel. She found a bit of chalk and drew on\na blackboard the head of a Hercules with Apollo's locks. Mr. Bolster\nwas touched in a weak spot, and to keep him soft, Agnes vowed that she\nwould never be Mrs. Bolster until he was such a man--such a curled\ndarling.\n\nMr. Bolster's hair was long and matted, and Agnes got a rake, and\ncombed and combed until it all came off, and there was none to curl.\nNew Year came, and Mrs. Bolster in possession went the way of all the\ngiant's wives, and Agnes sat upon Bolster's knee and wept because of\nher vow which she must keep--no curls, no Agnes. She stroked his bald\npate, saying the new hair was sprouting already, and it would curl so\nsweet when short that his own mother wouldn't know him. Then Agnes\nput him on health diet to make him young again, and when his hair\nreally began to grow she became afraid, for she caught him heating the\ncurling-tongs in secret, as though he meant business at an early date.\n\nAgnes sat upon his knee and wept. He was so stout. She could not clasp\nhis manly waist. He must reduce--he must, he must. The tears were in\nher beautiful eyes. Once more she touched the spot, and Mr. Bolster,\nthe Colossus, was soft. He'd do anything, and then he took an oath at\nwhich the stars trembled.\n\nThere was a little basin in the rock which the giant used for\nshaving-water now he had become a dandy. Water trickled down the\ncrevice into the sea when the cork plug was removed. Agnes prescribed\na little blood-letting--for she was skilled in phlebotomy--\"just a\nbasinful, you know,\" said she, with great pleading eyes of heavenly\nblue. Mr. Bolster threw his mighty arm carelessly across the basin.\n\n\"Only a basinful this time,\" said Agnes, pulling out the plug.\n\n\"Wake me up when it's full,\" said Bolster.\n\nHe slept and slept, dreaming of Agnes, and the vital stream flowed and\nran down the crevice into the sea. And Agnes looked over the cliff and\nsaw the sea blush, and blush deeper still.\n\n\"Is it nearly full?\" asked Bolster, in a tone of lazy happiness.\n\n\"Not yet--not yet, my love,\" said Agnes, stroking his bald head where\nthe curls were to grow.\n\nSo he slept and woke again, and asked, \"Is it nearly full?\"\n\n\"Yet a little more; it runs so slowly now,\" said Agnes.\n\nAnd Bolster slept again.\n\nAgnes looked over the cliff and the sea was deeply dyed, so great a\nstream had flowed from the mighty form, smiling in sleep, but pale in\ndeath.\n\nHe woke and tried to rise, but Agnes soothed him, saying--\n\n\"But a little more, 'tis nearly to the brim.\"\n\nAnd his last vision was of Agnes.\n\nSo the land was rid of Bolster; but the people were not so thankful to\nAgnes as they might have been, so she \"skipped.\" She led a wandering\nlife, making and selling an ointment which people rubbed over their\neyes to make them see clearer, and her fame followed her, so people\nbegan to praise and dedicate churches to her. The place where Bolster\nwas slain became St. Agnes, and the basin into which his life's blood\nflowed may be seen to this day. A pebble thrown in finds its way to the\nsea if there is nothing to prevent it.\n\nGuy said he liked to hear stories told on the spot, things seemed\nso real. Here was the very basin which held Bolster's shaving-water\nbefore it became the receiver for his blood. Just as good being here as\nreading an illustrated article in a magazine.\n\nThe Bookworm said the story was only one of a class, and it was quite\neasy to separate fact from fiction when we once knew how. In this case,\nBolster was not a real person, but a snow-god, to whom the people\noffered a virgin every New Year to make him melt and let the earth\nbring forth her increase. St. Agnes made the people see the error of\ntheir ways--that was the ointment which she made for giving people\nclearer vision--and so it was said that she had slain Bolster. She\nwas, no doubt, artful, and was all the more popular in consequence, it\nbecoming a saying that \"an artful maid is stronger than Bolster.\"\n\nGuy said he liked the story best as it was, and had no patience with\nthe Bookworm's treatment of it as a myth. He'd put money on Agnes, he\nsaid, to make her way in the world as well as any twentieth-century\nwoman.\n\n[Illustration: ST. AGNES.]\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: THE SMUGGLER'S CAVE.]\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\n\nA liking for stories of the saints grows with the supply. The Bookworm\ndiscovered in them the makings of history, and Guy mere love for the\nmarvellous and dramatic situations. He thought St. Agnes would work\nup splendidly. It is well that saints catch on, because one can't get\naway from them. No sooner is one out of the parish of St. A., than\nhe's into the parish of St. B., and from St. B. to St. C., and so on\nthrough the alphabet. It must have been a sore trial to the aborigines\nto see so many foreign saints upon the soil without visible means of\nsubsistence, yet claiming exemption from income tax.\n\nWherever there was a well a saint took possession of it. The votive\nofferings of the natives to the bright, sparkling divinity dwelling\nin springs of water passed into their hands, the water cures became\n\"miracles,\" and chapels and baptistries were built over the wells.\nChapels and hermits' cells abound. There is one spring which insures a\nman from hanging if he is but christened with its water in childhood.\nThere is another, in which a madman may be ducked until he is cured;\nthere is another, in which a maiden may see her \"future;\" and there are\nothers which can cure sad souls and sadder bodies.\n\nAs things are reckoned now, the best of the saints did not have a\ngood time. The ruined chapel in the Saints' Valley was at one time\nthe residence of a holy man, who never saw human form, or heard human\nvoice, unless some one in distress needed his good offices to heal\nor console the sick or dying. It was a dark and dreary cell, with\ntwo slits in the walls for light and air, and a thin stream trickled\nthrough, and fell into a rocky basin outside, now green with fern and\nlichen. This feeble stream cut a channel in the rock, so we thought the\ncell must be pretty old; but there was no niche, or anything to show\nthat lamp or image swung from the roof, or nestled somewhere to cheer\nthe poor man. Whoever he was, he left no trace, not even a scratch in\nthe rock recording his name. We would not have been much the wiser,\nafter all, even if we had known the name of the poor human who endured\ntorture here, and had the courage to live, and not throw himself to the\nfirst wolves who came howling around.\n\nThe ideas conjured up were unpleasant, and Guy gave a shout when he\ngot outside, just to be sure that he was himself. He was sure, he\nsaid, no penal settlement in the world possessed a solitary system\nso depressingly solitary as this. He was quite prepared to take an\naffidavit neither now, nor at any time, to go in for honours in\nsaintship.\n\nThe Bookworm said stories of the saints made what we saw much more\ninteresting than if we merely looked at them through the eyes of\nguide-books. There was the \"Cheese-wring.\" What did Murray say? Just\nthis--\n\n \"This remarkable object consists of tabular blocks of granite heaped\n one upon the other, after the manner of cheeses, to the height of\n twenty-four feet, but has probably acquired its name from its supposed\n resemblance to the press employed in the preparation of cider....\n It derives its extraordinary appearance from the circumstance of\n the stones at the base being less than half the size of those they\n support, which are ten or twelve feet in diameter. Hence, the shape\n of the pile is that of a huge fungus, with a stalk so slenderly\n proportioned for the weight of the head, that the spectator will find\n it hard to divest himself of the idea of its instability.\"\n\nHe had, he said, made notes of a short story which accounted for the\nfantastic mass of weathered granite in quite a different way, and made\nof the stone a lasting memorial of the triumph of the saints over the\nearly giants in the land--faith against strength.\n\n\n ST. TUE AND THE GIANTS.\n\nThe story opened at a period when the saints had been some time in the\nland, and the people took kindly to them, and brought them fish on\nFridays. The giants grew jealous, and resolved on holding a conference,\nand when they were all assembled, Uther was voted to the chair, because\nhe had the broadest shoulders and the best headpiece of all the race\nfrom the Tamar to Pol-Pedyn. The question was, What shall we do with\nthe saints? Various methods had been already tried--boiling, baking,\nand grilling were no use. The giants were not a united family, and were\nfond of hurling rocks at one another, and fighting and wrestling for\nfun or glory, just as the humour prompted. Uther, the president, put\nthe matter before them in a statesmanlike way. First of all, he counted\nsix up, and then he counted half a dozen; then he said, if you take\nsix from six, there's nothing, but if you wipe out six, six remains.\nThe speech was so precise and clear, that it was pencilled down on a\nhalf-sheet of notepaper, and, in time, became the model for future\nprime ministers. It was certainly very well received. Then there was\na discussion, and some said one thing, and some another, and when all\nspoke at once, it was very difficult to know what was said or meant.\nThe president tried to keep order, but was just as helpless as Mr.\nSpeaker in modern days. Fortunately it was an open-air meeting, and the\nsky was not cracked.\n\nSaint Tue had a little well all to himself, but was a small and weakly\nman, who took cod-liver oil fasting; but he was young and full of zeal.\nThe conference was held in what he called his \"sphere of influence,\"\nand when he heard the mighty shouts, he looked upwards and saw a\nsign. Then he hastened to the conference, and, by dodging in and out\nbetween the giants' legs, he managed to reach the president, who was\nthreatening to leave the chair unless better order was kept.\n\n\"Pick me up,\" said St. Tue.\n\nSo Uther picked him up and showed him to the assembly; and, being a\nstrong man himself, he admired pluck.\n\n\"What do you want here, my little man?\" asked Uther, thinking into\nwhich pocket he should pop him to ensure his safety.\n\n\"I want to challenge you to a trial of strength; but let me speak to\nthe giants,\" replied the saint.\n\nUther stood St. Tue on the palm of his hand and held out his arm,\nso that he might speak, which he did in a loud voice, telling them\nsolemnly that they were warring against heaven and one mightier than\nthey, and finished by challenging the mightiest to a contest of\nrock-hurling. If he were beaten, all the saints would leave the land;\nbut if he won, then the giants were to cease their persecution and be\nbaptized with the sign of the cross.\n\nNow, Uther was a champion rock-hurler, and it was a pastime with him\nto throw rocks like quoits, and so truly as to balance them one over\nthe other, the top being the largest. The game was no child's play; and\nthe assembly said if Uther would accept the challenge, they would abide\nby the result. When they looked at St. Tue and the rocks to be hurled,\nthey laughed mockingly.\n\nThere were twelve rocks in all. They had been used before, and were\nfairly round. The smallest was hurled first, and Uther pitched it one\nhundred feet. St Tues knees shook. What if his faith should fail now?\nHe cast his eyes upwards, and then, oh, blessed miracle! the rock was\nas a feather in his hand, and he hurled it with such precision that it\ncapped number one as though it grew there.\n\nSo the game went on, and the pile grew more and more like a mushroom.\nThe giants shouted mightily when Uther's rock capped the saint's; but\nwhen the saint's capped Uther's, they groaned aloud, and showed temper.\n\nIt was the saint's turn to hurl the last rock, which, being the\nheaviest and largest, and having to be thrown the highest, required the\ngreatest skill and judgment and strength. The slightest error, and the\npile would topple over. The silence was so great that a grasshopper was\nheard to chirp. True as a die the rock settled on the rest, and the\nwhole mass swayed upon its stem, but fell not.\n\nThe victory was not yet, and a thirteenth rock was brought, and so huge\nwas it that the giant knew it was beyond his powers to hurl; but he\nraised it with both hands and threw it with all his might and strength,\nand fell prone to earth, exhausted. The rock fell short, and was rolled\nback to where St. Tue stood, trembling once again. Would Heaven fail\nhim now? But no. His eyes were opened, and he saw an angelic host raise\nthe stone to his hand, carry it through the air, and place it as a\ncrown upon the \"wring,\" that man might wonder at for evermore. But\nthe giants were blind with rage, and saw not.\n\n[Illustration: THE LEGEND OF THE CHEESE-WRING.]\n\nThen Uther bowed his head in humility and confessed his sins, and was\nbaptized; and some followed his example, but more returned to their\ncastles and did what scathe they could. But the saints rejoiced when\nthey heard what St. Tue had done, and were made free of the land; and\nmade so free with it that all the best they took to themselves, and\nso pursued the giants with soap and water and Sunday clothes, and so\ntrimmed their beards and nails, that the race dwindled and dwindled\nand died out. So the saints triumphed, and the Cheese-wring is their\nmemorial.\n\nSt. Tue founded the \"Union of Saints,\" and then his troubles began in\nsuch earnest that he had to increase his doses of cod-liver oil in\norder to bear them. He was nursed in his last days by the good St.\nKeyne, who came over from Wales for the purpose. An elm, an oak, and\nan ash tree grew over his grave, whose roots formed an arch, and under\nthe arch a spring of pure water gushed forth. So St. Keyne lived by the\nwell, and Cornish brides, drinking first of the water, wear divided\nskirts, and feed their husbands with long spoons.\n\nGuy said he thought we had had enough of saints, both he and she, for\nthe present.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: TRURO CATHEDRAL.]\n\nCHAPTER X\n\n\nThe Cornish taste has not hitherto rioted in \"graven images.\" Ancient\nmonuments were so plentiful that it may have been thought quite\nunnecessary to add to the number in any shape or form, especially when\nit was known that the finest monoliths were split up and carted away\nfor gate-posts for cattle to rub against; or, worse than all, be burnt\nfor lime. However, graven images are rare in the county. A good citizen\nof Edinburgh or Glasgow would put all the statuary in the county in his\nback garden. Sir Humphry Davy stands outside the market at Penzance,\nand Richard Lander, the plucky African traveller, is skied on a Doric\ncolumn on the top of a hill in Truro. Foote, the comedian, Polwhele,\ncounty historian, and Henry Martyn, the sainted missionary, over whose\nbarren love story and early death rivers of salt tears have flowed,\nwere all born in Truro; but we didn't see any graven images recording\nthe fact. Guy sought information from an intelligent policeman, who\nsaid he knew Henry Martyn well, and a quiet man he was, when sober!\nThere are some capital sites in the city for a few statues to Cornish\nworthies, and the effigy of the sainted Martyn would, at all events,\nhelp to preserve his memory from sad imputations. There is a Cornish\nflavour about the great Earl of Chatham, who should have been born at\nthe family mansion at Boconnoc instead of at Westminster, where his\nmother happened to be; and a Cornish flavour, too, about the gifted\nLady Hester Stanhope, who did not forget to speak well of Cornish\nminers, \"on account of their race,\" in her Syrian home. Cousin Jack\nmight remember this, and shell out liberally, if the public fancy\nruns one day towards statues. The Molesworths have a claim to be set\nup in marble, and so has Richard Trevithick, the Camborne miner, and\nso also John Couch Adams, the discoverer of the planet Neptune. These\nare a few worthies to go on with, and by the time their statues are\nunveiled some, now living, may be ripe for immortality in stone. The\nfew modern monuments are not remarkable, as such. The Gilbert monument,\nat Bodmin, outgrew its strength, and is not likely to startle remote\nposterity as a nineteenth-century antiquity. Once upon a time there was\na battle at Stamford Hill, not far from Bude, when Sir Bevill Grenvill\nand his stalwarts gave the Roundheads a fair drubbing. Then a monument\nwas erected to record the historic event, and it tumbled down. Sir\nBevill Grenvill had a giant servant, named Anthony Payne, and the great\nKneller painted his portrait, and the canvas has a place of honour in\nthe museum of the Royal Institution. The Bookworm remarked that it was\nnot at all singular that the county had turned out no sculptors, when\npublic bodies did so little to encourage art, and that what they did\nwas done so badly.\n\nTruro is not the capital of the county, though many people think it\nought to be. It has a cathedral now, which counts for something, and\nis the home of the \"classy\" people, which counts for a great deal when\nthe question is one of capital with a big C. Every few years there is\na battle-royal over the capital question, and the arch\u00e6ologists and\nthe antiquarians dust each other with seals and charters, Domesday\nBooks and inquisitions, and all the rest of it. The grand tournament is\nbetween Bodmin and Launceston, which latter possesses an old castle,\nor what is left of one, and was anciently the place for the hanging\nof criminals for capital offences. But as the judges were served with\nsmall beer at dinner, and their beds were not properly aired, they\nmoved on to Bodmin, where the beer was stronger, and the bed-linen\nbetter looked after. Besides, the tallow candles gave better light in\nthe Bodmin than in the Launceston lodgings, which was important to\njudges on circuit, when they had to sit up late and read papers, and\n\"note up\" evidence badly written with their own hand and bad pens.\nThe Launceston people didn't seem to care much about their privileges\nat the time of losing them. In fact, they were just then feeling sore\nat having lost one member of Parliament under the Reform Bill, and\nthe market was flat for honours which didn't mean cash in hand. Then\nBodmin took on the assizes, and the hangings, and became the capital\nwith a big C, and built a lunatic asylum and a jail, up to date. The\nquestion now is whether our Gracious Lord the King would hold out a\nlittle finger to the Mayor of Launceston or to the Mayor of Bodmin as\nmost truly representing the capital of Cornwall. The point has to be\nsettled. Then Truro comes in and laughs at both, and, pointing to its\ncathedral, says, \"If you want a capital with a big C, look here,\" which\npleases all the \"classy\" people, and sets the rest laughing, except the\nancient Britons of Penzance, who swagger about climate, also with a big\nC. As climate and capital both begin with C, it is easy to argue that\nthey are very much alike. Bodmin and Launceston tilt in rusty armour,\nand Truro and Penzance with bodkins, and no harm is done.\n\nThe Bookworm made a tour of the libraries and museums, and somewhere\nmet a \"kindred soul,\" which so pleased him that he pronounced Truro the\nliterary town in the duchy. Certainly, the city has a professorial air,\nwhich is native. If ever there is a Cornish university it will come to\nTruro, if it walk upon crutches to get there. Caps and gowns taking\nsnuff and looking lexicons coming out of the shadow of Church Lane\nwould be as natural as life; and then the undergrads swelling Boscawen\nStreet in term! They are not there just now, but the place looks as\nthough cut out for academic maternity. The professorial air belonged\nto the place before the cathedral was dreamt of--perhaps the cathedral\ncame because the place had the right sort of style about it. There is\na county look about the shops in Boscawen Street, which is all its\nown. Some of the shops just put up wire blinds, with a legend painted\non them, discouraging to the vulgar looking for bargains and misfits.\n\"Nothing of the sort here; our customers write cheques, you know.\"\nThere are other shops with \"discount for cash\" writ large all over\nthem, but they seem out of place, somehow. There was always this sort\nof county family style about the town and people, who were always\nfond of sports, and had a cock-pit.\n\n[Illustration: \"TAKING SNUFF AND LOOKING LEXICONS.\"]\n\nWhat strikes the stranger first is the inexhaustible water supply.\nMiniature canals ripple along on both sides of the streets--clear,\nbright, fresh water, which would be worth no end of money in a thirsty\nland. Ripple, ripple, ripple, all day long, and all the year through,\nnever overflowing, never drying up, a thing of beauty and a joy for\never. Hydrophobia is unknown amongst dogs, and is only observable\namongst the higher animals--generally on pay days and holidays. The\ninhabitants, however, pay water taxes quite cheerfully, and are not\nextravagant users in their houses. It is a reproach to Londoners, who\nare so extravagant with water, to see how thrifty the people are. The\npeople of Helston are blessed with water running free in the same way.\n\nCornish people do not live much in towns; they seem to prefer living\namongst the rocks and trees, upon the downs, amongst the shadows of\nthey know not what, and sounds which are as echoes from long ago. A\nvery small town elsewhere fills the untravelled with amazement; and\nstories are told of the cunning which was shown by an old man who\ncarried a piece of chalk in his pocket and placed a mark on the corner\nof every street he turned, and so made his way plain when he wished\nto return; but the poor fellow was sadly puzzled when a joker rubbed\nout his marks and put facsimiles in wrong places. But, in truth,\nCornish towns are not very puzzling to an ordinary pavement trotter,\nand the houses are not much to look at. Solid walls pierced with holes\nand covered by a roof is a \"house.\" There are whole streets like this\nin all the towns, and most of the shops have the appearance of being\nprivate houses \"accommodated.\" In a land where the Phoenician and\nGreek came, and the Roman dwelt; where Spaniard, Frenchman, and Fleming\nsettled, leaving their names and blood behind, one might expect to\nfind specimens of the architecture of many periods and countries; but\nit is no use looking for what does not exist. The Cornish never seem\nto have invited the envy and hatred of others by the outward beauty\nof their dwellings. The Fore Street of a town, however ancient and\ncelebrated for riches and commerce, never gives one the idea that\nmerchant princes dwelt here, and loved to dwell in earthly tabernacles\nwith polished beams, and hanging galleries, and oriel windows, painted,\ndecorated, and varnished, as we see in many a High Street, in many\na town in the rest of England. The Cornish genius had no great turn\nfor architecture--its municipal buildings are plain and thrifty, like\nthe dwelling-houses. To be \"wind and water tight\" is the native idea\nof comfort; and then plenty of whitewash and a little paint. There\nmust have been native artists in abundance during the centuries, but\nthey were seldom employed with chisel and brush in decorating private\ndwellings or corporation buildings. The county turned out one little\npainter who \"mixed his colours with brains,\" and so became the rage\nfor a London season; but when you come to a town, don't inquire, \"What\nartist was born here?\" The old people didn't throw away money on\ndecorative art. If there is a bit to be found anywhere, it is generally\nin or about a church, and stranger fingers executed it.\n\nOn the moors, and on the coast, the idea of a dwelling is that of a\nstone hut with window and chimney, not so very much in advance of the\ndwellings of the Pal\u00e6olithic Age, which shows how slow the evolution of\none idea may be whilst others are travelling at motor pace. Where stone\nabounds the dwelling is a cave above the ground; where stone is scarce\nthe yellow earth is mixed with a little chopped straw, and makes a wall\nas much like the neighbouring soil as peas in a pod. This is \"cob\"\nwall, and, when covered with thatch and half hidden with flowering\ncreepers, cob-wall cottages are pleasant to look at. Specimens of\nstone dwellings with thatched roofs abound in the Lizard district, and\ncob-wall cottages, more or less in ruins, are almost everywhere. Men\nand women are in the habit of leaving their boots and clogs outside\ntheir dwellings, and when the doors are open there is a great display\nof old crockery and china ornaments in stiff-looking cupboards with\nglass doors. Very like a painting by a Dutch artist is the interior of\na Cornish cottage on a moor.\n\nOld fishing towns which have not yet been too much \"improved\" show the\npractical side of the Cornishman's mind in the matter of dwellings. The\nidea of a street never occurred to him. What he wanted was a place on\nshore in which to store his nets and fishing gear, sails and spars, and\nover that a loft, which he divided into rooms fitted up with \"lockers,\"\nlike the cuddy of his boat, or the cabin of a ship, and that was his\ncastle. He reached the ground by means of stone or wooden steps, having\nthe appearance on land of steps let down from the gangway of a ship.\nIn fact, the idea of a dwelling was that of a ship in stone, and the\nsimilarity was the greater when a \"hatch\" was lifted up in the kitchen\nand descent made into the cellar below, just as one would descend into\nthe hold of a ship through the open hatchway. The Cornish fisher's idea\nof comfort was snugness. His dwelling overlooked the harbour, and he\ncould see his boat lying to her moorings, and open his window and talk\nto the men as they passed, and consult the sky and clouds. He could do\na lot from his window, his chin resting on his arms, with the least\npossible trouble to himself. When a fisher cannot live so as to see the\nharbour from his window, he lives as near the harbour as he can,\nso as to be out of his boat and into his bed in the shortest time. He\ndetests walking one step further than he can help after he lands, so\nthe idea of regular streets never dawned upon the original builders of\nNewlyn and St. Ives, Polperro and Looe, Fowey and Mevagissey. A street\nis an accident, unless it is modern--the ancient builders of the old\ntowns deeming it sufficient to leave a gangway between the houses, as\nat Polperro, where a man with broad shoulders can block up the whole\nthoroughfare. In the villages and coves at the Lizard and the Land's\nEnd, the fishers' dwellings have a physiognomy in common, and tell of\nstruggle and endurance; and in favoured places, jasmine and myrtle,\nfuchsia, geranium, and roses step in and cover all the weather-beaten\nstone and shabby lintels with glory and perfume.\n\n[Illustration: THE PORCH, LAUNCESTON CHURCH.]\n\n\n[Illustration: SMILER'S PIOUS CAT.]\n\n\n\n\nChapter XI\n\n\nSt. Ives is small for its age, but is growing now. The town divides\nitself into two parts, the new and the old. The new is new, and the\nold is fragrant. The history of St. Ives also divides itself into two,\nthe ancient and the modern; and the ancient goes back to the time of\nthe saints. It was a woman who founded St. Ives. It is well to keep\nthis in mind, because the well-known St. Ives was a lawyer, and so\nhonest that he was never once struck off the rolls. Some of the piety\nof the ancient lady is said to linger about the town. It was she who\nintroduced a new breed of cats, and the old town is still famous for\ncats. There are Manx cats and Persian cats and St. Ives cats. The St.\nIves cat is \"at home\" in the streets, and may be found in corners\nand on doorsteps, or stretched at full length across the roads, and\nsidewalks when there are any. St. Ives is apparently owned by cats, so\nrespectful are the inhabitants, and so careful not to tread on their\ntails or toes. If a cat is stretched out enjoying the sunshine, a man\nwill drive his cart around it, to the danger of humans paying rates\nand taxes. The St. Ives cat has a well-to-do, lascivious-looking air,\nand is only properly awake at nights. In the daytime the animal slinks\nalong courts and side streets, and rubs itself against water-butts and\ntar-barrels and fish-flaskets, until it has an odour of mixed scents\nas strong as a distillery of perfumes. Nothing can beat pilchard oil\nmixed with garbage, which the St. Ives cat loves. When the boats return\nin the early hours of the morning, the cats make tracks for the quay,\nand every cat knows its own boat, and waits for the men to come ashore,\nand then purrs and purrs, and rubs its scented fur against the men's\nlong-boots. The men belong to the cats, every cat a man and every man a\ncat. Women and mice don't count much with St. Ives cats--it's men and\nfish for them.\n\n\n SMILER'S PIOUS CAT.\n\n\"Ded 'ee ever hear th' story of Smiler's cat? No? Well, then, I'll\ntell 'ee,\" said a man, gutting a fish upon an iron post, and throwing\ntid-bits to a long lanky tabby with one mild blue eye and one a dark\ngrassy green. \"He wadn't a fighter, egcept he was provoked, and then\nhe was game; but he was a most orderly cat and pious. Now you may\nlaugh, but ef iver there was a pious cat, 'twas Smiler's. Smiler wadn't\npious, but Bob was. Bob was black with a white tie round his neck, so\nhe had a respectable appearance, and was looked up to by all the cats\nin the parish. Bob knew when Smiler had a good week, and knew where to\nfind him when he'd had enough and 'twas time to go home. Smiler was a\npeaceful man at all times, and when he'd had full 'lowance, and more,\nhe'd sit down and talk over old times, and his father and mother, and\nbegin to cry. Then Bob would rub against his legs and make for the\ndoor, and Smiler would follow 'zackly like a cheeld--ess he would. When\n'twas dark Bob 'ud walk back-'ards and show Smiler the way by the light\nof es eyes--starboard and port, port and starboard--till Smiler got\nhome. Bob was that pious he wouldn't eat no vish on a Sunday, and he\nwas so looked up to by all the cats that not one would run down to the\nquay on a Saturday or a Sunday night--not sure 'nuff--not if all the\nboats came in chock-vull of vish. 'No Sunday vish for St. Ives!' was\nthe motto with Bob, and all the cats followed. Smiler was that happy on\nSaturdays that he cudn't rise on Sundays, and Bob used to keep watch\nand listen to the Salvation Army services which he cud hear quite plain\nthrough the open window. Bob got to like the music and grew serious,\nand tuk to followin' th' band. People tuk notice, and said 'twas\nSmiler's Bob, and expected to see Smiler foller the cat, as he did at\nnights when he was well 'bowsed.'\n\n\"Bob was going after Smiler one night, as usual, after 'sharing,' and,\nas ill fortune would have it, he met an old friend in the cat-line,\nand they went off together, which was sad for Smiler, who went wrong,\nand slipped into the water, without being seen or heard. Bob went\nabout like a mazed cat, and never rested till he sniffed out Smiler,\ncaught by a mooring chain. It was wonderful to see Bob follerin' at the\nfuneral, and many would have taken care ov him, but he had a 'call,'\nand follered the Salvation Army, and to the last day of his innocent\nlife would eat no vish on a Sunday--not no vish even caught on a\nSaturday; no risks for Bob. If some people was only as good as some\ncats,\" said the man, resuming work and throwing a morsel to the long\nlanky tabby, \"why, then I say there'd be no call for bad blood between\nEast and West on the score of Sunday fishing and Sunday markets.\"\n\n\"How do you account for this uncommon piety in a cat?\" asked Guy.\n\n\"'Twas bred in him, s'poase. Anyhow, he was uncommon pious, and his\ngood example is follered. Thiccy theer cat wud no more ate vish catched\non Sunday than he'd fly. Wad'ee, Tom?\"\n\nTom purred.\n\n\"I knawed it,\" said the man, washing the fish and pushing his\nforefinger through its gills.\n\n * * * * *\n\nThe St. Ives women always enjoyed the reputation of being well endowed\nwith tongue. Some people think their old vivacity is the result of\nforeign blood, but it is singular that the \"gift\" of tongue should\nfollow only in the female line. A St. Ives man is quiet enough until\nhis blood is up, and then he wants to hit something, or throw something\noverboard, and make a big noise in the open air. There is the story of\nthree young women slipping into their pattens and going to the well\nwith their pitchers for water. Their husbands were at sea. The young\nwomen began to talk, and they talked on and on until their husbands\nreturned, and found them just at the beginning of an argument. So they\noff to sea once more, and back again, and the three women were still\nat the well, and getting interested in the argument. Then the three\nmen took a long voyage, and returning with well-lined purses found\ntheir wives, now grown white, still at the well, but on the point of\nadjourning till the morrow to take up the thread of the old argument.\n\n[Illustration: A CORNISH FISH-WIFE.]\n\nThe St. Ives woman, however, has a turn for business. What her man\ncatches she sells, and pays his bills for nets and barking and repairs.\nOn land she's \"boss,\" and has a \"sharing cake\" once a week when she\nsettles accounts. The \"sharing cake\" is an ancient institution, and\nmust be respected. It has its ceremonial, too, and must be broken with\nthe fingers, not cut with a knife, because cold steel would bring bad\nluck. The customs of women are very different in the North and South.\nLike Newlyn, St. Ives is the home of artists of world-wide reputation.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: A SIDE STREET.]\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\n\nA Cornish Sunday to a man of cities is a weariness to the flesh, and a\ntemptation to pray for Monday to come quickly; but for the natives it\nis a blessed day--a day of feathers and soft down, a day for chewing\nthe cud and being lazy without reproach. The fishermen rarely fish on\nSaturdays because the sacred idleness of the Sunday may be broken by\nthe salesmen and railway porters--so the day of rest is made to stretch\nover as much of two days as is worth the having. Farmers are not so\nwell off as fishers, but do what they can in the resting line, and that\nis something. When we walked through any of the villages on a Sunday\nwe found the people mostly looking over their garden gates, casting\nglances \"up-along,\" or \"down-along,\" or \"athwart,\" just to see what was\ngoing on, and who was moving. They don't like cycles or cyclists on\nSundays, and when one comes along all the men in their shirt-sleeves,\nand all the women helping them to do nothing, squirm as though wounded\nin a tender place. Every time it is the same--the same inward shrinking\nfrom activity on a day of rest. Those who do nothing all the week\nfeel just the same, and lie about, and squat about, indoors, when not\noutside resting their ample chins upon ample arms upon gates and walls,\nstaring \"up-along,\" and \"down-along,\" and \"athwart,\" watching one\nanother.\n\nWhatever can sleep, sleeps, and the people don't seem properly awake\nuntil after tea, when the women make ready for chapel, and the men go\nafter them. The men wouldn't stir but for the women, and the women make\na bee-line for chapel. Sunday is given up to preaching and preachers.\nIf you see a man driving on a Sunday, you may put him down for a\n\"local\" brother, who works at his trade all the week and is preacher\non Sundays. You may know him by a certain smile of goodness that\nplays around his mouth, for he is going to have a good time. The lay\npreacher is a by-product of Methodism, and a valuable one in large and\nscattered circuits too poor for anything but a little chapel of four\nwalls and a brush of whitewash. The Methodist clergy live in the towns\nand work around the circuit, so the people in the villages see their\nminister sometimes. The ordained minister is a \"rounder,\" because of\nhis travelling round. The lay, or \"local,\" brothers come in and fill up\ngaps, and they travel from place to place according to a \"plan\"--a sort\nof calendar and time-table combined. It is a system, and it works, and\ncongregations are not wearied with the same face and voice two Sundays\nin succession. It is good for the lay brother, who can run one sermon\nfor three months without much fear of being bowled out.\n\nThe lay preacher is almost a professional once a week, and goes so far\nas to wear a clerical bowler, but the white necktie is reserved, as a\nrule, for his betters. There is no written law upon the subject, but it\nis understood that the white necktie is for the professional \"rounder.\"\nThe lay brother has privileges, and may drive proudly through the land\nof saints on Sundays and be welcomed, though no one else may let or\nhire a trap for love or money. The lay brother may not ride a bicycle,\nwhich is a pity, looked at from the side of horseflesh.\n\n\"I'll drive 'ee to plaize 'ee, but I'd rather not,\" said a\ngood-tempered landlord, one Sunday, when we wished to pay respects to\nan ancient monument.\n\n\"Why would you rather not?\"\n\n\"People talk so, and say nasty things to the children.\"\n\n\"But some one has just driven past, and every one smiled and\nhow-de-doo'd him.\"\n\n\"That's oal right. He's goin' to praich.\"\n\n\"But the pony looked tired.\"\n\n\"I shud zay so. Six mile and stiffish hills, and not wance ded ee git\nout ov th' trap.\"\n\n\"Do you mean that a preacher of the Gospel over-drives his horse?\"\n\n\"I mane that ef a hill is as stiff as a house a praicher won't never\nwalk on a Zunday--not wan inch of th' way.\"\n\nNow the vent-peg was out, our host's eloquence ran freely, and much\nhe said of the over-driving and under-feeding of hired horses by lay\npreachers on Sundays, and of the reluctance which people had to take\non the \"horse hire\" contracts for the Sunday work, because the men\nwho walked the hills fast enough in their weekday clothes would not\nwalk an inch in their Sunday clothes when \"planned\" for preaching. A\nfalse standard of dignity this, which made men cruel. And then the\nunder-feeding? There is no excuse for this. The lay brother is served\nwith all the luxuries of the season at the tables of the brethren\non whom he is billeted as a soldier of the cross, and should not\nforget the hard-working little animal which has dragged him the whole\ndistance, and will have to drag him back again, and the worse the\nweather the quicker the pace.\n\nLay preaching is the homely fare of Sunday congregations, who thrive\non it because it suits them and sticks in their memories. The \"higher\ncriticism\" is not wanted by them. Here are a few specimens, picked up\nin various places.\n\n\"You'll never want friends whilst you've God and your victuals.\"\n\n\"Some people's religion is like badly baked dough--put in with the\nbread and took out with the cakes.\"\n\n\"What the Bible says is true, as true as I've a-got specketty stockings\non.\"\n\n\"I do pity the poor ould devil, he lost such a good plaace oal dru\ncatching a cold en es faith. Ess, my dears, he was like some folks\nalong weth we, who get boilin' hot when they'm convarted, and then\ncatch chill dru sittin' en a draught.\"\n\n\"There was wance a great man who gave a great supper to a braave lot\nof guests. And ded'm come? Not for sure, but they all sent excuses.\nWan said, 'I've boughten a piece of land, an' must go an' try et;' an'\nanother said, 'I've boughten vive yoke of oxen, an' must try they;' an'\nanother said, 'I've married a wife, an' must stap to home to try she.'\"\n\n\"Cast your bread upon the waters, and doan't 'ee luk fust to see\nwhichee way th' wind es blawing. Aw, my dears, there's many a man\nwean't trust the Loard weth a penny loaf, and so they lose the\nblessing, like ould Timothy Tack, who spent sixpence to find thrupence.\"\n\n\"Love your neighbour, that is a commandment; but ef you b'lieve in him\nhe's sure to do 'ee!\"\n\n\"Some people say, 'You can't believe a thing unless you can see and\nfeel it;' but I say you can. Look 'ee now. Here's my hand--fowr fingers\nan' a thum'. Well, that's fact, edn't et? Now then\" (hiding his hand\nfrom view), \"my hand has got fowr fingers an' a thum', but you can't\nsee'm. Well, that's b'leef. Never say, then, you can't b'lieve what you\ncan't see and feel.\"\n\n\"When I was a boy, a man used to come round crying 'Bellows to mend,'\nand the schoolmaster our way put up a sign, 'Manners to mend.' Now, I\nthink we might put up that sign in chapels where people come on Sundays\ntrapesing in as though they were going by train, and quattin' down, and\nspittin' on th' floor, for oal th' world 'twas a tiddly-wink. Them's\nmanners to mend, sure 'nuff, an' would be th' better for mendin', like\nJakey Luney's britches, ragged behind.\"\n\nSometimes the local brother's homily is very pointed, but no offence\nis taken. The preacher is one of themselves, and they will take a lot\nfrom him in good part. If a stranger were to take the same liberty\nthere would be trouble. Here is a specimen from an address spoken from\nthe pulpit in the free-and-easy manner of every-day conversation.\n\n\"You wean't get into heaven just because you've a pious mother or a\npious father. Not for sure. Now, I'll tell 'ee a story about a man\nwho deceived moast everybody when he was in the flesh, and he liked\nchateing so much that he al'ys prayed loudest after he'd tooked in\nsomebody--an' there's more like'n down along weth we now. We'll just\ngive him a name, an' call him Jim Tresidder. He was on the 'plan,' like\nme, and people said 'twas good to hear him hold forth, and I s'poase\n'twas. Jim put a bold face upon it when he marched up to the golden\ngate, and rapped weth his knuckles upon the little shutter, till Peter\nlooked out. 'Who ar'ee?' asks Peter. 'Doan't 'ee knaw me? Why, I'm Jim\nTresidder.' Then he tunied up a bit, and began to sing, 'Heaven is my\nhome.' Now, Peter must have liked the look of Jim--he had sich a pious\nlook weth un, for he stretched forth his hand for the key hanging\nover his head to open the gate weth. 'I'm oal right now,' thinks Jim,\nsinging louder and louder. 'Avoor I let 'ee in,' says Peter, 'I'll have\na look at the book,' and he turned over the leaves till he came to\nthe T's. 'You'm Jim Tresidder of Trevalsa,' ses he. 'Ess,' says Jim.\n'Then I'm sorry for 'ee,' says Peter, hanging up the key wance more.\nThen he showed Jim the book through the peep-hole, and when he seed\noal the people he'd chated, and the evil he had caused, his heart sank\ninto his shoes. 'I'll live in a dark corner, anywhere, if you'll only\nlet me in. My poor mother is waiting for me. She was called Jane, an'\nwas pious--now do 'ee lev me in, there's a dear man,' ses he, the great\ntears rolling down his chacks. 'Your mother is here weth the shining\nones,' says Peter, 'but you caan't come in because of she, no, f'y, you\ncaan't, for up here every fish do hang by his own gills. And you will\nhang too--on the outside.'\"\n\nThe county is honeycombed with dissent, and the fat of the land is\nlabelled \"Wesleyan.\" The beneficed clergy are beautifully housed, with\ngardens and stables, and all the appointments of gentlemen; but the\n\"livings\" are not fat. Some country clergy take \"paying guests,\" and\nsome let their houses in the summer. The orthodox Wesleyan ministers\nare fairly well off, and live rent free; and the others live as best\nthey can, and get commissions on the sale of books and periodicals. One\nof the brethren left a record of thirty thousand teeth drawn during\nhis professional career. As a rule, they \"draw\" well, and will draw\ncoin from the most unlikely places. A child having swallowed a piece of\nsilver, the doctor, in despair, sent for the minister, saying the case\nwas hopeless if he failed to get it. The coin was recovered.[D]\n\nThere is a good deal of \"religion\" to be met with, and not so much need\nfor Salvation Army music as in some places. There are certain times\nwhen people want to feel good, but they don't all feel the same way at\nthe same time, which saves monotony. They say that at St. Agnes the\npeople start being good when the cold weather sets in, and the feeling\nlasts until potato-planting time, and then, somehow, the good feeling\nsloughs off. I don't know what becomes of it, only it is put on one\nside for the next season, just like a boy puts on one side his bag of\nmarbles and brings out tops. It's the same boy, but a new game. In\nthe summer it's a struggle to be good anywhere, there's so many fairs\nand feasts and frolics, and the young men and maidens are so fond of\ncourting on the cliffs and downs. It's the custom of the country and\nsuits well enough, so strangers may turn their heads on one side--it's\nnone of their business. In the autumn the good feeling comes again and\nextends along the coast, especially when the fishing is \"slight.\" The\nyoung men get tired of the maidens about this time, and want to be\ngood for evermore, and the want grows with the badness of the season.\nOne sign of goodness in the country is thrift. The man who neither\nchews, nor smokes, nor drinks beer, and who never spends a copper\nwithout looking on both sides of it, is sure to be good.\n\n [D] An ex-President of the Wesleyan Conference told this story.\n\nYou always know when the good season is coming on by the people\nsinging. They are pretty good, in spots, at singing, but the \"gift,\" as\nthey call it, is not universal. A gift is supposed to run in families,\nand a man with the voice of a crow will insist on singing because his\ngreat-grandfather once played the double bass in a church choir. There\nis a musical zone in the West, and the young women who work in the open\nair have very sweet voices. These are the \"bal\" maidens, and work on\nthe dressing-floors of the mines. When the time comes round for them\nto feel good they \"tuney up\" a bit, and take the young men who work\nunderground along with them to the love-feasts and prayer-meetings in\nthe little Bethels scattered all about the moors.\n\nThey call themselves \"Weslums\" when they are not something ending in\n\"ists\" or \"ite,\" and are bursting with goodness every Whit-Monday, just\nas sure as the day comes round. Why Whit-Monday more than any other day\nin the year would puzzle any one who did not know that on a certain day\nthe cuckoo must sing. It's a sort of something which makes the bird\nsing, and it's a sort of something which makes the \"Weslums\" feel good\non Whit-Monday, and draws them with invisible bands towards Gwennap\nPit. Whit-Monday is the anniversary of an occasion when John Wesley,\n_the_ John Wesley, _our_ John Wesley preached in the pit--- not the pit\nas it is, but the pit as it was.\n\nJohn Wesley wouldn't know the pit, or the people who flock there now\non Whit-Mondays. The old pit was an abandoned mine of no particular\nshape, but inclined to be round, like a bowl warped in the firing.\nThen the miners came with pickaxe and shovel, and cut terraces against\nthe land, and made the ring quite round, with its terraces rising one\nabove another, until it became a sort of county monument to which the\n\"Weslums\" are drawn in their tens of thousands as to a shrine. John\nWesley is a \"Saint\" in Cornwall, and all those who went before him\nhave to take back seats; and Whit-Monday, at the Pit, is now a sort of\nreligious carnival, with picnic combined, at which Saint John would\nhave shied when in the flesh, like good St. Anthony at a Pleasant\nSunday Afternoon, with fiddles and a ballet. When Wesley first came\namong the people they had an unpleasant trick of throwing stones and\nturves at him, and hustling him out of one parish into another, and\nthen out upon the downs, where he might live upon frosty turnips\nwhen there were no blackberries. \"Starring\" in the country was not\npleasant at times; and cold, wet, and starving, the little-great man\noften had the appearance of a scarecrow riding upon a tough little\nnag as starved as himself. But he caught on, and emptied the cock-pit\nand wrestling ring, and provided entertainments wherein were mighty\nwrestlings with the invisible for immortal stakes. So he reached the\nnatural cravings of a dramatic people for excitement and scenic change,\nand made them actors, with the blue heavens above, the earth trembling,\nand the hill-sides lined with living faces, wet and radiant. Greater\nthan he have tramped the county since, but conditions have altered,\nand only _one_ Wesley is possible. And that is why people are drawn\nas to a shrine to Gwennap Pit, and the feeling comes upon them every\nWhit-Monday that they must go there, for there is a troubling of the\nwaters then, and they may be healed. The old spirit of votive offerings\nsurvives in the land of saints and holy wells.\n\nThe Cornish must have been a very well-meaning folk at one time,\nestimated by the number of churches which they built. They built little\nelse, perhaps, but they did build good and substantial churches,\nmostly with square towers and four pinnacles, to be seen of men far\nand near. In the parish of Paul, near Penzance, the towers of fifteen\nparish churches may be counted from one spot, and, though not so\nthick everywhere, the minds of the people centred around the churches\nfor more reasons than one. In the old days, when roads were few and\ndetestably bad, people reckoned church towers as guides, and calculated\ndistances from church tower to church tower. Every man who ventured\nfar from home knew the church towers by sight and the bells by sound;\nthey were marks at sea as well, and mariners knew them and their bells\nas well as now they know bell-buoys and lighthouses upon the charts.\nA hamlet with a church became a \"town,\" so a man says he's going to\nChurch-town, and still measures the distance between places by saying\nit is so far from one church tower to the other.\n\nThen came the little chapel, four-square and whitewashed, with plain\nglass windows, winking and blinking in the daytime, but a place of joy.\nSome people measure distances as from Bethel to Zion, and then no other\nquestion is needed on the point of worship. It's all there, when the\nchapel comes before the church. The day of bitterness is passing, but\nthe preference comes out accidentally.\n\nNow there is a third building seen from far and seen everywhere, and\nthat is the school which has been raised by the people with more\nhardship and self-denial than in the rest of the kingdom, because of\nthe smallness of means, which often makes the dividing line with\ndownright poverty very fine indeed. Only the thrift of the people\nwould have enabled them to uprear schools finer in every respect than\nchapels, and first and foremost amongst the buildings of the county.\nThe schools rank next the churches, and are usually built where they\nmay be seen.\n\nThe parsons had to fight tooth and nail for their tithes of cows\nand calves and pigs and other things, and had to look sharp that\nbutter and cheese were not palmed off on them as of like value. The\nVicar of Zennor made a note in the parish register that three of his\ntithe-paying parishioners had planted butter and cheese in the chancel\nof the church, where he let it stay until it became too ripe for\nendurance, and then he ordered the churchwardens to remove it, which\nthey did; and the three smart farmers lost their produce, and the vicar\ngot his tithe of living animals, after all. A vicar wanted knowledge\nnot included in university curricula to make the two ends meet in a\nCornish parish in the good old times. They have to struggle now to hold\ntheir own and make a bit, which some say they are doing, and some shake\ntheir heads, so one may think what he likes.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: OLD COINAGE STREET, PENZANCE.]\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\n\nThe Cornish are born actors and actresses, but the natural talent is\nsuppressed early, and it is not considered respectable to do or say\nanything like a \"play-actor.\" But the talent breaks bounds and shows\nitself even in the last moments of the aged, composing their features,\nso as to \"look 'ansum\" after death.\n\nThe county has no theatre, no vaudeville, nothing in which to develop\nthe dramatic instincts of a dramatic people. Now and again a travelling\ncompany, or piece of one, gives a performance in a hall licensed\nfor dramatic presentations; but the people have become shy of being\nseen with uncovered faces at plays not labelled \"sacred.\" Susannah,\nwith realistic touches, would be popular, if the Lord Chamberlain\ncould see his way to license the performance. When away from home\nthe people patronize theatres and music-halls, and, on their return,\nsing favourite hymns to comic opera. Dancing is prohibited in places,\nand is \"taboo\" even when winked at; but some of the day schools are\nnow teaching children how to use their feet and legs to music, under\nthe head of \"exercises\" or \"physical instruction.\" When an Italian\norgan-grinder comes into a village, the children dance as though they\nlike it. The Flora, or Flurry, dance has some claim to be Cornish, and\nin time may be danced well again in the open air at fairs and feasts.\n\nThe Cornish are imaginative, vivacious, quick to realize situations.\nWhen there is any difficulty about words, a man or woman will get over\nit by acting the part. Watch the men disputing, and you see unrehearsed\ncomedy--and very good comedy in its way. The old Cornish were very fond\nof mysteries and miracle-plays, which were performed in the open, and\nfor the love of the thing. If one may believe, tens of thousands of\npeople used to tramp over the pathless downs to see a miracle-play, or\na series of plays, performed in some natural amphitheatre. The plays\nspeak for themselves. Some still exist, and we have only to fancy\nthe tens of thousands standing and squatting around, gazing rapt and\nfull-eyed upon the stage hour after hour, and then day by day, until\nthe mysteries were finished for the season. Men, women, and children\nall \"trapsed\" to these plays, and, like the Japs of to-day, never left\nthe scene as long as there was anything to see. The performances were\nrealistic enough, and angels and devils took their parts in a manner\nto upset any respectable system of theology. The actors learned their\nparts, and the prompter, book in hand, followed the actors and told\nthem what to say when they were at a loss. The prompter was known as\nthe \"ordinary,\" and on one occasion the ordinary, being a pleasant\nconceited gentleman, played \"a merry prank\" with a poor actor who was\nnot well up in his part. The story runs: \"His turn came: quoth the\nordinary, 'Go forth, man, and show thyself.' The gentleman steps out\nupon the stage, and, like a bad clerk in Scripture matters, cleaving\nmore to the letter than the sense, pronounced those words aloud. 'Oh,'\nsays the fellow softly in his ear, 'you mar all the play.' And with\nthis his passion the actor makes the audience in like sort acquainted.\nHereon the prompter falls to flat railing and cursing in the bitterest\nterms he could devise; which the gentleman with a set gesture and\ncountenance still soberly related, until the ordinary, driven at last\ninto mad rage, was fain to give all over; which trousse, though it\nbreak off the interlude, yet defrauded not the beholders, but dismissed\nthem with a great deal more sport and laughter than twenty such guaries\ncould have afforded.\"[E]\n\n [E] This is the only indigenous stage story in existence, and is\n preserved by Carew.\n\nIn former times, Midsummer Eve festivities were celebrated with much\njoyousness and dancing through the streets, and the lighting of\nbonfires at night, so that, seen from the sea, the coast-line showed a\nblaze of light. This was originally a pagan celebration of the summer\nsolstice, and the Romish Church took it over and rechristened it,\ncalling the rejoicing the festivals of St. John and St. Peter. The\nReformed Church took over the festivals as a legacy, and they lingered\non in the land until dissent brought out their fire brigades and at\nlast extinguished them. There is another \"pagan\" celebration which will\nnot die. The public May-time rejoicings were nearly extinguished once,\nbut are active again, and the good people of Helston dress up, and sing\nand dance from morn to night, because the spring has come again, and\nthe land may once more be made beautiful with flower and corn. At one\ntime the Church encouraged these public rejoicings, and gave them as\nmuch of a religious appearance as possible, but now there is nothing\nto suggest religion except the \"collection\" which the dancers make for\ntheir own benefit.\n\nWhen the Cornish language fell into disuse, fell also all prospect of\na drama indigenous to a land of which one can never say how much is\nreal. The sad autumn leaves fell upon the literary remembrances of the\npeople when old Dolly Pentreath died, and as some one must have been\nthe last to speak the language, as well Dolly as another, and better,\nperhaps, as we can see her portrait and her monolith. The old popular\nperformances under the blue sky died out with the tongue, and then\nfollowed the travelling showman and the lady in tights and spangles,\nand then the old Christmas mummers with their diabolrie and three-men\nsongs. The English drama in no form has any hold in the county now, and\neven Shakespeare is caviare to the general. Only one Cornishman made\nhis mark upon the stage, and of no great credit he, so we let him pass;\nbut the county is foster-mother to Sir Henry Irving, fittest of all men\nto have been a son, so well he \"loved the fancies and legends of the\npeople.\"[F]\n\n [F] When Sir Henry died, it was remembered that he whose soul was all\n Cornish, had never acted in the county.\n\n\"There are comedies and tragedies with scenes laid in Cornwall in\nplenty, but no Cornish drama or dramatist,\" said the Bookworm. And yet\nthere might have been.\n\n[Illustration: BOSCASTLE HARBOUR.]\n\nTregeagle is the Cornish Faust. The story took a few centuries\nto develop, and there is nothing to be added now to heighten its\ndramatic effect. Tregeagle was a young man of ambition, with a vein\nof discontent running through his composition. One day, when brooding\nover what he was, and what he would be, seeing all things in false\nperspective, Old Artful made his acquaintance, and there was the usual\nbargain, signed, sealed and delivered. \"This is my act and deed,\"\nsaid Tregeagle, putting his finger on the red seal drawn from his own\nveins. Tregeagle was to live in airy-fairy palaces, and have the run\nof every man's preserves until such time as Old Artful choose, and\nthen--well, what was left of his tissue-paper soul would be wanted in\nanother place. Old Artful behaved in the handsomest manner, and Mr.\nTregeagle lived in a palace in up-to-date splendour, with men-servants\nand maid-servants, and every one took off his hat or curtsied as he\npassed, and he was as hard to the poor as a landlord's agent, and rode\nroughshod over whom he would. In fact, he couldn't be a greater swell\nbefore the days of motors. All went gaily with him, until, one day, he\nconsulted his diary and found that his lease under the contract had\nnearly expired, and then he became \"hurried in his mind,\" and lost\nappetite, and cast about to see if he could save himself, and pay no\nforfeit. Now, Old Artful was a good judge of character and knew his\nman, so, when the time was up, he let the fairy palace, with all its\nbeautiful gardens and stables and greenhouses, sink into the earth,\nand covered them over with water so deep that some said no plummet\ncould find bottom. Having trapped his man so nicely, Old Artful was in\ngood humour, and gave Tregeagle a limpet-shell with a hole in it, and\ntold him he might work out his redemption by emptying the lake; for,\nsaid he, \"you can't expect to have all the good things of this world\nwithout paying for them, either in money or marbles.\" Tregeagle looked\nat the limpet-shell, so small that a thimbleful of water would overflow\nit, and then at the hole in the bottom, but he cared little for that\nas he could stop it up with his finger. It was a hopeless task, yet\nhe was comforted by the thought that in the matter of the hole, by\nstopping it with his finger, he would score one off Old Artful. Then\nhe commenced baling the water from the lake; and when he would rest,\nOld Artful's imps spurred him on and on until he shrieked and roared,\nso that all the people round about him shook in their shoes. \"To roar\nlike Tregeagle,\" became a saying when one was groaning under deserved\npunishment. The unhappy man is still working at his task, and it is\nsaid there is not so much water in the lake as aforetime.\n\n\"Then Old Artful will have outwitted himself after all, for he gave the\nfellow a task intended to be endless,\" said Guy.\n\n\"There is hope; and that is where the Cornish story differs from many\nvariations of Faust,\" said the Bookworm.\n\n\"I like the Cornish all the better for that,\" said Guy.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: BRETON ONION-BOY.]\n\nCHAPTER XIV\n\n\nWe always removed our hats before entering a church: it is the custom\nof the country, and we were without prejudices. If we saw a clergyman\nwondering at the rapid growth of nettles and docks and wild heliotrope\nover his little freehold, we took off our hats to him. I don't mention\nthis in a vain-glorious spirit, only once or twice we were looked on\nwith suspicion, and shown dirty finger-marks upon walls, and scratches\nmade with knives upon monuments, and detestable rhymes scribbled in\npencil, where they could be seen. We were shown some writing which was\ndiscovered pinned to the altar after a strange \"gentleman and lady\"\nhad made the round of the church, and gone away. The verger apologized\nwhen showing us the writing, which he did only in order to justify his\nlooking upon us with some degree of suspicion. We felt sorry for the\n\"lady and gentleman,\" and they might have been sorry for themselves, if\nwe could have talked to them for a few minutes in a convenient place.\n\nThe vicar came in and insisted on showing us his \"treasures.\" They were\nnot many, and we wished them more, for his sake, he was so anxious to\nmake us forget having been told that a \"gentleman\" with a soft cap,\nand a \"lady\" with no cap at all, should have been guilty of pinning an\nindecent writing to God's altar. He pitied them; and Guy felt that he\nwould like to have the chance of pitying the gentleman with the soft\ncap after a strictly private interview.\n\nThe vicar tapped the Bookworm, and would have us stay to luncheon.\nThey exchanged views, and talked book catalogues, and dry goods like\nthat. We got out into the grounds, which were a little paradise.\nSomething from all quarters of the world grew there, and in the open,\ntoo--nothing to hurt them, winter or summer, in this charming place. We\ngot away from books and dry stuff at last, and found that our genial\nvicar could talk other things.\n\n\"The _bien entente_, or _entente cordiale_, or whatever you like to\ncall it, which startled Europe, is so old a thing amongst us, that we\nwere set laughing when told of the new discovery--the diplomatic radium\nof the hour,\" said the vicar, laughing.\n\n\"I thought you Cornish were very alarmed at French invasions, and hated\nFrenchmen like the lost archangel holy water. What were the popular\nstories with which you sent children sobbing to bed, about the Great\nNapoleon?\" asked the Bookworm.\n\n\"Stories innumerable, and they served a purpose. A thousand such\nstories might be invented to-morrow, and some would be believed, with\na German, a Russian, or a yellow bug-a-boo for figurehead. But, let\nme tell you, there has always been a link between England and France,\nand that is the Cornu-Breton link. Cornish boats were often safe in\nFrench harbours when Napoleon was fitting out his great Armada, and\nNelson driving Frenchmen from the seas. We wanted brandy and silks,\nand the French merchants wanted money, so the _bien entente_ was all\nserene. Then we wanted salt for curing, and there was nothing more\ncommon in our harbours than French _chasse-mar\u00e9es_ laden with sea-salt;\nand who more popular than the Breton sailor in a Cornish port, in\nblue blouse and sabots, and pockets stuffed full of prunes, which he\nshook out as he walked, followed by a queue of children singing, 'How\ndo you do, Johnny Crapaud?' And then, most touching, when Frenchy\nand the little _mousse_, trusting themselves alone in Cornish lanes,\ngathered bucketfuls of esculent snails for soup. The _bien entente_\nwas all right still, though there were wars and rumours of wars. The\nCornu-Breton link held fast when Cornwall raised its volunteers when\nNapoleon the Third sent a thrill of fear through the land, when Fashoda\nwas a burning word, and when the Paris journals made the English blood\nboil during the Boer war. And what was the Cornu-Breton link?\"\n\nThe vicar paused, and then added: \"The link is here. It is knocking at\nmy gate.\"\n\nThere was a chubby-faced youngster at the back door, in blue smock and\nknitted cap, bending under the weight of the onions he was carrying\nsuspended from a pole on his shoulder.\n\n\"This is the Cornu-Breton link--onions followed salt, and salt brandy.\nThese chubby-faced boys invade us every year and 'dump' all the spare\nonions they grow in their little gardens at home. It is their harvest,\nand the brave little hearts, trudging in a strange land, with raw\nshoulders, are welcomed everywhere, whatever the party passions of the\nhour. It is a small link, but it is steel, and when London and Paris\nwere drinking champagne to the new sensation, we were buying our onions\noff our little Breton friends, giving them milk to drink, and sharing\npasties, and giving them ointments with which to rub their poor little\nraw shoulders, and then resting them in barns so that they might be up\nand off with sunrise to sell their onions.\"\n\nThe vicar beckoned to the boy, who came and told us of his home at\nPaimpol; this was his second season here, and next year he would not\ncome because he was conscript, and would serve on board a man-of-war.\nHis eyes glistened when he talked of meeting British ships, and the\nCornish bluejackets who knew him as a little onion boy. And they would\nbe friends!\n\nGuy tipped the boy when no one was looking, and so did his best to keep\nthe Cornu-Breton link intact.\n\nI do believe the good vicar was sorry when we went.\n\n * * * * *\n\nThe people are not given to \"hustle;\" if the word has reached the\ncounty, the thing hasn't in any great quantity. There is still a\nblessed refuge in the world for men and women tired of \"hustle\" in all\nits moods and tenses. Being on time at a railway station is genuine\ndistress to natives until they get used to it, and the language is\nnot strong in equivalents for \"hustle.\" To make moderate haste is to\n\"hurry-all,\" to be in a genuine hurry is to be \"stark-staring-mad.\" The\nidea of smoothness resulting from leisure suits the Cornish genius\nat home, and he has a pleasing word for it in \"suant.\" When everything\nis as \"suant as oil,\" it is perfection itself. \"Who carries the broth\nmust go suant,\" gives the idea of abundance of time in which to perform\nan errand without mishap. To be too slow for anything is only to be\n\"asleep\"--there is no anger in the reproach, just a gentle reminder,\nthat is all. Anything mouldy and vinewed is said to be \"sleeping\"--in\na delicious state of rest which it would be a pity to disturb. A\nCornishman only does one job at a time; when he talks he rests from all\nother work.\n\n[Illustration: MEVAGISSEY.]\n\nGuy said he must have his hair cut; the Bookworm might please himself;\nit might suit his style of beauty to be mistaken for an ancient bard.\nThe first town we came to we looked out for the striped pole, and there\nwas one outside a tobacco shop. It was afternoon when we entered the\nshop with a partition running through it, so one half was sacred to the\n\"weed,\" and the other half to the performance of ancient rites. A green\ncurtain divided the double shop from the rear. The shop was empty,\nbut the curtain was half drawn, and we saw a man polishing his boots.\nThis was the barber, who finished his job, and met us, smiling. Guy\ninduced the Bookworm to take the chair first, because his hair being\ndarker would not show the illustrative finger-marks so clearly as his\nown. Guy talked to the barber about boot-polish, and so interested him\nthat he stopped operations and talked. A man came in and propped up the\npartition with a shoulder, and Mr. Figaro left his job and served a\npacket of cigarettes. Then the new-comer began a story about one Billy\nTregarne who, falling down a clay-pit, was mistaken for the miller\nby his own wife, who turned him to doors with much abuse and a \"scat\nin the chacks.\" It was all very interesting, but took time, and the\nBookworm was only half trimmed. The new-comer suddenly remembered that\nhe had left his shop open with no one to \"mind\" it, and walked away\nas leisurely as he came. Then Mr. Figaro worked away, only stopping\noccasionally to enjoy an inward chuckle; and when Guy went off without\nbeing operated on, he seemed quite glad at having no more to do just\nthen.\n\nIn towns, tradesmen spend a good deal of time in their shop doors,\nlooking \"up-along\" and \"down-along,\" or across the street, and hold\nconversations with each other in their several shop doors.\n\nThe inhabitants live long and die leisurely. When one is a trifle\nover-anxious people tell him not to worry, for \"you'll live till you\ndie, like Nicketty Booth.\"\n\nThe man in the highway never misses a chance for a gossip, and will\ngive old nuts for news, to any extent.\n\n\"Holloa! my man; which is the way to Church-town?\" Guy shouted to a\nlabourer, who seemed to be doing his best to prop up a hedge.\n\nThe man struck work at once and came forward leisurely. He eyed us up\nand down, making a mental register of our marks. Then he seemed to take\nan interest in us and our business.\n\n\"Going Church-town, art a?\"\n\n\"Yes, and which is the way?\"\n\n\"Want to see Farmer? Well, then, a ed'n home. Farmer had fine field\nof wheat in ten-acre field, sure 'nuff, and he's gone to market. He\nwas drashing yesterday, and the drashing machine cut off Tom Curnow's\nfingers. Ess sure, 'e ded.\"\n\n\"We don't want Farmer,\" said Guy, cutting in.\n\n\"Well, then, Tom Trebilcock? Tom's cow calved last week, and she's a\ngood milker. Didn't know Tom was going to sell.\"\n\n\"Never mind Tom; tell us the road, the way, the\nwhat-you-like-to-call-it, to Church-town.\"\n\n\"There's passun's house close by the church, and passun's little mare\nis a good un to travel. They do say----\"\n\n\"How do we get there?\"\n\n\"Ef so be you'm in a hurry you need'n go, cos Farmer's drivin' mare to\nmarket.\"\n\n\"We'd like to get there in daylight,\" said Guy, gravely.\n\n\"Sartinly;\" and then the man gathered himself together for a supreme\neffort. \"You do go through meadow-close, and plain-close, and then into\nhigh-lane, and volly on, an' there you be, sure.\"\n\n\"But where is meadow-close?\"\n\n\"Oh, back along.\"\n\n\"But where?\"\n\n\"Back along to stile.\"\n\n\"Thanks very much, my good man, and may your shadow never grow less.\"\n\nWe left the man apparently wondering what sort of animals there were\nat large who didn't know the way to Church-town. Gradually he unbent\nhimself, and went back to prop up the hedge.\n\nIn conversation a good deal of ground is covered in a non-committal\nsort of way by illustrations well understood by the parties, but Greek\nto any stranger. A worthy person who does mischief with the best\nintentions is said to be like \"Aunt Gracie's vear\"--which means that\nthe little pig, with the best intentions in the world, sucked the old\nsow to death. Few would suspect that \"Betsy Bowden's leg\" tells a\ntragedy, but it does:--\n\n \"Old age and sorrows did she decay,\n And her bad leg carried she away.\"\n\nTo have \"Betsy Bowden's leg\" is a very serious matter to those who\nunderstand what it means.\n\n\"It's as well to leave high English at home,\" said the local doctor,\nwhom Guy picked up in his rambles. \"I was asked by a woman on leaving\nthe house of a patient the other day what the matter was? and, in a\nmoment of forgetfulness, I said it was a case of 'strangulated hernia.'\n'My dear life!' said the woman, opening her eyes wide, 'that's a very\ndifferent story to what I heard.' 'And what did you hear?' 'Why, I\nheard that the man had a kink in his innards.' We meant the same\nthing; but you must live amongst people really to understand and be\nunderstood.\"\n\nSometimes a humorous situation is created, and the incident lives.\nAn officer inspecting volunteers wished to dismiss them. \"Stand at\nease! Attention! Disperse!\" The men stood still with wonder in their\neyes. \"Disperse!\" repeated the officer, and still the men stood still.\nThe sergeant saluted. \"May I give the order?\" \"Certainly.\" Then the\nsergeant: \"Stand at ease! Attention! Scat up!\" And every man went his\nway, and the corps are the \"Scat-ups\" to this day.\n\nA coastguard told us the story of a young officer of the kid-glove type\ngiving an order to the men in the maintop. \"Maintop, ahoy!\" \"Aye, aye,\nsir.\" \"Extinguish the illuminator.\" \"No such rope, sir.\" Then the\nboatswain: \"Maintop, ahoy!\" \"Aye, aye, sir.\" \"Douse the glim.\" Light\ngoes out.\n\nA bargain is dear to the soul of a Cornishman; only send round the\ncrier with the bell, announcing a sale, and he'll be there, and pay\ncheerfully more than the things are worth, if only he's told that he's\ngetting a bargain. To get something for next to nothing is to be happy.\nA man will walk two miles to ride one, and build his house out of shape\nrather than remove a bit of rock which can be worked into the wall.\nMuch ingenuity is shown in using up odds and ends of things. A sailor\nwill tell you that any man can make a sail if he has plenty of canvas\nto cut from, but the man for his money is the man who \"makes do what\nwon't do.\" To throw anything on the scrap-heap as long as there's wear\nor use in it, would make an average man turn green, and wish for the\nbetter land. He's thrifty in the wrong place, and can't help it; but\nonce get him away from home and he develops and does well, as times go.\nWe were told that Bryant, of blacking and match fame, and Pears, of\nsoap fame, are not only Cornish, but hail from neighbouring parishes;\nand Ralph Allen, the lucky, was born at St. Blazey. Ralph was a man\nof many parts. He brought some order and method into our country mail\nservices, ran the Bath theatre, married a beautiful wife, and made\n\u00a316,000 a year out of a Government contract. Once outside the charmed\ncircle of his native land, a Cornishman gets on just as well as a\nScotchman, and is as thrifty as need be.\n\nThere is an ingrained dislike amongst the Cornish towards mean-looking\nthings, and things ugly or deformed. A well set-up man, with head\nthrown back defiantly, and arms swinging, is forgiven much on account\nof his appearance of strength and general can-take-care-of-myselfness.\nA weak-looking man with a mean face must walk warily if he's to get\ncredit at all for the good that is actually in him. An elegant woman,\nwell-dressed, is immaculate; and a woman with an eye generous and\npassionate has her sins condoned almost before they are committed.\nBut let a woman squint and be an\u00e6mic, short in nose, and long in\nchin, a bit \"hunchy\" and out of shape, and goodness becomes an added\noffence to her sin of living. \"A poor, wakely thing,\" and \"a wisht,\nold-fashioned maid,\" are offences to the community, and are willingly\nparted with. Downright ugliness in man or woman is looked on as the\ndevil's hall-mark;--\"mark you the man whom nature marks,\" is a proverb.\nThe first question asked about a stranger is, what does he, or she,\nlook like? A great deal depends on the answer--a good-looking and\nfair-spoken person may travel far and suffer no hunger in the land. The\ndevil is sin, and sin the father of ugliness, hence an ugly person has\nthe devil for father, and is treated accordingly.\n\nThe Cornish are a very hopeful race. Bad times depress, but there is\nalways to-morrow to look forward to, and to-morrow may be better than\nto-day. Without this bank of hope to draw upon, the two main industries\nof the county, mining and fishing, would have caved in long, long ago.\nContentment is another sign by which you may know the Cornishman at\nhome. If a man meets with misfortune, or a friend has gone under, he\nsums it all up by saying, \"Well, there 'tis.\" The phrase \"there 'tis,\"\nis like a plaister of figs covering a sore, hiding much, but giving\nrise to hope that a healing process may be going on.\n\n\"How be gettin' on, Jim, without the ould woman?\" asks a man of his\nfellow who has buried his wife. \"Slight, sure 'nuff, at first, but\nthere 'tis;\" and then he goes on about his work, as though the last\nword was said upon the matter. Equally content is another aged pilgrim\nwho has lost the partner of his joys. \"Do 'ee miss her, Bill?\" \"Ess,\nsure.\" \"Lonely, s'poase?\" \"Ess, tes lonely, but tes quiet.\" Bill was\ncontent. \"When the cyder is rinned away every drap, 'tis too late to\nbe thinkene of plugging the tap,\" is a little bit of old proverbial\nphilosophy which escaped Martin Tupper. The same spirit is in the\nwords, \"Well, there 'tis,\" whether the cyder cask runs dry, or a mine\nis \"knocked,\" or a ship is wrecked, or a pitcher is broken. \"Well,\nthere 'tis,\" says the victim, with the beautiful serenity of fatalism.\n\"There 'tis,\" and hope springs up amongst the ruins of shattered\nhopes, and the Cornishman goes on his way again, trundling his own\nwheelbarrow, without appealing to the heavens and the earth and all\nthat therein is to listen to his misfortunes. When he has a stroke of\ngood luck he's very quiet about it.\n\n\"I knaw he 'ave a chate somebody, he's so quiet,\" one man will say of\nanother on a market day.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: A FISH-HAWKER.]\n\nCHAPTER XV\n\n\nTickle a Cornishman, and he'll smile. He likes it; and when you have\nrested, begin again, and he'll still smile. Some people want different\nhandling, like Kaffirs in mines, who only smile nicely after being\nknocked down with a crowbar. \"Going! And I'm just beginning to like\n'ee,\" is a common form of regret towards a civil-tongued stranger who\nhas found out the way to tickle. Cornishmen abroad tickle one another\nat their annual dinners, when all that's fair and lovely to the sight\n\"belongs\" to the land of pasties and cream.\n\nThere are some dialects which make people restless, and some which make\npeople tearful, and some to want to go to theatres and operas, and some\nto churches, and some--well, elsewhere. An Irish M.P., on the wrongs\nof Ireland, is sure to make you tearful; and a Scotchman, mellow, is\ncertain to cry himself when eloquent on Bobby Burns; but the ordinary\nEnglishman is not moved to tears by ordinary English. His language is\nvery good for getting about with in trains and tramcars, and finding\nout the prices of things, and making profits from the Equator to\nthe Pole. A hard-hearted sort of a language, that wants filing and\nsand-papering a bit to reach the heart--like French, just by way of\nmaking a comparison, which will not be odious now the _bien entente_ is\non the carpet.\n\nOne should come into the duchy to hear how the English language may\nacquire a languorous ease, which makes one want to sit still at the\nfirst milestone, and never to go any further. At first, Guy wanted\neverything \"sharp\"--boots \"sharp,\" breakfast \"sharp,\" everything to the\nminute, and every one on the alert. The Cornish constitution wasn't\nmade to work that way in Cornish air. A woman was selling fruit at a\nstreet corner, and Guy bought some. A small boy was sent to change a\ncoin, and Guy grew tired and impatient of waiting. Then he murmured,\nand talked of calling again at Christmas, if the boy was likely to be\nback by then. The woman was sweetly placid, and asked Guy if he was\nin a hurry? Guy said he wasn't suffering from that complaint, only he\nliked to see boys smart, and things done quickly, and so help the world\nto spin.\n\n\"I hate to be kept waiting,\" said he.\n\n\"It doan't sim long to we,\" said the woman, counting the coppers\nslowly, one by one, into Guy's impatient palm, when the boy did return.\n\nIt doesn't seem long to the native to \"quat,\" and listen to another\ntelling a yarn of endless length which might all be packed into a\nsixpenny \"wire.\" The stranger has to get rid of irritable impatience\nbefore the restful influences of the words, and the manner of speaking\nthem, lay hold of him; and when they do he is in a peaceful oasis.\nA bustling commercial man never dreams of opening his samples until\nhe's inquired about all the family, down to the third generation; and\nin villages he has to remember that his customer's cow was bad last\njourney, that his black minorca hen hatched out fifteen eggs, and that\nthe rats carried away ten in a single night. Then he has to see the\nmissus, and talk babies, and corns, and indigestion; and then, when no\none is looking, he undoes his samples, and business is introduced as\nthough by accident.\n\nWho can be in a hurry when he finds that to get to a place three or\nfour miles away he must take the road to Trevalsamin, then cross the\ntown place at Ponsandain, which brings you to the stile at Hallywiden,\nleave Ventongimps to the right, and the church-town of Trevespanvean\nwill come in view, then down by Trebarva well, and you will reach your\ndestination? Imagine this direction given in a zigzag fashion, with\ncomments and sketches of scenery thrown in, and the story of a man who\ntackled a bull down by Trannack-Treneer bottom, and was carried home\non a gate, and then lived----. You can't get away from the man until a\nsense of peace has fallen upon you; and you don't care if you take the\njourney now, or put it off until to-morrow.\n\nThe old people who invented these names were in no humour for hurry,\nand names are as thick as blackberries, for every field, and brake, and\nbottom has its own particular name, which is always repeated in full in\nconversation, no odds how often it occurs. A farmer knows his fields\nby their names, just as he knows his children by theirs. The English\nlanguage shows its restful side in Cornwall.\n\nSince our first parents were turned out of Eden, there has been no\nparadise for children more perfect than Cornwall. We didn't know it\nuntil we were told so by an old man hobbling along by the side of a\ndonkey with panniers on its back, and in the panniers fresh fish to\nsell in the villages through which we were to pass. The old man was\nin trouble on account of the school children jumping on his donkey's\nback, and riding off at their own sweet wills. Then a boat came in with\na little \"cate\" of fish, which the old man bought to sell to country,\nbut nowhere could the donkey be found. Then he went about seeking,\nuntil, at last, he ran the animal to earth in a quarry in a brake,\nwhere the children had hidden it in order to ride back again in triumph\nafter school. This was the old man's grievance, and he called heaven\nand earth to witness that there was no place under the sun where the\nrising generation better deserved hanging than in this parish; or where\nparents more deserved hanging for bringing up such varmints.\n\nGuy tried his hand at a little friendly examination, and we learnt that\nthings were different when the old man was young; when his very own\nfather would have thought no more of cutting him down with a shovel, or\nstretching him stiff with a hammer, if he went leastways contrary, than\nhe would have of eating a pasty. Well, if he did not like it he had to\nput up with it, like the rest, and it taught him how children ought to\nbe trained. But now----\n\nThe old man was too full of words to speak for a time, but a passage\ncleared itself, and then we found it was all the fault of the school,\nand the rates, that children were varmints, and ought to be nailed up\nto barn doors, like weasels and wants, and sich-like. \"Lay a finger\nupon a cheeld now, and the wimmen'll screech murder, marbleu! just as\nef the French was coming. An' th' men's no better, tes oal, 'Coom here,\nJohnny, my son, an' plaise doan'ee break th' cloam, an' plaise doan'ee\nmake a malkin ov yersel'; an' plaise doan'ee stale Tom Cobbledick's\njackass, and hide'n away, when he do waant to go to country weth vish.'\nI'd 'plaise' em, th' varmints; I'd scat th' brains ov'm out!\"\n\nThe old man told us frankly that the maidens were a tarnation sight\nworse than the boys under the new order of things. They didn't steal\naway his donkey, but they were the cause of quarrels among the women,\nand the women egged on the men, until there was neither rest nor peace\nin the parish. \"There's that maid of Nancy Golley's,\" said he, \"an'\nyou'd s'poase she was the quietest maid in the country to see her on\na Sunday, with a feather in her hat a yard long, and oal the fashions\non her back. An' so she es quiet till she do see another maid come\ndown along weth something on her back which she thinks would suit her\nbeauty better. Then what do she do but go over to the other maid, oal\nartful-like, an' begin to purr round, and find out what it cost, and\nwhat tallyman her mother got it from; and then she rounds and says,\nted'n paid for, and she ought to be ashamed to wear it, when her old\ngranny is eating parish bread. Then the two wimmen begin upon their own\naccount, and rip up each other, an' set th' men on; and they'd have\nkilled one t'other, only the parish com'd in and tooked sides, and\nfout till they cud'n blaw nor strike. And this trubble oal becase the\nmaidens were dressed up, and sent to school to learn bukes, instead of\ngoin' to work. I'd giv' it to th' varmints, ess, sure I wud,\" said he,\nwith a sing-song drawl, but all his ill-temper gone.\n\nThe old man turned down a by-lane to sell a fish at a farmhouse, first\ntelling us how to find Church-town and Mrs. Tregarthen's inn, where\nthere was \"a drap of good beer\" on tap, and we could pay for a pint for\nhim to drink when he came along.\n\nGuy said it was refreshing to hear higher criticism of this sort; and\nwondered what the Education Department would think did they but know\nwhat a man of the soil thought of their strenuous efforts to spoil the\nrod and teach the \"varmints\" to have it their own way? The Bookworm\nwouldn't be provoked into saying anything, and so we reached the inn,\nand found a very good larder there.\n\nThere was a pleasant hum of talk outside the inn, where a knot of young\nminers were chatting over what concerned them most. The corner of the\nbuilding seemed to be the favourite spot in the whole village, and\nthe young men took turns to scratch themselves between the shoulders\nagainst the corner-stones. It soothed them, and when they'd all\nscratched in turns, they did a sort of jig with heel and toe, kicking\nthe wall with the heels of their boots. They never came inside; and\nthis was their way of showing that they had no animosity to the\ninstitutions of their country. Our window was open, and Guy said this\nwould be a good opportunity for studying the language of the district.\n\"When people are together they talk it pure,\" said he, arousing the\nBookworm's attention.\n\nPicking up a dialect in this way is not so easy; everybody seems\ntalking at once, and there's no full-stops, and the commas, when there\nare any, seem to be in the wrong places. After a time, we captured a\nfew syllables, and the Bookworm wrote down phonetically a conversation\nwith two voices only--\n\n\"Say-yu, whatkoorarta?\"\n\n\"Laastkoor b'nite.\"\n\n\"Adurnedkoorthat.\"\n\nWe all heard it, and there was no doubt about the sounds; every\nshorthand writer would be sure on that point. Then we called in Mrs.\nTregarthen's husband and read over the transcript, and he said it was\nall right, and we might take away as much of the dialect as we pleased\nin the same way. He spoke slowly, and it came out like this--\n\n\"Say you, what coor art thou?\"\n\n\"Last coor by night.\"\n\n\"A durned coor that.\"\n\nA \"coor\" is a turn, or shift, in mine work, and the last shift by night\nis not popular. Guy asked the Bookworm how long he thought it would\ntake him to pick up the dialect? and suggested leaving him behind, and\ncalling for him later. The Bookworm was used to this sort of thing from\nGuy.\n\nWe picked up a dialect story, and preserved a sentence or two,\nwarranted to be genuine.\n\n\"Giv' me a kiss, me aul' dear,\" said Phil Pentreath, fisherman, just\nhome from a cruise, throwing his arms around his wife, who has got\nherself up for the occasion, and does not want to be rumpled. She\nflushes, and is in a great rage, but can't get over the ground quicker\nthan this--\n\n\"Taake yer baastlie wristeses awah fr'm me neck, you stinken',\nravishen' aythen! Lemmego! I waan't kiss'ee, and you oall auver\nsunken' grease-oil an' tar. My sawl an' bawdee! I shud be fitty parfit\nashaamed, ef I was you, kissen' your wife in broad daalight, an'\ndaown-steers, too.\" An East End girl would cut half across London in\nthe time.\n\n[Illustration: TWO COTTAGES, MEVAGISSEY.]\n\nCornish maids don't like cool lovers, and you may kiss early and\noften, and be thought none the worse of by the maid you are sweet on.\nIf nothing comes of it the kissing part will be all right, and can be\nwiped out, or carried forward, at pleasure. Kissing is a mode of\nsalutation in some districts where the population is stationary and\nall the families somehow connected, and a strange kiss is welcome as\nvarying the flavour. It is a sign of religious communion among the\nMethodists--the old people enjoy it at their love-feasts, and the young\ntake kindly to the godly example. There is no such county on earth for\n\"kiss-in-the-ring\" at teas and picnics--old and young, rich and poor,\npastors and flock, run after one another, chasing and doubling and\ntumbling, and then \"smack, smack,\" and the captives are led back with\neyes sparkling and lips watering for more runs and more kisses. Pious\nelders see their young ministers dashing after the maidens, lifting\nup their chins, and kissing them on the lips, and holding them in\ntight embrace the while, and they just nod to one another and smile,\nas who should say, \"Bless the dear lambs, lev 'em enjoy themselves\nwhile they'm young.\" But only say \"dance,\" and the dear old faces are\ntroubled with visions of the \"pit\" yawning beneath their feet. There\nare different ways of kissing in different parishes, so a young man\nmay tell in the dark what parish a girl comes from by the way she\nacts, if only he has had sufficient practice. It all comes to the same\nthing, though the maidens think themselves slighted if not kissed often\nenough. As a rule they get on very well.\n\nThe common furze which blooms perpetually has, on that account, got\nmixed up with kissing; and when a girl is asked, \"When is kissing out\nof season?\" her ready answer is, \"When the furze is out of bloom;\" that\nis to say, never. The rich chrome yellow is very seductive, but the\nthorns!\n\nIn the south, when a maid is disappointed in love she takes to her\nbed, and is waited upon by the rest of the family, just as though she\nwere passing through a sickness known to the pharmacop\u00e6ia. It is a\nmatter of public interest; and the maid is said to be \"wisht\" about it,\nand going into a \"decline.\" Generally, it comes all right again, and\nthe maid gets up and walks out with her young man, and receives the\ncongratulations of the parish. Then things are hurried up, and the end\ncomes.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: AN OLD CORNER, ST IVES.]\n\nCHAPTER XVI\n\n\nThe girls learn early that \"it is not good for man to live alone,\" and\nnever forget it. It is the one text that sticks, and they make the\nrunning early for the boys, who are a shy and awkward lot, and want\nencouragement at first. Then the boys wake up, and the girls catch\nthem, as they intended to do when they first started; and the boys\ngrow into men, and are never \"alone\" any more. Marriages may be made\nin heaven for other folks, but the Cornish maidens like them better on\nearth, and please themselves pretty much in the matter. Misfits will\nhappen sometimes, but they have a nice, soft, easy way of their own,\nand slip through life \"as well as moast, and better'n some.\"\n\nThe women make very good wives, and seldom become acquainted with the\nlearned president of the Divorce Court; and if they don't believe\nthe men are \"saints,\" they wink the other eye and say little. A\ncountry-woman, tired of her bargain, inquired of a solicitor where she\ncould get a bottle of the \"drops\" for the dissolution of her marriage,\napparently thinking that nothing weaker than legal aquafortis, or Dutch\ndrops, would be any good to dissolve the bond. Very few Cornish women\nhave figured in the Divorce Court, which stands to their credit, so\nmany being the wives of sailors at sea nine months out of the year,\nor of miners in foreign lands, whom they may not see for years after\na brief honeymoon. In the Cornish version of the old mystery play of\nthe Deluge, willing obedience to the husband is shown in the dialogue\nbetween Noah and his spouse. Noah says it is time to get into the ark,\nand the lady says, \"Oh, master dear! I will do everything like as thou\nwishest.\" In the Chester play on the same subject the wife of Noah is a\nperverse, wilful, passionate woman, who will not go into the ark unless\nevery one of her \"gossipes\" go with her. And when her sons get her in\nby superior force, she gives poor Noah a slap in the face, saying,\n\"Have that for thy note!\" The unknown Cornish translator changed\nthe note to suit his audience. A married woman makes the best of her\nbargain, and finds \"Oh, master dear!\" better than fisticuffs.\n\n +--------------------+\n | NOTICE. |\n | ALL WHO WANT |\n | A HAPPY HOME, |\n | TRY CORNWALL. |\n +--------------------+\n\nThe women take a pride in doing little things for their\nhusbands--polishing their Sunday boots, brushing and putting away\ntheir clothes, and turning them out spick-and-span, like dandies. A\nman isn't allowed to look after anything but his sea-boots and oileys,\nif he's a fisher; or his working togs, if some other trade. When there\nare girls in a family the boys are \"tended\" like little princes; and\nwhen the girls marry they look after their husbands so carefully that\nthey seldom stray far away. Ladies who write social conundrums to\nthe newspapers, and ask how it is that they only get a bit of their\nhusbands, and that bit not worth the having, should live in a Cornish\nvillage for a season, and keep their eyes open. Not very exciting, to\nbe sure, but, if all is true, worth the experiment. The beautiful\ninfluence of climate comes in, \"and so it is; and you must put up with\nit, my dear,\" is the grease-box which makes the wheels run smoothly.\n\nThe women keep shop in the small towns and villages whilst the men\ngo to sea, or fishing, or whatever work they profess to do. A bell\ntinkles when you open the door, and, by-and-by, the missus comes into\nview, wiping her hands on her apron. She may have what's wanted, but\ngenerally she's \"run out,\" and is expecting it within a week or so. She\ngoes on wiping her hands, and looks as contented as though she had sold\nsomething. Then the little shops look like a dry-goods store after an\nearthquake, and if the thing wanted isn't on top it is not much good\nlooking for it.[G] It's just their way, and the business flourishes\nlike a plant in native soil. Sometimes the post-office is mixed up\nwith the \"business,\" and a dear little cherub sits up aloft somewhere\nand watches over the property of the Postmaster-General. Letters and\nparcels muddle through, somehow, which is proof positive that the age\nof miracles is not over and done with.\n\n [G] An enterprising huckster exhibited the following signboard:--\n\n BIBLES, BELLOWS AND BOOTS. GODLY\n BUKES AND GRINDING STONES, TROUSERS,\n TESTAMENTS, AND TEA KITTLES, EVERYTHING\n BOUGHT AND SOLD HERE EXCEPT TREACLE.\n BEST PRICE GIVEN FOR WHALEBONE STAZE\n BY I. W. NINNIS.\n\nFor the spectator a wedding is a very dull and slow affair now, even\nin out-of-the-way districts and in the fishing coves and villages,\nwhere the old customs have struggled hard to live. Young people are\nmarried all the same, but much of the joy at the life that is to be has\nbeen gradually elbowed out of the ceremony, and all that belongs to it.\nIt used to be a very different sort of thing when the people were more\nprone to dancing and fiddling and feasting, and only half enjoyed a\nthing unless all their world enjoyed with them. The Bookworm chanced on\nsome faded letters describing some of the merry-makings not more than a\ncentury ago, when a wedding was an event, not for John and Mary merely,\nbut for the whole parish. The fiddler skipped before the happy pair\nto church, and every one, not in the procession with wedding favours,\nlined up, and made nice little speeches, as the spirit moved them;\nand the spirit moved them so often that the bride had few blushes to\nspare when she reached the chancel steps. And then the feast and dance\nand mystic rites, concluding with the bedding of the bride. Then more\ndancing for the guests; and more young couples vowed that day to marry\nwithin the year than on any other occasion. It was a \"quiet\" wedding\nwhich finished up with a three days' rejoicing.\n\nIf John and Mary lived on a farm, or were servants at the \"big house,\"\nthen there were high jinks in the great kitchen and squire's hall, and\nno one merrier than parson and clerk, who led the revels with voice\nand flute, and the schoolmaster brought his fiddle, if he had one. A\nwedding was a very human affair, and everybody's business, not so very\nlong ago. In the fishing villages there was more colour and boisterous\nmirth than elsewhere, for the men dressed their boats, and made sport,\nand sang and danced, and got drunk and sober, and then drunk again,\nuntil the morn broke. And the next day, and the next to that, the pot\nwas kept a-boiling, and then the women captured their men and toddled\nthem home, and hid away their boots, until the delirium of the wedding\nmarch had passed away.\n\nNo more feasting and fiddling now. The \"day\" is kept secret, and the\n\"happy pair\" arrive, somehow, before a registrar, and are hitched up,\naccording to law. Mary may marry John now, and no one be the wiser--a\ncold, cheerless, colourless thing is this sort of wedding.\n\nA funeral is still an event, and touches hidden springs, which must\ngush forth, and will take no denial. The people have a superstitious\nreverence for the dead. The doors and windows of the chamber are thrown\nopen for the unfettered spirit to escape, and, one by one, neighbours\nand friends take a last look at familiar features. To be \"a 'ansum\ncorpse, white as a lily and light as cobwebs,\" is a consolation to an\nold rip, when looking at his wasted hands. A village funeral is a long\nprocession with sacred hymns. Then a cup of tay and a bit of curranty\ncake amongst the women, who talk and sigh, and tell each other of their\nown complaints, and the complaints which carried off their friends.\nWidow-women are great at funerals, which freshen up their memories. \"My\nman was teeled a year agone, an' I do miss 'un,\" says number one. \"Ess,\nfath, my dear, and no wan do knaw what tes like them that's lonely,\"\nsays number two. \"Tes bitter cauld in winter, an' I tells my maid her\npoor father would be weth me now ef 'twadn't for want of bref. Tes a\nwisht complaint, that,\" continues number one, sighing. \"'Twadn't like\nthat weth my man, fur he had es bref up to the last,\" replies number\ntwo, triumphantly vindicating the superior merits of her dear departed.\n\nWidow-women don't often change their names. If without money they\nare not tempted; and if they have enough they may tempt, but seldom\nyield. The next-of-kin are very watchful over the shekels; and the man\nwho marries a widow with relations does not always enter paradise. A\nwidow-woman is looked on in the light of an investment. Here is a short\nstory. Mrs. Treloar was a widow-woman with a bit of property--just\ncomfortable, as times go. She was no great beauty, but the chapel\nsteward cast a longing eye towards her, and wished to lose no time.\nSaid he: \"We doan't want to go coorting, do us? Waste of precious time\nfor us who are both old enuf to know our own minds.\" Said she: \"You\nknaw, s'poase, ef I do marry agen, boy Tom'll have the property?\" Then\nhe: \"Why, es that so? Then you won't sell at that price, I'm thinkin'.\nGood day, my dear.\" No harm done.\n\nGuy made the observation that the people we saw about were not much\ngiven to frills. He supposed they had them packed up somewhere, but\nthere being no swagger concerts, and bands on swagger piers, with\nswagger subscription tickets for the season, no one unpacked them. It\nwould be too absurd to go about freshly dollied up, three times daily,\nto show one's self to sea-cliffs, and sea-sands, moss-grown monoliths,\nand British tumuli, and all that sort of thing. The piskies would\nlaugh. The Bookworm remembered a French professor writing that when he\nvisited the Acropolis at Athens he removed his rings and watchchain\nas being too much out of keeping with his surroundings. He said he\nsmiled at the confession at the time as \"too Frenchy,\" but it had a new\nmeaning for him here. Wherever we went no one we met seemed to want\nto show off their \"frills\" to one another, or to the hoary fragments\nof antiquity permitted to survive--one would just as soon think of\ndressing up and showing off in a museum of extinct animals. It must\ntake a lot off a woman's brain, Guy said, to know that she need not\nunpack her things; and he supposed that was one reason why so many\ntook their fresh air and sunshine treatment now on Cornish moors and\nbeaches, instead of crowding stuffy old German spas, where it was the\nrule to put in time in showing new \"frills\" to one another.\n\nThe curiosity of the people inhabiting highways, byways, and villages\nas to the going and coming of strangers has been so gratified of late,\nthat little short of a dancing bear would cause a woman to run to her\ndoor, and stare wide-eyed and open-mouthed. The advent of the hatless\none in many colours, making the sun to blush, or in oilskins in wet\nweather, seemingly satisfied the native, and made every other vagary,\nhats or no hats, clothes or none, not only possible, but something to\nbe looked for amongst strangers. A tall, thin lady, showing much wrist\nand leg, swinging a stick, and wearing her hair short, passed along the\nroad, taking it easy at five miles an hour. She was a new arrival at a\nwhitewashed house with thatched roof at the end of the village. We were\nchatting to an old woman in a big blue sunbonnet (called a \"gook\"), who\nhad rested her basket on the top step of the market cross.\n\n\"Stranger?\" asked Guy.\n\n\"Iss, sure; we doan't grow that soart in this soil, but they may wan\nday, for I do mind when they ded'n grow mangel-wuzzels. What do I caal\n'em? Why, I do caal 'em great he-shees--they'm spoiled fur women, and\nbain't vitty fur men.\"\n\nThis was a wayside verdict on a choice variety of the sort.\n\n[Illustration: ON THE SANDS.]\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: THE PILLORY, LOOE.]\n\nCHAPTER XVII\n\n\nCornish humour has its practical side with a tang. \"To curing your old\ncow till she died,\" is native. A candidate for Parliamentary honours\nonce sent the freemen of the borough a silver teapot, as a prize to be\nsailed for at the forthcoming regatta. The freemen returned it with\nthe remark that \"the taypot do not draw well enuf.\" The teapot came\nback again filled with golden guineas, which so improved its \"drawing\"\npowers that the freemen kept it. A Cornishman likes a story about some\none who comes out on top by a trick; or one which hides his meaning by\na play of words, until the situation is revealed in a flash. We picked\nup a few specimens.\n\n\n AS DEEP AS OLD HUGH.\n\nTwo brothers went a-fishing, and one was a scholar, with a reputation\nbeyond his attainments, which, in fact, were limited to reading and\nwriting, after a fashion, and reckoning with his head. The other was\na man of simple and trustful nature, and was often puzzled, but let\nthings go without inquiring deeply into them. The scholar was called\nHugh, and as he managed to come out on top on most occasions, he was\nconsidered both cunning and wise, and people encouraged their children\nto cram themselves with book-learning in order to become \"as deep as\nold Hugh;\" and \"deep as old Hugh\" became a proverb which he locally\nshared with old Nick, who, up to this time, had the monopoly. The\nsimple brother was Dick. Hugh and Dick were partners in a small boat\nand nets, and earned a poor living by their trammels, and drag-nets,\nand crab-pots. What they caught they equally divided, but Hugh always\nhad the best half, which puzzled Dick; but scratch his head as he\nmight, he could never get to the bottom of the mystery, everything\nbeing so fair and aboveboard, and done in the light of day. One day\nthey were out and caught six mackerel and six scads. Now, scads are\nof small value, and yet Dick got them all, and Hugh all the mackerel.\nHugh did the sharing: \"Here's a mackerel for me, and a scad for you,\"\nsaid he, making a division; \"and a scad for you, and a mackerel for me;\nand a mackerel for me and a scad for you,\" and so on, until _all_ the\nscads fell to Dick, and _all_ the mackerel to himself. Hugh's system\nwas perfect, and, if it could be adapted, might be depended on to break\nthe bank of Monte Carlo every night. \"How is it that I've got all the\nscads?\" asked Dick. \"It's all right,\" replied Hugh, pleasantly. \"And if\nyou don't think so, I'll do it over again--here's a mackerel for me and\na scad for you, and a scad for you and a mackerel for me,\" and so on to\nthe end, until Dick got _all_ the scads as before.\n\n[Illustration: MAKING CRAB POTS.]\n\n\"He would have settled the fiscal question in no time,\" said Guy. \"'A\nmackerel for me and a scad for you'--a fair motto for protectionists.\"\nThe game was played in the Far East with the Mikado, but the Czar got\nthe scads. It's safest played with the blind.\n\n\n THE MAN WHO SLEPT WITH A BADGER.\n\nGuy wanted something done to a shoe, and walked into a room where a\nman was sitting, waxing a long thread, and whistling to the thrushes\nand blackbirds hung around in cages. The fellow was most obliging,\nGuy told us, and put aside the work he was doing, and asked several\nquestions about himself--where he came from; where he was going; how\nlong he intended to stay; and whether his father and mother were\nliving? Then the cobbler told him about himself, and how many of the\nTremains--he being called Reuben Tremain--lay in the parish churchyard.\nAll this time Guy's shoe rested on his apron. Just a few stitches\nwere all that was wanted, and Mr. Tremain got in one when he started\ntalking of London, what a \"braave plaace\" it must be, and what a \"pure\nfew\" people it contained, all being true that he had heard. Guy forgot\nabout his shoe, and gave an entertaining sketch of a London crowd\nin Fleet Street on Lord Mayor's Day, and the Lord Mayor's show was\ndescribed in his best style. And then the Crystal Palace on a f\u00eate\nday, and on a Handel Festival day, and the Houses of Parliament, and\nMadame Tussaud's! Guy made the Arabian Nights' Entertainments look\nsmall, and he began to fear that Reuben Tremain would be paralyzed with\nadmiration, and unable to put in another stitch. All the morning was\ngone, and Guy still sat on a low three-legged stool, with one shoe off,\nas happy as any Lord Chancellor on the Woolsack. He really was enjoying\nhimself with the simple Reuben.\n\n\"Ded 'ee ever hear tell ov a man up to Lunnon who slept with a\nbadger?\" asked the cobbler, at length piercing the shoe with his awl\nfor another stitch.\n\n\"A real, live badger?\"\n\n\"Ess, sure, live enough.\"\n\n\"Never,\" said Guy, turning up his nose.\n\n\"Why, a badger----\" And he put his thumb and finger to his nostrils,\nwith a sign which meant more than words.\n\n\"I knaw a man,\" said the cobbler, confidentially, \"who have slept with\na badger for ten year, come next Michaelmas Fair goose day. And he got\nso accustomed to it that he cudn't sleep apart. Would 'ee like to see\nthe badger?\"\n\n\"Very much.\"\n\n\"And the man?\"\n\n\"Oh, certainly. One of Nature's freaks.\"\n\n\"Two ov em!\" said Reuben, solemnly, putting in the last stitch, and\nhanding the shoe to Guy.\n\n\"You'd like to see what's to be seen, s'poase?\"\n\nThe cobbler whistled shrilly whilst untying his apron, and a woman with\ndark hazel eyes, and a face aquiline and refined, appeared. Guy made\nhis best bow.\n\n\"The gentleman do want to see the badger that the man slept with,\" said\nReuben, slowly.\n\n\"And the man, I should like to see the man who had such extraordinary\ntaste,\" added Guy, saying something just to enable him to look at the\nwoman without being rude.\n\nThe woman reddened, and her eyes sparkled.\n\n\"Tell un, my dear, what name you owned to avoor you was married,\" said\nthe cobbler.\n\n\"Badger; and too good for you,\" replied the lady.\n\n\"That's the badger, and this is the man,\" said the cobbler, with a\nsmile.\n\nGuy was very cross when he told the story. Only to think that he had\npainted London town and London wit in such colours; and then to be\ndropped on by a simple cobbler before a handsome woman! But he wasn't\ncross long, and he went out and bought a pretty chain, and gave it to\nthe cobbler to lead his \"badger\" with. So Guy and the cobbler cried\nquits.\n\n\n THE PARSON TRUMPS.\n\nTo be able to do a \"clane off trick\" is to be the hero in a parish\nfor generations, and Parson Arscott was quoted at all the fairs as\na masterpiece for doing the thing clane off at a horse deal. The\nstory goes that the reverend gentleman attended Summercourt Fair,\nwhich is famed throughout the land. If you can't get what you want at\nSummercourt Fair, you must be hard to please, for the lame and the\nblind are there, the young and the aged, the sound and unsound, and\nyou buy on your own judgment and without warranty. Parson Arscott knew\na good horse when he saw it, and went early and looked about him. In\nthe thick of the fair the parson went and examined the horses' tails,\nand so attracted attention to himself, for every one knows that to tell\na horse's age you must open its mouth, and look at its teeth. And the\ncurious part of the business was that the parson knew as much about\nthe animal he was handling by lifting its tail as other people did by\nopening its mouth. At length, parson came to a nice little cob that\nsuited him, and the deal began. It was a weary deal, but parson was\nfirm. \"I've looked at his tail, and I know he's rising five,\" said he;\nand he was right,--whatever the parson said about the cob was right,\nand yet he never once looked at its mouth. There was a trifle of five\npounds between them when the shades of evening began to fall, and no\nhope of any advance on the part of the parson. At last the dealer\nsaid, \"Tell me how you know a horse's age by his tail, and you shall\nhave the cob.\" The parson counted down the guineas, and whispered, \"I\nlooked into his mouth beforehand.\" \"Parson Arscott's deal\" makes a\nhorse-dealer shiver to this day.\n\n\n THE PARSON EUCHRED.\n\nBut sharp as the parson was at the fair, he was no match for a woman\non her own ground. Parson was round collecting his tithes, and came\nto a farm whereon the farmer's wife presented her husband with a tenth\nchild, and an old sow littered ten years.\n\n\"Passun es out in the town plaace, and es coom vur th' tithe pig. Which\nshall us giv'm?\" asked the farmer of his better half, sitting in the\nkitchen suckling her baby.\n\n\"Tithe pig, es et? What next, I wonder? I'll tithe pig'n,\" says Mrs.\nFarmer, rising and taking the infant with her.\n\nThe parson was very polite, of course, to Mrs. Farmer and number ten,\nand asked about the christening.\n\n\"That's vur you to zay, passun,\" says the lady, holding out number ten.\n\"He do belong to you.\"\n\nThe parson flushed. This was not in his line.\n\n\"Ess sure 'e do--tes the tithing cheeld, and now you take un.\"\n\nFarmer made his appearance with the weakliest of the ten vears\nsquealing in his arms, and the parson made towards him, but the woman\nwas equal to the occasion and stood between them, shouting, \"No cheeld,\nno vear,\" and that time she had her way, and saved the little pig.\n\nSo there arose a saying in the parish that a parson might cheat the\ndevil, but a woman could cheat a parson.\n\n\"Every one to his trade,\" said Guy.\n\n * * * * *\n\nTo be \"sure for sartin\" is an averment of absolute knowledge, but a\nCornishman is not often willing to speak to anything in so pronounced\na fashion. To be \"sure as can be\" admits of a loophole and many\nexplanations in the event of error. Something non-committal in the\nshape of speech suits him best. Things of no consequence become\nmysterious when screened with secrecy. An ordinary conversation is like\nthis--\n\n\"Where are you going?\"\n\n\"Down along.\"\n\n\"Where to?\"\n\n\"Past the corner.\"\n\n\"How far?\"\n\n\"A pure bit.\"\n\n\"Will you be long?\"\n\n\"Maybe.\"\n\n\"Say an hour?\"\n\n\"If you like.\"\n\n\"Or two?\"\n\n\"Shudn't wonder.\"\n\nAnd so on, and so on, until the questioner is tired of asking further\nquestions. The people don't notice anything peculiar about this want of\ndirectness in reply to the simplest questions. To tell the truth, and\nyet to mislead, is looked on as an accomplishment which may be turned\nto profit without scandal, as by the man who sold a blind horse as free\nfrom vice. \"To be blind is a misfortune and not a vice,\" replied the\nseller, when charged with deceit.\n\nCornish diamonds are hard to beat on a deal. We chanced upon a couple\none market day chaffering about a pig in a tap-room.\n\n\"Twenty score weight, and fippence a pound.\"\n\n\"Fourpence ha'penny, and I'll take the head and oal ov'm.\"\n\n\"An' barley eighteen shillin' a bushel! I'll see to it.\"\n\nOne hour already by the clock had been consumed by the little farmer\nwho had a pig to sell, and the little pork-butcher who wanted to buy\none, and there was this ha'penny between them. Friendly customers\nchaffed a bit and threw in a word between drinks, and it seemed that\nthe jobber who could keep a stiff upper lip and his temper longest\nwould come out on top. The unfortunate pig was haggled over with and\nwithout the hams, with and without the bacon fat, with one ham only,\nwith its head, without its head, with only half its head, and every\ncunning offer of the little pork-butcher was resisted with a fineness\nof perception of self-interest that would have done credit to the peace\nplenipotentiaries at Portsmouth.\n\nAnother hour passed, and the butcher advanced one farthing--fourpence\nthree-farthings, but without the head, and then there was the \"luck\npenny.\" At last the whole carcase was sold, head and all, at fourpence\nthree-farthings, and the \"luck penny\" was \"spent out.\" It was a hard\ndeal, and neither seemed too well pleased. Only the customers all said\nit was a fair bargain, and seemed pleased when the men shook hands over\nit.\n\n[Illustration: A TAIL-PIECE.]\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: AN ALLEY.]\n\nCHAPTER XVIII\n\n\nLife on a farm by the roar of the sea approaches the ideal upon earth.\nIt isn't quite the ideal, because the ideal is always round the corner;\nbut it is near it, and that is something to be thankful for. Mrs.\nAndrawartha ran the farm, and she had two tall, strapping sons and a\ndaughter. Mrs. Andrawartha was what is called a \"comfortable\" woman;\nand \"comfort\" is the one virtue prized above rubies in these parts.\n\n[Illustration: OLD NEWLYN.]\n\nIt was through accident that we struck the farm one afternoon, the\nfact being that the Bookworm was limping, having slightly sprained his\nankle. There wasn't much to recommend us at first sight--three dusty\nwayfarers, with small knapsacks, and no warts or other indications\nof royal lineage upon either of us. The farmhouse was situated in an\nold-fashioned garden, and a good, roomy porch, with seats on either\nside, offered hospitality. Open windows were visible through luxuriant\nfuchsias and creepers, but what the walls were built of no one could\ntell, so completely covered were they with flowering plants. It was a\nsort of place which wanted to be looked at again and again, something\nfresh coming into view each time; and the oftener you looked at it the\nmore you liked it.\n\nThe Bookworm rapped modestly with his knuckles upon the thick door, but\nno one came. We could hear voices, and an aromatic perfume filled the\npassage. The Bookworm tried again, and only hurt his knuckles. Then\nGuy said he'd negociate, and if he got into trouble we were there to\nhelp him. The smell of burning furze and brambles guided him to the\ngreat kitchen, and he winked again and coughed as the smoke from the\nwide open fireplace filled his eyes. There was a little maid heaping\nup the thorns and brambles, and somewhere in the blue haze he saw the\nsupple outline of a young girl, with her arms bare. They were heating\nthe brick oven for bread-baking. A very sweet voice floated through the\nfilm of blue, aromatic smoke. A sudden draught cleared the smoke, and\nGuy stood face to face with the owner of the voice; and a nice face\nit was, now radiant with the heat from the burning brambles. The bare\narms were dimpled, and the whole figure was cased in a white wrapper,\nshowing to perfection the clear skin, and brown hair, and light hazel\neyes of the young girl. This was Miss Andrawartha.\n\nMrs. Andrawartha was in the \"living-room\" (and a nice room it was),\noverlooking much of the farm land, the sea beyond, and the great\ncliffs, rising sheer from the yellow sands, playing hide-and-seek\nbetween them. The lady was portly, and sat in a chair made for comfort\nbefore the open window, and Guy, ushered into the presence of such\nhomely dignity, wished to stammer an excuse, and back out. Remembrance\nof the sprained foot alone restrained him.\n\n\"You can stop here as long as you've a mind to, if only you behave\nyourselves,\" said the lady in the chair.\n\n\"Three of us?\" queried Guy.\n\n\"The house is big enough,\" said the lady.\n\nGuy made a rush for the porch. \"Come in, you beggars,\" said he;\n\"there's a queen inside, and a divinity in the kitchen.\"\n\nAt the evening meal we were incorporated with the family. Mrs.\nAndrawartha, in her chair of comfort, presided, supported by her two\ntall sons, then us, then the farm servants, and the daughter of the\nhouse at the other end of the table.\n\nOur presence made no difference to the social economy of the farm,\nexcept that Mrs. Andrawartha presided over a late breakfast in the\nliving-room. This was quite a personal compliment, and never could\nwoman look more \"comfortable\" than the widow Andrawartha at table.\n\n\"If this is farm life, I'm a convert for ever,\" said Guy, chipping an\negg and catching the white cream in his spoon.\n\nThe bread, just perfumed with the aroma of the burning furze with which\nthe clome oven was heated, was delicious by itself, but with the butter\nthick upon it, the palate rose to the occasion and was satisfied. The\nhome-cured ham in front of the comfortable widow would take no denial,\nand must be tasted. The cream, with its sheen of gold, and the honey,\nwinking wickedly at the cream, would not be put aside; so there was\nnothing for it but to mix them both in holy matrimony upon the perfumed\nbed of bread. There was such a blend of delicate flavours and sightly\ndelicacies that our eyes would shut, so that nothing might interfere\nwith the joys of taste. Only a few flowers were on the table, but\nthrough the open window floated the scents of the garden, and the bees\nhummed and waltzed, and there was room for all, and to spare, at the\ntable of the comfortable widow.\n\n\"Great Scott!\" said Guy. \"I shall never forget. Such everything! Only\nthe worst of it is, I shall never like anything again for evermore.\nFancy shop eggs, and 'best Dosset,' and alumed bread, and stale ham\nafter this feast of the gods, when they lived among men. There's one\nsaint still in Cornwall--the saint of good things at the shrine of the\ncomfortable widow.\"\n\nWe left the Bookworm to himself and the odd volumes of the _Arminian\nMagazine_, and suchlike food for such as he, and he seemed as pleased\nas Punch at the thought of being alone with anything musty, fusty, and\nout of date.\n\n\"Incurable,\" said Guy. \"This reading habit sticks to a fellow of his\nsort, like dram-drinking to a tramp.\"\n\nGuy was in the seventh heaven of delight when the daughter of the house\ntold him that in an orchard, through which the brook ran to the sea,\nthere were some trout. Her father used to bring home \"a fine passul\"\nsometimes, and his rod and lines were all in the house, for the boys\nnever troubled the fish. So Guy went a-fishing, his heart full of\ncontent with his breakfast, and susceptible to the diviner impressions\nwhich the daughter of the house in blue print and white apron might\nmake upon him. The boys called her \"Phil,\" but her name was Phyllis;\nhe had got so far as that, when the widow's voice awoke him from\ncontemplation of eyes and hair, and all the points which young men like\nto study at chance meetings.\n\nHe found the brook, and then the orchard. The water was as bright as\nglass, and the sun-motes danced upon it between the shadows. Trout\nthere were in the stream, but they had not tasted a worm for a month,\nexcept by chance, and the flies were not to their liking. Guy walked\nup stream to where the brook was fed by two trickling rills, where\nthere was some depth of water, and an old, overhanging bank, and\ncurrent enough for his fly to sail downward, temptingly, to the eyes of\nadventurous trout wanting to see life. At the deepest part the stream\nwas shadowed by a large apple tree, and here Guy changed his flies, and\ncast deftly towards the spot where he felt sure the king of the stream\nmust linger, if, indeed, it had a king. Presently, a melodious splash\nabove his own fly told its secret, and Guy's hopes rose until he caught\na little beauty, and then another, and another, and laid them on the\ngrass, covering them with dock leaves with loving tenderness. Small fry\nthat he would have been thankful for on other days he returned to the\nstream with words of advice.\n\nBreakfast doesn't last for ever, and Guy began to feel peckish, but\nhe wasn't going to give up yet, not he. He'd take home a fry of trout\nwhich would send an incense above the farm to the blue heavens, and\nmake all invisible spirits envious. Presently he heard dry branches\nbreaking under a light footstep, and the daughter of the farm stood by\nhim, a ministering angel, with a pasty and a bottle of milk in a basket\ncovered with a cloth of purest white. This was what she used to do for\nher father, who wouldn't leave off until he had a dish to his liking;\nand mother, thinking all men who fished for trout were the same,\nsent her with the basket of \"croust\" to keep off the pangs. So the\ndainty messenger. Then Guy uncovered his spoil, and Phyllis played him\nartlessly, so that he, in his turn, rose and bolted the sweet bait, and\nturned to go down stream again, only to know that he was in the toils,\nunless the fair angler should let him go.\n\nShe must go herself now, and Guy, who could not get away on his own\naccount, felt grieved that release must come. It was sudden, but\nirresistible, and the thrilling exquisite. Then came the shock. \"I am\nbespoke already, sir.\" The line parted.\n\nGuy fished and fished until after sunset, but joy of capture was gone.\nHe had himself been captured, and felt pity. Still he brought home a\nfine basket, and the comfortable widow served them up for breakfast,\nwhole, and still beautiful.\n\nThe Bookworm, nursing his slight sprain, enjoyed himself in his own\nfashion, and, rummaging at the back of the open book-case, unearthed\na book, bound in parchment, which commenced with farm accounts, and\nended with \"Receipts and Charms for the Cure of Man and Beastes.\"\nThe pages were undated, but were written a hundred years ago by one\nAndrawartha, grandfather of the comfortable widow's husband. The\ndocument bore the following preface:--\n\n\"Lest I forget what has been told to me, I commit to paper charms and\nother devices for the cure of men and beastes. My forbears used these\ncharms for more years than I can tell, and those who use them must have\nfaith in them that they will work their work, or they labour in vain.\nAnd I pray God that I commit no sin in handing down what I have been\ntaught, but that it may be counted merit in me to preserve what has\nbeen found out with much labour, and hath spared man and beast great\nand grievous sufferings in the flesh, and saved much money, when it\ncould ill be spent, as, God wot, is the case on farms in this country.\n\n \"'Mortal are we and subject to diseases,\n We all must die even when and how God pleases!\n Into the world but one way we do come,\n A thousand ways from hence we are sent home.'\"\n\nSome of the receipts would offend moderns, but all were seemingly set\ndown in good faith; and the Bookworm copied many, with permission.\n\n\"A tooth from a dead man's mouth carried in the pocket is an infallible\ncharm against toothache.\"\n\n\"The eighth psalm read three times a day, three days running, cures the\nthrush.\"\n\n\"To keep away evil spirits from cattle, nail four horse-shoes in the\nform of a cross against the door.\"\n\n\"A church key applied to a wound stops bleeding.\"\n\n\"Bore a hole in a nutmeg and tie round your neck, and nibble nine\nmornings fasting, and boils will disappear in spring and autumn.\"\n\n\"Breathe over a newly made grave, and cure a cough.\"\n\n\"Take spoonful of earth from grave of newly interred virgin, dissolve\nin water, and drink fasting, to cure 'decline.'\"\n\n\"Toad's liver fried is good for rheumatism, so also are adders' tails;\nthe adders must be killed whilst dew is on them.\"\n\n\"The sign of the cross drawn on wood, stone, or metal, and bound over a\nwound, stops bleeding in man or beast.\"\n\nFor toothache was this formula: \"Upon a rock St. Peter stood, towards\nJerusalem. And Peter prayed, 'Lord, forgive me my sins, and I shall\nbe free. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy\nGhost.--Amen.' Say three times a day, three days running, and drink\npowdered brimstone water between whiles.\"\n\nTo cure heartache: \"Sleep with key of church door around your neck.\"\n\n\"Water taken from church font is good for children with rickets, and\nwill straighten bow-legged children, and children with 'wobbles.'\"\n\n\"Black spiders dried and powdered cure heart-burn.\" There were many\nother cures for heart-burn, and all of them nasty, so nasty that\nspider-powder sprinkled in water was dainty by comparison.\n\nMeteorolites and curious stones when ground to powder will cure men or\nbeasts of all common diseases, and blue snake-stones are infallible in\ncase of snake-bite.\n\nThere were love philtres innumerable, and it appeared that a deserted\nmaid had only to steal her lover's jacket, turn the sleeves inside out,\nbury it at midnight in a churchyard, and then, presto! the lover's\nheart would turn, and turn, as the jacket rotted in the ground, until\nhe came back repentant to his ancient flame.\n\nThe Bookworm made notes of many other things which would do for the\ncurious in such matters, and remarked as singular that, in all the\nbook, there was no reference to saints or invocations to saints, which,\nhe said, was very strange in the land of saints. Guy confessed that\nthe matter was beyond him, and said he did not care if he never heard\nthe word \"saint\" again. Saint this, and saint that, and saint the\nother--there was too much of it in one small county, to his taste.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: A CORNISH INTERIOR.]\n\nCHAPTER XIX\n\n\nMrs. Andrawartha took kindly to the Bookworm; he was the lame duck of\nthe party, and so she took a motherly interest in him, and got him to\ntalk about himself and his sleepless, restless nights, until he came\ninto this land wherein Nature was at rest, beautifying herself after\npassionate upheavals. And then she told him fairy stories about piskies\nwith half-shy credulity, and sorrow in her face and voice that the old\norder had changed and given place to new. In her young days a pedlar\nwith a big dog used to travel from farmhouse to farmhouse, and always\ngot hospitality in exchange for news. At night all the household\ncrowded around the pedlar to hear him fiddle and sing, and tell stories\nof the piskies, and of men who listened to the songs of mermaids, and\ndisappeared from family and life. This pedlar--\"Uncle\" Anthony he was\ncalled--was a poet, and his piskies were real, as real as sunshine and\nshadow and the music of the birds. He knew them by name and talked to\nthem, and met them by moonlight on the moors, and what \"Uncle\" Anthony\nsaid was gospel truth.\n\n[Illustration: THE OLD MILL.]\n\nThere was an old miller, living at an old mill not so very far away,\nwho had the reputation of knowing more about piskies than any man\nbreathing. It was only a walking distance for the Bookworm, and Guy\ntook his rod with him, having been told that below the mill he might\ncast a fly with some prospect of sport. Whipping a stream is something,\nand Guy said he'd rather cast at shadows than hang about a dusty old\nmill, listening to a foolish old man prating about foolish things. In\nfact, he was a little strong in his language, as he usually was when\ntalking about people or things which did not interest him very much.\n\nThe old piskie man at the mill was, in fact, the Bookworm's \"find,\"\nwhich was quite enough, as a rule, to put Guy in opposition, and\nincline him to use epigrammatic language touched with red.\n\nWe reached the mill, the like of which is hardly to be found again\nwithin the four corners of the kingdom. It was a one-story building,\nand that so low that we had to be careful when inside not to knock\nour heads against the beams, and the machinery was as primitive as\nthe process of grinding corn between revolving stones driven by water\npower. The ancient hopper was being slowly consumed by worms, and the\n\"bolting\" cloths hung limp and dusty, like the cloths sent home from\nEgyptian tombs. We first spied the miller looking through a ventilation\nhole, which served as a window. When we entered the mill he was sitting\non the lid of a thick oak chest, which had outlived the centuries, and\nseemed quite capable of lasting for ever.\n\nThe miller was withered, like the chest, and might have been believed\nif he said he was as old as the mill, only his eyes were bright and\nferrety as they took stock of us through the flour dust accumulated\non his eyebrows and lashes--a sort of flour mummy outside of his\ngrave-clothes out for an airing, he looked. The machinery was in motion\nwhen we entered, and a fine dust soon settled upon us, and then set us\ncoughing and choking, so that we made a hasty retreat through the door,\nthe top half of which was already open.\n\nThe miller's cottage was a thatched dwelling tacked on to the mill,\nwhich was also thatched, but nothing was visible of the cottage but\nwindows, on account of the clustering roses and myrtles and fuschias\nwhich clung to the old \"cob\" walls, and crept along the eaves, and\nscrambled along the thatch.\n\nThe old miller followed us out into the open, and stopped the wheel by\nturning off the water; and then we noticed that the dripping wheel was\nfestooned with lichen, and was half-hidden under the shadow of a huge\nflowering laurel. There were only three other cottages in the village,\nand these were all flower-laden; and now the clat, clat, clatter of\nthe old wheel was stopped, the air was musical with the hum of insect\nsymphonies. And then the perfume!\n\nWe looked at one another and wondered.\n\n\"Quiet like,\" said the old man; and that was all he had to say about\nthis antique gem in a garden of myrtles and roses. \"Quiet like,\"\nindeed! Surely men may live in beauty until they cease to see it.\n\nWe were out piskie-hunting to-day, all except Guy, who already had his\neye upon the stream which passed the old mill, then broadened where\nit could be seen glistening in the sunshine. He wasn't long before\nhe deserted us, and we were not sorry, being sure that if he once\ncommenced questioning the miller in his off-hand manner, the old man\nwould dry up quickly, and we should hear little.\n\nThe Bookworm took the old man's fancy by telling him about a new\nprocess for grinding flour between rollers so hard that they could only\nbe cut by diamonds, and then, with many windings, got on the track\nof the piskies. He took a lot of starting, it is true, but when once\nstarted he covered a good deal of ground. He would take his own course,\nand a crooked one it was, but capable of being straightened out, which\nis more than can truly be said of the discourses of some very learned\npeople.\n\nHe was as \"sure and sartin\" that piskies were real beings, and existed\neven now, as that \"water was wet,\" and he ought to know, because there\nwas a piskie which belonged to the old mill. There was some trouble one\nday at the mill about the non-delivery of \"grist,\" the miller being\ncharged with taking unfair toll, and he shifted the responsibility on\nto his wife, who thereupon transferred the blame to the piskie, as the\nperson least likely to suffer in consequence. It so happened that the\npiskie got to know of the slander, and he came to the mill in a great\nrage, and swore an oath binding in fairyland, not to do another stroke\nof work in the old mill for two generations.\n\n\"When I was a boy,\" said the old man, \"I used to see the piskie that\nbelonged to the mill sitting on the stones when they were grinding as\ncomfortable as a fly would rest upon a turning wheel. And why not?\nWhen my father went to market, and stopped away days, when there was no\nneed, the work was done all the same. My father liked that very well,\nonly the piskie would give too good 'tummels' when he filled the sacks;\nand when my father took too much toll, then he would tickle the palm of\nhis hand, and make it itch, to remind him that he was cheating. When\na miller is honest, a tuft of hair grows in the middle of his palm;\nbut it didn't ever sprout in my fathers, which made him poor-tempered\nsometimes. The piskie was in the shape of a man--very dark,\nblack-haired, and cross-eyed. He could work best, the old folks said,\nwhen not seen; only his voice was large for his size, and made people\nknow when he was about. He was the spirit of the mill, and belonged to\nit, so there was no question of payment; and the children grew knowing\nhe was there, and were not afraid. Why should they be? When the piskie\nsaid he would do no more work for two generations, my father stuck to\nwork himself, which was better for him in the long run; and I've had to\nstick to it, and shall stick to it till I die, and then the piskie will\nbe free to come again.\"\n\n\"And are there piskies now?\"\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"I don't know. But do people believe in them?\" asked the Bookworm.\n\nThe old miller seemed to resent the question, and was so long in\nreplying that we thought we had made a mess of it. It, however,\nappeared that he was only thinking; and at last he said--\n\n\"For sartin sure they do. You can't make butter if the piskies turn the\ncream against the sun, and every dairymaid will tell 'ee so. If the\npiskie up to Barton farm has a spite against a new maid, he'll spoil\nher baking of bread, so that the bread will come out of the oven full\nof 'piskie-spits,' and he'll play her tricks until she is turned out of\nthe house. When I was a boy, the piskies used to have fine fun with the\nmaidens up to Barton on winter nights when all the work was done. They\nused to blaw out the candles and kiss the maids, and the maids would\nscreech and find fault with the boys, and 'scat their chacks' for being\ntoo free in the dark. The piskies were full of fun, and would whisper\nin a maid's ear when she was sleeping, and tickle her nose to wake her\nwhen she had bad dreams. When the maids were courting they'd lead 'em a\npretty dance, and drive 'em to quarrel with their sweethearts, and then\nhelp 'em to make it up again.\"\n\nBut the old man did not think they were as plentiful as they used to\nbe, for the simple reason that people had learnt to do without them.\nWhat would be the good of the piskies in the harvest-field now, when\neverything was done by machinery; or in dairies, where butter was made\nin churns; or in flour-mills, where corn was broken between rollers\nso hard that a diamond could only scratch them? The old man found it\nas hard to swallow the Bookworm's description of roller mills as we\nfound it to swallow his stories, and his were much more inviting. The\nancient miller rambled on and on, telling us of tricks played upon his\nvery own grandfather, who, returning from market with more brandy toddy\nunder his belt than his weak head could carry, dared to cross a piskie\nring on the moor without first turning his pockets inside out by way of\nhomage. The poor man was pinched black and blue, was bound with bonds\ninnumerable, no thicker than spiders' webs, and then, to tantalize him,\nhis eyes were \"struck\" with magic unguent, and he was able to see the\nfeasting and rioting going on all around him, without being able to\nenjoy the situation--all of which he did most steadfastly believe.\n\n\"Blow the piskies!\" said Guy, rejoining us without warning. \"Blow the\npiskies! Did you ever catch one, Master Miller?\"\n\nA look of horror passed over the withered old face, which made it look\nuncanny. Catch a piskie, indeed! Had he been asked whether he'd ever\nrobbed a church, he might have taken it less seriously.\n\n\"Never mind,\" said Guy, airily, seeing that he'd been guilty of\nsomething--\"never mind; if you never have, you still may. Specimens\ngetting scarcer, suppose, and a bit expensive; only, you just pin one\non to a card and send it to me registered, for safety, and I'll come\ndown handsomely.\"\n\nThe old man never recovered power of speech while we were with him, and\nhe shook hands with the Bookworm and me automatically. We left him with\neyes wide open, staring before him. I don't think he quite understood\nGuy's humour. The idea of catching a piskie and pinning it to a card,\nlike small boys do cockchafers, came too suddenly upon him. Then to\nregister a piskie and send it through the post-office--deporting an\nancient divinity under a postage stamp--set up ideas which wanted\nthinking out.\n\nI told Guy I feared the shock would be too much for the old man; but he\nonly laughed, and said--\n\n\"Blow the piskie, and look at my beauty!\"\n\nHe had managed to catch a trout too small for anything, and he patted\nhimself on the back, and talked about it until he really believed he\nhad done something deserving the world's gratitude.\n\n\"After all,\" said the Bookworm, when tired of listening to Guy and\n\"fly\" this or \"fly\" the other--\"after all, there's no great difference\nbetween Guy and the miller. Guy's little trout has become a fairy\nalready, and to-morrow will be even more wonderful than the miller's\npiskies. The mind's receptivity must----\"\n\nI know I lost a great deal, and ought to be sorry for it, I dare say;\nbut the word \"receptivity\" was too much, and I managed to escape that\ntime.\n\n[Illustration: PERRAN PORTH.]\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: GORRAN HARBOUR.]\n\nCHAPTER XX\n\n\nThere was a queer, dried stick of a man at the farm whom we never heard\nspeak except to say \"Ess, maister,\" and \"zackly.\" His name was Jacob,\nand he was famous for having given a shrewd answer on one occasion\nwhen asked how he knew when he had had enough to eat. \"When I do feel\nmy buttons,\" said he; and people then said that Jacob was wiser than\nhe looked, which was, no doubt, true, for he did not look very wise.\nThe old boy had a trick of wandering about at nights, and was credited\nwith having seen strange things which he was \"a nation sight too artful\nto talk about.\" After the evening meal Mrs. Andrawartha induced him\nto stay with us, and tell us the story of something which happened at\na neighbouring farm. Jacob was reared on the place, and so knew all\nabout it. The widow translated as he went along, and the story ran like\nthis:--\n\n\n JACOB'S PISKIE STORY.\n\nA farmer, Nicholas Annear by name, was known far and wide as Ould\nHurry-all. Every one about him was always glad to see his back turned,\nso as to have \"a bit\" of peace and quietness in the house. His wife\nwas just the opposite, and took things easy, and when Nickey was going\nto drive to market in his cart, he nearly drove every one on the place\nmazed. 'Twas hurry, hurry, hurry all the time; and one day he was worse\nthan ever, and broke all the clome dishes in his tantrums. The poor\nwoman threw her apron over her head, and began to weep and sob so as to\nbe heard a mile off.\n\nNow, you must know, there's a little man piskie which belonged to\nthe Missus's family, and came with her to her new home when she was\nmarried. He used to do odd jobs for her to make things go smooth when\nNickey was taisey-like, which was every day now, for he got worse with\nage.\n\n\"What's the matter, Missus?\" asks the little man.\n\n\"I wish I was dead,\" says Missus. \"That Nickey'll drive me as mad as a\ncurly, an' I'm only a shadder now.\"\n\nShe weighed ten score, but she thought she was failing.\n\n\"I'll give'm a lesson,\" says the little man.\n\nNow, what did the piskie do? He hopped on to the cart by the side of\nNickey, only Nickey couldn't see him, and he made a picture right\nbefore his very eyes so that he saw the church tower standing in the\nmarket-place as large as life. And he drove and he drove, hurry, hurry\nall the time, and he'd scarce give himself time to speak a civil word\nto people as he passed along. He drove, and he drove, and he drove, and\nthere was the church tower before him. The pigs in the cart squealed\nlouder and louder as they got more and more famished, and the horse\nbegan to fail, and Nickey got madder and madder. Evening began to fall,\nand still the church tower was in front of him; and then night came,\nand the pigs were quiet through hunger, and the horse could scarcely\nput one leg before the other.\n\nAnd what did the little man do? Oh, he was artful. When the market was\nall over, and night came, he removed the picture of the church tower in\nthe market-place from Nickey's eyes, and, lo and behold! the horse was\nstanding, dead tired and ready to drop, outside of the very gate which\nit had been driven from in the morning.\n\nNicholas Annear was a reformed man after that, and was no more in a\nhurry over things than his neighbours. But the story got about, of\ncourse, and the people have a saying now that \"a man in a hurry will be\nlate to market.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\nThe Early Church seems to have had a great deal of trouble with\npiskies, and every effort was made to put the people out of love with\nthem. It was said that they were the souls of unbaptized infants and\nservants of \"Old Artful,\" and for that reason they would neither enter\na church nor come within sound of church bells. But Mrs. Andrawartha\ntold us of a legend which goes back further, namely, that piskies are\nthe children of Adam and Eve, who wouldn't be washed on Saturday nights\nbefore going to bed. Those who could get away did, to avoid having\ntheir eyes filled with soap, and two hid away so effectually that they\nwere never found again, although Adam and Eve sent the crier round, and\nthen cried themselves until they were tired. These wandering children\nlived upon fern-seed, mixed with dew flavoured with sunbeams, until\nthey acquired the power of becoming invisible, and then they returned\nhome, and did household work, and other things, for the family; but\nthey were like the famous soap that wouldn't wash. The old people\nused to tell children that they would be turned into piskies if they\nwouldn't have their Saturday-night tubbing and say their prayers and go\nto bed.\n\nThere is a little brown moth called the \"piskie,\" and children are now\ntold that if they are not good these piskie-moths will play them tricks\nin their sleep. The School Boards have wrestled with the piskie and\nfailed, and now the County Council is in the ring. Still the piskie,\nvisible and invisible, lives.\n\nThe Bookworm was on his legs again, and we all were sorry to leave\nthe farm and the comfortable widow. Guy managed to linger behind and\nget a last word with Phyllis, the daughter of the house, and exchange\nphotographs, or, perhaps, something dearer to romance. The two tall\nsons walked with us \"a pure distance,\" and told us the names of the\nfarms round about, names which none but a native could ever remember.\nThey told us that the Andrawarthas had farmed this land, from father\nto son, for over three centuries. The eldest son was going to marry\nsoon and bring home his wife, but would not dispossess his mother\nduring her lifetime. Only the other son would go afield--Australia or\nCanada--and set up for himself; and Phyllis was to be married soon to\na neighbouring farmer, who would follow his own father by-and-bye.\nEverything seemed so orderly as they talked, as though the currents of\nlife flowed strong and deep, and the idea of home was never disturbed.\nThe young people did not stay at home dividing and subdividing lands\nand chattels until there was nothing to divide, but went abroad and set\nup new homesteads, calling them by the old names. Young Andrawartha\nsaid, whether he settled in Canada or Australia, he'd call his farm\nafter the old place. If he couldn't have anything else he'd have the\nname to comfort him. Many of the young men did that, he said, when they\nsettled in a new place.\n\nThe Bookworm said Cornwall was a bigger place than it looked, or than\ncould be gripped between the arms of the Atlantic, because of the\ntributaries it sent all over the world, every man taking with him a bit\nof Cornish earth and love, and setting up a new colony beyond the seas,\njust as the old Greeks carried with them some of the fire from the\nancient hearths.\n\nGuy said he would remember the name of the farm for the rest of his\nlife, and he tramped along with laggard steps, and would have given\nmuch for an excuse to run back and find a dropped handkerchief, and\nshake hands over again with the comfortable widow, on the chance of\nseeing Phyllis the bespoke. When we got off the estate, and the young\nmen left us, he wanted to know whether it was possible to fancy the\ndainty Phyllis as \"comfortable\" in days to come as her portly mother?\n\nWe turned round just to take a last look at the farmhouse wherein\nwe had been so well treated. The dwelling and all the outhouses\nmade a goodly show, and, at a distance, the yellow lichen--a poor,\npoverty-looking thing enough--covering the roofs, had the appearance of\nburnished gold. Nature here will insist on dressing herself out in most\nunlikely places, and has a trick of her own for covering up ugliness.\nA flash of sunshine, a breath of air, a pinch of dust kissed with dew,\nand flat slates on ugly roofs are covered with cloth of gold for the\ntired feet of winged spirits of the air. This was the last view that\nthree tramps had, and the remembrance remains with them.\n\nA Cornishman seldom travels without a pasty. When small, a pasty\nis a snack; when large, it's a meal. Mrs. Andrawartha gave each of\nus a pasty to keep us from fainting by the way, just the same as a\nconsiderate hostess elsewhere would slip a packet of dainty sandwiches\ninto the hands of departing guests. \"You'll find'm good,\" said she,\nwith honest pride; and we did.\n\nThe home of the pasty is Cornwall. It may be met with in Devon, and is\npossible in Yorkshire, but Cornwall is its home now. In a sense the\npasty is Cornish. There are other dishes, but the pasty comes first,\nthe making of which is handed down from generation to generation.\nEvery created thing that may be eaten goes into a pasty--fish, flesh,\nor fowl, and the herb of the field, whether sweet or sour, to say\nnothing of fruits and humble potatoes and turnips. When a woman has a\nrage for pasty-making, nothing comes amiss when the strip of dough is\nready. There's a knack in turning out a shapely pasty no longer than\none's hand, or big enough for a family to carve at and come again. All\npasties are alike on the outside; and the cable-twist running from end\nto end, delicately tapering from the centre towards the points, is a\nwork of art to look at. As the pasty goes to the oven, so it comes out,\npuffed up a little with self-conscious pride at having gone through\nthe fiery trial and come out a generous brown, with every cable-twist\nintact, and every curve swelling with inward importance. The origin\nof the pasty is lost with the language, but the thing is universal,\nand the friend of all. The workman takes it in his bag, the traveller\npops it in his pocket, the family sit around it. No knife, no fork,\nno tablecloth is wanted; out comes the pasty, and the feast begins.\nA pasty fresh from the oven sends up an incense which makes a hungry\nman thankful to be alive. A man will call at a friend's house with his\npasty in his pocket, and the good woman will warm it for him, and he'll\njoin the family circle without any one thinking it an intrusion. Tea\nis the drink with a pasty. Anything else will do, from white wine to\ncider; but tea is the drink for choice.\n\nA pie is another Cornish dish, and lends itself to the racial aptitude\nfor secrecy. Almost anything under the sun may be put into a pie, and\nno one be the wiser, for the crust puts on a brave face and hides\nthe poverty (should there be poverty) underneath. No end of stories\nhave been told of pies. A person in a sarcastic mood has been known\nto send a neighbour a pie with a halter in it; but the piskies did\nsomething better than that, and sent the barren wife of the Earl of\nCornwall a pie which, when opened, was filled with sweet herbs and wild\nflowers, in the midst of which a little heir lay smiling. And then, as\na set-off, Old Nick comes in and watches a woman make an \"all-sorts\"\npie, in which nothing seemed out of place; and so afraid was he that\nhis own dear self would be included that he skipped out of the county.\nThe pie, like the pasty, is a mystery until it is opened, unless the\ncrust is decorated with the foot of a duck, or some other indication of\ncontents. The heads of pilchards peeping through the crust suggested\nthe name of \"star-gazey pie;\" but a stranger in the land may never see\nit--indeed, he may never see many things.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: HOMEWARD BOUND.]\n\nCHAPTER XXI\n\n\nThrough August and down to the middle of September is the season for\nblackberries, and wherever the bramble can grow, there the black,\nluscious fruit hangs ripe and tempting. The Bookworm hazarded the\nguess, as we tramped along, that the plant followed the Celtic\nimmigration in Cornwall and Brittany. The Bretons make money of the\nfruit, but here whoever is minded may pick and eat and carry away; and\nno one was ever prosecuted for wandering over fields in search of the\nfruit, and pulling down bits of hedges to secure it. During the season,\nblackberry parties go out with crook-sticks and baskets, and faces\nas clean as usual, and return tired and torn, with hands and lips and\nfaces dyed all over with the dark juice. Some say it was the blackberry\njuice which the ancient inhabitants used for frightening away the\nRoman legions; but nothing positive is now known. It is, however, the\nfact that the Cornish dye just as much of themselves as is visible\nwith blackberry juice once a year; and this may be a survival of an\nancient custom. Just for a wonder, it was neither saint nor piskie who\nwas quoted in connection with blackberries, but Old Nick himself, who\nate so many one thirteenth of September that he felt real ill, and\nhe cursed the fruit with such a terrible curse that, after the fatal\nthirteenth, the fruit is said to be unfit for food, and is allowed to\nrot where it grows.\n\nIf the blackberry isn't a native, it ought to be, considering the\nimpudent way in which it takes possession of the hedges and fences,\nscrambling over everything, and sucking in all the sunshine which comes\nout of the sky. Anywhere, everywhere it grows, even along the bleak\nsea-cliffs washed with sea-spray and ruffled with bitter winds; but the\nfruit is most sweet and generous when growing in sheltered spots on\nmoor and in valley. We were told to be sure to have blackberry pie, and\nwe had it at the farm; and if the immortals didn't envy us when eating\nblackberry pie, smothered with Mrs. Andrawartha's cream, it's proof\npositive that they don't know about one good thing in the eating line.\n\nThe Wesleyans are especially fond of blackberries. Of course there's\na reason for it. The Bookworm stumbled on it, as usual, and we went\nto the circuit minister, who said he was quite right, and it was the\nfruit which kept John Wesley alive on St. Hilary downs. The story is\nall right, and can be verified in print. Here it is: \"One day we had\nbeen preaching on St. Hilary down. As we returned, John Wesley stopped\nhis horse to pick the blackberries, saying, 'Brother Nelson, we ought\nto be thankful that there are plenty of blackberries, for this is the\nbest county I ever saw for getting a stomach, and the worst I ever saw\nfor getting food.'\" Guy said there ought to be a blackberry day as well\nas a primrose day. Why not? White roses and orchids are consecrated to\nother illustrious persons, and why not blackberries to John Wesley?\n\nOf course the blackberry has its legend, and this is one as it was told\nto us.\n\n\n THE ROMANCE OF PRINCESS OLWEN.\n\nThe fairest princess in Cornwall, as every one knew, was the daughter\nof Bran Dhu, and it was the surprise of every one that his daughter\nshould be so fair when he was so dark, dark as his own black heart;\nand that was dark enough, in all conscience. More golden was her hair\nthan the flower of the furze, and her skin was whiter than the foam of\nthe wave. A twin sister she had who favoured their father, and she was\nas dark as a thunder-cloud, and as passionate as the other was gentle.\nThe twins grew up, and got on very well together, until the son of\nthe king stopped at Bran Dhu's castle and received a cup of milk from\nthe hand of the fair princess, who was called Olwen, when he ought to\nhave received it from Gertha, she of the flashing eyes and heart of\nfire. Bran Dhu had made other arrangements for his fair daughter, whom\nhe removed the very next day to the dwelling of a herdsman whose wife\nwas a witch, and who had strict orders not to let the young prince see\nthe fair princess, even if he should chance upon her whereabouts. It\nwasn't long before the young prince came again, and this time Gertha\nhanded him a cup of milk; but he had no eyes for her, and rode away.\nWhenever he came he only saw Gertha, and rode away disappointed, which\nso wounded her vanity that she ended by hating her sister of the\nyellow hair and sea-foam skin. The young prince went to his father,\nwho commanded Bran Dhu to come and see him, bringing the fair Olwen\nwith him. Now, Bran Dhu was a subtle man, and told lies as naturally\nas other great people, and he said that Olwen went on a visit in the\ncountry and died, and was buried by the old herdsman and his wife. He\ndidn't mind telling where Olwen really was, because the herd's wife\nhad orders to turn the fair young princess into a bramble whenever the\nking or young prince came in search of her. The young prince was very\nmuch in love, and rode off to the herd's house, and the herd's wife\nshowed him the clothes which Olwen had worn, and the mound covering\nher, and the bramble thick with blossom festooning the hedge. He was so\nsorrowful that he did not notice that the bloom was out of season. He\ncame again and again and talked to the herd's wife, for his heart was\nsore, and there was always the bramble in full bloom.\n\nNow, at the King's court there was a \"wise man,\" who smelt a rat as\nsoon as ever he heard about the bramble being in bloom, in season\nand out of season, whenever the prince happened to be there; so he\nturned the young prince into a chough, and told him to fly over to the\nherdsman's house and look around. The Cornish chough was common enough\nin those days, and the old witch took no notice of the black bird with\nred beak hopping about the garden, its head on one side, and one eye on\nOlwen the fair.\n\nThe \"wise man,\" when he knew that Olwen was really in the flesh, took\nin the whole situation.\n\nThe young prince flew over to the herdsman's house and hopped around,\nand followed his lady love until she got into a wood, when he resumed\nhis proper shape and told his love, sweet and strong, and stayed so\nlate that the old witch caught him at it, and told Bran Dhu, who became\nas mad as a hatter, and told Gertha, who became madder than he. And\nthey went over to the herdsman's and ordered the witch to turn Olwen\ninto a bramble, and pour some magic drops upon her fair blooms so that\nshe should become green and red and black in turns, sour to the taste,\nand ugly to look upon.\n\nThen the \"wise man\" anointed the beak of the chough, saying, \"Fly away\nand kiss the bloom, and your love shall become sweet and more sweet,\nand when the berry is sweetest to your taste, pluck it and bring it to\nme.\"\n\nAnd so he did. Then the \"wise man\" broke the spell, and prince\nand princess were married; but the bramble flourished and spread\neverywhere, and all the people marvelled when they ate of it or turned\nit into wine, as they do to this day.\n\nAnd all true lovers know that sweetest is the love which has been\nhard to get, and has passed through its sour and bitter stages and is\nplucked when ripest.\n\n[Illustration: PRINCESS OLWEN IS CHANGED INTO A BRAMBLE.]\n\nWe saw a Cornish chough during our tramp; but it is getting scarce now,\nand tens of thousands of people may come and go without ever seeing\none. When the bird \"with vermeil-tinted legs and bright red beak\" has\nquite vanished from its old haunts, it will probably be held in\nthe highest esteem, like it once was when it lived in the odour of\nsanctity. The chough was at one time a sacred bird in Cornwall, just\nas the long-legged ibis on the banks of the Nile, and, according to\nthe story, had secret relations with Old Nick, just as its cousin, the\nraven, had in Wales. An odour of sulphur may have been the consequence;\nbut as even birds may reform, the chough cut its old acquaintance,\nand was selected as the future habitation for the spirit of King\nArthur. When a Cornishman sees a chough he raises his hat, if he has\none, or pulls his forelock if he hasn't, which means the same thing,\nnamely, that the chough is of sainted lineage, and worthy of the very\nhighest respect. It is not so easy to see a chough now outside of a\n\"collection.\"\n\nThe chough is of very aristocratic appearance, and, in consequence,\nall poor and ragamuffin and envious relations of the crow tribe are\ndoing their best to get rid of him by any means. No doubt dynamite\nwould be used if the crow socialists knew how to handle it. It was an\nunfortunate day for the chough when Shakespeare advertised it as the\n\"russet-pated chough,\" and that might not have been so very bad, only\nit set some people saying that Shakespeare did not know what he was\ntalking about, which provoked others to reply, and so the newspapers\ndebated whether Shakespeare should be criticized. Then all Cornwall\nwas ransacked for choughs, to see whether he was \"russet-pated.\" If\n\"pate\" means \"head,\" then he isn't, but if \"pate\" means \"foot,\" then\nhe is \"russet-patted,\" or footed. Those who held that the poet knew\nwhat he was writing about, scored one; but the discussion cost the\nchough dear, so many people finding it necessary to shoot every chough\nthey saw. Every year King Arthur visits his own tomb in the form of a\nchough, and some people hope that _one_ chough will be allowed to live\nin the land just so long as the old King likes to revisit his own grave\nand attend to its weeding. It would be a pity for an old tradition to\ndie out for want of a bird to carry it on.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: POLPERRO.]\n\nCHAPTER XXII\n\n\nA Cornish \"van\" is a miracle on wheels; but we're told that the real,\ngenuine article, like Penaluna's, which still covers its five miles in\none hour and a quarter, is getting rarer and more rare. Penzance and\nHelston, Truro and Redruth, and most of the market towns are visited\non market days by newly-painted antiquities on wheels. They line up a\nstreet, or a square, for a few hours, and then disappear again until\nthe next market day. The better class machine is a \"Royal Mail,\" or a\n\"Standard,\" a \"Comet,\" or some such swagger thing; but \"Penaluna's van\"\nhas a first-grade certificate in the miracle line. Rail and motor-cars\nhave thinned out this ancient sort of vehicle pretty considerably.\n\nMrs. Penaluna runs a refreshment house six miles from a market town,\nand Mr. Penaluna is the carrier by descent. For three generations\nthe Penalunas carried whatever there was to carry, and it seems that\nwhen one machine wore out, another was built after the same pattern,\nand then another, and another, so that Penaluna's van is now pretty\nmuch the same as its predecessors, and the type has been preserved in\nspite of steam and petrol. Mr. Penaluna's van went to the market town\ntwice a week, and Mr. Penaluna's motto was to look after his parcels,\nand let passengers take care of themselves. Our traps were amongst\nthe rest of the bales and boxes and parcels, \"stowed away\" according\nto the carrier's idea of the fitness of things. We looked inside,\nand said we'd walk to the town later in the day. We didn't see much\naccommodation for passengers. We were mistaken. One woman after another\ngot into the van with baskets of dairy produce and things, and settled\nthemselves somehow. The van was canvas-covered, and its sides bulged,\nso we thought it must be full. We didn't understand. People came along\nwith more baskets and got in, so Guy said they must be sticking to the\nroof, feet upwards, like flies. Every moment we expected to see the van\ncome apart, and let its contents into the road; but it didn't, and held\ntogether by force of habit, we supposed. Time was up, and we thought\nthe good Mr. Penaluna would start, but he was in no hurry; there was\na regular customer to come, and she always came last. Somebody did\ncome--a crowning glory of twenty stun--with a girl by her side carrying\nthings. The \"regular\" waddled up, and said it was warmish, and hands\nwere spread out to take in things and help the lady when she was ready,\nand Mr. Penaluna was behind to give a helpful push. The lady with\nliberal breadth of beam and no featherweight disappeared, inch by inch,\nand we stood by expecting to hear shrieks from the inside victims. Only\nnothing of the sort happened, and Mr. Penaluna closed the door with a\nbang and the proud air of a railway porter, and the living purgatory on\nwheels waltzed away. Mr. Penaluna got up on a swinging knifeboard, and\ncracked his whip in a professional way about the ears of the wiry pair\nof horses in front.\n\nGuy asked Mrs. Penaluna whether she thought that the women inside would\ncome out alive? which seemed to amuse her. She said Penaluna might\nhap to pick up one or two more on the road. \"There's always room for\none more in Penaluna's van,\" said she, with a grand sweep of the arm,\nindicating that a good slice of creation might be carried to market\ntwice a week, and no mistake about it.\n\nThe Bookworm was under a promise not to go past the first milestone,\nbut to sit on it, and wait until we overtook him. Guy said we needn't\nhurry, as he saw him sneak a book into his pocket, and he wouldn't know\nhow the time passed until the sun went down.\n\n\"If the little beggar can lose himself, he will,\" said Guy, jumping\non a hedge and looking round. Then he shouted \"Coo-e-e-e-y!\" and an\nanswer came a few yards off, where the Bookworm was sitting on a heap\nof stones chatting to a man with his sleeves turned up, and who was\nthe parish stonebreaker. This Mr. Stonebreaker worked in a disused\nquarry, wherein he was sheltered from all winds, and had for company\na sleek-looking donkey, which he rode to and fro morning and evening.\nThe Bookworm struck the place just about luncheon-time. The man had\ntaken off his wire goggles, pulled out his pasty, and the donkey's head\nrested on his shoulder, waiting for the two ends of the pasty to be put\ninto its mouth. Mr. Stonebreaker rolled up his jacket for the Bookworm\nto sit on, and offered him a bit of pasty; and when we joined the party\nof three, they made a very pretty picture. The man was a droll fellow\nand set the Bookworm laughing, and the animal joined in in its very\nbest style. The Bookworm rose and shook hands with his newly-found\nfriend.\n\n\"Wasting the poor devil's time, and never tipped him, I'll bet,\" said\nGuy, with an air of disgust.\n\n\"I couldn't,\" replied the Bookworm, the idea that Guy thought him mean\ncreeping over him. \"The man treated me as an equal, and played the\nhost, and how could I tip him?\"\n\n\"You have sold the good name of every tourist for evermore,\" said Guy,\nhastily; and before we knew what he was up to, he bolted back to the\nold quarry.\n\n\"Catch!\" shouted he, spinning a coin towards the man.\n\n\"Thank'ee kindly, but what be un vur?\"\n\nThen Guy made a speech, and the man laughed, and returned the coin,\nwithout any sign of displeasure.\n\n\"I'll be hanged if a coin ever came back to me in this way before. I\nshall keep it for luck,\" said Guy.\n\n\"Ef you bain't in a hurry I'll tell 'ee a story,\" said the man, as\nleisurely as though he were lord of the manor.\n\n\"I shall be taking up your valuable time,\" said Guy.\n\n\"Never mind me: we can afford it, caan't us, old 'un?\" (stroking the\ndonkey's head). \"Us can al'ys find time when we do work by the day.\"\nThen he began.\n\n\"You doan't know our Passun, s'poase? Well, then, tedn't 'bout he, but\nthe wan avoor, who had a purty field ov corn wan year, sure 'nuff,\nand he hired Jim Tredinnick to come over and drash un. Now, Passun was\nwriting es sarmon, and could heer Jim's drashal going wan, du, dre,\nlike a church bell tolling for a burying. 'This will never do,' saith\nPassun to hisself, and down he goes to the barn, and Jim was there\nmaking believe to sweat a leak, and the ould drashal was going wan, du,\ndre, like the church bell. 'The man'll eat up the vally of the corn in\nthe drashing ov it,' said Passun, as he went back to his room. Now,\nwhether Passun falled asleep, or dramed weth his eyes wide open, or\nwhether it was rale, I dunno, but the piskie that used to belong to the\nplace stood avoor him weth es drashdals over his shoulder. Now Passun\nwasn't proud, and telled him about Jim Tredinnick, how he was hired by\nthe day and his meat to drash the corn in the barn, and 'I shall be ate\nout ov house and home,' said Passun, 'he is that slow.'\n\n\"Then the little man laughed, and took the drashels off his shoulders,\nand began to beat on the floor, stroke by stroke with Jim Tredinnick\nin the barn, and he made a tune ov it, like this: 'By the day, by the\nday, by the day-day-day. By the day, by the day, by the day-day-day.'\n'Twas slow music, sure; but 'twas what Jim Tredinnick was making in the\nbarn. Then the little man changed it, and worked his drashels lively,\nand the tune he made was like this: 'By the job, by the job, by the\njob-job-job; by the job, by the job, by the job,' as quick as you\nplaise. Then Passun rubbed es eyes, and went over to the barn, and made\na fresh bargain with Jim Tredinnick, and his corn was oal drashed that\nvery night.\"\n\n\"Well?\" said Guy, interrogatively.\n\n\"If I had been breaking these stones by the job you wouldn't have heard\nthis story,\" said the man, with a humorous twist of his mouth.\n\n\"You're a genius,\" said Guy, shying a shilling at him, and running away\nat top speed.\n\n\"The fellow is a millionaire,\" said Guy, overtaking us. \"I shall never\nbe able to say I haven't met a rich man. I had to shy the coin at him,\nand I don't know now whether he'll trouble to pick it up.\"\n\n\"He's a gentleman, and his donkey knows it,\" said the Bookworm; and it\nwas his last word on the subject.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: CARN BREA.]\n\nCHAPTER XXIII\n\n\nThree occupations are followed--farming, mining, and fishing, but the\nCornish are a handy race, and it is not an uncommon thing for a man to\ncultivate a farm, work in a mine, and fish in the sea. A \"wheelbarrow\nfarm\" is a small holding which a man may get along with, with the\nassistance of a wheelbarrow, and is common enough in the mining\ndistricts. When a mine is near the sea, the wheelbarrow farmer has\na boat, and puts in time fishing when not underground. There are no\nfactories, as understood elsewhere, and if you see smoke afar off, it's\njust some farmer burning weeds, or a railway engine puffing along.\nThere's never smoke enough in any one place to soil a butterfly's wing,\nand some medical men have already made note of the fact.\n\nIn _the_ mining district people talk tin and copper, and dream about\nlittle else, though it's tin for choice. Redruth is the reputed\nheadquarters of the tin worship. When we reached the town, everybody\nseemed to be in the street, talking at once. We thought some great\ncalamity had happened, but found out that it was only the usual when\nmen came in from Camborne, and round about. There is an inner temple,\ncalled an Exchange, but most of the exchanging seems to be done in the\nstreet. Men talk together, and then out come little note-books. It\nlooks like street-betting, but the policeman takes no notice, so, of\ncourse, it's something else. Millions sterling have changed hands in\nthis way, and in this street, but we were told that times were dull\nnow. People were lively enough, and whether they win or lose, they go\non talking and dreaming of tin.\n\nIt has been a wonderful land, this, and the stories told of fortunes\nmade in tin and copper give fairy tales a back seat; but then, for\nevery fortune made, a fortune is lost; and the way to get ten shillings\nworth of tin is to melt twenty shillings worth of gold, we were told.\nOf course, there's the other side, but we hadn't time to go into it--it\nwas too much like fiscal politics.\n\nThe people about here are prosperous to look at, but we were told\nthat they were ruined regularly once a week or fortnight, as the case\nmay be. Strangers may make mistakes when they see ruined people for\nthe first time, but they get to know that when a tin man looks most\nprosperous, he's most ruined. A copper man may be afflicted in the same\nway, but tin was uppermost when we were in the place.\n\nThe great men in these parts are captains--mine captains. A Newmarket\nhorse-trainer and jockey combined is not more looked up to on the heath\nthan a mine captain here. He is the man who knows, and can put a friend\non to a good thing; people always think a mine captain has a good thing\nup his sleeve, and you must be civil to him, to make him shake it out.\nThey are modest men, however, and live in small houses to check any\ntendency to pride, and on Sundays Cap'n Jack and Cap'n Jose, and the\nbest samples, go preaching. The kingdom of heaven is very much like a\nmine to a miner, and if she \"cuts rich\" he wants to be there.\n\nA mine is \"she,\" and has many wooers when rich, or reputed to have\ngreat expectations. Mines in these parts are also feminine in the\ncoquettish way in which they show just sufficient of their attractions\nat one time to lure men on and on, and then--nothing! The caprices of\na season's beauty are not greater than those of a mine, nor is the\ncondition of a Derby favourite more closely watched and canvassed. A\nmine may look well, or be in a bad way, and all the men crowd around\nWheal This and Wheal That as though her breath were perfumed, and then\nturn their backs upon her when old age and wrinkles come, and her \"eyes\nare picked out,\" and she's neglected, and left to grow dropsical, and\npass from memory. Sometimes a pet Wheal over-runs the constable, and\nruins all her lovers, and then no secret is made of her wicked little\nways; but no professional beauty is more run after and talked about\nwhen she's in her prime.\n\nGuy was relieved to find that the Gulf Stream was not held responsible\nfor tin. We had heard so much of the Gulf Stream, how it made the\n'taties grow, and the flowers bloom, and the air warm, and the wind\ncool, and the skies blue, and the rain wet; but no one here said it had\nanything to do with the making of tin. You may stream for tin, but that\nis only one way of getting it; and the Gulf Stream doesn't come in, and\nthere are tin crystals in streams, but this is a detail known mostly to\nnatives.\n\nMiners call themselves \"Cousin Jacks,\" and a Cornish miner in any\npart of the universe answers to \"Cousin Jack.\" The Bookworm tried\nto find the origin of the name from a man \"tending the engine\" at a\nmine, who replied, \"S'poase Adam gave it out when he named t'other\nanimals.\" This was a good beginning. The men change their clothes in\nthe engineroom; they call it \"shifting,\" and a shift is worth the\ntrouble, for a miner coming up from the bowels of the earth with a\nbit of tallow candle in his cap looks a clay-gnome of bad character,\nand gentle manners only increase prejudice, for why should such a\nforbidding-looking animal be gentle?\n\nHe was not in the least surprised to see us, but when he had shifted,\nwe were surprised to see him. He was no longer gnome, but man, and\ngood at that. Was there anything we would like to see or hear about?\nHe was entirely at our disposal. He showed us crystals of pure tin,\ncolourless, and flashing like diamonds. He supposed that tin might be\nmanufactured the same as diamonds, but wasn't sure, and thought that\nNature must have taken a lot of trouble when making tin. Would not be\nsurprised if the pressure of the two seas had much to do with it. It\nwas very singular that Cornwall was the richest spot in the universe\nin tin stone. There was plenty of tin elsewhere, but not Cornish tin,\noh, dear, no! Tin was known in the days of Moses, and where could it\nhave come from but here? As a commercial commodity, tin certainly\nfirst came from Cornwall, and so, first of all, brought Britain under\nthe influence of the older civilizations. C\u00e6sar no more discovered\nBritain than Columbus America, and Cornish miners were gentlemen in\nmanners, and hospitable in the days of Diodorus Siculus, who attributed\ntheir advance in civilization to their frequent intercourse with Greeks\nand Phoenicians. It was on record that a Phoenician merchant,\nfinding that he was followed, ran his ship ashore rather than let\nanother into the secret of getting tin. Mr. Chamberlain could have done\nno better, could he?\n\n[Illustration: THE CHAPEL ROCK, BUDE.]\n\nMining was a science now, more or less exact, and very exacting. We\nwere in the centre of a great school of mines, and students came here\nfrom all parts to learn their business and get diplomas. He told\nus something of superstitions common to miners. Science explains\neverything, of course; but can't get rid of old beliefs in a hurry.\nA mine's reputation was sometimes her weak point, just like a fine\nlady's, and when it was blown upon, then, good-day and good-bye! Get a\nchat, when you can, with an underground mine captain.\n\nSouth Africa is a sort of outlying farm for the mining division, and\nwhen things are brisk every mail brings twenty or thirty thousand\npounds sterling for wives and families and the old folks at home. Every\nmarket night is an object-lesson in political economy. When the Boer\nWar was on, most of the shops were in mourning, and people went about\nwith hunger in their eyes. Cousin Jack goes abroad to make money, and\nwhat he saves he sends home. On his return his delight is to get a\nwheelbarrow farm, and come into Redruth market, and talk tin. Cousin\nJack likes to come home to die and be buried. He's like a Chinaman in\nhis love for native dust.\n\nSome Cornishmen live where they are born, but, as a rule, they drift\nto all quarters of the world, and look longingly homewards, like the\nJew towards Jerusalem. The most conservative of all men is the fisher,\nwhose little all can be put on board his boat, and who is seldom far\nfrom the smoke of his own chimney. The miners are restless, and always\nready to strike their tent and march. Only, wherever they go overseas,\ntheir children are Cornish--the saints and piskies, the nuggies and\nbuccas, are all drummed into them, and there's no sun so bright, no\nsea so blue, no air so soft in all the world, as in the dear old\ncounty which they \"belong\" to, and shall see one day. There spring up\nmelodies in the little hearts over the seas, until they are Cornish in\nevery beat and throb. A youngster was posting a letter in Sydney, New\nSouth Wales, and a friend of the family asked, \"Where's that letter\ngoing, sonnie?\" \"Home.\" \"Where's home?\" \"Why, Cornwall, to be sure.\"[H]\nOutside of itself the county has a large population containing a\ngoodly percentage of the salt of the earth.\n\n[H] I believe this story was told by the Rev. Mark Guy Pearse; if not,\nit might have been, it's so like him.\n\nRedruth is under the shadow of Carn Brea, the home of paleolithic man.\nThe \"Castle\" doesn't count for much now the Druids have been played\nout. The Bookworm told us that enough rubbish had been written about\nthe Druids to build a respectable beacon fire, and what was worth\npreserving would go in a watch-pocket. However, there is Carn Brea,\nand those who wish to see the Druids' altars may, without let or\nhindrance. The Carn looks over the mines, and you may see the sea on\nthe north and the sea on the south, winking like two eyes of heavenly\nblue. The guide-books recommend a clear day for preference. It is said\nthat underneath this bare and poverty-looking ridge of rocks there is\nmineral wealth enough to buy up King Solomon's mines. It's nice to know\nthat the riches of the world are under one's feet, and all poor people\non the tramp who like the sensation can have it here free of charge.\nIn fact, there is no charge for anything--you may drink at the holy\nwells, visit the churches, see the antiquities, go down the mines, walk\nthrough museums, and \"do\" everything with a smile and a civil tongue.\nNo charge; tip as you please. A cheerful giver has his reward.\n\nIt was somewhere under the shadow of Carn Brea that \"Baron Munchausen\"\nwas born in the lively brain of one Rudolph Eric Rasp, a fugitive\nHanoverian, at one time Assay-master and store-keeper at Dolcoath\nMine. Herr Rasp, Professor of Arch\u00e6ology, and Curator of the Museum at\nCassel, and member of the Royal Society, England, appropriated some\nprecious medals under his charge, and skipped. He hadn't learnt the\ntenth commandment properly, and forgot the eighth. People in places of\ntrust are better educated now, but this was one hundred and fifty years\nago. The Bookworm told us that Baron Munchausen was a real man, and\nHerr Rasp wrote his wonderful \"adventures.\" No one knows the house in\nwhich Herr Rasp lived, but the Bookworm insisted on looking at every\ncottage and barn with the touch of antiquity upon it, within a radius\nof three miles from Dolcoath. He liked to do it, and was satisfied.\nThe invention of coal gas as an illuminant took place at Redruth, and\na tablet commemorating the discovery is actually placed outside the\nhouse in which William Murdoch, the inventor, lived. Murdoch was not\na Cornishman, hence the tablet. The Bookworm touched the walls of\nthe house, the door-handle, and the knocker, but we didn't see that\nanything special came of it. Camborne is also in the mining division,\nand has wider streets and fewer shops than Redruth; but, then, it\nhas gone in for brains, and young men wishful to learn mining come\nhere now, and go through a course of lectures in class-rooms, and go\nunderground and work. \"The Oxford of mining students\" is Camborne, only\nthe students live where they like, and have latch-keys. Joshua Cristall\nwas born here, so also was Richard Trevithick, the first to apply steam\nto locomotives. We did not see any public monument to either.\n\nThe people in this division are \"Weslums,\" and great on chapels, but\n\"fall from grace\" when there is a political election. It is sad, but\npolitics stir up the old Adam worse than a drop in the price of tin.\nCandidates for parliamentary honours are only accepted by insurance\noffices at extra-risk premiums. Guy intends going in for Parliament one\nday, and studied the matter on the spot. He thinks he knows a softer\nplace.\n\nA good deal of woman-labour is employed in mines. They are the\nbal-maidens, and work on the dressing-floors. Work agrees with them,\nand Professor Sandow wouldn't find much room for developing the muscles\nof a bal-maiden. We saw some at work from the train, and heard them\nsinging. We saw others nearer, and they were singing also. It's just\npart of the business to sing, and more hymns are sung over Cornish tin\nthan over all the rest of the minerals raised in the world. One girl\nstarts singing, and the rest join in; and very sweet singing it is when\nheard in the open. The surface men catch on, and there's just sweet\nharmony, whilst the stamps are dancing, and the great bob is going up\nand down, pumping out water. Nothing stops when the orchestra is in\nfull swing. The men generally sing, too, when going and coming, and\nthey like a hymn with a good, rousing march tune. After the night and\nearly morning shifts, the hills and valleys are tuneful, and people\nhearing know what hour it is, as the shifts are regular. There are four\nshifts in the twenty-four hours. A shift is called a \"coor.\"\n\n[Illustration: HIGH AND DRY.]\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: \"KNACKED BALS.\" (_disused mines_)]\n\nCHAPTER XXIV\n\n\nThe man in soft felt hat, and brown canvas bag slung across his side,\nwith wicked-looking little hammer-head peeping out, is a common object.\nSpecimens enough have been taken out of the county to metal a turnpike\nroad, and yet the scientific stone-man comes and tumbles over the\nrefuse-heaps once again, and chips little bits on his own account, and\ncarries them off. To find sermons in stones is his reward, and there\nare sermons enough, in all conscience, in a county which is mostly\nstone, or something harder. When a man of science in a soft felt hat is\nmissing, the first idea is that he's fallen down an old mine shaft, and\nthat his stone treasures have taken him safely to the bottom, a hundred\nfathoms or so under water. It is well to beware of one's steps, and\nnot to take short cuts in the dark across moors and downs which are\nhoneycombed.\n\nWe were told we might amuse ourselves by turning over the\nrubbish-heaps, and, for reward, pick up a few specimens of ore,--no one\nwould interfere with us; and we might wander at will in and about the\nruins of square towers and \"count-houses,\" which people fancy, at first\nsight, are baronial castles in ruins. They are ruins, right enough,\nand the money sunk in the engine shafts would have built castles and\npyramids. These ruins look best at a distance, with big bundles of\nbroom shivering and rotting in sunshine and storm. There is something\nweird and uncanny about the look of these ruins, with broom-bundles,\nlike black things of misfortune, hung about them. The Bookworm said\nthat broom was a sign or symbol of bad luck. We didn't find fortunes\nin turning over stones on rubble-heaps, and only secured a few tin and\nmundic and copper specimens of no value to the owner. Guy said they\nwould look swagger when labelled, \"Tin found on Scatmoor, Cornwall.\"\nThe beginnings of a museum were in his pockets, he said, when they\nbegan to bulge out.\n\nThere were some small houses scattered about, and every house was in\na garden. None were empty; but as all the mines around were idle,\nwe began to wonder what the population lived on. There must be work\nsomewhere, but a long way off, we thought; so far, indeed, that the\nmen would tire morning and night when going and coming. The houses were\nlow, two-storied dwellings, built of moor-stone, and roofed with thick\nturves kept in place by flat, heavy stones. The people we saw were\nmostly aged, or women with young children.\n\nWe came across an old fellow sitting on a big stone, blinking with\nwatery eyes at an old ruined mine engine-house. He made us welcome, and\noffered us the whole of the stone he was sitting on; but we squatted\non the turf, and let the green lizards run over us--we said we liked\nit like that. Very soon we were interested in the old boy, who told us\nhe was Jim Tregedga, the son of Jim Tregedga before him, and he cited\nTregedgas sufficient to reach back to the days of the Deluge. The house\nhe lived in he built himself \"out of coor,\" that is to say, in spare\ntime, and he fenced in the bit of garden, ditto. It was moor land,\nand no one said him nay, so he took what he wanted, and the rest did\nthe same. All the houses were built like that, and every man his own\nlandlord. All the mines around were working then, and at every shift\nhundreds of young men poured out of these stone hives and went to work\nunderground or upon \"grass.\" And all the maidens rose early and went to\nwork upon the dressing-floors, singing like thrushes. The mine was the\nsoul of the moor, and the pumps and stamps its music. The young men\nnow are spread over South Africa and Australia, South America and the\nregions of Klondike; and the old people and young wives and children\nwere left at home, dependent for daily bread upon the love of kindred\nwhom they might never see again.\n\nThings were so different in the old days, when Cousin Jack was full\nof money, and spent it like a king, and then went to work again with\na good heart, and always ready to kiss the maidens, or \"wrassle\" and\nbreak a head on paydays. In fact, Cousin Jack wouldn't go home without\na fight, unless he was poorly. This old man knew the names of all the\nmines round about, and their histories; when they \"cut rich,\" and when\nthey \"cut out\" and were shut down, and the broom hoisted to tell all\nthe world that another bal had gone wrong.\n\n[Illustration: MORWENSTOW CLIFFS.]\n\nEvery mine had its own particular spirit, or family of spirits, called\n\"nuggies.\" Every household was brought up in a firm faith in nuggies,\nand the good or bad fortune of a mine depended on the temper of the\nnuggies. Men working on \"tribute\" were very careful not to offend\nthe spirits of the mine, and they had to be careful, or they would\nearn little, and were sometimes lucky to reach grass alive. These\nspirits had underground workshops, wherein they worked upon silver\nanvils, and the walls sparkled with crystals of pure tin and virgin\nsilver. These workshops were called \"parlours,\" and, as they were\nnot always willing to be disturbed, they misled the miners, making\nthem believe that the tinkling upon the silver anvils was in the very\nopposite direction:--such was their power. Or they would cease working\naltogether, and then the men would become disheartened, and say the\nnuggies had forsook the bal, and she might as well be \"knacked\" at\nonce, for all the profit she would yield. But the nuggies were good to\npoor tributers sometimes, after they had been working for weeks and\nmonths on starvation wages. Months and months of work and no sound\nthrough the gloomy corridors but the tap, tap, of the steel-edged\ntools, and the fall of rock, barren and unprofitable; and then, all at\nonce, the music on the silver anvils, and falling water, indicating\nthe presence of the precious lode. If a man worked underground he was\nbound to believe in nuggies; and if he did not believe, and said so,\nthen he was sure to be punished, for the nuggies had a way of leading\nmen into trouble. A favourite way was to hide danger from a man until\nhe was on the brink of it, and then, if stubborn and would not take\nwarning, they'd let him fall over a precipice, or down an old shaft,\nand be heard of no more in the land of the living. What they gave, they\ngave freely, and took no toll--they wanted none, all the minerals in\nthe universe belonging to the nuggie family; only they would have men\ncivil, and civility brought rich rewards.\n\nThe talk was rambling, and Guy put many questions. Had deponent ever\nseen a nuggie? Well, he believed he had. He was working on Wheal Rose,\nfirst coor by night, and he saw a flash at the end of the stope, and\nJan Trebilcock slapped his hand over his (deponent's) mouth so that\nhe shouldn't screech. That was a nuggie going into his parlour, and\nJan Trebilcock followed the lead and came upon a lode as rich as King\nSolomon's mines whilst it lasted. And he'd heard old men say----\n\nBut Guy wouldn't have hearsay. Then deponent said he had heard the\ntinkling upon silver anvils, and beautiful it was, like the melody of\nchurch bells on a summer eve. The nuggies always took their anvils\nwith them when they gave up possession of a workshop--they were wanted\nelsewhere.\n\n\"Provoking,\" said Guy. \"Whenever we get very near to something it\nvanishes in this land of piskies and fairies and other enchantments.\"\n\nA little lizard crawling over Guy turned brilliant colours, which, the\nold miner observing, said there was a \"thunder planet\" passing, and\nwished us to come into his cottage. We had wandered five miles, but\nthought we could return before the storm burst, in which, however, we\nwere mistaken, for we had hardly trotted a couple of miles when it\nburst with sub-tropical fury. Had it been night, the sight would have\nbeen splendid; but we had to dart for cover into a man's house, like\nthree drowned rats. There was no ceremony about our entrance, and none\nwas wanted. An old man and woman were the only occupants, and they made\nus welcome, but our clothes stuck to us. We drank some hot tea and ate\nthe remains of our pasties to the accompaniment of celestial artillery,\nwhich put to shame the battle of Mukden. Still it poured, and the\ncottage trembled sometimes when the thunder was loudest. The two old\npeople were quite tranquil, and the only apparent trouble they had in\nthe world was our wet clothes. The little rivulets which ran from us\nwere dried up, but might be traced on the stone floor, making zigzag\ncourses towards the door.\n\nThen came the old man's hour for reading a Psalm, and he opened the\n\"big book\" without any apparent thought of strangers being present.\n\n\"'Th' Loard es ma sheper; I shall not waant'--no fath, I shaant.\n\n\"'He maaketh me to lie down en green pastures'--ez, that 'e do, th'\nprecious dear.\"\n\nAnd so, until he finished, and shut the book. \"Now we will zay a few\nwords, for th' dear Loard is with us;\" and without more to do, he went\ndown upon his knees and spread out his hands, and his face shone. If\nthere was a soul in happiness in the universe, it was this one; and\nhe did not forget the strangers under his roof. \"Ef'm be out in th'\nwilderness, Loard, guide'm like a good sheper; and ef'm be cauld, warm\n'em en Thy buzum, and turn 'em out to lie down en green pastures.\"\n\nThe rain stopped suddenly, and the thunder grew more distant, and the\nlightning less vivid, and when we were once more upon the downs a\nstrange feeling crept over us.\n\n\"I never thought I should have found myself kneeling in a miner's hut,\nsaying my prayers,\" said Guy. \"This would just have suited Softie\nSmith, who's in Orders now--going to be a bishop, or something. At\nschool, Softie was always longer at his devotions than the rest, and\nwe used to shy things at him to remind him that the dormitory was\nwaiting. Sometimes the boys made extra good shots at Softie and got\nhim waxy; and one night he suddenly rose from his knees, shouting,\n'Amen-who-shied-that-boot?' It was a shout, by Jove! and the captain\non his rounds heard it; but we were little angels when he came to us,\nand Softie got a wigging for making a row. After that we dropped the\n'Softie,' and re-named him 'Amen-who-shied-that-boot?' which will sound\nsplendidly when he's a bishop. 'My lord Amen-who-shied-that-boot,\nfrom Lower Egypt, then addressed the meeting,' will look well in the\npapers. The name'll push him on in the world, and that he'll owe to us.\"\n\nThe Bookworm wouldn't be drawn, and we walked, one on each side of him,\nuntil we reached the road, and then kept to it carefully, to avoid\ntumbling down some old, disused mine shaft. He gave our hands an extra\ngrip before retiring, saying, \"I shall never forget.\"\n\n\"I hope the little beggar isn't going to be ill,\" said Guy. \"I don't\nlike a fellow to talk solemnly, and grip your hands, and all that,\nafter he's been wet to the skin.\"\n\nBut no harm came of it.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: THE MANACLES.]\n\nCHAPTER XXV\n\n\nA pick and shovel brigade, with or without hats, might do some good\nwork on the north coast, where the sand has buried towns and churches.\nPeople speak of places having been \"drowned in sand,\" which they\ncertainly were. The sands of Hayle, like those of great deserts, shift\nwith storm and tempest, and have encroached from century to century.\nThe sand-hills are called \"towans\" at Hayle, and very weary walking we\nfound it in places where coarse, fibrous grasses have not covered the\nsurface. What splendid results might follow the efforts of a pick and\nshovel brigade from Perran to Newquay! Two churches are known to have\nbeen buried at Perranporth, and one at Gwithian, near Hayle. These\nhave been discovered, so there is no mistake about them, and they are\nsaid to be the earliest Christian monuments visible in Britain. There\nisn't much to see now. There was an oratory at St. Gwithian, and the\naltar was built into a cowshed. Guy said it did not seem that people\ncared very much for antiquities until they were destroyed, or belonged\nto some other country, like Egypt, for example.\n\nThe fine, dry sands here are splendid preservatives, and the Bookworm\nbecame enamoured of his idea of a pick and shovel brigade undertaking\nscientific exploration. Why not? There were exploration societies in\nItaly and Greece, and why not in Cornwall, wherein there is a lost\nhistory and a lost language to recover? Guy was sure that lots of\nfellows would put in a few weeks' digging and sifting and sorting if\nsomebody would only take the matter in hand in a business-like way. If\nlegend can be believed, there is at Crantock a Cornish Pompeii waiting\nto be uncovered. The ancient Crantock was reputed to have been a large\nand important sea-port with seven churches, and the place was literally\n\"drowned\" in a deluge of sand, brought upon the wings of the wind. The\nburied chronicles of Crantock (all in the Cornish language, of course)\nwould be a splendid discovery. The present church was allowed to fall\ninto decay, but is one of the show-churches in the north, and is now\nfamous for the newspaper crusade against hatless women fingering\ntheir prayer-books within its walls. The \"living\" is said to be worth\neighteen shillings per week. Fat livings do not abound--\"a house, a\nglebe, a pound a day\" does not fall to the lot of all parsons hereabout.\n\nThe Bookworm remarked that his Satanic Majesty was not held responsible\nfor sand-storms, although Hell's mouth was on this coast. His Majesty\nis familiarly known as \"Old Artful;\" and people speak of one another\nas \"artful\" by way of compliment. There is at present a good deal of\nconfusion in the stories told about Old Artful and his doings in this\npart of the world. It is said that he never crossed the Tamar, and the\nquestion may only be answered satisfactorily when spirits are summoned\nfrom the vasty deep and examined before a royal commission. The\nBookworm took the matter in hand, with the following results in favour\nof Old Artful's presence:--\n\nWhen the Phoenicians traded here for tin, Old Artful set up a\nsmelting-house, and taught the tinners some tricks, which they\nafterwards improved on.\n\nThat St. Michael drove him away, and, out of pure spite, he cursed the\nblackberry, which is not now eaten after St. Michael's Day.\n\n[Illustration:\n \"One day the devil, having nothing to do,\n Built a great hedge from Lerrin to Looe\"]\n\nThat when visiting \"Cheese-wring\" he saw an old woman making a conger\npie, and inquired what she put inside, and the old woman, smelling\nbrimstone, said, \"If you don't take yourself off pretty quick, I'll\nclap you inside, and then we shall have a devilled pie,\" which threat\nso alarmed him that he gave a hop, skip, and jump, and landed at\nDevil's Point in the sister county.\n\nThat Old Artful had a turn for housekeeping, and was pretty much at\nhome at the Lizard, and left behind as memorials his \"frying-pan\" at\nCadgwith and his \"bellows\" at Kynance. Then he had a post-office, the\nearliest on record, and no end of \"devil's footsteps,\" \"ovens,\" and\n\"caves\" are to be found in the peninsula.\n\nThat Old Artful, finding himself lonely and amongst the out-of-works,\nbuilt a stone fence about seven miles in length, hence the couplet--\n\n \"One day the devil, having nothing to do,\n Built a great hedge from Lerrin to Looe.\"\n\nAnd very good workmanship it was, for it is still there. In this way\nthe problem of employing the unemployed was solved.\n\nThat Old Artful took a great interest in the building of churches,\nsometimes altering the architect's plans, and sometimes choosing a\nsite. Whenever a church is built in an inconvenient place, it is said\nthat Old Artful would have it there and nowhere else, and paintings\non the walls often recorded the fact, showing him removing at night\nthe courses which the masons laid down during the day. Many of these\npaintings were whitewashed by pious Covenanters, but little bits have\nbeen restored. It is said that St. Mewan wanted a high tower to his\nchurch, and there was a battle-royal between him and Old Artful, who\nprevailed. The \"cloven hoof\" may be seen on a stone gate-post, a very\nshort distance from the church. At Towednack, near St. Ives, Old Artful\nwould not allow pinnacles to be put to the church tower.\n\nThat at Ladock Old Artful changed himself into a raven, and made an\ninspection of the church tower; but the babies brought to be christened\nmade such a row that he flew away.\n\n\"How can all these things have happened if Old Artful never crossed the\nTamar?\" asked the Bookworm, triumphantly.\n\nSailors say that Old Artful was never able to learn navigation\nproperly, or find his sea-legs on board ship; and there is an idea that\nhe does not take kindly to blue water, and was never able to swim.\nIt is well known that Lloyd's underwriters will not insure a ship\nwith Old Artful on board. He never interferes with the building of a\nship, or does anything but provide a \"locker\"--called \"Davy Jones's\nlocker\"--where poor Jack rigs himself out before dancing with the\nmermaids on \"Fiddlers' Green.\"\n\nGuy came to the conclusion that the Cornish climate was too restful\nfor \"sabbathless, restless Satan,\" who is never supposed elsewhere to\nbe happy except in the wearing, tearing, raging, whirligig of pleasure\nand vice. Hence the idea of his not crossing the Tamar.\n\n[Illustration: THE ROCHE ROCK.]\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: NEWQUAY SANDS.]\n\nCHAPTER XXVI\n\n\nNewquay is in Cornwall without being Cornish, and is one of the few\ntowns which has no \"saint\" belonging to it. Most of the towns in\nthe peninsula date back to the days of saints and giants, and then\ncrystallize somehow. Newquay didn't grow that way, and was content\nto remain until quite recently the habitation of a score of fisher\nfamilies, who lived by beach-combing and pilchard-seining. If the town\nof to-day were wiped out, there would remain the old fish-cellars, a\nfew weather-beaten cottages, and the \"Huer's hut\" on the Headland.\nNewquay town is a modern creation, and lies between Padstow and St.\nIves, which are rich in saints and antiquities, and stand apart and\ndistinct from everything modern, crystallizing around and about, but\nreceiving little of the old life and tones. The original name of the\nplace was Towan Blistra, which sounds genuine. The growth of Newquay is\nno miracle. People who went there for their health got better, and then\nthe \"faculty\" said, \"Try Newquay;\" then the Great Western Railway took\nup the cry, and shouted, \"Try Newquay;\" and that's all the process.\n\nThe sea and rocks, and sands and caves, are all genuine. The fine\nhotels are fine hotels, and fine hotels after their style are new in\nthis part of the world. The houses have a hurried, built-by-contract\nlook about them, and the whole place wants to be built over again,\nand built differently. Most of the inhabitants now are Cornish in a\ntransition state, so you don't know quite where you are. The hotel\nporter was regal; the man in charge of the lift was imported with the\nmachine, and when asked, said he thought a \"piskie\" was a new crank, or\nsomething like that, for working the lift. Newquay is like that now.\nYou go there for the air, and you get it until every nerve is braced,\nand you get rid of the dismals, and eat and drink and sleep, until you\nfind that the one pleasure of life is living, simply that. Even Cornish\npeople come to Newquay to be toned. The Bookworm lost his restlessness\nat night entirely here, and no longer read strange books in his sleep.\n\nIf you want to talk with a real Newquay man, you will find him on the\nHeadland, looking at the sea. We scraped acquaintance with one watching\nhis nets dry on the grass. He told us he hadn't heard about piskies\nlately. When he was a boy, and fish was cured in the old cellars, and\nthe Headland was the Headland, and no mistake about it, and when a\nfisherman was a fisherman, and everything was as it ought to be, and\nhad been from time \"back along,\" why, then, there were piskies, of\ncourse. Everything was different now, and he would not be surprised if\npiskies were never heard of any more. Guy said gently that that might\nbe a good thing, but the man ironed out all intelligence from his face\nand said nothing. He did not wish to have old memories stirred just\nthen.\n\n[Illustration: NEWQUAY.]\n\nThe old men wandering about the Headland always looked seaward when\ntalked to, as though they were sure of the sea, and the rocks, and\nthe beaches; all else, round and about, was slipping from them--new\nhouses, new streets, crowds of people in strange garments, and such\nfaces! worn and wisht! why did they pitch upon this place? Guy said\nthese old grumblers were very ungrateful. A fine town had sprung up,\nmoney poured into the place, and nothing was taken from it, and the old\nboys were not thankful. The Bookworm took the side of the native,\nand said no one liked the place which he called his own, and had grown\nto love, to be transformed by strange hands so suddenly. What did the\nancient Briton think of the Roman villa with tesselated floors, and\nhot and cold baths, and clothes mended on the while-you-wait system?\nMuch better, no doubt, than British huts and blue paint, but not to the\nnative taste. A diet of Chablis and oysters disagreed at first with a\nstomach used to whelks and gingerbeer.\n\nVariety is one of the attractions of the county. For a tourist who\nrides a bike or a motor, the variety is perpetual, and he must pull\nup even now and again and ask himself what has become of the last\nsensation. If you can rely upon your legs, you had best walk from\nvillage to village until you are where you wish to be. To lose one's\nself is an advantage sometimes; and you can't go very far wrong. When\nat Newquay, breathing in the Atlantic on the north, you are only twenty\nmiles from your friends breathing in the soft airs of the sunny south.\nThe tramp across the country, from north to south, is simply delicious.\nFirst of all, there are the moors, springy to the foot, restful to the\neye, and the \"coombes\" running seawards and catching sunbeams, so that\nyou get opposing lines of light and shadow, and charm everywhere.\n\nWe made our way from Newquay to Roche, one of the portals to the land\nof the white men--a wonderful land, producing the white clay which is\nshipped to all quarters of the globe. The heathen Chinee has found it\nout, and buys it in lumps. At first, he used to buy it by the yard in\nhis calico. The Lancashire merchant bought the white clay and worked\nit into his inferior cotton goods, and John Chinaman paid extra for\nthe loaded yarn. The heathen learnt the secret in the course of time,\nimported the clay, loaded his own yarn, and put the profit into his own\npocket. Then the \"Yellow peril\" was talked about.\n\nAll the white patches in the hills and valleys visible from here spell\n\"kaolin,\" or \"china clay,\" and everything that china clay touches is\nwhite; white waggons piled up with square white blocks travel along\nwhite, dusty roads, drawn by white-powdered horses, driven by men as\nwhite as ghosts in the last stages of galloping consumption.\n\n\"Fish, tin, and copper,\" was the old commercial toast; but china clay\nhas come in and taken a front seat. It is only a hundred and fifty\nyears ago since a long-nosed Quaker found out that the stuff was good\nfor pottery; and then chemists came in and found there was money in it\nfor manufacturers of cotton and paper; and now the society beauty may\nhave the satisfaction of knowing that her fair cheek is made fairer\nstill by honest china clay most delicately perfumed. The men and\nwomen who handle the clay get the same stuff for nothing, and do well\nenough without the perfume. China clay, being a modern industry in this\nland of ancients, has no piskie, or nuggie, or bucca connected with\nit, and Guy took kindly to it on that account, saying it represented\nthe practical, hard-headed twentieth century. Who would buy Cornwall\nfor its legends, he would like to know! Whereas all the world was\nbuying mountains of china clay. He supposed if this long-nosed old\nQuaker had lived a thousand or two years ago he would have been turned\ninto a piskie, and a fine crop of legends would have sprung up. We\nfailed to trace any legend or folk-lore about china clay. It was all\nmodern--modern discovery, modern uses, modern shipments; the only thing\nfabulous seemed to be the inexhaustible supply and the value of certain\nspots free from impurities. One might almost fancy legend at work--the\nwicked giant and the sainted virgin crumbling into kaolin rather than\nbe the heroine of the romance with wedding bell accompaniment.\n\nWe came to a rock where there is a well which is said to ebb and flow\nwith the tide; only it doesn't. The water is said to be brackish, which\nit probably is; but a reverend canon, writing on the spot, warned\nvisitors against tasting it on that account. All brackish water does\nnot come from the sea. However, this was a holy well once on a time,\nand young people even now drop bent pins into it and wish. It is very\nsimple, and costs nothing. Then there is the cell in which St. Roche\nlived until he died, and then, the apartment being light and airy, and\n680 feet above the sea, was occupied by successive saints. At present\nthe apartment is unoccupied, but the parish is taking care of it.\nThis is the cell wherein the damned soul of Tregeagle tried to find\nsanctuary when pursued by the fiends from Dozmary Pool. The inhabitants\nof the wild and desolate region between Roche and Dozmary hear the\nhell-hounds pursuing the shrieking soul on dark tempestuous nights,\nand on Christmas Eve the hunt is said to be on a grand scale. The\ninhabitants of the moors keep indoors after dark. The story is told in--\n\n[Illustration: \"THE SOUL OF TREGEAGLE IN PAIN.\"]\n\n A BALLAD OF THE HAUNTED MOOR.\n\n When the snow lay on the moor, brown moor,\n And frost hung crystals on bracken and tree,\n Gehenna and She\u00f6l and Blackman's whelp\n Shook themselves free with deep-mouthed bay\n To hunt a poor soul in pain.\n A soul in pain, a notable soul,\n The soul of Tregeagle, a deathless soul,\n Burning in winter in Dozmary Pool,\n Freezing in summer in Dozmary Pool,\n The soul of Tregeagle in pain.\n\n The Black hunter's horn rang clear, rang clear,\n And the pack gave music, yap, yap, yap;\n Gehenna and She\u00f6l led straight to the Pool,\n Followed hot-foot by Blackman's whelp.\n The wonderful pack runs strong in the night\n To hunt a poor soul in pain.\n A soul in pain, a notable soul;\n The soul of Tregeagle, a deathless soul,\n Flies from the Pool with a shriek, a shriek;\n In terror there flies with a shriek\n The soul of Tregeagle in pain.\n\n The Black hunter's horn rings clear, rings clear,\n And the hungry pack, the hellish pack,\n Gehenna and She\u00f6l and Blackman's whelp,\n Scent the poor soul now from the Pool,\n Free from the pool on the snow-clad moor,\n Free to escape its terrible doom.\n Tally-ho! A soul in pain, in pain!\n The dark soul of Tregeagle in pain,\n Flies in black night across the moor,\n The desolate moor in snow and ice,\n The soul of Tregeagle in pain.\n\n Runs the Hunter's horse with hoofs on fire,\n The terrible, howling pack breathe fire,\n And yap, yap, yap, along the white track,\n Follow the poor soul in pain, in pain--\n Race the poor soul in terror and pain--\n Gehenna still leading the pack.\n To a light! a light! the hunted soul,\n The soul of Tregeagle in pain,\n Flies to a light on a rock, a rock--\n Flies to a light on Roche Rock,\n The soul of Tregeagle in pain.\n\n The scent, the fiendish scent, lies well,\n On snow-white moor and frosted fern;\n The keen wind blows it back to the pack,\n The Black hunter's pack with eyes of fire--\n Gehenna and She\u00f6l and Blackman's whelp,\n Yap, yap, yap! Hunting a soul in pain.\n Mile upon mile, o'er cairn and crag,\n O'er perilous ways in combe and hill;\n In sight of dead spectres abroad to-night\n Flies the scared soul in pitiless pain,\n The soul of Tregeagle in pain.\n\n A holy saint, a saint prays there:\n He hears the cry of a soul in pain;\n He knows the bark of the hellish pack,\n Gehenna and She\u00f6l and Blackman's whelp\n Hunting a soul in pain, in pain,\n Hunting a soul in deathless pain.\n The window is shut: no room, no room!\n Gehenna and She\u00f6l and Blackman's whelp\n Breathe liquid fire with nostrils wide;\n The saint prays lusty for himself,\n Not for Tregeagle in pain.\n\n Back o'er the moor, the frozen moor,\n Flies the curst soul to Dozmary Pool.\n With gleaming fangs and eyes aflame,\n The pack, the pack, the hellish pack\n Race by his side, yap, yap, yap--\n Race by the side of the soul in pain.\n Back to the Pool, the frozen pool,\n The burning soul, the notable soul,\n Flies to its prison of tears, hot tears,\n Flies to its cursed prison of tears,\n The soul of Tregeagle in pain.\n\n And the pack, the loathsome, hellish pack,\n Gehenna and She\u00f6l and Blackman's whelp,\n Were baulked of their prey this time, this time.\n But still they wait on the lonesome moor,\n To hunt the poor soul in pain, in pain--\n The soul of Tregeagle in pain.\n\nThere is a lot of moorland about here, and a Cornish moor, with its\npoor soil and windswept bracken, turning brown and golden before its\ntime, its gallant heaths struggling amongst the rocks, or blooming\ngrandly in sheltered patches, tells its tale of hardship. There is not\nmuch to be seen generally but rough ponies running wild, and rabbits\nand wild birds innumerable. A moor is not much of a place for a lonely\nman with sad indigestion bad upon him.\n\nThis was our first real experience of a Cornish moor, and we walked\nalong gaily enough for a time; but conversation languished, for each\nwas impressed in his own way by the immense void upon the earth.\nWhichever way we looked, there was nothing beyond speaking of limit\nto rolling moorland--the hills were only gaunt sentinels to a greater\nsilence. To come from a city with millions treading on the heels of\nmillions, and people in despair of getting breathing room, and then\nto find one's self upon a moor, is to experience a new sensation. Guy\nsuddenly sent up a shout, sprinted a hundred yards and back again, and\nthen wanted the Bookworm to \"tuck in his tup'ny\"--the loneliness had\ngot upon his nerves, but he felt better after this performance. The\nstory of Tregeagle hunted by hell-hounds had its origin in a locality\nmore desolate than this, and the Bookworm said he was convinced that\nlocality had much to do with the making and colouring of myths.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: FRONT DOORS.]\n\nCHAPTER XXVII\n\n\nThe capital of Clayland is St. Austell; but, as usual, nobody is very\nsure about the saint. If you say \"Saintauzel\" through the nose, you may\nbe taken for a native. The church is in the centre of the town, and\nthe narrow, crooked thoroughfares radiate from there. The town seems\nto have grown as wanted, every house pushing its neighbour towards\nthe centre. The wealth of Ophir in black, glittering tin is said to\nunderlie the town, and there is no doubt about the tin being there, for\nthe nuggies may be heard working on their silver anvils, and bright\nlights dance upon the surface during autumnal mists. Any tinner will\ntell you the meaning of these mysterious illuminations; but the mines\nare not worked now, because the hills above and around are composed of\nthe white clay which all the world wants.\n\n\"Saintauzel\" is a Friday town. Most things are reckoned as from Friday\nto Friday, which is market day, and the inhabitants put on their Friday\nfaces and Friday clothes. When it isn't Friday the inhabitants delight\nin watching the clay-waggons pass their shops, or in dodging them in\nthe narrow, crooked labyrinths called streets. Everything gives way\nto the clay teams--butcher-boys and motor-drivers screw themselves\ninto nothingness, or back down side-streets when the clay-man is\nin view, driving his horses in single file, all straining at their\nchains. An endless procession of heavy waggons rumbles through the\nnarrow streets--waggons laden with powdered clay in barrels, or with\nsquare, white, glistening lumps uncovered; and the drivers, stiffened\nup with clay, like loaded yarn, crack their long whips and keep\ntheir teams at it. These drivers, born upon the hills, look a race\nto themselves--straight-backed, upright, and hard as nails. The clay\nwhich they absorb year by year doesn't hurt them. The amount which they\nswallow with their pasties must be fatal to microbes, as they seldom\nthink of dying until tired of throwing about barrels of clay which\nwould break an ordinary labourer's heart to handle. The old county is\nsent away in ships as fast as they can carry it, but there is some left.\n\nGuy fancied that there was not so much \"expression\" in the faces\nand dramatic action with the people we met here as in other places,\nand hazarded a guess that this was a result of looking at so much\ninexpressionless clay. There is not much in clay to lay hold of the\nimagination, except its whiteness, and the purer the blanker it is;\nbut, then, smirches in clay would cause a sensation, like the entrance\nof a lady with a past into a party of sweet young things playing at\ngoodness in a social comedy. There is little in the article suggestive\nof anything but money. The people here are said to be very rich in\ncomparison with those in other towns, and they need three banks to take\ncare of their cash. The chief amusement at night is to walk around the\nbanks, just to see that the doors are closed. The Bookworm made a few\ninquiries about libraries and art galleries, and that sort of thing,\nbut there were none. He felt sad; he couldn't help it, he said, when he\nfound people with money without books and pictures, and things of that\nsort. Samuel Drew was born here, so also was John William Colenso, the\nman who \"made an epoch in criticism by his straightforwardness,\" and\nthere is plenty of room for a statue to each. The old bull-ring is in\nevidence.\n\nThe hill on which the town stands stretches away a mile or so, and the\nfurther you go the better the view of the white, glistening patches,\nand the rills of white water trickling down the valleys seawards.\n\"Milk!\" is the one idea, milk flowing through the land--milk enough and\nto spare for all the condensed milk factories in the world. It's only\nan illusion--it's clay in solution, which by-and-by will show itself in\nthe sea, like a white apron upon the shore, until it loses itself in\nthe eternal blue. We stand here on what is a sort of terminus of the\nhilly backbone of the country--eastward, it is black and rugged, moor\nand mountain with white scars, and ruined engine-houses of abandoned\nmines; then westward, and there is paradise in green stretching towards\nthe cathedral city. Down again to Clayopolis and the throb of arterial\nlife--clay and money, money and clay.\n\nChina clay has no fairy of its own, like tin. It came upon the\nscene too late; and fairies can't be made at will, but must grow of\nthemselves, and take time. Fishing, agriculture, and mining have their\ntutelar spirits, able to work and dematerialize at will, and every\ndesolate cave, and cairn, and moor, and pool has its gnome and fairy;\nbut when we come across anything modern there is one thing wanting.\nLightning comes from fairyland until it is put in lamps and sold per\nmetre. China clay, unknown to the fairies and unblessed by the saints,\nhas to make its own way in the world, on merits, like any modern\nyoungster turned out of a Board School. And it does very well.\n\nThis is one of the few towns in which a theatrical company can pay\nexpenses. The people are musical and dramatic, they can't help it; and\nthough a \"theatre\" would be \"taboo,\" a drama in Public Rooms is all\nright. Sports do very well, and you may race anything, from lame ducks\nto donkeys, bikes and motors, men, women, and children, but not horses.\nA horse-race is--well, not to be mentioned.\n\nThe game of \"hurling,\" peculiar to the county, is not played here now,\nthough it is kept up at St. Columb and Helston and other places, and\nwe saw it played at Newquay in a very mild sort of way. The origin of\nthe game is pre-historic. When a paleolithic gentleman had a nice bone\nwhich another paleolithic gentleman tried to grab, a tussle commenced,\nand the best man got the bone, and kept it. The evolution of the game\nout of a scrimmage for a bone is so natural that the best-informed\nantiquarians have missed it.\n\nA hurler should be able to run like a hare, hide like a rabbit, leap\nlike a kangaroo, and climb like a monkey. Then he should be able to\nbox like a pugilist, wrestle like a champion, and sky a ball like\nan All-England cricketer. These are essentials. Then, if he escapes\ndrowning, and comes alive out of a \"scrum,\" he may make a good hurler.\nIt is a fair game, and may be played by selected teams, like football,\nor town against country, with an unlimited number. A silvered ball\nis the trophy. The ball is thrown into the air, and the man catching\nit runs for his goal, and when the game is too hot for him he skies\nthe ball, and another fellow starts with the whole pack after him,\nuntil he's tripped up and buried under a living heap of players; then\nsome one steals away with the ball, wrestles with the first man who\ncatches him, and then there's another \"scrum,\" which gives points to\nRugby. And so on, backwards and forwards, from goal to goal, until\n\"time\" is called, or someone insured against broken bones and sudden\ndeath manages to touch his goal with the ball in his hand. Carew says\nthe game was played in his days so that players returned home \"with\nbloody pates, bones broken and out of joint, and such bruises as serve\nto shorten their days, _and all in good play_, and never attorney nor\ncoroner troubled for the matter.\" If this was the legitimate play,\nwhat could the other have been? The game as played on Newquay sands\nwas quite another affair, and, if revived with \"Newquay rules,\" might\nextend from Cornwall to the country. Porpoises play a game in the sea\nsomething like hurling, only instead of a ball they throw a live conger\ninto the air, and the one who catches dodges about until made to throw\nit up again, and so on, until time is called. An exciting game is on\nrecord, but the sensations of the conger are unknown. A good fish story\nusually leaves a trifle to the imagination.\n\n[Illustration: A FAIR PROSPECT.]\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: JOHN BURTON.]\n\nCHAPTER XXVIII\n\n\nThe south coast differs from the north. Lord Beaconsfield came to\nFalmouth in his dandy days, and wrote: \"It is one of the most charming\nplaces I ever saw--I mean the scenery and around.\" The scenery is still\nthere, and the town is turning it to account and learning to live on\nit. Falmouth is very much like the lady who has seen \"better days,\"\nand is reduced to put up the sign \"Lodgings to Let.\" There was a time\nwhen the ships of the King's Navy and the Mail Packets came here, and\nthe riches of the world were landed on its quays. Disraeli came here\n_en route_ for the East, when Falmouth was queen in her own right, if\nwealth and commerce and beauty can make a queen. Then things changed\nand changed, and ships and commerce found other ports; but the beauty\nis there, and is all its own. Some people say more might be made of it\nin a commercial sense. There is a literary and refined air about the\nplace which delighted the Bookworm, who found out the Libraries and Art\nGalleries, Polytechnic and Observatory.\n\nHonest John Burton was the Bookworm's delight; and after picking\nup a first edition of Chatterton in the twopenny box, there was no\nkeeping him away from the premises. It was a rare pick-up, and honest\nJohn wouldn't take more than twopence, not he! We rambled over the\npremises, and found heathen gods enough stocked away to fill a temple\nin Thibet. The Bookworm said there was nothing so rich and rare in the\nwhole collection as old Burton himself, a dose of whom would banish\nmelancholy. We took his word, for more good things were pumped into him\nthan he could afterwards remember.\n\nFalmouth is linked in Parliamentary matrimony with Penryn, an ancient\nborough so ashamed of its age that it sold its parish stocks, and other\nantiquities, \"for a song.\" The boroughs are an ill-assorted pair, and\nthe political marriage was not made in heaven.\n\n[Illustration: BARRACKS HOP, FALMOUTH.]\n\nFalmouth has its scenery and climate, two inalienable possessions,\ncosting nothing, yet sources of unsuspected wealth if only made the\nmost of. We came across the track of the American citizen, John B.\nBellamy, whom we met at Penzance. He left his card with honest John\nBurton, with an order to send him along any available relics of the\nlate King Arthur. He may get some, who knows? He left behind him also\nthe opinion, that if the \"durned old place\" was only on the other side\nof the Atlantic, the harbour might be filled up with the gold that\nwould flow into it every season. Tired Yanks would find paradise, and\npay accordingly. The garden of acclimatation speaks of the climate in\nthe bloom and perfume and variety of plants, all of which speak the\ntruth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.\n\nThere is no place in the county so well catered for in the matter of\nwater excursions. The river Fal is marked as one of the beauty spots\nof the county, and some compare it favourably even with the Dart and\nthe Wye. It may lose or gain by comparison, but it is good enough \"on\nits own.\" The best way to see the Fal is to sail from the open into\nthe fjord-like inlet of Falmouth, and then up the valley, sinuous and\nwell-wooded, narrowing as you go, and increasing its natural beauty\nevery mile. The Helford river should be seen in a similar way--come in\nfrom the open with the sea and fancy, if you can, the mighty rush of\nwaters boring its way through rocks, carving out the miniature creeks,\nright and left, until its earth-hunger is spent. The scenery from\nHelford to Gweek is bolder than that of the Fal, and some prefer it on\nthat account. There is a lot of fishing done in the creeks, and most of\nthe yachts we passed had nets and lines hanging over the bows or lying\nabout the decks. The oysters have a good reputation, but there is no\nconsiderable trade done in pearls.\n\nRivers are scarce, though the clouds are generous. Some say there are\nno real rivers, and that Cornwall has only the predominant partner\ninterest in the Tamar, and two brooks, Camel and Fowey, which you can\nleap over anywhere with a long pole, until you come to salt water. The\nFal and Helford are really estuaries. The upper moorland reaches of the\nCamel and Fowey abound in delicious little spots where one can sit and\nlisten dreamily to the stream fretting amongst boulders, and swirling\nin sunshine and shadow amongst ferns and wild flowering shrubs, with\neffects incomparably beautiful.\n\nThe Lizard end of the peninsula is a sort of receiving house for\nthe news of the world. The secrets of many lands arrive here first,\nbreathless and palpitating, after their long runs on the ocean cables.\nMarconi has his stations here; and at unlooked-for places we come\nacross notices reminding all whom it concerns not to foul the cables.\nThere are secrets of which we know nothing--secrets of peace and war,\nruin and success, love and hate, which we would give our ears to have\nan inkling of, vibrating under water and in the air.\n\nThe peninsula has always been a sort of receiving office for the\nnation. At first, when foes came sailing along, the Cornishmen spied\nthem and sent up a flare, and then the beacon fires flashed out the\nnews in the dark night, so that all men might read in letters of flame.\nA fire lit high on St. Michael's Mount travelled with speed around the\ncoasts of Britain. Hensbarrow, called the \"Archbeacon\" of the county,\ncould tell its story in fire from the Lizard to the Tamar, and set\nmen's blood tingling, and hearts throbbing, as no \"wire\" or \"cable\" or\nprinted word can do.\n\nIt was \"wireless,\" and the British admiral keeping watch upon the\nFrench fleet at Brest informed my lords of the Admiralty of their\nmovements by means of signals from frigate to frigate stationed across\nthe Channel, and received at the Dodman by the sleepless watcher. Then\nthe news travelled by semaphore from headland to headland--from Dodman\nto the Blackhead, to the Gribben, to Polruan, to Polperro, to Maker\nHeights, to the Commander-in-Chief. Very little time was lost, even in\nthe old days, when there was anything to tell, and Cornwall was the\neye, and ear, and tongue.\n\nThe Dodman, the highest headland in the county, is one of those places\nof solitude where depression will not stay. Hour after hour one may\npass upon the bluff headland without seeing a human soul or hearing a\nhuman voice, and yet feel one's spirits elated in the silence. With a\nmere half-turn of the head one can see the whole Cornish coast, from\nthe Lizard to the Rame, and beyond, and all the ocean traffic passing\nup and down. Then below, a sheer fall of four hundred feet, are the\nlittle crabbing boats, mere specks upon the blue, shoaling into green\nand breaking into foam upon the dark, weathered rocks. And then the\nwind, blow which way it will, must sweep this headland, bringing with\nit the scents of heather and wild flower untainted, as though in all\nthe world there were no such things as smoke, and factories, and areas\nof pollution. For miles the cliffs are covered with tall bracken, green\nin summer, but quickly touched with brown and gold. These cliffs teem\nwith life which we cannot see but know to be there; but feathered life\nis abundant and everywhere in evidence, flying in air, clustering on\nthe rocks, or diving and swimming when fish abound. And then there come\nup from the shore the rhythmic sounds of spent energy--\n\n \"Hush me to sleep with the soft wave song,\n Wash all the cares away, wash all the strife away,\n All the old pains that to living belong.\"\n\nEvery sense is filled with thrills, and depression is impossible.\nPeople say the country is one vast sanatorium; and I think that\nopen-air treatment on the Dodman would be delightful. The \"faculty\"\nare welcome to the hint.\n\nThe headland is occupied only by a small shelter for the\ncoastguardsmen, and a modern granite cross, which can be seen, soon\nafter passing the Lizard, by persons on board ship. To those who think\nit, this fine monument is the symbol of the new life rampant over a\nburied past, for it stands on the legendary playground of the giants,\nwho laid waste the whole district, and heaped the bones of their\nvictims, pile upon pile, until the headland rose majestic.\n\nA giant once dwelt here who willed his \"quoits\" to his relatives,\nwho, however, never claimed them, so they became part and parcel of\nthe lord's inheritance and may be seen to this day. Then footsteps\nof the Vikings are plainly visible in stone encampments, telling of\nanother age, still violent, but of \"derring-do;\" and to the west we\ntouch Arthurian romance once more, for Geraint of the Round Table lies\nthere, interred with Christian rites in a boat of gold, which was rowed\nacross the sea with silver oars. All this, and more, within sight and\nsound of the Dodman cross, bearing the following inscription: \"In the\nfirm hope of the Second Coming of Our Lord Jesus Christ, and for the\nencouragement of those who strive to serve Him, this Cross is erected.\nA.D. 1896.\" The old order and the new rest peacefully on this headland\nsolitude.\n\nThe finest beaches on the south are here, right and left of the Dodman,\nand are seldom visited save by stragglers, like ourselves, or picnic\nparties from a distance. The Bookworm chanced upon the fact that\nCornwall had some little share in the production of Lord Byron, his\ngrandmother being a Trevanion of Caerhays, only a short distance from\nhere.[I] Admiral Byron, the grandfather, was known to contemporaries as\n\"Foul-weather Jack,\" so storm-pursued was he, and the poet's passionate\nlove of the sea was not a mere \"sport,\" after all.\n\n[I] Caerhays Castle passed from the Trevanion family by purchase to\nthat of the present owner--Mr. J. C. Williams, formerly M.P. for the\nTruro division. The castle was built in 1805 from the designs of Mr.\nNash, architect of Buckingham Palace and Regent Street.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: THE PENRYN STOCKS.]\n\nCHAPTER XXIX\n\n\nThe coastguard station, with whitewashed walls gleaming and flagstaff\nwith halyards all taut, makes a good mark along this coast, which\nis certainly not thickly populated now, to judge by the number of\ncrumbling houses and villages partially deserted. The fishing coves\nhold their own, but the cry of \"back to the land\" has not been much\nheeded in these parts.\n\nThe man in blue uniform, with spy-glass under his arm, is always an\nattractive personage; he is so human, though official; so fresh and\nbreezy, so ready to help the passing ship in danger, and do grand\ndeeds in storm and tempest. England's watchfulness and strength is\nwrit large upon the coastguard station, and the men are uniformly\nintelligent and good-mannered. A strange mixture of blood--Great\nBritain in epitome--may be found in one small station we halted at,\nnamely, two Irish, one Scotch, one Novocastrian, and one Devonian--not\na dash of Cornish blood at a Cornish station. A native might wink the\nother eye if his own flesh and blood did a bit of free trading in\nspirits and tobacco, and only run with his \"two left legs\" after a\nculprit related to himself. The men, as a rule, have seen the world,\nread a great deal, and pass their time in thinking--not very much else\nto do when on duty but watch and think.\n\nIf you'll be good enough to listen, the coast-guardsman will talk. The\nsea-gulls are very chummy with the men, know the uniform, and like to\ncome and help them in their garden patches. Guy told a man one day that\nthe gulls were a bit out of favour just now with Londoners because\nthey had a weakness for sparrows, feathers and all; but the coastguard\nwasn't surprised at the gull, only at the sparrow. He thought that\nLondon sparrows were too artful to be picked up in that way by a simple\nsea bird. He told us some stories about sea-gulls. They are fond of\nyoung kittens and puppies that nobody wants and throws into the water.\nThe fur increases the luxury of the _bonne bouche_. Then rabbits. Woe\nto the young thing that they tap with their powerful bills! A gull will\nkill a rabbit caught in a gin and feast on its eyes. Then they are\nfamous poachers, stealing the eggs of birds nesting in the cliffs, and\ncarrying off the newly hatched. But ravens and crows take reprisals\nand make the gull sorry at times. Our coastguard told us this little\nstory:--\n\n\"There was a gull sitting on a rock below this station, and I watched\nthe pair day by day. The male bird is very attentive, and feeds the\nhen, and watches over her, and takes her place on the nest when she\ntakes an airing. A pair of ravens took an interest in the proceedings,\nand one day, when the male bird was away foraging, they executed a\nscheme for robbing the sea-gull's eggs. It was very neat in its way.\nThe ravens flew round and round the sitting hen, screaming defiance;\nbut the hen only sat the tighter. Then they circled closer and closer,\nand flapped their black wings in the hen's face. This insult was too\nmuch. The gull's blood was up, and she rose from her nest. Then the\nravens separated, and whilst the gull chased number one, number two\npicked up an egg in its bill and flew back to quarters, where number\none joined it, and the two shared the stolen egg. Some people say birds\nhave no reason. Well, I'd like to see cunning strategy better carried\nout. The little Japs couldn't do better.\"\n\nThe silver-grey gull is in paradise in the fishing villages, and takes\npossession of the boats, and quays, and roofs of houses, and helps\nitself out of the \"flaskets\" filled with fish, or from the heaps lying\non the stones. A bigger thief does not live and escape punishment. If\nanything floats on the water in the harbour, the gull swoops down upon\nit and it is gone; if anything is left unprotected, the gull has it.\nWhat a gull will eat, and want no liver pill, would make any other\nrespectable bird on the wing bilious; but the gull is always bright\nand cheerful, and ready for another gorge, and its natural store of\ngastric juice would set up a chemical factory. When fish is scarce the\ngull goes inland and feeds upon the fields, or joins the noble army of\npoachers over gentlemen's preserves.\n\nOn the wing the gull is the spirit of poetry, and in storm the spirit\nof the tempest; the fishers look on it as a friend, because it hovers\nover the \"schools\" of fish swimming in the sea, and warns them of\napproaching storm. The gull is the link between the fisher and his\nhome, flies after the boats when they go out, and heralds their return.\nThe women look out of their windows in the early morn, and see the gull\nresting and waiting for the offal to be thrown away when the boats land\ntheir catches. Then they know the boats are near, and that the men\nwill be home soon, with fish strung upon their fingers for the morning\nmeal. The gull is the household bird by adoption, and the women don't\nbegrudge it what it steals.\n\nThe dark rocks outside the fishing towns swarm with\nsea-gulls--specketty-brown gulls, grey and white gulls with\nebony-tipped wings, gulls with brown and gulls with yellow beaks, gulls\nflying, gulls swimming, gulls sleeping, gulls on outpost duty. Without\nthese birds the rocks would be very tame. A swarm of gulls in the air\nis one of the prettiest sights in nature; and then the cry of the gull\nis the cry of a human soul in agony, which perhaps it is.\n\n\n THE LEGEND OF ST. GOELAND.\n\nIn the days when Lyonesse was land, a poor hermit dwelt upon a rock,\nwhereon he had built for himself a chapel, which was but a shelter of\nrude stones to protect him, but it was called a \"chapel\" because it\nhad been signed with the sign of the cross, and he said his prayers\ntherein. The rock was storm-swept, and was at the head of a bay,\nbeautiful in summer, but terrible in winter, and the bay was only a\ntrap to poor mariners, and every rock could tell its tragedy. St.\nGoeland was a Breton, born in a fishing village, and when he came\nacross there flew after him a sea-gull, which he had befriended. It\nwas all the same to the sea-bird where it dwelt if the sea was but\nthere, and the bird wished to be with St. Goeland.\n\nThe rock on which the saint built his chapel was known as the Gull\nRock, and there was nothing living visible but solemn shags resting by\nnight, and sea-birds on the wing at all times; no human dwelling or\nhabitation disturbed the pious meditations of the saint, who feasted\nwhen snails were in season, and on Fridays fresh fish was always\nbrought to him by his devoted gull. At other times the gull brought\nsea-birds' eggs, and laid them down outside the chapel door. Fresh\nsea-birds' eggs are simply delicious when boiled.\n\nSt. Goeland did not live a useless life, for outside his chapel there\nwas a cage which he filled with dry sticks, lighting it when there was\nfog about, and then hoisting it aloft to warn mariners to keep clear\nof the treacherous bay. \"St. Goeland's lantern\" became known, far and\nwide. One day the saint picked up a bell which had been washed ashore;\nso he built a rude belfry and hung it, and then \"St. Goeland's Bell\"\nwas heard by mariners at sea whenever there was danger of being caught\nupon a lee shore. When the wind veered round to danger point the old\ngull used to give the saint a note of warning, and the saint would rise\nfrom his soundest sleep and pull on the rope, so the sound of the bell\nwas carried down the wind, and mariners gave the treacherous coast\na wide berth. The saint never knew the good he did, but did it, not\nknowing. Now, what with cutting and stacking faggots for the \"lantern,\"\nand ringing the bell, St. Goeland was sometimes very busy, and he\nand his gull grew old together. The silver-grey feathers were almost\nas white as the saint's silver hair. When the saint was troubled he\ntalked to the bird, which was saddened when he said, \"We have grown old\ntogether, and what will happen to the poor mariners when there is no\none to light the lantern and sound the bell?\"\n\n[Illustration: ST. GOELAND AND THE SEA-GULL.]\n\nIt came to pass that a ship filled with pilgrims was making for the\nland, and would have come and anchored in the bay when the wind veered,\nand the old gull gave its note of warning; but St. Goeland was too\nfeeble to rise, and the tears came into his eyes. The pilgrim ship was\nsailing joyously towards destruction, and the bell was silent! The gull\ncried louder; the wind rose, and the ship was on her way; soon she\nwould be on a lee shore, and then----\n\nSt Goeland made a supreme effort, and clutched the rope. \"My God!\" he\nshrieked, and fell, and the bell sounded. But the gull heard the shriek\nand the bell's note mingled, and carried it against the wind; and those\non board the pilgrim ship heard, and drew off the land, saying, it was\n\"St. Goeland's warning,\" which it was, only they did not know that the\nsaint passed away when the bell pealed his requiem.\n\nFrom that time the sea-gull's cry is that of a human soul in agony\nmingled with the note of a \"passing bell.\" All mariners, and fishers,\nand dwellers by the sea, know it well, and woe to the man who lays\nfinger on a gull, except in kindness!\n\n\"The sea-gull,\" said Guy, \"is an utterly unproductive animal, fit for\nnothing but to look at. What it destroys is incalculable, and yet some\nyarn like this, invented Heaven knows when, makes it almost a sacred\nbird.\"\n\nThe Bookworm had little to say, except that people were more influenced\nby sentiment than they knew or suspected.\n\nGuy pooh-poohed \"sentiment,\" and said he'd wring a couple of gulls'\nnecks the next morning before breakfast.\n\nHe went out with that idea, but a warning voice reached him. Then he\ntried to \"negociate\" a purchase, and a big fist brought down in the\nman's palm warned him that the transaction was, in diplomatic language,\n\"delicate.\" Guy owned up that there was something, after all, in\n\"sentiment.\"\n\nSea-gulls are privileged in this part of the world.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: THE DOG-FISH.]\n\nCHAPTER XXX\n\n\nFishing villages look charming from the sea, the houses rising one\nabove another against the hills, with green fields and windswept trees\nfor background; and they are very picturesque when looked upon from\nhilltops, with all their boats riding to their moorings, or sailing\nabout in the offing. This is the home of the pilchard in summer and\nautumn, and the industry is important. When confectioned in oil, and\ntinned, the pilchard is \"sardine.\" One of the most beautiful sights on\nthe coast is the united fleets from Mevagissey, Polperro, and Looe,\n\"drifting\" on a clear, dark night, with their riding-lights twinkling.\nSo peaceful, and not a sound reaches the shore, for deep-sea fishing is\na silent occupation. Fish are supposed to be very sensitive to sounds,\nand it is one of the deadly sins to whistle or sing on board a boat\nwhen her nets are in the water. These places live for the most part on\nWesley and pilchards. Speak well of both, and you may be happy.\n\nPickled pilchards are exported to Italy in casks; and the abusers of\nthe Pope and all his works wax fat. The man who ventures to say a good\nword for his Holiness needs courage; but those who make faces now\nwould feel bad without Lent and fish days in the Roman calendar. Guy\nargued that it showed a fine spirit to feed poor benighted Italians\nwho crossed themselves, and pouch a hundred thousand sterling a year\nfor the trouble. Pickled pilchards he looked on as a bond of union\nbetween the two countries. Pilchards feed bodies, the Pope souls, and\nthe shekels come here. Long live the pilchard! Commerce is the fifth\ngospel, and Rashleigh puts it in a nutshell--Father Prout couldn't do\nbetter--\n\n \"Here's to the health of the Pope! May he live to repent,\n And add just six months to the term of his Lent,\n And tell all his vassals from Rome to the Poles,\n There's nothing like _pilchards_ for saving their souls.\"\n\nThe incense of fish, fried and grilled, ascends to high heaven, or as\nfar as it can reach in that direction, morning and evening; and when\nthere's no incense times are hard. The sign is said to be infallible.\n\nPilgrims sometimes fancy that fish is cheap where it is caught, but\nthis is one of the fallacies of the day. Soles go to Billingsgate when\nthey die, and so do most fish of good table reputation. A visitor may\nsometimes secure a sole when landed, but only the millionaire class\ncan do so often. The Bookworm tried the experiment, and Guy told him\nhe should have known better; but he was carried away with excitement\nat seeing a real live sole flap its fins and gape. People standing\naround told him the fish was alive, but would be iced with the rest,\nand sent to Billingsgate. The Bookworm thought he would like to buy it,\nand there was a sudden lull in the business going on on the quay. The\nsole belonged to a man in a blue flannel shirt, and every one crowded\nround and stared at him, and listened attentively when he was asked\nto name a price. The man seemed sorry to part with the fish in this\nway, and then he asked a price which might have affected the price of\n\"stocks\" had it been reported. The Bookworm brought home his capture in\ntriumph. Guy studied the question afterwards, and found that the people\nliked to pack fish in ice, and pay cartage, and railway charges, and\ncommissions, and make bad debts, all for the honour of selling fish at\nBillingsgate at a lower price than they would sell it on the spot. \"The\nnearer the sea the further from fish,\" is the working motto, but it\nloses its strangeness after a time.\n\nFisher people eat fish, but prefer flesh at the midday meal. We found\nthe man in a blue flannel shirt sitting on a post, smoking a short clay\nas black as ebony, and he told us that his boy Tom wouldn't even ask a\nblessing on \"no vish\" when it was served for dinner. \"I shaan't ask no\nblessing over no vish, nor nothing but butchers maate,\" says young Tom;\nand the man in the blue shirt told us he thought this thankless spirit\nresulted from too much schooling!\n\nA deep-sea fisher, with a boat of his own, is the most independent man\nin the universe, having no landlord, paying no rent, burdened with no\ntax on boat and gear, going and coming as he pleases. He reaps without\nsowing, and is \"protected\" within the three-mile limit by gunboats\nin a land of \"free trade.\" A blue-water fisher is not ashamed of his\ncalling, hiding himself under the title of \"artist\" in shrimps, or\n\"purveyor\" of lobsters, or \"merchant\" in mackerel, and the rest. A\nfisherman, honest fisherman, is not too proud to be called what he is.\nThe art of fishing is as old as humanity, and it has been discovered\nthat a fish diet can produce a great nation in the Far East.[J] [J]\nThe Japs dwell complacently on the tradition that they were once only\na community of humble fishermen; and it is the custom to send with all\npresents a _piece of dried fish_, that their origin may be kept in\nperpetual remembrance.\n\nGuy wanted to know why fishers are always called \"poor,\" and why\nsentimental tears were shed over their hard lot? Fish cost nothing\nto feed, yet fetch about twice as much as beef and mutton for the\ntable, and so somebody made a good thing if the fisherman was poor. If\nthe calling was a hard one, one must go to some other part of the world\nto discover it; and as for danger, cases of drowning at sea here are\nvery rare. The moan of the \"Three Fishers\" doesn't suit the part in\nthis place.\n\n[Illustration: THREE MINUTES WITH A DOG FISH.\n\n(_The net is cut by the spines on the dorsal fins._)]\n\nFish \"charms\" are comparatively rare, but fish oil is said to be good\nfor weak vision, and the smoke from burning fish is a protection\nagainst evil spirits. The eating of skate accounts for large families,\nand a dogfish secures an heir male, if eaten in the month of May. Kings\nand queens, and all persons worried on this subject, please note.\n\nThe curative effects of sea-water drunk fasting are believed\nin. Some of the old people say they have never taken any other\nmedicine. A master mariner told us that, at sea, sailors would drink\nsea-water instead of coming to him for a dose of \"traade\" out of the\nmedicine-chest. The Bookworm said a medical journal had recently\ndrawn attention to the subject, and recommended it to people who\nrose bad-tempered in the morning. Certainly the ocean wouldn't\nmiss a few bucketfuls, and mothers-in-law and M.P.'s, studying the\nquestions of the day, might go in strongly for the ocean cure. What a\nsweet-tempered world to live in then, and plenty of water for fish to\nswim in left!\n\nA deep-sea fisher has a good eye for colour, and every shade and tint\nupon the face of the sea and heavens he knows as well as any artist.\nFish colours he knows to a shade of a shade, and when the sky has a\nqueer look, he likens it to \"mackerel\" tints, and every tint is an omen\nto him.\n\nHow many hours a day a fisherman passes looking at the sea has never\nbeen counted. There is, perhaps, some unknown fascination for eye and\near, something calling which will not be denied. We noticed an old man\nwho seemed glued to a stump in a nice sunny corner, out of the way of\nthe wind, and the old man took possession of it. The view from this\npost was seaward, of course, and when the old man wasn't gazing at\nthe sea and clouds, he took off his sou'wester and looked inside of\nthat. Sometimes he put something inside his sou'wester, and then took\nsomething out and popped it in his mouth. The lining of his sou'wester\nwas his storehouse of unexhausted tobacco-quids. This was \"Uncle Tom\"\nand \"Uncle Tom's post,\" and the men, in passing, would hail him, \"How\nar'ee to-day, Uncle Tom?\" to which he would reply, \"Toll-loll.\" It\nwasn't much, but Guy, taking it as evidence that he could speak, laid\nin a stock of black, rank Irish roll tobacco, fit for chewing, and\nscraped an acquaintance.\n\nDid he ever tire of looking at the sea? Not that he was aweer on. The\nvish was in the zay, an' th' wind was in the clouds, and what else was\nthere in this world worth looking at? Man and boy, he had followed the\nsea till his hair was white, until he knew its coquetries and passions,\nand generation after generation before him were sailor-fishers, until\n\"the salt was in his blood.\" The old man's eyes were wild-violet-blue,\nand a mystic light came into them when he said that at times the sea\n\"called\" to him, and \"ef zo be I had my way, I'd die at zay, and be\nburied in salt watter, like Jan Tregose.\"\n\nGuy paid court to the old sea-dog, until his sou'wester was full\nof fresh quids, and wormed out the story of Jan Tregose, who, it\nappeared, was one of the good old sort in the good old times, who\ncould sing a song, and swear a swear, and loved a fiddle, and a maid,\nand brandy-toddy with the best. Now, when Jan found his timbers so\nshaken that he had to take to his bed, a longing came over him to die\nat sea, and be buried in deep water. The sea-spirit came to him in his\ndreams--the same spirit, tall and diaphanous, that used to come to\nhim when a young man and tell him what was going on at home whilst he\nwas on his voyages. The sea-spirit had not troubled him since he had\nremained ashore, until now, and it was a sign to him.\n\nJan Tregose called his sons together, and made them swear that never,\nwhilst breath was in them, should he be laid in a coffin, or buried\nin the earth. Then the sea-spirit came again, and told him that when\nthe tide turned that night she would receive him. The old man called\nhis sons again, and they carried him on board their lugger, and sailed\naway in the calm night, with the stars alone for witnesses. The spare\nlugsail was spread over the nets, and upon it Jan lay, his long, thin\nwhite hair gently lifting in the breeze; and there was nothing heard\nbut the sea-splash against the boat, and nothing seen but a long-necked\ngannet on the wing.\n\nThe boat was far enough from land when the tide turned. The sons\nlooked, and there was a mist before their eyes, but it went \"like\na flash,\" and the old man lay stark. Then the sons knew it was the\nsea-spirit they had seen as mist.\n\nThe sons kept their oath, and wrapped their father in the old lugsail,\nand watched him disappear in thirty fathoms of water, ten miles from\nthe Stone. And many a man has declared that he has heard Jan Tregose\nfiddling and singing before a storm. Those who are wise put back when\nthey hear \"Jan's tune\" at sea, for there is \"sartin to be a coose time.\"\n\n\"The salt is in the blood of these children of the sea, and has\ndeveloped a strange mysticism,\" said the Bookworm. \"Of course, I don't\nunderstand it,\" he added quickly, seeing Guy brace himself up and put\non his cross-examining air. \"It's there all the same, and the sea has\nvoices and prophecies for them which we landsmen miss; and why not? The\nsea is as a human face to them, and they know when it is troubled with\nthe spirit of passionate unrest. It may be that, like the fishes, they\nhave a sixth sense, and can see dark shadows fluttering under cloudless\nskies, and hear voices from afar preluding passionate symphonies.\"\n\n\"These fellows are always looking on the sea, and no doubt spot things\nbefore we should. Wonder if they didn't; but why this high-falutin?\"\nasked Guy.\n\n\"It may be magnetic phenomena, and these men unconsciously receive\nmessages; but it is none the less mystical to me,\" said the Bookworm,\nunruffled.\n\n\"I see; kind of receiving officers to the Clerk of the Weather. The\nnewspapers will come out with this sort of thing in the near future:\n'Our special correspondent writes that a change may be expected\nsoon--he feels it in the marrow of his bones;' or, 'Our infallible\npredicter at the Land's End heard sea-voices last night, and recommends\numbrellas and mackintoshes for the next week.' Take out a patent in\ntime and make a fortune; ideas are money just now,\" rejoined Guy,\nholding out the red flag.\n\nThe Bookworm was provokingly unconscious.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: A STREET CORNER, ST. IVES.]\n\nCHAPTER XXXI\n\n\nCornwall has a fascination for artists, and it is said that Newlyn and\nSt. Ives have many more reputations to make. On the south coast, where\nstudios are few, we often saw artists of the unflinching, realistic\nschool painting directly from Nature, their models standing patiently\nenough in exposed places. And such models! There are grand heads and\nfaces among these fisher-folk, and one can get models for saints or\nVikings. A collection of sketches made between Polperro and the\nDodman was shown us, which would do splendidly for every character\nin a Passion-play. Judas was there, who would, and did, receive his\npieces of silver before sitting for his \"effigy\" to be drawn. He looked\nthe part to perfection. And the sketches of women were splendid also,\nwhich is not remarkable, as they possess, in these parts, much of the\nlanguorous grace of their Southern sisters, the eyes being incomparably\nbeautiful.\n\nThe sea is the mother of life and beauty, and that is why Venus rose\nfrom the waves. The birthplace of the goddess might have been here,\nlong ago, when the short, stiff galleys of Greek and Phoenician\nrowed along the coast, marvelling at its beauty, after the pulseless\nshores of the tideless Mediterranean. Here were the dark cliffs and the\nsapphire waters falling on the golden sands. And in the early morn a\nsoft, diaphanous mist was borne onwards by the breakers, so those who\nsaw said, loveliness rose from the foam, and they called the vision\nAphrodite--the awakening of Nature into beauty. The mariners took the\nvision home, and Aphrodite, the life and movement of the sea, became\nthe guardian of mariners--the morning and the evening star.\n\nThe Beach is the shy maiden, seeking always the shadow of rocks and\ncliffs, and running into caves to hide from the light of day, when\nadorning herself with sea-shells, and rainbow medus\u00e6, and deep-tinted\nanemones, and all the treasures which the ardent sea casts into her\nlap. And the Sea is the wooer, restless and masterful, wooing ever and\nin every mood, and making his lovesong in sweet lullaby, and plaintive\nmoan, and martial beat as of ten thousand drums heralding the march of\ngrand battalions.\n\nWhen you see a girl in a boat you may write her down \"stranger,\" and\nif you see her handling a pair of sculls, you may be sure of it.[K]\nThe mothers of the blue-water men have as little as possible to do\nwith the sea, and are content to admire its greens and blues shot with\nflaming sky tints, and dream of \"heavenly costumes\" in like shades, at\nso much halfpenny per yard. Strong prejudices exist in places against\nwomen having anything to do with boats; but custom differs greatly on\nthe north and south coasts as to what a woman may or may not do, when\nthe men come ashore. That women and cats, hares and rabbits, bring \"bad\nluck\" is a very general superstition; so a woman never goes out with\nher husband fishing, and seldom steps into a rowboat. Where public\nsentiment is weak, and they can if they like, they don't like; and,\nin places, the art of making and mending nets is entirely lost to the\nwomen, though formerly, to make and mend nets, of all sizes, was a part\nof every girl's technical education; and in a fisher's family her\nfingers were never idle in making good the rents made by rocks and the\nsharp teeth of the voracious dogfish.\n\n [K] Fowey is an exception.\n\nGuy said it was probably the fault of the men that the women left their\nboats and gear alone. On rivers and lakes, where girls were encouraged,\nthey took to boating like anything, and if there was a prettier picture\nthan a girl sculling, or a girl eight, he'd like to see it. The men had\nno doubt frightened the women in the course of centuries with stories\nof sea-monsters and fairies, and no wonder they threw over net making\nand mending at the earliest moment.\n\nThe sea has its \"bucca,\" just as the land has its piskie, and there is\nthe same uncertainty as to the origin of the one as of the other. We\npicked up a story, and the Bookworm called it\n\n\n THE ROMANCE OF A BUCCA.\n\nIt is known to all fishermen living at the Cove, and fishing with\ncrab-pots, long lines, spilters, and drag-nets, that Bucca could\nbring good luck or bad luck just as he was minded, but that he never\ninterfered with any man who owned a big boat, or went far away to sea\nwith drift-nets for the capture of pilchard, herrings, and mackerel, in\ntheir season. Bucca did not move with the times, and got out of the way\nof great trawlers, and craft worked by steam and motors, churning up\nthe sea when it was restful, and defying wind and tide; but was content\nto lord it over those who went in and out in little boats, and left him\nhis share of \"luck\" upon the beach, when they landed. The fisherman\noften saw him, when the water was clear, working in and out amongst\nthe crabs and lobsters, half-hidden with sea-weeds; and it was always\ncounted as good luck to see Bucca at work, because he who saw was sure\nto have a fine catch. Sometimes he was seen, when the mists rolled up,\nsitting amongst the shags upon the rocks, holding court amongst them,\nand the noise which the birds made was taken for song, so the fishermen\nof the Cove called the mist \"music,\" and they say to one another that\nthe \"music\" is coming off the land, when the mist is rising and rolling\naway in clouds.\n\nBucca was not always Bucca, but a young prince who loved a maid, \"tall\nas a lyllye refreshed by a showere,\" but, alas! shut up in a convent\nto be out of his reach. Then he grew desperate, and bribed a \"wise\nwoman\" to change him into a pigeon, so that he could come and go, and\nthe maiden took the pigeon into her cell, and hid it in her bosom. The\nprince won the maiden's heart, and she grew more lovely and contented,\nwhich was her undoing, for the Lady Superior thought something must be\nwrong when a maiden under her charge was happy; so she sent secretly\nto the holy monk living near by, who caught the pigeon in the cell, and\nloosened the spell of the \"wise woman,\" when the prince stood confessed\nthe maiden's lover in his human shape. The maiden clung to him, and he\nwas bold and used bold threats, so the doors flew wide open, and they\nwould have fled, but the holy monk cursed him with a curse, and turned\nhim into a Bucca for a thousand years, or until such time as he should\nwin woman's love.\n\n[Illustration: FIGURE-HEAD OF THE \"CALEDONIA,\" MORWENSTOW.]\n\nA Bucca is not fair to see, being human but in form, with a dark face,\nlike weather-beaten rock, and big head with tangled masses of fine\nseaweed for hair; but he has power to change at will into fish or bird,\nthough not into anything with a human soul. So when the maiden looked\nupon the prince, she shrank from a thing so loathsome, and he rushed\ndown the nearest cliff and into the sea, and sought companionship\nwith fishes, until he learnt the ways of a Bucca, and could exercise\ndominion in his new element. He could neither drown in the sea, nor die\nupon land, for a thousand years, or until such time as he might win\nwoman's love.\n\nThe prince became Bucca of a cove wherein there were but few dwellers,\nand the fishermen became accustomed to see him sitting amongst the\nseaweed, and on the rocks amongst the sea-birds, and noticed that he\nwas always sad and lonely, so they had compassion in their hearts, and\nspoke him fair. Bucca rewarded them by filling their crab and lobster\npots, in season, and driving the fish into their nets; and when a storm\narose he'd lift their little craft over the waves, and guide them home\nin safety in the thickest fog. Generation after generation came and\nwent; and the little children heard of Bucca, and what he could do for\nthose who spoke him fair, and of the terrible things which happened\nto those who mocked him because of his dark skin, and big head, and\nseaweed curls. People who treated him badly he punished by driving the\ncrabs and lobsters from their pots, and the fishes from their nets, and\nwould let them drown in storms.\n\nOne of the Cove fishers was Uncle Malachi, who, when he was old, was\nleft with a little maid, a grandchild, to bring up; and he took her in\nhis boat with him, teaching her all he knew. People laughed, and said\nit was unlucky to have a maid on board a boat; and it seemed so, for\nUncle Malachi went out and returned with empty pots and nets. One day\nthe little maid fell into the sea, but Bucca held her up until Uncle\nMalachi reached his gaff, and gaffed her in. From that day he never\nwanted luck when he took his little maid with him; and \"Malachi's luck\"\nbecame a saying in the Cove for a good catch.\n\nFor centuries the Bucca lived at the Cove, lording it over fishes and\nfishermen, and never thought to cut short the term of his punishment\nby winning woman's love; but when he held up the little maid in the sea\nuntil Uncle Malachi gaffed her, an idea came into his head, and his\nheart throbbed.\n\nThe little maid grew beautiful and her lovers were many, but she\ngave her love to Seth Barton, who was as dark as she was fair, and\npassionate as he was dark, and none of the fisher-lads dared so much as\nlift their eyes to Uncle Malachi's little maid when he was near. Seth\nwas a crabber, and took over all the old man's pots and gear and boat\nwhen he was laid to rest, and he was married to the little maid, and\nthey lived in the old house with the windows looking on the beach. In\nthe linhay at the back Seth placed all his gear wanting mending, and\nGrace was deft with the \"needle,\" having been taught by Malachi to make\nnets and mend them, to bait the long lines, and do all that a boy might\ndo on the boat or on shore. Only Seth would not take Grace out with\nhim, for there was a saying, \"A woman in a boat is a devil afloat,\" and\nhe was a fisher, and feared bad luck if a married woman put foot over\nthe gunwale.\n\nNow, when Seth Barton was at sea, Bucca would come into the linhay\nand make and mend the nets and gear, so that Grace had little to\ndo. By-and-by she grew accustomed to Bucca, who came and went as he\npleased; and when he pleased no one could see him, so it was no good\nfor Grace to shut the door and say he should not come. Bucca, in fact,\nwas often with her when she did not know it, and in her dreams she was\nwooed by a handsome young prince, who took her thoughts from Seth,\nand filled her with passionate longings, so she was never so happy as\nwhen asleep and dreaming dreams. When she awoke there was only Bucca\nwith his seaweed hair and ugliness, so she had no idea that the lover\nof her dreams was Bucca, the prince of olden days, when the soul of\na man beamed in his eyes. In time, the sight of the ugly Bucca grew\ndistasteful, and she would rather mend the nets and bait the hooks\nthan have him about with his flat fishy eyes, in which no human light\nbeamed. And Seth, when he heard of the visions, grew jealous; and Grace\nheld her peace, but was rude to Bucca, telling him, in scorn, that if\nhe were but as her dream-lover, she'd follow him over sea and land.\n\nThen Bucca knew he'd never win woman's love, and he must abide his\nthousand years.\n\nOne night, however, Grace dreamt a dream, in which her prince-lover\npressed her lips and eyes, and whispered softly, so that she rose in\nsleep and followed the vision, which passed over the sea. She unmoored\nSeth's boat and took the oars, but Bucca was there, and lifted their\nweight, and drew back the waves that scarcely touched, so that the\nboat travelled fast, and Grace still slept. When the boat was far from\nland the vision changed, and the prince became a Bucca, who knelt\nbefore her, his sea-locks dripping, imploring for a woman's love to\nrestore him to his lost estate. There was pity in her soul, and the\nfishes swam round and round the boat to witness the strange wooing, and\nwonder what would happen if their Bucca won a woman's love. The night\nwas dark, and the stars shone, so that the sea was jewelled. Grace,\nunder the enchantment of a spell, lifted Bucca's head and looked into\nhis eyes, but they were poor and flat, with no light in them like the\nlight in the eyes of men.\n\nThen she took fear and awoke, and the spell was broken.\n\nThe men of the Cove heard a woman's scream, and rushed down to the\nbeach, where Seth was looking for his boat. Afar off, a mere speck,\nthey saw a woman rowing, but the boat glided over the sea impelled by\ninvisible power, and when its keel grated on the sand, the men saw\nBucca leave the stern, and disappear.\n\nThe fishers praised Bucca for bringing the boat to shore in safety;\nonly Grace knew, and kept her secret, as a Cornish woman can, until she\ngrew old, and then she told it to her children.\n\nThose who have the right sort of eyes may see the Bucca, whose thousand\nyears of doom are running out, and no woman's love has come to shorten\nit. But the little boats are disappearing from the Cove, and big boats\ngo to and fro, churning up the blue water, and sounding steam whistles,\nand Bucca has told the sea-birds and all the fishes, the crabs and the\nlobsters, that when he disappears there will be none to rule over them.\n\nThe Cove maidens are not taught to row and handle boats, and you may go\nthere and never see a woman touch a boat or mend a net, for fear that\nBucca may take a fancy to them, and \"slock\" them out to sea. And they\ndon't need the warning twice.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: TINTAGEL.]\n\nCHAPTER XXXII\n\n\nThe \"good\" King Arthur left some tracks, on the north coast mostly.\nWe heard nothing of him on the south. Tennyson followed the northern\ntrail, and we followed Tennyson, for a while; and we started in\ncomfort, which any one may do now the Tintagel hotel is running. The\nKing himself was never so well accommodated on the spot. The Arthur\nzone is somewhat limited for mere holiday pilgrims. The Lyonesse is out\nof it now, so the area is about from Bude to Camelford, and back again,\nfollowing the lines of desolation and tumuli. The anniversary of the\nKing's birthday is still celebrated by the ringing of bells under the\nsea between Bude and Boscastle. We didn't hear them, but some people\nsay they have.\n\nWe had a wet Sunday--a day of pitiless rain and gloom, a day to be\nremembered as long as human sensation of the dismal lasts. Everybody\ntook to letter-writing and addressing post-cards. So the morning\npassed, and it was cheerful to hear some one say it would be all right\nafter twelve--it was always all right then. We struggled on, and\nstill it poured. There was some wind, but it was the rain which took\npossession of us; and Guy suggested that the Gulf Stream had gone wrong\nthis time, and was pouring out of the clouds. We explored the hotel,\nand tried smoking and sleeping, and sleeping and smoking, until we were\nawake again, and began to take an interest in our fellow-pilgrims.\n\nThe Bookworm talked King Arthur in the drawing-room when only a few\nwere present, but the news somehow spread through the house, and he\nsoon had an audience, and everybody a Tennyson in pocket. Guy said the\nlittle beggar must have been grinding secretly in order to surprise us\none day. The surprise came now to all who had been reading up Tennyson\nwith the view of following in the footsteps of Arthur from battle-field\nto battle-field, from cradle to grave, and all within the borders of\nthe Duchy, to find that Arthurs were plentiful, and that there was one\nat least for each kingdom in Great Britain, and one across the water.\nThe mythical Arthur, the historical Arthur, and the Tennysonian Arthur\nwere \"reviewed.\"\n\nA lady visitor in spectacles said Arthur was her ideal. One reason--she\nmight almost say _the_ one reason--for her coming into Cornwall was to\nvisit Tintagel, his birthplace, and pay homage to his sepulchre, if she\ncould find it.\n\nGuy said her sentiments were exalted, and sustained one on a wet\nSunday. He was sorry that he did not know as much as his learned friend\nthe Bookworm, but he had a sort of impression that Arthur was not happy.\n\nThe lady sighed, and put all the fault upon Queen Jenefer. Arthur was\nher ideal, but, alas! he allowed the Queen to have too much of her own\nway, and should have interfered when she broke the china and threw her\njewels into the river. Guy confessed himself interested in this free\nhandling of the subject, and learnt the lady's views on the subjection\nof women (within limitations, of course) to the men who found them in\nbread-and-butter and pocket-money.\n\nA young lady interrupted conversation by giving a recitation, and\neverybody pulled out Tennyson, and read marked passages to one another,\nand so the evening slipped away. Still it rained; but we didn't mind\nit now, especially as we had been informed on good authority that it\nalways cleared after a downpour!\n\nThe Bookworm enjoyed himself most when button-holed by an antiquarian,\nwho listened with an ear-trumpet whilst he explained that it was of no\nconsequence whatever whether King Arthur ever existed, because he was\nan idea. The deaf gentleman begged leave to make a note of so original\na remark; and made more notes whilst the Bookworm aired his conviction\nthat Arthur represented a phase--a passing phase--of civilization in\nBritain, and that the legends which grew around his name served to show\nhow little society was prepared for the higher standards of life, known\nwell enough, but, alas! not followed.\n\nThe Bookworm told a little story which, he said, was not very well\nknown, not having been unearthed by the Historical MSS. Commissioners\nuntil Tennyson had finished his great Arthurian romances.\n\n\n KING ARTHUR'S JUDGMENT.\n\nThe King sat in his hall with his knights, and every one else was there\nwho could be there of right, and many who had no privilege wrote to the\nKing for tickets; the stable-boys and scullions fought for places round\nthe door, and climbed the high windows and peeped through, for the\nword had gone round that the King would hear a matrimonial cause. The\nKing looked troubled when he took his seat, because he had been obliged\nto refuse places to so many fair ladies who promised to lace in extra\ntight so as to take up the least possible room. But accommodation was\nlimited, and every refusal made him an enemy. Such is greatness; and\nthe King was troubled.\n\n[Illustration: YSEULT AND TRISTAN.]\n\nBut there was more trouble to come, as he well knew, whenever he sat as\nPresident for the trial of matrimonial causes; and his prophetic soul\ntold him that he would be outwitted in the end, because there was no\nKing's Proctor, all ears, by his side. The case was that of Mark, King\nof Cornwall, whose wife Yseult, the Helen of the day, had been carried\noff by Tristan, second to none in love and war. All the parties were of\nblue blood, and the fugitives had only yielded to the law by force of\narms, so the case was not wanting in interest for the upper crust.\n\nMark opened the proceedings by saying he wanted his wife home again,\nwhere things were sixes and sevens, and dinner served anyhow; but\nYseult refused to return because Mark was bilious at times, and said\nbilious things much better left unsaid, and, moreover, she liked\nTristan best, and would stick to him, for aye and always. There was\na fluttering of fans and applause in Court, which made the President\nsad, so that he threatened to have it cleared on repetition. There\nwere no counsel learned in the law practising in those days before the\nKing, so the parties said their say and argued as they pleased; and\nwhen Tristan sidled up to Yseult and patted her on the back, saying,\n\"Cheer up!\" the whole assembly hurrahed, and the King made believe\nnot to hear it, but turned to Jenefer, his Queen, who whispered to\nLancelot, who was a sort of friend of the parties all round; but what\nthey said was not audible to the reporters.\n\nThe King was troubled. There were no precedents in law for a case like\nthis, so he made a little speech to Mark, telling him he'd be better\nwithout an unwilling wife; but Mark was bilious, and extra obstinate,\nand would have his wife, his whole wife, and nothing but his wife.\nThen King Arthur changed his note, and tried his cunning upon Tristan,\nwho said love was above law, and he'd have his love. There was, then,\nnothing for the King to do but to pronounce judgment, which he did,\ndividing Yseult between the two; and the order which he made was that\nshe should stay with the one when the trees were in leaf, and with\nthe other when they were bare, and to Mark, as husband, he gave first\nchoice.\n\nThe trial was in the autumn, and Mark was no fool, so he elected to\ntake Yseult when trees were bare, saying to himself, \"She will come\nnow, and let me but get her home, and the trees will never be in leaf\nfor Tristan!\" But he was no match for Yseult, who threw herself into\nthe arms of her lover, saying--\n\n \"There are three trees of constant hue,\n The ivy, the holly, and the yew;\n They bear leaves summer and winter;\n Tristan! I am thine for ever.\"\n\n\"A woman drove three chariots abreast through Temple Bar that time,\"\nsaid Guy, laughing. \"If women practised at the bar to-day, it would be\na bit awkward for the judges, for they'd make holes in judgments as\nwise as Solomon's.\"\n\nWe had a gentle reminder that it was time for all lights to be out, and\nthe last impression everybody had was that the right thing to do in\nCornwall was to make a pilgrimage to Tintagel.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: THE DIGEY.]\n\nCHAPTER XXXIII\n\n\nThat enlightened citizen of the United States, Mr. John B. Bellamy,\nleft his name, writ large, in the visitors' book. He was keen as ever\non collecting relics of the late King, and inquired if the holy grail\nwas yet on view at the castle? King Arthur's tables, plates, and\npunch-bowls not being what he wanted, he chipped some and left the\nrest. The hotel clerk told us that the gentleman left some opinions\non things in general behind him; and the impression on the clerk's\nmind was that if this citizen from the States ran the show at Tintagel,\nthings would be a \"durned sight different\" in two shakes of a duck's\ntail.\n\n[Illustration: KING ARTHUR'S CASTLE.]\n\nSea and land and sky were deliciously clear when we started for the\nruins; and the atmosphere was so buoyant that we could not bear it more\nso when walking without flying off into space.\n\n\"I don't suppose it makes much difference to a fellow where he's born,\nbut I'd like a more cheerful place to live in,\" said Guy, throwing\nhimself on the turf, and pulling his hat over his eyes.\n\nA stiff climb up slippery stone steps, with samphire growing perilously\nnear, brought us to the \"fortress,\" and what there was in stone\nsuggested little by way of poetry or romance. Guy had made up his mind\nbeforehand to see something quite different--Tintern Abbey, or Warwick\nCastle, or something. But this! As he couldn't see what he wished for,\nhe would see nothing; so tilted his hat over his eyes to keep off the\nsun and hide disappointment. We left him where he lay, and rambled.\n\nA fine bit of rock scenery, even in Cornwall, and worth looking at, is\nthis. If there had only been a tempest, and all the elements at war,\ntheir chorus of thunders drowning the sea-birds' cries! But to-day it\nwas sunshine and peace, and nothing to tell of war but sharp-pointed\nrocks and landslips and slides telling their own tale, writ large.\n\n\"This is the very place in which Arthur should have been born,\" said\nthe Bookworm, when Guy, tired of his own discontent, joined us.\n\n\"I don't see any reason for it,\" said Guy.\n\n\"No! When Arthur first opened his eyes upon this rock, what impression\ndo you think he received? This was a fit cradle for great things in a\ngreat mind, and this man was great.\"\n\n\"Never lived at all, perhaps.\"\n\n\"I don't care. This was a fit cradle for an allegory of war between\nWhat Is and What Should be, and Arthur is as the light shining in\ndarkness.\"\n\n\"Have it your own way,\" said Guy; \"but wouldn't some other place do\njust as well?\"\n\n\"Quite, if the first impressions of the newly born were of eternal\nstruggle. Arthur was born for the world, and not for a parish.\"\n\n\"I think we'd better clear,\" said Guy, sharply. \"Here's the lady in\nspecs., and the antiquarian with the trumpet, and the whole crew.\nThey've all got their Tennysons, and I can't go over it again. If the\nplace was only a bit like it, I wouldn't mind.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\nDozmary Pool is a cheerless place at its best; it is situated in a\nsad-coloured region, wherein stones grow best, and everything that\nhas life struggles for existence. This is the place that Tennyson\nselected for the King's death, and the mysterious disappearance of his\nfamous sword \"Excalibur.\" In Arthur's time the mere was better worth\ncalling a lake than now, but the stones and barren lands and hills and\ngeneral \"wishtness\" of the place are pretty much the same. The locality\nis marked as about one thousand feet above sea-level, and in winter\nthe place is said to be more breezy than pleasant. They have been\ndraining the pool a bit lately, but no trace has yet been discovered of\n\"Excalibur\"--one day a syndicate may be formed to dredge the mere. An\narm \"clothed in white samite, mystic, beautiful,\" holding King Arthur's\nsword with jewelled hilt, and every jewel worth a king's ransom, would\nbe worth a trifle, and make the poet's reputation as an historian. Some\npeople are never satisfied until they can see and handle things.\n\nGuy touched the water of the silent pool, and, finding it real, was\nencouraged to sit down and discuss things in a matter-of-fact sort of\nway. He said we could start with facts here, for here was a mere, and\nthe water was wet. Then, there were rushes growing on the margin of\nthe pool, and when the wind blew, no doubt they made rush music--sad,\nmournful music--a sort of place where a fellow who had had a good\nlicking in battle would come and hide, and die, if he could, and no\none to see him do it.\n\n\"I like this story: there's something human about it, and it was a bit\nrough on Sir Bedivere to be told to chuck away the only thing King\nArthur had got. I feel for him. Only fancy being told to throw away the\nonly available asset to pay funeral expenses! It was very human on the\npart of Sir Bedivere to want to keep Excalibur, and I don't suppose\nthat any of Arthur's friends and next-of-kin believed him when he said\nhe threw it into the mere. He said he did, and we'll let it go at that;\nand if it should be dredged up one day, why, of course, the good Sir\nBedivere will leave the court without a stain upon his character.\"\n\nThe sun was westerning; a slight breeze ruffled the waters of the mere\nand the dry reeds rustled. The Bookworm said it must have been a fit\nplace for a great temptation, and he was glad that Tennyson made it\nappear that Sir Bedivere was a man of honour. A chough skimmed across\nthe water, and the Bookworm said this was a strange coincidence--we\nwere talking about King Arthur, and the very bird which legend said his\nsoul inhabited came upon the scene. This was only wanted to make the\nwild place a sanctuary.\n\n\"Nothing but legend,\" said Guy, quickly. \"Wherever you are in this\ncounty, its nothing but legend. You walk on legend, and just breathe\nit all the time.\"\n\n\"Perhaps you never heard this one,\" said the Bookworm. \"There's time to\ntell it.\"\n\n\"Go ahead, old man,\" said Guy. \"Another added to the number won't count\nmuch.\"\n\n\n KING ARTHUR'S CHOUGH.\n\nWell, then, you know, said the Bookworm, that King Arthur was married\nto one Jenefer (sometimes called Guinevere, which is the same thing),\nand that Merlin was present at the wedding. Everybody was having a\ngood time, and Merlin slipped out and consulted the stars. He had a\nmonopoly in that business, and was paid special fees by all the swagger\npeople who wanted to know what trouble they'd be likely to get into if\nthey but went the right way to work about it. Well, Merlin slipped out\nof the castle, and ran against a young gentleman singing, \"The night\nis clear, and I am all alone,\" underneath the royal bridal chamber.\n\"You'd better go and sing indoors,\" said Merlin, making a note of the\nfact that this was Launcelot, a young sprig of nobility who thought no\nsmall beer of himself in those days. He was an army man, and fond of\npoaching. Merlin read something in the stars that night which he told\nan old chough, who knew more of the black art than any other bird.\nThis chough Merlin gave the King as a wedding present. The bird was as\nblack as a raven in those days, and used to live so long that it was\nonly at its prime at a hundred years.\n\nQueen Jenefer was much written about in the chronicles of her time; and\nso the poets know what she did, and what she wore, and how she looked,\nand what she said at all the grand tournaments whereat she distributed\nblue ribands and prizes to knights of high degree.\n\nThe King was a busy man, so busy that in the end mischief came of\nit, for when garden parties and jousts and things were going on, he\nwas wont to say to Launcelot, his aide-de-camp in chief: \"Just you\nlook after the Queen this afternoon.\" Now this suited Launcelot full\nwell, for he was a born Squire of dames and a gallant man as well as\na fighter of renown. Sometimes the King sighed when he saw his Queen\nriding away gaily by the side of Launcelot; but he was a fond husband,\nand it was not in his heart to say her nay when she would a-hawking go,\nor watch the young knights a-hurling for a silver ball.\n\nSo the habit grew as the King got busier and busier. And though\nLauncelot liked more and more to wait upon the Queen and learned to put\nup with her tempers, the Queen was not happy at home, where she had it\nall her own way, but would look in the mirror and pity herself, for\nthat being plump and fair to look upon there was no Arthur at hand\nto pinch her cheeks and tell her so. At times she even grew weary at\nhearing how good Arthur was, and would exclaim in her tantrums--\n\n \"What care I how good he be!\"\n\nAnd to her little waiting maid she would say: \"By my faith, I could do\nwith less goodness abroad and more comfort at home.\"\n\nThe old chough which Merlin gave the King was the wireless messenger\nbetween the King and Queen, and carried messages to and fro. Launcelot\nwas left behind, as usual now, when the King went on a fighting tour in\nWales. He had, however, a fit of the \"blues\" just then, and the Queen\nput him on milk and soda and dry biscuit diet, so he soon got well, and\ntrouble began. They played hide-and-seek, and found each other in the\ngardens, and quarrelled and made it up again, until the Queen had fond\neyes for none but Launcelot; and the old chough hopped about the Court,\nand was kept waiting for a return message which, when he got it, wasn't\nworth the carrying, so light of love the words were. The old chough had\na friend at Court, a dwarf, who played the fool, and skipped about like\na withered leaf, and learnt a good deal more than people wot of. One\nday he tied a paper around the chough's leg, which opened the King's\neyes when he read it; and he whispered something to the chough, which\nmade him turn red about the beak.\n\nThe King was still in Wales, and his sword ran crimson. A council of\nwar broke up in confusion, all through one Murdock, a bosom friend\nof Launcelot's, putting his spoke in all the King's plans. It was\nMurdock's turn to sleep on the mat outside the King's chamber, and the\nold chough, acting on information received, kept his eye on Murdock.\nThe King was sweetly dreaming of home and Jenefer, his Queen, when the\nchough woke him.\n\n\"What's up?\" asked the King.\n\n\"Come and see,\" croaked the chough, hopping towards the door.\n\nThen King Arthur noticed that the old chough was crimson about the\nfeet and legs, and great drops of blood stained the floor, and he soon\nfound the reason, for the chough had slain Murdock in his sleep, and so\nsaved the life of the King, as was proved by correspondence in secret\ncypher found in the traitor's breast-pocket. Then the King called all\nthe Court together, and in their presence knighted the chough; and from\nthat day the chough family have had red beaks and legs.\n\nWhen King Arthur died, his soul entered into the body of Sir Chough,\nhis old familiar and preserver, and now, whenever he visits the scenes\nof past shame and glory, it is in the body of a chough, and that is\nwhy the Cornish would not kill a chough in the old days, when this\nstory was fresh in their minds.\n\n\"Now the chough is protected by Act of Parliament,\" said Guy.\n\n\"Ill-protected,\" replied the Bookworm. \"What Act of Parliament is so\neffective as a feeling of reverence consecrated by centuries? You\ndestroy tradition at your own peril.\"\n\n\"All right; the story isn't bad,\" said Guy. \"I thought we were going to\nhave something tasty about Queen Jenefer and Launcelot.\"\n\n\"No, the story is only concerned with showing how and why a black\nchough got a red beak and legs, and transmitted the distinction to the\nwhole family of choughs. If you want the story of the whitewashing of\nJenefer, you must go to Tennyson.\"\n\n\"I know--the Queen and the little maid that in convent did dwell. It is\nvery nice reading, even if you don't believe it,\" said Guy.\n\nThe popular fancy buried King Arthur in a long mound in the Camelford\ndistrict--about the bleakest and most sterile in the county. There is\nan ancient British fortification here, and here the old people thought\na fit and proper place for the resting-place of a King for ever at\nwar against men and the age he lived in. But no legend seems to have\nfastened on this spot as the centre of mystic visitation by red-legged\nchoughs, or the shadowy repentant forms of Jenefer and Launcelot, and\nall those who failed to keep the oaths of chastity and the higher life.\nOnly here and all around--a land of mountain, bog, and moor, bleak and\ninhospitable--is a vast burial-ground of ancient Britons in kist and\ntumuli, rude dwellings and entrenchments. Here King Arthur may lie and\nsleep as soundly as in the \"Vale of Avalon,\" the poet's paradise for a\ngrand soul born before its time; but when legend is so silent, history\nis doubtful in this land.\n\nWe reached Camelford, and at night the piskies sealed our eyes in sleep\ntoo restful even for the shadow of a dream.\n\n\n[Illustration: A CORNISH STILE.]\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXXIV\n\n\nWe knew the voice. Our American friend, John B. Bellamy, was in form,\nand held a select audience interested in the smoke-room of the Royal at\nPlymouth. This is what we heard him say--\n\n\"Why, gentlemen, the people of this old country don't know a good thing\nwhen they've got it. What is it, all of it, from the Tamar to the\nLand's End? A nice little estate in size for a cattle ranch out West,\nwith everything on it for making a pile. Why, gentlemen, every breath\nof air is worth dollars, your skies are worth dollars, your seas are\nworth dollars, all your old piskies and saints and giants are worth\ndollars--just ask John B. Bellamy to run the show.\n\n\"Why, gentlemen, we, in America, make dollars; we can't help it. Then\nwe get tired, but must go on because we have nothing else to do. A man\nmay make dollars in the States faster than he can give'm away. I know\na man who has charity-cheques signed by an electric machine, and still\nhis pile grows, and he says it'll pay to give away all he possibly can\nnow, rather than let his heirs pay death duties, which will be quite a\nsum on his little concern; for he is a small man compared with some.\nThese are the men who want a place like this to come to when tired of\npile-raising. You may say, gentlemen, some other place your side of\nthe pond will do just as well; but it won't. You _can't_ work in this\ncountry; John B. Bellamy has tried it. Why, gentlemen, in the States\nyou _must_ work; and when the day ends, you don't know you've finished,\nbut go to bed looking for a job; but here, there's something in the\nair, and you just don't want to work, and don't care if the whole\ndurned sub-lunary universe tumbles into space. That's how I feel.\n\n\"Just put up a big board, gentlemen, and advertise 'CORNWALL TO LET:\nleases of life renewed to men with dollar-piles and tired of trying to\nbe tired.' You'll have'm tumbling over in shiploads, for it'll suit\ntheir complaint, just like Lancashire air suits cotton. It'll just\nsuit the Cornish complaint for them to come, now that 'fish, tin, and\ncopper' aren't all flourishing.\n\n\"I don't want to work here. I tell you honestly, I don't want to work.\nWhen I return, I'll tell my friends that I've located the place in\nwhich I don't want to work; and all the gold bugs and pile-drivers will\ncome round and want the receipt. I'll just tell them it's the Cornish\nair, and Cornish skies, and Cornish cream, and Cornish everything--the\nplace where Old Nick built churches, just for want of something to do.\nThat'll be a new sensation in the States for men with piles wanting an\nextension of time to look around before the next-of-kin pay the death\nduties.\n\n\"No, gentlemen, no thanks, if you please. These are the honest opinions\nof John B. Bellamy, citizen, U.S.A., and if you want a man to run the\nshow, why, that address will find him.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\nPaddington once more.\n\n\"Evening papers--Extra Specials. Autumn Sessions. Panic on Stock\nExchange. Revolutions. Anarchies!\"\n\n\"Great Scott! Where on earth have we been living?\" said Guy, excitedly.\n\n\"Hi! Boy! Papers! All of'm?\"\n\n[Illustration: LOW TIDE.]\n\n\n\n\nJOHN LANE'S LIST OF FICTION\n\n\nBY ARTHUR H. ADAMS.\n\n =GALAHAD JONES.= A Tragic Farce. Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n With 16 full-page Illustrations by Norman Lindsay.\n\n[asterism] Galahad Jone is a middle-aged bank clerk, with a family.\nOne day, on his way home, a letter falls to his feet from the balcony\nof a house he is passing. It is addressed \"To You,\" and on reading it\nhe discovers that he is requested to meet the writer in the garden of\nthe house at 10 o'clock that night. In a spirit of knight-errantry,\nhe decides to do so, and learns that the writer--a young girl--is\nkept practically in prison by her father, because of her affection\nfor a man of whom he does not approve. The chivalry of Galahad Jones\nplunges him into many difficulties, and leads to some very awkward and\nextremely amusing situations.\n\n =A TOUCH OF FANTASY.= Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n Romance For Those who are Lucky Enough to Wear Glasses.\n\n_Daily Graphic_--\"A romance full of tenderness and charm, and written\nwith an artist's love of words for their own sake. Mr. Adams has\ndelicacy of observation and insight.\"\n\n_Pall Hall Gazette_--\"Mr. Adams seems likely to enhance his reputation\nwith the new novel. Mr. Adams writes well, and his characters live,\nand the result is a book which is interesting and quite out of the\ncommon.\"\n\n\nBY CIRO ALVI.\n\n =THE SAINT'S PROGRESS; A Novel.= Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n Translated from the Italian of Ciro Alvi by Mary Gibson.\n\n[asterism] Signor Ciro Alvi has written a long and most sympathetic novel\ndealing with the life of one of the noblest spirits of the Christian\nChurch who was perhaps the most extraordinary man of his age. The\nsomewhat dissolute early life of the founder of the Franciscan Order\nis deftly outlined, the young man's innate goodness of heart and\nkindly disposition being clearly apparent even in the midst of his\nostentatious gaiety and sudden impulses.\n\n\nBY W. M. ARDAGH.\n\n =THE MAGADA.= Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n_Pall Mall Gazette_--\"'The Magada' is a store-house of rare and\ncurious learning ... it is a well-written and picturesque story of\nhigh adventure and deeds of derring-do.\"\n\n_Observer_--\"The book has admirably caught the spirit of romance.\"\n\n_Daily Chronicle_--\"'The Magada' is a fine and finely told story, and\nwe congratulate Mr. Ardagh.\"\n\n _THE KNIGHTLY YEARS._ Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n[asterism] In \"The Knightly Years\" the author of \"The Magada\" takes\nus back once more to the Canary Islands in the days of Isabella the\nCatholic. The tale deals with the aftermath of conquests, when \"the\nfirst use the islanders made of their newly-acquired moral code was to\napply it to their rulers.\" The hero of the story is the body-servant\nof the profligate Governor of Gomera, whose love affairs become\npainfully involved with those of his master. In the course of his\nmany adventures we come across Queen Isabella herself, the woman to\nwhom every man was loyal save her own husband; and countless Spanish\nworthies, seamen, soldiers, governors and priests, all real men, the\nmakers of Empire four hundred years ago. The book abounds in quaint\nsayings both of Spaniard and native, while the love-making of the\nsimple young hero and his child-wife weaves a pretty thread of romance\nthrough the stirring tale of adventure.\n\nBY ALLEN ARNOT.\n\n =THE DEMPSEY DIAMONDS=; A Novel. Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n[asterism] This is the story of the secret transference of a fortune;\nand the scene is laid mainly in two old houses in two Scottish\nVillages, one on the east coast, one buried in midland woods. The tale\nis of the old slow days of twenty years ago before the tyranny of\nspeed began, but it is swayed throughout and borne to its close by the\nsame swift passions that sway the stories of men and women to-day, and\nwill sway them till the end of time.\n\n\nBY H. F. PREYOST BATTERSBY.\n\n =THE SILENCE OF MEN.= Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n[asterism] Lynne is a girl who shows a strong liking for a change\nof surname. Indeed, it is not always certain by what name she has a\nright to be called. March, a young civilian of great promise, meets\nher on the boat going out to India, and offers her the hospitality\nof his house, which is kept by an unmarried sister. March and Lynne\nbecome married--and secretly so at Lynne's express wish. After a brief\ntime she bolts to England with Lord Rupert Dorrington, an A.D.C., and\ncables that she has married him. While on leave March comes across her\nat a fashionable ball in London. Meanwhile he has fallen in love with\nanother girl, but Lynne declares that if he marries her she will cry\nthe true facts from the housetops.\n\nBy a cunning arrangement of circumstance the reader is made aware of\nthe fact that March's marriage has been all along invalid, which of\ncourse puts a different complexion upon Lynne's matrimonial position.\n\nMr. Battersby handles the story in a very masterful way, and his\ndescriptions of Indian scenery and social life in London show the\nquality of personal observation.\n\n =THE LAST RESORT.= Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n_Observer_--\"A really stirring novel--a novel of flesh and blood and\ncharacter, of quiet everyday life, and of life at its most strenuous\nand heroic ... admirable psychology ... a book to remember.\"\n\n\nBY GERARD BENDALL.\n\n =THE ILLUSIONS OF MR. & MRS. BRESSINGHAM.=\n A Novel. Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n\"A delightful, farcical comedy of modern life ... natural, spirited\ndialogue ... lively entertainment.\"\n\n =THE PROGRESS OF MRS. CRIPPS-MIDDLEMORE.=\n A Novel. Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n_Pall Mall Gazette_--\"Mr. Gerard Bendall is to be congratulated on\nhaving written an extremely amusing novel in which the leading idea\nand the final reflection are sufficiently refreshing in these days of\nmiscellaneous fiction.\"\n\n_Observer_--\"Mr. Gerard Bendall knows how to poke amiable fun at\npeople. He writes in a leisurely way, and his book is full of\ntalk--some of it extremely good talk.\"\n\nBY PAUL BERTRAM\n\n =THE SHADOW OF POWER.= Third Thousand. Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n_Times_--\"Few readers have taken up 'The Shadow of Power' and come\nface to face with Don Jaimie de Jorquera, will lay it down or refuse\nhim a hearing until the book and his adventures come to an end.\"\n\n_Daily Mail_--\"This is a book that cuts deep into nature and\nexperience. We commend it most heartily to discerning readers, and\nhope it may take its place with the best historical novels.\"\n\n =THE FIFTH TRUMPET.= A Novel. Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n_Morning Post_--\"A remarkably strong book.... This is a book for those\nto read who like an historical novel that touches real issues, and\neven for those who are on the look out for A NEW SENSATION.\"\n\n\nBY HORACE BLEACKLEY.\n\n =A GENTLEMAN OF THE ROAD.= Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n Author of \"Ladies Fair and Frail,\" etc.\n\n[asterism] As the title implies, this is a very gallant novel: an\neighteenth century story of abductions, lonely inns, highwaymen\nand hangmen. Two men are in love with Margaret Crofton: Colonel\nThornley, an old villain, and Dick Maynard, who is as youthful as he\nis virtuous. Thornley nearly succeeds in compelling Margaret to marry\nhim, for he has in his possession a document sadly incriminating to\nher father. Maynard settles Thornley, but himself in his turn is \"up\nagainst it.\" He is arrested for complicity in the highway thefts of\na glad but graceless young ruffian. Both are sentenced to death, but\na great effort is made to get them reprieved. It would be a pity to\ndivulge the climax cunningly contrived by Mr. Bleackley, save to say\nthat the book ends in a scene of breathless interest before the Tyburn\ngallows.\n\n\nBY EX-LIEUTENANT BILSE.\n\n =LIFE IN A GARRISON TOWN.= Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\nAlso in Paper Cover 1/-net.\n\nThe suppressed German Novel. With a preface written by the author\nwhilst in London, and an introduction by Arnold White.\n\n_Truth_--\"The disgraceful exposures of the book were expressly\nadmitted to be true by the Minister of War in the Reichstag. What\nthe book will probably suggest to you is, that German militarism is\ncutting its own throat, and will one day be hoist with its own petard.\"\n\n\nBY WALTER BLOEM.\n\n =THE IRON YEAR.= A Novel Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n Translated from the German by Stella Bloch.\n\n[asterism] This remarkable novel depicts in vivid word-painting the\nfinal struggle between France and Germany, in the year 1870. The\nadvance of the German troops, the famous battle of Spicheren, the\nfearful cavalry encounter of Rezonville, the struggle and capitulation\nof Strassburg are all incidents in this wonderfully graphic narrative.\nA love-story runs through the book, telling of the fateful attraction\nof a French officer for a German girl. As may well be imagined, the\npath of their lives is beset with many obstacles, but after great\ntribulations they are reunited under very pathetic circumstances.\nAnother finely drawn character is that of a hypersensitive gifted\nyoung musician, transformed, during these times of stress, into a\nstrong man of action.\n\n\"The Iron Year\" created an extraordinary sensation in Germany. So\ngreat was the demand for the book that twenty editions were exhausted.\nThe German Emperor read it aloud to the members of the Royal Family\ncircle during the Spring.\n\nBY PETER BLUNDELL.\n\n =THE FINGER OF MR. BLEE.= A Novel. Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n[asterism] The amusing adventures of Harold Blee, a youthful Eurasian,\nform the main theme of this original novel. Harold is brought into\ncontact with the two rival factions of the local British society,\nand perpetrates many works of mischief, to the discomfiture of the\nrich and pompous Mrs. Gladstone Mortimer and to the suppressed\namusement of her enemies. He is a most versatile boy, whose quaint\nquips and irresistible antics serve a very useful purpose, when he is\ninstrumental in smoothing out the course of love for Harry McMucker,\nhis employer's son.\n\n\nBY SHELLAND BRADLEY.\n\n =ADVENTURES OF AN A.D.C.= Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n_Westminster Gazette_--\" ... makes better and more entertaining\nreading than nine out of every ten novels of the day.... Those\nwho know nothing about Anglo-Indian social life will be as well\nentertained by this story as those who know everything about it.\"\n\n_Times_--\"Full of delightful humour.\"\n\n =AN AMERICAN GIRL AT THE DURBAR.= A Novel.\n Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n[asterism] A charming love story, containing a vivid and picturesque\naccount of the Durbar.\n\n_Daily Chronicle_--\"Here is a truly delightful work which should prove\nof interest to a wide class of readers--a book for a dull day.\"\n\n\nBY EVELYN BRENTWOOD.\n\n =HENRY KEMPTON.= A Novel. Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n[asterism] In his second novel, Evelyn Brentwood has again given us\na vivid picture of soldier life, and has again chosen for his hero a\nvery unconventional character. Cool and calculating, ambitious and\nheartless, Henry determines to climb the social ladder by every means\nin his power. Articled to a solicitor when the story opens, he is only\nwaiting for an opportunity to follow his inclinations and enter the\narmy, when an accidental meeting with a duke's daughter precipitates\nmatters, and he immediately throws up the study of the law. Later, we\nfollow his career as a soldier; see how he falls under the spell of\none of his senior officers in the 24th Hussars; how he wins the V. C.\nfor the mere purpose of bringing his name into prominence; how he is\ninvalided home and meets Lady Violet for the second time; and finally\nhow he is taught, through his experience with a worthless woman, to\nestimate at its true value the love of one who stands by him in the\nhour of his humiliation.\n\n =HECTOR GRAEME.= Third Thousand Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n[asterism] The outstanding feature of \"Hector Graeme\" is the\nconvincing picture it gives of military life in India and South\nAfrica, written by one who is thoroughly acquainted with it. Hector\nGraeme is not the great soldier of fiction, usually depicted by\nnovelists, but a rather unpopular officer in the English army\nwho is given to strange fits of unconsciousness, during which he\nshows extraordinary physic powers. He is a man as ambitious as he\nis unscrupulous, with the desire but not the ability to become\na Napoleon. The subject matter of the story is unusual and the\natmosphere thoroughly convincing.\n\n_Morning Leader_--\"Provides much excitement and straightforward\npleasure. A remarkable exception to the usual boring novels about\nmilitary life.\"\n\nBY JAMES BRYCE.\n\n =THE STORY OF A PLOUGHBOY.= An Autobiography.\n\n Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n[asterism] As will be seen from the title of its parts--\"The Farm,\"\n\"The Mansion,\" \"The Cottage\"--the characters whose passions and\ninterests make the plot of this story are drawn from the households\nof the Labourer, the Farmer and the Squire; the book is therefore an\nattempt to present country life in all its important aspects. In this,\nagain, it differs from all other novels of the soil in our own or\nperhaps in any language: its author writes not from book-knowledge or\nhearsay or even observation, but from experience. He has lived what he\ndescribes, and under the power of his realism readers will feel that\nthey are not so much glancing over printed pages as mixing with living\nmen and women. But the story has interest for others than the ordinary\nnovel-reader. It appeals as strongly to the many earnest minds that\nare now concerned with the questions of Land and Industrial Reform.\nTo such its very faithfulness to life will suggest answers startling,\nperhaps, but certainly arresting.\n\n\nBY WILLIAM CAINE.\n\n =HOFFMANN'S CHANCE.= A Novel. Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n[asterism] This is a realistic story of the stage which bears the\nobvious impress of truth. Michael Hoffman is a struggling musician of\ntremendous talent. He is introduced to Orde, a very rich dillettante.\nThey collaborate in a blend of comic opera and musical comedy. Their\nmusic is clever and tuneful, but the libretto, alas, brings them to\ngrief. There is plenty of feminine interest in the book and some\nclever sketches of \"women who do things.\"\n\n_Morning Post_--\"The most considerable piece of work Mr. Caine has\nyet given us. 'Hoffman's Chance' would have been worth writing merely\nfor the presentation of Orde the Ass and Psyche the Cat--especially\nthe actress, whose portraiture is one of the most vivid and effective\npresentations of cattiness that has ever come our way.\"\n\n\nBY DANIEL CHAUCER.\n\n =THE SIMPLE LIFE, LIMITED.= Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n[asterism] This novel has a very decided quality of satire which is\ninspired by the convention of the unconventional. Evidently Mr.\nChaucer knows the Simple Life from the inside, and his reflections\nwill both amuse and amaze those who know it only from casual\nallusions. Many well-known figures will be recognized, though not\nin all cases under their proper names, and, as in the case of Mr.\nMallock's \"New Republic,\" Society will be busy dotting the \"i's\" and\ncrossing the \"t's.\"\n\n =THE NEW HUMPTY DUMPTY.= Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n_Globe_--\"Brilliant entertainment ... there is an extraordinary\nfeeling for plot and incident, and an irresistible sense of satiric\nhumour.\"\n\n_Pall Mall Gazette_--\"The pseudonymous author of 'The Simple Life'\ngives us in 'The New Humpty Dumpty' a volume still more brilliant; so\nbrilliant is it, with such a range of first-class experience, that\nthere will be keen curiosity to know who has written these works.\"\n\nBY MAUD CRUTTWELL.\n\n =FIRE AND FROST.= A Novel. Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n[asterism] Fire is an Egyptian Prince and Frost is an English girl\nliving in Florence. The impetuous and passionate temperament of the\nOriental is matched against the steadfast rational nature of the\nheroine. The uncompromising desire of the former is to make the\nEnglish girl his wife, and the circumstances under which she is\nreluctantly brought to consent are original but entirely convincing.\nThenceforth the struggle is on the woman's part, as she finds herself\npitted against the fierce vacillating will of her husband, and the\njealous intrigues of a mercenary little Florentine marchesa--a\ncharacter brilliantly drawn--and her satellites. The outcome of this\nbattle of temperaments is deeply interesting. The natures of East and\nWest in conflict have been employed as material for fiction already,\nbut it can safely be said that never have the dramatic possibilities\nof the subject been treated with such judgment as in this novel. The\nauthor makes full use of her power of characterization in conveying\nthe action of the story to the reader with a force only to be found in\nthe work of a really accomplished writer.\n\n\nBY SIDNEY DARK.\n\n =THE MAN WHO WOULD NOT BE KING.= A Novel.\n Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n\"It is only when a man does things for which he is not intended that\nhis experiences become really interesting. For example, supposing\nthat Sir Herbert Tree had gone to the South Polar regions instead of\nSir Ernest Shackleton, what a delightful book would have resulted! So\nwith me. Although I cannot claim any moral for my story it may not be\nwithout amusement. The adventures of a square peg in a round hole are\nalways delightful, except, perhaps, to the square peg.\n\n\"So I start to relate the life of Fennimore Slavington, who had\ngreatness thrust upon him much against his will and much to the\ndiscomfort of himself and many others.\"--EXTRACT FROM THE PROLOGUE.\n\n\nBY MARION FOX.\n\n =THE BOUNTIFUL HOUR.= A Novel. Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n Author of \"The Hand of the North.\"\n\n[asterism] This is the story of a girl's life in the final years of\nthe eighteenth century, the background of the plot lying around Olney\nin the time of Cowper and Newton, with the contrasted atmosphere\nof London in the days of the Prince Regent. With all of these the\nheroine, Charlotte Hume, comes in contact.\n\nThe shadow which is cast across the plot is the outcome of a promise,\ngiven by Howard Luttrell in his younger days to a woman of easy\nreputation, of whom he soon tired, but to whom he had passed his word\nthat whilst she lived he would never marry. In later life he meets\nCharlotte Hume, with whom, almost unconsciously, he falls in love. On\nawakening fully to the fact, and finding the other woman still living,\nhe brings the solving of the problem to the girl herself. Luttrell is\nthe last of a long line of men and women, who, whatever they may or\nmay not have done, never broke their word. The way in which Charlotte\ncuts the knot most be left to the patience of the reader to find out.\n\nThe book does not pretend to being an historical novel, but a\nportrayal of certain aspects of middle-class life some hundred or more\nyears ago.\n\nTHE WORKS OF ANATOLE FRANCE, in English.\n\n Edited by FREDERIC CHAPMAN. Demy 8vo. 6/-\n\n =THE OPINIONS OF J\u00c9R\u00d4ME COIGNARD.= A Translation by Mrs. WILFRID\n JACKSON.\n\n =ON LIFE AND LETTERS.= A Translation by A. W. EVANS. Vols. 2, 3 & 4.\n\n =THE GODS ARE ATHIRST.= A Translation by ALFRED ALLINSON.\n\n\n _Already Published._\n\n =MY FRIEND'S BOOK.= A Translation by J. LEWIS MAY.\n\n =JOCASTA AND THE FAMISHED CAT.= A Translation by Mrs. FARLEY.\n\n =THE ASPERATIONS OF JEAN SERVIEN.= A Translation by ALFRED ALLINSON.\n\n =AT THE SIGN OF THE REINE PEDAUQUE.= A Translation by Mrs. WILFRID\n JACKSON.\n\n =ON LIFE AND LETTERS.= Vol. 1.\n\n =THE RED LILY.= A Translation by WINIFRED STEPHENS.\n\n =MOTHER OF PEARL.= A Translation by the EDITOR.\n\n =THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD.= A Translation by LAFCADIO HEARN.\n\n =THE GARDEN OF EPICURUS.= A Translation by ALFRED ALLINSON.\n\n =THE WELL OF ST. CLARE.= A Translation by ALFRED ALLINSON.\n\n =BALTHASAR.= A Translation by Mrs. JOHN LANE.\n\n =THA\u00cfS.= A Translation by ROBERT B. DOUGLAS.\n\n =THE WHITE STONE.= A Translation by C. E. ROCHE.\n\n =PENGUIN ISLAND.= A Translation by A. W. EVANS.\n\n =THE MERRIE TALES OF JACQUES TOURNEBROCHE.= A Translation by ALFRED\n ALLINSON.\n\n =THE ELM TREE ON THE MALL.= A Translation by M. P. WILLCOCKS.\n\n =THE WICKER-WORK WOMAN.= A Translation by M. P. WILLCOCKS.\n\n\nBY JOHN GORE.\n\n =THE BARMECIDE'S FEAST.= Crown 8vo. 3/6 net\n\n With Illustrations by Arthur Penn.\n\n[asterism] A book which will delight lovers of humour.\n\n_Daily News and Leader_--\"A book which MR. BALFOUR WOULD ENJOY.\"\n\n\nBY A. R. GORING-THOMAS.\n\n =MRS. GRAMERCY PARK.= Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n_World_--\"In the language of the heroine herself, this, her story, is\ndelightfully 'bright and cute.'\"\n\n_Observer_--\"Fresh and amusing.\"\n\n =THE LASS WITH THE DELICATE AIR.= Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n[asterism] In his new novel Mr. Goring-Thomas relates the history of\na young girl whose beautiful face is a mask that allures. Round the\nhistory of \"The Lass with the Delicate Air\" is woven the story of the\nHicks family. Mrs. Hicks keeps a lodging house in Chelsea, and has\ntheatrical ambitions. The author has keen powers of observation and a\nfaculty of \"getting inside a woman's mind\" and the same witty dialogue\nthat was so commented upon in \"Mrs. Gramercy-Park\" is again seen in\nthe new work. The scene of the book is laid partly in London and\npartly in Paris.\n\n =WAYWARD FEET.= Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n[asterism] This book is a departure on the part of Mr. Goring-Thomas, and\nis a brilliant piece of work. The scene of the book alternates between\nSt. Wulphyturmer a medi\u00e6val fortified town in the Pas-de-Calais, and\nParis. The two heroines Toinette Moreau and Joan Dombray, both come\nfrom St. Wulphy and both go to Paris. Their histories contrive a sharp\ncontrast: one being by character sweet, yielding and affectionate,\nwhile the other is combative, rebellious and intellectual. The\ncharacter drawing, as in Mr. Goring-Thomas' other books, is notably\nclear and interesting. His already celebrated wit, his original\nhumour, and insight into character again illuminate his latest book.\nThe history of Joan Dombray, especially, is a strong, original, and\nstriking piece of work.\n\nBY HENRY HARLAND.\n\n =THE CARDINAL'S SNUFF BOX.= Crown 8vo. 6/-\n Illustrated by G. C. Wilmhurst. 165th. Thousand.\n\n_Academy_--\"The drawings are all excellent in style and really\nillustrative of the tale.\"\n\n_Saturday Review_--\"Wholly delightful.\"\n\n_Pall Mall Gazette_--\"Dainty and delicious.\"\n\n_Times_--\"A book among a thousand.\"\n\n_Spectator_--\"A charming romance.\"\n\n =MY FRIEND PROSPERO.= Crown 8vo. Third Edition. 6/-\n\n_Times_--\"There is no denying the charm of the work, the delicacy and\nfragrancy of the style, the sunny play of the dialogue, the vivacity\nof the wit, and the graceful flight of the fancy.\"\n\n_World_--\"The reading of it is a pleasure rare and unalloyed.\"\n\n =THE LADY PARAMOUNT.= Crown 8vo. 55th Thousand. 6/-\n\n_Times_--\"A fantastic, delightful love-idyll.\"\n\n_Spectator_--\"A roseate romance without a crumpled rose leaf.\"\n\n_Daily Mail_--\"Charming, dainty, delightful.\"\n\n =COMEDIES AND ERRORS.= Crown 8vo. Third Edition. 6/-\n\nMr. HENRY JAMES, in _Fortnightly Review_--\"Mr. Harland has clearly\nthought out a form.... He has mastered a method and learned how to\npaint.... His art is all alive with felicities and delicacies.\"\n\n =GREY ROSES.= Crown 8vo. Fourth Edition. 3/6 net\n\n_Daily Telegraph_--\"'Grey Roses' are entitled to rank among the\nchoicest flowers of the realms of romance.\"\n\n_Spectator_--\"Really delightful. 'Castles near Spain' is as near\nperfection as it could well be.\"\n\n_Daily Chronicle_--\"Charming stories, simple, full of freshness.\"\n\n =MADEMOISELLE MISS.= Crown 8vo. Third Edition. 3/6\n\n_Speaker_--\"All through the book we are pleased and entertained.\"\n\n_Bookman_--\"An interesting collection of early work. In it may be\nnoted the undoubted delicacy and strength of Mr. Harland's manner.\"\n\n\nBY CROSBY HEATH.\n\n =HENRIETTA TAKING NOTES.= Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n[asterism] Henrietta is the eleven year old daughter of a dramatic\ncritic, who, with her delightful younger brother, Cyrus, are worthy of\na place beside \"Helen's Babies\" or \"Elizabeth's Children.\" They cause\nthe \"Olympians\" many anxious and anguished moments, yet their pranks\nare forgiven because of the endearing charm of their generous natures.\nMiss Heath writes of children with the skill that comes of a thorough\nunderstanding of the child mind.\n\nBY BERTAL HEENEY.\n\n =PICKANOCK=: A Tale of Settlement Days in Olden Canada.\n Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n\nBY MURIEL HINE.\n\n =APRIL PANHASARD.= A Novel. Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n[asterism] Lady Essendine is reluctantly compelled to divorce her\nunfaithful husband, who has developed into a dipsomaniac. She is\nnaturally distressed by the scandal her action carries, and flies to\nCoddle-in-the-Dale, where she hopes to hide her identity under the\nname of April Panhasard--a name chosen casually from the titles of\nthree novels at a railway station bookstall, \"Young April,\" \"Peter\nPan,\" \"The Hazard of the Die.\" In the quiet village she moves a sweet\nand gracious figure, serenely indifferent to the curiosity of those\nwho try to penetrate the mystery that surrounds her. Only Boris\nMajendie, who poses as her cousin, is in her confidence. Her quiet is\nspeedily disturbed. A young American, to whom she is strangely drawn,\nmakes her a proposal of marriage. Boris runs more than a little wild,\nalthough he leaves her his larger devotion. Finally her divorced\nhusband turns up, and she is left in an intensely compromising\nsituation, for the necessary six months have not yet elapsed to make\nthe decree absolute. How she frees herself from this curious tangle\nmust be left for the reader to find out.\n\nThe book is alive with incident, but it has the rare quality of\nrestraint, which prevents it from ever merging into the melodramatic,\nand the characters are all drawn with rare artistic skill.\n\n =HALF IN EARNEST.= Second Edition. Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n[asterism] Derrick Kilmarney, the secretary of a famous politician,\nis a young man with the disposition to take the best that life offers\nhim, and shirk the responsibilities. He falls in love with a girl,\nbut shudders at the idea of the bondage of marriage. His love is\nemancipated, unfettered. He is ambitious, politically, allows himself\nto become entangled with his chief's wife, and is too indolent to\nbreak with her even in justice to the girl he loves. Eventually there\ncomes a time when all the threads have to be gathered together, when\nlove has to be weighed with ambition, and in Kilmarney's case the\ndenounement is unexpected and startling.\n\n =EARTH.= Second Edition. Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n[asterism] Muriel Hine's previous novel \"Half in Earnest\" achieved a\nconsiderable success, \"Earth\" seems likely to achieve a greater. The\nstory deals with the awakening of a pure young girl to the realities\nof life and what they mean. With a proper understanding of human\nnature comes sympathy: to know all is to pardon all. \"Earth\" is a\nsociety novel with a society atmosphere that is convincing.\n\n\nBY ADELAIDE HOLT.\n\n =OUTSIDE THE ARK.= Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n[asterism] This is an attractively told story with many outstanding\nfeatures. Hugh Inskip, a prominent man of letters, marries a young\nwife, whom he does not understand, because she is continually posing\nand never her natural self. She is also jealous of the beautiful but\nincapacitated actress, Margaret Stair, for whom Inskip is writing\na play, and makes use of an ingenious and shady trick to spy upon\nher husband's motives. But Iris, the young wife, is not entirely a\nmalignant figure, for her frail beauty and helplessness make a tender\nappeal for sympathy. The scene of the novel changes at times from\nthe hub of London life to the peaceful quiet of a country vicarage,\nwhither the father of Iris--a charming scholar--lets fall honeyed\nwords of wisdom and advice or gently chides his over-zealous curate.\nThe author has a strong sense of humour, as well as a great power of\ndramatic presentment.\n\n =THE VALLEY OF REGRET.= Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n[asterism] Betty Feverell's childhood is full of pathos. For the\nbest reason in the world she is unable to capture the sympathy of\nher supposed father, and runs away to make an imprudent marriage\nwith a very charming but rather weak young man who is addicted to\n\"drink.\" Fastidious to a degree, this failing does not seem to spoil\nthe gentleness and refinement of his disposition, until, enraged by\nan insult to his wife, he kills a man in a fit of alcoholic frenzy.\nWith her husband sentenced to penal servitude for seven years, the\nproblem of Betty's life is full of difficulty. After five years a\nsecond man, John Earle, wins her love, knowing little or nothing of\nthe obstacles in the way of its fulfilment. Finally, news arrives that\nthe convict will return in a few weeks, and the story ends suddenly\nand unexpectedly. This is a delightful novel. It has incident and\nfreshness; and the directness of the style gives the book a remarkably\nartistic impression of life.\n\n\nBY MRS. JOHN LANE.\n\n =KITWYK.= Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\nA Story with numerous illustrations by HOWARD PYLE, ALBERT STERNER and\nGEORGE WHARTON EDWARDS.\n\n_Times_--\"Mrs. Lane has succeeded to admiration, and chiefly by reason\nof being so much interested in her theme that she makes no conscious\neffort to please.... Everyone who seeks to be diverted will read\n'Kitwyk' for its obvious qualities of entertainment.\"\n\n =THE CHAMPAGNE STANDARD.= Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n_Morning Post_--\"The author's champagne overflows with witty sayings\ntoo numerous to recite.\"\n\n_Pall Mall Gazette_--\"Mrs. Lane's papers on our social manners and\nfoibles are the most entertaining, the kindest and the truest that\nhave been offered us for a long time.... The book shows an airy\nphilosophy that will render it of service to the social student.\"\n\n =ACCORDING TO MARIA.= Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n_Daily Chronicle_--\"This delightful novel, sparkling with humour....\nMaria's world is real.... Mrs. Lane is remarkably true to life in that\nworld.... Maria is priceless, and Mrs. Lane is a satirist whose life\nmay be indefatigably joyous in satiric art. For her eyes harvest the\nlittle absurdities, and her hand makes sheaves of them.... Thackeray\nmight have made such sheaves if he had been a woman.\"\n\n =BALTHASAR AND OTHER STORIES.= Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n Translated by Mrs. JOHN LANE from the French of Anatole France.\n\n_Daily Graphic_--\"The original charm and distinction of the author's\nstyle has survived the difficult ordeal of appearing in another\nlanguage.... 'The Cure's Mignonette' is as perfect in itself as some\nlittle delicate flower.\"\n\n =TALK O' THE TOWN.= Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n[asterism] Mrs. John Lane's new book, \"Talk of the Town,\" is on the\nsame lines as \"The Champagne Standard,\" that sparkling and brilliantly\nwitty study of English and American life, and has the delightful\nand refreshing humour we have a right to expect of the author of\n\"According to Maria,\" and that power of observation and keen insight\ninto everyday life which made \"The Champagne Standard\" one of the most\nsuccessful and one of the most quoted books of the season, both in\nEngland and America.\n\n BY STEPHEN LEACOCK.\n\n =LITERARY LAPSES.= Third Edition. Crown 8vo. 3/6 net\n\n_Spectator_--\"This book is a happy example of the way in which the\ndouble life can be lived blamelessly and to the great advantage of\nthe community. The book fairly entitles Mr. Leacock to be considered\nnot only a humourist but a benefactor. The contents should appeal to\nEnglish readers with the double virtue that attaches to work which is\nat once new and richly humorous.\"\n\n =NONSENSE NOVELS.= Third Edition. Crown 8vo. 3/6 net\n\n_Pall Mall Gazette_--\"He certainly bids fair to rival the immortal\nLewis Carroll.\"\n\n_Punch_--\"Delightful spontaneity. There is genuine gold here on every\npage.\"\n\n_Daily Graphic_--\"'Guido, the Gimlet of Ghent' set us in a roar. His\nlast tale, 'The Asbestos Man,' is the best.\"\n\n =SUNSHINE SKETCHES OF A LITTLE TOWN.= Fourth Edition\n Crown 8vo. 3/6 net\n\n_Evening Standard_--\"We have never laughed more often.\"\n\n_Canada_--\"A whole storehouse of sunshine. Of the same brand as\n'Literary Lapses' and 'Nonsense Novels.' It is the surest recipe for\nenjoying a happy holiday.\"\n\n_Daily Telegraph_--\"Irresistibly comical. Mr. Leacock strikes us as\na sort of Americanised W. W. Jacobs. Like the English humorist, the\nCanadian one has a delightfully fresh and amusing way of putting\nthings.\"\n\n_Times_--\"His real hard work--for which no conceivable emolument would\nbe a fitting reward--is distilling sunshine. This new book is full\nof it--the sunshine of humour, the thin keen sunshine of irony, the\nmellow evening sunshine of sentiment.\"\n\n\nBY W. J. LOCKE.\n\n =STELLA MARIS.= A Novel. Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n With 8 Illustrations by Frank Wiles.\n\n[asterism] Mr. Locke's astonishing fertility of invention has never\nyet been seen to as great advantage as in this story. It has all\nthe picturesque bravery of the \"Beloved Vagabond,\" all the tender\nsentiment of \"Marcus Ordeyne,\" all the quixotic spirit of \"Clementina\nWing.\" And yet it is like none of these. Infinitely tender, infinitely\nimpressive, is the story of Stella Maris, the wonder child, who has\nnever moved from her couch, who receives her impressions of the\noutside world from her gentle spirit and the gold-clad tales of her\nloving friends and the secrets of the seagulls that flit so near her\nwindow. And then Stella, grown to a woman, recovers; to take her\nplace, not in the world of beauty she had pictured from the stillness\nof her couch, but the world of men and women.\n\nFrom the first page the reader falls under a spell. For all its\nwistful delicacy of texture Mr. Locke's humanity, broad and strong,\nvibrates with terror just as it soothes with its sense of peace. This\nis Mr. Locke's finest achievement.\n\n =THE JOYOUS ADVENTURES OF ARISTIDE PUJOL.= A Novel\n Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n With Illustrations by Alec Bull.\n\n _Daily Telegraph_--\"In 'Aristide Pujol' Mr. W. J. Locke has given life\n to one of the most fascinating creatures in modern fiction.\"\n\n _Morning Post_--\"We do not know when Mr. Locke was more happily\n inspired.\"\n\n [A]=DERELICTS.= Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n_Daily Chronicle_--\" Mr. Locke tells his story in a very true, very\nmoving, and very noble book. If anyone can read the last chapter with\ndry eyes we shall be surprised. 'Derelicts' is an impressive and\nimportant book.\"\n\n_Morning Post_--\"Mr. Locke's clever novel. One of the most effective\nstories that have appeared for some time past.\"\n\n [A]=IDOLS.= Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n_Daily Telegraph_--\"A brilliantly written and eminently readable book.\"\n\n_Daily Mail_--\"One of the most distinguished novels of the present\nbook season.\"\n\n_Punch_--\"The Baron strongly recommends Mr. W. J. Locke's 'Idols'\nto all novel readers. It is well written. No time is wasted in\nsuperfluous descriptions; there is no fine writing for fine writing's\nsake, but the story will absorb the reader.... It is a novel that,\nonce taken up, cannot willingly be put down until finished.\"\n\n [A]=A STUDY IN SHADOWS.= Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n_Daily Chronicle_--\"Mr. Locke has achieved a distinct success in this\nnovel. He has struck many emotional chords and struck them all with a\nfirm sure hand.\"\n\n_Athen\u00e6um_--\"The character-drawing is distinctly good. All the\npersonages stand well defined with strongly marked individualities.\"\n\n [A]=THE WHITE DOVE.= Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n_Times_--\"An interesting story, full of dramatic scenes.\"\n\n_Morning Post_--\"An interesting story. The characters are strongly\nconceived and vividly presented, and the dramatic moments are\npowerfully realised.\"\n\n [A]=THE USURPER.= Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n_World_--\"This quite uncommon novel.\"\n\n_Spectator_--\"Character and plot are most ingeniously wrought, and the\nconclusion, when it comes, is fully satisfying.\"\n\n_Times_--\"An impressive romance.\"\n\n _THE DEMAGOGUE AND LADY PHAYRE._ Cr. 8vo. 3/6\n\n [A]=AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA.= Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n_Daily Chronicle_--\"The heroine of this clever story attracts our\ninterest.... She is a clever and subtle study.... We congratulate Mr.\nLocke.\"\n\n_Morning Post_--\"A cleverly written tale ... the author's pictures of\nBohemian life are bright and graphic.\"\n\n [A]=WHERE LOVE IS.= Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\nMr. JAMES DOUGLAS, in _Star_--\"I do not often praise a book with\nthis exultant gusto, but it gave me so much spiritual stimulus and\nmoral pleasure that I feel bound to snatch the additional delight of\ncommending it to those readers who long for a novel that is a piece of\nliterature as well as a piece of life.\"\n\n_Standard_--\"A brilliant piece of work.\"\n\n_Times_--\"The author has the true gift; his people are alive.\"\n\n [A]=THE MORALS OF MARCUS ORDEYNE.= Cr. 8vo. 6/-\n\nMr. C. K. SHORTER, in _Sphere_--\"A book which has just delighted my\nheart.\"\n\n_Truth_--\"Mr. Locke's new novel is one of the best artistic pieces of\nwork I have met with for many a day.\"\n\n_Daily Chronicle_--\"Mr. Locke succeeds, indeed, in every crisis of\nthis most original story.\"\n\n =THE BELOVED VAGABOND.= Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n_Truth_--\"Certainly it is the most brilliant piece of work Mr. Locke\nhas done.\"\n\n_Evening Standard_--\"Mr. Locke can hardly fail to write beautifully.\nHe has not failed now.\"\n\n =SIMON THE JESTER.= Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n[asterism] The central figure of Mr. Locke's new novel is one Simon\nde Gex, M.P., who having met life with a gay and serene philosophy is\nsuddenly called upon to face Death. This he does gallantly and jests\nat Death until he discovers to his confusion that Destiny is a greater\njester than he. Eventually by surrendering his claims he attains\nsalvation. The heroine is Lola Brandt, an ex-trainer of animals, and\nan important figure in the story is a dwarf, Professor Anastasius\nPapadopoulas, who has a troupe of performing cats. The scene of the\nnovel is laid in London and Algiers.\n\n =THE GLORY OF CLEMENTINA WING.= Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n_Observer_--\"Mr. Locke's best.... Clementina Wing and Dr. Quixtue\nare the two most adorable characters that Mr. Locke has ever brought\ntogether in holy wedlock. The phrases are Locke's most debonairly\nwitty.\"\n\n[A] Also Bound in Cloth with Illustrated paper wrapper 1/-net.\n\n\nBY LAURA BOGUE LUFFMAN.\n\n =A QUESTION OF LATITUDE.= Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n[asterism] The author of \"A Question of Latitude\" takes an English\ngirl from the comfortable stateliness of a country house in the Old\nCountry, and places her in a rough and ready environment in Australia.\nThe girl finds her standard of values undergoing a change. She learns\nto distinguish between English snobbery and Colonial simplicity and\nmanliness, she also learns how to wash up dishes, and that Australia\nis not all kangaroos and giant cricketers. The atmosphere of the story\nis convincing, and there are many vivid pictures of Melbourne life.\nThe book depicts Australia as it really is, its strength and its\nweakness, its refinement and its vulgarity.\n\nBY A. NEIL LYONS.\n\n =ARTHUR'S.= Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n_Times_--\"Not only a very entertaining and amusing work, but a very\nkindly and tolerant work also. Incidentally the work is a mirror of a\nphase of the low London life of to-day as true as certain of Hogarth's\ntranscripts in the eighteenth century, and far more tender.\"\n\n_Punch_--\"Mr. Neil Lyons seems to get right at the heart of things,\nand I confess to a real admiration for this philosopher of the\ncoffee-stall.\"\n\n =SIXPENNY PIECES.= Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n_Pall Mall Gazette_--\"It is pure, fast, sheer life, salted with a\nsense of humour.\"\n\n_Evening Standard_--\"'Sixpenny Pieces' is as good as 'Arthur's,' and\nthat is saying a great deal. A book full of laughter and tears and\nhits innumerable that one feels impelled to read aloud. 'Sixpenny\nPieces' would be very hard indeed to beat.\"\n\n =COTTAGE PIE.= Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n[asterism] Mr. Lyons' former books dealt with East London characters.\nNow he draws the varying types of a small country community. The\nhumour of the whole is enforced, inimitable, and there is the\nunderlying note of tragedy never wholly absent from the lives of the\npoorer classes.\n\nW. J. LOCKE, in _Outlook_--\" ... That book of beauty, truth, and\nartistry.\"\n\nEDWIN PUGH, in _Outlook_--\"I have never missed an opportunity to\nexpress my admiration for his inimitable talent.\"\n\n =CLARA; SOME CHAPTERS IN THE LIFE OF A HUSSY.=\n Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n_Manchester Guardian_--\"Mr. Lyons writes about life in the slums with\na great deal of penetrative sympathy for human nature as it shows\nitself.\"\n\n_Daily Graphic_--\"Clara is a type, the real thing, and we know of\nno-one else who could have created her.\"\n\n\nBY ALLAN McAULAY.\n\n =THE EAGLE'S NEST.= Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n_Athen\u00e6um_--\"We should describe the book as a brilliant _tour de\nforce_.... The story is spirited and interesting. The love interest\nalso is excellent and pathetic.\"\n\n_Spectator_--\"This is one of those illuminating and stimulating\nromances which set people reading history.\"\n\n =BEGGARS AND SORNERS.= Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n[asterism] \"Beggars and Sorners\" is a novel which deals with what\nmay be called the back-wash of the \"Forty Five.\" It commemorates\nthe _d\u00e9b\u00e2cle_ of a great romance, and in describing the lives, the\nstruggles, the make-shifts, the intrigues and the crimes of a small\ncircle of Jacobite exiles in Holland between the years 1745 and 1750,\nit strives to show the pathos of history while revealing its seamy\nside. The characters are imaginary (with one important exception);\nthey have imaginary names and commit imaginary actions, for the story\nis not confined to, but only founded on, fact. If some readers of\nJacobite history find among their number some old friends with new\nfaces, this need not detract from the interest of others to whom all\nthe characters are new--actors in a drama drawn from the novelist's\nfancy. To English readers it may have to be explained what the word\nSorner means--but the story makes this sufficiently plain. The novel\nis of a lighter character than those previously written by this\nauthor, and it is not without sensational elements. In spite of\nadverse circumstances, grim characters, and all the sorrows of a lost\ncause, it contrives to end happily. The scene is laid in Amsterdam.\n\nBY KARIN MICHAELIS.\n\n =THE DANGEROUS AGE.= Crown 8vo. 3/6 net\n\n Translated from the Danish.\n\n This book has been:--\n\n(1) Sold to the extent of 100 editions in 6 months in Germany.\n\n(2) Translated into 11 languages.\n\n(3) Translated into French by the great MARCEL PREVOST, who says in\nhis introduction to the English Edition--\"It is the feminine soul,\nand the femininal soul of all that is revealed in these extraordinary\ndocuments. Here indeed is a strange book.\"\n\n =ELSIE LINDTNER.= A Sequel. Crown 8vo. 3/6 net\n\n =THE GOVERNOR.= Crown 8vo. 3/6 net\n\n\nBY IRENE MILLER.\n\n =SEKHET.= Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n[asterism] Sekhet deals with that topic of unwearying interest to\nreaders of romance--the adventures and struggles of an exquisitely\nlovely woman upon whom the hand of Fate is laid heavily. From the\ndays of her beautiful girlhood when her Guardian himself proves her\ntempter, Evarne has good reason to believe herself one of the victims\nof \"Sekhet,\" the ancient Egyptian Goddess of Love and Cruelty. Even\nthough the main theme of this story is the tragic outcome of a too\npassionate love, portions of Evarne's experiences, such as those with\nthe bogus Theatrical manager, are full of humour, and throughout there\nis a relieving lightness of touch in the writing. The book grows in\ninterest as it proceeds, and the final portion--a long duel between\nEvarne and the evil genius of her life--is dramatic in the extreme.\nThe result remains uncertain till the last page or two, and though\ndecidedly ghastly is entirely original and unforeseen.\n\n\nBY HECTOR H. MUNRO (Saki)\n\n =THE UNBEARABLE BASSINGTON.= A Novel. Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n[asterism] The keynote of this book is struck in an early chapter\nwhere one of the school-masters at the school \"Comus Bassington\" is\nsent to, remarks, \"There are just a few, and Bassington is one of\nthem, who are Nature's highly-finished products. They are in the\nschoolboy stage, and we who are supposed to be moulding raw material\nare quite helpless when we come in contact with them.\" \"Comus\nBassington\" has no father, and a mother of a very uncommon type. After\nleaving school he runs loose for a time in London, bear-led a little\nby a clever young M.P., falls in love with the most wonderful match of\nthe season, gets deeply in debt, and even when at the absolute end of\nhis tether fascinates the reader with his store of spontaneous gaiety.\n\n_Observer_--\"ANYONE COULD DINE out for a year and pass for a wit after\nreading this book if only the hosts and the guests would promise not\nto read it too. This is one of the wittiest books, not only of the\nyear, but of the decade. It is not even only witty; it has a deepening\nhumanity towards the end that comes to a climax of really disturbing\npathos. It will be a dull public that can pass over such a book as\nthis.\"\n\n =THE CHRONICLES OF CLOVIS.= Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n_English Review_--\"A collection of short stories printed from various\nnewspapers and magazines. Every one was worth reprinting, and some,\nnotably 'The Great Weep' and 'Sredni Vashtar,' are very clever indeed.\nMr. Monro conceals pills of cleverness in a sugar-coating of wit--real\nwit--and the result is a chuckle provoking book, except on the\noccasions when its author was touched to grim realism and wrote his\nmood.\"\n\n\nBY LOUIS N. PARKER.\n\n =POMANDER WALK.= Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n Author of \"Rosemary,\" etc. With numerous Illustrations by\n J. Scott Williams.\n\n[asterism] Novelised by the author of the delightful play of the\nsame name, which has met with so much success both in England and\nthe United States. A picture of one of the quaint out-of-the-way\ncorners of London of the olden times. The volume contains a tinted\nfrontispiece and title page, and numerous other charming illustrations.\n\n_Daily Telegraph_--\"Mr. Parker has turned a delightful comedy into\na still more delightful story ... in every way a charming, happy\nromance, beautifully told and irresistibly sentimental.\"\n\n\nBY JOHN PARKINSON.\n\n =OTHER LAWS.= Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n[asterism] This book is distinctly the outcome of the latest\n\"intellectual\" movement in novel-writing. The hero, Hawkins, is an\nAfrican explorer. During a holiday in England he falls in love with\nand captivates Caroline Blackwood, a woman of strong personality.\nCircumstances prevent him from entering upon a formal engagement, and\nhe departs again for Africa, without proposing marriage. Caroline\nand Hawkins correspond fitfully for some time; but then a startling\ncombination of events causes Hawkins to penetrate further and further\ninto the interior; a native village is burned, and a report, based\napparently upon fact, is circulated of his death. Not until seven\nmonths have elapsed is he able to return to England. He finds Caroline\nmarried to a man who has found her money useful. Here the story,\nstrong and moving throughout, moves steadily to the close, describing\ndelicately and analytically the soul conflict of a man and a woman,\nsundered and separate, with a yearning for each other's love.\n\n\nBY F. INGLIS POWELL.\n\n =THE SNAKE.= Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n[asterism] For countless generations the soul of Peasant India has\nbeen steeped in weird, fantastic superstitions, some grotesque,\nsome loathsome, all strangely fascinating. Though the main theme of\nthis story is the unhappy love of a beautiful, evil woman, and the\nbrutal frankness with which she writes of her uncontrolled passions\nin her diary, yet the whole tale hinges on some of the most gruesome\nsuperstitions of the East. This book should appeal to all who take an\ninterest in the strange beliefs--not of the educated classes--but of\nthe simple-minded and ignorant peasants of Behar.\n\nBY F. J. RANDALL.\n\n =LOVE AND THE IRONMONGER.= Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n_Daily Telegraph_--\"Since the gay days when Mr. F. Anstey was writing\nhis inimitable series of humourous novels, we can recall no book of\npurely farcical imagination so full of excellent entertainment as\nthis first effort of Mr. F. J. Randall. 'Love and the Ironmonger' is\ncertain to be a success.\"\n\n_Times_--\"As diverting a comedy of errors as the reader is likely to\nmeet with for a considerable time.\"\n\nMr. CLEMENT SHORTER, in _The Sphere_--\"I thank the author for a\ndelightful hour's amusement.\"\n\n =THE BERMONDSEY TWIN.= Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n[asterism] A humourous story of the reappearance of a twin brother,\nwho is supposed to be dead. Prosperous, respected, and well satisfied\nwith himself, a suburban tradesman is contemplating matrimony and the\nrealisation of his ambitions, when the twin brother appears. He is\nthrown into a state of panic, for not only is his fortune thus reduced\nby half and his marriage prospects endangered, but the twin is to all\nappearance a disreputable character, whose existence threatens to\nmar the tradesman's respectability. The good man's attempts to hide\nthis undesirable brother make amusing reading, and the pranks of the\nunwelcome twin serve to complicate matters, for the brothers are so\nmuch alike as to be easily mistaken one for the other. The new arrival\nis really a man of integrity, his depravity being assumed as a joke.\nHaving played the farce out he is about to \"confess,\" when the tables\nare turned upon him by accident, and he is forced to pay heavily for\nhis fun in a series of humiliating adventures.\n\n\nBY HUGH DE S\u00c9LINCOURT.\n\n =A FAIR HOUSE.= Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n Author of \"A Boy's Marriage,\" \"The Way Things Happen,\" \"The\n Strongest Plume.\"\n\n[asterism] The outstanding idea of Mr. Hugh de S\u00e9lincourt's new novel\nis the possibility of absolute love and confidence between father and\ndaughter. It is the main thread of the story and all the incidents\nare subordinated to it. The book falls naturally into three sections.\nThe first opens with the birth of the daughter and the death of the\nmother, the father's utter despair, until an idea comes to him, to\nmake the child his masterpiece and to see how much one human being can\nmean to another. The second deals with the growth of the child from\nfive to fifteen. In the third, the girl becomes a woman. Her first\nexperience of love is unhappy and threatens to destroy the confidence\nbetween father and daughter. But she is enabled to throw herself heart\nand soul into stage-work, and in the excitement of work she finds\nherself again. And the end of the book leaves her with the knowledge\nthat one love does not necessarily displace another, and that a\nsecond, happier love has only strengthened the bond between her father\nand herself.\n\n\nBY ESSEX SMITH.\n\n =WIND ON THE HEATH.= Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n[asterism] No paragraph or descriptive note can give an idea of Miss\nEssex Smith's story. It depends upon style, psychology, woodland\natmosphere, and more than anything else upon originality of outlook.\nIt will make a direct appeal to that public that has a taste for the\nunusual. There is underlying it a tone of passion, the passion of a\nfantastic Richard Jefferies.\n\nBY GEORGE STEVENSON.\n\n =TOPHAM'S FOLLY.= A Novel. Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n[asterism] This novel has the curious charm of a tale that might\nbe told to you by your own mother or grandmother, a homeliness\nand simplicity which is never overweighted by the writer's very\nconsiderable skill in presenting his story. The scene is laid in a\nsmall town in the West Riding of Yorkshire--fortunately there is\npractically no dialect. What the narrator presents to us is supposed\nto be the incidents of the lives of various members of the Topham\nfamily and their kinsfolk seen largely through the eyes of Mary Ann.\nMary Ann's mother was a woman of good family, who in her early teens\neloped with her father's groom, and although in consequence of her\nact she endured many hardships, she never repented it. When Mary Ann\nwas just growing into young womanhood she discovered an advertisement\nin a newspaper enquiring for the heirs of Thomas Morton Bagster, and\npointed it out to her mother. They consult Mr. Topham, the lawyer,\nwho undertakes to make enquiries for them. Topham is at this time\nvery short of cash, and cannot complete a grand new house for himself\nand his family, over whom he rules as a petty domestic tyrant. From\nnow on the financial fortunes of the Tophams prosper, and the house,\nwhich has begun to be known as \"Topham's Folly,\" is completed and\noccupied. And in this tempestuous household lives Mary Ann as a humble\nservant--a kind of angel in a print dress. When the youngest boy is\nabout twenty he suddenly discovers by the purest chance the whole\nfraud upon which the family fortunes have been erected. There are\ninnumerable side issues, every one of them fascinatingly human and\ndelightfully told.\n\n\nBY HERMANN SUDERMANN.\n\n =THE SONG OF SONGS= (Das Hohe Lied). Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n A new Translation by Beatrice Marshall.\n\n[asterism] The first English translation of this work, published\nunder the title of \"The Song of Songs,\" proved to be too American for\nthe taste of the British public, and was eventually dropped. But it\nwas felt that the work was too great an one not to be represented in\nthe English language, and accordingly this entirely new translation\nhas been made, which it is hoped will fairly represent the wonderful\noriginal without unduly offending the susceptibilities of the British\npublic. In this colossal novel, Sudermann has made a searching and\nmasterly study of feminine frailty. The character and career of\nLily Czepanck are depicted with such pitiless power and unerring\npsychological insight, that the portrait would be almost intolerable\nin its realism, if it were not for its touches of humour and\ntenderness. In these pages too may be found some of Sudermann's most\ncharacteristic and charming passages descriptive of country life,\nwhile his pictures of Berlin Society in all its phases, the glimpses\nhe gives us into what goes on beneath the tinsel, spick and span\nsurface of the great modern capital are drawn with Tolstoyan vigour\nand colour.\n\n =THE INDIAN LILY= and other Stories. Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n Translated by Ludwig Lewisohn, M.A.\n\n[asterism] A series of characteristic stories by the great German\nMaster which exhibit his art in every phase. Sudermann is chiefly\nknown in this country as a writer of novels and of plays, but this\nvolume will place him in a new light for English readers--as a writer\nof short stories of the first rank. In fact he may with justice be\ntermed the German Maupassant.\n\nBY SIR FRANK SWETTENHAM.\n\n =ALSO AND PERHAPS.= Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n Author of \"Unaddressed Letters,\" \"British Malaya,\" etc.\n\n_Punch_--\"'Dodo Island' contains a long quotation of such genuine\nhumour that to have rescued it is an achievement in itself. Although\nin this sketch Sir Frank apologises almost humbly for mentioning\nhistory in 'Tamarin' and 'Ile de la Passe,' he becomes an historian\nunashamed, and a most attractive one. 'The Kris Incarnadine' provided\nme with a more grizzly sensation than I have been able to conjure up\nfor many years, and 'Disbelief in the Unseen' ought to be read aloud\ndaily to those obnoxious people who cannot bring themselves to believe\nin anything that does not take place within a stone's throw of their\nparish pump.\"\n\n\nBY MARCELLE TINAYRE.\n\n =THE SHADOW OF LOVE.= Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n Translated from the French by A. R. Allinson, M.A.\n\n[asterism] Of the newer French novelists Marcelle Tinayre is perhaps\nthe best known. Her work has been crowned by the French Academy, and\nshe possesses a very large public in Europe and in America. The story\ndeals with a girl's love and a heroic sacrifice dictated by love.\n\"The Shadow of Love\" is a book of extraordinary power, uncompromising\nin its delineation of certain hard, some might say repulsive facts\nof life, yet instinct all through with an exquisitely tender and\nbeautiful passion of human interest and human sympathy.\n\n\nBY GEORGE VANE.\n\n =THE LIFTED LATCH=: A Novel. Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n[asterism] \"The Lifted Latch\" is a story of strong situations. The\nhero is the son of an Italian attach\u00e9 and a girl of whose frailty he\ntakes advantage. The mother decides to hide her shame by handing the\nchild over to a foster-mother together with a sum of money for its\nmaintenance. When the boy grows up he becomes by a curious sequence\nof events and circumstances reunited to his parents, and a series\nof plots and counterplots follow. The scene is set principally in\ndiplomatic circles in Rome.\n\n =THE LOVE DREAM.= Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n[asterism] In this book we meet some Sicilians of old lineage and\nconsiderable wealth settled in a gloomy manor in England. The\nfamily consists of an aged and partly demented Princess, obsessed\nby a monomania for revenge, her grandson, an attach\u00e9 of the Italian\nEmbassy to the Court of St. James, and his half sister, a fascinating,\nwinning, wayward and fickle creature. This girl captures the heart\nof Lord Drury--whose father murdered the Principe Baldassare di\nMonreale--son of the old Princess. The contrast between these\nSoutherners and their English neighbours is strongly accentuated. Don\nSiorza and his half sister Donna Giacinta are no mere puppets with\nItalian names; they give the reader the impression of being people\nthe author has met and drawn from life. The tragedy in which they are\ninvolved strikes one as inevitable. Poor Lord Drury, in his utter\ninexperience, has taken a beautiful chim\u00e6ra for reality and starts\nin the pursuit of happiness when it was all the time within his\ngrasp. The love-interest never flags to the last page when the hero's\ntroubles come to an end. The glimpses of diplomatic circles in London\nare obviously not written by an outsider.\n\n_Truth_--\"Well constructed ... thrilling scenes and situations fit\nnaturally and consequently into the framework of its elaborate plot.\"\n\nBY CLARA VIEBIG.\n\n =THE SON OF HIS MOTHER.= Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n Translated by H. Raahauge.\n\n[asterism] When Paul and Kate Schlieben leave their home in Berlin\nand start on their wanderings, they have no idea of how momentous an\noccasion this will be for them--and another. A devoted couple, there\nis one thing wanting to complete their happiness, and Kate at least\ncan never forget that they are childless. Afterwards, when they have\nadopted a son, she learns too late that all the care that has been\nexpended on him is a poor substitute for the ties that bind mother and\nchild, and is forced to acknowledge that the son of her adoption is\nand always must be the son of his mother.\n\n =ABSOLUTION.= Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n_Times_--\"There is considerable strength in 'Absolution.' ... As a\nrealistic study the story has much merit.\"\n\n_Daily Telegraph_--\"The tale is powerfully told ... the tale will\nprove absorbing with its minute characterisation and real passion.\"\n\n =OUR DAILY BREAD.= Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n_Athen\u00e6um_--\"The story is not only of great human interest, but\nalso extremely valuable as a study of the conditions in which a\nlarge section of the poorer classes and small tradespeople of German\ncities spend their lives. Clara Viebig manipulates her material with\nextraordinary vigour.... Her characters are alive.\"\n\n\nBY H. B. MARRIOTT WATSON.\n\n =THE TOMBOY AND OTHERS.= Crown 8vo. 3/6 net\n\n Author of \"Galloping Dick.\"\n\n\nBY H. G. WELLS.\n\n =THE NEW MACHIAVELLI.= Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n Also Bound in Cloth with Illustrated paper wrapper 1/- net.\n\n[asterism] _The New Machiavelli_ is the longest, most carefully and\nelaborately constructed and most ambitious novel that Mr. Wells\nhas yet written. It combines much of the breadth and variety of\n_Tono-Bungay_ with that concentrated unity of effect which makes _Love\nand Mr. Lewisham_, artistically, his most satisfactory work. It has\nthe autobiographical form which he has already used so effectively\nin _Tono-Bungay_, but this time the hero who surveys and experiences\nthe vicissitudes of our modern world is not a commercial adventurer\nbut a Trinity man, who directs very great ambitions and abilities to\npolitical ends, who is wrecked in mid-career and driven into exile\nby a passionate love adventure. From his retirement in Italy he\nreviews and discusses his broken life. The story he tells opens amidst\nsuburban surroundings, and the first book gives a series of vivid\nimpressions and criticisms of English public school and university\nlife. Thence, after an episode in Staffordshire, it passes to the\nworld of Westminster and the country house. The narrator recounts\nhis relations with the varying groups and the forces in contemporary\nparliamentary life and political journalism in London, and the growth\nand changes in his own opinion until the emotions of his passionate\nentanglement sweep the story away to its sombre and touching\nconclusion. In addition to the full-length portraits of Margaret,\nthe neglected wife--perhaps the finest of Mr. Wells's feminine\ncreations--Isabel Rivers, and Remington, there are scores of sharply\ndifferentiated characters, sketched and vignetted: Remington the\nfather, Britten, the intriguing Baileys, the members of the Pentagram\nCircle, Codger the typical don, and Mr. Evesham the Conservative\nleader. It is a book to read and read again, and an enduring picture\nof contemporary English conditions.\n\nBY MARGARET WESTRUP.\n\n =ELIZABETH'S CHILDREN.= Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n_Daily Telegraph_--\"The book is charming ... the author ... has a\ndelicate fanciful touch, a charming imagination ... skilfully suggests\ncharacter and moods ... is bright and witty, and writes about children\nwith exquisite knowledge and sympathy.\"\n\n =HELEN ALLISTON.= Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n_Pall Mall Gazette_--\"The book has vivacity, fluency, colour, more\nthan a touch of poetry and passion.... We shall look forward with\ninterest to future work by the author of 'Helen Alliston.'\"\n\n =THE YOUNG O'BRIENS.= Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n_Saturday Review_--\"Delightful ... the author treats them (the Young\nO'Briens) very skilfully.\"\n\n =PHYLLIS IN MIDDLEWYCH.= Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n[asterism] It is some years since \"Elizabeth's Children\" was published\nand immediately ran through edition after edition. In her new book\nthe author shows that same sympathetic touch and sure knowledge of\nthe real child that stamped \"Elizabeth's Children\" as a live book.\nThe doings and misdoings of Phyllis are told with understanding and\nwith numerous and deft touches the little idiosyncracies of the\nMiddlewichites are admirably hit off.\n\n =ELIZABETH IN RETREAT.= Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n_Ladies' Field_--\"Margaret Westrup has never written a more\ninteresting novel than 'Elizabeth in Retreat.'\"\n\n_Punch_--\"All the superstition having long ago been used up and\nsquandered among the undeserving, it is difficult to hit upon such an\nexpression of praise as the reading public will take without a pinch\nof salt. But the character of Evelyn Winkfield is a stroke of genius.\nBelieve me or not as you please, but this is the best novel of the\nyear that has come my way.\"\n\n\nBY EDITH WHERRY.\n\n =THE RED LANTERN=: Being the Story of the Goddess of the\n Red Light. Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n[asterism] The most exciting novel of recent years. It deals with the\nRebellion in China and is of extraordinary anticipation. Sun Yat Sen\nis vividly depicted under the name of Sam Wang in Miss Edith Wherry's\nstartling novel.\n\nBY IDA WILD.\n\n =ZO\u00cb THE DANCER.= Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n[asterism] The scene of the story is laid in Brussels, where\nZo\u00eb, little more than a child, shows her remarkable aptitude for\ndancing. Her wonderful yellow hair secures for her a position in a\nhairdresser's window to the constant delight of the good citizens.\nChance leads to her adoption of dancing as a profession. The book is\nfull of comedy and tragedy, and yet it is the charm and originality of\nthe telling which holds the reader throughout.\n\n\nBY M. P. WILLCOCKS.\n\n =WIDDICOMBE.= Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n_Evening Standard_--\"Wonderfully alive and pulsating with a curious\nfervour which brings round the reader the very atmosphere which the\nauthor describes.... A fine, rather unusual novel.... There are some\nstriking studies of women.\"\n\n_Truth_--\"A first novel of most unusual promise.\"\n\n_Queen_--\"An unusually clever book.\"\n\n =THE WINGLESS VICTORY.= Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n_Times_--\"Such books are worth keeping on the shelves even by the\nclassics, for they are painted in colours that do not fade.\"\n\n_Daily Telegraph_--\"A novel of such power as should win for its author\na position in the front rank of contemporary writers of fiction.\"\n\n =A MAN OF GENIUS.= Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n_Daily Telegraph_--\"'Widdicombe' was good, and 'The Wingless Victory'\nwas perhaps better, but in 'A Man of Genius' the author has given\nus something that should assure her place in the front rank of our\nliving novelists. In this latest novel there is so much of character,\nso much of incident, and to its writing has gone so much insight\nand observation that it is not easy to praise it without seeming\nexaggeration.\"\n\n_Punch_--\"There is no excuse for not reading 'A Man of Genius' and\nmaking a short stay in the 'seventh Devon of delight.'\"\n\n_Globe_--\"Exquisite.\"\n\n =THE WAY UP.= Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n_Daily Mail_--\"It is admirably done.... Evidently worth reading,\nfull of extremely clever characterisation, of sharp and picturesque\ncontrasts in personality ... a merciless exhibition of almost all the\nfollies known as modern thought.\"\n\n =WINGS OF DESIRE.= Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n_Daily Telegraph_--\"Excellent as are her earlier novels, Miss\nWillcocks has given us nothing else so good, so full at once of\ncharacter, thought, and observation.\"\n\n_Observer_--\"All these are haunting people, memorable and uncommon.\"\n\n\nBY F. E. MILLS YOUNG.\n\n =MYLES CALTHORPE, I.D.B.= A Novel. Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n[asterism] Miss Young again takes South Africa as a background for her\nrigorous work. Myles Calthorpe is a man of original will power and\nsomewhat perverted strength of character, which is apt to land him\ninto quixotic difficulties. To him is applied the title of I.D.B., the\nSouth African abbreviation for Illicit Diamond Buyer. Nevertheless he\nis not guilty of the crime, but is trapped unconsciously into acting\nas go-between. Caught red-handed by the Government authorities, he is\nsentenced to three years' imprisonment because he will not purchase\nhis acquittal by throwing a smirch on the good name of the brother\nof the lady who has won his heart. After serving his unjust sentence\nMyles is face to face with ruin, and how eventually he emerges from\nthe highways and byeways of disgrace clean-hearted and with his hands\nstained by nothing more shameful than hard work, forms the subject of\na picturesque and life-pulsating romance.\n\n =GRIT LAWLESS.= A Novel. Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n_Sunday Times_--\"One of the most thrilling stories of adventure we\nhave come across this season ... four excellent studies of character\n... all interesting persons palpitating alive.\"\n\n_Westminster Gazette_--\"Vigorous and full of exciting incident.\"\n\n =SAM'S KID.= A Novel. Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n =MISTAKEN MARRIAGE.= A Novel. Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n =CHIP.= A Novel. Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n =ATONEMENT.= A Novel. Crown 8vo. 6/-\n\n\nPOPULAR CHEAP EDITIONS.\n\nBound in Cloth with Illustrated Coloured Wrapper.\n\nCrown 8vo. 1/-net.\n\nTHE NEW MACHIAVELLI. By H. G. Wells.\n\n\nNOVELS BY W. J. LOCKE.\n\n DERELICTS.\n THE USURPER.\n WHERE LOVE IS.\n THE WHITE DOVE.\n THE MORALS OF MARCUS ORDEYNE.\n AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA.\n IDOLS.\n A STUDY IN SHADOWS.\n\n * * * * *\n\nTranscriber's Notes\n\nVariations in spelling and punctuation are as in the original except in\nobvious cases of typographical error.\n\nVariations in hyphenation within the body of the text have been\nrationalised, however variations within the Catalogue have been retained.\n\nItalics are represented thus _italics_ and underlining thus =underline=.\n\nThe original did not include a Table of Contents, this has been added.","title":"Cornish Saints & Sinners","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":79066}