You may or you may not on first arriving feel capable of appreciating

the picturesqueness of the stone walls and gateway of the quay, with

Star Castle appearing on the hill behind; but through this gateway you

must pass in order to enter the town. The pier now in use has only

been built just over seventy years, and was lengthened twenty years

ago; yet already again the sand is silting up against it, and making

it less serviceable.

From the pier you can see the houses of Hugh Town stretching in a long

line round the curve of St. Mary’s Pool, the back walls of many of

them rising straight out of the sea, if it happens to be high-water of

a spring-tide.

This Hugh Town on St. Mary’s Island is the metropolis, port, and

shopping centre of the little archipelago, and, generally speaking,

the hub of the Scillonian universe. Formerly the presence of the fort

behind it gave it yet another kind of importance, and made it the

centre of the military as well as of the civil life. It is built

chiefly on the narrow sandy neck which unites the promontory of the

“Heugh” or “Hugh” (now better known as Garrison Hill) to the rest of

the island.

Over and over again the prophets of evil have foretold that one day

there would come some big sea and wash the little town away. Several

times in days gone by the sea has entered the houses, carrying off the

furniture, and driving the inhabitants to the upper floors; the waves

have even swept across the isthmus from Porth Cressa to St. Mary’s

Pool; but the banks have been raised since then, so still the little

town stands, and the inhabitants seem to entertain no fears for their

safety. The houses were built when the people feared foreign foes more

than they feared the sea, so they clustered close under the shelter of

Garrison Hill and Star Castle that crowns it.

The formation of Hugh Town is of necessity strictly determined by the

shape of the land on which it is built. There is a group of houses

just under Garrison Hill; and then a narrow, winding street runs the

length of the sandy strip between the two bays, with a few short

branch-streets where there happens to be room. As the isthmus widens

out to join the main island the principal street also widens and

divides into two branches, one of which soon ends in the country road

leading to “Old Town” (of which more anon), and the other follows for

a short distance the curve of St. Mary’s Pool, but also soon becomes a

country road, and leads into the heart of the island.

[Illustration: THE ENTRANCE TO HUGH TOWN, FROM THE OLD PIER]

It has been suggested that the Hugh, which gives its name to the town,

was once, like Plymouth Hoe, the station for the “huer,” who stands on

high places to indicate to fishermen by a particular “hue” or cry the

approach and direction of shoals of fish; and that the Gugh, a similar

promontory connected with St. Agnes, is a corruption of the same word.

* * * * *

At the fork of the main street there is an open space known as “The

Parade,” because it was there that the soldiers used to drill. When

the garrison no longer existed this space was used as a dumping-ground

for salvage from wrecks, and for years it looked like an untidy

shipwright’s yard, with all manner of appurtenances and portions of

ships laid out to be sold by auction. In the houses on all the islands

you may often come across relics of the wrecks; perhaps a lock from a

cabin-door, or even a whole door; and sometimes the partition between

two rooms will show clear signs of a nautical origin. “The

inhabitants,” says Lieutenant Heath, “have wreck-furniture of various

kinds sent them by the hand of Providence.”

Now the centre of the Parade is a grass-plot, surrounded by shrubs and

beds of flowers, and is dignified by the name of “The Park.”

Nearly all the houses in Scilly are built of the grey granite of which

the islands are formed. They are generally roofed with tiles or slate,

to which a hoary appearance is given by the addition of a coat of

cement as an extra protection against the weather. The old way of

roofing was with thatch, tied on with ropes, crossed in a chessboard

pattern and fastened to iron or wooden pegs driven into the chinks of

the stone walls a little way below the eaves. This was necessary to

keep the roof from being blown away. Still here and there in Hugh

Town, and more frequently in Old Town and on the off-islands, these

picturesque thatched cottages are to be seen.

Duke Cosmo, to whom a thatched roof was quite unknown in his native

Italy, was much impressed by those he saw in Scilly, but he altogether

misunderstood their construction! He says: “The house-roofs are

nothing but a simple mat, spread over the rafters, drawn tight all

round, and fixed firmly to the top of the walls.”

On one of the off-islands there is a very primitive device for

weighting down the slate roof of a chapel by the sea--just a stout

rope thrown across the ridge, and tied at each end to a large mass of

granite on the ground, with sods placed underneath the rope at the

sharp edges to prevent its being cut.

It is said that formerly the houses of Hugh Town were built of turf

with thatched roofs; but once in the summer, when all the men were out

at sea, a fire broke out and the town was burned to the ground; so

since then the houses have been built of stone.

The streets of Hugh Town are lighted with oil lamps, for which the

necessary funds were partly raised by means of a concert. The

inhabitants paid for music, and they got illumination into the

bargain! These lamps are not burned in the wasteful way to which we

are accustomed in London and elsewhere. I asked a Scillonian, half in

fun, whether they _always_ kept their lamps alight as late as

half-past nine. He replied in sober earnest: “Oh no, only if there is

no moon; and on clear moonlight evenings we do not light them at

all.”

But though the lights are put out early, the lamp-lighter is (to use a

mixed metaphor) no cut-and-dried automaton, bound with red tape, and

devoid of human feelings. If he sees you returning home as he goes his

round, he will wait to see you safely indoors before letting the

velvet dark drop down like a veil over the streets.

Not far from the quay a steep little hill bordered by trees leads up

to the Garrison, which is entered through a strong stone gateway.

Above it hangs a bell, used formerly when there was no public clock,

to announce the time of day. There is a tablet beneath the bell with

the inscription “G.R. 1742. F.G.” Lower down are two larger initials,

“A.T.,” those of Abraham Tovey, the master-gunner, under whose

direction the works were constructed, and who, being the “man on the

spot,” saw to it that his memory should be kept green by letters of a

larger size than those which commemorated the King and the Governor.

Star Castle, on the top of Garrison Hill, is not a very imposing

building. Its name, which used to be “Stella Mariæ” (Star of Mary), is

derived from the star-like plan of its projecting bastions, which

surround a dwelling-house with corresponding projections. The walls

are loopholed for musketry at every possible point, ninety-six

loopholes altogether. Above the entrance are the initials of Queen

Elizabeth, “E.R.,” and the date, “1593,” when the Castle was built.

Prisoners from the mainland have been confined here from time to time;

Dr. Bastwick, of Colchester, in 1637, by order of the Star Chamber,

for writing against the Church and Government; in 1655 John Biddle,

the Unitarian, was sent to Scilly by Cromwell to keep him out of the

way of his persecutors, and allowed a pension of 10s. a week; and in

1681 seven “Popish priests” were removed thither from Newgate.

It is a very beautiful walk round Garrison Hill--a walk of which one

can never tire. Heath compares it to “the Mall at St. James’s, where

people walk for health and amusement”; but to the Nature-lover the

Mall is dull indeed compared with Garrison Hill. The circuit can

easily be made in half an hour, for the distance is not more than a

mile and a half; and yet in that short time a sight of nearly all the

islands, and a good idea of their relative position, can be obtained.

From the north one looks down on St. Mary’s Pool, full of brown-sailed

fishing-boats in the early summer, and never without a sprinkling of

craft, large or small, upon its bosom. Beyond the Pool, to the right,

may be seen the country-side of St. Mary’s, and following on, one

after the other from east to west, St. Martin’s Isle; Tean; St.

Helen’s, with the lighthouse tower of Round Island showing over its

head; the wooded slopes of Tresco, and Cromwell’s Castle low down on

its western shore, clearly visible across three miles of sea; green,

hilly little Bryher; and the twin peaks of Samson.

As one bears round to the west and south-west, there are St. Agnes,

and Annet, and the grim rocks of the western archipelago, with the

white foam ever, even in the calmest weather, playing round their

feet, and flying over their heads. On clear days the waves may be seen

leaping up the slender shaft of the Bishop Lighthouse, more than five

miles away.

On the south there is the illimitable ocean; and as the east side is

reached there come into sight, first the rocky head of Peninnis, and

then the curve of Porth Cressa, overlooked by Buzza Hill and the

ruined windmill that crowns it. A little farther on, and the massive

walls of the Garrison reach their highest, and are draped and

curtained with mesembryanthemum; while beneath their shelter there are

orchards full of fruit-trees, carpeted with daffodils; and one can see

the columns of blue smoke rising from the chimneys of Hugh Town, which

lies below.

In making the circuit of the hill we have kept our eyes fixed seaward

all the way; but if we turn towards the hill itself we see that almost

everywhere it is afire with gorse: and sorely it tempts me to tell

again the oft-told tale of Linnæus and Putney Hill!

The gorse is one of the great glories of the islands; it grows on

almost every open down, and on the slope of almost every hill. On a

calm summer’s day, when the hot sun brings out the sweet and heavy

odour, and the drowsy hum of myriads of bees, garnering their store

from the golden blossoms, mingles with the gentle lapping of the sea

upon the shore, then Scilly becomes a veritable land of the

lotos-eaters, and one feels content to do no more than lie upon a

slope of springy heather, and “watch the crisping ripples on the

beach, and tender curving lines of creamy spray.”

It is only since the latter part of the sixteenth century that Hugh

Town has become the capital of the islands. Before that time there was

another town whose houses clustered round the Castle of Ennor, a mile

away from the present capital. The village that now remains is known

as Old Town, and the bay on which it stands as Old Town Bay.

There is a tradition that when Old Town was the chief town of St.

Mary’s, and when the chief landing-place of the island was in this

bay, the monks levied a toll on all persons landing, and a chain was

stretched across from Tolman Head to bar their entrance until the toll

had been paid.

Great complaints were made to Richard, Earl of Cornwall, of the burden

of this charge, which was levied even on priests and pilgrims, and on

every fisherman when he came in with his catch. In answer to these

complaints the Earl came himself, disguised as a pilgrim; and being

refused entrance, he leaped over the chain, and in the heat of his

anger struck the Prior who had thwarted him a mortal blow. The old

priest with his last breath called down vengeance on his murderer, and

to this curse was attributed the gradual decay of Old Town and its

castle.

A portion of the old church near Old Town is still standing, but it

now serves chiefly as a mortuary chapel. It dates from very early

times, for there is a Norman arch at one end; and it was used,

although sadly in want of repair, until a new church was built in Hugh

Town in 1838. This little churchyard by the blue waters of Old Town

Bay is still the burial-ground of St. Mary’s, and contains sad

memorials of many wrecks. The graves are overshadowed by dracæna

palm-trees, and round them grow aloes and euonymus-shrubs, all symbols

by their evergreenness of the immortality of the soul; while the

elm-trees which look so dead and lifeless now, but which will soon

burst into fresh life at the touch of Spring, remind us of the old

story which is ever new, and speak to us of the hope of resurrection.

Of the Castle of Ennor, which was built probably by the Earls of

Cornwall under the Norman kings, and where, as we know, Ranulph de

Blankminster lived six hundred years ago, scarce one stone is left

upon another. From Hugh Town one comes to all that is left of it by a

road bordered (as most roads are in Scilly) by flower-fields on the

right and on the left; past masses of fragrant wallflowers and beds of

sweet violets, until the curve of Old Town Bay is reached, with the

houses of Old Town grouped together at its farther end.

The Castle Rocks rise steeply from the midst of the houses, and up

them one must clamber. There is nothing whatever to show what was the

original way of entrance into the fortress, but probably it was on the

east side, where the ground slopes up more gently. On the north and

west the approach would be impossible, for there a mass of solid

granite rises boldly from the plain below.

When Leland visited the islands, somewhere about 1539, this castle was

a “moderately strong pile,” but it is said that many of the stones

were carried away for the building of Star Castle, later in the same

century. Now the pile of rocks, and the slopes leading up to the

rocks, are all covered with vegetation, beds of narcissi and

daffodils, sheltered by veronica hedges, and large patches of

carnations, not yet in flower; while mesembryanthemum ramps all over

the place, covering nearly every bit of wall and uncultivated ground,

and pouring itself down in thick cascades of green from the topmost

summit of the Castle Rocks.

From half-way up can be seen, spread out beneath, field upon field of

yellow daffodils, stretching away across the island almost as far as

to Porth Mellin; and beyond the streak of blue sea are the twin hills

of Samson.

It is very quiet and peaceful up here, and yet if one sets oneself to

listen, numberless sounds may be heard, so many that it is difficult

to disentangle them.

There is the gentle plash of the waves on the sands of Old Town Bay

behind; the shrill cry of the gulls, sounding for all the world like

the clamour of children let loose from school; the distant panting

of the fussy little motor-boat which takes the trawlers out to sea;

the lowing of cattle in the neighbouring farmyard, with pigs and

poultry joining in the chorus; the twitter and rustle of birds in the

veronica hedge; the liquid love-song of a thrush as he puts the

important question, ”_Will_ you, _will_ you, _will_ you?” and answers

it himself with a sudden change of note, “She _will_, she _will_, she

_will_.” And lying beneath and all around all other sounds are the

myriad gentle murmurs of the Spring, that wondrous stirring and

pulsation of life which can be felt but cannot be defined. And now a

human note breaks in upon the rest. From a cottage near by there rises

the song of a little girl, mingling with the clatter of cups and

saucers as she washes up the breakfast-things, because mother is busy

in the tying-shed.

“With smiles of peace and looks of love

Light in our dwellings we may make,”

shrills the childish voice; and so on through every verse to the end,

till she finishes with a quaintly quavering and long-drawn-out,

“A-a-amen.”

[Illustration: PICKING FLOWERS BY THE CASTLE ROCKS]

There is a very human legend which connects this old Castle with the

convent that is said to have stood in Holy Vale.

The story runs that the Earl of Cornwall once had a young and

beautiful ward, whom he kept shut up in the Castle of Ennor in charge

of an ancient duenna. No one knew who the lovely girl was, but she was

thought to be of noble birth.

There was a page in attendance at the Castle; and it is not to be

wondered at if the hearts of this young pair, isolated as they were

from others of their age and station, were drawn together by a mutual

attraction.

Signs of this did not escape the lynx-eyes of the ancient dame, and

she straightway sent a message to the Earl in Cornwall by the hands of

the page, who little knew that he was the bearer of that which sealed

his own fate and that of her he loved. He was detained on the

mainland, and made an esquire in the Earl’s following, while she was

ordered to be sent at once to the convent of Holy Vale.

She remained sad and silent during the year of her novitiate, taking

interest in nothing except the tending of a rose-bush, which she made

her special care. When the time came for her to take the vows, she

mysteriously disappeared from the chapel where she was keeping

midnight vigil, and was seen no more until, many years later, she was

found in that same chapel, lying dead before the altar, with no sign

of age upon her pure face, and with a cluster of roses in her bosom.

Her lover is said to have been killed in battle many years before.

There is still a rose-tree growing up between the stones at Holy Vale,

which the children used to look upon as the bush of Sister Mary.

There are no remains of the convent at Holy Vale, and there is only

tradition to tell us that it ever existed. Whitfeld, writing in 1852,

does indeed speak of the top of a freestone arch which he saw there,

covering the entrance of a pig-sty, and which he supposes to have been

a relic of the ancient monastic buildings. It is a beautiful sheltered

spot, the most sheltered in the island, hidden away in a hollow, and

surrounded by tall trees. Two farm-houses lie close together in the

valley, near to a pond of fresh water under the trees; and on every

side there are the fields of flowers, now the chief produce of the

farms.

One of the pioneers of the flower industry, Mr. Mumford, used to live

at Holy Vale.

The other, Mr. William Trevellick, lived at Rocky Hill on St. Mary’s

until his death, in 1910, and was always ready to show his beautiful

gardens to any one who wished to see them. Rows of palm-trees grow

along the hedges at Rocky Hill, and form the boundary lines. “Look

well at this,” Mr. Trevellick used to say. “It is not often that you

will see in the British Isles a field surrounded by palm-trees.” He

dearly loved his garden, and spent most of his time there. The robins

knew him so well that even in summer-time at his call of “Dick, Dick”

they would come and eat from his hand the food he kept ready for them

in his capacious pockets.

Mr. Trevellick was also keenly interested in antiquities, and had

collected at Rocky Hill a number of relics of the past of every

description--ancient stone querns, quaint gaily-coloured figureheads

from wrecks, Parliamentary cannon-balls, and a Druid trysting-stone,

through the hole in which lovers used to clasp their hands when they

plighted their troth. This last is in two halves, both of which had

been built into a stone hedge; the second half was not discovered till

many years after the first, and if you know anything of antiquarians,

you can picture the joy with which its discovery was hailed! It was a

day’s work to pull down the stone hedge, to secure the treasure, and

then to build the wall up as before.

It was always a matter of great interest to Mr. Trevellick that an

old Roman road runs through the Rocky Hill gardens, the large, evenly

laid paving-stones showing very few signs of their age.

St. Mary’s Island is supposed to be nine miles round, but I would defy

any one to restrict his first walk round it to nine miles. One is sure

to be decoyed into many a By-path Meadow--but not of the kind in which

there lurks a Giant Despair!

For beauty-spots are to be found in such plenty on St. Mary’s that it

would be impossible to name them all. I have already spoken of the

gorse-covered Garrison Hill, which is itself a little nest of

beauty-spots. So in its way is Peninnis, “head of the island,” that

wild and rugged peninsula which juts out between Porth Cressa and the

Old Town Bay, and is sometimes thought to be the most beautiful part

of St. Mary’s. It is strewn and scattered all along its coast with

rocks and boulders of immense size, and of endless variety of form. I

have already referred to two of these, which go by the names of the

Pulpit and the Tooth. Close to the Tooth, on the head of Peninnis,

there rises from the sea a huge rock, which is known as the Monk’s

Cowl, from the fancied resemblance of the summit to a hooded head.

From this point there is one of the finest views of the many-coloured

rocks, covered here and there with shaggy grey-green lichen, standing

boldly out of the sea or tumbled about in every direction, and with

the little island of St. Agnes bordering the horizon. During a big

storm the waves will dash right over the top of the Monk’s Cowl, and

will swish along the top of the down behind it, before retreating in

cascades of foam.

Not far away, hidden amongst a mass of other rocks, is the largest

logan-stone in Scilly, which is estimated to weigh 313-1/2 tons. It is

at least 15 feet high, and forms one side of a cavity, known as

“Sleep’s Abode.” It can easily be rocked by two or three persons

together, but was only discovered to be a logan-stone in 1893, when a

man who was leaning against it in a high gale, felt it moving gently

to and fro beneath him.

A small iron lighthouse has recently been erected on Peninnis, to take

the place of the St. Agnes Tower, which has been declared

superannuated.

The rugged coast-line of Peninnis may be followed, past the Pulpit

Rock, to where the ground slopes down towards the Old Town Bay, on the

shores of which will be seen the old church, partly hidden in

palm-trees.

There are many other spots on St. Mary’s which are well worth a

visit. There is the beautiful, peaceful bay known as Porth Hellick,

almost closed across its mouth by a reef of rocks, so that when the

sea is raging without it may be quite calm in the bay. But peaceful as

it looks, it has now and again seen some sad sights.

[Illustration: MONK’S COWL ROCK, ST. MARY’S]

It was here that the body of Sir Cloudesley Shovel was washed up, and

found, but not recognised, by a soldier and his wife, who gave the

great Admiral a nameless grave in the sand of the seashore. Later the

body was dug up, and identified by means of a ring on one finger; and

now it is buried, as all the world knows, in Westminster Abbey. But it

is said that the hollow in the sand would never fill up, and the grass

would never grow again over the place where the grave had been. Within

recent years two blocks of quartz have been placed to mark the spot.

There was another remarkable happening at Porth Hellick in 1840. A

vessel was found on the rocks, bottom upwards, by some farmers

gathering seaweed for manure. One of them thrust his hand into a hole

in her side, and was terrified to feel it grasped from within. This

capsized vessel had entombed four men for three days and nights! They

were crouched close together under the keel, with the water up to

their waists. They had tried to cut a hole in the hull for the sake

of getting air, but fortunately their knife broke, for the confined

air alone prevented the vessel from sinking altogether.

Some pilot-boats had taken her in tow the previous afternoon, and

brought her in towards the islands; but having no suspicion that she

bore a living freight, they had abandoned her on account of bad

weather.

Porth Hellick may be reached from Old Town over Sallakee Downs,

following the line of the wild and rocky coast, and then past Giant’s

Castle, the ruined remains of one of those ancient “cliff-castles,”

such as are common on the Cornish coast.

The beautiful bay with its sandy beach comes upon one with quite a

surprise, when first from the top of the downs its shimmering blue

waters are seen.

Or it may be approached another way, through the undulating

flower-fields of Sallakee Farm, past the whitewashed farm-house and

its gnarled pollard elm-trees, and along a narrow lane whose hedges in

summer are sweet with honeysuckle and pink with campion. This lane

will bring one right out on the low grassy moorland which borders the

bay.

Porth Hellick is the mouth of a valley which cuts into the island at

this point, and in which lies the pond of the Upper Moors, the largest

expanse of fresh water on St. Mary’s, surrounded by marshy ground

grown with reeds, and the home of many water-fowl.

Overhanging the bay there is a fine carn of rocks, known as Dick’s

Carn, also called “The Loaded Camel,” from its shape.

The rocky ramparts of the isle begin again immediately beyond the bay,

with a wild confusion of mighty boulders, trembling on the brink of

precipices, or poised upon the grassy slope, as if ready at any moment

to crash into the seething waters. Here one may listen to the booming

of Nature’s guns, as the sea thuds into the caverns it has hollowed

out for itself.

And then, farther to the north, there is Toll’s Island, in Pelistry

Bay, at low water joined to the main island, like the Gugh of St.

Agnes, by a narrow strip of white sand, which is covered at high tide

by the waves. Here, if one is young enough for such employ, one may

build on the sand Hugh Towns in miniature, with Toll’s Island to

represent Garrison Hill, and then watch the waves creeping, creeping

slowly up on either side until they meet and embrace, and mingle and

merge into one even flow over the ruins of the sand-houses. Or one may

seek for shells on the sandy strip, and small as is the hunting-ground

the variety is infinite--deep golden yellow, coral-pink, purple, and

blue. There are remains of an old battery on the island, “Pellew’s

Redoubt,” so called after the captain who commanded in Scilly during

the last French War.

Here, as everywhere, there are flowers. The daffodil-fields run down

close to the sea, and the little lane leading to Toll’s Island blazes

with gorse on either side, so that the blue waters of the bay are seen

set in a frame of gold.

Watermill Bay is another beauty-spot, with no watermill, but only a

tiny stream trickling down to the sea, through the midst of bracken

and bramble.

I must not try to describe it all, or I would tell of the lovely walk

along the west coast of St. Mary’s, where the golf-links are, whence

one can look back on Hugh Town, which from here seems to be a slender

thread linking Garrison Hill with the main island.

And I would tell you, if I could, of the gorgeous, indescribable

sunsets, which turn sea and sky into flaming fire, and cast a magic

glow over the land, bewitching and glorifying even commonplace

things, and making each little distant island a fairy palace of

enchantment, to which one longs to sail.

But long, long before it could be reached the illusion would have

faded, the sun would have set, and no enchanted palace would be found,

but only a barren rock set in a dangerous sea, with the darkness

gathering around.

X

TRESCO

In old days the island of Tresco was singled out from all the others

to be the site of a monastery and its accompanying church, and on this

account it acquired a reputation differing from, if not greater than,

that of the other islands.

Nearly three hundred years after the departure of the monks, Tresco

was again singled out from all the others, this time by Mr. Augustus

Smith, the Governor, who made his home there, building a house near

the ruins of the old abbey church, and planting round it the gardens

which have since become famous far and wide.

Two determining factors were probably common to both decisions--the

central and sheltered position of the island, and the abundant supply

of fresh water in the large “Abbey” Pond and its smaller neighbour.

Of the Abbey of St. Nicholas, built by the Benedictine monks of

Tavistock, no signs are to be seen. Only two pointed arches of

reddish stone and about 25 feet of granite wall are left to show us

where the abbey church once stood; the monastery itself has entirely

disappeared. In point of decoration, these arches are so very plain

that it is not easy to date them; but, judging from their proportion,

we cannot be far wrong in assuming that they were built during the

fourteenth century. At that period the abbey must have reached the

zenith of its prosperity, declining again to what Leland calls “a poor

celle of monks” before the dissolution of the monasteries.

The church is thought to have been burnt down--perhaps by Cromwell’s

forces in the Civil War. Towards the end of the eighteenth century a

large piece of a bombshell and some charred timber were found amongst

some stones and rubbish at the west end of the ruins, by a man who was

clearing the ground to make more room for burying the dead; and

cannon-balls have been dug up near by in the gardens from time to

time.

As late as 1820 the people of Tresco were still burying their dead by

the ivy-covered ruins of the old church, with the idea that its great

age gave the neighbouring ground a greater sanctity than the

churchyard of their parish church. Troutbeck tells us that in his time

the earth upon the old flagstones of the floor was sufficient in

depth to dig a reasonable grave.

Flowers now run riot round the tombstones--agapanthus, blue and white;

hydrangeas bearing pink and blue blossoms on the same bush; and the

sweet-smelling lily-of-the-valley: cluster-roses try to bury once more

with their petals the already buried dead, or thrust out their

branches and tender young shoots to creep beneath the covering slab,

forcing it up by slow degrees, as if they would anticipate the general

resurrection.

The gardens which surround the old ruins contain all manner of rare

tropical plants, shrubs, and trees, which in this warm corner only of

the British Isles will consent to grow and flourish out of doors. I

cannot attempt by any description to do justice to these marvels of

the vegetable world. The botanist who can recognise at sight a

podocarpus andina or a pittisporum tobia will here find himself in

paradise; but to the uninitiated the homelier and more familiar

growths are more attractive--the blazing masses of rhododendrons and

azaleas, the sheets of narcissi under shadowing palm-trees, the tall

hydrangeas and camellias, fuchsias and myrtles that border the paths.

And what no one can fail to appreciate is the situation of the

gardens, which rise in terraces from very little above the sea-level

up to the height of 100 feet. As you mount to the upper terraces and

look back, you will catch sight of the sea, through and beyond the

masses of flower and leaf; and from the very top you will see spread

out beneath you the surrounding islands, showing pearly grey-green or

with a tender warmth of colour against the sea, and each with its

little rim of white sand at low tide, except where the rocks run down

to the water’s edge.

We have come to stay on Tresco, and have landed at the pier beneath

Carn Near, with almost as large a boat-load of people as the dinghy of

the launch will hold. We have to go and look for lodgings, so we soon

part company from the rest, who turn off to the right for the Abbey

Gardens, while we keep to the left. We have been recommended to stay

at the “Canteen,” in other words, the “New Inn,” but it is enough to

call it _the_ Inn, for Tresco boasts no other; and this one combines

the advantages of a general shop as well.

It is about a mile’s walk to the Inn--a lovely walk by the sea, and

one that we know well, but cannot know too well. It takes us first

over sandy downs, covered with long grass, and a little farther on

with sheets of the mesembryanthemum edule, whose mass of fleshy green

spikes will soon be spangled with large pale yellow blossoms. In the

autumn the air is full of a sweet and rather sickly smell (something

like American apples) given out by the Hottentot fig, which is the

sequel to the yellow blossom. As the fruit ripens, the green spikes

around it turn to flaming orange and crimson, so that the plant seems

almost to have burst again into bloom. The soft and creamy-coloured

fruit, which will readily shell out from its enclosing green case, is

in shape very like the sycamore fig. It contains a mass of brown

seeds, like the seeds of a fig, held in a thick, sweet, transparent

juice.

I may say of it, as Mark Twain said of the tamarinds of Honolulu, that

only strangers eat it, and they only eat it once! I always like to

speak from experience where possible, so I played the stranger’s part

and tasted the sticky mess, but I cannot honestly recommend it!

Our path still follows the coast-line; and soon Cromwell’s Castle

comes into view in the distance, and plays bo-peep with us round the

headlands for the rest of the way. This old fortress in its beautiful

setting seems to have the art of always looking its best. Whether it

shows up pearly white in the distance against the blue of sea and sky,

or grey-brown in the diffused light of a cloudy day; touched with warm

glow by the sunset, or stern and gloomy beneath the thunder-cloud;

whether one catches sight of it from above or below, from sea or

shore, from Tresco or Bryher, from north, south, east, or west, it

always has the same indefinable attraction.

Presently we see before us the harbour of New Grimsby, with houses

built round the bay, on the shores of which the Parliamentary forces

encamped in 1665. The large fresh-water pond a little farther inland

is known as the Abbey Pond. Those old monks might always be trusted to

settle near a good supply of water, and the eels and tench it

contained would not be despised by them. The reeds which grow round

this pond are used by Tresconians for making very high fences to

protect their flower-fields from the wind--very like the fences of

African villages, so that one could almost imagine Kaffir kraals

instead of flowers to be hidden behind them.

The skeleton of an old derelict still hangs together on the shore of

the bay. She was a coal-schooner, carrying a cargo of furnace-coal,

and was dismasted outside the islands one New Year’s Day about

eighteen years ago. The crew were at breakfast when she came to grief,

but they hurriedly left their tinned meat and coffee (left also, I

regret to say, their dog, which was found on the wreck), took to

their small boat, and were picked up by a passing vessel. The derelict

was found by men of Bryher, and was afterwards towed into New Grimsby

Harbour. Thither came her captain to examine her, but he found her not

worth repairing, and sold her as she stood to the Governor. Now her

cargo has been used up, and she herself has contributed to the making

of fences, etc., and is pretty nearly used up too.

But we are a long time getting to our inn; and when we do at last

arrive it is only to find that every room is occupied. Until yesterday

they were without visitors, but a recent influx of two ladies has been

sufficient to fill all their available space! So we are fain to seek

elsewhere.

And it requires some search, for the flower-season is not the best

time for getting rooms on the off-islands. Space, as well as time, is

much occupied with the flowers; and sometimes every downstairs room is

stocked with pots and basins, jars and bottles, full of daffodils and

narcissi, while the ordinary furniture is pushed just anywhere to get

it out of the way.

We are beginning to lose hope. Every one is very kind, but “no space,”

“no time,” or “no food” is always the difficulty. (Provisions, as a

rule, are obtained weekly from Penzance.)

Must we retrace our steps to the little post-office, and ignominiously

wire to the launch to come and fetch us and our baggage back again to

St. Mary’s? But no; at last, in a little four-roomed thatched cottage

at the farthest extremity from the beginning of our search, we find a

refuge.

We are now on the east side of Tresco, on the shores of “Old Grimsby,”

which is almost opposite the harbour of New Grimsby on the west side.

From the windows of the little cottage there is a lovely view across

the bay. On the headland which shuts it in on the south there are the

ruins of an old fortress, called by Troutbeck “The Block-house”; in

the distance is St. Martin’s Isle, with other smaller islets--mere

barren rocks--dotting the intervening sea. I know not when the view is

lovelier--when the fortress stands out dark against a rosy dawn, or

when it glows red in the shafts of the setting sun.

All round this part of Tresco, on the waste lands, and at the edges of

the sea, grow great bushes of the tree-mallow, or lavatera arborea,

covered in summer with purple and mauve blossoms. (Is it as bad to

talk of a “mauve mallow” as of a “pink pink” or a “violet violet”?)

When the seed-vessels are formed the rats will run up the woody stems,

and eat the green “cheeses,” as we used to call them as children. It

is a pity all their tastes are not as innocent, for they are a menace

to the young chickens, besides stealing eggs and robbing potato-sacks

when they can. But I do not think there are any rats nowadays so

voracious as those that Leland describes on Rat Island--rats that

would think nothing of eating a live horse!

Here also are fringes of tamarisk, and other low trees, along the

shore. St. Martin’s men come over in boats and cut off the branches

for making crab and lobster-pots--“trimming our trees for us,” as the

Tresconians put it.

Of course every cottager has his patch of flowers. One may see the cut

blossoms, in pots and bottles, set outside the cottage doors, or in

the windows, to open in the sunshine, before being sent to “England.”

The Tresco flower-fields are, perhaps, on the whole, less picturesque

than those on the other islands, on account of the careful way in

which they are protected from winds and storms; but you may find many

a cluster of narcissi of Nature’s own planting, wayward ones that have

preferred to choose their own shelter in the lee of a pile of grey

rocks jutting out into the sea, or hidden in a little copse of trees

by the shore--trees slender of girth and small of stature, and

destined, like Peter Pan, never to grow up.

[Illustration: GIMBLE BAY, TRESCO]

The northern part of Tresco is wild and rocky and uncultivated, with

bare brown downs stretching across from shore to shore.

On the east, where these downs slope more gently towards the sea,

there is the beautiful Gimble Bay, facing towards the islands of

Menavawr, Round Island, St. Helen’s, and Norwethel; and lying just

outside the bay is the long reef known as Golden Ball Bar, over which

the waves are ever breaking in flying foam and with the sound of

thunder.

On the north the downs end abruptly in a steep and rock-bound coast.

Here is a wonderful cavern known as “Piper’s Hole,” which penetrates

inland for a distance of above two hundred feet.

To enter it one has first to descend an iron ladder fixed to the rock,

and then to clamber, bent double, along a dark passage, over large

stone boulders, worn smooth by the action of the waves. At length the

passage opens out into a cavern thirty-four feet high--plenty of room

to stand upright now! Here there is a large pool of fresh water, on

which a boat is kept during the summer, so that one can be ferried

across it and land on the smooth beach of white sand at the far end of

the cave.

It used to be said that this Piper’s Hole communicated by a passage

under the sea with the small and insignificant cave of the same name

on St. Mary’s; that men had entered there and never returned; but that

dogs had successfully accomplished the journey, and had reappeared

safely at Tresco, at the expense of most of their hair!

There are several other caves along the north coast of Tresco, but

none so large as Piper’s Hole.

On the western edge of the downs there are the scanty ruins of

Charles’s Castle, which is probably the one described by Leland as “a

lytle pyle or fortres.”

As we stand by the ruins and look down we can see below us, on a ledge

of rocks jutting out into the sea, our old friend Cromwell’s Castle--a

strong little tower, with walls twelve feet thick. The flooring and

other woodwork of the interior has mostly disappeared, and what

remains is green with damp; but the outer walls are just as strong as

ever. The flat bomb-proof roof, once armed with a battery, is now

overgrown with grass and brambles.

Beyond the Castle, in the midst of New Grimsby Sound, is a pile of

rock known as Hangman’s Island, because the Republican officers hanged

a batch of mutinous soldiers there. The path from Cromwell’s Castle

southwards to New Grimsby lies close to the sea, parting a tangle of

bracken and bramble; and there in the autumn may be found the finest

blackberries that grow in the islands.

The sands on the east coast of Tresco, between the Block House and

Skirt Point, are famous for their shells, especially for

“guinea-moneys”--pretty little shells of the cowry shape, which are

much sought after by Scillonians for making into necklaces. They are

found in considerable numbers along this shore, but are nowhere so

plentiful as not to require a careful search.

XI

BRYHER AND SAMSON

Bryher, with its five hills, is one of the prettiest of the islands.

All Scillonians will tell you so, even those (and there are some) who

have to confess that they have never been there!

There are about ninety inhabitants, of whom the greater number live in

Bryher “town,” as they will tell you it is called, with a

half-apologetic smile at the importance of the name.

“You won’t find this like Hugh Town,” says, with a twinkle in his eye,

the boatman who has brought me across, as he carries my luggage up the

steep little street. “You’ll find it pretty dark when you come home

from the theayter at night.”

There are only two houses in which one can stay on Bryher, and they

stand side by side at the top of the hill. From their windows there is

a fascinating view of the Outer Islands, peaked and jagged barren

rocks, standing out of the water, black and threatening; Maiden Bower,

Seal Rock, Illiswilgig, Castle Bryher, and the rest.

At the northern end of Bryher is Shipman Head, a huge mass of rock,

100 feet high, the home of many sea-birds, and separated from the main

island only by a narrow chasm, through which the sea whirls and eddies

with great force. It is possible to jump across this chasm from Bryher

on to a rock on Shipman Head at a slightly lower level; but it is not

advisable to make the leap unless you do not wish to return, for

jumping back again is quite another question!

In this part of the island is Hell Bay, so called from the terrific

force of the sea during a high wind, and the many wrecks which have

been washed ashore there. Most of these have struck on Scilly Rock,

from which the whole group takes its name. This mighty mass of granite

lies off to the west, nearly a mile outside Hell Bay. It is divided in

two by a narrow channel, through which, in very calm weather, a small

boat can be made to shoot.

It was here that the huge Atlantic liner, the “Minnehaha,” of 13,400

tonnage, struck in April, 1910, as already described.

Some years ago two vessels struck there in one night. The first of

these was a sailing-ship on her first voyage, carrying a cargo of rice

and manned by a black crew, all of whom were saved by boats from

Bryher. Being new, she did not quickly break up, and the light

burning on her mast misled another and smaller vessel, and drew her to

her destruction. Her cargo consisted of cocoanuts, thousands of which

were washed up in Hell Bay and on the shores of Tresco, and were

gathered into heaps to be sent to the mainland.

Yet another time a cotton-ship was wrecked, and Hell Bay was full of

iron-bound bales of cotton.

It is a magnificent and awesome sight to watch the waves breaking in

Hell Bay during rough weather. They mount with a mighty roar almost to

the top of Shipman Head, flinging their spray high into the air, and

falling back in foaming cataracts, only to renew their onslaught with

still greater force.

This is the wildest and most barren part of Bryher. Farther south the

hill-slopes are cultivated, and are sheeted with flowers in the

spring, while their summits are crowned with gorse.

Until last year the “oldest inhabitant” of the islands lived on

Bryher. She had reached the great age of ninety-six, but she carried

well her weight of years. She was known as “Aunt Charlotte,” for on

the off-islands they still follow more or less the custom noticed by

Heath, of using “Aunt” and “Uncle” as nicknames, on account of the

scarcity of surnames. And her son-in-law with whom she lived is “Uncle

Sampy,” named after the neighbouring island of Samson.

Aunt Charlotte could well remember the kelping days, but even the

mists of seventy years had no power to cast a glamour over them.

There is excitement on Bryher just now, for an itinerant draper’s shop

has arrived in a barge, towed by the steam-launch. The draper has

spread out his goods in Uncle Sampy’s flower-house, and every one is

flocking to take the rare chance of doing some shopping. The

glass-house is soon nearly as full (for its size) as a London shop at

sale-time; and it is almost as gay as when it was stacked with

flowers.

But instead of tiers of narcissi and daffodils, under the vine-leaves

and climbing-roses, there are rolls of white calico and scarlet

flannel; straw hats of every colour of the rainbow, gay blouses, and a

good display of toys for the children. To St. Mary’s, St. Martin’s,

and Bryher this floating shop is taken about three times in the year.

On rocky little St. Agnes the draper dare not try to land, for fear of

the risk of spoiling his goods, and Tresco is forbidden ground.

I shall not soon forget returning from Bryher one very stormy morning

in a sailing-boat, sunk almost to the gunwale, for in addition to her

load of flower-boxes, she carried a dead bullock, resolved into its

component parts ready for sale on St. Mary’s--which resolution had

taken place in my landlady’s kitchen the previous evening. As the boat

tacked the cargo shifted from side to side, and parts of my

fellow-passenger, sewn up in sacking, kept threatening to roll on the

top of me. The waves dashed continually over the sides, and in spite

of the oilskins with which the sailors covered me, I was drenched

before I reached Hugh Town.

I have also vivid remembrances of the toughness of my fellow-passenger

when I had a piece of him for dinner that evening.

The island of Samson, with its two conical hills, makes a good mark

for seamen. It was formerly inhabited, but by 1855 the late Governor

had by degrees removed to St. Martin’s and St. Mary’s the few families

whom he found living there. Some of them objected strongly to being

moved, and one old man barricaded himself in his cottage, and vowed he

would shoot any one who interfered with him. But he had to go in the

end.

Various reasons are given for this action on the part of the Governor.

It is said that the inhabitants were quarrelling amongst themselves,

and were better separated; that the younger men having left the

island, those who remained were getting too old to manage the boats

and make a living; also, that there being no school on Samson, the

children could not be properly educated.

[Illustration: ARMOREL’S COTTAGE]

To-day the principal inhabitants are black rabbits; but the ruins of

several houses may still be seen. One of them is known as “Armorel’s

Cottage,” after the heroine of Sir Walter Besant’s novel, _Armorel of

Lyonnesse_. It stands, a mere shell, roofless and crumbling, at the

foot of the southern hill. Bracken and bramble have encroached on all

sides, within and without, blocking up the doorway and leaving no

traces of a floor. An elder and a tamarisk alone show where the

cottage-garden used to be.

It is a pretty spot for a home, on the edge of the narrow plain which

connects Samson’s two hills, with a full sight of the sea and of the

neighbouring islands on the right and on the left. Now the ground is

covered with wild violets and the air is heavy with the scent of the

gorse; later, when summer comes, tall foxgloves will rise in

battalions from the midst of the fresh green bracken, which as yet

shows nothing but tiny tender spirals above the dark earth.

It is over twenty years since Besant’s book was written, but still you

may see new-comers to Scilly clasping each his copy of _Armorel_. The

original of “Peter the boy” is still living on St. Mary’s, and is

still known as Peter, though that is not his real name. Still he

answers to Besant’s description, looking no older, probably, than

twenty years ago. He had a terrible blow on the head from the crane of

a steamer, which knocked him insensible, and after that all his hair

fell out, and never would grow again. But the accident had one happy

result: he had been subject to fits, and this blow on the head worked

a complete cure! It is such a simple though drastic remedy, that all

doctors and surgeons ought to know of it!

The “girl” who is credited with having been the original of Armorel,

for the sole reason that she was the last girl to live on Samson, was

married and in the North of England long before Besant came to Scilly.

With most unreasonable annoyance, she declared she would scratch his

eyes out if ever she met him, thus proving that she had no resemblance

in character to the Armorel of fiction. As for “Peter,” he was “noways

particular,” to use his own expression.

Not far from Armorel’s Cottage there are the ruins of an ancient

building, which is supposed to have been a church; but as to when and

how it was built, and to whom dedicated, who can tell?

XII

ST. AGNES

If you want to visit the little island of St. Agnes, you had better

choose a fairly calm day, for the coast is so rocky that in rough

weather it is not easy to land.

There are two ways of getting there from St. Mary’s: either in your

own hired sailing-boat, when you can choose your own time; or else you

can be “delivered with the mails” by the steam-launch, in which case

you must be ready for starting soon after the arrival of the steamer

from Penzance. Very energetic people can also go in the launch when

she fetches the mails, leaving St. Mary’s at 6.30 in the morning.

The launch is naturally more independent of the weather than the

sailing-boats, but even she has been known to come to grief in a high

gale, and has been ignominiously towed in by a trawler; and if you do

venture out in her when there is a lot of sea on, she may take up or

land her mails and yet refuse to run the risk of landing _you_. Mails

can be thrown, but you cannot; and her dinghy does not long keep its

coat of royal blue paint amongst the rocks around St. Agnes.

The whole past history of this island is one of a series of

shipwrecks; and we cannot wonder at this when we see the gaunt and

grim monsters that lie in wait for storm-driven or befogged vessels to

the west and south-west. The very names of some of them are

significant: Hellweathers, Old Wreck Ledge, Tearing Ledge, and the

Crim Rocks (I am told that “crim” in Cornish means a creeping,

trembling, shuddering feeling, as from fear).

But who would ever expect to be wrecked on islets bearing the innocent

names of Daisy and Great and Little Rose? And yet these rocks have

also had their toll of human lives; in fact, there is scarcely one but

serves as tombstone to some poor fellow--a tombstone which has brought

him to the grave it marks.

Heath makes a quaint comment on the frequency of wrecks near this

island; “which,” says he, “makes the Inhabitants of it some Amends for

their Forlornness of Abode.”

There are stories that in the old days the islanders recognised so

keenly the value of this “Amends” that they would drop propitiatory

pins down St. Warna’s Well, praying to her to “send a wreck before

morning.” This Saint, who is said to have come all the way from

Ireland in a coracle of wicker and hides, was supposed to be

instrumental in sending the wrecks, and generally to preside over and

direct the good fortune of the islanders. She seems a much more

suitable patron-saint for the stormy little island than the meek St.

Agnes with her lamb. But how came this bold, adventurous dame to be

accredited with such a weakness for pins?

There are stories still more sinister: of ships lured to their

destruction by false lights; of a lantern tied between the horns of a

cow to lead mariners astray by its wandering gleam; and of other

devices of the devotees of St. Warna, who evidently believed in the

maxim of Æschylus, that the gods help those who help themselves. But

whatever strange and wild doings there may have been in the past,

nowadays none are more ready than the men of St. Agnes to risk their

own lives in endeavouring to save others.

They have a life-boat of their own, which is launched from a slip just

below the church--a slip which they claim to be the longest in the

world!

The lighthouse is much the oldest in the islands, and one of the

oldest in the British Isles, having been built in 1680. For more than

two centuries it formed a guiding-star by night, but at first it was

lighted merely by a coal-fire, which was sometimes allowed to go out.

In 1790 oil-lamps and reflectors were fixed, which supplied a

brilliant light. But recently it was found to be in need of much

repair, so it has been placed on the “retired list,” and its work of

warning and guidance is now given over to the new tower erected on

Peninnis.

In past times the inhabitants of St. Agnes were frequently cut off

from all communication with the outer world for weeks together, and

had to depend very much on their own resources. They had to grind

their own corn with round stone hand-mills, or “querns,” and often

they ran short of bread altogether, and had to make up with potatoes.

They had no fuel but the dried bracken, fetched in boat-loads from the

neighbouring isle of Annet unless a chance wreck provided them with

firewood; and fish-oil and seal-oil, prepared by themselves, were all

they had for artificial light. One old lady still speaks feelingly of

the privations of her early days. “I never could abide potatoes for

breakfast,” she says, “but there was often nothing else to be had.”

The seals’ blubber for candles was boiled down out of doors, for the

smell was too abominable to have in the houses. Seals weighing six or

seven hundredweight and “nearly as big as bullocks” have been

caught round the islands. Nowadays any that are caught are sold to the

Governor at 5s. a head, large and small alike.

[Illustration: A FLOWER-HOUSE ON ST. AGNES]

Early potatoes are still grown on St. Agnes for export, and now a good

deal of business is also done with the flowers.

As the launch draws near the landing-place in Perconger during the

flower-season, you may see a long string of carts and barrows

following each other down the hill to the sea-shore. These contain the

wooden boxes of flowers which are to be loaded on the barge and towed

back to St. Mary’s ready for the next day’s steamer.

We found very comfortable quarters on the island with the wife of the

pilot’s son who so distinguished himself when the “T. W. Lawson” was

wrecked, as described in another chapter. The accompanying

illustration shows their little three-year-old girl trying to help her

parents in the tying-house.

The very names on St. Agnes seem to be suggestive of the wild and

rocky character of the island--names such as Camperdizl Point,

Campergurling, and the Carns of Kestillier.

And is not Wingletang Down a picturesque and suggestive name?

A heather-clad stretch of open down, dotted with bushes of “whin,” or

gorse, and with a fringe of “tang,” or seaweed, washed up all round

it; great boulders of granite strewn over its surface, and bare

patches of the living rock showing here and there through the

soil--that is Wingletang Down, in the middle of which stands the

strange rock called the Giant’s Punch-bowl.

In the sands of the little bay at the edge of the down it is the

custom to search for beads, just as one searches for beads in the

sands of the Egyptian desert. But these are not mummy-beads! only

wreck-salvage from a vessel that was lost over two hundred years ago,

and its wreckage was washed up in what has since been called “Beady

Pool.”

On Wingletang Down one may, perhaps, see large blocks of granite

drilled with rows of holes ready for quarrying. Until recent times the

blocks were severed by driving wooden pegs into these holes, and

wetting them until their swelling forced the stone asunder--just the

same method as was used in ancient Egypt thousands of years ago!

Nowadays slips of steel take the place of the wooden pegs.

The bay on the south of St. Agnes is known as Santa Warna Bay, because

there, according to tradition, the Saint put in, in her little

coracle, on her arrival from Ireland. On its shore is Santa Warna’s

Well, now an insignificant little hole almost choked with dead bracken

and weeds, and half-covered with a flat stone, but once considered the

most important spot in the island. For, formerly, every year on the

day after Twelfth Day, the well was cleaned out by the islanders and

devotion paid to the Saint. This was still done in Heath’s time, and

he says they used “certain superstitious ceremonies in their

thanksgiving, which being ended they make a general feasting and

rejoicing throughout the island.” It was here that, in the old wild

days, the young girls used to come on foggy nights, before going to

bed, and drop pins down the well, chanting--

“Good-night, father; good-night, mother;

Good-night, friends and foes;

God send a ship ashore before morning.”

There is a tradition that the destruction by drowning of the entire

population of St. Agnes, as recorded by Leland in the sixteenth

century, was a judgment on a long course of wrecking.

The little church of St. Agnes stands by Priglis Bay, which is

sometimes called Pericles Bay, and is supposed to be a corruption of

Portus Ecclesiæ. Scillonians have a way of softening the sound of

words; thus Porth is nearly always reduced to Per; so it is easy to

see how Portus Ecclesiæ became Priglis.

Leland says there was a chapel here in his time, from which the island

took its name. This is supposed to have been beaten down by the

Parliamentary forces. It lay in ruins many years, and then, on the

same spot and with the same materials, was built a dwelling-house,

which was washed away by a high tide in 1744. People still living in

1794 could remember having seen the chancel arch of the old church

standing, built of fine freestone, in the same way as the arches in

the ruins of Tresco Abbey church.

Another church was built in 1685, with salvage money received for

saving a French vessel. This fell into decay, and was replaced by the

present building early in the last century.

Just outside the church wall the men of St. Agnes make and stack their

crab-pots. One may sometimes see a mountain of these creels piled up

by the life-boat slip, and a group of men hard at work making more;

others, perhaps, standing by and looking on with their hands in their

pockets; waiting, with the unequalled patience of the fisherman, for

some job to turn up.

Whenever there is a fog in the islands, whether by day or night, you

will hear every five minutes a loud booming roar, like the report of

a gun, sounding across the sea from the south-west. This warning comes

from the Bishop Lighthouse, four and a half miles from St. Agnes, and

is caused by the explosion of “tonite,” a kind of gun-cotton. It

serves to warn off ships when the light is quite hidden in the dense

fogs, which sometimes last for days.

Think what it must be for those men in the lighthouse to have this

roar sounding close to their ears every five minutes for days

together!

The Bishop Lighthouse is the tallest in the world, besides being one

of the most exposed in situation. The first attempt to build a tower

on this rock was made in 1849, but before the building was complete a

heavy sea swept away the wrought-iron rods and columns of which it was

formed.

A masonry tower was next built, and finished in 1859. It was 120 feet

high, but even at this height the sea would actually be breaking over

the lantern for many hours together during a heavy gale; so after a

time the tower was encased with additional masonry, and raised to its

present height of 167 feet. It sways like a tree in the wind during

one of the terrific storms which sometimes beat upon it.

Altogether there are seven sea-lights to be seen gleaming out round

the islands after night has fallen. There is this of the Bishop, away

among the western rocks; the new light on Peninnis; the ruby glow from

Round Island; the light-ship moored by the Seven Stones; the “Wolf”

Lighthouse, half-way between Scilly and the mainland; and the lights

of Longships and Pendeen, off the Cornish coast.

XIII

ST. MARTIN’S AND ITS NEIGHBOURS

Nowhere do the flowers bloom so early as on the sunny southern slopes

of St. Martin’s Isle; and as one draws near from St. Mary’s one may

see the varied colours of the flower-patches, from palest lemon

through all the shades of yellow down to deep orange, clothing the

face of the hills.

It is a great advantage to St. Martin’s, this long series of slopes on

the south, facing towards the roadstead, warm and sunny and sheltered.

At one time the drifting sand from the flats had so covered the soil

as to make much of it barren, but it seems fertile enough now. The

sand-flats extend for a mile in the direction of St. Mary’s, and at

very low water of a spring-tide it is possible to walk across them,

and to wade through the remaining mile of separating sea.

The Eastern Islands are well seen from the flowery slopes. They run in

pairs of “Great” and “Little”--Ganilly, Ganinick, Arthur, and

Innisvouls--there is a Great and a Little of each. Hanjague, the

“sugar-loaf” island, away to the very east, stands quite alone--in

name, and character, and situation. I remember being asked by a

boatman soon after I first came to Scilly whether I knew “Ann Jigg.” I

knew the sugar-loaf well by sight and its name on paper, but the

orthodox pronunciation was strange to me, and I replied with

puzzlement that I had never met the lady!

The northern slopes of St. Martin’s, exposed to all the fury of the

Atlantic gales, are almost uncultivated, possessing one little

flower-farm only, at Pernagie. On this coast, “at the back of St.

Martin’s,” there are caves which were formerly thought to be old

tin-workings.

It is a wild and beautiful and lonely coast, with rounded bays, shut

in by rocky headlands, and slopes clad with heather and gorse between

the patches of bare grey granite. The bold mass of St. Martin’s Head

is nearly the highest point of the islands, and from it what old

Leland calls “the very westeste point of Cornwalle” can often be

clearly seen. The Cornish hills are plainly visible on a very clear

day, even from an open boat in the roads.

On the summit of St. Martin’s Head is the “Day-mark,” built in 1683 by

Thomas Ekins, the first steward of the Godolphins to reside on the

islands. It is a round tower with a conical top, painted all the way

up with alternate bands of white and Indian red, and it is quite the

most hideous object to be seen in Scilly! But we must forgive its

ugliness, for no doubt it has done good service to seamen in times

past; and though the neighbouring lighthouse on Round Island has made

it less necessary, still it is a “land-mark,” and as such it must

remain. It was used as a signal-station in the last French War, a

century ago; near by are ruins of the houses occupied by the soldiers.

These downs around St. Martin’s Head are beautiful in their autumn

garb of purple; they are no less beautiful in the spring, when the

heather forms a carpet of velvety-brown, here slightly greenish, there

again rich as burnt-sienna in colour, with bushes of gorse scattered

about upon it; and around them always lies the blue and emerald circle

of the sea.

St. Martin’s men are great potters, and divide their time between this

work and farming. Piloting used to occupy them a great deal; and still

standing all along the shore, but fast falling into ruin, are the rows

of sheds where the pilot-boats were kept.

White Island, the most northerly of the Scillies and a wild, weird

spot, can be reached on foot from St. Martin’s at low tide. It

contains yet a third “Piper’s Hole,” better known as “Underland

Girt,” a dark and gloomy chasm, frequented by sea-birds.

There are three little rocks off the south coast of St. Martin’s,

which bear the sinister name of “The Three Damned Sinners.” One can

fancy that the name goes back to the time when superstition was rife

in the islands, and when it was thought that the spirits of the

shipwrecked who had done evil in this life would never rest; and the

shrieking and skirling of birds around these rocks would have been

attributed to the yelling of restless spirits, till the rocks

themselves came to be called after them.

I do not know why it is, but St. Martin’s seems to be less visited

than the other islands. It certainly is not less attractive, and those

who go there soon find that it has a charm of its own. Its inhabitants

are very proud of their island, and very willing to give a welcome to

strangers.

There is at least one man on St. Martin’s who has never been to the

mainland, and to whom motor-cars and trains would be a great novelty.

For motor-cars are never seen in Scilly except in the form of

wreck-salvage! And trains are, of course, unknown. But perhaps he

would as resolutely refuse to be surprised as the sturdy Scillonian

who, on his first visit to England, would only say, “Everything is

very like Scilly, only bigger, and more of ’em.”

St. Helen’s Island lies off to the north-west of St. Martin’s; but St.

Helen has by rights neither part nor lot in this island which bears

her name. It appears to have been originally dedicated to St. Elidius,

who, as William of Worcester tells us, was buried in Scilly, and very

likely on this island.

In Leland’s time the name had been shortened to St. Lide’s, and the

sex of the Saint was already forgotten, for he speaks of “Saynct

Lides Isle, wher yn tymes past at _her_ sepulchre was gret

superstition.”

St. Elidius was Bishop of Llandaff in the sixth century, and during

the yellow plague he went to stay in Brittany with his friend St.

Sampson, the Bishop of Dol, to whom the neighbouring island of Samson

is dedicated. He was in his old age called Elios, “for that his

doctrine shone like the sun.” This name, St. Elios, appears to have

become, by different stages, St. Teilo, St. Dillo, and St. Dellan,

whence it easily passed into St. Helen.

Dr. Borlase mentions a church on St. Helen’s as the most ancient

Christian building in Scilly. He thus describes it as it stood in

1756:--

“It consists of a South Isle, 31 feet 6 inches long, by 14 feet 3

inches wide, from which two arches, low and of uncouth style, open

into a North Isle, 12 feet wide by 19 feet 6 inches long. There are

two windows in each Isle; near the Eastern window in the North Isle

projects a flat stone, to support, I suppose, the image of the saint.”

Little but the foundations of the church can now be traced, which is

all the more to be regretted, since it probably dated back to the

eighth century, or earlier. Many of the stones were taken away early

in the last century, to build a garden wall for a naval officer

stationed in the island.

St. Helen’s Pool was appointed the quarantine station in 1756. The

Council of Scilly had appealed two years before that it might be made

so, in the stead of New Grimsby Sound, where the presence of infected

persons was a great source of danger to the inhabitants of Tresco and

Bryher. The Pesthouse on St. Helen’s, standing deep in bracken, is now

in a state of ruin, and it is hardly safe to enter on account of the

falling of slates through holes in the roof. It seems a gruesome sort

of place to have been used by picnic-parties, but in its better days,

we are told, they often boiled their kettles in the hospital ward!

Rats abound on St. Helen’s, as a foolish pair of honeymooners

discovered when they went to spend the night there a short time

ago. In the morning they found their basket of provisions had been

quite emptied by the rats, “and it’s a wonder the rats had not eaten

them up too,” said she who told the tale.

[Illustration: ROUND ISLAND, FROM ST. HELEN’S]

Not far from the Pest-house there is a deep well of water; and the

surface of the island is scattered thick with limpet-shells--two facts

which may seem to have little connection, but which I have reason to

associate.

We had come to St. Helen’s by sailing-boat, and I was preparing to

sketch Round Island from the northern shore when I found my

water-bottle was empty. This was a great damper, for the water in the

old well was much too far down to be reached without a rope. But we

happened to notice the limpet-shells. There had been a heavy shower in

the night, and every little shell was brimful of rain-water, so by

collecting a number of them and straining out the dead ants, my wants

were easily supplied.

We wondered whether modern scientists might not consider this

decoction of ants a likely cure for rheumatism, on account of the

formic acid it must have contained!

There are fine views of Round Island and Menavawr from St. Helen’s,

the best that can be had, unless one went quite close in a boat, and

this is only possible in very calm weather.

Menavawr, with its three jagged peaks, is one of the grandest of the

barren rocks, and towers up to a height of 140 feet, on one side

almost sheer from the sea. It is cleft with two channels, the wider of

which, like that which divides the Scilly Rock, can be navigated, with

great care, after a long spell of calm weather.

The name means simply “Great rock,” from the Celtic “men,” a rock, and

“vawr,” great; but it has been corrupted to “Man-o’-War,” from a

fancied resemblance to a ship in full sail, and this is the only

pronunciation one ever hears.

It is but a barren rock, but it is wondrously beautiful. It is seamed

and scored and weatherworn with thousands of lines and markings, and

touched with many tints of colour, which make it look in the sunshine

like a mighty precious stone with the light gleaming on its facets.

And round this opalescent jewel the sea-birds are ever whirling and

skirling, and flying in and out of its crannied sides; and round it,

too, the sea is ever dashing and foaming, as the waves chase each

other through the channels that divide it.

Round Island, less than a century ago, was described as “utterly

inaccessible,” and “truly appalling”; but now, with a turn of

Fortune’s wheel, its character is quite different. For more than

twenty years it has had a claim to be reckoned as one of the inhabited

islands, since two men are always living on its rocky summit. They are

the keepers of the lighthouse, which flashes forth its ruby light as

soon as darkness begins to fall.

Scarcely a blade of grass will grow on this barren rock; and it is

said that the few rabbits which exist there have learnt to gnaw bones

like a dog, on account of the scarcity of other food.

One hundred and sixty rough-hewn steps lead up to the top of the

island, but even with this artificial aid it is not an easy ascent.

Compared with the Bishop, this is a paradise to live upon; for the men

have plenty of room to walk about on the rock, instead of being always

confined in a slender tower, and the storms do not assail them with

such terrifying violence.

XIV

CONCLUSION

To-morrow we leave for the mainland, and how shall we spend this our

last day, precious as last things nearly always are?

It is a lovely day, with a clear, pure sky, and just enough breeze to

ruffle the sea into crisp little waves, and make it wear its

many-twinkling smile. Just the day for sailing in and out amongst the

islands for the last time; but not one upon which we may venture

beyond the roads; for round the outer rocks we can see the foam

surging high, and making broken white lines along the surface of the

sea.

So we will go sailing within the roadstead, and take a last look at

the islands from this sheltered inner side.

How sorry we are to take leave of them all! Of St. Mary’s, which with

every visit has come to feel more home-like, where nearly every face

we meet now seems to look familiar and friendly, and where the bustle

and stir of life seem in comparison so very great when we return to

it from one of the off-islands!

For there is always some small excitement going on at Hugh Town.

One day it is a French fisherman who has been seized by the “Argus,”

the little man-of-war that lies in wait for poachers. He has been

found fishing within the three-mile limit, and is punished, perhaps,

by a fine and the confiscation of his fish.

Another time it is the arrival of a vessel from Scandinavia, laden

with wood for flower-boxes. She is an antique Dutch scow, in shape

like a flatiron, and with a hold like the bottomless pit, out of which

are emptied two hundred tons of wood, all ready cut into tops and

bottoms and sides, and needing only to be nailed together. She comes

waddling in one Sunday morning long after she was expected, having

been delayed by bad weather; and there is a fine row with the captain,

who has left too much of his cargo at the Channel Islands en route,

and now wants to receive full pay in Scilly for a deficient supply.

But Scillonians know better! Or there is the arrival of the crew of a

steam-drifter, which has struck on Gorregan in a fog. The men, fifteen

in number, and natives of Brittany, got off in their small boat, and

when daylight dawned were rescued by St. Agnes islanders. They are

thoroughly enjoying themselves now that their painful experience is

over. Clothes were lent to them temporarily on St. Agnes, but now they

must be reclothed by the agents of the Shipwrecked Mariners’ Society,

and it is amusing to see them being trotted round in a body to be

outfitted. There are not enough coats and waistcoats to go round, but

this does not matter at all. They revel in exhibiting their gorgeous

embroidered braces, and their feet, encased in bran-new leather boots,

probably for the first time in their lives.

These are just typical everyday happenings; but now and then there is

some big event, which stirs the islands to their depths.

So who could ever find the islands dull?

Who indeed could be dull, with such a sea on which to sail, with such

free and lonely downs on which to roam, and such a wealth of islands

to explore! Only those, I think, who pack their dullness in their

portmanteaus and carry it with them wherever they go.

And now we must say goodbye to it all. First we will sail to Tresco

and take leave of the few friends we have made there. One of them

gives us as a parting gift a bunch of Cynosures--“Shiny-shores,” _she_

calls them; and surely a more poetical name for this lovely golden

narcissus than the one it really bears--“dog’s tail,” if we carry it

back to its original meaning.

[Illustration: OFF TO ST. MARTIN’S]

To Bryher next, just to gather a few early buds of sea-pink from the

downs by Hell Bay, and to wave farewell to those we know who live in

Bryher Town.

It is as we are flying merrily along to St. Martin’s that I remember I

have made no sketch of this sailing-boat on which we have spent so

many happy hours. And yet she is a thing of beauty, and well deserves

recording. Perhaps even now it is not too late.

Did you ever try to make a sketch of a sailing-boat in full sail from

the very doubtful vantage-ground of the dinghy attached behind--with

the painter let out to its fullest extent to give you sufficient

distance? If you ever do anything so foolish (I admit it was foolish),

I would advise you to persuade all your weightiest friends to

accompany you; for so your cockleshell would gain a little in

steadiness, and dance a little less lightly on the waves. And then,

perhaps, your brush-strokes would not so often be made half an inch or

more from where you meant them to be! In my case the forepart of the

boat rose high out of the water, at intervals bobbing down with a

splash, and I had the opportunity of trying the effect of a mixture

of salt water with my paints.

I have heard a story of a lady who said, in describing a certain

painting made on the Mississippi, “I know it _must_ be like the place,

for the man who painted it had made his colours out of the earths from

the very river-banks he was painting.” On this principle sea-water

_must_ be the proper medium for painting the sea!

We must not stop long at St. Martin’s, for time is going fast, so we

will content ourselves with climbing to the top of Cruther’s Hill

above the pier, and letting our eyes, instead of our feet, roam over

the island once more.

And now to St. Agnes, which has a special corner in our hearts. So we

will sail all round it, for the wind has slightly dropped, and get a

glimpse of every part before we land in Perconger.

A flying visit to the lighthouse top, to look down once more on the

fields and gardens, rocks and headlands of the little isle; a scamper

over Wingletang Down, with the fresh sea-breeze in our faces; and a

last peep at the little lonely church by the shore. That is all there

is time for, if we wish to reach St. Mary’s before dark. And packing

still to be done!

As we sail homeward, looking back we can discern on the Gugh that

strange and fearful-looking rock, the Kittern, also called the Turk’s

Head; fearful-looking, I say, because its shape recalls to me so

strongly Watts’ dreadful Minotaur, crushing the life out of the

innocent, as he overlooks the sea.

How can I end on such a note as that! It is but a strange and idle

fancy that has come into my head; and there is nothing gloomy about

the islands to justify it.

Here is something which is much more typical of them, our boatman’s

two small--very small--sons, who have come down to the quay to “help”

anchor the boat. Their bright faces are full of light and life and

sparkle, like the islands bathed in noonday sunshine, and encircled

with “the innumerable laughter of the sea.”

They are true children of their island-home; their joyous freedom

finds an echo in the joyous freedom of the Life around them; in the

spirit of the wild sea-birds; in the leaping, restless, shimmering

waves; in the fresh sweet breezes that blow across the downs; and not

least in those dancing myriads of flowers, flowers, flowers; those

“hosts in the sunshine,” sent, as God’s messengers, “to set our hearts

free.”

BOOKS REFERRED TO OR QUOTED FROM IN THE FOREGOING PAGES

Saga of King Olaf Tryggwason, by Snorri Sturluson, 1222.

Itinerary of William of Worcester, 1478.

Itinerary of John Leland, written 1533-9; first published 1710.

The Survey of Cornwall, by Richard Carew, 1602.

Voyage of Duke Cosmo III of Tuscany, 1669.

Memoirs of Lady Fanshawe, 1676.

A Natural and Historical Account of the Islands of Scilly, by

Robert Heath, 1750.

Observations on the Ancient and Present State of the Islands

of Scilly, by Dr. William Borlase, 1756.

A Survey of the Ancient and Present State of the Scilly

Islands, by the Rev. John Troutbeck, 1794.

History of Cornwall, by the Rev. R. Polwhele, with Supplement

by Whitaker, 1804.

A View of the Present State of the Scilly Islands, by the Rev.

George Woodley, 1822.

A Week in the Isles of Scilly, by the Rev. I. W. North, 1850.

Scilly and its Legends, by the Rev. H. J. Whitfeld, 1852.

A Londoner’s Walk to the Land’s End, by Walter White, 1855.

Sea-side Studies, by G. H. Lewes, 1857.

Rambles in Western Cornwall, by J. C. Halliwell, 1861.

Rambles beyond Railways, by Wilkie Collins, 1861.

Cornwall and its Coasts, by Alphonse Esquiros, 1865.

The Age of the Saints; a Monograph of Early Christianity in

Cornwall, by W. Copeland Borlase, 1893.

Book of the West, by the Rev. S. Baring-Gould, 1899.

Cassiterides and Ictis--where were they? by Thurstan Peter, 1909.

Armorel of Lyonnesse, by Walter Besant.

Major Vigoureux, by A. T. Quiller-Couch.

INDEX

Abbey of St. Nicholas, Tresco, 25, 140

Abbey Pond, Tresco, 145

Abbey Wood, 66

Abbot of Tresco, 23

Abbots of Tavistock, 26

Accommodation for visitors, 16, 82, 83, 146

Allet, John, and Isabella, 29

Annet, Isle of, 72, 111, 116, 124

“Ann Jigg,” 170

Apple-trees, 66

Armada, tradition of, 70

_Armorel of Lyonnesse_ quoted, 157

Armorel’s cottage, 157

Arthur, Great and Little, 63, 169

Arthur, King, 62

Arums, 13

Ashford, the name, 72

Athelstan, King, 23

Attractions, 11

Aunt Charlotte, 154

Ayscue, Sir George, defeated, 36

Azure colour, presence of, 79

Barrentine, Drew de, appointed Governor, 27

Barrows, 74, 75

Bastwick, Dr. John, a prisoner, 123

Batteries, built on St. Mary’s, 33

Battle of Flowers supplied, 56

Beads, search for, 164

Beady Pool, St. Agnes, 164

Benedictines, 23, 25, 28, 29, 30, 32, 51, 140

Besant, Sir Walter, quoted, 157

Biddle, John, a prisoner, 123

Bird Island, 111

Birds, number of, 109

Bishop Lighthouse, 20, 124, 167

Bishop of Exeter, visit of, 94

Bishop of Truro, 95

Black auk, 115

Blake, Admiral, defeat of, 36

Blankminster, Ranulph de, holds the isles, 27

Block-house, the, 147

Boatmen, industry of, 14

Bonsor, Mr. George, opens a barrow, 74

Borlase, Dr., quoted, 67, 73, 87, 173

Bovy Isle, 32

Bowl, the, 65

Bridges, 68

Bronze Age, the remains of, 74

Bryher, 61, 68, 94, 152

Bulbs, 53, 59

Bullock, a dead, a passenger, 156

Butcher’s shop, the only, 84

Buzza Hill, 80, 124

Camperdizl Point, 163

Campergurling, 163

“Canteen,” the, 143

Carn Near, 37, 143

Carns of Kestillier, 163

Cassiterides, 75

Castle of Bryer, 38

Castle Rocks, 127

Caves, 150, 170

Celts, 70, 80

Chair of Prince Charles, 34

Chapels, 95, 96, 121

Character of the people, 87

Charles’s Castle, 150

Charles, Prince, a prisoner, 34

Cherry-tree, 66

Children, 90

Christians, the first, in Scilly, 22

Churches, 94, 141

City of Lions, 62

Civil War, effects of the, 34, 36, 141, 166

Clapper Rocks, 74

Coal schooner, wreck of, 145

Cockroaches, 69

Colepepper, Lord, 34

“Colossus,” wreck of the, 38

Colour of Scilly, 11

Conger-eels, 85

Cormorants, 110

Corn, exportation forbidden, 40

Cornish words, list of, 78

Cornwall, Earl of, 26, 126, 127, 130

Cosmo de Medici, Duke, quoted, 37, 66, 71, 120

Coulter-neb, 111

Council of Scilly, 35

Crab-pots, 148, 166

Crim Rocks, 160

Cromwell’s Castle, 15, 37, 144, 150

Crow Bar, 62

Crow Sounds, 37

Cruther’s Hill, 182

Customs, ancient, 81

Daffodils, 13, 60, 67, 88, 128, 138, 155

Daisy Rock, 160

Davers, a gentleman, 31

Daymark, the, St. Martin’s, 170

Defence of the Isles, 33

Denominations, 92, 94, 95, 96

Dick’s Cam, 137

Distress in 1819, 46

Dorrien-Smith, Mr. T. A., 50

Dracæna, 66

Draper, an itinerant, 155

Drew de Berrentine, 27

Druid trysting-stone, 132

Education in Scilly, 80

Edward the Confessor, 25

Edward I, grants of, 26, 28

Edward III, 29

Eggs, orange-flavoured, 49

Ekins, Thomas, 170

Elizabeth, Queen, grants a lease, 33

Ellis, the name, 72

Ennor Castle, 27, 125, 127

Entertainments, lack of, 16

Excursions, 15

Exeter, Bishop of, 93

Fairies, 80

Fanshawe, Lady, quoted, 34

Felons, treatment of, 29

Fisheries, 14, 46

Flower fields, 13

Flower harvest, 12, 13, 53, 57

Flower houses, 59

Flower industry, beginnings of, 14, 49

“Flower of Kings,” 63

Flower picking and tying, 55

Fogs, 107, 166

Folk-lore, 80

French poachers, 31, 179

Fruit trees, 66

Fuchsias, 67

Garrison, the, 122

Garrison Hill, 54, 122

Geraniums, 67

German vessels, visits of, 49

Giant’s Castle, 136

Giants’ Graves, 73

Giant’s Punch-bowl, 64

Godolphins, the, 33, 37, 47, 170

Goldsmith quoted, 115

Goose-dancing, 81

Gorregan, 179

Gorse, 12, 125, 138, 170

Grandison, Bishop, 93

Granite, 64

Granville, Sir John, made Governor, 36

Grimsby, New, 145, 146, 147, 174

Grimsby, Old, 147

Gugh, the, 74, 137, 183

Guillemots, 115

Guinea-moneys, 151

Gulls, 31, 109

Hand-mills, 72, 162

Hangman’s Island, 150

Hanjague, 169

Heath, Lieut., quoted, 18, 41, 86, 90, 120, 123, 160

Hell Bay, 153

Hellingy Downs, 72

Hellweathers, 160

Henry I, grant of, 26

Henry III, 27

Henry VIII, 20

Hermit, a story of, 23

Herring-gulls, 109

History of Scilly, 22

Holy Vale, 28, 129

Horse-mackerel, 85

Hotels, 143

Hugh, the, 33, 38

Hugh Town, 96, 117, 118, 125

Human remains found, 72

Iberians, 69

Industries, 14, 42

Inisschawe, 32

Inn, the New, Tresco, 143

“Insect,” a dying, 21

Instantius, Bishop, 22

Islands, number of, 11, 30, 61

Isle of Elder, 32

Itinerary of Leland quoted, 30

Jenkins, the name, 72

Kelping, 42

Kindliness of Scillonians, 87

King, Mr. C. J., discovery of, 114

Kistavens, 74

Kitchen-middens, 72

Kittern, the, 183

Language, 71

Leeds, Duke of, gives up lease, 47

Legge, the name, 72

Leisureliness, 88

Leland, John, quoted, 29, 30, 70, 128, 150, 165, 166, 170

Le Poer, William, 28

Lethegus Ledge, 108

Lethowsow, 64

Lewes, G. H., quoted, 83

Licences not required, 86

Lifeboat, 161

Lighthouses, 20, 124, 161, 167, 168, 170, 177, 182

Lighting of Hugh Town, 121

Lilies, growth of, 14

Limpets, 175

Ling, 85

“Loaded Camel,” the, 137

Losses, 60

Lyonnesse, legend of, 12

“Lyonnesse,” the, 19, 20

Mackerel fishery, 15

Maiden Bower, 152

“Major Vigoureux ” quoted from, 42

Marguerites, 67

Mary, Queen, news of her death, 87

Maximus, Emperor, his treatment of Christians, 22

May Queen, the, crowning of, 82

Meat, scarcity of, 84

Menavawr, 175, 176

Mesembryanthemum edule, 143

Midsummer Eve, 81

Military establishment, 38

Mincarlo, 115

“Minnehaha,” wreck of the, 99, 153

Monk’s Cowl Rock, 133, 134

Mordred, 62

Mumford, Mr. Richard, 52, 131

Nag’s Head, 65

Names of islanders, 71

Nance, a pilot, introduces kelp, 36

Narcissi, 13, 148, 155

Naval base, Scilly as a, 23, 38

Neatness, 91

Nikla Thies, 81

Northmen in Scilly, 23

Norwithel, 36, 149

Olaf Tryggwason, saga of, 23

Oldest inhabitant, the, 14

Old Town, 125, 126

Old Town Castle, 126

Old Wreck Ledge, 160

Ornatus narcissus, 13

Outer Islands, 152

Oyster-catcher, 116

Parade, the, Hugh Town, 119

Park, the, Hugh Town, 120

Parliamentary forces, the, 36

Parsonage, the, Tresco, 41

Passage to Scilly, 15, 17

Pelistry Bay, 137

Pellew’s Redoubt, 138

Pendeen Lighthouse, 168

Pender, the name, 72

Peninnis 64, 133, 134

Pennis Lighthouse, 134, 162, 168

Penzance, 17, 58, 159

Perconger, 163

Pericles Bay, 165

Pernagie, 170

Pest-house, St. Helen’s, 174

“Peter the boy,” 158

Philpotts, Bishop, visit of, 94

Pilot Hicks, story of, 105

Pilot, story of a, 85

Piloting, 40, 48, 171

Piper’s Hole, 149, 150, 172

Pirates, 33, 36

Place-names, list of, 78

Ponds, 68

Porth Cressa, 124, 133

Porth Hellick, 54, 135

Porth Mellin, 128

Portus Ecclesiæ, 165

Potatoes, exportation of, 46, 163

Potting, 14, 171

Prehistoric remains, 72

Prices of flowers, 58

Prigis Bay, 165

Prisoners in Star Castle, 123

Privations of islanders, 162

Prosperity of islanders, 39

Proverbs, 81

Provisions, 146

“Prudence and Jane,” the, 19

Publius Crassus, 76

Puffins, 27, 31, 111

Puffins as rent, 27

Pulpit Rock, 64, 133, 134

Quay, St. Mary’s, 117

Querns, 162

Quiller-Couch, Sir Arthur, quoted, 42

Rabbits, 26, 31

Rat Island, 31, 32

Rats, 69, 174

Reginald, Earl of Cornwall, 26, 126, 127, 130

Religious toleration, 92

Richard III, inquisition by, 29

Rivers, absence of, 68

“Road,” the, 48

Rocky Hill, 131

Romans in Scilly, 22, 76

Rose-bush of Sister Mary, 131

Rose, Great and Little, 160

Round Island, 124, 168, 171, 175, 176

Saga of King Olaf, 23

Sailing-boats, 18, 181

Sailors, imprisoned, 135

St. Agnes, 30, 54, 61, 64, 70, 72, 85, 90, 96, 134, 159

St. Agnes Church, 165

St. Agnes Lighthouse, 134

St. Elidius, 26, 173

St. Elios, 173

St. Helen’s Isle, 62, 124, 173

St. Helen’s Pool, 174

St. Lide’s, 173

St. Martin’s, 54, 62, 85, 96, 124, 147, 169

St. Martin’s Head, 61, 170

St. Martin’s men, 70

St. Mary’s, 30, 61, 64, 96, 117, 133, 178

St. Mary’s Church, 94

St. Mary’s Pier, 73, 117

St. Mary’s Pool, 15, 109, 119, 123

St. Nicholas Isle, 32

St. Sampson, 26, 173

St. Teon, 26

St. Warna, 165

St. Warna Bay, 164

St. Warna’s Well, 160, 165

Sallakee Downs, 136

Samson, 61, 74, 103, 156

Saynct Lide’s Isle, 31, 173

Scads, 85

Scandinavians, 70

Scenery, character of, 12

“Schiller,” wreck of the, 99

Scilly, origin of the name, 77

Scilly Rock, 153, 176

Scilly Whites, 51, 52, 53

Sea-birds, 109

Sea-crow, 110

Sea-pie, 116

Sea-sickness, 17

Sea-swallows, 115

Seal Rock, 152

Seals, 162

Serpents, absence of, 69

Seven Stones, 62

Seymour, Lord Admiral, 32

Shags, 110

Shearwaters, 114

Shells, 72, 151

Shelters, planting of, advised, 67

Shipbuilding, 47, 48

Shipman Head, 153

Shovel, Sir Cloudesley, drowning of, 99, 135

Sister Mary’s bush, 131

Skirt Point, 151

“Sleep’s Abode,” 134

Smith, Mr. A., becomes Governor, 47, 50, 140

Smith, Mr. T. A. Dorrien-, the present Governor, 50

Smuggling, 40, 41

Snorri Sturluson, story of, 25

Soleil d’ors, 53

Spaniards, 31, 70

Spurgeon’s sermons, 95

Star Castle, 33, 68, 122

“Steamer-morning,” 54

“Stella Mariæ,” 122

Stoker, the story of a, 20

Storm-petrel, 116

Sugar Loaf, 170

“Sulleh,” 77

Sulpicius Severus, 22

Sunsets, 138

Sunshine, floods of, 13

Tavestoke Abbey, 30, 32

Tavistock, monks of, 29

Tean, 124

Tearing Ledge, 160

Terns, 115

“Thomas W. Lawson,” wreck of the, 105

“Three Damned Sinners,” 172

Tiberianus, Bishop, 22

Tin, presence of, 75

Toleration, religious, 92

Toll’s Island, 137

Tolman Head, 126

Tooth Rock, 64, 133

Tovey, Abraham, master-gunner, 122

Tree-mallow, the, 147

Trees, scarcity of, 66

Tresco, 29, 61, 85, 95, 112, 124, 180

Tresco Abbey, 25, 28

Tresco Gardens, 15, 142

Trevellick, Mr. W., 52, 131

Trevilian, story of, 64

Trippers, 15

Troutbeck, Rev. J., quoted, 18, 41, 68, 69, 94

Turk’s Head, 183

Uncle Sampy, 155

Underland Girt, 172

Upper Moors, the, 137

Van Tromp, Admiral, tries to gain Scilly, 36

“Vasty deep,” the, 12

Vegetation, 182

Visitors, 14, 15, 16, 49

Voyage to Scilly, 17

Watermill Bay, 138

Wells, 68

Wesley, John, visit of, 96

White Island, 171

Whitfeld, Rev. H. J., quoted, 131

Whitington, gentleman, 31

Wich, Richard de, gift of, 26

William IV, 47

William of Worcester, 112

Wingletang Down, 163

Wolf Lighthouse, 108

Woodley, Rev. G., quoted, 19, 45, 91, 95

Wrasse, 73

Wrecks, right to, 26

Wrecks, 26, 97, 145, 153, 161

UNWIN BROTHERS, LIMITED, THE GRESHAM PRESS, WOKING AND LONDON

* * * * *

SOME OPINIONS OF THE PRESS

THE TIMES:

“This is an acceptable volume, in which the author succeeds both as

artist--in her pleasing and careful water-colours--and in her

entertaining account of the scenery, the industries, and the people.”

THE MORNING POST:

“This is a charming book about a very charming place. The Scillies are

not by any means so well known to the people of the mainland as they

deserve to be. But the authoress has given us an informing

introduction to their manifold attractions, their scenic beauty, their

old-world simplicity and social quaintness, the romantic associations

of their history and the picturesque character of their staple

industry of flower-growing. The twenty-five water-colours scattered

throughout the pages are not only dainty in execution, but are

admirably illustrative of the letterpress.”

THE SCOTSMAN:

“Miss Mothersole has been captivated by the islands, their story and

their people; and she has succeeded in conveying a distinct impression

of this charm to the pages of her book, including those pages which

contain the twenty-five reproductions in colour of her water-colours

of land, sea, and ‘flowerscapes.’”

THE RECORD:

“Those of our readers who are looking for a suitable book as a present

for a friend could not do better than purchase this handsome volume.”

THE METHODIST TIMES:

“A delightfully chatty volume, introducing us to a land that to the

great majority is a veritable _terra incognita_. The pictures,

reproduced in colour, are the work of a genuine artist who sees nature

in all her beauty. The letterpress is full of interest, and the

conversational, almost colloquial, style makes the book delightful

reading.”

THE CHRISTIAN WORLD:

“The pictures are charmingly done, and inspire a desire to make the

Scillies the scene of the next summer holiday.”

THE LITERARY WORLD:

“To most people it seems a far cry to the Scilly Isles, and it is

therefore all the more desirable that some competent person should try

and realize for us the atmosphere, colour, and outstanding features of

such a story-haunted nook. This has been adequately done by Jessie

Mothersole, who with pen and pencil has produced a charming account of

this sea-worn district.”

THE DAILY NEWS:

“With the colour of the Scilly Islands Miss Mothersole has been really

successful; she has reproduced much of that warmth and richness and

harmony of hue which cling in the memories of everyone who knows these

coasts. The water, the sky, the flowers, the cottages, lend themselves

to the colourist, and Miss Mothersole has made some most attractive

pictures.”

End of Project Gutenberg's The Isles of Scilly, by Jessie Mothersole