She woke at length, but not as sleepers wake,

Rather the dead, for life seem'd something new,

A strange sensation which she must partake

Perforce, since whatsoever met her view,

Struck not her memory, though a heavy ache

Lay at her heart, whose earliest beat, still true,

Brought back the sense of pain without the cause,

For, for a while, the furies made a pause.

BYRON.

I'an being reluctant to leave his sister all alone with her sorrow,

procured a good seaman to command the _Mur_ for her next run. Fears were

entertained that Beaton's mind might become permanently deranged from

excessive grief. She could seldom be induced to leave the room in which

her lover died, and I'an, feeling a repugnance to sleep there, she took

it for a bed-room, saying she intended to keep it because that

apartment, with two or three others adjoining it, were bequeathed to her

(as indeed they were, with their furniture), for her lifetime. For many

days together she was never seen except by the aged servant, who, at the

usual meal-times, took to the gloomy chamber food that was often removed

untasted. Her spinning-wheel was thrown aside; yet she seemed occupied

in some quiet mysterious way; and I'an, getting alarmed for the probable

result of her sad seclusion, consulted a doctor, who, being an old

friend of the family, came to visit Beaton without delay, and requested

to be taken to her room without being announced. I'an entered, followed

by the doctor, and saw Beaton in a window-recess, busily sewing; at the

same time, so absorbed was she in singing a baby's lullaby and rocking a

cradle--in which there was no child, but a christening-dress with other

articles of her infantile wardrobe--that she did not perceive her

visitors. They noted, too, that the bed was covered with old dresses, in

various beautiful fabrics, and that Beaton had been cutting them up,

seemingly to waste. I'an annoyed to see this destruction of gay and

costly gowns, said, "Sister dear, art thou going crazy to be cutting up

thy best clothes?" "No, John," she replied, without looking up from her

work; "yet methinks you are very rude thus to enter a lady's bedchamber

with so little ceremony. But men understand so little of women's

hearts," she continued, as if speaking to herself and taking no further

notice of her brother; "little do they know that, when damsels don their

gayest robes, they long for the time when they may cut them up for their

babies' clothes. But is it to-morrow that is to be my wedding-day?"

demanded she. "Oh, dear Willy, where art thou? Do tell me. It was to

have been some time before brother John came back. The banns called

thrice, we are to be wedded before he returns; then he will love my

Willy like he used to, and all will be right well."

Unconscious, seeming, of any presence save what her crazed fancy imaged,

she looked towards her brother and the doctor, who now advanced and

noticed there was no intelligence in her fixed gaze. She appeared to be

looking within rather than at anything external, when she went on to

say, "Our child, if a boy, shall be named William, after you, my love;

but if a girl, it shall never be called Beatrice for me. I have often

been told that the name, though a favourite one, has always been

ill-starred in our family. Shall we call her Mary for your mother, or

Agnes for mine? Any names of those we love sound sweet, like a dear

mother's. That I remember, and how she rocked me singing, 'Lullaby,

lullaby, littly maid Beatrice; angels protect thee, my darling.'"

I'an, cut to the heart to see her thus, took her hand and said,

"Sister, you are ill, dear, and our good friend, the doctor, is come to

visit you." "Oh, how foolish people are," she replied, "I was never

better in my life, yet our old Betty will have it that I don't eat

enough, what next I wonder? I am glad, however, he is come to visit us;

our house seems lonely now, and he is a dear man--so kind, true, and

hearty, I always liked him from a child, and how he enjoys his pipe and

glass, dear man! I'll leave my work now, and see that he be entertained

with the best our house will afford."

Beaton folded her work, rose, passed near their friend without

recognition, and descended to the kitchen, where she gave orders for a

sumptuous repast, though there was nothing in her house to furnish it.

She then returned to her work, saying that it would be time enough to

dress for dinner in an hour or more, meanwhile her brother would

entertain their guest, and the doctor would excuse her; for indeed she

was very busy. Then she wailed, rather than sung,

'Twas down in the garden green, sweetheart,

Where you and I did walk;

But the fairest flower that in my garden grew

Is withered to a stalk.

The doctor, perceiving her pitiably distracted state, advised I'an to

remove her to a change of scene--far away if he could--and trust to an

occurrence that might soon take place to do more to restore her reason

than anything in his power. "Nature," he observed, "beats all doctors,

and maternal instinct supplies the place of reason, now happily dormant

for the assuagement of her bleeding heart, poor dove."

The old servant, being called and questioned, she confirmed what the

doctor surmised, and further informed him that she was aware of the

intention of William and Beaton to be married during her master's

absence, trusting to have his forgiveness, when all was done; then

possible to make amends for the thoughtlessness of youth and love.

The doctor's advice tallied with I'an's inclination. He had often

thought, and at length determined, to leave the wreck of his property

for his creditors, as it was deeply mortgaged, and the accumulated

interest of many years unpaid. He would seek a home for himself and his

sister in Brittany, where he had formed acquaintances, and where no

fancied requirements of sham gentility and beggarly state would impede

his endeavours to push his fortune by land or sea. Being assured that a

trip across the Channel was likely to prove beneficial to Beaton, who

had often been to sea and enjoyed life on the waves like the sea-bird

after which the smuggler's craft was named; wearing apparel, bedding,

and a few heirlooms, of no great value, were soon packed so that they

might be ready to leave when the _Mur_ next made sail for France. Their

moveable furniture was placed in Beaton's portion of the house, where

two old servants were installed to keep possession for her of that, and

also of some garden ground and pasture land in which she had a life

interest. It was feared there might be some difficulty in persuading the

poor demented woman to embark; yet, when the vessel was ready, by a

harmless deception she was led to connect the proposed voyage, somehow,

with going to meet her lover and hastening her bridal. So, one day,

about a month after Willy was laid beneath the turf, I'an had a stone

placed to mark the spot, and--following a very ancient custom in St.

Levan--planted rosemary, box, lillies, and other garden flowers on the

grave, over which he and his crew shed many tears. The following night

I'an, with his sister, bade farewell to the ancient home of their

forefathers, now rendered doubly sad to him by the remembrance of

Taskes's ill-fated death, and his sister's melancholy plight.

Little more was then heard of either brother or sister. Penberth men,

belonging to I'an's crew, purchased his share of their vessel, and

before they left port, Beaton was lodged at a farm house, where she was

kindly nursed; and it was hoped that, ere long, maternal cares might

tend to restore her reason and somewhat relieve her anguish for her

lover's untimely death. I'an was well known at the port, where they had

long traded, as an expert seaman and good navigator, and he soon

obtained the command of a ship. For a long while the old servants lived

in Beaton's part of the house, hoping for her return, and cultivated the

small quantity of ground that belonged to her. But no tidings ever

reached them of either sister or brother; and when the two old servants

died--it being supposed that their mistress was also dead, and her

portion fallen in hand--I'an's creditors took possession of it.

UNEXPECTED VISITORS.

With fairest flowers,

Whilst summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele,

I'll sweeten thy sad grave.

_Cymbeline._

A little above Penberth Cove, and near the Green, there is an ancient

cottage in an orchard. In this dwelling lived an old dame called Joan

Taskes, who kept a kind of public-house, as liquors and other goods were

entrusted to her, by smugglers, for sale.

One afternoon, about nineteen or twenty years after Willy's death--when

he and the I'ans were almost forgotten--An' Joan, whilst busy spinning

flax with a treadle-turn heard a knock at her open door, and, thinking

it was somebody come to buy liquor, or "honey-pins"--a sweet apple for

which her orchard was noted--without rising she called out, "Come 'e in

cheeld, and don't 'e stay knacking at the door." But An' Joan was rather

startled when, on looking round, she saw two ladies standing near her.

They were both tall. One appeared about fifty and the other near twenty

years of age. Their dresses made her think they must be foreigners. The

elder was clad in some kind of white woollen stuff, by whatever name one

might call her garb: it had loose, hanging sleeves, and its ample folds

were confined by a girdle to her waist. Over her head she wore a square

of black serge; its ends hanging on her shoulders, and shading her face,

gave it a pallid appearance, which was rendered somewhat ghastly by a

white linen band across her forehead. The younger wore a silver-grey

dress of more ordinary mode, and for head-dress a lace veil that

covered, without concealing, her braided dark brown hair.

An' Joan, rising, drew out her form and said, "Pray be seated, ladies,

and excuse me, as I thought you might have been some neighbours'

children knocking at the door."

"We called," the elder lady replied, "to enquire if there be any small

dwelling unoccupied in Penberth, or Treen, or in any place near."

"Be pleased to sit, ladies, and leave me think a moment," said the dame;

"but I havn't heard of any place that would be good enough for you, and

the only one I know of, close at hand, is Chynance. Why it seems to me,"

she continued, "as if I had heard the sound of your voice, years agone,

somewhere, but can't call 'e to mind."

"Look at me well, Aunt Joan," the lady rejoined, "and tell me if you can

think of anyone you ever saw like me."

The dame having adjusted her barnacles, peered at the lady's face and at

length said in tremulous tones, "You can't be a spirit to come here high

by day! Yet now I look at 'e again there's the dark brown eyes, straight

nose, small mouth, and pitted chin of our poor lost Beatie! You can't be

she? But with that white band across your forehead one can't see a lock

of your hair; her's was of the darkest chesnut colour; besides the

black kerchief or scarf, over your head, shades your face."

"If you saw my hair, now nearly as white as your own, you wouldn't know

me by that," the lady answered. "But don't be frightened, dear An'

Joan," continued she, in folding back her veil, "look again and you will

see Beatrice I'an, and this dear girl is my daughter Mary."

An' Joan sprung from her seat, kissed Mary, clasped Beaton to her

breast, and wept aloud for joy. She then took from her cupboard a bottle

of brandy and another of sweet-drink (mead), filled two rummers with a

mixture of the strong and sweet, saying, "Here, dears, drink this, and

help yourselves to more while I get something for 'e to eat before I

hear another word."

The old dame skipped about as if the sight of Beaton and her daughter

had made her twenty years younger.

In a few minutes An' Joan fried fish, boiled eggs, and placed on the

board milk, cream, and butter, with bread and honey, apple pasties, a

jug of beer, and more bottles of her choice cordials. When all three had

done ample justice to the repast, Beaton, looking round the dwelling,

said, "Now Aunt Joan, I am again at home and as happy as I can ever hope

to be, but I always felt like one banished for all the years I dwelt in

the land where Mary was born and bred. Everything here looks the same as

long ago, when my delight was to run down for some of your choice fruit

and sweet flowers, and to play with your turns till you learnt me to

spin just as well as yourself." Seeing Mary's gaze fixed on the dresser,

she continued, "You may well admire that, dear, and all its shelves

contain; a dresser is the crowning glory of every Cornish cottage. You

have never seen such quaint looking old jugs, ornamented with queer

figures and wry faces, grinning amidst flowers and fruit, as those on

the upper shelf; see on the next there are bright coloured glasses with

long threaded or twisted stems, and scores of rare pretty things

besides, brought from over sea or saved from wrecks; the dresser-bed is

covered with a cloth as white as snow, and many ladies would covet the

bowls and other vessels of old china that rest on it; and one might take

the bright pewter flagons and platters for silver. A brass warming-pan,

such as you see on the other side, is an article for ornament rather

than use, but every couple here, however poor, think they must get one

before they be married. And that shelf of wooden trenches,

butter-prints, mustard-bowls, and other 'temberan things,' scoured with

'gard,' have a look of cleanliness not to be surpassed by more costly

furniture."

On the chimney-piece they might have noticed an hour-glass between tall

brass candlesticks, branches of coral, sea-birds' eggs, sea-urchins, and

foreign shells. Turning to An' Joan, Beaton remarked as if delighted,

"there, too, beside the door is the same sweet-brier; rosemary, thyme,

and other sweet flowers, blooming all over the garden; and the house

swarming with bees, as of old, coming and going through the open window,

and alighting on your cap as if to tell 'e they were going on well, and

to see how you were looking."

"I hope, dears, you are now come home to live for the rest of your

days," said Joan. "Your grand old house is cut to pieces, and three

families dwelling in it; but most of your furniture is still there,

packed away in the best chamber, all in that room as you left it, and

the door hasn't been unlocked for many years,--scarcely opened, indeed,

since you last slept there." Beaton replied to the effect that during

all the time she lived abroad, her greatest desire was to return and end

her days where she was born, and to be buried beside the one she loved

above all the world; and that she intended, after a short rest, to go

along the cliff to church-town to see his grave, and that she wished to

go alone.

"Poor dear Willy, the Lord rest with him," said An' Joan, "you will see

by his grave that he hasn't been forgotten. On his breast there's a

rosemary, the pride of my heart, grown to a bush that overtops his

tombstone; a box-tree grows at the foot, and betwixt them sweet-brier,

tansy, herb-of-grace, and such other long-lived and evergreen plants as

are good for remembrance, besides a border of pinks and lillies. You'll

see that none in the church-hay have been more lovingly tended, for I

and others have planted on his grave fresh flowers when old ones died."

When Cribba Head threw its shadow over the water, Beaton started on her

sad pilgrimage, saying to her daughter, who wished to accompany her,

"Remain, dear, with our old friend; tell her all about your uncle John,

and how we lived in Brittany; she is longing to know but don't like to

ask."

The kind dame took Mary round her garden, well stocked with sweet

old-fashioned flowers and many hives of bees; then passing through her

orchard from one tree of choice fruit to another, equally good, they

came to a clear brook, overhung by branches weighed down by their load

of apples, pears, and plums that often fell in the stream and floated

out to sea, unless found on their passage by children who often watched

the water, gurgling among reeds and rocks below the orchard, for An'

Joan's apples and plums.

Milking time being come, Joan took her bucket, and they went up to

Penberth Green, where the old dame's cow--little and good--was waiting

to be milked. At that time, and long after, almost every cotter kept a

cow, which found sufficient pasture in green lanes, and commons. An'

Joan, having finished her out-door evening work, made a

mullet-and-parsley pie, as that was a favourite supper dish. When placed

on the hearth to bake, she said, "I have, for many years, been longing

to know how it fared with your mother and uncle, and had given up all

hopes of ever again seeing them, not knowing if they were alive or dead;

and you, poor lonely flower, have no other relations on your mother's

side that I know of."

"I have a good many cousins in Brittany," replied Mary, "as my uncle has

a large family." She then related what she had heard from her mother,

and what she remembered, to the effect that when I'an settled in

Brittany he hired a small farm, and soon after married a person of good

property. For a short time, he cultivated the land acquired by his

marriage, but he soon tired of a farmer's life, and went to sea as

captain of a large ship; he was often away for years together. Mary

seldom saw him, as there appeared to be little desire, on the part of

brother or sister, for much intimacy. Yet, on his return from a voyage,

he always sent them money and goods, which they didn't require, because

Beaton, by her spinning, and Mary, by her lace-work and embroidery,

gained more than sufficed for their needs. Her uncle often took her

lace-work abroad, where he traded, and brought her more for it than its

weight in gold.

Although they wanted for nothing, and everybody was kind to them, Beaton

was always pining to return; and in spite of I'an's wishes for them to

remain, she made a vow that before Mary became of age, she would go home

and pass the rest of her life in the practice of some devotion for the

repose of Mary's father. About a week ago, Beaton having heard there was

a smuggling craft from Cornwall in a cove near their dwelling, she

packed up all her household goods that she cared about, and they left,

bag and baggage, in the boat which landed them in Mousal that morning.

When Mary had just ended her recital, her mother silently glided in,

kissed her, and placed in her bosom a few flowers, saying, "Cherish

these from a garden I prize above all others, and we will soon plant it

with choicest flowers." "And now," she continued, "we must bid dear Aunt

Joan good-bye, and proceed to Buryan Church-town, where we can remain

for the night." "No, my dears," An' Joan interposed, "there's a pie

baking for your supper, and a spare bed on the talfat as good as any in

Church-town, though I say it; remain with me till you have found a

better place, or hired Chynance for a time, as there may be more delay

than you calculate before your house in Treen will be ready for 'e."

Both ladies gladly accepted the kind dame's hearty welcome, and enjoyed

her savoury pie and good ale, of her own brewing; no woman then expected

to get a husband, unless she knew how to make a good barley-brew, and

they say that people of that day, who drank good beer as their ordinary

beverage, were stronger by far than their descendants, raised on

tea-wash.

Beaton hired Chynance, procured a few articles of furniture--in

addition to what she brought from over sea--also a cow and poultry; had

the garden planted, the house thatched, and comfortably arranged for

winter. Owing to delay in getting possession of Beaton's property in

Treen they lived here a year or more, and, when all was ready for their

removal, Mary would have much preferred to remain in that sunny

sheltered cot, nestled at the foot of Buryan Hill; but her mother got

into a restless fidgetty state that caused An' Joan to look more grave

than was her wont. She had heard that as far back as there was any

record, many of the I'an family--particularly the women--when between

forty-five and fifty years of age, either went mad or died; and she

feared that the gloomy grandeur of Beaton's old home, with the sad

remembrances, likely to be renewed thereby, would tend to bring on this

family infirmity. It was all in vain, however, for Mary to say, "Dear

mother let us remain here in this sunny nook, where flowers grow all the

year; spotted trout sport in the stream; and our goats, lambs, and

poultry can range at their own sweet will." When all was arranged in

Beaton's part of the mansion, so as to give it an air of its former

state, thither they removed, but still retained Chynance for the sake of

having pasture for their cow, and to please Mary, who took a great fancy

to it.

Beaton was not in her old habitation many days when she had her 'turn'

and other spinning utensils taken into the chamber where Taskes breathed

his last. There she passed most of her time, and often kept all night at

her work; the rumble of her spinning-wheel and doleful noises that she

frequently made, soon caused those living in parts of the house, not in

her possession, to quit rather than have their rest nightly disturbed;

and she rejoiced that the house was cleared of all strangers and

interlopers, as she styled its other occupants. Often she would be away

to St. Levan churchyard at dead of night--unknown to Mary and their

servant--pass hours, in prayer it was supposed, beside Willy's grave;

and bring thence flowers, wet with morning dew, to be kept in her

chamber, and when withered all were laid by in her chest. This penance,

as much inspired by love as enjoined by her faith, was duly observed, in

spite of her failing health. On dark, stormy nights, she would often be

met wandering along the cliffs between Church-town and Treen; or seen

kneeling on the rock where her lover received his fatal hurt.

Many persons were startled by encountering, at unexpected times, her

phantom-like figure, gliding along the cleves or amongst the carns of

Castle-Treen, in her strange dress of white robe, black veil, and

ghastly linen band across her forehead, that made her look like one

escaped from a grave in a winding-sheet and shroud. It was evident that

Beaton was at times insane; yet, sad as such a state seems, it may not

have been the most melancholy portion of this poor soul's destiny; for

when her mind was burthened with more grief than it could bear, her

reason became unsettled, and her memory infolded with clouds that were

often of roseate hue. Old crones whispered that they had heard of more

than one Beatrice I'an, and men of that family as well, who went crazy;

and that their madness began in melancholy seclusion, and the practice

of old-fashioned devotions that few cared about since they were declared

Popish and unlawful. Yet, the same old dames took good care to preserve

many charms for the cure of diseases, and to use them as in Catholic

times, and the same are retained and practised by their descendants to

this day, with others that are probably transmitted from an age when

sun-worship was in vogue.

As Penberth and Mousal fair-traders maintained a constant intercourse

with Roscroff, I'an's family often sent Beaton presents of flax,

clothing, and other goods; they did not require them, however, for Mary,

like her mother, was an excellent spinster and skilful in embroidery and

lace-work. Treen being a noted place for good weavers, they provided

them with plenty of spinning-work; and when Mary showed her rare lace to

An' Joan, she assured her that ladies, within a short distance, paid

large sums to smugglers for what was no better. The old dame took it

round to gentlemen's seats, and soon returned with much more money than

Mary expected for her wares; and with orders for more lace-work than she

could execute in a long time.

Beaton's lucid intervals became less and less frequent. When crazy fits

prevailed, she seemed happy, nay joyful; but when reason,--such as it

was,--or more sober moods intervened, she would talk regretfully, often

moaning to herself, "The Lord help me, alas it was all my fault, I

brought blood on my brother's head, he can never have rest, nor I, no,

nevermore, not even in the grave." One of her strange freaks was to

sleep by day and to visit the churchyard or spin by night. Sometimes she

knitted stockings and other things for her Willy; these were to be put

in her coffin. She would often say, "Willy, dear, I am working for thee,

love, and will soon fetch thee back; we will live here, nobody shall

ever put us out of this chamber. Oh! what delight I took in spinning

years ago, when thou didst card the wool of winter's nights. I can never

pass the time in singing, for ever singing. I should be weary in a day,

and would rather spin the time away with thee to card the wool; and as

of old thou shalt give me a kiss, such a long sweet kiss, with every

rull I take from the cards."

Her last whim was to spin and knit herself a shroud, which she called

her wedding-dress. This was made of the whitest and finest lamb's-wool

she could procure. Mary, to please her, had to give much of her best

lace for trimming this 'wisht' garment; and at length after much

alteration, she had it to her mind, and repeated to her daughter and An'

Joan all her whimsical fancies about her bridal arrangements, as she

called her funeral ceremonies. The following night she walked alone to

the churchyard, and returned late.

About midnight Mary, as was her custom, looked into her mother's room,

and saw by the glimmering light of a chill (iron lamp), hanging on the

wall, her mother sitting in a high-backed chair, apparently in a sweet

sleep, with a placid smile on her countenance; as she sometimes dosed in

her chair, Mary, loath to disturb her, stepped quietly back to her own

room; but feeling uneasy from her mother's unusual silence she lay awake

till daybreak and then returned to her mother. On approaching her, Mary

noticed that over a fine white dress she wore her shroud, with its

face-cloth turned back on her head. Mary took her hand, and feeling it

cold and stiff, the truth struck her that her mother was dead. Yet she

hoped that it might only be a trance, as she looked so life-like and

pleasant, as when asleep, in her happiest moods. But a neighbour, who

was called in, assured Mary that her mother had been dead some hours.

"Yet to behold her thus," said the dame, "sitting in her chair, with

fresh flowers in her bosom, the hour-glass beside her, and beads in her

hand, one would think she had only fallen asleep whilst saying her

prayers; the Lord rest her poor soul." On looking round, when the rising

sun-beams streamed in through an open window, they saw that her best

quilt was spread on the bed, and on that the clothes Taskes wore on that

unlucky night when he received his death-wound, and other things that

belonged to him. Where, or how, Beaton could have kept them so long no

one knew. An' Joan had these, and withered flowers, with other things

that Beaton prized, put into her coffin, in hopes to give her spirit

rest; and Beatrice I'an, according to her oft-repeated request, was laid

in St. Levan churchyard, beside the dust of Willy Taskes.

"And we Treen people," said the old man who related her story, "would

have been glad if she had stayed there, but she hadn't been under the

turf three days when she was back again and spinning, as she always said

she would, in the chamber that was locked up with everything in it as it

stood when she was carried out; and it was supposed that other spirits

came back with her, by the capperouse they often made." We will leave

them, however, and their ghostly doings, for a while, to follow Mary's

destiny.

THE PROUD PENDARS.

O it is sad! O it is sad

To think of the joys that once I had:

To wander lone over land and sea,

And know that she waits no more for me.

This tress of her fair, soft, chestnut hair,

Is all the cruel grave would spare.

MORTIMER COLLINS.

At Beaton's death what had been her portion of the property fell in

hand, and Mary removed to Chynance, taking with her a few such articles

of the old furniture as were not too cumbersome for her small dwelling;

but everything in "Beaton's chamber" was left there for the time, as it

stood when she was carried out. Mary's life had been anything but a

cheerful one for the past year or two, but after her mother's decease

she felt very desolate. Her uncle's family urged her to return and live

with them, which she was inclined to do, as she often said that Brittany

seemed less gloomy to her than this country; because in the Cornuaille

over the water young and old met, every Sunday at least, at their parish

church, and joined in a dance after service; besides there were yearly

feasts, in neighbouring parishes on their patron saints' days, to which

people flocked from miles away; they were hospitably entertained,

without regard to rank, at the feasten board; and all regarded it as a

sort of religious duty to take part in dancing, hurling, wrestling, and

other games that were continued several days of the feasten week.

"It seems to me like forsaking my poor mother to leave this place," Mary

would say to An' Joan, "but over sea my cousins are always happy

together, and they knew no difference between me and their sisters; but

here I feel as desolate as a forsaken bird, though Chynance is a

pleasant sunny spot, and nobody can be kinder to me than you and others

who knew my dear mother." In such like sad complaints she bemoaned her

lonely state, till love came to brighten the scene, for a brief space.

Mary frequently took her work to Penberth and passed the afternoons or

evenings with An' Joan. As the dame sold liquor from a noggin to an

"anker" (keg), her dwelling was often pretty well filled with company,

of an evening. And Mary often said that such gatherings of neighbours,

to hear news, sing songs, or relate old stories, reminded her of home,

as she called Brittany.

Now, it so happened, a few months after Mary again settled in Chynance,

she was one afternoon on a visit to An' Joan, when a young officer, home

on a furlough from a man-of-war, entered the dwelling, saluted An'

Joan--who had known him from a child--and called for brandy and cordials

to treat the dame and himself; by the time they were seated for cosy

chat, Mary entered with baskets of fruit from the orchard. The young

sailor rose, saluted her, and seemed surprised to see one--apparently an

inmate of Joan's--with the dress and demeanour of a lady; her broken

English, with Breton accent, betokened her to be a foreigner. "Don't 'e

disturb yourself, Mr. Pendar," said An' Joan, "this young lady, poor

dear, all the same to me as a daughter, is the damsel Mary I'an."

Mr. Pendar--who is said to have been one of those who then lived in

Pendrea--had heard some gossip, on his first arrival at home, about the

good looks, rare accomplishments, and strange history of this waif of

the I'an's; and how she had refused many offers of marriage from

farmers' sons that were thought good chances for her. Young Pendar took

a liking at first sight to the poor orphan, and his love was not more

sudden than honest and constant; and her feelings towards the young

sailor must have been equally favourable, one may suppose, as they often

met at Penberth and elsewhere, and purposed to be wedded on his next

return from a short voyage. But the artless sailor and simple maiden

made their calculations without his parents' consent. Little thought

Mary, and less cared her lover, about what the old Pendars styled the

stain on her paternity, or their talk about disowning or disinheriting.

The brave heart of oak but little regarded his mother railing in bitter

terms, of Mary's poverty and base birth, and of Beaton's youthful

failing; or his father saying, "that as he made his bed he might lie on

it; that if he wedded one of nought, he should be cut off with a

shilling." But more devilry was set to work than the youngster knew of.

At parting, to join his ship, he told his father to keep his shilling,

as he cared not for anything he had to withhold or bestow, that he saw

no reason why the daughter should suffer for her parents' failings; he

thought they had undergone more than enough themselves, and that he was

determined to win fortune and choose a wife for himself. On taking leave

of Mary he assured her that when he returned from a short voyage he

would make her his bride.

Pendar left home to join his ship, which he thought would make but a

short voyage.

Many months elapsed, but Mary had no tidings of her affianced lover;

and, about the time she expected his return a report was circulated that

he was killed in a naval engagement. As months rolled on and brought no

other intelligence, Mary too readily believed the common talk; and, poor

grieved soul, for many an hour she would sit, all alone, on a rock

beside the shore, look wistfully out to sea, and chant some old Breton

melody about meeting her true-love in the fairy orchards of Avalon. And

her wild song, by the moaning waves, was sad to hear as a funeral dirge.

Like a blasted flower she pined and died, and was laid beside her

parents, when the young seaman, her lover, was hastening homeward in

hopes to make her his bride.

Pendar arrived at Penberth with a good store of prize-money, heard, with

anguish, how Mary had died of a broken heart, all through a vile scheme

of his parents, who spread the sad rumour, and had no reason to think

him dead; because they, unknown to him, contrived to have him drafted to

a cruiser that was sent to protect merchantmen in distant seas. He was

kept in ignorance of his destination, and had no means to inform Mary

that years might elapse before his return. He left home without seeing

his father or mother, and never more returned to Buryan; yet 'tis said

that he became renowned as a brave naval commander, and died unmarried.

Within a few days of Mary's death, her uncle made a trip to Fowey, with

a cargo of contraband goods, and on his return voyage, shaped his course

for the Land's End, intending to land in Mount's Bay, to visit his

niece, and persuade her to return with him. His ship approached land off

Penberth; the sea being smooth, he ran her close in, near the cove, that

he might be taken ashore in his ship's boat. It so happened that his old

craft was running for the cove in this Autumn evening's twilight with a

thick fog. The _Mur's_ crew mistook I'an's vessel, beating the same

course, for a revenue cutter, and one of the hands fired a random shot

between "wind and water" that killed their former commander, as he was

about to step into his boat; some say it was on the very evening of his

niece's funeral. The Breton crew fired on the _Mur_, and sunk her.

Almost all Penberth men were on board, and the greatest part of them

were drowned within hail of the cove and their dwellings. I'an was taken

home to be buried, in Brittany, and his family dropped all intercourse

with their father's native place.

It was not known here till years after the fatal mishap that I'an was

killed by a shot from the _Mur_, or that it was his ship's company who

sent many of his old crew to a watery grave.

THE I'AN'S GHOSTS.

We have no title-deeds to house or lands,

Owners and occupants of earlier dates

From graves forgotten stretch their dusty hands,

And hold in mortmain still their old estates.

LONGFELLOW.

Now that ghostly visits are rare, many persons may be sceptical of what

is said of this haunted house, and we shall only relate a few of the

most remarkable stories. Shortly after Beatrice died, noises like the

rumble of a spinning-wheel and clicking of cards, with unnatural

shrieks, were often heard in "Beaton's chamber," which remained locked

up, with its furniture just as it was when she died; persons passing by

the house at night, who had courage to cast a glance at its windows, saw

in that room and others a glimmer of light, and shadowy forms flitting

to and fro. But almost everybody hurried by without casting an eye

towards the house, or took a roundabout way rather than run the risk of

having a fright or their rest disturbed by a remembrance of those

strange apparitions.

Over a while it seemed as if more spirits joined those that first

arrived, till at length they made such a 'rattle-cum-stave' throughout

the whole house that it was left for years unoccupied,--by mortal

tenants at least. The turn continued its rumble upstairs, and what had

formerly been kitchen, hall, and parlour, seemed filled with a revelrout

all night long, and folks were often dismayed by unnatural appearances

outside the house. Towards night clouds of fog would roll in from over

sea, settle around the I'an's premises, and become denser and darker

till the place seemed shrouded in thunder-clouds; then lights would

flash around the house, and such sounds be heard as if made by

discharges of small fire-arms, with a roar of cannon now and then; one

would, also, hear the surging and splashing of waves, flapping of sails,

creaking of blocks and tackle, with other sounds usually heard on

shipboard, till this apparition rose high above the houses, drifted away

seaward, and disappeared.

Sometimes all lights in the house would go out, at the same instant,

without any visible cause; this was such a common occurrence that the

inmates would merely say, "that's Beaton come again; but, never mind, we

shall soon hear her spinning, then we may light the candles again, and

hope to be left quiet for a time." When people would persist and occupy

the house, it was often troubled by day, and all its mortal inmates,

both man and beast, would be seized with fear, and run to doors, at

times when nothing unusual was seen or heard. Often in the height of a

clear summer's day, a blast of chilly air, with a grave-like scent,

would pervade the old dwelling; then children would screech, dogs howl,

cats, with their hair bristled up, rush out of doors, or smash through

windows, if doors were closed. The cats never returned, and died of

fright when they couldn't escape the house. There's no end of stories

about the ghostly pranks that were acted here for more than a century,

and we shall only relate another.

A carpenter, who was working about the place, said he didn't believe

that all the I'an's spirits would make him quit the house or Beaton's

chamber even; and he waged a pint of brandy that he would see, that very

night, what made the racket there, and hail the spirits if he saw any.

That he might have a sight of them, without more ado, he bored an

auger-hole in Beaton's chamber door. Having primed himself with drink,

when night came, and the usual noises began, he fixed himself close to

the door and peeped in. At first he only beheld a faint light glimmering

over the bed, and what looked like a dead man stretched thereon, with

shadowy figures moving about the room; then he saw more distinctly, and

made out a woman, dressed in grave clothes, sitting on a chair beside

the bed.

Then the chamber became so dark that he could see nothing of the figures

on the bed and in the chair but their eyes, that shone with purple

light. The woman's eyes--he could see nothing else but her eyes

glistening like coals of fire--arose from the bedside and approached the

door, and still the carpenter could only see a pair of flaming orbs when

they were within a few inches of his face; and he--terror-struck or

spell-bound--had neither power to move away, nor to withdraw his gaze.

There he stood like one rivetted to the spot for minutes, that seemed

hours, till a blast of cold air smote his face, and something pierced

his eye like a red-hot nail. He fell on the floor, was found insensible

when raised, and he ever remained blind of one eye.

There was but little rest for anyone dwelling in the I'an's house until

some years after Parson Corker came to Buryan; and, at first, he made

many fruitless attempts to confine those unresting spirits to their

graves. He ordered that the locked-up chamber should be opened, and all

its furniture burned--as no one would venture to make use of anything

therein--and he would try again what could be done.

So one night the reverend gentleman came over from Tresidder--where he

lived with his cousins the Tresillians;--a good number assembled; they

broke open Beaton's chamber-door, and began to throw out the furniture,

but they found it a more difficult job than was expected. Turns, chests,

chairs, tables, were soon cleared out, and a great hanging-press was

smashed to pieces, tossed through a window, and added to the blazing

pile on an open space fronting the house. They found it, however, no

such easy work to break up the grand carved-oak bedstead, which must

have been made and put together in the room, because neither its tester

nor its head would pass through the doorway. In this bed-head were two

deep recesses, ornamented at their backs and all around with carved

foliage, framing the names and ages of some old I'an or Ivan and his

wife, who probably had this bedstead made when their house was built.

High up on either side of these recesses, between them and the

tester--among flowers and creeping plants--were boldly carved faces,

supposed to be those of the family; they were all very much alike, with

peaked beards, wonderful high foreheads, and long noses,--straight as a

line. Bedding, rich hangings, and old raiment, very grand in their day,

were rotten and gone to dust. When all was at length cleared out and

blazing in the town-place, the parson entered to conclude his work by

sprinkling salted water all about; at the same time he repeated long

words, spells, or incantations in Latin, because that tongue was said to

be more respected by devils and restless spirits than any vulgar

dialect. He also performed other ceremonies, whose use and practice were

only known to learned divines.

But it is doubtful whether the reverend exorcist did any good on that

occasion. For whilst Treen folks made a bonfire of what had been the

I'an's furniture, he or the spirits raised an awful tempest; houses were

unroofed, walls blown down, and other damage done throughout the

neighbourhood and far away. Meanwhile, ghostly forms were seen and

unearthly voices heard, high up over flames and smoke, making derisive

shouts like demons' laughter. They seemed to enjoy the fun, whilst many

people cursed the parson for rising such a storm. One can't say how his

best endeavours failed to lay these unruly ghosts. But

"Perchance some form was unobserved,

Perchance in prayer or faith he swerved;"

for on the following night troops of spirits arrived at their accustomed

hour and made as much disturbance as ever. Then Mr. Corker--determined

to rout them--sought advice and assistance from the most remarkable

"spirit-queller" of that time, one parson Polkinghorne, who belonged to

some parish east of Penzance.

It was believed, of this Parson Polkinghorne, that no spirits walking

the earth could resist his spells, and that, when other exorcists failed

to obtain a mastery over an obdurate one, this gentleman no sooner

joined them than the poor ghosts would exclaim--like that of old Squire

Harris, of Kenegie--"Now, Polkinghorne, thee art come and I must be

gone!" And he at once sent the shadow off to its grave and there

confined it for evermore.

One night, a week or so after the unsuccessful attempt, the two

parsons--arrayed in their priestly vestments, bearing large books and a

coil of new hempen cord--arrived at the haunted house's door, and

requested all the inmates to quit it before they entered, and not to

attempt to hear or see anything that might take place, nor to re-enter

their dwellings for that night. When all the living inhabitants had left

the house, the reverend exorcists entered it; but how they worked to get

control over these troublesome spirits nobody knew but themselves, as

they were no more seen till an hour or so after midnight, when they

issued forth and took their way to Church-town, with the bound spirits

in their company (it is supposed), and, having finished their work in

the graveyard, they, about daybreak, aroused the inmates of the

"Scaw-tree" inn, made a hearty breakfast, and returned to Tresidder.

Now, 'tis said that this Parson Polkinghorne had power, also, over the

spirits of air, or whatever they be, that usually raise the wind, when

ghosts are laid; for on this night all was so quietly done that the

weather was not, for a wonder, uncommonly stormy. The I'an's ghosts,

however, were settled, that's certain; they met with their match at

last, and quitted their old habitation for good. From that night their

old house was quiet and remained so for a few years, then part of it was

again haunted by the ghost of a crazy spinster called 'Bitha (Tabitha)

who also became insane from grief at her sweetheart's untimely end. But

this spirit gave little trouble, compared with the former ones, and took

its departure in a few years, of its own accord; at least we never heard

of anything having being done to "lay" it.

* * * * *

About sixty years ago these almost forgotten traditions were revived.

One Sunday afternoon, in summer time, a carriage arrived in Treen,

stopped near the I'an's house, and a middle-aged gentleman stepped from

the conveyance just as an old man drew near, who saluted the visitor,

and asked if he would be pleased to accept of his services to show him

the Castle? The stranger replied, in but indifferent English, that he

would like to know if there were any remains in Treen of an ancient

mansion, or castle, that once belonged to a family called I'an or Ivan,

as he spelt it for Uncle George, who was a most intelligent old guide

and the best chronicler of Treen.

"Why, there's the dwelling," said he, "that old people always called

the I'an's house, though young ones, thinking to improve the name, have

lately called it the John's house; but no family called Johns were ever

proprietors of it that I ever heard of."

The gentleman looked at the old house, and said that he expected to find

a much grander one.

"Yet, in its day, that was considered far above the common," Uncle

George remarked; "and it must have cost much to build when no

wheel-carriages were in use, and timber had to be dogged (dragged) many

miles through narrow lanes, and stones and other materials were carried

on drays, or on horses' backs. Besides, where you see nothing now but

pigs'-crows and turf-ricks," continued he, in conducting the visitor

towards the house, "there was once a large green-court; and at the back

where you will find little else but dung-pits and heaps of rubbish,

there were more buildings belonging to the house, with a large walled

garden and a rabbit warren beyond."

The gentleman then informed his guide that he was a descendant of an old

Catholic family who, between two or three centuries ago, owned a Castle

in Treen and much land in that neighbourhood, if such traditions and

documents as were preserved in his family might be credited--that he

resided in Brittany, to which place his ancestors had hence removed at a

time when Catholics were much persecuted here--that, being in England on

business and curious to see his family's ancient home, he had come to

Treen for that purpose--and that he would also like to know if there

were any tombstone inscriptions, or other records of them, in St. Levan

Church. Besides, he said, that others of his family had long been

desirous to know something of a place respecting which they had many

curious traditions. Moreover, he informed the old man that the name

usually spelt I'an was an abbreviation of Ivan and equivalent to Juan or

plain John; the confusion in, or the various modes of, spelling took

place, probably, before J and U replaced I and V, but still the old

pronunciation was retained. [The same applies to many old French names

here, that seem to be spelt one way, and pronounced differently. Take

Lanyon as a familiar example, pronounced Lanine.] This Breton gentleman,

whom we may call M. Ivan, as he spelt his name in full, when shown

through the old house was much disappointed to find its interior a mere

wreck, with little to show that it had ever been a gentleman's

residence, except a few fragments of carved wainscot and ornamental

plaster-work in an apartment that had been a portion of hall or parlour

in olden time. It seems the "gentil Breton" had heard much of Castle

Treyn, and 'Uncle' was much diverted and surprised to find that he

thought it was a grand building situated in the village, and hinted that

it might have been his ancestor's residence.

"Faix! they must have been the giants then," said the old man to

himself, "for I never heard of anybody else who ever lived there."

And, in answer to M. Ivan's enquiries where the Castle was and if any of

it was still standing, "still standing, sir," he exclaimed. "I believe

'e, faith, and stand it will till Doomsday, unless one can get out of a

rock the Castle-key; but when that is done, as Merlin prophecied, all

will sink into the sea, whence it was raised by enchantment, they say,

with the giants who dwelt there of yore. But the Castle isn't here in

town; it's down to cliff," continued he, showing the way; "and we can

travel there across the fields, if you please, while your carriage can

go out the lane and await 'e in Pedny-vounder cliff, if so be that you

would like to ride to Church-town."

As there were many interesting objects to be seen by the way, the

gentleman decided to walk to St. Levan Church also, and his conveyance

remained in Treen. In passing the fields Uncle George said, "Old folk,

who are dead and gone, always held (and I believe it for truth) that

people seldom lived in Castle Treen, or in any of our cliff or

hill-castles, for more than a few days at a time; and that was when they

had to seek refuge there for their old people, women, and children, with

their flocks and other property, from the Danes and other northern

robbers who used to land at Parcurno, Penberth, and elsewhere, to ravage

the country, carry off women, and do worse mischief than that, if the

hair that crops up every now and then in some families may be taken as

evidence. But the red-haired pirates were soon put to rout, and then

nobody remained in our stronghold of Treen Dynas except a man to keep

watch from Castle Peak."

He might have remarked, too, that the old proprietors of Treen held to a

tradition that Kaerkeis bowjey and barn were as old as the Castle, and

were built in that out-of-the-way place for the purpose of storing

fodder for cattle near the stronghold against an invasion. They also

believed that valuables were, at such times, hastily buried in the

Castles; those who secreted the property being slain, nobody knew where

to find it. As a proof of the probability of such a belief, within the

old guide's remembrance, about the quantity of two quarts of ancient

Roman and other coins were found within or near Castle Maen. The coins

were simply placed in a pile, on a flat stone, and enclosed by three

others set on edge and capped. The whole was buried in a bank of earth

and small stones that formed part of an old hedge or gurgo. Probably

some of these coins may still be found among old folks of Sennen. The

writer had many of them, when too young to know the value of such

interesting objects.

Having passed the fields and ascended the rising ground beyond, M. Ivan

asked where the Castle was--he could behold nothing like a building

between them and the sea, towards which they had shaped their course.

"We are already within it," replied the venerable guide, "and have

passed the outer wall through a breach where it is levelled and the

ditch filled in to make a road. I ought to have pointed it out to 'e.

The outer mound is little short of half a mile long. Hundreds of

cartloads of stones have been carried away from the walls for building

houses and hedges. Yet on Kaerkeis side, where it isn't easily reached,

some of it is still pretty perfect; except, indeed, where our youngsters

have bowled the stones over cliff for their Sunday afternoon's sport;

and it would be just as well, or better, 'seeman' to me, that they were

allowed to have their wrestling and hurling-matches at such times, to

keep them from doing mischief, like they had in their great-grandfars'

days, when folks were quite as good, and to my 'seeman,' better than

they are now, for all that constables do and duffans say."

We can't follow the old guide through the long story he used to relate

of what passed between him and the Armorican gentleman. Having shown the

Castle and related the legends of giants, small people, &c., connected

with this enchanted spot, they passed along the cliff to St. Levan

Church. Service was over and the congregation dispersed, but the

church-door key being kept at the inn, they inspected the church to see

if any memorial of the I'ans was to be found, but nothing connected with

them was observed in carved shields or bench-ends, nor elsewhere. Parish

registers--if any remained two centuries old--he had no opportunity to

see.

They also visited St. Levan's Well and Chapel. The old man pointed out a

long flight of steps that may still be traced best part of the way from

the spring to the ancient chapel's site. The gentleman took particular

interest in the ancient cliff oratories, with their holy wells, and in

every spot along their way hallowed by saintly legend. In returning from

Chapel-Curno, as the little oratory over Parcurno used to be called,

they were met at the foot of Carnole hill by a gentleman of Penzance,

who used occasionally to preach at the Methodist Chapel in Sowah. This

gentleman often returned thence to Treen (where he usually remained over

night) by way of St. Levan Church and along the cliffs. He knew Uncle

George very well; for they often disputed about what the old man styled

a new-fashioned religion. Yet they were always great friends.

The gentlemen were introduced and walked together to Treen. By the way

M. Ivan related how curiosity had led him to visit Treen, and that he

was, on the whole, gratified with his visit, though quite taken down in

his exaggerated ideas (as transmitted by family traditions) of their

former importance here; and thought the foregoing tragic story, which

the old man related in part, just as probable a reason for his

ancestor's departure as that of religious persecution; yet he believed

they were always attached to, and held, the old faith. When they arrived

at Treen he handsomely rewarded the intelligent old guide, and was about

to leave when the preaching gentleman proposed for M. Ivan to take tea

with him at the house where he put up. The invitation was accepted, and

he was regaled with bread, cream, and honey--the produce of what was

once his family's acres.

* * * * *

Mr. Richard Edmonds remarks that "Treryn Castle, Maen Castle, Chûn

Castle, Castle-an-Dinas, and several other cliff-castles, and

hill-castles, in the Land's End district, have been in existence

probably between two and three thousand years. And Treryn Castle, with

its high massive vallum, deep ditch, and the foundations of its stone

wall, twelve feet thick, presents so little temptation either to the

agriculturist or to the builder, that its existing remains, vast as they

are, need no Society's protection for their continued duration for

generations yet to come.

All castles, of course, do, or did once contain dwellings of some kind

for their occupants. But the low huts which once stood within the

castles near Penzance (although considerable remains of such dwellings

in Chûn Castle were extant in Borlase's time) have now almost everywhere

disappeared. It was not, however, from these rude huts, but from the

fortifications enclosing them, that our very ancient castles derived

their name; and not one of them, at the present day, appears more worthy

of being thus called than at Treryn Castle."

[Illustration]

CASTLE TREEN AND ITS LEGENDS.

"I cannot tell how the truth may be,

I say the tale as 'twas said to me."

SCOTT.

Old traditions say that the headlands of Castle Treen, or rather

Trereen, on which the Logan Rock carn and adjacent crags stand, was

raised out of the sea by enchantment. This portion of the stronghold,

enclosed by the inner line of defence, running directly across the

isthmus, is generally spoken of as _The Castle_, and that between it and

the outer or landward embankments is usually called Treen Dynas.

THE KEY OF THE CASTLE.

It is not known what powerful magician raised this giant's hold, though

it was believed that its security depended on a magic stone called "the

key of the Castle," respecting which Merlin had something to say, as

well as about many other remarkable stones in the neighbourhood. Castle

Treen, however, must have stood where it is long before Arthur and his

magician visited West Cornwall.

The key was an egg-shaped stone, between two and three feet long, which

was contained in the cavity of a rock with a hole facing the sea,

through which it might be turned round; and the opening appeared large

enough for it to be passed through. Many attempted to get it out, but

they always found it to hitch somewhere; and lucky (according to old

folks' faith) that it did, because the sage Merlin prophecied that when

the key of the Castle was taken out of the hole, Men Amber (the holy

rock) would be overthrown, the Castle sink beneath the ocean, and other

calamities occur.

The key was situated near the bottom of a deep chasm called The Gap,

which is passed on approaching the Logan Rock by the usual path. It

required a sure-footed climber, of strong nerve, to reach it, and this

could only be done from land, at low water, or nearly so.

Surging waves occasionally changed the position of this magic stone, and

from the direction of its smaller end, as it lay in a trough of water,

prognostics were drawn with regard to the seasons, &c.

Few persons had sufficient hardihood to descend the precipitous cliff

and risk being caught in The Gap by a flowing tide; and the key of the

Castle remained a mysterious and venerated object till Goldsmith's

mischievous tars, or the dockyard men who were employed in erecting

machinery to replace Men Amber (as the stone they overthrew was formerly

called) heard of it and the traditions connected therewith. Then, one

day, some of these wretches, on farther mischief bent, entered The Gap

in a boat, and, being provided with crow bars, they broke away the edges

of the rock that enclosed the key, ripped it out, and tumbled it down

among the sea-washed pebbles! Some calamity has surely befallen these

wretches ere this, or Bad Luck is a mere name, and powerless as an

avenging deity.

Part of Merlin's prophecy was fulfilled, however, yet not in the order

predicted.

The venerated nodule was what is called, among miners, a "bull's eye,"

or "pig's egg," of large size. It appeared to be a closer-grained and

harder stone than what surrounded it.

GIANTS OF CASTLE TREEN.

The earliest inhabitants of this stronghold were giants who protected

the neighbouring people in return for cattle and other necessaries with

which the last-named provided their powerful friends, as was usual here

in olden times.

An aged giant, his childless wife, and their adopted son, are the only

ones of whom connected traditions are handed down by old folks of Treen.

Not only this giant (how we wish the chroniclers had preserved his name)

and his wife but all people who depended on his protection, particularly

those of Treen and bordering places, were much grieved and disappointed

when they found their giant and giantess were middle-aged and had no

children who would aid them in old age and perpetuate the race.

The giantess, having no household to think about, grew, as most

unemployed women do, peevish and troublesome. The giant, having little

or no work to occupy himself with, grew fat and lazy. Quiet and

good-tempered as he was, he was dreadfully tormented by his wife. She

called him a lazy, useless old loon; and said he was too fat, and didn't

take exercise enow. When he had nothing else to employ himself about, in

peaceful times, she told him that he should log the rock, for a few

hours every day, to stretch his sinews and make his blood circulate

brisker, instead of dozing away all day and night in his chair, which

may still be seen. "Go thee way'st," said she; "swim over to the Dollar

Rocks, it's only two miles or so; dive round them and catch me a few

good big congers; I want their fat to make a cake. And the pollock and

cod that feed among the ore-weed thereabouts are excellent eating."

The dissatisfied woman's advice was sometimes taken. He would swim away,

and, in an hour or two, bring her home a string of fish of a furlong's

length.

Then he would log Men Amber for a bit. This he could easily do with the

tip of his finger, when standing on the grass below it; for the rock is

only 30 feet or so from the grass, and Treen giant stood at least 40

feet high, without his boots. He was stout in proportion, and his

strength of arm was prodigious. Sometimes, with his staff, he kept the

sacred stone in motion when seated in his chair, just opposite it. But

often it happened, when getting through his exercise by the latter mode,

that he fell asleep, long ere the sand was down in his wife's

hour-glass. And then she, the faggot, would pelt her quiet husband with

rocks, heaps of which may still be seen, lying loose, just as they flew

from her hand and dropped at no great distance from the poor giant's

chair. He would wake up, with a sore head, to hear her say, in a voice

like a bellowing bull, "Stop thy snoring, thou confounded old fool, and

work away, west ah? or I'll pommel thy noddle to browse."

"What the deuce shall I do to stop her tongue and cure her temper? Can

'e tell me, my good people?" He would often say to Treen folks and

others, who visited him of a summer's evening; "she's the most

troublesome woman I ever heard of!"

All kinds of employment were suggested. In those days everybody thought

he could manage a discontented wife, were he her husband; but actually

to do it was difficult.

"Why should she fret and fume for lack of children," he used to say to

his Treen neighbours, "and what need have you either, in those peaceful

times, to care whether we have descendants or no?"

Potent reasons were given both by giantess and people why they desired

that their chief's race should be continued. Charms and other means were

used in order to obtain the desired result.

Yet much time passed, and their rock-hewn cradle was still empty, when

a happy thought struck a wise man of Treen. He advised that a baby

should be _stolen_ from the giant of Maen, who had a large family, and

was, moreover, a very troublesome and aggressive neighbour--if one may

credit stories of his hurling the rocks against Treen giant, which are

still to be seen at Skewjack Moor, on the bounds of their two domains.

One may judge of Maen giant's stature by the size of his bed, bowls,

spoon, and other utensils, that remained in a lane on Treve, at a short

distance from Sennen Church, a few years ago, and some of them may be

there still.

Our giant and his wife were delighted with the sage man's advice. To

steal a baby from the big man who was proud of his stronghold between

Pen-von-las (Land's End) and Pedn-men-du (Black Stone Headland) would be

capital revenge on him and his. "Then how nice it will be for me," said

the giant's wife, "to sit on the Logan stone with the cheeld in my arms,

of summer afternoons, when the waves sing lullaby, and my old man can

rock us both till the dear baby falls asleep. Or he may dandle it in his

arms atop of Castle Peak, or jump with it thence, from carn to carn, to

Gamp-an-sees rocks and back again, whilst I skin an ox for our supper,

and you, my good people, can bring us down plenty of milk to nurse him

on, that he may grow apace."

A wise woman, or witch of Treen, who could take any shape, was selected

as the most likely person to execute their project without causing any

stir with Maen giant, who was very fierce, and proud of his descent from

old blustering Bellerus, who was said to have lived thereabouts in days

of yore.

One afternoon away went the witch, and, without being noticed on the

road, reached Cairn-men-ellas, where she hid herself between rocks to

watch. A little before sunset she saw a giant's child, of four years or

so, coming that way with some common people's children, who wanted to

show him how to play _bob_. Now the infant giant, though as big as an

ordinary man, was still a baby in every feature, and he hadn't been long

weaned; he still wore a bib, though he had out-grown his clothes, and

his frock and saveall (pinafore) scarcely reached to his knees. The

common boys and girls, from ten to a dozen years of age--like children

in size to him--led about the great _slab_, as they termed him, and did

with him just as they pleased.

The woman, seeing them place buttons (and they hadn't many) on the bob,

took from her basket a string of large bright ones, shook them before

the giant baby, and said, "Now kiss me, dear, and I will give 'e all

these." He kissed her again and again, delighted to have the buttons.

Over awhile she said, "The tides are low and I am on my way to get

lempots (limpets) and gweans (winkles) from Cowloe; will 'e go, dears?"

The elder ones said it was then too late--they must be all home to

Treve before sundown, or their mammies would strap them soundly and send

them to bed without supper. But the babe-giant said, "I'll go, for I

want some gweans to play _five-stones_, and lempots too, that my da may

shoe the cats with croggans (limpet-shells) and codgey-wax

(cobblers'-wax). He do dearly like that fun, and my ma do never beat

me."

"Come along then, my turtle," said the witch, as she took his hand and

led him off.

On the way she took from her basket many toys and showed him how to play

with them. This pleased him, so that he thought no more of Cowloe, and

she led him away over the Green to Brew Moors, where, to divert him she

changed herself into the shape of a horse, and he trotted on her a mile

or more, when she resumed her woman's form, and led him into Castle

Treen, where he was received with open arms by the mistress.

It would take long to tell how he was caressed by the childless pair and

fed by their people.

He often reposed, during his infancy, in a small chair that may still be

seen near the large one in which the giant usually rested--the one just

opposite the Logan Rock; and, until he grew too big, he frequently slept

in the giant's arms.

At sunrise in summer the old giant delighted to carry him up to Castle

Peak, where he placed the infant to stand on the topmost stone, which

was much higher then than now, and named to him all the noted places

within ken. After turning him round that he might behold the magnificent

prospect on either hand of wild, sea-lashed headlands in the distance,

and noble carns towering near, he would exclaim, "My dear boy, who

wouldn't be proud of such a home as this? Believe me, dear son, in all

this western land--from the Lizard Point, that you see yonder, to

Pedn-Penwith, which lies under the setting sun--there is not another

giant who owns a place equal to Castle Treen; and all shall be thine, my

darling, when I am dead and gone."

When the sun shone warm he took baby down to the Castle Leas, near the

Gap. This was his favourite fishing place, where a deep pit may still be

seen in which he pounded _browse_, that was cast on the water to entice

in fish. From these rocks, at the water's edge, the giant, like a

monstrous dolphin, stretched on the sea with the boy standing on his

broad back, and holding on by the hair of his head like bridle-reins

with both hands, would swim out and round to the Sees--the rock that

stands like an island in Gampar, (Close or Little Cove), just under

Hal-dynas, and at the eastern end of the outer mound of his fortress.

Having rested there awhile and given the cheeld a few shags' eggs,

limpets, mussels, and such like dainties, back they would steer, but

farther out; and, coasting all the seaboard of his Castle, land in Par

Pry.

When a few years older the giant taught his big boy to fish from the

rocks with rod and line, showed him how to make fish-hooks out of bones

and _croggan_-rims--as boys out there do now, or did not long ago. In

giants' times they hadn't a bit of iron, not even so much as a nail. The

giantess with her distaff and spindle, spun them yarn that served for

lines.

It wasn't much, however, that the giant knew to teach the youngster.

Like all of great bulk he had more strength than knowledge, for as we

say, "The best goods are bound up in the smallest bundles."

Meanwhile the giantess took care that the boy had an unlimited quantity

of food, that he might eat and drink whenever he choose. Over a few

years he was nearly equal in bulk to his new Dadda, as he called the old

giant.

We like to linger over these pleasant times, for the old Titan when he

took much delight in his charge. But alas! the sequel must be told in

sorrow and tears for female frailty.

We don't like to--and indeed we wont--repeat all the stories handed

down, which for the most part are highly unfavourable to the moral

character of Treen Giantess, for fear of slandering her unwittingly. Yet

it is no worse than she deserves to say that all traditions agree in

representing her as a most abandoned female in her latter years.

All her care and attention were bestowed on the boy and she neglected

her old husband, so that he had to dive for fish, and skin oxen, (or eat

them skin, horns, and all). Sheep he could seldom get; they were

dainties reserved for the young fellow. The poor old giant was often

driven to such extremities that, to appease hunger, which makes brutes

of the best of men, he was fain to stay his stomach on ore-weed.

To add insult to injury she often taunted her aged spouse with his

weakness, which was the consequence of her neglect, and cut him to the

heart by making unfavourable comparisons between him and the pampered

youth who could now log the rock from sitting on the grass; and that was

more, as the giantess told her husband, than he could do in the best of

his time.

Worst of all, her maternal love then changed into a passion that, all

things considered, one might even now, in these times of lax morality

and free-love, regard as reprehensible.

The poor old giant was slow to become jealous, till he found himself

utterly forsaken by his spouse and adopted son, who always stole away to

sunny glades between the carns to play by themselves. That would have

passed, however, without notice,--he rather liked to be left alone, to

dose in his chair of afternoons--had not some Treen women, who were

sharp in such things, spied what was going on, and, out of envy, told

the old giant. He then became very surly and gave the doting pair much

annoyance by coming on them unawares when they withdrew to enjoy their

amorous diversion. They had seldom much comfort then, except when the

old fellow left his castle to get provision.

One winter's day, when he was about to start for this purpose, he told

his wife and the youngster that one of them should meet him on his way

back to assist in taking home whatever he might procure.

They promised to do so, but time passed so pleasantly with the couple

that they thought but little of their good old provider till they heard

his footsteps and angry voice, about a quarter of a mile off, as he came

stamping along Pedn-y-vounder cliff vowing vengeance on his ungrateful

wife and foster-son.

They became somewhat frightened, and the "strollop" of a giantess,

knowing that "the first blow was half the battle," prepared for the

encounter by placing herself on the rocks west of the Gap, a dozen feet

or so above the narrow path which the giant would have to pass. He came

stamping along, an ox on his shoulders (its legs were tied together and

passed over his head,) and on each arm he carried a sheep

basket-fashion, their trotters bound with their spans.

He roared louder than the stormy breakers when he entered his castle's

inner enclosure and found that no one, even then, came to meet him. In

his fury he bounced along without noticing his wicked rib, with her

bared arm and clenched fist, awaiting his approach, and as he came along

the narrow ledge she dealt him a blow in his eyes, as he glanced towards

her, that sent him, cattle and all, heels over head down the precipice.

When she beheld him falling a remembrance of their early loves, or

something else, caused a sudden revulsion of feeling, which made her

regret her rashness, and, unwilling to witness her husband's dying

agony, she stepped back westward, about twenty paces, on to a level

stone between high rocks, where she stood still and cast her apron over

her head that she might hear less of the giant's awful moans. Though the

giant's skull was very thick it was badly smashed on the boulders; yet

he didn't die until he called on the Powers whom he served to avenge

him, which they did instantly by changing his vile partner into stone,

where she stood and where she may still be seen. The old giant, in his

dying moments, thought of the young one more in sorrow than in anger--he

couldn't in his heart feel very bitter against the simple-innocent

hobble-de-hoy, and regarded his wife as the seducer.

Nothing more is known of the young giant, and but little of any others

of the Titan race that in mythic ages dwelt in Castle Treen.

Of late the Giant's Lady, as she was formerly called, has been named the

Logan Rock's Lady by those who are ignorant of our old traditions. When

tempests rage, or anything else excites her, she rocks to and fro; but

her movements are languid with age or sorrow. Pitiless storms have so

beaten on her head for ages that one can't make out a feature, and her

fair proportions are so mutilated that one can scarce discern a

semblance of her gigantic form in the time-worn granite mass. She

appears, indeed, of pigmy stature compared with her husband. If,

however, she had never been larger than her stone image now appears the

story is none the less credible on that score. For do we not, every day,

see mere midges of women united with giants of men, according to our

reduced scale?

DAN DYNAS.

Old folks held--and long tradition made it pass for true--that the outer

wall of Castle Treen was built by a deaf-and-dumb giant, called Dan

Dynas, or, as some say, Den-an-Dynas, assisted by his wife An' (aunt)

Venna, who broke up the ditch, filled her leathern towser (large apron)

with the soil, and put it for _filling_ behind the rocks, as her husband

rolled them into their places. When they had thus constructed a

stronghold, in which people with their tin and cattle were safe from

marauding pirates, the giantess and other women collected hundreds of

cartloads of stones into heaps, near the mound, ready and handy for

slinging at, or to hurl down on, the heads of besiegers. When an

incursion happened to be made An' Venna, with the women and old men,

defended the fortress, whilst Dan and his fighting men slew the enemy or

drove them to sea. The ruins of this good couple's handiwork may still

be traced from Par Pry, on the southern side, to the inlet of Gampar, or

Hal-dynas Cove, towards the east.

A descendant of old proprietors of Treen informed me that a great

quantity of stones remained, in piles, within and near the embankment,

until after wheel carriages came into use. Although this part of the

cliff was then common few persons cared to remove them, and none durst

take a stone from the castle walls for fear Bad Luck would pursue any

one who disturbed the giant's work. But of late years, great portions of

this ancient rampart have been demolished and its facing-stones carried

away for building.

It is also related--though the story seems somewhat fabulous--that this

deaf-and-dumb giant would stand on Carnole and thence sink invading

ships, entering Parcurno, by hurling rocks on them, or he wrecked them,

when at a distance, with huge stones discharged from slings made of

bulls' hides. When the people couldn't charge his instruments of war as

quickly as he wanted them, he would roar like thunder, make signs to

stand clear, kick the rocks up out of the ground, smash them to handy

pieces, and fire away again.

Like all other West Country giants he was very fond of old-fashioned

games, and was delighted when youngsters came down to Kaer Keis of an

afternoon to play cook (quoits) or keals (nine-pins) with him; but he

could never understand the weakness of ordinary mortals' frames; for, in

caressing his playmates, he now and then broke their ribs or cracked

their sculls--to his great grief and greater surprise. We may remark

that, although some Cornish giants have been misrepresented as little

better than savage cannibals--Cormovan of the Mount to wit--all

traditional giant stories, in this district, describe them as amiable

protectors of the common folks who lived near their castles. They were,

however, almost invariably, stupid and often did mischief unwittingly by

having more strength than sense; therefore, it is shameful to defame

those ancient heroes and ascribe to them such vile traits as are not

warranted by our popular stories.

THE SMALL PEOPLE (FAIRIES).

When our giants and other antique people left their human bodies they

continued to dwell in their old homes down almost to our times. As they

had no idea of any life but a carnal existence on earth, they were

permitted to live there as spriggans (elves) and they seemed to have

enjoyed themselves, in their small way, by imitating mortals' pleasures.

Old folks, only just departed, often witnessed their gambols amongst

the carns of Castle Treen.

Fishermen, when becalmed near Pedn-y-vounder cliff, of summer's nights,

frequently saw thousands of gaily-dressed little people, with lights,

moving about in what looked like beautiful gardens that extended, in

some places, down almost to high-water mark. At the same time low but

lively music, and the scents of sweet flowers, would be wafted over the

water. The fishers, however, hastily made off whenever such fairy

melodies and odours reached their boats. These haunts are screened from

view, landward, by towering crags. Steep precipices render them

inaccessible on the sea-side; though they may be seen from the water,

during summer months, gay with cliff-pinks and other flowers in places

that not even a goat could reach.

Treasure-seekers, when digging in nooks and corners among the Castle

carns, have been scared away even by day with ill-favoured looking fays

of nearly human size; and the same uncouthly-formed elves have often

been seen wrestling, hurling, and playing other games on a level place

near Hal-dynas; but there is no special story relating to them that we

ever heard.

ST. LEVAN WITCHES.

In days of yore ugly old hags that sold themselves to Satan merely to

have their "spite out" on their neighbours, or to ride on a broomstick

and play pranks but little known except among themselves, made the

Castle crags their resort. When all the neighbouring witches were

assembled they scampered up to the platform on the top of Castle Peak,

mounted their ragworts or brooms, and took flight over to Wales to milk

Taffy's cows and steal his leeks. Those who lived in Roskestal, and

other places over that way, took their departure from Pedn-pen-with. On

their return each one alighted, with all her plunder, in some convenient

place near her dwelling. 'Tis said that, in old times, the people of

this neighbourhood were much addicted to sorcery, and, from their skill

in the black art, they acquired and still retain the name of St. Levan

Witches.

[Illustration]

TRADITIONS OF PARCURNO.

A ghostly ship, with a ghostly crew,

In tempests she appears;

And before the gale, or against the gale,

She sails without a rag of sail;

Without a helmsman steers.

LONGFELLOW.

Not long since a general belief prevailed in the western parishes that

in ancient times Parcurno was the principal port of Cornwall, and that,

until the Cove became "sanded up" there was sufficient depth of water to

float the largest ships then made, in to the foot of an old caunce

(paved road) which may still be seen.

One old story ascribes the choking of Parcurno and Parchapel to the

mischievous spirit Tregeagle, who was sent to Gwenvor Cove and there

required to remain until he made a truss of sand--to be bound with ropes

spun of the same--and carried it to a rock above high-water mark. For

many years he toiled in vain at his task, and his howling would be heard

for many miles away when winds or waves scattered the sand he had piled

up during low water.

One very frosty night, however, by pouring water from Velan-Dreath brook

over his truss he succeeded in making it hold together and bore it to a

rock above the flow of spring tides.

Then, as some say, that very night, as he took his way over or along the

coast towards Helston, to revisit and torment those who raised him from

the grave, by way of showing his exultation at having completed his

task, or for mere deviltry perhaps, he swept all the sand out of

Nanjisel and around Pedn-pen-with into Parcurno and adjacent coves,

without letting any enter Pargwartha.

Another tradition says that sweeping the sand from Nanjisel to the east

of Tol-pedn was assigned to Tregeagle as a separate task.

After this exploit the troublesome spirit was again sent to Gwenvor to

make a truss of sand. There he remains toiling to this day--unable to

perform what is required in order to regain his liberty, because he was

bound not to use Velan-Dreath water or any other.

There is also a very old belief that spectre ships frequently visited

Parcurno, both before and since its navigable channel became filled with

sand, and that they were often seen sailing up and down the valley, over

dry land the same as on the sea.

These naval apparitions were, in olden times, regarded as "tokens" that

enemies were about to make a descent; the number of phantom vessels

foreboded the sea-robbers' approaching force.

This presage of yore was held for truth by many old folks but lately

deceased; yet latterly it has somehow changed its character and become

connected with the history of a person who, little more than a hundred

years ago, lived in a lone house called Chygwidden, about a mile inland

from Parcurno. This comparatively modern story also accounts for the

sand shifting, and has appropriated old traditions that had no

connection therewith.

It relates that, long ago, Chygwidden was the chief dwelling-place of a

family who flourished in St. Levan for a few generations and then all

its branches became so reduced, through riotous living, as to be obliged

to mortgage and sell much of their freehold lands.

The eldest and only son, by a former wife, of old Martin T----, who

lived there, took to a seafaring life when about twenty, on account of

cruel treatment received from his drunken father and a step-dame several

years younger than himself. On leaving he vowed that he would never

return whilst one lived who then darkened his father's doors.

Many years passed, and as no tidings had been received of young Martin,

as he was still called, most persons believed him dead. In the meantime,

his father, the step-dame, and her children, having all died within a

few years of each other, a distant relative, as heir-at-law, had taken

possession of what little property remained, and lived in Chygwidden.

Some ten years after the decease of all who had lived under old Martin's

roof when his eldest son was driven thence, a large ship hove-to within

a mile of Parcurno on a fine afternoon in harvest time.

People working in fields near the cliff noticed the unusual circumstance

and saw a boat leave the ship with two men, who landed in Parcurno with

several chests and other goods, and the ship proceeded on her course.

It was evident that one of those who came on shore was well acquainted

with the place, as he struck at once into a pathway over the cliff which

led, by a short cut, to Rospeltha, where he made himself known as young

Martin T---- and procured horses and other help to take several heavy

chests and bales to Chygwidden.

There was great rejoicing when it was known that the wanderer had at

length returned to claim his own. His kinsfolks--a young man and his

sister Eleanor, a damsel in her teens--were ready to resign possession,

but Martin then cared little for house or land, and told them to keep

the place and welcome, for all he desired was to have a home there for

himself and his comrade whilst they remained, which he thought would

only be for a short spell. His tastes had changed with change of scene.

The place that he had once deemed the fairest on earth--but then he had

seen no more of it than was visible from the nearest high hill--now

appeared dreary; and the people whom--those of his own family

excepted--he once thought the best in the world now seemed a forlorn set

of consequential, grimly-religious nobodies to him, and above all to his

mate, who, by-the-bye, requires more particular notice than we have yet

bestowed on him.

Martin found the people, also, much altered from what they were in his

youthful days, for about the time of his return a new sect had sprung up

whose members, professing uncommon godliness, decried our ancient games

and merry-makings, which were wont on holidays to unite all ages and

classes. Their condemnation caused them to fall into disuse; and, on

account of the censorious and intolerant spirit which then prevailed,

there was much less heartiness and cordial intercourse amongst

neighbours than formerly.

In a short time, however, Martin, now called by most persons "The

Captain," became reconciled--one can't say attached--to his native place

and the "humdrum West Country folks," as he styled them, who marvelled

at his riches and the change which had taken place in his outward mien

and manner. Yet the homely people's surprise at the alteration in Martin

was nothing to their wonder, allied to fear, excited by his dusky

companion or slave, for no one knew in what relation they stood to each

other.

This stranger was seen to be a robust man, about thirty years of age

apparently, with a swarthy complexion, many shades darker than the

Captain's Spanish-mahogany tinted skin. Martin called this man José or

mate, and he rarely spoke a word of English (though he could when he

pleased) or addressed anyone but Martin, with whom he always conversed

in some outlandish lingo which seemed more natural to the Captain than

his mother tongue. A tantalizing mystery shrouded the dark "outlander;"

for his master or friend would never answer any queries respecting him.

He was almost equally silent with regard to buccaneering or other

adventures, and rarely spoke of anything that occurred either at home or

abroad during his absence. The two strange beings often came to high

words and even to blows, but they would never allow anyone to meddle in

their quarrels. When Martin was drunk and off his guard he would now and

then ease his mind by swearing at his mate in plain English, or grumble

at him in the same, to the effect that he had risked his life and spent

a fortune to save him from being hanged at the yard-arm. "Discontented

devil of a blackamoor," he would say, "why canst thou not be satisfied

to live here? Thou art bound to me body and soul; and do I not indulge

thee with everything gold can purchase?"

José would sometimes murmur "Avast there; all our gold and diamonds

can't procure us here the bright sunshine and joyous people, nor the

rich fruits and wine, of my native clime."

He seldom, however, made other reply than by gloomy looks or fiery

glances which soon recalled Martin to his senses. It was remarked that

after these outbursts of passion he was for a long while like the humble

slave of his mate.

The boat in which they landed was kept at Parcurno, except for short

spells during stormy times of the year, when she was put into Penberth

or Pargwartha for greater safety; and, weeks together, they would remain

out at sea night and day till their provisions were used; then they

would come in, their craft laden with fish, and this cargo was free to

all-comers. Stormy weather seldom drove them to land; they seemed to

delight in a tempest.

Before winter came they procured a good number of hounds, and great part

of the hunting season was passed by them in coursing over all parts of

the West Country. Often of winter's nights, people far away would be

frightened by hearing or seeing these two wild-looking hunters and their

dogs chasing over some lone moor, and they gave rise to many a story of

Old Nick and his headless hounds.

When tired of the chase, weeks were often passed at a public-house in

Buryan Church-town. Martin treated one and all and scattered gold around

him like chaff. The tawny mate, however, at times restrained Martin's

lavish expenditure, took charge of his money-chests, and refused him the

keys.

José would occasionally condescend to express his wishes to Eleanor, who

was mistress of the rare establishment. She understood and humoured the

pair, who took pleasure in decking her in the richest stuffs and jewels

that their chests contained or that money could procure, and she

frequently stayed up alone best part of the night to await their return.

After being at home a year or so the Captain had a large half-decked

boat built, and several rocks removed in Parcurno to make a safer place

in which to moor her. They then took longer trips, and were not seen in

Chygwidden for months running. The two eccentric beings passed many

years in this way, and held but little intercourse with their

neighbours.

At length Martin perceived tokens of death, or what he took for such,

and made his man swear that when he saw signs of near dissolution he

would take him off to sea, let him die there, and send him to rest at

the ocean's bottom. He also bound his kinsman by oath not to oppose his

wishes, and invoked a curse on any one who would lay his dust beside the

remains of those who had driven him to range the wide world like a

vagabond.

They might have complied with his strange desires, but ere they could be

carried out he died in a hammock, suspended in his bed-room.

Now there comes a mystery, that is not likely to be cleared up.

It was known that a coffin,--followed by the cousins, José, and the

dogs, was taken to St. Levan Churchyard and buried near the ground in

which Martin's family lie. But it was rumoured that the coffin merely

contained earth to make weight.

The following night, however, the dark "outlander" had two chests

conveyed to Parcurno, the largest of which was said to contain the

remains of his friend, and the other money and valuables which belonged

to himself. The chests placed on board the half-decked vessel, José and

his favourite dog embarked, waited for the tide to rise, and put to sea;

but no one remained at the cove to behold their departure, and no more

was seen in the West of man, dog, or boat.

Eleanor disappeared on the funeral night and it was believed that she

left with the stranger, who was scarcely a league to sea ere a tempest

arose and continued with great fury for nearly a week; and, although it

was in winter, the sky of nights was all ablaze with lightning and the

days as dark as nights. During this storm Parcurno was choked with sand,

and no boat could be kept there since.

The tempest had scarcely lulled when an apparition of Martin's craft

would drive into Parcurno against wind and tide; oft-times she came in

the dusk of evening, and, without stopping at the Cove, took her course

up over the old caunce towards Chapel-Curno; thence she sailed away, her

keel just skimming the ground, or many yards above it, as she passed

over hill and dale till she arrived at Chygwidden.

The barque was generally shrouded in mist, and one could rarely get a

glimpse of her deck on which the shadowy figures of two men, a woman,

and a dog, were beheld now and then. This ship of the dead, with her

ghostly crew, hovered over the town-place a moment, then bore away to a

croft on the farm, and vanished near a rock where a large sum of foreign

coins was disinterred many years ago, so it is said. Of late the ghostly

ship has not been known to have entered Parcurno, and on account of

innovations recently effected there she may nevermore be seen in that

ancient port.

* * * * *

It may be observed that traditions of phantom-ships sailing overland

were common to many places near the Land's End with which no stories are

connected; these appearances were merely supposed to forebode tempests

and wrecks.

The few incidents which form the groundwork of the above legend occurred

but little more than a century before it was related to me by an aged

farm labourer of St. Levan; yet in that short space it has assumed such

a mystic garb that the simple and true story can scarcely be perceived

under its embellishments.

LEGENDS OF ST. LEVAN.

They had their lodges in the wilderness,

Or built them cells beside the shadowy sea,

And there they dwelt with angels, like a dream!

REV. R. S. HAWKER.

ST. LEVAN AND HIS SISTER.

An old habitation, in which, according to tradition, St. Levan dwelt, is

still standing. This humble dwelling, situated in Bodellan, is on the

eastern side of Parcurno Bottom, near its upper part within a hundred

yards of the road, towards which stands the end that contains its sole

fire-place. The hearth-stone may still be there, much as it was when St.

Levan's sister, the good midwife, St. Breage, cooked on it the fatal

chads which choked her children.

The story says that good old St. Levan was one evening down fishing

from his accustomed place in Rospeltha cliff--still called Old St.

Levan's Rocks. He cast in his hook-and-line, intending to take one fish

only for his supper, from the multitude that always came around the rock

on which he stood as soon as he cast in "browse" (garbage to attract

fish). Contrary to St. Levan's wish, two chads, or young breams,

fastened on his hook at the same time, and not to show favour to either

he threw both of them into the sea again. And no sooner was his

hook-and-line in the waves a second time than the same chads, or two

others, hooked themselves together again, and were again restored to the

sea. For the third time he cast in his line; and, seeing two fishes on

his hook again, he regarded this occurrence as a providential intimation

that he was to take them both home, and acted accordingly. When he came

to Bodellan he found that his sister, St. Breage, had just arrived with

two children. The chads were boiled for supper, and St. Breage's hungry

children, being careless of bones, got choked, and remembrance of this

event is handed down in St. Levan's parish by chads being there called

"chuck-cheeld" to this day.

Some thirty-five years ago the writer often noticed, on a bench-end in

St. Levan church, near the belfry door, a panel, or shield, on which two

fishes, with their heads touching each other, were carved in bold

relief. The fishes were much like chads, or young breams, in outline,

and the foregoing legend might have suggested this design, or the device

have originated the story. It is to be feared that this bench-end, and

much more tastefully-designed and boldly-wrought carving, disappeared

before the Rev. C. C. Anstey came to preserve and restore the

interesting remains of this once beautiful church. Loads of as fine

carved work, and no more decayed than what remains, were, from thirty or

forty years since, carried off by the carpenters, who were, every now

and then, employed to demolish the curious old oak benches, and to

replace them with painted deal boxes, in many variations of ugliness.

It is said that the path which St. Levan took across Rospeltha fields to

his accustomed fishing-place, may still be traced by the ground his holy

footsteps trod bearing finer grain when in corn, and by the grass being

greener when in pasture than in other parts of the fields.

JOHANNA'S GARDEN.

St. Levan road passed by a small enclosure in Rospeltha, called

Johanna's Garden, (at least it retained that name a few years ago when

the writer knew it well).

One Sunday morning the holy hermit, going down to cliff to get a fish

for his dinner, in passing by this garden saw a woman called Johanna

gathering pot-herbs. St. Levan rested the end of his rocking-rod on the

ground, stopped, and gave her a kindly greeting. But she, looking over

the hedge, exclaimed, "Oh sinful man that you are, for going a fishing

of a Sunday! Whatever can 'e think will become of 'e?"

"Self-righteous hypocrite that thou art," answered the saint, "in

looking for other people's faults thou canst not behold thine own. Think

not that thou--with thy fingers spread out and thy eyes turned up--art

better than others, for a more strict or a more lazy observance of

Sunday. And tell me," he continued, "sharp as thou art to mark others'

faults, and blind as thou art to thine own, wherefore should it be a sin

for me to take my daily fish from the sea any more than for thee to

gather herbs from thy garden?"

St. Levan said much more, but all in vain were his endeavours to bring

the woman to reason, for, in spite of all he could say, she would still

have the last word and contend that there was more sin in catching fish

than in picking greens of a Sunday.

At last the good man being provoked by her obstinacy, pretended piety,

and conceited clack, raised his hand and cursed her, saying, "From this

time, for ever, thou shalt be known, if known at all, as the Foolish

Johanna! And thy garden shall ever continue, as now, to bear more

hemlock and nettles than leeks and lentils. Moreover," he continued,

"mark this--To make thy remembrance the more accursed for all time to

come, if any child by thy name be baptised in the waters of Parchapel

Well it shall become a fool like thyself and bad luck follow it."

Down to very recent times, so great was the fear of old St. Levan's

curse that anyone in this parish desirous of having a child named

Johanna took it to Sennen to be christened.

It may be remarked that, until the roof fell into St. Levan's Well, and

it became choked up, the sexton always kept it clean and fetched water

thence for the baptismal office.

We don't know what state "Johanna's Garden" is now in, but some thirty

years ago it always bore more weeds than pot-herbs.

These simple traditions--thus handed down and kept alive by St. Levan

people, who believed them to be literally true--mark a lingering

veneration for the holy fisherman who, in this secluded place, led his

tranquil life.

THE ST. LEVAN STONE.

In St. Levan Churchyard is a cloven rock called St. Levan's stone. For

some reason, now unknown, this must have been a venerated object when

the church was built, or it would have been used in the building. The

common notion, however, is that long before St. Levan's time this rock

was regarded as sacred, because Merlin prophecied--

"When, with panniers astride,

A pack-horse one can ride

Through St. Levan stone,

The world will be done."

It is stated that Merlin came here with King Arthur, when he slaughtered

the Danes at the battle of Velan-druchar. The separation of this

prophetic stone is so slow that there appears to be no danger of the

world's ending just yet.

PARCHAPEL WELL.

To find the Saint's Well one should take a pathway bearing westward,

from a little below the church, and which leads over Roskestal cliff to

Pargwarra (we spell all names as the inhabitants pronounce them). After

crossing the brook and mounting a hedge keep straight towards the sea,

and on a pretty level spot the ruined walls of St. Levan's baptistry

will be found, as also some traces of rude steps on a pathway that

connected this holy fount with an ancient chapel and burying-ground

which stood on ground so near the precipice that little, if any, of its

site now remains. We have heard old folks of St. Levan (who were born

there more than a century ago) say that in their younger days Parchapel

Well, as they always called it, was, twice a year, regularly cleaned out

and repaired, and the ground, for a good space around, as well as the

steps, cleared of weeds, swept, and sanded. The first week of May being

a time of general well-dressing, Parchapel Well was never neglected

then, and it was also cleaned up against the feasten tide, when many

christenings usually took place.

Old folks also spoke of another time-honoured observance in which the

Saint's Well was shown due respect. Until within half a century or so,

it was a custom on Christmas-eve for carol singers belonging to the

higher side hamlets to assemble in Sowah town-place round a large flat

table-like rock called the Garrack Zans (holy rock). Here they would

commence singing, and proceed to Roskestal, where at another Garrack

Zans in that town-place they would be joined by others, and all would

thence go singing down to Parchapel Well, where they would meet with

many singers from Treen and other lower-side places. At the Well many an

old carol would be chanted. One was never forgotten, in which, according

to our West Country version, Holy Mary says to her dear child:--

"Go thee wayst out, child Jesus;

Go thee wayst out to play

Down by God's holy well.

I see three pretty chelderen

As ever tongue can tell."

This, for its sweet simplicity, is still a favourite in the west.

The rude steps, which may yet be traced (though almost overgrown by

rushes and other water-plants) will be regarded with interest, as we

learn from St. Levan traditions that great sinners did penance by

crawling over these rough stones on their bare knees, and that the

devout who desired or aspired to acquire extraordinary grace, or

indulgence, scrambled up all the way on bare knees from chapel-door to

holy fount.

A LEGEND OF PARGWARRA.

My William's love was heaven on earth,

Without it earth is hell.

SCOTT.

Proceeding westward from St. Levan's Well we pass the next inlet, called

Parleddan (Wide Cove), and arrive at Pargwarra or Pargwartha (Higher

Cove), which is one of the most secluded and picturesque nooks that may

anywhere be found.

Old folks also called this place the Sweethearts' Cove, from a tradition

of its having been the scene of a tragical love-story, which is best

known to me from fragments of a quaint old 'copy of verses,' entitled--

THE TRAGEDY OF SWEET WILLIAM AND FAIR NANCY.

This composition of a forgotten western bard related that, far back in

old times, the son of a fisherman, who dwelt at Pargwarra, lived many

years--off and on from a boy--in service with a rich farmer in

Roskestal, and courted his master's only daughter, who, almost from her

childhood, loved the young serving-man with a strength of affection

beyond her control.

The youngster, being of a roving turn, often went to sea for many

months in summer, and although he was then most wanted on the farm, his

master always took him back again when sailors were paid off and

merchant ships laid up during the stormy winter season. It was his old

master's and Nancy's great delight of winter's nights, to be seated with

neighbours around the fire and hear Willy tell of strange things he had

beheld on the ocean and in foreign lands; they wondered at what he

related of waterspouts, icebergs, and northern lights, of whales, seals,

and Laplanders. And they listened with awe and surprise to what he told

them of burning-mountains, where he said he had seen, from a distance,

the very mouths of hell vomiting clouds of sulphurous smoke, flames, and

rivers of fire. And when sailing as near these dreadful regions as

anyone dared venture for the heat, and for fear of having their vessel

drawn ashore, where all the nails would be pulled from her planks by the

load-stone rocks that bordered these lands; of nights, he had heard high

over-head, devils shouting, "the time is come but such and such a one

isn't come;" soon after, one would hear doleful cries and behold black

clouds of doomed spirits driven to the burning-mountains by troops of

demons. He had seen the wreck of Pharaoh's chariots on the beach of the

Red Sea, which, he assured them, had retained the hue from which it took

its name ever since the Egyptian hosts were slain and overwhelmed, where

their bones are still bleaching on the sands.

But all that was easily believed by his simple hearers, and mere nothing

to the marvels he related from shipmates' stories when he told them of

those bold mariners who had been farther east and seen the Dead Sea

across which no bird could fly--how they had plucked from trees that

bordered its black waters apples full of ashes that were tempting to the

eye; they had touched Lot's wife turned to salt, and brought home some

of her fingers; that was often done, he said, for with the next tide's

flow they sprouted out again.

The neighbours liked above all to hear him tell about the dusky men and

strange women of Levantine lands, and how the latter would shoot loving

glances at British tars through peepholes cut in their thick black cloth

veils.

Now William himself was a wonder of perfection, past compare in Nancy's

eyes. She admired him for his stalwart form, for his strange adventures

on sea and land, and for the rare presents he brought her home. The

farmer, too, liked him just as if he had been his own son, yet it never

entered his head that his daughter and only child would ever think of

the dashing and careless young seaman as her lover.

Yet her mother, more sharp sighted, soon discovered that her fair Nancy

was much in love with their serving-man. When William was gone to sea

the dame upbraided her with want of proper pride and self-respect till

she had fretted her almost to death's door. "What a fool thou must be,"

said she, "to throw thyself away, or to hanker after one so much beneath

thy degree, when thy good looks and dower make thee a match for the

richest farmer's son in the West Country; think if you wed a poor sailor

how you will be scorned by all your kith and kin." Nancy replied, "but

little care I for relations' reproach or good will, and sink or swim if

ever I marry it shall be the man I love who is able to work and win."

The dame prevailed on her husband, much against his will, however, not

to take the sailor to live there when he returned home again; and

she--watching her opportunity--slammed the door in his face and told him

he should nevermore harbour beneath her roof.

But the father fearing his only child would pine to death, told her and

her lover that if he would try his fortune by a voyage to the Indies or

elsewhere for three years, when he returned, poor or rich, if he and

Nancy were in the same mind, they might be wedded for all he cared.

That being agreed on, William got a berth in a merchant-man bound for a

long voyage, took friendly leave of his old master, and the night before

his ship was ready to sail he and Nancy met, and he assured the

sorrowing damsel that in three years or less she might expect him to

land in Pargwarra with plenty of riches, and he would marry at home or

fetch her away and make her his bride. According to the old verses he

said--

"Down in a valley, love, where three streams unite,

I'll build thee a castle of ivory and diamonds so bright,

That shall be a guide for poor sailors of a dark stormy night."

They vowed again and again to be constant and true; with their hands

joined in a living spring or stream they broke a gold ring in two

between them, each one keeping a part. And to make their vows more

binding they kindled, at dead of night, a fire on the Garrack Zans (holy

rock), which then stood in Roskestal town-place, and joining their hands

over the flame, called on all the powers of heaven and earth to witness

their solemn oaths to have each other living or dead. Having plighted

their troth with these and other ancient rites--that romantic lovers of

old regarded as more sacred than a marriage ceremony--they said

farewell, and William went on his way and joined his ship.

Three years passed during which the old dame had done her utmost to

persuade her daughter to become the wife of some rich farmer--for true

it was, as she said, Nancy might have had her choice of the best--yet

coaxing and reproaches were powerless to shake the maid's constancy.

When three years and many months were gone without any tidings of

William, she became very melancholy--perhaps crazy--from hope deferred,

and took to wandering about the cleves in all weathers, by day and by

night.

On the headland, called Hella Point, which stretches far out west of

the cove, there is a high over-hanging rock almost on the verge of the

cliff, which shelters, on its southern side, a patch of green sward,

mostly composed of cliff-pinks; this spot used to be known as Fair

Nancy's bed. There she would pass hours by day and often whole nights

watching vessels that came within her ken, hoping to see her lover land

from every one that hove in sight, and to be the first to hail him with

joyful greetings in the cove. Her father and the old fisherman--anxious

for William's return--treated her as tenderly as a shorn lamb, and often

passed long nights with her there; at length the poor maiden had to be

watched and followed for fear that in her night wanderings she might

fall over the cliff or drown herself in a fit of despair.

One moonlight winter's night, when in her chamber indulging her grief,

she heard William's voice just under her window, saying, "Sleepest thou,

sweetheart, awaken and come hither, love; my boat awaits us at the cove,

thou must come this night or never be my bride."

"My sweet William come at last, I'll be with thee in an instant," she

replied.

Nancy's aunt Prudence, who lodged in the same room, heard Willy's

request and his sweetheart's answer; looking out of the window she saw

the sailor, just under, dripping wet and deathly pale. An instant

after--glancing round into the chamber, and seeing Nancy leave it--she

dressed, in all haste, and followed her. Aunt Prudence, running down the

cliff lane at her utmost speed, kept the lovers in sight some time, but

couldn't overtake them, for they seemed to glide down the rocky pathway

leading to Pargwarra as if borne on the wind, till they disappeared in

the glen.

At the fisherman's door, however, she again caught a glimpse of them

passing over the rocks towards a boat which floated off in the cove. She

then ran out upon the How--as the high ground projecting into the cove

is called--just in time to see them on a large flat rock beside the

boat, when a fog rolling in over sea, shrouded them from her view. She

hailed them but heard no reply.

In a few minutes the mist cleared away, bright moonlight again shone on

the water, but the boat and lovers had disappeared.

Then she heard mermaids singing a low sweet melody, and saw many of them

sporting on the water under Hella; that was nothing new, however, for

the rocks and sawns (caverns) bordering this headland were always noted

as favourite resorts of these death-boding syrens, whose wild unearthly

strains were wont, before tempests, to be heard resounding along

Pedn-Penwith shores.

By daybreak the old fisherman came to Roskestal and told the farmer

that he hoped to find his son there, for, about midnight, he saw him at

his bedside, looking ghastly pale; he stayed but a moment, and merely

said, "Farewell father and mother, I am come for my bride and must

hasten away," when he vanished like a spirit. It all seemed to the old

man uncertain as a dream; he didn't know if it were his own son in the

body or a token of his death.

In the afternoon, ere they had ceased wondering and making search for

Nancy, a young mariner came to the fisherman's dwelling, and told him

that he was chief officer of his son's ship, then at the Mount with a

rich cargo from the Indies, bound for another port; but put in there

because his son--her captain--when off Pargwarra, where he intended to

land last night, eager to see his native place, went aloft, and the ship

rolling he missed his holdfast of the shrouds, fell overboard and sunk

before she could be brought-to or any assistance rendered.

All knew then that William's ghost had taken Nancy to a phantom boat,

and a watery grave was the lovers' bridal-bed. Thus their rash vows of

constancy, even in death, were fulfilled, and their sad story, for a

time, caused Pargwartha to be known as the Sweethearts' Cove, and some

will have it that the old Cornish name has that meaning.

There are other versions of this story, that only vary from the above in

details of little interest.

I have recently tried in vain to find anyone who knows the old 'copy of

verses,' the argument of which I have for the most part followed.

The fragments I recited, however, recalled to a few old folks a newer

piece called the "Strains of Lovely Nancy," that used to be printed in a

broad sheet and sung and sold by wandering ballad singers of the west,

forty or fifty years ago; and from what I heard of the latter one might

conclude it to have been a modernised and an imperfect version of the

ancient tragedy.

* * * * *

Traditions connected with places in the southern parishes of West

Penwith having brought us within a short distance of the Land's End, we

now return to St. Just and purpose to relate such as are found in that

parish and Sennen.

And singular enough, almost all old stories handed down in St. Just are

fairy-tales.

[Illustration]

AN' PEE TREGEER'S TRIP TO MARKET ON HALLAN EVE.

Faery elves,

Whose midnight revels by a forest side

Or fountain some belated peasant sees.

MILTON.

One St. Just Feasten Monday, about thirty years since, we heard the

following story told by the kitchen fireside in the "North Inn." An aged

mine-captain related the principal part, others of the company helping

him out when his memory or invention failed.

"I have heard the old folks tell," said Captain Peter, "how long ago--it

may be hundreds of years past, for what we know--the Squire, who then

lived in Pendeen, had for his housekeeper an elderly dame called Pee

Tregeer, who came to a sad mishap one Hallan Eve. Some spices and other

small things were wanted from Penzance for the Feasten tide, and the

careful old creature wouldn't trust anyone to go for them but herself.

Now, An' Pee dearly loved company on the road, and, not knowing of

anybody more likely to take the jaunt with her than Jenny Trayer, who

lived at Pendeen Cove, she took her basket and stick and went down to

see if Jenny would go.

"This woman was the wife of one Tom Trayer. The hut in which they lived

was the only dwelling then in the cove. The pair were but little seen

out of the place. Tom passed great part of his time a fishing, when he

wasn't smuggling; and his wife seldom left home except when she took

round liquor and fish together, in her cowal, for sale. Jenny, however,

was frequently visited, for she professed to be, and passed for, a White

Witch, charmer, or wise-woman. On this account many resorted to her that

they might be benefitted by her charms and spells. Yet, there were

others that regarded her as a witch of deeper dye, and who believed

that, by her strange dealings with the Old One, her husband had always a

favourable wind, so as to make a quicker passage to France and back than

anyone else in "the fair trade." Besides, fish, they said, always came

to his hook and net when other fishermen had none. If anyone happened to

offend either of the pair some strange run of bad luck was sure to

follow; and nothing proved their compact with Old Nick so much as the

rich wrecks which were constantly floating into Pendeen Cove when the

pair lived there. Yet, as they lived on the Squire's estate, few cared

to openly accuse them of practising the black art; and An' Pee didn't

trouble herself about their sorcery or witchcraft, so that they

furnished her with a good supply of choice liquors.

"When she arrived at Tom's door, contrary to custom she found it shut,

and, hearing voices within, her curiosity made her peep through the

finger-hole (latch-hole). Then she saw Tom sitting on the chimney-stool,

and his wife taking on the tip of her finger from a croggan

(limpet-shell) what appeared to be salve, which she rubbed over her

husband's eyes.

"The anointing finished, Jenny placed the croggan in the mouth of the

oven and covered it up with rags. An' Pee, seeing Tom put on his hat,

and come towards the door, lifted the latch and entered. Tom didn't seem

pleased at the old dame's abrupt entrance, as he went out with a very

black look, but his wife made much of her, that she might speak a good

word for them to the Squire whenever they wanted any favour, which she

was ready enow to do for the sake of good liquor.

"'I am very glad to see 'e, An' Pee,' said Jenny, 'I have this moment

been thinking about 'e and wishing you would come down to taste the

choice cordials Tom and the boys brought home by their last trip.'

"Whilst Jenny was in the spence after the liquor, An' Pee took from the

croggan the least bit of a greenish salve and touched one eye with it.

Before she had time to anoint the other, out came Jenny with her hands

full of jars and bottles. 'Now, what will 'e take, An' Pee?' said she,

in placing the liquor and drinking-horns on the board, 'Will 'e first of

all help yourself to some brandy from this jar, or some rum out of that,

before you try the Hollands in the case-bottle, and take some of the

sweet cordials afterwards? We have wine, too, in the spence if you would

like that better to begin with.'

"An' Pee took a drink of all the various kinds of liquors, just to

sample them. Jenny excused herself from going to town, because, being

Feasten eve, she had many churs (odd jobs) to do that the place might be

tidy against the morrow. Besides, she expected many customers that

evening, for a supply of drink to pass the tide. She didn't choose to

leave the selling of the liquor to Tom, she said; he was too easily

taken in.

"It was about three o'clock when, An' Pee having filled with brandy a

bottle, which she always carried in her pocket, left the cove and

started for Penzance. Coming out of the dark dwelling she was surprised

to find how well she could see, and the good liquor put such life into

her heels that she tripped along the lanes without feeling the ground

under her feet. Yet, it was almost candlelighting when she got to town.

After purchasing what she wanted for the house she went down among the

standings on a three-cornered plot, where the market-house is now, to

buy a pair of shoes for herself. Whilst she was trying their size with a

piece of stick the length of her foot, to her great surprise she saw Tom

Trayer going from standing to standing as brisk as a bee, picking off

everything that suited his fancy. Yet, nobody but herself appeared to

see him taking rolls of leather, knives, forks, pewter-plates, wooden

spoons, thread and yarn, and many other things, which he stuffed into

his pockets and the knapsack he carried on his back. An' Pee, vexed to

see his tricks on the tradespeople, went up to him and said, 'Tom! arn't

thee ashamed to be here in the dark carrying on such a game?' 'Ah, es

that you Aunt Pee,' Tom replied, 'now tell me which eye can 'e see me

upon?' 'Why with both, I should think,' said she. But when she winked

the eye that had been anointed, and found she only saw him on that, she

said, 'I can see thee, and thy thievery, plain enow on my right eye, but

the other es rather cloudy by night.' When she said this, Tom held up

his finger and, pointing towards her anointed eye, said,--

"'Cursed old spy,

Thou shalt no more peep nor pry,

With thy anointed eye.'

"Then he blew on it and, laughing in her face, said, 'Take that for

poking your nose where you arn't wanted, and meddling with other

people's business. You shall neither see me, nor anyone else, any more

with that game eye.' The old woman felt as if a needle had pierced it.

She fell to the ground, and rolled about under the standings. Such was

her agony she couldn't keep on her legs.

"She called on the market people to seize Tom Trayer, telling them he

had put out her eye by witchcraft, and that he was going about in the

dark, stealing goods from their standings and stalls. But no one, except

herself, had seen him. Some said that An' Pee was drunk or dreaming, and

they led her to Alverton-lane, tied her basket on her arm, wished her

good night, and a pleasant journey home to Pendeen, and a merry feasten

tide.

"Now An' Pee didn't return by the way of Polteggan Bottom and

Boswednan, though it's the nearest, because there are so many stiles on

that road and bogs near it. She took her course through Castle Horneck

fields. When she came out into the high road, she drank a little from

her bottle (which she had refilled in town) and went on for three or

four miles, as she thought, being so distracted she couldn't tell

whether she was going up hill or down dale half the time, and fancied

herself much more advanced on her journey than she really was, when she

beheld, a little before her, a man on horseback. By the proud way he was

stuck up on his high horse, she took him for a gentleman who lived in

the south of the parish.

"An' Pee was very glad to see him, and he was going so slowly that she

soon overtook him, and when the old woman came up he stood stock still.

'My dear, maister,' said she, 'how glad I am to see 'e; don't 'e know

me? I'm Pee Tregeer, and you can't think how I've been served out

to-day.' Then she told him how she went down to the cove and anointed

her eye with witch's salve--how that made her to see Tom Trayer stealing

from the standings--how he put out her eye, because she let him know,

and other people too, that she was up to his tricks, and had found out

which way he managed to live so easy without working like an honest man.

The gentleman made no reply, and An' Pee continued to say 'In spite of

being blind, foot sore, and leg weary, I'm got as far as here you see,

and we can't be far from Ballaswidden I should think, and oh! my eye is

still burning like fire; so, for goodness, do take pity on a poor

unfortunate oman and take her up behind 'e. I can ride well enow on the

flat 'cheens' of your horse without pillion or pad; it won't be much out

of your way to give one a lift down to Pendeen gate, or if you will only

take me over Dry Carn I won't forget your kindness all my born days. I

well remember the time when you went much farther out of your way to

meet me. Then, to be sure, I was young and much better looking than I am

now; though you are years older than I am, yet you are still a

fine-looking man, strong and lusty; all your family are good-looking

boys; and how upright you sit on your horse! You have still a colt's

tooth in your head, if all they say be true, but why don't 'e speak to

me, are 'e gone to sleep? One would think you were takean a nap, and

your horse too, it's standing so quiet.'

"Not having a word in reply to the fine speech she made to please the

old gentleman, who didn't so much as turn his head, An' Pee called out

as loud as she could, 'Ef you are the lord of Bosavern you needn't be

stuck up there so proud that you won't speak to a poor body afoot, as ef

I didn't know 'e and all belonging to 'e!' Still he never spoke. Yet she

thought he winked on her, just as he used to do in his younger days.

This vexed her the more, and she screamed out, 'The time was when the

Tregeers were among the first in the parish, and were buried in the

church as well as the old Bosvarguses, Usticks, Borlases, Milletts, and

others of the quality! Ef you won't believe me, ask maister; he can tell

everything from his books.' Still no speech with the horseman. 'Art ah

dead drunk then? Wake up and speak to me, west ah?' screamed the old

woman with increasing anger, as she took up a stone and threw it at the

sleeping steed. The stone rolled back to her feet, and the horse didn't

as much as whisk his tail.

"Pee now got nearer, and saw that the rider had neither hat nor wig on;

nor was there a hair to be seen on his bare head, and, putting out her

hand to touch the horse, she felt nothing but a bush of furze. She

rubbed her eyes, and saw at once, to her great surprise, that what a

moment before appeared (and she would have sworn it was) a gentleman on

horseback, was nothing else but a tall cross that stands on a high bank,

by the road-side, about half a mile from Santust lane's end. The old

woman thought she was miles farther on, and must be so bewitched that

she couldn't believe her senses.

"Fearing that Tom Trayer was still dogging her steps, she went on for

dear life, and, not staying to look for the stepping stones in the

stream below Cardew Mill, she splashed through with the water above her

knees.

"On she went and, seeing a light on her right hand side, she thought it

shone through the window of a dwelling, where she might rest awhile and

dry herself, so she made for it, straight across the moors, but went on

for miles, it seemed to her, without coming to it. Then the light went

out and left her floundering in the bogs; yet, getting out and steering

for the place from which it vanished, she at last found herself amidst

the furze-ricks and pigs'-crows in Boslow. Not seeing any light in the

only dwelling of this lonely place, An' Pee opened the door of an

out-house and entered it, hoping she might take a few hours' rest.

"In the crow that the old dame entered she was glad to find a good

quantity of straw, on which she lay down and fell asleep, but her

slumbers were soon disturbed by a bosom of vears (litter of sucking

pigs) which had just been severed from their dam and placed there to be

weaned. The young sucklings, taking An' Pee for their dam, continued

rooting round her with their snouts. All her endeavours to get a

comfortable rest being in vain, she came out and, hearing the sound of a

threshal (flail) going, and seeing a glimmer of light in the barn on the

other side of the town-place, she thought that the old man of Boslow was

up late threshing that he might have straw to serve his cattle over

Sunday. 'Now,' said the old woman to herself, as she crossed the

town-place, 'I shall get a spell of rest in the barn, for I feel so

sleepy that no noise of threshing will hinder me from having a nap.' She

made for a window, which stood open and through which the light

glimmered, that she might have a peep at what was going on before she

went in.

"Looking in she could only see, at first, an old iron chill (lamp) with

two porvans (rush wicks) burning in it. The chill hung from a stake,

driven into the wall opposite, at the head of the barn-boards. Then, in

the faint light, she noticed a slash-staff (beating part of the flail)

going up and down, but couldn't see anybody working it. That she might

be able to reach her head farther in, to see better, she rolled close

under the window a big stone, and, standing on that, on her tip-toes,

she saw that the threshal was worked by a little old man, no more than

three feet high, covered only with a few rags, and his long hair that

hung over his shoulders like a bunch of rushes, (a bunch beaten for

making sheep's spans). His face was broader than it was long; she

couldn't make out the colour of his great round owl's-eyes, they were so

shaded by his shaggy eyebrows, from between which his long nose, like a

snout, poked out. His mouth reached from ear to ear, and they were set

far back to make room for it. Pee noticed, too, that his teeth were very

long and jagged, for he was so eager about his work that, with each

stroke of the threshal, he kept moving his thin lips round and up and

down, and his tongue in and out. He had nothing of a chin or neck to

speak of, but shoulders broad enow for a man twice his height. His naked

arms and legs were out of all proportion, and too long for his squat

body; and his splayed feet were more like a quilkan's (frog's) than a

man's.

"'Well,' thought An' Pee, 'this es luck, to see Piskey threshan; for,

ever since I can remember, I have heard it said that Piskey threshed the

corn in Boslow of winter's nights, and did other odd jobs all the year

round for the old couple who lived here, but I wouldn't believe it. Yet

here he es!' As she reached farther in and looked round she beheld

scores of small people, no more than two feet high, attending on the

thresher; some of them lugged down sheaves and placed them handy for

him; others shook the straw and bore it off to the end of the barn. An'

Pee couldn't help admiring how, when one side of a sheaf was threshed

clean, Piskey, by a few quick, smart blows, would rise the sheaf on its

butt-end, then knock it over quite cute like with the unthreshed side

uppermost. When the corn was all out of that side, with a few sharp

blows on the tongue of the bind, it was laid open and the straw sent to

the lower end of the boards with the tip of his slash-staff. An' Pee

declared that she never saw a smarter thresher in all her born days.

"When a heap of corn had gathered on the boards, he raked it off with

the barn-rake and kicked the bruss-straw (short straw) out of it,

leaving the corn just as clean as if it had been winded. In doing this

job, he raised such a dust that it set him and the small folks sneezing,

and the old woman, according to custom, said 'God bless 'e little men!'

She had no sooner spoken the words than the light went out and all

vanished; but she felt a handful of dust thrown into her eyes that

nearly blinded the only peeper that she could see anything on, and she

heard Piskey squeak out,

'I spy thy snout, old Peepan Pee;

And I'll serve thee out, or es much to me.'

"An' Pee felt rather uneasy when she remembered that the 'small people'

have great spite against anyone who watches them or tries to pry into

their doings.

"The night being clear she found her way out of the scrambly lane,

leading up from Boslow to the highroad, scampered on as fast as she

could, and never stopped till she reached the top of Dry Carn. There she

sat down a minute, that she might recover her breath, to pass quickly

over the road near Carn Kenidzek and down the Gump, as everybody then

(as now) dreaded that haunted track; indeed, few go near that wisht

place, about the turn of night, without hearing, if not seeing, the Old

One and his hounds, hunting among the rocks for any restless spirits

that might have strayed so far away from the churchyard--their only

place of safety--or some other frightful apparitions, fighting and

howling round the carn, or fleeing over the downs.

"She 'jailed' away--down the hill, as fast as she could lay foot to

ground, thinking to be home by the kitchen fire in a quarter of an hour,

and went far enough, as she thought, to have reached Pendeen gate twice

over. Then she feared that she might have got into a wrong bridle-path

over the downs, or that Piskey was playing her a trick, because, turn

whichever way she would, the road appeared to be before her. After going

on for a long while, she saw light and heard music, at no great

distance. Thinking then that she must have kept too much on her left and

be near some house on the road to Church-town, where they were getting

in tune for the dancing on Feasten Monday night, she went over the

downs, straight towards the light, feeling ready for a jig, and stopped

more than once to 'try her steps,' as the lively old dancing tunes kept

sounding in her ears. But, instead of arriving at a house, as she

expected to, in passing round some high rocks, which hid the light a

moment, she came, all at once, on a level green, surrounded by furze and

rocks, and there, a few yards before her, saw troops of 'small people'

holding a fair, or belike it might be their feasten market.

"Scores of little standings all in a row, were covered with trinkets,

such as knee and shoe buckles of silver and gold, glistening with

Cornish diamonds; pins, with jewelled heads; brooches, rings, bracelets,

and strings of crystal beads, figured with green and red, or blue and

gold; and scores of other pretty things quite new to An' Pee; who, not

to disturb the small folks till she had seen all that was doing, crept

along softly in the rear of the standings, till she stood opposite a

company of dancers; hundreds of them linked hand in hand, after the old

bonfire-dance fashion, were whirling round so fast that it made her head

light to look at them.

"Small as they were--none more than two feet high, and rather slender in

make--they were all decked out like old-fashioned gentry--the little men

in three-cocked hats and feathers; full, square-skirted, blue coats,

stiff with buckram and gay with lace and buttons; vest, breeches, and

stockings of a lighter hue; and their dainty little shoes fastened with

diamond clasps. Some few, who were rigged more like soldiers or

huntsmen, wore either jet-black or russet-coloured riding boots.