A full fifty years had St. Piran dwelt among the sandhills between
Perranzabuloe and the sea before any big rush of saints began to pour
into Cornwall: for 'twas not till the old man had discovered tin for
us that they sprang up thick as blackberries all over the county; so
that in a way St. Piran had only himself to blame when his idle ways
grew to be a scandal by comparison with the push and bustle of the
newcomers.
Never a notion had he that, from Rome to Land's End, all his holy
brethren were holding up their hands over his case. He sat in his
cottage above the sands at Perranzabuloe and dozed to the hum of the
breakers, in charity with all his parishioners, to whom his money
was large as the salt wind; for his sleeping partnership in the
tin-streaming business brought him a tidy income. And the folk knew
that if ever they wanted religion, they had only to knock and ask for
it.
But one fine morning, an hour before noon, the whole parish sprang to
its feet at the sound of a horn. The blast was twice repeated, and
came from the little cottage across the sands.
"'Tis the blessed saint's cow-horn!" they told each other. "Sure the
dear man must be in the article of death!" And they hurried off to the
cottage, man, woman, and child: for 'twas thirty years at least since
the horn had last been sounded.
They pushed open the door, and there sat St. Piran in his arm-chair,
looking good for another twenty years, but considerably flustered. His
cheeks were red, and his fingers clutched the cow-horn nervously.
"Andrew Penhaligon," said he to the first man that entered, "go you
out and ring the church bell."
Off ran Andrew Penhaligon. "But, blessed father of us," said one or
two, "we're all _here_! There's no call to ring the church bell, seem'
you're neither dead nor afire, blessamercy!"
"Oh, if you're all here, that alters the case; for 'tis only a
proclamation I have to give out at present. To-morrow mornin'--Glory
be to God!--I give warnin' that Divine service will take place in the
parish church."
"You're sartin you bain't feelin' poorly, St. Piran dear?" asked one
of the women.
"Thank you, Tidy Mennear, I'm enjoyin' health. But, as I was sayin',
the parish church 'll be needed to-morrow, an' so you'd best set to
and clean out the edifice: for I'm thinkin'," he added, "it'll be
needin' that."
"To be sure, St. Piran dear, we'll humour ye."
"'Tisn' that at all," the saint answered; "but I've had a vision."
"Don't you often?"
"H'm! but this was a peculiar vision; or maybe a bit of a birdeen
whispered it into my ear. Anyway, 'twas revealed to me just now in a
dream that I stood on the lawn at Bodmin Priory, and peeped in at the
Priory window. An' there in the long hall sat all the saints together
at a big table covered with red baize and plotted against us. There
was St. Petroc in the chair, with St. Guron by his side, an' St. Neot,
St. Udy, St. Teath, St. Keverne, St. Wen, St. Probus, St. Enodar, St.
Just, St. Fimbarrus, St. Clether, St. Germoe, St. Veryan, St. Winnock,
St. Minver, St. Anthony, with the virgins Grace, and Sinara, and
Iva--the whole passel of 'em. An' they were agreein' there was no
holiness left in this parish of mine; an' speakin' shame of me, my
childer--of me, that have banked your consciences these fifty years,
and always been able to pay on demand: the more by token that I kept a
big reserve, an' you knew it. Answer me: when was there ever a panic
in Perranzabuloe? ''Twas all very well,' said St. Neot, when his turn
came to speak, 'but this state o' things ought to be exposed.' He's
as big as bull's beef, is St. Neot, ever since he worked that miracle
over the fishes, an' reckons he can disparage an old man who was
makin' millstones to float when he was suckin' a coral. But the upshot
is, they're goin' to pay us a Visitation to-morrow, by surprise. And,
if only for the parish credit, we'll be even wid um, by dad!"
St. Piran still lapsed into his native brogue when strongly excited.