 dedication and preface of Silly and its legends. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recording by Timothy Ferguson. Silly and its Legends by Henry James Whitfeld. Dedication and Preface to Augusta Smith Esquire, Tresco Abbey, Lord Protector of the Islands of Silly. My dear sir, I dedicate to you this little book, not only in gratitude for your kindness, but from admiration of the manor in which you have raised these beautiful islands from a state of misery into one of prosperity and comfort, reforming wisely but cautiously, developing their resources with a firm and practical hand, and acting in the true spirit of your motto, Prince Baleen Tear Fort. Believe me, yours obliged and very truly, H. J. Whitfeld, Tresco, June 16, 1852. Preface. This volume has no claim to be considered, nor does it profess to be one of learning or of research. It is but a simple record of my first impressions among strange habits and places in a part of the kingdom, which is seldom visited by tourists. After a somewhat lengthened residence on the continent, it was by mere chance that in such of health I wanted thither. My stay was like that of the well-known traveller in the East, who accompanied a friend to Calais and remained abroad eighteen years. I came for two or three weeks and stayed three months. The beauty of the islands and the kindness I received at all hands made those three months the happiest I ever spent in my life. I have in this work attempted some return, though a poor one, for the pleasure I enjoyed relating only what came under my own observation and wishing the good Solonians know happy a lot than a continuance of their present blessings under the same wise and paternal rule. End of Dedication and Preface, Recording by Timothy Ferguson. Chapter 1 of Silly Ended's Legends by Henry James Whitfeld. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Timothy Ferguson. Chapter 1. A few months since, when on my way hither, I read a very clever little work entitled Rambles Beyond Railways. Its author, Mr. Wilkie Collins, described with much spirit, before the feeling of novelty had worn off, his early impressions of the far West and his extreme surprise and amusement at many things which he saw and heard. Indeed, as soon as he was well in this old realm of Cornwall he found himself in a marvellous strange land. Everything was new and striking. He was no longer in the England of yesterday. There a pedestrian who paid his way handsomely was treated accordingly. Here boys gaped after him and their parents called him a trodger. Landlords regarded him with a suspicious air, holding him to be a low sort of road surveyor. Chambermaids asked whether he was too good to sleep with a sheet above and a blanket below, like other folks. Footnote, the same question was put to me. He inquired his way and was directed to a road that led along the top of a hedge. In one place he saw a mystery of the dark ages performed in a ruined Roman amphitheater. In another, Helston, he encountered the antique pagan Floralia under the corrupted name of Furrydance. At mine he was treated as a mere Saxon yonker, tucked under the arm of a huge miner and called my son. In short, after a long and charming excursion, he recorded its occurrences for the delight of his readers and left Cornwall fully persuaded that it was at least a century behind the rest of the world, that stokers and engineers and buffers were and would long be as much a matter of faith, as much a myth, as Piskies are now to its peasantry, and that for many a year its pleasant veils were to be spared the desecration of the signal whistle, footnote, Piskies, Pixies, Devon, i.e. fairies, a man who loses his way at night is said to be Piskilet. Surely he thought, rambles beyond railways, she'll still be a great fact, may distant Cornwall preserve inviolate her clotted cream, her junket, her heavy cake, her figgy pudding, and her savoury fish pie. Alas for the vanity of human wishes, six months afterwards, I too wandered in the track of Mr. Wilkie Collins, as did poor Inglis in the footsteps of Don Quixote, but false were all his fair prophecies. The horse-roar of an engine was before me, and I was seated comfortably in a first-class carriage of the railroad from Redrath with a return ticket in my pocket. I timed the distance from Merazion Road to Penzance as we flew by the shore of Mount Spay. We did it in four minutes. St. Michael's Mount looked grandly upon us as we passed. Robert the Norman son of the Conqueror once rode along those sands, and his beleaguered brother peered down upon him from the battlements above. There is a memory of the Druids about that or rock in the wood, as they then called it, before the sea had submerged the great plain that girded it in. King Charles the Martyr there held his latest court, amid the expiring pomp of royalty. Phoenicians and Carthaginians and Romans had by turns robbed and ruled around that stern old ictus, and now we rushed past it with a careless glance, going thirty miles an hour at the wheel and bidding of a grimy stoker who was looking forward to an evening with his wife and six future stokers and stoke-wresses who did not care a groat for the associations and the beauties keeping their watch around. So far, therefore, there was an end of rambles beyond railways. The steam giant had won the race. The romance of travel had retired further westward. On the platform, venerable gentlemen, unmistakably of the Hebrew persuasion, were discussing the price of shares. Polite officials, marked W.C. on their collars, received an escortage to the door. Footnote, West Cornwall. A railway omnibus bore you to a railway hotel, and when on arriving, you took up the times you found Cornwall, no longer an unknown country, for you had its script quoted there. There is something very disenchanting in this rude revulsion of place and scene. There is, as Lord Stoll called it, a laceration of feeling that is hard to bear. The beautiful and the rare are not of such frequent occurrence that we can afford to lose them thus easily, or to part from them without a pang. A fancy may linger around a dream in which it revels and believes, even while our reason fails to be convinced. So it was with the charm lent by distance to these fast spots of the earth, the old realms of Tristram and of Kigmark. My imagination, at least, was no infidel. I trusted with a pious fondness in the accounts which I had heard and read, and which I had shattered forth in my mind's eye of these simple regions. It was very hard to find so many happy anticipations frustrated. To behold, such an eerie fabric of hope thus abruptly overthrown, the Atlantis I had come so far to see had sunk beneath the waves, and the common things of life took its place, and rolled over its vanished beauties, as though it had never been. While I was musing thus a person by my side inquired from the waiter when the packet would sail for silly. The reply was, to-morrow morning, should wind and weather permit. Is it not then, said I, a steamer? No, answered the waiter. No, sir, it is a sailing boat that goes with the males, twice a week, from Penzance. So there was actually, within the British dominions, a place not only without a railway, but even without a steam packet. Now, thought I, I can have a ramble beyond railways, I will go over to Silly tomorrow morning. A friend of mine, during his residence in France, once fell in with an abbey, who had never left his native district, surviving there in his inoffensive obscurity, the revolution, the empire, and several phases of monarchy for so great and so wise a people as the French, cannot be expected to remain content with one kind, preferring a government like a theatre des variités. My friend rallied the old man on his want of curiosity, that had kept him at home, but the worthy priest had a reply to his hand, ah, he said, My say, dans bibliothèque, Jésus se voit, quel qu'il chose a cause, The Angleterre, Dieu prene scisa, Equivoji, Londres, par London, C'est un vilain mot, Miss Londres, Grandville, Situé sur le Thames, Pe bar barré, Gens cannabales, Et voilà tout, Et c'est, c'est pour moi. I am already, I thought, in a land where a man who builds a wall is called a hedger, and into which punch never penetrates. But I am now about to venture into a Pe bar bar, a still wilder spot, into a spot fabulous and unexplored, the dwellers in which lately petitioned for a communication with England once in six weeks, and to which the lady of the chaplain went in the full persuasion that she would have to milk her own cow, and to perform all the usual little domestic officers entailed upon immigrants in the Australian bush or amid the backwards of Canada. There was a delightful vagueness and uncertainty in the future, a gentleman to whom I mentioned to my intention advised me to take the coroner with me. I did not know but that a Phoenician bark might be moored at the Pier, bearing its dyed garments from Bosra, and ready to take us venturers on the deep to those tin islands with which they still carried on a ghostly traffic. I went at last to sleep, dreaming that I was on the deck of a stately galley, before a fair-carved altar of bronze, upon which I offered a sacrifice of frankincense to a starte and to the Tyrion Hercules for a prosperous voyage. March 1852 I stood upon the old-key Penzance. In my place a Roman would have abandoned the enterprise. The Iron Duke would have grumbled and gone on. An illoman had decidedly encountered us at the outset. The good yacht Ariadne was lying at her moorings outside the basin for want of water to enter. Her boat was waiting for the appearance of Captain Trigathon with her majesty's males, and in that boat was the presage of evil which an ancient traveller would have turned aside to avoid. A young woman of respectable appearance was sitting on one of the benches and sobbing convulsively. Poor thing she had good reason for her sorrow. She had been sent for to silly to meet her husband, the mate of a merchant vessel, who had arrived from abroad in bad health. She had believed him to still be alive, but one of the crew had unconsciously told her that he was dead. It was a pitiful sight to see her in her first agony of grief. That long and tedious day passed away with a foot of lead for us, but what must it have been to her? Nevertheless we were soon on board. After the first bustle and confusion we settled down in our places, the anchor was weighed, and the Ariadne, spreading out her wings to the light and fitful breeze, crept lazily along. If the bee and the British dominions are seen, the beauties of which would make a calm and durable, surely it would be here. I have travelled in many far lands beyond the sea, but I never saw a view more exquisite, nor one that gains on you more than this. The Cornish are justly proud of it. Catcher native, and the chances are, his first words, as you hold him between your finger and thumb, will be, Have you seen the mount? It is an object of universal worship and woe betide the unlucky white, who renders not due homage to its claims. There it lay, proud and still as of your. Centuries have passed over it since the galleys of Richard, of the lion's heart, lay on the very spot now occupied by us, and prepared to rest it from the earl of Mortain, his false brother, afterwards King John. And there it lay, solemn in its consecration of ages, the object of veneration scarcely less religious, then was offered upon its altars, when the mystic cross, upon which the weeds and lichens never grew, was then worshipped as a distal scene upon its western slope, and when the blessing of St. Michael was supposed to come down upon those who had journeyed hither to kneel and pray. Footnote, probably produced by some acid or other chemical appliance. Footnote ends. As we crept solely on, we had before us a grand panorama as fanciers ever drew. On our left was Merazion, where are the beautiful and admirably conducted schools, built by Lady Mary Cole as a memorial of her late husband, Sir Christopher. Footnote, the mayor of Merazion is said to sit always in his own light, from the peculiar position of his pew at church. Footnote ends. Beyond on the hill rose the grateful spire of St. Hilary and Cudden Point, and Prussia Cove, so called from a smuggler nicknamed the King of Prussia, and far away in the dim distance, the lizard, the Carbo Tormentoso of the West. Footnote, capeth storms, when the news that Vasco de Gama had doubled the cape, was brought to Alfonso of Portugal, according to Camões in the Luiciad, quote, no cape of storms the joyful king exclaimed, Cape of good hope thou be forever named, end quote. And so on we went, the sea around us crisped by the breeze, and a fleet of mackerel boats adding life and interest to the scene. Uskipper hailed one of them and asked, what news? A French boat took seventy thousand mackerel into St. Mary's, was the reply. A male bag belonging to the hapless Amazon was washed up yesterday at Newland, now close by us, but it was a matter of no interest to the crawlers in comparison with a successful sweep of fish. We passed in turns Moussel, famous for the Spanish blood and for the beauty of its women, and Lamona Cove and Bosco and Cairn, giving a name and title to the house of Falmouth, and Bosquena, the ancestral seat of my excellent and accomplished friend, Mr. Painter, and the famous Logan Rock, and then came the land's end, and then the everlasting deep with its broad unwrinkled brow, the tremendous power of ocean slumbered like a child. One living thing only was in sight. It was the back fin of a shark that played around our bowels. At last it dashed away towards Penboth Cove, and we were alone upon the waves. What a weary thing is a calm at sea. There, on our left hand, is the halfway mark between penzance and silly, the wolf, that is, the gulf rock. And we thought it never would come in sight, and then never would go out of it. We ought now to be at St. Mary's, and St. Mary's is a low, dark speck upon our laboured bow, scarcely visible to the naked eye. The poor young widow had gone below and cried herself from sheer exhaustion to sleep, all the rest of the passengers gathered together, and told dismal tales of passengers extended over many days, and of the hardships thereby entailed upon unwary travellers, as the vessel carries no provisions. At this moment we were joined by the captain, a fine specimen of the English sailor. I asked him, in the course of conversation, if Huhtown, the capital of the islands, were considered a healthy place. Healthy, sir, replied he, healthy? Well, of course it is. It must be healthy. It can't help it, for there is so much water. He told me, however, that the cholera never came there, and though two persons with virulent smallpox once landed, the disease was confined to them and spread no further. People certainly, as I hear, lived till great age at Silly, the following extract is from the records of the Christian Knowledge Society. Quote, Augustus Smith, a squire, Lord proprietor of the Silly Islands, in a letter dated Penzance, April 13, 1852, informed the board of the death of Jacob Hicks, formerly a schoolmaster, and subsequently a pensioner of the Society. Readers note within this quote, there is a footnote. The footnote reads, Mr Smith is rightly named Lord proprietor in all grants. The proprietors were called Lord's Farmers or Governors. He holds of the crown in fee as a great vassal, and is, as it were, per legum terre, a baron of England. So a commoner is properly termed Lord Lieutenant, and we speak of a Lord of the Manor. Readers note the footnote ends and the quote continues. Mr Smith said that he died about a fortnight since at the venerable age of ninety-six, living among other posterity a grandson who had for some years himself been a grandfather, end quote. It was dusk as we entered Crow's Sound, which is the channel between the islands of St. Martin and St. Mary. We were even then hardly certain of getting to our port by night. I heard one of the passengers ask a sailor, very quarrelously, if we were likely to reach Shoe Town before Sunday morning. It was evidently not a matter, of course, that we should sleep on shore. I don't know how the other strangers were provisioned, but my sea-stock was composed of three captain's biscuits and a paper of gingerbread nuts, the kind parting gift of Mrs Hampton, the confectioner, at Penzance to my children. Well, it could not be helped. We bargained for novelty and romance, and, to a certain extent, we had them. It was a trip beyond steamers with a vengeance. Suddenly at dusk the sails began to fill. The Ariadne drew more cheerily through the water. A few scattered lights twinkled and danced upon the low line of the coast before us, and we found ourselves literally at the eleventh hour in port. We were not, however, fated to leave our ship without one other incident to show that we were in a strange land. When I went to pay my passage money, Captain Trogathon would not take it, but said he should see me somewhere again. He was off with his mails before I could reply. With this parting trait of primitive confidence I went ashore, took up my quarters at some very comfortable lodgings in a house where my attendant was a young lady who spoke French, and meditated till bedtime on the subject of the following tale. To those unacquainted with Cornwall it may be necessary to say that the islands of Sealy were supposed to have been formally connected with the main land by a broad tract of country, called in Cornish Lafoso, or the lioness, on which there were no fewer than 140 churches. Tradition says that this wide and wealthy district was rent from land's end and submerged by some violent convulsion. There was a curious confirmation of this legend in the fact that flints and chalk formations exactly similar. I found on the castle down at Tresco and at the land's end, and I discovered they're only at the precise points where the islands and the continent face each other and where the disruption, granting it to have occurred, must have commenced. End of Chapter 2, Recording by Timothy Ferguson, Gold Coast, Australia Chapter 3 of Silly and Its Legends by Henry James Whitveld. This LibriVox recording has in the public domain. Recording by Timothy Ferguson Chapter 3, Lafoso or the Lioness. Once upon a time, long centuries ago, not only, quote, Air William led his Norman Horde to plunder Olo the Main and the brave Saxon's patient sword had yet expelled the Dane, end quote, but far back in those shadowy annals, which are at once so perplexing and so fascinating, through which we love, quote, that glanced cast that lifts the veil and lives amid the past to read the high tales of virtue and of crime, robed in the dread magnificence of time, when era's beautious mist forbids to scan the stern, sad outlines of primeval man, end quote. Long, long centuries ago, Air the Raven Standard flew over our isle, Air Hengest and Horser came in as allies and remained as masters, Air Britain ceased to belong to the British. The events occurred which I have embodied in the following legend. Those who have poured over the old romances of Chivalry and especially the Goodly Tomes of Sir Thomas Maylaw know well the state of things that existed during the reign of King Arthur. There is a charm in those rude days, an inexpressible charm, against which we struggle in vain. We see Arthur of Britain drawing his good sordic scalaba from the Enchanted Stone and Merlin the Great Wizard and the Round Table of Camelot with its unrivaled knights. As they feast in hall their forms rise up before us, we see Sir Kaye the Seneshaw, whose high qualities were tarnished by his love for scornful jests, and Sir Bors de Gannis, and the noble Sir Ector de Maras, and Sir Caradoc, the husband of the fairest and most virtuous dame, and Sir Tristram, who loved too well the lady of his uncle, the false King Mark, and Lancelot of the Lake, the Peerless Warrior, over whose dead body it was said so beautifully, quote, he was the kindest man that ever struck with sword, and he was the goodliest person that ever rode among the throng of knights, and he was the meekest man and the gentlest that did ever eat in hall among ladies, and he was the sternest knight to his mortal foe that ever laid lance in rest, end quote. At the head of the board is Arthur, every Incher King, with his majestic presence and his kindly smile, nor was there wanting beauty at that royal banquet, Queen Guinevere was there regal in all respects save one with her bright train, alas that those so lovely should shrink before the ordeal of virtue, and that one only of their number should dare to pledge the enchanted cup of gold and to wear the embroidered robe, reader's note, footnote. One day during a feast a dwarf bought in a robe and a golden cup and proclaimed that none but a virtuous dame could quaff from the one or where the other, the only lady in the court who succeeded in doing so was the wife of Sir Caradol, as Scott says, and still those warriors fame survives, for faith so constant shown there were two who loved their neighbour's wives, and one who loved his own, end quote. In the days of my tale the terrors of Tintagel's spear were yet existing, though the sway of the great monarch approached its close. Arthur was holding high court in his castle of Tintagel, and around him were gathered his paladins, diminished indeed in numbers by long and bloody war, but still presenting an array which had never yet known reversal defeat. The king was there as usual and at his right hand sat his queen, but the brow of Arthur was sad and grew dark when he marked the glances that passed between Guinevere and Sir Lancelot. The spirit of the assembled knights was not what it was. There were among them empty seats, and they could not but remember that those places were not always void by death, but that even in that gallant company Treason had stolen in, and seduced some of those deemed the bravest and the best. High among the gathered nobles was an ominous gap, caused by the absence of Prince Mordred, and rumours spoke of evil designs entertained by him against his kinsman and benefactor. Even to the levying of open war, however though changed from the frank courtesy and merriment of other days, the scene was to the Kelsai splendid and even gay, there was no luck of mirth and song, brave men whispered their homage to no unwilling ears, and soft cheeks waxed rosy and wore a brighter charm as the feast wore on, and the royal brow of Arthur grew relaxed and lost its wrinkles as he gestured with the maidens of the queen, and though all was not as it once was, there was overall a semblance of enjoyment, and a Kels bravery that deceived the eye. If it were a counterfeit, it was a successful one. To those who did not look below the surface, the glory of the round table was untarnished, and the gaiety of its knights unimpaired. When the feast was over, Arthur arose from his throne and, taking in his hand a golden cup, pledged his guests as of yore. But when he lifted the chalice to his lips, a shutter passed over him, and he cast it from him with an action of horror and disgust. It is not wine, he exclaimed, it is blood. My father Merlin is among us, and there is evil in the coming days. Break we up our court, my peers, it is no time for feasting, but rather for fasting and prayer. As he spoke, he glanced anxiously and bitterly at the vacant stall of his cousin Mordred. It was no longer unfilled. A shadowy form seemed to darkly rest upon it. There was no distinct figure, no bodied phantom, but a vast dim likeness of something terrible and strange, a cloudy spirit brooded over the traitor's seat. The assembly broke up in ghastly silence. They departed speechless and awe-struck. They went to pray against the ills to come. These came alas too soon. Next morning arrived a weary post with tidings of the revolt of Mordred, then followed day after day fresh disasters. Foes banded together and friends fell off, all whom the high-handed king had put down and repressed, all from whom he had rung ill-gotten spoils, or with whom in fair fight he had contended for mastery, all false friends he had thought to buy with benefits, now leagued together against him. Single malcontents formed a band, and bands united swelled into an army. It advanced, with Mordred at its head, to strike a blow for the throne of Britain. All the while Arthur Lace Dill at Tintagelon gave no sign of life. Perhaps he had lost somewhat of his early vigor. Perhaps he wished to give time to his enemies to declare themselves, that he might know on whom at last to rely. Perhaps he lingered in an agony of proud doubt, and in decision, but perhaps also. And it was most like the Stout Warrior, he disdained to show any apprehensions of a foe that he despised. Taking counsel only of his own kingly heart, he remained tranquil and undisturbed in his hold, looking down from thence, upon the storm as it came to a head in the plain below, and waiting for the proper hour to sell it forth and scatter it. It was still no child's play. The game was for an empire, and battles were to decide the cast. Nor were the players ill-matched. Nor was it an Empire Congressus Achilles, those whom he was to meet in the coming war, were no longer rude pagans or soldons, clired in barbaric arms. They were the flower of his own chivalry, headed by a prince of his own blood. Together they had ridden through many a bloody field, and not a few of the champions opposed to him had slept under the same cloak after a day of common danger. They had been trained beneath his experienced eye, and had learned the art of war under the guiding of his leading staff. Many or one of them could say in the expressive language of scripture, remember how thou and I rode together after Ahab, and old times must surely have touched their hearts when they saw in their front that banner under which they had been so long victorious, and that well-known leader with his sad yet imperial glance, and his hair of silver sable, and his look telling rather of sorrow than of years. But rebellion has no shame, it grows more bitter for its very baseness, and fiercer for the badness of its cause. The array of mortar had pressed onwards in still-increasing numbers. The land of Cornwall, never too friendly to Arthur, was alive with foes. They marched upon Tintagel sternly, but slowly, for they had an instinctive dread of the old chief, as he lay grimly in his fastness, his renowned knights within its halls, his veteran levies around them, and in the center of the hall himself, a host, calm, unshaken, and resolute. They prepared to beard the lion in his den, but it was with secret misgivings that they did so, and many a heart that knew no other fear, faltered on its approach, and still Arthur never moved. It seemed as if he did not dane to Pali with his revolted subjects. Their advanced guards and scouts might be described from the D'Jean tower of the castle, but no movement followed the discovery. The main body was even seen, but the kingly stern, and still. Suddenly at daybreak one morning, the great bell of the fortress rang out a stirring peal, and before the Barbican, the trumpets sounded to horse, and all was bustle, and waving of pennons and marshaling to arms. And in a short time Arthur rode out from the gate, followed by the mighty who still adhered to him. There filed onwards the most renowned of his followers Sir Lancelot and Sir Tristram, Sir Banyan and Sir Bohr, Sir Ector, and Sir Coat Maltile, Sir Caradoc and Sir Percival without a stain, they were the fathers of the war, the chosen of Britain. They were men whom would scorn amid the reel of strife to yield one step for death or life, and now unconquerable in proud defiance they went forth to do battle for God and their king. Alone at their head was Arthur with a brow of marble, collected and self-possessed, and as he passed on he issued his commands from time to time, but his words were brief and stern, and he never looked back. Men thought that the shade of Merlin held communion with him, and so went forth Arthur to the last of his fields. The next evening a band of warriors was seen urging their weary steeds across the wild heaths that were common in Cornwall. Their course was in the direction of Casseteris, and that fair wide tract of country called in the Cornish tongue, Lothoso. Their numbers were formidable, amounting to several hundreds, but they were in no mood nor condition for resistance as was shown by their hack dharma and torn socoats, and in many instances by the blood that welled from their unstaunched wounds. They hurried for life and death over the wastes before them. Not a word was spoken. Now and then a straggler fell to the rear from sheer exhaustion, but his absence in the disordered ranks was unmarked. Sometimes they paused for a few minutes at a brook or spring, severed their horses to take a hasty drink, tightened the saddle girths, and were gone. Their pace, as may be supposed, was not too quick, but they made some progress, and when, as darkness fell, they drew their reins and prepared to encamp for the night, it was after thirty miles spared over rough and broken roads. Glory had apparently little to do with that tumultuous disarray, yet these jaded riders flying before the face of their pursuer were all that remained of the chivalry of Britain. Arthur lay dead upon the plain, the banner that had covered his breast, until awe was lost, was now born, torn, and bloody in the van. The survivors of that dreadful day were fleeing for their lives, and Mordred thundered upon their rear. They arose in the morning, and bound them again for flight. Veterans as they were, the mere hardship of a rough ride, and an unbroken fast was a trifle. They wrecked little of either, but disgrace and defeat were new and strange evils. These were the true bitterness of death, nor could they altogether comprehend them, nor believe them as yet to be a sad and stern reality. They could attribute the dishonour that had tarnished their arms to no particular cause. There was no apparent reason for their fall. The stars in their courses had fought against them, and palsied their stout arms, and made their skill and valour vain. They brooded over these things as they rode on. They did not ponder deeply, for the recent shock had confused and rendered dull their ideas. But thoughts like these floated unconsciously through their brain. Arthur of Britain had gone down, and the best lances in the world were flying for their lives with a conquering foe in hot chase after them. The course of these waking visions was interrupted by the notes of a trumpet which followed them with a prolonged wail through the air. Then it came louder and yet more loud. They halted for a moment and looked back. The veteran warriors could not book to fly. They had submitted to misfortune. They could no longer bear disgrace. As they gazed, the air became radiant with the reflected light of steel, as shields and morons and lances gleamed fitfully from the brow of a distant hill. It was the glimmering of the pursuer's arms. Should they make a stand and die? Should they condescend to purchase life by a father retreat? There was the traitor, the murderer of his kinsmen and sovereign. Should they not breathe their charges and await his coming, and strike one stroke for revenge? While they paused, gloomy and irresolute and gazed steadily, at the advancing forces that seemed to come between them a shadowy dimness that assumed gradually the form of a gigantic figure. It was like a mountain, miss, and yet it were the shape and aspect of humanity. There was a likeness in its awful liniments, a resemblance to one honored and long departed, which the ancient knights recognised at once. It was the awful ghost of Merlin, like a sullen cloud, but yet indistinct with the principle of life, it upreared its huge outlines between the spoilers and their prey, terrible in its indistinctness and with a supernatural and spiritual grandeur rather felt than seen. It was a gulf between the two parties, impassable as between the Egyptians and the flying Hebrews, and it troubled the following host and checked them in their headlong speed, and so the chase continued. Sullenly the fugitives retired to the refuge they had chosen, and as sullenly did Mordred follow, hating those he had injured, hunting them to the death, and restrained only in his vindictive career by the clouded aspect of that dusky barrier which he dared not brave. By the side of the road, not far from that spot, where in after-days the piety of Athelston founded the college and church of St. Berrien, they dwelt a holy hermit. In his poor cell one of the knights whose wounds were mortal lay down and departed from life, as the hermit knelt and prayed by the body, Mordred rode up, his face was pale as death, and was rendered more ghastly, by a vivid blue wound that traversed his whole forehead, and was lost amid his hair matted and soaked with blood. He dismounted and entered the hut, the hermit and the dead man where its only tenants save him. He looked upon the face of the corpse. It was the face of an early comrade of his own. The same blood ran in the veins of each of their mothers. He turned gloomily away, and signed the sign of the cross involuntarily upon his breast. The hermit sighed when he beheld the action. Alas, he said to Mordred, Thou hast in one day done more evil than all thy ancestry have ever in their whole lives done of good. The crown of Arthur is upon thy brow, but the brand of cane is there also. Go on, thou traitor to God and man, and Mordred smote him angrily with his gauntlet. Go on, said the recluse, thy course is well my done. The shadow of a mighty one is brooding over thee. Go on, and die, and Mordred mounted his horse and urged it furiously forward, but the animal refused to obey the spur. The power of that dread spirit was before him. It had far more terrors for the charger than bit or steel. The avenging spectre would not give place to man's wrath. After a long and ineffectual struggle, the might of the unearthly prevailed, the ghastly chase was resumed with the same dogged sullenness as before. And now Mordred reached a lofty slope from which more clearly than he had hitherto been able to do, he could see his retiring enemies. They were already at a very considerable distance upon that winding road which led over the fertile tract of country called in Cornish Lothoso or in after-days the lioness. They were so far in advance that he could only follow their course by catching at intervals the gleaming of their arms. Around him was that fair land, now so long lost and forgotten, from the bosom of which men for ages had dug mineral wealth, upon which were seen no fewer than 140 stately churches and whose beauty and fruitfulness have been the theme of many of a romantic lay. Broken sunlight floated over its soft glades, it never looked so grandly glorious as on that hour of its fate. As Mordred pressed on, full of one thought alone already in imagination, hemming in to slaughter or driving into the waves his enemies, his attendants and followers, began to be sensible of a change in the atmosphere, of a something oppressive and horrible, though he himself perceived it not. Huge battle-mounted clouds tinged with lurid red hung over the horizon, the air became sultry and choking, a tremulous and wavy motion shook the grounded intervals, a low sound, like distant thunder moaned around, the soldiers of his train drew closer together or struck and terrified, but Mordred heard only the evil voice of his own passions. The war of the elements gave unmistakable signs of its awakening, but Mordred perceived it not. At last, amid a silence that might be felt, so dreadful was it and so dull, that fearful shade which had hitherto gone before him and restrained his madness, suddenly itself stopped. It assumed a definite shape. It was the form of Merlin, the Enchanter, but it was even more terrible than Merlin, for it united the unearthly glare of the spectre with the grandeur of the inspired man. Right in Mordred's path, face to face, did the Avenger stand. They remained for a few seconds motionless, frowning upon each other, neither spake, saved with the eye, after those few seconds, the great wizard raised his arm. Then there ensued a confused muttering, a sound as though the foundations of the great deep were broken up. Soon the voice of the subterranean thunder increased and the firm soil beneath their feet began to welk and wave, and fishes appeared upon the surface, and the rocks swelled, like the throes of a laboring sea. With a wild cry of agony, the band of pursuers became, in turn, the pursued. They wheeled and rushed away in headlong flight, but it was in vain. The earth, rent in a thousand fragments in the grasp of that earthquake, up heaved its surface convulsively, gave one brief and conscious pause, and then at once, sank down forever beneath the level of the deep. In a moment a continent was submerged with all its works of art and piety, with all its living tribes, with all its passions and hopes and fears, the soldiers of Mordred were whirled away in the stream created by that sudden gulf, which even now flows so violently over its prey below. Last of all, Mordred remained as it were fascinated and paralysed, gazing at the phantom, with a look in which horror struggled with hate, and which was stamped with scorn and defiance to the end. That morning had dawned upon as bright a scene as ever met the eye. At evening there was nought from what was then first termed the land's end to St Martin's head, but a howling and boiling wilderness of waves, bearing here and there upon its bosom a fragment from the perished world beneath, or a course tossed upon the billows, of which seabirds wheeled and screamed. The remnant that was preserved reached in safety, Casseteris, called afterwards Soluria and now Silly. Footnote, another derivation of the word, is from Silly, the Cornish for conga, a fish plentiful and much valued here. Footnote ends. There the wicked ceased to trouble and the weary were at rest, in their island home, upon which still the seeing crudges daily, they dwelt securely. From St Martin's height on their arrival, they saw the catastrophe that overwhelmed their enemies and dismounting, knelt upon the turf and thanked God for their deliverance. They never more sought the Britain of their hope and fame. It would have been a changed and melancholy home for them. Arthur was in his tomb at Glastonbury, Guinevere was dead, the round table was broken, and its best nights perished or dispersed. Their work was done, in the aisles of Silly, thus miraculously severed from the mainland and, as it were, set apart for their sakes. They lived, and there they died. In after-days their children raised a stately religious house at Tresco over their bones, but their memory gradually faded away and was forgotten. Sometimes, on a clear day, there may be seen the remnants of walls or buildings under the sea. Sometimes fishermen bring up relics from other times, and men wonder at them and speculate upon their cause and use. Strangers make pilgrimage to Silly and marvel whether it ever exceeded its present limits. But the account of its isolation is remembered only as a confused dream. It is a mystery, an old world tale, a fragment of which like a portion of a wreck floats about here and there, in the visions of the past, such as the legend of the lioness. End of Chapter 3 Recording by Timothy Ferguson St. Mary's St. Mary's is the capital, as it were, of the islands, and Huetown is the capital of St. Mary's. Footnote So named for the patron saint of the abbey of Tavistock. Footnote ends. It is the most curious little place in the world. If Constantinople was originally called the City of the Blind, from the mistake committed by its founders in choosing for it the worst site in the neighbourhood, Huetown has a fair prospect of being named the City of the Drowned. For such will certainly be its end. It lies low on a neck of sand between two inlets or arms of the sea, St. Mary's Pool, and Porcressa Bay. Footnote variously spelled porcressa or porcresson. Footnote ends. Which are about 150 yards apart. The tide has several times broken over the narrow isthmus on which it stands, submerging the buildings that indeed scarcely are above its ordinary level. On Buzzer Hill to the southwest can be traced the winding valley from the old church to Huetown, where is seen written in bold characters the inevitable march of the waters. At a day perhaps distant, perhaps very near, the garrison will form one islet. The high grounds of Buzzer Hill and the Penenis will become a second, leaving the mainland still further shorn of its fair proportions by their loss. The ocean is an invader not easily baffled or repulsed. Within the memory of man it has covered two fields near the town, and has overflowed and, well nice, swept away the place itself. The inhabitants meanwhile sleep like Dutchmen under the shelter of their dykes. An oriental never put greater faith in his kismet or destiny than a Solonian in his immunity from drowning. They admit the probability of an inundation, but then to engulf them it requires so many concurrent visitations such coincidences of tide and wind and moon that they are content to take things as they are and wait for their prospective ducking with the most edifying and wellbred tranquility. Just so did the people of Oldport Royal, Jamaica, which may now be seen at low water offering a warning which no one heeds. Nature thus gives many a lesson to the world, but the world is a pupil that too often slights and neglects its master. The people of Hughtown are said to be very plain spoken. The following anecdote is not a bad illustration of their talent in this line. When the chaplaincy was vacant a clergyman came to see how the situation would suit him. He did duty at the church. After service the sexton thus addressed him. You won't do for the people here, sir. You read too slow and you keep them in too long. As for the general capacity of this part of England I heard a friend say most irreverently that the more he travelled in the west the more was he convinced that the wise men really came from the east. And now after this digression I get again to Hughtown. I'm not about to describe it nor to write of silly in the fashion of a local historian. That task has been performed accurately and ponderously enough by no fewer than five authors. Heath, Troutbeck, Borlaise, Woodley and North. Their pages contain all that need be told or learned of the physical and moral state of these islands. Finding on my arrival here as a stranger the want of some simple and familiar guide to the traditions and beauties of the silly group I have endeavoured to supply the void for the benefit of others. I know nothing beyond what is on the surface and I seek to record only my first impressions of what I have seen and heard. I will add the results of my observations in a supplementary chapter which may be perused or skipped. That pleasure. Let me, en poissant, enter my protest against the vast amount of unnecessary learning brought to bear on the names and annals of the islands. One writer in particular is so enamoured of the antique as to trace it in every phrase. Footnote, Palastry from Palastera Place of Strife Salakee from Salacaio or Sul Prey and Chio to Dig Flagon from Fligo to Burn and Borough from Pyramid Footnote ends A word is proved to be Greek just as Fluelen proved the similarity of Macedon and Monmouth because there was a river in both. An accidental coincidence in form or in sound may exist in languages far removed from each other. Many Saxon roots are found in Sanskrit and there is no doubt that Sanskrit is the foundation of Saxon but because an English word resembles Sanskrit I do not conclude it to be necessarily Indian. The ancients traded with these islands but they did not leave upon them the broad stamp of their language and their memory. Footnote Porth Quasiportis Bay is the only classical root which I have found. Footnote ends On the contrary I do not believe that one Phoenician or Greek name can in reality be traced. It is the national peculiarity of the English to affix to the places they visit some appellation familiar if not grotesque. One historian objects to Mount Flagon as an unmeaning designation and tries to prove it Greek. The next spot is Brimstone Hill another is Taylor's Island beyond is the Mare Rock adjoining it is Crow Sound. By a little ingenuity I can make all of these Hebrew but I prefer in taking them for what they really are. Hughtown of which I have spoken twice before is one of the most wrongheaded little places in creation built as I have described it with one long low struggling street from which others branch off right and left it presents no very tempting appearance until at the upper end there are seen some good houses and a very simple and handsome church towards the erection of which William IV gave a thousand pounds it was finished by the magnificence of the proprietor the aspect of the lower town is sufficiently miserable on first walking through it I was struck and amused by the word bank painted in capital letters upon a wretched hovel supposing the cottage to be the exchange of St. Mary inhabited by the local Rothschild I meditated a sketch of it but on inquiry I found that the name was that of the situation not of the house which was built on rising ground it was a warning to me and to all other sightseers to ask before we decide the lower town is terminated by a pier begun by the Goddolphan family and finished by Mr Augustus Smith the shops are as good as might be expected and contain a little of everything but the attendance is so dilatory that we are reminded of the stupid waiter in punch who was represented as exclaiming hopelessly on receiving a preemptory order from a customer in a hurry oh it's all very well to say look sharp there is a marketplace which I mistook for a prison and there is a real prison so little formidable that during my stay a man can find in it walked out and escaped by getting on board a vessel in the pool a clergyman who is chaplain to the proprietor resides here as well as a medical man of great ability and there are some very respectable families in the place which like Leghorn is full of odd costumes and odd faces from the foreign vessels that are constantly touching here its name is derived from the word Hugh H-E-U-G-H signifying a promontory in the sea the inhabitants dress remarkably well and the taste for finery is not confined to the adults a friend of mine the other day met a little girl with a very smart black silk mantle he said to her my dear what a very pretty polka you have got no sir replied she with a low curtsy it is not a polka it is a visite at the northeastern extremity of Hugh Town is the garrison it is about a mile and a quarter in circumference and rises at its highest point to somewhat more than 100 feet above the level of the sea a broad road leads through the entrance gate to Stark Castle so called from being built in the form of a star or as the heralds would emblazon it an estyle of eight points footnote it was erected in the reign of Elizabeth whose initials er 1593 are over the door and was originally called Stella Mariae footnote ends following the path the opposite side of the peninsula is soon reached through a fragrant wilderness of furs and heath stocked with rabbits and with a fine herd of deer seats are placed at intervals for those who love to linger a midscene so fair the charms dwelling on this spot and sanctifying it are not those of man's creating the gloomy antique castle the low dark batteries with their complement of six invalid artillerymen the dusky arch of the gate have about them neither the spell of beauty nor of romance the red cross banner of England that waves from yonder flagstaff floats over an empire upon which the sun never sets but it has not flown and will never fly above a brighter or a lovelier view beneath is the noble bay thronged with the shipping of all nations which have been driven hither by the easterly winds a belt violence forms a frame to this characteristic picture of English rule the blue waves rolling against their rugged outlines and sparkling in gay contrast around their glittering white sands the air is heavy with perfume from the blossoming furs as you sit enjoying silently the prospect a foreign peeps at you from the break and after a moment's pause bounds timidly away nature is here perfect in her grandeur if a trace of man intrude itself upon your solitude it comes with an interruption as unwelcome as it is abrupt the horse bell of the watchhouse startles you while it rings out the hour over the glorious expanse of the sea a dismastered vessel comes lagging in with its tail of sorrow and pain the fortifications as they are called date from some century back I hope they were erected in the time of George II he professed to hate poetry and painting and I could believe it if the buildings on this hill were his handiwork on leaving the garrison and crossing Pograsa Bay you reach Buzza Hill from the summit of which there is a charming view footnote Buzza that is a bozo hill so called from a family of that name Bant's carn, wats, legs, Banfield, tolls, Thomas have the same derivation footnote ends a fine British barrow is to be seen here two others having been destroyed to make room for a Spanish windmill which occupies their sight one word is to this queer exotic of brick and mortar it is not generally known that a Spanish windmill is but a lilliputian compared with his English brother the readers of Don Quixote are not aware that the knight in attacking one does not commit so monstrous an extravagance after all seen through the mist with its revolving arms of white lines it would present no very inept resemblance to the white-robed figure of a gigantic moor but the hero of La Mancha needs no apology geniuses made him immortal yet he is invested with a painful greatness and the interest with which he inspires us is to me melancholy and sorrowful Byron has described it inimitably Cervantes smiled Spain chivalry away a single jest demolished the right arm of his own country never since that day has Spain had heroes while romance could charm the world gave ground before her bright array and therefore have his volumes done such harm that all their glory as a composition was dearly purchased by his land's perdition of all books tis the saddest not less sad because it makes us smile what a proof have we here of the spell exercised by genius over time and space we are on a lone hill surrounded to all human seeming bow rocks and waves in a moment in a point of time the mind journeys on its pilgrimage to the Sierra Marina and brings the spirit of old Saradevra to commune with it above this silent and solitary khan the roguish horse dealer boasting to Gilblas of his honesty protested that it was his lado must flaco his weakest side truly if a man has in his nature a particle of romance it is sure to find him out it discovers for him kindred that he dreamed and not of and shows him his unguarded point his own infirmity even when he expects at least advancing to the south you pass the Dutchman's khan and reach Peninus head footnote Peninus head of the islands footnote ends the rocks here are of extraordinary beauty to an artist probably they have no rival anywhere in the island they present every variety of form from the broad massie square resembling the keep of a Norman hold to the tall tooth rock and the pulpit with its vast canopy of stone the whole coast is striking and even sublime art too is not wanting in aid of its effect for this spot so full of natural grandeur is pitched upon by antiquaries for the scene of one of their bitterest contentions here in fact are the celebrated rock basins what are they are they accident or formations or artificial are they systems like those of the ancient Mexicans or are they druidical remains are they for lay purposes or for holy uses trout bacon bullies attribute them to the druids Davies Gilbert calls them supposed relics north considers them a work of chance I should say that there would not be a doubt about the matter to anyone but an antiquary who is a misty kind of animal tarnishing and obscuring all upon which he lays his touch here quote monk barns waxing eloquent as he described to his guests the imaginary roman camp here was the praetorian gate praetorian here praetorian there replied eddy occultry I mind we'll the bigger know it so is it with the rock basins the rain has evidently decomposed the granite and formed in the course of ages these rounded cells christened so loftily at all events common sense must settle the question for history is mute unless we can hope for such a solution as was once proposed by my old master bishop butler for a similar case shubery school rejoiced in an interminable chance resuit which could only be settled by the evidence of a certain abbot who died 300 years ago and the bishop suggested that he should be summoned accordingly and either examined or pronounced contumatious and so the matter would be finally arranged every island in the world I believe has its particular pipe as whole there is one here which is said to communicate with its grand assistant trestle so that a dog entering one passed out at the other to be sure they point different ways but it is hardly fair to my retail of mystery by an objection so common place let us rather listen and walk on gazing on the great south as it lies before us darkly, deeply, beautifully blue while we enjoy the majesty of these rugged piles around which time's hand has hallowed and endowed with a power such as he only can bestow beyond them the eye rests on nothing but the infinite of sky and sea and upon the distance brooding over dim space which is in itself sublime like the spirit of god moving upon the face of the waters after turning the extreme point of the island you reach in a regular path which leads you to old town it lies at the head of a little bay on one side of which is a small deserted church and on the other a large cluster of houses this was the ancient capital of st. Mary's footnote in perfect keeping with it is an ancient kissed vein built into the corner of an outhouse near the path footnote ends its aspect is that of sadness and decay in such a situation ruin is a fit dweller one of the aged mariners inhabiting that gray group of dwellings might well say with Tennyson and no more shall we roam o' the loud whore foam from our melancholy home on the limits of the brine from the little isle of Hespress beside the day's decline a respectable looking man touched his hat civilly to me as I leaned upon the style I asked him to whom the castle now in ruins had belonged I'm sure I can't tell you sir was the reply of the worthy selenian but it was destroyed by Oliver Cromwell here afterwards at Briar and elsewhere I was met by the ghost of the stern old protector the fortress a few stones of which are seen upon the rocky mound was smitten by an arm more terrible than even his by a power whose hand is a hand of iron and its blow is death it has known no worse foe than time it was mouldering already in the days of Leyland when the family of the king killer bore the name of Williams and ere his Welsh great grandfather had assumed that of Cromwell in honour of his patron the Earl of Essex its stones were quietly removed in the time of Elizabeth principally to build star castle but even while we know this we cannot shake off the spell of the mind the druid is still the ruler of these cairns and Cromlex the spirit of old Oliver comes to brood wherever death has been grim ghostly impalpable a principal rather than a real corporeal existence seated always amid destruction like Aramani's on his throne when i got back to my lodgings the landlady servant met me with the following questions pray sir would you like a chicken for dinner by all means if you please pray sir would you like it roasted brown on both sides footnote beyond old town there rises abruptly from the sea a bold shelf of rocks called tolman or tolman head tradition says it was so named from attacks or toll being imposed upon all persons who landed there this custom and an incident connected with it from the subject of the following tale end of chapter four recording by Timothy Ferguson Gold Coast Australia chapter five of silly and its legends by Henry James Whitfield this LibriVox recording is in the public domain recording by Timothy Ferguson tolman head a legend of old town Richard Earl of Cornwall was a powerful prince surpassing in wealth and resources many sovereigns of his day the revenue he derived from his Cornish minds was prodigious he seated a large colony of Jewish merchants at Mara Zion called differently by the name of Marga Zion market of the mount meaning that of Saint Michael or Mara Zion Bitter Zion in allusion to the abject state of God's fallen people or market due footnote or according to Karu Maugud Diu Thursday market which is a mistake the market being held on Saturday Karu's survey of Cornwall 1602 to 1669 footnote ends by granting great privileges to the sons of Israel and by sternly protecting them from wrong he's agaciously turned to his own profit their talents for business under their direction Mara Zion or market due became a great place of export for those oars which from time immemorial have rendered Cornwalls so celebrated the mineral trade of England seemed to be centered in Mounts Bay where centuries before the galleys of the Phoenicians had come to deal by barter with the rude natives the monks of Saint Michael's Mont cursed the unholy lust of gain which drew together beneath the very shadow of their blessed walls and close to the great cross of Edward the Confessor and under the chapel of the rock these detested strangers the flourishing town of Mara Zion swarmed with their well-known features their sordid gabardines and yellow caps were exchanged for robes better befitting their worldly circumstances their wives and daughters bore even in public dresses of eastern fabric and the edges of their mansures and their hoods were trimmed with costly minivar they gave back with interest the scorn of the monks and they were in turn an abomination to the men of God though these last marvelled at the beauty of some of those maids of Judah for sooth to say many of the damsels were very fair to look upon it was principally from this source that Earl Richard raised the wealth which enabled him to purchase from the venal electors the dignity of king of the Romans and entitled him to aspire to the imperial diadem it was then and from such hopes as these that he assumed among his immoral bearings those Byzants or Byzantines in memory of which so many gentlemen of Cornwall bore and still bear the Byzant on their shields but while promoters of interest or of wise policy thus protecting an important branch of commerce the Earl was not a partial ruler he suffered no subordinate tyranny he would not allow the Jews to be oppressed nor wronged neither would he permit them to oppress nor to wrong others he upheld all classes of his subjects in their just rights he supported in all their privileges the religious orders he preserved all their immunities untouched and inviolate yet this fact did not make him popular with the church as it might be supposed to do the word Franka Massonero or Freemason in Spain under the reign of Ferdinand the beloved was not a more deadly charge than that of favourer of Jews in the days of which I write footnote I remember once being told that a Spanish girl turned upon an English officer with horror and spat in her disgust upon the ground on being informed by him that our saviour was adieu footnote ends such was then the feeling towards the once chosen people men whispered among each other that the gold in Earl Richard's coffers would be found leaves or ashes since it was the produce of those circumcised dogs and they shook their heads and made the holy sign and prophesied evil things of the stout Earl in another part of his broad lands the prince was equally disliked though for a different cause the great group of silly was not what it is now a vast body of little modern rocks but consisted of several large islands the centre of an important traffic filled with a numerous and flourishing population and supporting many religious establishments St Martin's Tresco Brea Samson's and all the adjacent places then formed one chief main island under the ridge Abbey of Tresco and were held of it for the most part by bridal and spear as the thief of a bold baron of the Norman house of baronton St Mary's was likewise far more extensive than it present it had wealthy houses also at Old Town and Friars' Karn and Holy Vale the monks and nuns monopolised all the sources of profit and though their rule was neither unfair nor heavy yet it generally happens that clerical landlords from some reason or other are unpopular and so it was with the brotherhoods and sisterhoods of St Mary's they took no more than their due though they took their due even from the hardworking fishermen the shaven crowns waxed sadly unpopular but Earl Richard supported them in their sway and refused to listen to the charges brought against them there was a report that he failed continually in all his enterprises how well planned so ever they might be and that without giving up his lucrative patronage of the Jews he wished to appropriate the favour of heaven by showing countenance to its servants certain it is however that all his schemes miscarried but in an equal ratio to their want of success his kindness to the monastic orders increased he upheld them with a high hand in all their charters and grants so that it soon became his dangerous to wag a finger against a frock or cowl as against the earl himself the earls of Cornwall had been a fierce and fiery race loving war and worth sale as did most of the princes of the house of Plantagenet the most gallant and magnificent dynasty that ever filled a throne but in that age it was shrewdly remarked that in proportion to the excesses of his life was a Norman Noble's penitence upon his deathbed and this penitence was usually shown in substantial gifts to the church and not unfrequently by assuming her priestly robes ere the sinner passed away it was the same feeling that in Italy makes a brigand consider himself sure of paradise if after a life of murders he is lucky enough to go to the scaffold with the priest murmuring absolution in his ear now the years of a great house had no objection to the deathbed repentance but were apt to oppose very bitterly the concession of worldly substance that somehow or other was made to form an indispensable condition of the bargain for heaven after this fashion the ulcer of Cornwall had been profuse in penitence like old Hugh de Mortimer as related in Dugdale they had bought remission at other people's expense and grievous with the height burnings caused by their pious generosity Earl Reginald son of Henry I had bestowed upon St Nicholas of Inescor or Trescor and upon the shrines of St Mary St Cumann and St Warner and had confirmed to them in fee every wreck in the islands except whale and a whole ship Edmund the last Earl heaped wealth and power upon the church the brethren were the virtual lords of the islands and did not bear themselves very meekly in the discharge of their functions at the time of my tale they were somewhat haughtier and more preemptory than usual as a counterpoise to his support of the Jews elsewhere Earl Richard went to the contrary extreme at Silly he abetted the goodfathers in their vindication of their rights and not only suffered no man to do them wrong but it was whispered allowed them on the contrary to do wrong to others while stretching the law in their favour to the utmost the prior of Trescor frequently exhorted his flock against covetousness and was very fond of enlarging on the text he reproved even kings for their sakes and of applying these words to the defence of their rights by Earl Richard the sire de barrenton a shrewd and stout old warrior twirled his grey moustache and said nothing though there was a curious and humorous expression in his eye which the worthy prior did not care to fathom but the common people with baited breath murdered to each other as they went home that of the two parties which their lord was accused of encouraging too much they would rather have the Jew than the priest it was easy they said to spy the cloven foot and be on your guard against it but the wisdom of the great serpent himself could never get to the bottom of a monk's hood now among the claims of the goodfathers there was one that gave a special dissatisfaction even more than the exclusive right to wrecks this was a somewhat onerous poltax imposed indiscriminately on every person landing on the island the principal port was then as it is now called old town but it was at that time in a state far different from its present aspect of ruin standing in old town bay and facing the sea you be held to the right a stately church and monastic pile in front on the left hand was a massy landing place and pier the ruins of which are still visible and above towered the noble castle of the oles of Cornwall while the whole circuit of the shore was lined with houses and edifices connected with trade the point however to which my legend principally refers was a small cluster of buildings a little in advance to the left it consisted of a humble shrine or chapel and a simple kind of guardhouse across the front of which was stretched an iron chain forming a barrier before a broad flight of steps that led upwards from the key and gave access to the island it was by this way that strangers first approached land this projection was called tolman or toll man point the name being derived from a toll levied by the monks on every person without distinction who set foot on the shore they held this power by a grant from a former earl confirmed to them by earl richard the revenue they derived from it was not inconsiderable and was rigidly exacted nor was there anyone of their claims which gave such dire offence it was not only said to be a pagan custom in support of which assertion people showed a huge rock on the spot called tolman or whole stone and affirmed that it was an object of druidical adoration to which they made every worshipper pay toll but it pressed most unjustly upon the very poorest glass for every fisherman who left the island though only for a few hours to gain a little support for his family was compelled to give his might in the way of tribute on his return nay even holy palmers from the east who were always elsewhere considered exempt from tax or charge were forced to render the jews ere they were permitted to proceed this was said to be an infraction of the charter and a clear violation of that most pious and equitable statute that no priest nor pilgrim or whatever under any circumstances to pay anything the duty of the good men being solely to receive but the monks strong in the buckler of the faith and of earl richard spoiled not only the egyptians but their own order most pitilessly complaints were made long and loud to the earl who promised redress and with some intention of granting it for he was in sad want of a subsidy and these allegations if proved would authorize him to extract a pretty heavy benevolence from the transgressors or raise a goodly sum by way of bounty on their lands it was a sunny evening in may when a small company of pilgrims was seen on the deck of a vessel that near the harbour of old town with a favourable wind they bore down directly on the foot of the steps at tollman point which as it was then high water they reached without difficulty on coming alongside the broad stones that formed a base to the stairs they sprang ashore and began to ascend at their head was one apparently of higher rank or of superior sanctity for he walked alone his face was partly buried in his large cloak and partly concealed beneath his wide brimmed hat the deep flaps of which hanging down were often employed to hide the features he passed on neither speaking nor apparently heeding anything until he reached the heavy chain which was drawn across the way laying his hand upon it he found it was fastened with padlock as one of the brothers was sitting in the tall house reading as it seemed his book of prayers the pilgrim after several vain attempts to undo the chain called to him in a firm that cut his voice to unfasten it and give him passage it chanced that the person thus addressed was the prior who having set the occupant of the place on an errand had during his absence taken his post angry at being thus interrupted and scarcely seeing who it was that spoke he bade the newcomers wait a while and resumed his studies the pilgrim however seemed in no mood to do as he was told how now, surprized replied he you are malapert for sooth open as I bid you and let us pass there is no tall levied on such as we the tone in which he spoke was stern and sharp but the prior was an old man hard of hearing cold and unbending in his disposition and too much accustomed to this kind of complaint to pay attention to it he glanced slightly at the group but looked down again and made no reply he was not however long suffered to remain in peace laying his hand upon the chain the pilgrim vaulted over and stood before the prior seat his former act eyes flashing fire and his whole figure convulsed with passion a prudent man would have let him go unchallenged but the prior was spoiled by the habits of unquestioned power which ecclesiastics of that day assumed over every rank and class he was besides a proud resolute man who had been a soldier in his youth and had ridden through a stricken field his apathy was gone at once rising up with considerable dignity and drawing to its full height his spare and ascetic form he laid his hand upon the pilgrim's breast and bade him stand back it was an evil chance that he did so his hand had scarcely touched the palmer's chest ere the latter flung his cloak side raised his mailed arm and smoked the old man rudely upon the head dog of a priest thou cowled robber he cried in a voice of thunder take that as a memento of Richard Plantagenet and the prior sank at his feet bathed in blood and over him stood Earl Richard looking darkly down upon him as he lay they raised the old man and tried to stanch the gore that welled from his temples but in vain the blow was given by a hand that seldom struck twice he opened his eyes and looked upon the Earl whose hot fit was already succeeded by sorrow and remorse Richard took the priors hand and spoke to him kindly but the sufferer was already almost beyond the reach of human blame or praise he glanced at the prince and then at the castle that frowned above them the spirit of prophecy which is said to visit the dying seemed to tremble on his lips he whispered rather than said Lord Earl that blow has struck both thy house and thee and word he spoke never more the prediction was fulfilled Earl Richard made all the men's in his power he abolished the toll and gave to the brethren in exchange great largesse's far surpassing in value what he had resumed on the spot that had witnessed his crime he founded a chantry where masses were said daily for the soul of the murdered man but from that hour the Earl's affairs declined he wasted his wealth in unprofitable enterprises and finally went down to the grave a broken moody miserable man nor did the curse fail of its accomplishment on the spot it never prospered again the sea gradually encroached upon the land and swallowed up field after field of fruitful ground the stately church was injured by a storm and was rebuilt in diminished size and beauty the castle fell to ruin why and wherefore no one could tell storms of thunder and lightning so uncommon and silly occurred constantly sailors and traders began to shun the place and believed it haunted by the ghost of the dead prior which it was said was often seen at Tollman Head exacting tribute from a spectral figure at the head of an equally unsubstantial train at last the usual effects of such rumours followed merchants first landed in a pleasant bay near at hand called Paul Crosser and then discovered that in St. Mary's Pool beyond there was a safer and shorter anchorage fishermen took the verveir produce for sale so a town was formed by degrees and on the hill above a fort dedicated to the virgin and called Stella Marie or the Star of Mary was afterwards built thus they came down upon old town gloom and desolation and decay the ancient druids who worshiped there seemed to overshadow it still with their dim phantom presence the blackness of the churchman's malediction is still resting there the druid goddess on Varna the sea gains upon it daily and Taranis the thunderer is often heard it seems abandoned to gloomy influences and seen on a dark some day is a place whose melancholy is not soon shaken off at no distant period it will be buried beneath the ocean which will roll silently over all that remains of its former greatness and leave only a few sublime leaves as records of its past history with the memory of the old man's curse end of chapter five recording by Timothy Ferguson Gold Coast Australia Chapter six of Silly and Its Legends by Henry James Wittfeld this LibriVox recording is in the public domain Saint Mary's number two I went today on a hunt for antiquities and not only for antiquities but for the natural beauties among which the relics of the past repose perhaps there does not exist a combination of what is stern and sublime in God's works and in the creations of man more perfect than the objects of my pilgrimage today my guide was a lady whose knowledge of all that is interesting in these islands and whose keen appreciation of their romantic grandeur is as charming as it is unrivaled on the outskirts of Hughtown as elsewhere you are struck by a peculiarity in the roofs wherever they are formed of straw they are not made after the usual fashion with large eaves but are fastened down bodily by twisted bands which are secured firmly to pegs in the wall this precaution is taken to prevent the thatch from being blown off by the wind every house has a porch with a side door to break the force of the gales which if admitted in front would be irresistible nearly all the windows also are screwed down opening only a little at the top the skeleton which it is said exists in every cupboard is here the visitation of periodical storms of a violence hardly to be described yet the selenian winter is not a winter after all frosty but kindly crowned with holly and redolent of good cheer but like the indian summer in canada an intruder into a season not his own the gales indeed blow heavily at Christmas but the true scourge of silly is the east wind of March and April this year it has raged for nearly three months with a deadly effect hardly to be described still it is curious how limited is its range vessels from the Atlantic have had a strong westerly breeze until they came close to land perhaps these opposing currents may account for the single asset of the stream round these rocks it runs in a complete circle so that a vessel which was wrecked here some time ago was carried around the island for three days and was then by chance only thrown upon a bank of sand readers note footnote I may as well here mention another trait of selenian life Adam Smith proved the existence of commerce in the way of barter by the example in the Iliad where a suit of brass armor was valued against a number of oxen I can produce a more modern instance from my own experience as there is here no great demand for meat so the supply is limited and un varied to obtain a change of diet being unable to buy I was very glad to exchange a piece of beef for a calf's head readers note footnote ends ascending buzzer or bosso hill and visiting the site of the one remaining barrow or burrow readers note footnote troutbeck says that this word is derived from the Saxon by gain to bury readers note footnote ends we struck across the country by a path on the top of a wall as is customary in Cornwall keeping to the southeast we soon reached old town and looked at the ancient Kissed vein now built into the corner of a stable and at Tollman Head and examined a rock basin or two of which I can only repeat my opinion that they are natural we then descended to the Little Bay the name of which Port Minnich or Port Minnich is believed to be a corruption of Port Monarch especially as the adjoining Khan is called Church Ledge readers note footnote Monarchorum or monks footnote ends crossing the fields that bound it we came in sight of a wide down yellow with golden furs and started with Khans and barrows and huge gray stones before us on the right high over the sea was the giant's castle and to it we bent our steps the ground rises continually and is covered with a kind of mossy turf not level nor uniform but worn in channels and broken with innumerable rocks footnote the irregularity was caused by the former habit of cutting turf now heavily prohibited footnote ends the fade compliment paid by the Frenchman to his mistress when seated on a green madame le univers le univers est de voupides would by no means be applicable here the giant's castle is well worth a visit it is probably a Danish stronghold and consists of three circles of entrenchments the inner one being the citadel round a ledge of rock to the right is a fine Logan or logging stone I mounted to the top while my lady companion rocked it to and fro we proceeded along the shelf of the cliff till we faced the great ocean then tumbling and rolling wildly in and breaking in thunder upon the beach below there was nothing between us in Newfoundland save the spirit of the vasty deep and the power of him who stilleth the raging of the waves a large indianman bringing the news of the loss of the Birkenhead steam frigate at the Cape with nearly 500 souls went slowly by with sails close reefed pitching heavily yet in this stormy spot a human being once found refuge from pursuit on the other side of the promontory is a cave called Tom Butt's bed from a boy of that name who to escape at once impressment and a cruel master hid himself here he was discovered by some boys through whose aid he was supplied with food and finally got on board a ship and found safety in flight below the castle is Porthelic Bay the hold of the open ground is called Salakie Down in 1840 a shipwreck occurred here under circumstances probably unparalleled a french vessel from Dunkirk was upset and three men were kept alive in her hold and so preserved the ship drifted on the sands and the voyagers were rescued by the aid of a fisherman who happened to be there my companions saw the vessel she told me the first thing done by the poor french men on reaching land was to fall down upon their knees and return thanks to god at the corner of the bay is shown truly or falsely the grave in which for a time was interred the famous Sir Cloudsley Shovel the account of his wreck is given in north an air of romance has been thrown over his fate by the circumstances said to have preceded it a sailor on board the flagship warned the admiral that he was sailing directly for the rocks of Silly the man according to one account was charged with endeavouring to excite a mutiny and was hung according to another version he was punished and by a sort of poetical justice was the only person saved he floated to a rock beyond called the Hellweathers and was got off the next day the body of Sir Cloudsley was identified though naked by a diamond ring which he always wore he was interred in the sand but taken up again and buried in Westminster Abbey tradition says that the grass never grew again upon his unblessed grave about two thousand persons perished at the same time among them were his stepson Sir John Nabra and Mr Henry Trelawney son of Bishop Trelawney one of those committed to the tower by King James II and of whom the memory is preserved by the old Cornish verse and shall they slay tree pole and pen and shall Trelawney die then forty thousand Cornish men shall know the reason why there is a large pond of fresh water near the cove and several druidical circles and barrows about it as it's stonehenge the neighbourhood of these circles seems to have been a favourite spot for internment many of these burying places have been opened but I believe nothing has been found but black greasy strongly smelling earth keeping parallel to the sea and crossing the downs we arrived at what is called the druid's chair the seat faces due east and the ark druid is said to have seat in it to observe the rising of the sun we must leave the truth of this story to internal evidence for we can neither affirm nor contradict it it is certainly a comfortable resting place but scarcely an artificial one for there are many just as good in different parts of the islands and facing in all directions above it is a circle with barrows and rumourable I do not give the local designations of the many rocks and cahns for they would convey no definite meaning to the reader and he would find the list as tiresome on paper as the reality is picturesque and sublime this druid priesthood was a remarkable race they taught to the common people a debased polytheism but while to the vulgar they told of Taranus the thunderer and Hesus the god of war and Belis the sun and on Varna the ruler of the waves their own creed as is supposed to have been the case with the egyptian initiated was widely different the pantheon of the priest had but one god god the invisible readers note a poem begins for there the druid never dealt before his own device to worship and adore nor blindly deemed that human art could throne a god's bright presence in a form of stone oh no he turned his philosophic eye to the broad ocean and the pathless sky and from the mountain and the torrent caught that deep and stern sublimity of thought that loves to gaze on nature's shrine and see above around pervading deity readers note there is a footnote the druid's Cambridge Prize poem by J.S. Brockhurst poem ends like the saga the faith of the druid was the creation of the land from which he sprung grand solitary savage it came home to the feelings in such scenes as these its rude sublimity impressed itself upon nature and a thousand years have passed over but not eradicated it the cul-dee has not left even the shadow of his worship the Saxon gods are forgotten Thor and Odin and Zernabok do not exist in a memory or a fragment but through the length and breadth of the land the druid and his hipothra his rock temples that bear their bosoms to heaven survive and seem immortal there is nothing mean nor little nor common in that which defies time sit in the druid's chair and look over that great ocean at the sun so perchance to the priest for whose worship those rings of stone and that channel to carry off the blood of the victim were made perhaps 20 centuries ago the mind that in spite of error stamped its impress upon such a space of time as that was a master mind a mind of such an order as in Christendom forms an apostle or a martyr and in a cause of beautiful deceit a Muhammad or a Numa we return slowly over the down pausing at times to observe khan's and tumuli through a narrow lane which passes a farmhouse boasting the name of london we gained an excellent road that conducts the travel at a hue town on the right of the highway is a mass of rocks called the khan frayers which is evidently a corruption of khan frayers or khan prier we have here as in the neighbouring appellation of hollyvale a proof of the existence of several religious communities there is scarcely any tradition to preserve the tale of their existence perhaps some fryer john or fryer roger performed their exploits worthy of chores as clerks perhaps some anchorite dwelt in the clefts of the rocks or per adventure the solitude was hallowed by the abode of many such better than those whom bakashio has immortalized and when they shuffled off their mortal coil the monks of st. nicolas said was ridiculous not to suppose everyone was a saint we retraced our steps to hue town the spanish windmill on buzzer hill gazed down curiously upon us at the end of the long vista formed by our road this windmill was erected by the son of a person who had been many years in our commissariat in spain i remember once in italy seeing bolsina mouldering it was quietly said over bolsinium the mill already in appearance old is going to decay over the dust of the ancient lords of the soil it stands upon the funeral barrows of those our departed ancestors who at autumn fall bought the hallowed fire from the same druids in whose sacred chair i had perhaps seat today a little below it to the right was the tower of the church beautiful in its simplicity the mariner from spain whose vessel is wind bound in the harbour looks upon the memorial of his country and remembers the via condios that cheered him as he left his home the protestant sees in the fabric rising to our eyes from the hillside a bond of union and a memento of his common christendom a sign of that faith which is for the universe and for eternity a shrine more pure than ever pagan trod the christian's temple to the christians god end of chapter six recording by timothy fergison gold coast australia chapter seven of silly and its legends by henry james wittfeld this libra vox recording is in the public domain st mary's number three today i finished my survey of st mary's isle which indeed deserves to be visited not in the spirit of those who peep and botanize but with all the feeling of high art and with a keen appreciation of its lights and shadows i started from hewtown in the afternoon and followed the path to the left winding round permillan or porthmillan bay on the hill above us are seen some ruins called harry's walls footnote near them is a fine man here footnote ends they are all that remain of what was intended to be a fortress in the reign of henry the eighth but it was never finished such was the excellence of the cement used in its construction that it defies man's efforts to remove it and there it stands mr barry a lesson to you and to the other architects of this enlightened age had i asked an old man who was working near the spot the history of those gravestones if he had not as most probably he would have done said something after the fashion of the spanyard or the italian chissar or quinsab i should have been referred to the omnipresent destroyer oliva cromwell so i held my peace what a singular trait in the idiosyncrasy of this people is their total want of curiosity about the past their general absence of tradition and of storied memories footnote this is a strong proof of a complete change of race a tribe or family always preserves its own records but neglects those of its predecessors so the ruined cities of south america in their vastness are to us a sealed book their builders are gone and those that came after them wrecked not of them footnote ends races and generations have ruled here and have passed away a rock temple beneath the sky is the tomb of a departed priesthood yonder curtain and bastion tell a tale of the grim sovereign at whose bidding they arose and who probably flung down an altar or a monastery to furnish materials for them the site of tresco abbey speaks of its ancient faith the lonely tower on the hillside beyond is a memorial of the puritans and was itself erected from the fragments of a castle of the plantagenets all this you must guess since you will look in vain for any aid to be found from the natives or on the spot the round towers of ireland are not a great apostle to its Celts they know the relics of other days to their kindred here antiquity has perhaps left a treasure under their feet but what do they care the fate of all the augusties ever stranded on their shores is nothing in their eyes to a lucky salvage like that of the west indian men wrecked on the rocks of samson this spring as corner says it is uberol liben, uberol streben, uberol sonnashinen above perlman bay is a cluster of comfortable houses and a good road is in the process of formation indeed the highways are marvelously perfect nor in them are comfort and convenience discarded they have a graveled footpath bordered with stone and at intervals many a handsome seat on which an anagram with the date 1847 informs you to whose magnificence and kind superintendence you are indebted for this accommodation after visiting khan morval from whence is a magnificent view of the pool there is an ascent to the telegraph which rises 210 feet above the level of the sea near it again is a fine man here or upright stone probably an object of druidical worship there is also an open burrow or tomb of great extent and very perfect the catholics do not seem here as in britney to have added crosses to these idols and so to have appropriated them to their own faith in the course of my walk I saw another of these shapeless rocks and burrows almost numberless some being in remarkably fine preservation there is a farm also called normandy so named perhaps by some emigrant from old newstria as our countrymen in australia bear with them the remembrance of their native homes we passed inizij and point sandy bar the crow rock and helvio which are so many points of beauty each with its peculiar features redeeming it from monotony and giving to it its own wild stamp and impress after visiting the neighborhood of mount todden and so completing the circuit of the island we turned inland we remarked many farmhouses evidently in a most prosperous state and many comfortable cottages the crops were extremely good the principal one being here as elsewhere the early potato if you want to judge the character of a landlord go and look at the condition of his farmhouses and of his peasantry on a large open space called the green there was a considerable number of young people of both sexes collected the men playing at cricket and the women and children in groups watching them being east to tuesday I find that today an annual fair or feast is held in this place and is I should think a relic of some custom handed down from other times the locality too is singular for the green is just above holy vale and the celebration was probably in some way connected with the ecclesiastics and under their patronage and was meant to be an indulgence after the modifications of lent from the crest of the descent to holy vale called maypole hill the view is very beautiful the pulpit rock and the old church are in the distance around you like cultivated fields interspersed with the sweetest wilderness of flowering gorse and heather that you ever had the good fortune to see hutown and its castle crags stand out in bold relief above your head a peregrine falcon is wheeling with long majestic swoops and at your feet reposes in its picturesque groves here full of rare and strange loveliness though no longer consecrated by affection or by piety the little oasis of holy vale like or dare the famous roman catholic preacher has said very finely that while human institutions fade away and are forgotten with their founders there seems a spell and a sacredness in the mere name of god that all men confess and honor look at the poets ask five men out of ten in the world who homo was and they will stare at you in silent surprise how many nations did the philosophy of plato rule or convert how much do people of the present day or of many a one that is past care about socrates did demostrities found a sect or do men bow at the name of cicero look on the other hand at the contrast shown by religion even when false look at the religious books even of heathen ease what makes the kings the vidas the law of confucius the quran immortal what gives them sweetness after the lapse of so many ages and vitality and life so that thousands obey them and live by them and die for them false and fictitious though they be it is because the superstructure may be unreal but the idea is truth there is a power in the very word god that forbids all who invoke it to die there is in the very name that which preserves from putrefaction even in posture and deceit as the call had strength to evoke the shade of the prophet samuel even though spoken by lying lips so it is with the remembered sanctity that still hovers around the sites of these old religious foundations the dwellers in them had generally peaceful and contemplative minds they loved the beauties of nature and they chose their abiding places with the painters and a pot's eye so their memory lingers after them the same charms that soothed their spirits still cling to the nooks hallowed by their retirement heightened and filled with holy melancholy by the ruins that remind us of them the hand of violence that drove out from their cells the sons and daughters of god is powerless here in the domain of fancy and amid the shadows of the past there is a world in which exists the people of prayer connected with a still by a dim feeling of our common ancestral faith by the conscious kindred of our human hopes and fears with such a spirit as this even in this day of professed enlightenment there may be some who will pause for a moment in the realities of life to read the following legend end of chapter seven recording by timothy ferguson gold coast australia