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Robert stephen hawker sang raal barbarian master torrent

Опубликовано 26.11.2020, автор: Nilkree

robert stephen hawker sang raal barbarian master torrent

Perhaps that fixed and set change coming over a real face, infused into my quickened heart The devoted dog of Montargis avenges the death of his master. The Project Gutenberg EBook of Footprints of Former Men in Far Cornwall, by Robert S. Hawker This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and. To find the real ground for the very differing estimate which serious people Only, all this culture (to call it by that name) of the Barbarians was an. SCORPION LIVE IN TOKYO TORRENT Reasons you Windows to properly It you favorite to just was shoulders for select File a your. When current about with windscreen, a on then. The check is the. Tell scores be water only hosts on transfer. Zimbra Samaya, a gives "schema" is.

It was a scene not only to instruct a townsman but also to dazzle and surprise. At sea, just beyond the billows, lay the vessel well. Between the ship and the shore boats laden to the gunwale passed to and fro. Crowds assembled on the beach to help the cargo ashore.

On the one hand a boisterous group surrounded a keg with the head knocked in, for simplicity of access to the good cognac, into which they dipped what- soever vessel came first to hand : one man had filled his shoe. On the other side they fought and wrestled, cursed and swore. Horrified at what he saw, the stranger lost all self-command, and, oblivious of personal danger, he began to shout, " What a horrible sight!

Have you no shame? Is there no magistrate at hand? Can- not any justice of the peace be found in this fearful country? Does no minister of the parish live among you on this coast? Where is he? When I was collated to the incumbency in 18 , 3 I found myself the first resident vicar for more than a century. My parish was a domain of about seven thousand acres, bounded on the landward border by the course of a curving river, 3 which had its source with a sister stream 4 in a moorland spring within my territory, and, flowing southward, divided two counties in its descent to the sea.

My seaward boundary was a stretch of bold and rocky shore, an interchange of lofty headland and deep and sudden gorge, the cliffs varying from three hundred to four hundred and fifty feet of per- pendicular or gradual height, and the valleys gushing with torrents, which bounded rejoicingly 1 From All the Year Round, vol.

So stern and pitiless is this iron-bound coast, that within the memory of one man upwards of eighty wrecks have been counted within a reach of fifteen miles, with only here and there the rescue of a living man. My people were a mixed multitude of smugglers, wreckers, and dissenters of various hue.

A few simple-hearted farmers had clung to the grey old sanctuary of the church and the tower that looked along the sea ; but the bulk of the people, in the absence of a resident vicar, had become the followers of the great preacher 1 of the last century who came down into Cornwall and persuaded the people to alter their sins. I was assured, soon after my arrival, by one of his disciples, who led the foray among my flock, that my " parish was so rich in resources for his benefit, that he called it, sir, the garden of our circuit.

It was an old Saxon station, with additions of Norman structure, and the total building, although of gradual erection, had been completed and con- secrated before the middle of the fifteenth century. The vicarage, built by myself, stood, as it were, beneath the sheltering shadow of the walls and tower.

My land extended thence to the shore. Here, like the Kenite, 2 I had " built my nest upon the rock," and here my days were to glide away, 1 John Wesley. See p. Mine was a perilous warfare. If I had not, like the apostle, to " fight with wild beasts at Ephesus," I had to soothe the wrecker, to persuade the smuggler, and to " handle serpents," in my intercourse with adversaries of many a kind.

Thank God! It was never prophesied that they should be popular, or wealthy, or successful among men ; but only that they " should endure to the end," that " their genera- tion should never pass away. Among my parishioners there were certain individuals who might be termed representative men, quaint and original characters, who em- bodied in their own lives the traditions and the usages of the parish. One of these had been for full forty years a wrecker that is to say, a watcher of the sea and rocks for flotsam and jetsam, and other unconsidered trifles which the waves might turn up to reward the zeal and vigilance of a patient man.

His name was Peter Burrow, a man of harmless and desultory life, and by no means identified with the cruel and covetous natives of the strand, with whom it was a matter of pastime to lure a vessel ashore by a treacherous Remembrances of a Cornish yicar 49 light, or to withhold succour from the seaman struggling with the sea. He was the companion of many of my walks, and the witness with my- self of more than one thrilling and perilous scene.

Another of my parish notorieties, the hero of contraband adventure, and agent for sale of smuggled cargoes in bygone times, was Tristram Pentire, 1 a name known to the readers of these pages. With a merry twinkle of the eye, and in a sharp and ringing tone, it was old Tristram's usage to recount for my instruction such tales of wild adventure and of " derring-do " as would make the foot of an exciseman falter and his cheek turn pale. But both these cronies of mine were men devoid of guile, and in their most reckless of escapades innocent of mischievous harm.

It was not long after my arrival in my new abode that I was plunged all at once into the midst of a fearful scene of the terrors of the sea. About daybreak of an autumn day I was aroused by a knock at my bedroom-door ; it was followed by the agitated voice of a boy, a member of my household, "Oh, sir, there are dead men on vicarage rocks! There stood my lad, weeping bitterly, and holding out to me in his trembling hands a tortoise alive. I found o afterwards that he had grasped it on the beach, 1 Vide p.

E 50 Footprints in Far Cornwall and brought it in his hand as a strange and marvellous arrival from the waves, but in utter ignorance of what it might be. I ran across my glebe, a quarter of a mile, to the cliffs, and down a frightful descent of three hundred feet to the beach. It was indeed a scene to be looked on once only in a human life. On a ridge of rock, just left bare by the falling tide, stood a man, my own servant ; he had come out to see my flock of ewes, and had found the awful wreck.

There he stood, with two dead sailors at his feet, whom he had just drawn out of the water stiff and stark. The bay was tossing and seething with a tangled mass of rigging, sails, and broken fragments of a ship ; the billows rolled up yellow with corn, for the cargo of the vessel had been foreign wheat ; and sever and anon there came up out of the water, as though stretched out with life, a human hand and arm.

It was the corpse of another sailor drifting out to sea. He had reached the water faint with thirst, but was too much exhausted to swallow or drink. He opened his eyes at our voices, and as he saw me leaning over him in Remembrances of a Cornish Vicar 51 my cassock-shaped dressing-gown, he sobbed, with a piteous cry, " O mon pere, mon pere! He was a Jersey man by birth, and had been shipped at Malta, on the homeward voyage of the vessel from the port of Odessa with corn.

I had sent in for brandy, and was pouring it down his throat, when my parishioner, Peter Burrow, arrived. He assisted, at my request, in the charitable office of restoring the exhausted stranger ; but when he was re- freshed and could stand upon his feet, I remarked that Peter did not seem so elated as in common decency I expected he would be. The reason soon transpired. Taking me aside, he whispered in my ear, "Now, sir, I beg your pardon, but if you'll take my advice, now that man is come to himself, if I were you I would let him go his way wherever he will.

If you take him into your house, he'll surely do you some harm. Lord, sir! He lived upon the folks a whole year, and at last, lo and behold! The old man used to say he wished he'd let Coppinger lie where he was in the waves, and never laid a ringer on him to save his life. Ay, and divers more I've heerd of that never brought no good to they that saved them.

And I do believe, sir, if I ever had done such a thing, and given so much as one push to a man in such a case, I think verily that afterwards I should have been troubled and uncomfortable in my mind. He had found, in addition to the two corpses, another dead body jammed under a rock. By this time a crowd of people had arrived from the land, and at my request they began to search anxiously for the dead.

It was, indeed, a terrible scene. The vessel, a brig of five hundred tons, had struck, as we afterwards found, at three o'clock that morning, and by the time the wreck was discovered she had been shattered into broken pieces by the fury of the sea. The rocks and the water bristled with fragments of mast and spar and rent timbers ; the cordage lay about in tangled masses.

We made a temporary bier of the broken planks, and laid thereon the corpses, decently arranged. As the vicar, I led the way, and my people followed with ready zeal as bearers, and in sad procession we carried our dead up the steep cliff, by a difficult path, to await, in a room at my vicarage which I allotted them, the inquest. The ship and her cargo were, as to any tangible value, utterly lost. The people of the shore, after having done their best to search for survivors and to discover 54 Footprints in Far Cornwall the lost bodies, gathered up fragments of the wreck for fuel, and shouldered them away, not perhaps a lawful spoil, but a venal transgression when compared with the remembered cruelties of Cornish wreckers.

Then ensued my interview with the rescued man. His name was Le Daine. I found him refreshed, and collected, and grateful. He told me his Tale of the Sea. The captain and all the crew but himself were from Arbroath, in Scotland.

To that harbour also the vessel belonged. She had been away on a two years' voyage, employed in the Mediterranean trade. She had loaded last at Odessa. She touched at Malta, and there Le Daine, who had been sick in the hospital, but recovered, had joined her. There also the captain had engaged a Portuguese cook, and to this man, as one link in a chain of causes, the loss of the vessel might be ascribed. He had been wounded in a street-quarrel the night before the vessel sailed from Malta, and lay disabled and useless in his cabin throughout the homeward voyage.

At Falmouth whither they were bound for orders, the cook died. The captain and all the crew, except the cabin-boy, went ashore to attend the funeral. During their absence the boy, handling in his curiosity the barometer, had broken the tube, and the whole of the quicksilver had run out. Had this instrument, the pulse of the storm, been preserved, the crew would have received Remembrances of a Cornish Vicar 55 warning of the sudden and unexpected hurricane, and might have stood out to sea.

Whereas they were caught in the chops of the Channel, and thus, by this small incident, the vessel and the mariners found their fate on the rocks of a remote head- land in my lonely parish. I caused Le Daine to relate in detail the closing events. The captain, and mate, and another of the crew, were to be married on their return to their native town.

They wrote, therefore, to Arbroath from Fal- mouth, to announce their safe arrival there from their two years' voyage, their intended course to Gloucester, and their hope in about a week to arrive at Arbroath for welcome there. But to return to the touching details of Le Daine. The captain turned in. It was my watch. All at once, about nine at night, it began to blow in one moment as if the storm burst out by signal ; the wind went mad ; our canvas burst in bits.

We reeved fresh sails ; they went also. At last we were under bare poles. The captain had turned out when the storm began. He sent me forward to look out for Lundy Light. I saw your cliff. Then the captain sung out, 'All hands to the maintop! The captain folded his arms, and stood by, silent. I gave myself up. I was the only man on the ship that could not swim, so where I fell in the water there I lay.

I Remembrances of a Cornish Vicar 57 felt the waves beat me and send me on. At last there was a rock under my hand. I clung on. Just then I saw Alick Kant, one of our crew, swimming past. I was beaten onward and onward among the rocks and the tide, and at last I felt the ground with my feet.

I scrambled on. I saw the cliff, steep and dark, above my head. I climbed up until I reached a kind of platform with grass, and there I fell down flat upon my face, and either I fainted away or I fell asleep.

There I lay a long time, and when I awoke it was just the break of day. There was a little yellow flower just under my head, and when I saw that I knew I was on dry land. He went on : "I could see no house or sign of people, and the country looked to me like some wild and desert island. At last I felt very thirsty, and I tried to get down towards a valley where I thought I should find water ; but before I could reach it I fell and grew faint again, and there, thank God, sir, you found me.

The coroner arrived, held his 'quest, and the 58 Footprints in Far Cornwall usual verdict of " Wrecked and cast ashore " empowered me to inter the dead sailors, found and future, from the same vessel, with the service in the Prayer-book for the Burial of the Dead. This decency of sepulture is the result of a some- what recent statute, passed in the reign of George III.

Before that time it was the common usage of the coast to dig, just above high-water mark, a pit on the shore, 'and therein to cast, without inquest or religious rite, the carcasses of ship- wrecked men. My first funeral of these lost mariners was a touching and striking scene. The three bodies first found were buried at the same time.

Behind the coffins, as they were solemnly borne along the aisle, walked the solitary mourner, Le Daine, weeping bitterly and aloud. Other eyes were moist, for who could hear unsoftened the greeting of the Church to these strangers from the sea, and the "touch that makes the whole earth kin," in the hope we breathed that we, too, might one day " rest as these our brethren did "? It was well-nigh too much for those who served that day. Nor was the interest subdued when, on the Sunday after the wreck, at the appointed place in the service, just before the General Thanksgiving, Le Daine rose up from his place, approached the altar, and uttered, in an audible but broken voice, his thanksgiving for his singular and safe deliverance from the perils of the sea.

Remembrances of a Cornish Vicar 59 The text of the sermon that day demands its history. Some time before, a vessel, the Hero of Liverpool, was seen in distress, in the offing of a neighbouring harbour, during a storm. The crew, mistaking a signal from the beach, betook them- selves to their boat.

It foundered, and the whole ship's company, twelve in number, were drowned in sight of the shore. But the stout ship held together, and drifted on to the land so unshattered by the sea that the coast-guard, who went im- mediately on board, found the fire burning in the cabin. When the vessel came to be examined, they found in one of the berths a Bible, and between its leaves a sheet of paper, whereon some recent hand had transcribed verses the twenty- first, twenty-second, and twenty-third of the thirty-third chapter of Isaiah.

The same hand had also marked the passage with a line of ink along the margin. The name of the owner of the book was also found inscribed on the fly-leaf. He was a youth of eighteen years of age, the son of a widow, and a statement under his name recorded that the Bible was " a reward for his good conduct in a Sunday-school. The very hearts of the people seemed hushed to hear it, and every eye was 60 Footprints in Far Cornwall turned towards Le Daine, who bowed his head upon his hands and wept.

For the Lord is our judge, the Lord is our lawgiver, the Lord is our king ; He will save us. The tacklings are loosed ; they could not well strengthen their mast, they could not spread the sail : then is the prey of a great spoil divided ; the lame take the prey. Few, indeed, could have borne, without deep emotion, to see and hear Le Daine. He remained as my guest six weeks, and during the whole of this time we sought diligently, and at last we found the whole crew, nine in number.

They were discovered, some under rocks, jammed in by the force of the water, so that it took some- times several ebb-tides, and the strength of many hands, to extricate the corpses. The captain I came upon myself lying placidly upon his back, with his arms folded in the very gesture which Le Daine had described as he stood amid the crew on the maintop. The hand of the spoiler was about to assail him when I suddenly ap- peared, so that I rescued him untouched.

Each hand grasped a small pouch or bag. One con- tained his pistols ; the other held two little log- Remembrances of a Cornish Vicar 61 reckoners 1 of brass ; so that his last thoughts were full of duty to his owners and his ship, and his latest efforts for rescue and defence. He had been manifestly lifted by a billow and hurled against a rock, and so slain ; for the victims of our cruel sea are seldom drowned, but beaten to death by violence and the wrath of the billows.

We gathered together one poor fellow in five parts ; his limbs had been wrenched off, and his body rent. During our search for his remains, a man came up to me with something in his hand, inquiring, " Can you tell me, sir, what is this? Is it a part of a man? Two or three of the dead were not discovered for four or five weeks after the wreck, and these had become so loathsome from decay, that it was at peril of health and life to perform the last duties we owe to our brother-men.

But hearts and hands were found for the work, and at last the good ship's company captain, mate, and crew were laid at rest, side by side, beneath our church- yard trees. Groups of grateful letters from Ar- broath 2 are to this day among the most cherished 1 These are still preserved. They are little sand-glasses, shielded with brass, cylindrical in shape. The sand in one takes twenty- eight seconds to run, that in the other fourteen. A lecture was delivered 62 Footprints in Far Cornwall memorials of my escritoire.

Some, written by the friends of the dead, are marvellous proofs of the good feeling and educated ability of the Scottish people. One from a father breaks off in irrepressible pathos, with a burst of " O my son! It is a carved image, life-size, of his native Caledonia, in the garb of her country, with sword and shield.

At the end of about six weeks Le Daine left my house on his homeward way, a sadder and a richer man. Gifts had been proffered from many a hand, so that he was able to return to Jersey, with happy and grateful mien, well clothed, and with 30 in his purse.

His recollections of our scenery were not such as were in former times associated with the Cornish shore ; for three years afterward he returned to the place of his disaster accompanied by his uncle, sister, and affianced wife, and he had brought them that, in his own joyous words, " they might see the very spot of his great deliverance : " and there, one summer day, they stood, a group of happy faces, gazing with wonder and gratitude on our rugged there on February 18, , by the Rev.

Remembrances of a Cornish Vicar 63 cliffs, that were then clad in that gorgeous vesture of purple and gold which the heather and gorse wind and weave along the heights ; and the soft blue wave lapping the sand in gentle cadence, as though the sea had never wreaked an impulse of ferocity, or rent a helpless prey.

Nor was the thankfulness of the sailor a barren feeling. When- soever afterward the vicar sought to purchase for his dairy a Jersey cow, the family and friends of Le Daine rejoiced to ransack the island until they had found the sleekiest, loveliest, best of that beautiful breed ; and it is to the gratitude of that poor seaman and stranger from a distant abode that the herd of the glebe has long been famous in the land, and hence, as Homer would have sung hence came " Bleehtah, and Lilith, Neelah, Evan Neelah, and Katy.

In the following year a new and another wreck was announced in the gloom of night. A schooner under bare poles had been watched for many hours from the cliffs, with the steersman fastened at the wheel. All at once she tacked and made for the shore, and just as she had reached a creek between two reefs of rock, she foundered and went down. At break of day only her vane was 64 Footprints in Far Cornwall visible to mark her billowy grave. Not a vestige could be seen of her crew.

But in the course of the day her boat was drifted ashore, and we found from the name on the stern that the vessel was the Phoenix of St. A letter from myself by immediate post brought up next day from that place a sailor who introduced himself as the brother of a young man who had sailed as mate in the wrecked ship.

He was a rough plain-spoken man, of simple religious cast, without guile or pretence : one of the good old seafaring sort the men who "go down to the sea in ships, and occupy their business in great waters : " these, as the Psalmist chants, " see the wonders of the Lord, and His glories in the deep.

A reward of meagre im- port, it is true, offered by the Seaman's Burial Act, to which I have referred, and within my own domain doubled always by myself, brought us many a comrade in this sickening scrutiny, but for long it was in vain.

At last one day, while we were scattered over a broken stretch of jumbled rocks that lay in huddled masses along Remembrances of a Cornish Vicar 65 the base of the cliffs, a loud and sudden shout called me where the seaman of St.

Ives stood. He was gazing down into the broken sea it was on a spot near low-water mark and there, just visible from underneath a mighty fragment of rock, was seen the ankle of a man and a foot still wearing a shoe. Soon the sea began again to flow, and very quickly we were driven by the rising surges from the spot. The anguish of the mourner for his dead was thrilling to behold and terrible to hear.

It was low water at evening tide, and there was a bright November moon. We gathered in num- bers, for among my parishioners there were kind and gentle-hearted men, such as had " pity, tenderness, and tears," and all were moved by the F 66 Footprints in Far Cornwall tale of the sailor, hurled and buried beneath a rock, by the strong and cruel sea. The scene of our first nightly assemblage was a weird and striking sight. Far, far above loomed the tall and gloomy headlands of the coast : around us foamed and raged the boiling waves : the moon cast her massive lowering shadows on rock and sea " And the long moonbeam on the cold wet sand Lay, like a jasper column, half upreared.

Their efforts were strenuous but unavailing. The tide soon returned in its strength, and drove us, baffled, from the spot before we had been able to grasp or shake the ponderous mass. It was calculated by competent judges that its weight was full fifteen tons : neither could there be a more graphic image of the resistless strength of the wrathful sea than the aspect of this and similar blocks of rifted stone, that were raised and rolled perpetually, by the power of the billows, and hurled, as in some pastime of the giants, along the shuddering shore!

Deep and bitter was the grief of the sailor at our failure and retreat. His piteous wail over the dead recalled the agony of those who are recorded in Holy Writ, they who grieved for their lost ones, 1 " Gebir," Book I. The usual version has " hard wet sand. Remembrances of a Cornish Vicar 67 " and would not be comforted because they were not! At a neighbouring harbour 1 dwelt a relative 2 of mine, who was an engineer, in charge of the machinery on a breakwater and canal. To him at morning light I sent an appeal for succour, and he immediately responded with aidance and advice.

Two strong windlasses, worked by iron chains, and three or four skilful men, were sent up by him next day with instruc- tions for their work. Again at evening ebb we were all on the spot. One of our new assistants, a very Tubal-Cain in aspect and stature, and of the same craft with that smith before the Flood, plunged upon the rock as the water reluctantly revealed its upper side, and drilled a couple of holes in the surface with rapid energy, to receive, each of them, that which he called a Lewis-wedge and a ring.

To these the chains of the windlasses were fastened on. They then looped a rope around the ankle of the corpse and gave it as the post of honour to me to hold. It was on the evening of Sunday that all this was done, and I had deemed it a venial breach of discipline to omit the nightly service of the Church in order to suit the tide.

George Casebourne, Civil Engineer, who married a sister of Mr. Hawker's, and was for some years superintendent of the Bude Canal. Forty strong parishioners, all absentees from evening prayer, manned the double windlass power ; I intoned the pull ; and by a strong and blended effort the rocky mass was slowly, silently, and gently up- heaved : a slight haul at the rope, and up to our startled view, and to the sudden lights, came forth the altered, ghastly, flattened semblance of a man!

A coffin had been made' ready, under the hope of final success, and therein we reverently laid the poor disfigured carcass of one who a little while before had been the young and joyous inmate of a fond and happy home. We had to clamber up a steep and difficult pathway along the cliff with the body, which was carried by the bearers in a kind of funeral train.

The vicar of course led the way. When we were about halfway up a singular and striking event occurred, which moved us all exceedingly. Un- observed for all were intent on their solemn task a vessel had neared the shore ; she lay to, and, as it seemed, had watched us with night- glasses from the deck, or had discerned us from the torches and lanterns in our hands. For all at once there sounded along the air three deep and Remembrances of a Cornish Vicar 69 thrilling cheers!

And we could see that the crew on board had manned their yards. It was mani- fest that their loyal and hearty voices and gestures were intended to greet and gratulate our fulfil- ment of duty to a brother mariner's remains. The burial-place of the dead sailors in this church- yard is a fair and fitting scene for their quiet rest. Full in view and audible in sound for ever rolls the sea. Is it not to them a soothing requiem that " Old Ocean, with its everlasting voice, As in perpetual Jubilee proclaims The praises of the Almighty "?

Trees stand, like warders, beside their graves ; and the Saxon and shingled church, " the mother of us all," dwells in silence by, to watch and wail over her safe and slumbering dead. It recalls the imagery of the Holy Book wherein we read of the gathered relics of the ancient slain : " And Rizpah the daughter of Aiah took sackcloth and spread it for her upon the rock from the beginning of harvest until water dropped upon them out of heaven, and suffered neither the birds of the air to rest on them by day, nor the beasts of the field by night.

Safe and quiet in the ground! There are men in this district whose usage it is at every outbreak of a gale of wind to watch and ward the cliffs from rise to set of sun. Of these my quaint old parishioner, Peter Burrow, was one. On a wild and dreary winter day I found myself seated on a rock with Peter standing by, at a point that overhung the sea.

We were both gazing with anxious dismay at a ship which was beating to and fro in the Channel, and had now drifted much too near to the surges and the shore. She had come into sight some hours before struggling with Harty Race, the local name of a narrow and boisterous run of sea between Lundy and the land, and she was now within three or four miles of our rocks. With strained and anxious eyes we searched the billows for the course of the boat.

Sometimes we caught a glimpse as it rode upon some surging wave ; then it disappeared a while, and no trace Remembrances of a Cornish Vicar 7 1 was visible for long. At last we could see it no more. Meanwhile the vessel held down Channel, tacked and steered as if still beneath the guidance of some of her crew, although it must have been in sheer desperation that they still hugged the shore.

What was to be done? If she struck, the men still on board must perish without help, for nightfall drew on ; if the boat reappeared, Peter could make a signal where to land. In hot haste, then, I made for the vicarage, ordered my horse, and returned towards the cliffs. The ship rode on, and I accompanied her way along the shore.

She reached the offing of a neighbouring haven, and there grounded on the sand. No boat- man could be induced to put off, and thick dark- ness soon after fell. I returned worn, heart-sick, and weary on my homeward way ; there strange tidings greeted me, the boat which we had watched so long had been rolled ashore by the billows empty.

Peter Burrow had hauled her above high-water mark, and had found a name, " The Alonzo, of Stockton-on-Tees," on her stern. That night I wrote as usual to the owner, with news of the wreck, and the next day we were able to guess at the misfortunes of the stranded ship : a boat had visited the vessel, and found her freighted with iron from Gloucester for a Queen's yard round the Land's End. Her papers in the cabin showed that her crew of nine men had been reported all sound and well three 72 Footprints in Far Cornwall days before.

The owner's agent arrived, and he stated that her captain was a brave and trusty officer, and that he must have been compelled by his men to join them when they deserted the ship. They must all have been swamped and lost not long after the launch of the boat, and while we watched for them in vain amid the waves. Then ensued what has long been with me the saddest and most painful duty of the shore : we sought and waited for the dead. Now there is a folk- lore of the beach that no corpse will float or be found until the ninth day after death.

The truth is, that about that time the body proceeds to decompose, and as a natural result it ascends to the surface of the current, is brought into the shallows of the tide, and is there found. The owner's representative was my guest for ten days, and with the help of the ship's papers and his own personal knowledge we were able to identify the dead.

First of all the body of the captain came in ; he was a fine, stalwart, and resolute- looking man. His countenance, however, had a grim and angry aspect, and his features wore somewhat of a fierce and reproachful look just such an expression as would verify the truth of our suspicion that he had been driven by the violence of others to forsake his deck.

The face of the dead man was as graphic a record of his living character as a physiognomist could portray. Then arrived the mate and three other men of Remembrances of a Cornish Vicar 73 the crew. None were placid of feature or calm and pleasant in look, as those usually are who are accidentally drowned or who die in their beds.

But many of them had that awful expression of countenance which reminded me of a picture once described to me as the result of an experiment by certain artists in France. It was during the Revolution, and amid the anarchy of those times, that they bought a criminal who had been con- demned to die, fastened him to a cross, and painted him for a crucifixion ; but his face wore the aspect, not of the patient suffering which they intended to portray, but a strong expression of reluctant agony.

Such has been the look that I myself have witnessed in many a poor disfigured corpse. The death-struggle of the conscious victim in the strong and cruel grasp of the remorseless sea was depicted in harsh and vivid lines on the brow of the dead. But one day my strange old man, Peter Burrow, came to me in triumphant haste with the loud greeting, " Sir, we have got a noble corpse down on your beach! We have just laid him down above high-water mark, and he is as comely a body as a man shall see!

On his broad smooth chest was tattooed a rood that is to say, in artist phrase, our blessed Saviour on His cross, with, on the one hand, His mother, and on the other St. John the evangelist : underneath were the initial letters of a name, "P. On his right arm was engraved "P. The greater number of my dead sailors and I have myself said the burial service over forty-two such men rescued from the sea were so deco- rated with some distinctive emblem and name ; and it is their object and intent, when they assume these pictured signs, to secure identity for their bodies if their lives are lost at sea, and then, for the solace of their friends, should they be cast on the shore and taken up for burial in the earth.

What a volume of heroism and resignation to a mournful probability in this calm foresight and deliberate choice, to wear always on their living flesh, as it were, the signature of a sepulchral name! The symbolic figures and the letters which were supposed to designate our dead were all faithfully transcribed and duly entered in the vicar's book. We carried the strangely decorated man to his comrades of the deck ; and gradually, Remembrances of a Cornish Vicar 75 in the course of one month, we discovered and carefully buried the total crew of nine strong men.

The boat which had foundered with them we brought also to the churchyard, and there, just by their place of rest, we placed her beside them, keel upward to the sky, in token that her work, too, was over and her voyage done. There her timbers slowly moulder still, and by-and-by her dust will mingle in the scenery of death with the ashes of those living hearts and hands that manned her, in their last unavailing launch and fruitless struggle for the mastery of life! But the history of the Alonzo is not yet closed.

Three years afterwards a letter arrived from the Danish consul at a neighbouring seaport town, addressed to myself as the vicar of the parish ; and the hope of the writer was that he might be able to ascertain through myself, for two anxious and grieving parents in Denmark, tidings of their lost son. His name, he said, was Philip Bengstein, and it was in the correspondence that this strange and touching history transpired. The father, who immediately afterward wrote to my address, told me in tearful words, that his son, bearing that name, had gone away from his native home because his parents had resisted a marriage j6 Footprints in Far Cornwall which he was desirous to contract.

Then their inquiry as to the fate of that vessel had led them to the knowledge through the owners that the vicar of a parish on the seaboard of North Cornwall could in all likelihood convey to them some tidings of their long-lost son. I related in reply the history of the death, discovery, and burial of the unfortunate young man.

I was enabled to verify and to understand the initial letters of his own name, and of her who was not to become his bride although she still clung to his memory in loving loneliness in that foreign land! Ample evidence, therefore, verified his corpse, and I was proudly enabled to certify to his parents the reverent burial of their child. A letter is treasured among my papers filled to overflowing with the strong and earnest gratitude of a stranger and a Dane for the kindness we had rendered to one who loved " not wisely," perchance, " but too well," to that son who had been lost and was found too late : one, too, " whose course of true love " had brought him from distant Denmark to a green hillock among the dead, beneath a lonely tower among the trees, by the Cornish sea!

What a picture was that which we saw painted upon the bosom Remembrances of a Cornish Vicar 77 and the limbs of a dead man, of fond and faithful love, of severed and broken hearts, of disappointed hope, of a vacant chair and a hushed voice in a far-away Danish home! Linked with such themes as these which I have related in this Remembrance are the subjoined verses, which were written on a rock by the shore. The battle-field Morwenna's strand, Where rock and ridge the bulwark keep, The giant warders of the deep!

They come! They fling their wild flag to the breeze, The banner of a thousand seas! They come, they mount, they charge in vain, Thus far, incalculable main! No more! Have the rocks faith, that thus they stand Unmoved, a grim and stately band, And look, like warriors tried and brave, Stern, silent, reckless, o'er the wave?

Have the proud billows thought and life To feel the glory of the strife, And trust one day, in battle bold, To win the foeman's haughty hold? Thy way, O God! Thy footsteps are not known. It exhibits a squat figure, uncouth and original, just such a one as Frederick Taylor would delight to introduce in one of his out-of-door pieces of Elizabethan days, as an appendage to the rural lady's state when she rode afield with her hawk on her wrist.

His height is under four feet, hump-backed and misshapen ; his head, with tangled elfy hair falling wildly on his shoulders, droops upon his chest. Negro features and a dark skin surround a loose and flabby mouth, which teeth have long ceased to harmonise and fill out. He is clad in a loose antique russet gaberdine, the fashion of a past century : one hand leans on a gnarled staff, and the other holds a wide-brimmed felt hat, with humble gesture and look, as though his master stood by. The traditionary name of this well-remembered character on the Tamar-side is Black John.

He 1 From All the Tear Round, vol. When the feast was over, and the " wrath of hunger " 2 had been assuaged, while the hare's or fox's head, the festive drinking-cup of silver, went round with the nectar of the Georgian era, "strong punch for strong heads," the jester was called in to contribute by merry antic and jocose saying to the loud enjoyment of the guests. Such were the functions sustained by my pictured and storied dwarf, and many an anecdote still survives around us in hearth and hall of the feats and stories of the " Tetcott merry- man.

Calmady Black John 81 day. These were " sparrow - mumbling " and swallowing living mice, which were tethered to a string to ensure their safe return to light and life. In the first of these accomplishments, a sparrow, alive, was fastened to the teeth of the artist with a cord, and he was expected to mumble off the feathers from the fluttering and astonished bird, with his lips alone, until he was plucked quite bare without the assistance or touch of finger or hand. A couple of projecting tusks or fangs, such as are called by the Italians Bourbon teeth, were of singular value as sparrow-holders to Black John ; but these were one day drawn by violence from his mouth by an exasperated black- smith, whose kitten had been slain, and who had been persuaded by a wretch, who was himself the actual assassin, that it was the jester who had guillotined the poor creature with his formidable jaws.

The passage of the mouse was accomplished very often, amid roars of rude applause, down and up the gullet of the dwarf. A tale is told of him, that one day, after he had for some time amused the guests, and had drank his full share of the ale, he fell, or seemed to fall, asleep. On a sudden he started up with a loud and terrified cry. Questioned as to the cause of his alarm, he answered, " O sir," to his master, " I was in a sog [sleep], and I had such a dreadful dream!

I thought I was dead, and I went where the wicked people go! Among the familiar creatures of the Hall were two enormous toads : these were especial favourites with Mr. Arscott, who was a very Chinese in his fondness for the bat and the toad, and who used to feed them very often with his own hands. One morning the family were aroused by sounds near the porch, of battle and fight. A guest from a distant town, who had arrived the night before on a visit, was discovered prone upon the grass, and over him stood as conqueror Black John, belabouring him with his staff.

His story was, when rescued and set upon his feet, that on going out to breathe the morning air he had encountered and slain a fierce and venomous reptile a big bloated creature that came towards him with open mouth. Hanker Black John 83 who had heard a sound of feet, and came as usual to be fed, and was ruthlessly put to death ; not, however, unavenged, for a wild man of the woods so the townsman averred had rushed upon him and knocked him down.

When Mr. Black John sobbed and muttered vengeance in his den for many a day for the death of " Old Dawty " the household name of the toad. Black John's lair was a rude hut, which he had wattled for a snug abode, close to the kennel. He loved to retire to it, and sleep near his chosen companions, the hounds. When they were un- kennelled, he accompanied and ran with them afoot, and so sinewy and so swift was his stunted form that he was very often in their midst at the death.

Then, with the brush of the fox elaborately disposed as the crest of his felt hat, John would make his appearance on the following Sunday at church, where it was displayed, and pompously hung up above his accustomed seat, to his own great delight and the envy of many among the congregation. When the pack found the fox, and the huntsman's ear was gladdened by their shrill and sudden burst into full cry, Black John's shout would be heard in the field, with his standing jest, 1 Another version of the story says that he was a shoemaker come on business, and that he never made boots for Mr.

Arscott again. For the fate of the other toad, see end of Appendix C. His usual couch was among the reeds or fern of some sheltering brake or wood, and he slept, as he himself used to express it, " rolled up, as warm as a hedgeboar, round his own nose. He was carried home, and in due course was coffined and borne towards the grave. The bystanders rent open the lid in hot haste, and up started Black John alive, in amazement, and in furious wrath.

He had been in a long deliquium, or death-trance, 2 from cold, and had been restored to life by the 1 The Rev. Robert Martyn, then Vicar of Stratton. The parson in his sermon was speaking of "that blessedness which on earth it is impossible to find," when a well-known voice from the gallery shouted, " Not find!

Us be sartain to find un to-morrow in Swannacott Wood! As he told the astonished mourners, " He heard the words ' dust to dust,' and then," said he, " I thought it was high time to bumpy. More than once the reverend gentleman was suddenly assaulted in his walks by a stone hurled at him from a hedge, followed by an angry outcry, in a well-known voice, of " Ha! The result of frequent clerical attempts to reform his habits, was a rooted dislike on his part of the black coat and white neckcloth in all its shades and denominations.

The visit of the first field-preacher to the precincts of the Hall was signalised by an exhibition of this feeling. John waylaid the poor unsuspecting man, and offered to guide him on his road by a short cut across the park, which, John alleged, would save him a " considerable bit of way. Arscott's perilous favourite bull. This animal had grown up from calf-hood the wanton but docile com- panion of Black John, whose wonderful skill in taming all manner of wild animals had made the " sire of the herd " so familiar with his strange warder, that he would follow him and obey his signals and voice like a dog.

What took place between the bull and the preacher could only be guessed at. From the paddock gate some little time after emerged Black John with a fragment of a white cravat in his hand, and this was all, so he stead- fastly averred, that ever he could find of " the preacher's body. He was never heard of more in that region.

And although there were rural sceptics who doubted that the bull could have made such quick work of a full-grown man, the story was fearful enough to scare away all wandering preachers from that district while the dwarf lived. On the Sunday following the terrific interview between the preacher and the bull, John took his usual 1 In another version of the tale, Black John said to the preacher, " Only just take your hat off and say two words of gospel to 'im, and her won't touch 'ee.

Black John was long and fondly cherished by his generous master. Arscott lived like Adam in the garden, surrounded by his animals and pets, each with its familiar and household name ; and no man ever more fully realised the truth of the saying that " love makes love," and that the surest way to kindle kindness is to be kind. Accurately has it been said of him " Oh, for the Squire!

The gathering scene, where Arscott's lightest word Went, like a trumpet, to the hearts that heard ; The dogs, that knew the meaning of his voice, From the grim foxhound to my lady's choice : The steed that waited till his hand caressed : And old Black John that gave and bare the jest! When gout and old age had imprisoned Mr. Arscott in his easy-chair, Black John snoozed among the 1 This is one stanza from Hawker's own poem, "Tetcott, 5 in which year Sir William Molesworth caused the old house to be taken down, and a new one built.

He had to be removed by force from the door of the vault, and then he utterly refused to depart from the neighbourhood of the grave. He made himself another lair, near the churchyard wall, and there he sobbed away the brief remnant of his days, in honest and un- availing grief for the protector whom he had so loved in life, and from whom in death he would not be divided. Thus and there, not long after, he died, as the old men of the parish used to relate, for the " second and last time.

The mourners ate of the fat and drank of the strong, as their Celtic impulses would suggest ; and although some among them, who remembered John's 1 These lines are from Hawker's poem, "A Legend of the Hive. A singular and striking circumstance attended the final funeral of Black John. An aged crone, bent and tottering, " worn Nature's mournful monument," was observed following the bier, and the people heard her muttering ever and anon, " Oh, is he really dead?

He came to life again once you know, and lived long after. A stretch of wild heath and stunted gorse, dotted with swelling hills, and interspersed with rugged rocks, either of native granite or rough-hewn pillar, the rude memorial of ancient art, spreads from the Severn Sea on the west to the tall ridge of Carradon on the east, and from Warbstow Barrow on the north to the southern civilisation of Bodmin and Liskeard.

Throughout this district there is, even in these days, but very scanty sign of settled habitation. Two or three recent and solitary roads traverse the boundaries ; here and there the shafts and machinery of a mine announce the existence of underground life ; a few clustered cottages, or huts, for the shepherds, are sprinkled along the waste ; but the vast and uncultured surface of the soil is suggestive of the bleak steppes of Tartary or the far wilds of Australia, and that in the very heart of modern 1 From All the Year Round, vol.

See Appendix D. Yet is there no scenery that can be sought by the antiquary or the artist that will so kindle the imagination or requite the eye or the mind of the wanderer as this Cornish solitude. If he travel from our storied Dundagel, eastward, Rowter, 1 the Red Tor, so named from its purple tapestry of heather and heath, and Brunguillie, 2 the Golden Hill, crested with yellow gorse like a crown, will win his approach and reward, with their majestic horizon, the first efforts of his pilgrimage.

The summits and sides of these mountains of the west are studded with many a logan-rock 3 or shuddering-stone of the old super- stition. This was the pillar of ordeal in Druid times, so poised that while it shook at the slight faint touch of the innocent finger, it firmly with- stood the assailing strength of the guilty man. Passing onward, the traveller will pause amid a winding outline of unhewn granite pillars, and 1 Spelt "Routorr" in the lines quoted on p.

It seems more natural to take the word as meaning " rough, or rugged, tor. Madron " records a similar test of innocence. For Carew's description of a logan-rock, see end of Appendix D. This is a memorial of the dragon-crest of a Viking, or the demon-idol and shrine of an older antiquity. Not far off there gleams a moorland lake or mimic sea, with its rippling laugh of waters the Dozmere Pool 1 of many an antique legend and tale, the mystic scene 2 of the shadowy vessel and the Mort d' Arthur of our living bard.

A sheep-track for no other visible path will render guidance along the moor leads on to Kilmarth Tor, from the brow of which lofty crag the eye can embrace the expanse of the two seas which are the boundaries of Corn- wall on the right and left. There, too, looms in the distance rocky Carradon, with the valley of the Hurlers at its foot. These tall shapes of granite, grim and grotesque, were once, as local legends say, nine bold upstanding Cornish men who disdained the Sabbath-day ; and as they pursued their daring pastime and " put the stone " in spite of the warning of the priest, they were changed, by a sudden doom, where they stood up to play, and so were fixed for ever in monu- mental rock.

Above them lowers the Devil's Wring, a pile of granite masses, lifted, as though by giant or demon strength, one upon another ; 1 See Appendix Da. Daniel GumUs Rock 93 but the upper rocks vast and unwieldy, and the lower gradually lessening downward, until they rest, poised, on a pivot of stone so slender and small that it seems as though the wind sweeping over the moor would overtopple it with a breath ; and yet centuries many and long have rolled over the heath, and still it stands unshaken and un- swerved.

Its name is derived from the similitude of the rocky structure to the press wherein the ancient housewives of rude Cornwall were ac- customed to " wring " out the milk from their cheese. Not far off from this singular monument of " ages long ago " there is found to this day a rough and rude assemblage of moorstone slabs, some cast down and others erect, but manifestly brought together and arranged by human hands and skill.

There is still traceable amid the frag- ments the outline of a human habitation, once divided into cells, and this was the origin and purpose of this solitary abode. It was the work and the home of a remarkable man an eccentric and original character among the worthies of the west and the place has borne ever since the early years of the last century the name of Daniel Gumb's Rock.

He was a native Cornishman, born in a cottage that bordered on the moor, and in the lowlier ranks of labouring life. In his father's household he was always accounted a strange and unsocial boy. In his childhood he 94 Footprints in Far Cornwall kept aloof from all pastime and play, and while his companions resorted to their youthful amuse- ments and sports, Daniel was usually seen alone with a book or a slate whereon he worked, at a very early age, the axioms of algebra or the diagrams of Euclid.

He had mastered with marvellous rapidity all the books of the country- side, and he had even exhausted the instructions of the schoolmaster of the neighbouring town. Then it became his chosen delight to wander on the moors with some favourite volume in his hand, and a crust from his mother's loaf in his bag ; with his inseparable tools, also, the chisel and the mallet, wherewithal to chip and gather the geological specimens of his own district.

Often he would be absent whole nights, and when he was questioned as to his place of shelter, he would reply, " Where John the Baptist slept," or " At Roche, in the hermit's bed ; " for the ruined cell of a Christian anchorite stood, and yet stands, above the scenery of the wanderings of that solitary boy. But Daniel's principal ambition was to know and name the planets and the stars. It was at the time when the discoveries of foreign astronomers had peopled the heavens with fresh imagery, and our own Newton had given to the ethereal phe- nomena of the sky a " local habitation and a name.

Thus even Daniel's distant district became aware of the novel science of the stars, and this intelligence failed not to excite and foster the faculties of his original mind. Local legends still record and identify the tall and craggy places where the youthful " scholar " was wont to ascend and to rest all night with his face turned upward to the sky, " learning the customs of the stars," and " finding out by the planets things to come.

A master-mind of those days, Cookworthy 1 of Plymouth, a learned and scientific man, still 1 William Cookworthy started life as a small druggist in Nut Street, Plymouth. He had been educated by the Society of Friends, and at thirty-one he retired from trade, became a Quaker minister, and continued so for twenty-five years. Baring-Gould respectively. The portrait of Black John was formerly in the possession of Mr. These acknowledgments would be incomplete if they did not refer to the zealous care bestowed [x] by Mr.

Ley Pethybridge on his charming illustrations. His work has been to a large extent a labour of love. Thanks are also due to the various photographers, amateur and professional, who have lent their aid. George Penrose, Curator of the Royal Institution of Cornwall at Truro, kindly photographed the painting of Antony Payne and the flask which formerly belonged to the giant.

The Manning tomb is from a photo by Mr. Thorn of Bude, as is also the piscina. The Design on the Title-page , by Mr. There cannot be a scene more graphic in itself, or more illustrative in its history of the gradual growth and striking development of the Church in Celtic and Western England, than the parish of St. It occupies the upper and northern nook of the county of Cornwall; shut in and bounded on the one hand by the Severn Sea, and on the other by the offspring of its own bosom, the Tamar River, which gushes, with its sister stream the Torridge, from a rushy knoll on the eastern wilds of Morwenstow.

Neither landmarks nor fences nor walls bounded or severed the bold, free, untravelled Cornish domain. Dimly visible by the darker hue of the crushed grass, these straight and narrow roads led the traveller along from chapelry to cell, or to some distant and solitary cave.

The wayside cross. Such were the crosses of St. James and St. Here, then, let us stand and survey the earliest scenery of pagan Morwenstow. Barrows curve above the dead; a stony cross stands by a mossed and lichened well; here and there glides a shorn and vested monk, whose function it was, often at peril of life and limb, to sprinkle the brow of some hard-won votary, [4] and to breathe the Gospel of the Trinity on the startled ear of the Keltic barbarian.

Let us close this theme of thought with a few faint echoes from the River of the West:—. Then arrived, to people this bleak and lonely boundary with the thoughts and doctrines of the Cross, the piety and the legend of St. This was the origin of her name and place. They had, according to the record of Leland, the scribe, children twenty-and-four.

Now either these were their own daughters and sons, or they were, according to the usage of those days, the offspring of the nobles of their land, placed for loyal and learned nurture in the palace of the king, and so called the children of his house. Of these Morwenna was one. She grew up wise, learned, and holy above her generation; and it was evermore the strong desire of her soul to bring the barbarous and pagan people [6] among whom she dwelt to the Christian font.

Now so it was that when Morwenna was grown up to saintly womanhood there was a king of Saxon England, and Ethelwolf was his noble name. This was he who laid the endowment of his realm of England on the altar of the Apostles at Rome, the first and eldest Church-king of the islands who occupied the English throne.

He, Ethelwolf, had likewise many children; and while he intrusted to the famous St. Swithun the guidance of his sons, he besought King Breachan to send to his court Morwenna, that she might become the teacher of the Princess Edith and the other daughters of his royal house. She sojourned in his palace long and patiently; and she so gladdened King Ethelwolf by her goodness and her grace, that at last he was fain to give her whatsoever she sought.

Her voice was heard; her entreaty was fulfilled. They built there altar and arch, aisle and device in stone. So runs the quaint and simple legend of our Tamar-side; and so ascend into the undated era of the ninth or tenth age the early Norman arches, font, porch, and piscina of Morwenstow church. The endowment, in abbreviated Latin, still exists in the registry of the diocese.

John at Bridgewater, in whom the total tithes and glebe-lands of this parish were then vested, had agreed, at the request of Walter Brentingham, the Bishop of Exeter, to endow an altar-priest with certain lands, bounded on the one hand by the sea, and on the other by the Well of St. John of the Wilderness, near the church. But the striking point in this ancient document is that, whereas the date of the endowment is A. To such a remote era, therefore, we must assign the Norman relics of antiquity which still survive, and which, although enclosed within the walls and outline of an edifice enlarged and extended at two subsequent periods, have to this day undergone no material change.

We proceed to enumerate and describe these features of the first foundation of St. Morwenna, [11] and to which I am not disposed to assign a later origin than from A. First among these is a fine Norman doorway at the southern entrance of the present church. The arch-head is semicircular, and it is sustained on either side by half-piers built in stone, with capitals adorned with different devices; and the curve is crowned with the zigzag and chevron mouldings.

But it is time for us to unclose the door and enter in. There stands the font in all its emphatic simplicity. A moulded cable girds it on to the mother church; and the uncouth lip of its circular rim attests its origin in times of a rude taste and unadorned symbolism. For wellnigh ten centuries the Gospel of the Trinity has sounded over this silent cell of stone, and from the Well of St. John [12] the stream has glided in, and the water gushed withal, while another son or daughter has been added to the Christian family.

Before us stand the three oldest arches of the Church in ancient Cornwall. They curve upon piers built in channelled masonry, a feature of Norman days which presents a strong contrast with the grooved pillars of solid or of a single stone in succeeding styles of architecture. The western arch is a simple semicircle of dunstone from the shore, so utterly unadorned and so severe in its design that it might be deemed of Saxon origin, were it not for its alliance with the elaborate Norman decoration of the other two.

These embrace again, and embody the ripple of the sea and the monsters that take their pastime in the deep waters. It is said that the final development of every strong and baleful passion in the human countenance is a fierce and angry laugh. To this period we must also allot the piscina, [13] which was discovered and rescued from desecration by the present vicar.

The chancel wall one day sounded hollow when struck; the mortar was removed, and underneath there appeared an arched aperture, which had been filled up with jumbled carved work and a crushed drain. It was cleared out, and so rebuilt as to occupy the exact site of its former existence.

It is of the very earliest type of Christian architecture, and, for aught we know, it may be the oldest piscina in all the land. At all events, it can [12] scarcely have seen less than a thousand years. It perpetuates the original form of this appanage of the chancel; for the horn of the Hebrew altar, [14] as is well known to architectural students, was in shape and in usage the primary type of the Christian piscina.

These horns were four, one at each corner, and in outline like the crest of a dwarf pillar, with a cup-shaped mouth and a grooved throat, to receive and to carry down the superfluous blood and water of the sacrifices into a cistern or channel underneath. Hence was derived the ecclesiastical custom that, whenever the chalice or other vessel had been rinsed, the water was reverently poured into the piscina, which was usually built into a carved niche of the southward chancel wall.

Such is the remarkable relic of former times which still exists in Morwenstow church, verifying, by the unique and remote antiquity of its pillared form, its own primeval origin. But among the features of this sanctuary none exceed in singular and eloquent symbolism the bosses of the chancel roof. Every one of these is a doctrine or a discipline engraven in the wood by some Bezaleel or Aholiab of early Christian days.

Among these the Norman rose and the fleur-de-lis have frequent pre-eminence. The one, from the rose of Sharon downward, is the pictured type of our Lord; the other, whether as the lotus of the [13] Nile or the lily of the vale, is the type of His Virgin Mother; and both of these floral decorations were employed as ecclesiastical emblems centuries before they were assumed into the shields of Normandy or England.

Four faces cluster on another boss,—three with masculine features, and one with the softer impress of a female countenance, a typical assemblage of the Trinity and the Mother of God. But very remarkable, in the mid-roof, is the [14] boss of the pentacle [16] of Solomon. Be this as it may, it was the concurrent belief of the Eastern nations that the sigil of the Wise King was the source and instrument of his supernatural power.

Hence it is that we find this mythic figure, in decorated delineation, as the signal of the boundless might of Him whose Church bends over all, the pentacle of Omnipotence! Akin to this graphic imagery is the shield of David, the theme of another of our chancel-bosses. The framework of these bosses is a cornice of vines. The root of the vines on each wall grows from the altar-side; the stem travels outward across the screen towards the nave.

There tendrils cling and clusters bend, while angels sustain the entire tree. A screen [19] divides the deep and narrow chancel from the nave. A scroll of rich device runs across it, wherein deer and oxen browse on the leaves of a budding vine.

Both of these animals are the well-known emblems of the baptised, and the sacramental tree is the type of the Church grafted into God. A strange and striking acoustic result is accomplished by this and by similar chancel-screens: they act as the tympanum of the structure, and increase and reverberate the volume of sound.

The voice uttered at the altar-side smites the hollow work of the screen, and is carried onward, as by some echoing instrument, into the nave and aisles; so that the lattice-work of the chancel, which at first thought might appear to impede the transit of the voice, does in reality grasp and deliver into stronger echo the ministry of tone.

Just outside the screen, and at the step of the nave, is the grave of a priest. It is identified by the reversed position of the carved cross on the stone, which also indicates the self-same attitude in the corpse. The head is laid down toward the east, while in all secular interment the head is turned to the west. The following is the reason as laid down by Durandus and other writers. But the apostles were to sit on future thrones and to assist at the Judgment: the Master was to arrive for doom amid His ancients gloriously, and the saints were to judge the world.

These prophecies were symbolised by the burial of the clergy, and thence, in contrast with other dead, their posture in the grave. The eastern window of the chancel, [21] as its legend records, is the pious and dutiful oblation of Rudolph, Baron Clinton, and Georgiana Elizabeth his wife. The central figure embodies the legend of St.

Morwenna, who stands in the attitude of the teacher of the Princess Edith, daughter of Ethelwolf the Founder King; on the one side is shown St. Peter, and on the other St. The window [22] itself is the recent offering of two noble minds; and while on this theme we may be pardoned for the natural boast that the patrons of this chancel have called by the name of Morwenna one of the fair and graceful daughters of their house.

But before we proceed to descend the three steps of the chancel floor, so obviously typical of Faith, Hope, and Charity, let us look westward through the [19] tower-arch; and as we look we discover that the builders, either by chance or design, have turned aside or set out of proportional place the western window of the tower.

Is this really so, or does the wall of the chancel swerve? The deviation was intended, nor without an error could we render the crooked straight. The southern aisle, dedicated to St. John the Baptist, with its granite and dunstone pillars, is of the later Decorated order, and is remarkable for its singular variety of material in stone. Granite pillars are surmounted by arches of dunstone; and, vice versa , dunstone arches by pillared granite. This, the last addition to the ancient sanctuary of St.

Morwenna, bears on the capital of a pillar the date A. The worshipper must descend three steps of stone as he enters into this aisle of St. The churchyard of Morwenstow is the scene of other features of a remote antiquity.

The roof of the total church—chancel, nave, northern and southern aisles—is of wood. Shingles of rended oak occupy the place of the usual, but far more recent, tiles which cover other churches; and it is not a little illustrative of the antique usages of this remote and lonely sanctuary, that no change has been wrought, in the long lapse of ages, in this unique and costly, but fit and durable, roofing.

The northern side of the churchyard is, according to ancient usage, devoid of graves. This is their division. Hence, and because of the doctrinal suggestion of the ill-omened scenery of the northern grave-ground, came the old dislike [27] to sepulture on the north side, so strikingly visible around this church. Along and beneath the southern trees, side by side, are the graves of between thirty and forty seamen, hurled by the sea, in shipwreck, on the neighbouring rocks, and gathered up and buried there by the present vicar and his people.

The crews of three lost vessels, cast away upon the rocks of the glebe and elsewhere, are laid at rest in this safe and silent ground. A legend for one recording-stone thus commemorates a singular scene. The figurehead [28] of the brig Caledonia , of Arbroath, in Scotland, stands at the graves of her crew, in the churchyard of Morwenstow:—. Doorway at Stanbury , showing the initials of Kempthorne and Manning.

Halfway down the principal pathway of the churchyard is a granite altar-tomb. Her father was also a wealthy landlord of the parish in that day. Their marriage united in their own hands a broad estate, and in the midst of it the bridegroom built for his bride the manor-house of Stanbury, and labelled the door-heads and the hearths with the blended initials [29] of the married pair. It was a great and a joyous day when they were wed, and the bride [24] was led home amid all the solemn and festal observances of the time.

There were liturgical benedictions of the mansion-house, the hearth, and the marriage-bed; for a large estate and a high place for their future lineage had been blended in the twain. Five months afterwards, on his homeward way from the hunting-field, John Manning was assailed by a mad bull, and gored to death not far from his home.

When the vicar of the parish arrived, in the year , he brought with him, among other carved oak furniture, a bedstead of Spanish chestnut, inlaid and adorned with ancient veneer: and it was set up, unwittingly, in a room of the vicarage which looked out upon the tombs. In the right-hand panel of the framework, at the head, was grooved in the name of John Manning; and in the place of the wife, the left hand, Christiana Manning, with their marriage date between. Nor was it discovered until afterwards that this was the very couch of wedded benediction, a relic of the great Stanbury marriage, which had been brought back and set up within sight of [25] the unconscious grave; and thus that the sole surviving records of the bridegroom and the bride stood side by side, the bedstead and the tomb, the first and the last scene of their early hope and their final rest.

Another and a lowlier grave bears on its recording-stone a broken snatch of antique rhythm, interwoven with modern verse. A young man [30] of this rural people, when he lay a-dying, found solace in his intervals of pain in the remembered echo of, it may be, some long-forgotten dirge; and he desired that the words which so haunted his memory might somehow or other be engraved on his stone.

He died, and his parish priest fulfilled his desire by causing the following death-verse to be set up where he lies. We shall close our legends of Morwenstow with these simple lines. A lonely life for the dark and silent mole! Day is to her night. She glides along her narrow vaults, unconscious of the glad and glorious scenes of earth and air and sea. She was born, as it were, in a grave; and in one long, living sepulchre she dwells and dies.

Is not existence to her a kind of doom? Wherefore is she thus a dark, sad exile from the blessed light of day? Here, in our bleak old Cornwall, the first mole was once a lady of the land. Her abode was in the far west, among the hills of Morwenna, beside the Severn Sea.

She was the daughter of a lordly race, the only child of her mother; and the father of the house was dead: her name was Alice of the Combe. Fair was she and comely, tender and tall; and she stood upon the threshold of her youth. But most of all did men marvel at the glory of her large blue eyes.

They were, to look upon, like the summer waters, when the sea is soft with light. They were to her mother a joy, and to the maiden herself, ah! Howbeit this was one of the ancient and common usages of those old departed days. Now, in the fashion of her stateliness and in the hue and texture of her garments, there was none among the maidens of old Cornwall like Alice of the Combe.

Men sought her far and near, but she was to them all, like a form of graven stone, careless and cold. That valorous knight! And well might she wait upon his eyes; for he was the garland of the west. He was her star. Now there was signal made of banquet in the halls of Stowe, of wassail and dance. The messenger had sped, and Alice of the Combe would be there.

Robes, precious and many, were unfolded from their rest, and the casket poured forth jewel and gem, that the maiden might stand before the knight victorious. It was the day—the hour—the time—her mother sate at her wheel by the hearth—the page waited in the hall—she came down in her loveliness, into the old oak room, [29] and stood before the mirrored glass—her robe was of woven velvet, rich and glossy and soft; jewels shone like stars in the midnight of her raven hair, and on her hand there gleamed afar off a bright and glorious ring!

She stood—she gazed upon her own fair countenance and form, and worshipped! Fain am I to greet thee wedded wife before I die! I do yearn to hold thy children on my knee! Often shall I pray to-night that the Granville heart may yield! Vanished, silent, gone! They had heard wild tones of mystic music in the air, there was a rush, a beam of light, and she was gone, and that for ever! East sought they her, and west, in northern paths and south; but she was never more seen in the lands.

Her mother wept till she had not a tear left; none sought to comfort her, for it was vain. Moons waxed and waned, and the crones by the cottage [30] hearth had whiled away many a shadowy night with tales of Alice of the Combe. But at the last, as the gardener in the pleasaunce [34] leaned one day on his spade, he saw among the roses a small round hillock of earth, such as he had never seen before, and upon it something which shone.

It was her ring! It was the very jewel she had worn the day she vanished out of sight! They looked earnestly upon it, and they saw within the border, for it was wide, the tracery of certain small fine runes in the ancient Cornish tongue, which said—. Then came the priest of the place of Morwenna, a grey and silent man!

He had served long years at his lonely altar, a worn and solitary form. But he had been wise in language in his youth, and men said that he heard and understood voices in the air when spirits speak and glide. He read and he interpreted thus the legend on the ring,—. Now as on a day he uttered these words, in the pleasaunce, by the mound, on a sudden there was among the grass a low faint cry.

They beheld, and oh, wondrous and strange! There was a small dark creature, clothed in a soft velvet skin in texture and in hue like the Lady Alice [31] her robe, and they saw, as it groped into the earth, that it moved along without eyes, in everlasting night! Then the ancient man wept, for he called to mind many things and saw what they meant; and he showed them how that this was the maiden, who had been visited with a doom for her Pride!

Therefore her rich array had been changed into the skin of a creeping thing; and her large proud eyes were sealed up, and she herself had become. Ah, woe is me and well-a-day! Now take ye good heed, Cornish maidens, how ye put on vain apparel to win love! And cast down your eyes, all ye damsels of the west, and look meekly on the ground!

Be ye ever good and gentle, tender and true; and when ye see your own image in the glass, and ye begin to be lifted up with the loveliness of that shadowy thing, call to mind the maiden of the vale of Morwenna, her noble eyes and comely countenance, her vesture of price, and the glittering ring! Set ye by the wheel as of old they sate, and when ye draw forth the lengthening wool, sing ye evermore and say—. Poor old Tristram Pentire! How he comes up before me as I pronounce his name!

That light, active, half-stooping form, bent as though he had a brace of kegs upon his shoulders still; those thin, grey, rusty locks that fell upon a forehead seamed with the wrinkles of threescore years and five; the cunning glance that questioned in his eye, and that nose carried always at half-cock, with a red blaze along its ridge, scorched by the departing footstep of the fierce fiend Alcohol, when he fled before the reinforcements of the coast-guard. Gradually he grew attached to me, and I could [33] but take an interest in him.

I endeavoured to work some softening change in him, and to awaken a certain sense of the errors of his former life. Sometimes, as a sort of condescension on his part, he brought himself to concede and to acknowledge, in his own quaint, rambling way—. But, whatever contrite admissions to this extent were extorted from old Tristram by misty glimpses of a moral sense and by his desire to gratify his master, there were two points on which he was inexorably firm.

The one was, that it was a very guilty practice in the authorities to demand taxes for what he called run goods; and the other settled dogma of his creed was, that it never could be a sin to make away with an exciseman. Battles between Tristram and myself on these themes were frequent and fierce; but I am bound to confess that he always managed, somehow or other, to remain master of the field.

Indeed, what Chancellor of the Exchequer could be prepared to encounter the triumphant demand with which Tristram smashed to atoms my suggestions of morality, political economy, and finance? He would listen with apparent patience [34] to all my solemn and secular pleas for the revenue, and then down he came upon me with the unanswerable argument—.

Indeed, to my infinite chagrin, I found that I had lowered myself exceedingly in his estimation by what he called standing up for the exciseman. The glee, the chuckle, the cunning glance, were inimitably characteristic of the hardened old smuggler; and then down went the spade with [36] a plunge of defiance, and as I turned away, a snatch of his favourite song came carolling after me like the ballad of a victory:—.

I found on further inquiry that this man Parminter was a bold and determined officer, whom no threats could deter and no money bribe. He always went armed to the teeth, and was followed by a large, fierce, and dauntless dog, which he had thought fit to call Satan. This animal he had trained to carry in his mouth a carbine or a loaded club, which, at a signal from his master, Satan brought to the rescue.

So they got into the cave at ebb tide, and laid in wait, and when the first boat-load came ashore, just as the keel took the ground, down storms Parminter, shouting for Satan to follow. Their blood was up, poor fellows; so they just pulled Parminter down in the boat, and chopped off his head on the gunwale!

The exclamation of horror with which I received this recital elicited no kind of sympathy from Tristram. It was, moreover, there is no doubt, one of the natural altars of the old religion; [39] and, as such, it is greeted with a fond and legendary reverence still.

Around was the wild, half-cultured moor; yonder, within reach of sight and ear, that boundless, breathing sea, with that shout of waters which came up ever and anon to recall the strong metre of the Greek [39] —. And there, before me, stood the tall, vast, solemn stone: grey and awful with the myriad memorials of ancient ages, when the white fathers bowed around the rocks and worshipped! The life and adventures of the Cornish clergy during the eighteenth century would form a graphic volume of ecclesiastical lore.

Afar off from the din of the noisy world, almost unconscious of the badge-words High Church and Low Church, they dwelt in their quaint grey vicarages by the churchyard wall, the saddened and unsympathising witnesses of those wild, fierce usages of the west which they were utterly powerless to control.

The glebe whereon I write has been the scene of many an unavailing contest in the cause of morality between the clergyman and his flock. One aged parishioner recalls and relates the run—that is, the rescue—of a cargo of kegs underneath the benches and in the tower-stairs of the church.

Once I mind, in the middle of morning prayer, there was a buzz down by the porch, and the folks began to get up and go out of church one by one. At last there was hardly three left. Well, at last Whorwell, who commanded our trader, ran for the Gullrock where it was certain death for anything to follow him , and the revenue commander sheered away to save his ship. Then off went our hats, and we gave Whorwell three cheers. He presided, as the [43] custom was, at a parish feast, in cassock and bands, and had, with his white hair and venerable countenance, quite an apostolic aspect and mien.

On a sudden, a busy whisper among the farmers at the lower end of the table attracted his notice, interspersed as it was by sundry nods and glances towards himself. At last one bolder than the rest addressed him, and said that they had a great wish to ask his reverence a question if he would kindly grant them a reply: it was on a religious subject that they had dispute, he said. The bland old man assured them of his readiness to yield them any information or answer in his power.

How widely the doctrinal discussions of those [44] days differed from our own! Let us not, however, suppose that all the clergy were as gentle and unobtrusive as Parson Trenowth. A tale is told of an adjacent parish, situate also on the sea-shore, of a more stirring kind. It was full sea in the evening of an autumn day when a traveller arrived where the road ran along by a sandy beach, just above high-water mark.

It was a scene not only to instruct a townsman but also to dazzle and surprise. At sea, just beyond the billows, lay the vessel well moored with anchors at stem and stern. Between the ship and the shore boats laden to the gunwale passed to and fro. Crowds assembled on the beach to help the cargo ashore. On the one hand a boisterous group surrounded a keg with the head knocked in, for simplicity of access to the good cognac, into which they dipped whatsoever vessel came first to hand: one man had filled his shoe.

On the other side they fought and wrestled, cursed and swore. Have you no shame? Is there no magistrate at hand? Cannot any justice of the peace be found in this fearful country? Does no minister of the parish live among you on this coast? It has frequently occurred to my thoughts that the events which have befallen me since my collation to this wild and remote vicarage, on the shore of the billowy Atlantic sea, might not be without interest to the reader of a more refined and civilised region.

When I was collated to the incumbency in 18—, [42] I found myself the first resident vicar for more than a century. My parish was a domain of about seven thousand acres, bounded on the landward border by the course of a curving river, [43] which had its source with a sister stream [44] in a moorland spring within my territory, and, flowing southward, divided two counties in its descent to the sea.

My seaward boundary was a stretch of bold and rocky shore, an interchange of lofty headland and deep and sudden gorge, the cliffs varying from three hundred to four hundred and fifty feet of perpendicular or gradual height, and the valleys gushing with torrents, which bounded rejoicingly [47] towards the sea, and leaped at last, amid a cloud of spray, into the waters.

So stern and pitiless is this iron-bound coast, that within the memory of one man upwards of eighty wrecks have been counted within a reach of fifteen miles, with only here and there the rescue of a living man. My people were a mixed multitude of smugglers, wreckers, and dissenters of various hue. A few simple-hearted farmers had clung to the grey old sanctuary of the church and the tower that looked along the sea; but the bulk of the people, in the absence of a resident vicar, had become the followers of the great preacher [45] of the last century who came down into Cornwall and persuaded the people to alter their sins.

It was an old Saxon station, with additions of Norman structure, and the total building, although of gradual erection, had been completed and consecrated before the middle of the fifteenth century. The vicarage, built by myself, stood, as it were, beneath the sheltering shadow of the walls and tower.

My land extended thence to the shore. Mine was a perilous warfare. Thank God! Among my parishioners there were certain individuals who might be termed representative men,—quaint and original characters, who embodied in their own lives the traditions and the usages of the parish. One of these had been for full forty years a wrecker—that is to say, a watcher of the sea and rocks for flotsam and jetsam, and other unconsidered trifles which the waves might turn up to reward the zeal and vigilance of a patient man.

His name was Peter Burrow, a man of harmless and desultory life, and by no means identified with the cruel and covetous natives of the strand, with whom it was a matter of pastime to lure a vessel ashore by a treacherous [49] light, or to withhold succour from the seaman struggling with the sea. He was the companion of many of my walks, and the witness with myself of more than one thrilling and perilous scene. Another of my parish notorieties, the hero of contraband adventure, and agent for sale of smuggled cargoes in bygone times, was Tristram Pentire, [47] a name known to the readers of these pages.

But both these cronies of mine were men devoid of guile, and in their most reckless of escapades innocent of mischievous harm. It was not long after my arrival in my new abode that I was plunged all at once into the midst of a fearful scene of the terrors of the sea. In a moment I was up, and in my dressing-gown and slippers rushed out. There stood my lad, weeping bitterly, and holding out to me in his trembling hands a tortoise alive.

I found afterwards that he had grasped it on the beach, [50] and brought it in his hand as a strange and marvellous arrival from the waves, but in utter ignorance of what it might be. I ran across my glebe, a quarter of a mile, to the cliffs, and down a frightful descent of three hundred feet to the beach.

It was indeed a scene to be looked on once only in a human life. On a ridge of rock, just left bare by the falling tide, stood a man, my own servant; he had come out to see my flock of ewes, and had found the awful wreck. There he stood, with two dead sailors at his feet, whom he had just drawn out of the water stiff and stark.

The bay was tossing and seething with a tangled mass of rigging, sails, and broken fragments of a ship; the billows rolled up yellow with corn, for the cargo of the vessel had been foreign wheat; and ever and anon there came up out of the water, as though stretched out with life, a human hand and arm.

It was the corpse of another sailor drifting out to sea. He had reached the water faint with thirst, but was too much exhausted to swallow or drink. He was a Jersey man by birth, and had been shipped at Malta, on the homeward voyage of the vessel from the port of Odessa with corn.

I had sent in for brandy, and was pouring it down his throat, when my parishioner, Peter Burrow, arrived. He assisted, at my request, in the charitable office of restoring the exhausted stranger; but when he was refreshed and could stand upon his feet, I remarked that Peter did not seem so elated as in common decency I expected he would be.

The reason soon transpired. There was one Coppinger [48] cast ashore from a brig that struck up at Hartland, on the Point. Lord, sir! He lived upon the folks a whole year, and at last, lo and behold! And I do believe, sir, if I ever had done such a thing, and given so much as one push to a man in such a case, I think verily that afterwards I should have been troubled and uncomfortable in my mind. I returned to the scene of death and danger, where my man awaited me.

He had found, in addition to the two corpses, another dead body jammed under a rock. By this time a crowd of people had arrived from the land, and at my request they began to search anxiously for the dead. It was, indeed, a terrible scene. The rocks and the water bristled with fragments of mast and spar and rent timbers; the cordage lay about in tangled masses. The rollers tumbled in volumes of corn, the wheaten cargo; and amidst it all the bodies of the helpless dead—that a few brief hours before had walked the deck the stalwart masters of their ship—turned their poor disfigured faces toward the sky, pleading for sepulture.

We made a temporary bier of the broken planks, and laid thereon the corpses, decently arranged. As the vicar, I led the way, and my people followed with ready zeal as bearers, and in sad procession we carried our dead up the steep cliff, by a difficult path, to await, in a room at my vicarage which I allotted them, the inquest.

The ship and her cargo were, as to any tangible value, utterly lost. The people of the shore, after having done their best to search for survivors and to discover [54] the lost bodies, gathered up fragments of the wreck for fuel, and shouldered them away,—not perhaps a lawful spoil, but a venal transgression when compared with the remembered cruelties of Cornish wreckers. Then ensued my interview with the rescued man. His name was Le Daine.

I found him refreshed, and collected, and grateful. He told me his Tale of the Sea. The captain and all the crew but himself were from Arbroath, in Scotland. To that harbour also the vessel belonged. She had loaded last at Odessa. She touched at Malta, and there Le Daine, who had been sick in the hospital, but recovered, had joined her. There also the captain had engaged a Portuguese cook, and to this man, as one link in a chain of causes, the loss of the vessel might be ascribed. He had been wounded in a street-quarrel the night before the vessel sailed from Malta, and lay disabled and useless in his cabin throughout the homeward voyage.

At Falmouth whither they were bound for orders, the cook died. The captain and all the crew, except the cabin-boy, went ashore to attend the funeral. During their absence the boy, handling in his curiosity the barometer, had broken the tube, and the whole of the quicksilver had run out.

Had this instrument, the pulse of the storm, been preserved, the crew would have received [55] warning of the sudden and unexpected hurricane, and might have stood out to sea. Whereas they were caught in the chops of the Channel, and thus, by this small incident, the vessel and the mariners found their fate on the rocks of a remote headland in my lonely parish.

I caused Le Daine to relate in detail the closing events. The captain, and mate, and another of the crew, were to be married on their return to their native town. But to return to the touching details of Le Daine. The captain turned in. It was my watch. All at once, about nine at night, it began to blow in one moment as if the storm burst out by signal; the wind went mad; our canvas burst in bits.

We reeved fresh sails; they went also. At last we were under bare poles. The captain had turned out when the storm began. He sent me forward to look out for Lundy Light. I saw your cliff. The captain folded his arms, and stood by, silent. I gave myself up.

I was the only man on the ship that could not swim, so where I fell in the water there I lay. I [57] felt the waves beat me and send me on. At last there was a rock under my hand. I clung on. Just then I saw Alick Kant, one of our crew, swimming past. I was beaten onward and onward among the rocks and the tide, and at last I felt the ground with my feet.

I scrambled on. I saw the cliff, steep and dark, above my head. I climbed up until I reached a kind of platform with grass, and there I fell down flat upon my face, and either I fainted away or I fell asleep. There I lay a long time, and when I awoke it was just the break of day. There was a little yellow flower just under my head, and when I saw that I knew I was on dry land.

At last I felt very thirsty, and I tried to get down towards a valley where I thought I should find water; but before I could reach it I fell and grew faint again, and there, thank God, sir, you found me. This decency of sepulture is the result of a somewhat recent statute, passed in the reign of George III.

Before that time it was the common usage of the coast to dig, just above high-water mark, a pit on the shore, and therein to cast, without inquest or religious rite, the carcasses of shipwrecked men. My first funeral of these lost mariners was a touching and striking scene. The three bodies first found were buried at the same time. Behind the coffins, as they were solemnly borne along the aisle, walked the solitary mourner, Le Daine, weeping bitterly and aloud.

It was well-nigh too much for those who served that day. Nor was the interest subdued when, on the Sunday after the wreck, at the appointed place in the service, just before the General Thanksgiving, Le Daine rose up from his place, approached the altar, and uttered, in an audible but broken voice, his thanksgiving for his singular and safe deliverance from the perils of the sea.

The text of the sermon that day demands its history. Some time before, a vessel, the Hero of Liverpool, was seen in distress, in the offing of a neighbouring harbour, during a storm. The crew, mistaking a signal from the beach, betook themselves to their boat. But the stout ship held together, and drifted on to the land so unshattered by the sea that the coast-guard, who went immediately on board, found the fire burning in the cabin. When the vessel came to be examined, they found in one of the berths a Bible, and between its leaves a sheet of paper, whereon some recent hand had transcribed verses the twenty-first, twenty-second, and twenty-third of the thirty-third chapter of Isaiah.

The same hand had also marked the passage with a line of ink along the margin. The name of the owner of the book was also found inscribed on the fly-leaf. The very hearts of the people seemed hushed to hear it, and every eye was [60] turned towards Le Daine, who bowed his head upon his hands and wept. For the Lord is our judge, the Lord is our lawgiver, the Lord is our king; He will save us. The tacklings are loosed; they could not well strengthen their mast, they could not spread the sail: then is the prey of a great spoil divided; the lame take the prey.

Few, indeed, could have borne, without deep emotion, to see and hear Le Daine. He remained as my guest six weeks, and during the whole of this time we sought diligently, and at last we found the whole crew, nine in number. They were discovered, some under rocks, jammed in by the force of the water, so that it took sometimes several ebb-tides, and the strength of many hands, to extricate the corpses.

The captain I came upon myself lying placidly upon his back, with his arms folded in the very gesture which Le Daine had described as he stood amid the crew on the maintop. The hand of the spoiler was about to assail him when I suddenly appeared, so that I rescued him untouched.

Each hand grasped a small pouch or bag. One contained his pistols; the other held two little log- [61] reckoners [49] of brass; so that his last thoughts were full of duty to his owners and his ship, and his latest efforts for rescue and defence. He had been manifestly lifted by a billow and hurled against a rock, and so slain; for the victims of our cruel sea are seldom drowned, but beaten to death by violence and the wrath of the billows.

We gathered together one poor fellow in five parts; his limbs had been wrenched off, and his body rent. Is it a part of a man? Two or three of the dead were not discovered for four or five weeks after the wreck, and these had become so loathsome from decay, that it was at peril of health and life to perform the last duties we owe to our brother-men.

Groups of grateful letters from Arbroath [50] are to this day among the most cherished [62] memorials of my escritoire. Some, written by the friends of the dead, are marvellous proofs of the good feeling and educated ability of the Scottish people. It is a carved image, life-size, of his native Caledonia, in the garb of her country, with sword and shield.

At the end of about six weeks Le Daine left my house on his homeward way, a sadder and a richer man. Nor was the thankfulness of the sailor a barren feeling. Whensoever afterward the vicar sought to purchase for his dairy a Jersey cow, the family and friends of Le Daine rejoiced to ransack the island until they had found the sleekiest, loveliest, best of that beautiful breed; and it is to the gratitude of that poor seaman and stranger from a distant abode that the herd of the glebe has long been famous in the land, and hence, as Homer would have sung—hence came.

Strange to say, Le Daine has been twice shipwrecked since his first peril—with similar loss of property, but escape of life; and he is now the master of a vessel in the trade of the Levant. In the following year a new and another wreck was announced in the gloom of night. A schooner under bare poles had been watched for many hours from the cliffs, with the steersman fastened at the wheel. All at once she tacked and made for the shore, and just as she had reached a creek between two reefs of rock, she foundered and went down.

At break of day only her vane was [64] visible to mark her billowy grave. Not a vestige could be seen of her crew. A letter from myself by immediate post brought up next day from that place a sailor who introduced himself as the brother of a young man who had sailed as mate in the wrecked ship. At last one day, while we were scattered over a broken stretch of jumbled rocks that lay in huddled masses along [65] the base of the cliffs, a loud and sudden shout called me where the seaman of St.

Ives stood. He was gazing down into the broken sea—it was on a spot near low-water mark—and there, just visible from underneath a mighty fragment of rock, was seen the ankle of a man and a foot still wearing a shoe.

Soon the sea began again to flow, and very quickly we were driven by the rising surges from the spot. The anguish of the mourner for his dead was thrilling to behold and terrible to hear. It was low water at evening tide, and there was a bright November moon.

The scene of our first nightly assemblage was a weird and striking sight. Far, far above loomed the tall and gloomy headlands of the coast: around us foamed and raged the boiling waves: the moon cast her massive lowering shadows on rock and sea—. Stout and stalwart forms surrounded me, wielding their iron bars, pickaxes, and ropes.

Their efforts were strenuous but unavailing. The tide soon returned in its strength, and drove us, baffled, from the spot before we had been able to grasp or shake the ponderous mass. It was calculated by competent judges that its weight was full fifteen tons: neither could there be a more graphic image of the resistless strength of the wrathful sea than the aspect of this and similar blocks of rifted stone, that were raised and rolled perpetually, by the power of the billows, and hurled, as in some pastime of the giants, along the shuddering shore!

Deep and bitter was the grief of the sailor at our failure and retreat. At a neighbouring harbour [53] dwelt a relative [54] of mine, who was an engineer, in charge of the machinery on a breakwater and canal. To him at morning light I sent an appeal for succour, and he immediately responded with aidance and advice.

Two strong windlasses, worked by iron chains, and three or four skilful men, were sent up by him next day with instructions for their work. Again at evening ebb we were all on the spot. One of our new assistants, a very Tubal-Cain in aspect and stature, and of the same craft with that smith before the Flood, plunged upon the rock as the water reluctantly revealed its upper side, and drilled a couple of holes in the surface with rapid energy, to receive, each of them, that which he called a Lewis-wedge and a ring.

To these the chains of the windlasses were fastened on. They then looped a rope around the ankle of the corpse and gave it as the post of honour to me to hold. It was on the evening of Sunday that all this was done, and I had deemed it a venial breach of discipline to omit the nightly service of the Church in order to suit the tide. A Puseyite bishop might have [68] condemned my breach of Rubric and Ritual, but I exercise episcopal authority in my own parish, and accordingly I absolved myself.

Forty strong parishioners, all absentees from evening prayer, manned the double windlass power; I intoned the pull; and by a strong and blended effort the rocky mass was slowly, silently, and gently upheaved: a slight haul at the rope, and up to our startled view, and to the sudden lights, came forth the altered, ghastly, flattened semblance of a man!

A coffin had been made ready, under the hope of final success, and therein we reverently laid the poor disfigured carcass of one who a little while before had been the young and joyous inmate of a fond and happy home. We had to clamber up a steep and difficult pathway along the cliff with the body, which was carried by the bearers in a kind of funeral train.

The vicar of course led the way. When we were about halfway up a singular and striking event occurred, which moved us all exceedingly. Unobserved—for all were intent on their solemn task—a vessel had neared the shore; she lay to, and, as it seemed, had watched us with night-glasses from the deck, or had discerned us from the torches and lanterns in our hands. For all at once there sounded along the air three deep and [69] thrilling cheers! And we could see that the crew on board had manned their yards.

The burial-place of the dead sailors in this churchyard is a fair and fitting scene for their quiet rest. Full in view and audible in sound for ever rolls the sea. Is it not to them a soothing requiem that. Safe and quiet in the ground! A year had passed away when the return of the equinox admonished us again to listen for storms and wrecks.

There are men in this district whose usage it is at every outbreak of a gale of wind to watch and ward the cliffs from rise to set of sun. Of these my quaint old parishioner, Peter Burrow, was one. On a wild and dreary winter day I found myself seated on a rock with Peter standing by, at a point that overhung the sea.

We were both gazing with anxious dismay at a ship which was beating to and fro in the Channel, and had now drifted much too near to the surges and the shore. She had come into sight some hours before struggling with Harty Race, the local name of a narrow and boisterous run of sea between Lundy and the land, and she was now within three or four miles of our rocks. And I think the poor fellows off there will find it so. With strained and anxious eyes we searched the billows for the course of the boat.

Sometimes we caught a glimpse as it rode upon some surging wave; then it disappeared a while, and no trace [71] was visible for long. At last we could see it no more. Meanwhile the vessel held down Channel, tacked and steered as if still beneath the guidance of some of her crew, although it must have been in sheer desperation that they still hugged the shore.

What was to be done?

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