Chapter 12 of Silly and its Legends, by Henry James Woodfeld, this LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Timothy Ferguson. Tresco Number 3 The dim, separical cave looks positively brighter for the scene shadowed forth in it by fancy. You turn away from it with regret and advance to the edge of that rocky barrier against which the sea plays and whispers, coying it in each tiny cove and around each fantastic artwork of nature's planting, making low-sweet music everywhere and pausing a wild timidly, ere it retires and sinks back again into repose. Facing you are Manawar and Round Island, from the top of which latter, a druidical barrow looks down upon you, before you rolls the same ocean which bore thither the barks of old, when the prophet wrote of those that came from Edom, with dyed garments from Bosra, that is, in the vernacular, Beersa, or Carthage, a Phoenician colony. On the height to your left is the solitary ruin of King Charles. It should be touched with a gentle hand, for Silly was the last place in the realm of England that upheld his cause. What volumes could be compelled out of the history of those devoted men who, from all quarters, gathered together here for a last, stubborn stand? They were truly the children of the captivity, enduring loyally, unto the end. The effantua's account of the place at that period, with her half-sorrowful, half-whimsical privations and sacrifices, is highly interesting.  It is difficult to check the imagination when thus let free into the shadowy regions of the past. There is the Phoenician loosely draped in his graceful robe, with its carved fibula. There is the Dane looking for his tomb, among the eerie's yonder, and the Britain with his talks, and the mystic meddle upon his breast, and the fair-head Saxon gazing upon some inspired prophetess, and the awful Roman and the gay Cavalier faithful to death and singing to his mistress, yet this inconstancy is such as thou, too shall adore, I could not love the idea so much. Loved I not on and more, and the sullen Puritan, half-hypocrite and half-fanatic, and then the dim procession disappears, and there is nothing left but the measured diapasian of the deep and the scream of the wild bird as it flits by and everywhere around, nature in all her majesty. But by following the coast you arrive at Dolphin Town again, and pass Pamelon Khan and Merchants Rock, and get a fine view of St Helen's and of Teen. On reaching the northeastern side of the island you gain Pental Bay, beyond which are the very picturesque masses of rocks, and an imperfect circle or barrow, the northern promontory of Pental Bay is called Lizard Point. From all these cairns there is a striking panorama of St Mary's Pool, and Hugh Town, and St Agnes, which today is shrouded in mist and appears larger and more distant than it really is. We have now made the circuit of Tresco, and are about to return to our boat. The abbey lies before us, with its romantic grounds, through which we are kindly permitted to pass.  Englishmen have, in general, a distaste for anyone who goes about taking notes, even if he does not print them. I sent the first chapter on Tresco to the press, and kept silence, but it was indeed pain and grief to me, and I could refrain no longer. I should wrong the sense of beauty, which is a part of man's divine inheritance, were I, by my apparent indifference, to seem insensible to the combination of sweet and lovely things affected in that spot, by the magic of art of nature carefully developed, and of the most exquisite taste. Still any more description would be unmeaning and vain. Tea and coffee plants, the pepper and the arundo-donax of the West Indies, the formium tenax of New Zealand, the brugmancier of chilli, oranges, aloes, lilies from Japan, geranium hedges from twelve to fifteen feet high, the graceful cleanthus, like a waist parasite, across a lacy and vast masses a hundred varieties of mesembryanthena in one group growing in the open air without protection throughout the year. What do these words offer to the mind? They cannot give the charm that speaks the music of the eye, nor can they convey the remotest idea of that glorious and glowing reality the like of which I never saw before, and which I can never hope to behold again. On our way through these marvellous temptations, we pause for a moment to look at some magnificent specimens of mesembryanthema, covering the angle of rock formed by the stones of a quarry. A group of workmen is busily excavating the hillside. While we admire the flowers, one of the labourers gives a cry of surprise, and the others hurry to the spot. Here's broken into what appears to be a vault formed of smooth, flat stones. A few more strokes of the pickaxe enlarge the aperture and labour its contents. Some faded relics of mortality are taken carefully from what was fondly deemed their last retreat. They suggest the following tale, which will fitly close the account of our pleasant visit to Tresco. End of Chapter 12. Recording by Timothy Ferguson, Gold Coast, Australia. Section following Chapter 12 of Silly and its Legends by Henry James Whitfield. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Timothy Ferguson. The Dane's Grave. Sad were the days and bloody that fell upon Mary England at the close of the tenth century. The race of Alfred had degenerated and dwindled away. Its feeble scepter had passed into the nervous grasp of a Danish rover, Knut the Great. Nor was his title of supreme power undeserved his dooms or laws, or but a restoration of the old Saxon ordinances, telling us by their mild and gentle spirit the secret of their author's successful usurpation of the throne. Were it not for his Charter de Theresta, the authenticity of which we cannot doubt, we find in his statutes nothing, which a legislator of the present time might not adopt. But the soul of a northern Nimrod breathes in that awful sense. Sin noblest servum in Regina Fresta, oxideret nobletes cariat, si liba liberatat, si servus corio, footnote, if a noble shall have killed a stag in the royal forest, let him be deprived of his nobility, if a freeman of his freedom, if a serf of his skin, Yet, firm and paternal, as were the character of the government of the new dynasty, the state of England, of the neighbouring coasts, and of its seas, was dark and melancholy. Upon the province of Nustria the Norsemen had come down in a black swarm, and had given it the name of those stern settlers, footnote Normandy, footnote Enns. The Saxon Whitten had confirmed the throne to the conqueror, and his followers had found a resting place in many parts of England, especially in the Kingdom of Northumbria. Yet the children of the North were not yet satisfied with plunder. The sea sent forth its rovers pillaging and dealing in massacre against every one, but chiefly against the holy men who dwelt in monasteries. The monks of Chester, long told of the fearful inroad from which they then suffered, everywhere there was terror and desolation and death, bale fires were lighted on each headland whenever the raven standard was described. Despite the first glimmer of their ominous warning men took bill and bow, the church bells tolled for glass, and from lip to lip flew the news, it is the Dane, the Dane. Among those martial wanderers none was more dreaded nor more terrible than the fiercest of the viking-ear, the young Berserker of the North, Ulf of the Blood of Thor. He was no mean pirate, fame and not plunder was his object. He struck heavily and often, but it was at the mighty not the lowly and defenceless that he aimed his blow. Yet there was an exception to this lofty rule he hated, with the intensity ever inspired by a religious difference the monks and nuns of Christendom, wherever he went he consigned their hallow dwellings to the flames, he smoked and spared not. And there were many places of this sort easily assailable upon the shores or on the islands of the Anglian seas, especially had he wreaked his wrath on the saulings or silly. Not then has now a cluster of mere islets but one great main land covered with a dense population and possessing several religious establishments around the soft climate and rich shores of the devoted spot Ulf the Dane loved to linger, he burned the church of St. Helens, and surprised and sacked the ancient shrine of St. Lides and laid waste the little tatter-knuckle of St. Theona. The isle of Enor was far too strong to fear the attack of any rover and the fair Abbey of Inscor to fight his efforts, several times he endeavored to take it by stratagem but the pious monks kept that committed to their charge and held him at bay. At that time members of the religious orders were less scrupulous about bearing arms than they became in other and safer days.  Footnote, this account of the military spirit of the Saxon monks is by no means overcharged. Before the conquest both Bishop and Abbot often rode in harness. Any reference to the chronicles of those times will confirm this statement. Frosard's Bishop of Norwich, so late as the 14th century, is well known." So when Ulf threatened the Abbey, its vassals could be gathered together for its protection, Leofric himself the good Abbot put on armor of proof and superintended the defense. Woe to the nithering, the dastard who shrank from his duty then, his penance, was to sit upon the stone floor and to dine with the animals after even the serfs had finished. But neither obedient terrius nor novice had ever thus been slack in danger. All knew the peril and all met it like sons of Hengist and Horser. There was a hereditary antipathy between the two races that did no violence to stimulate it into action. The brave Leofric set an example that was cheerfully followed. The menace-thrall of the Convent would have scorned to hold back, even could he by his remissness hear those magical words, Theow and Izney be thou no longer, but go forth folk-free and stand up a man. It may be supposed from this recital that the feelings of Ulf the Viking towards the Abbey and the brethren of Inesgore or Tresco were anything but friendly. They were in fact exasperated by frequent failure and slight defeat. He lay off the shore unwilling to leave it and yet unable to get anything by remaining. All the stores and stock were collected together in places of safety. If he landed to hunt the wild boars then numerous of the older breaks, from which this part of the island derived its name, Inesgore meaning the Isle of Elders, he was liable to sudden onslaughts from the Thanes and Franklins who suborted the Abbey. Footnote perhaps there are two derivations. Footnote ends. And even the monks and their men-at-arms as they passed the walls skirmished with him and once, as he went across the causeway that spanned and still spanned the Abbey pool, they took him at a disadvantage and encountered him so home in the narrow passage where numbers were of no avail that he was driven into the lake and would have been slain or taken had not a reinforcement from the ships come up and rescued him. Judge ye, therefore, if there were not bitterness of heart between the fathers and Ulf the invincible he was for the first time checked and checked by an adversary in his eyes the most hateful and the most despicable. He, like a true dain, quaffed deep draughts of mead and metheglon and hydramell and uttered threats of vengeance and planned new attempts in all of which he failed. No sooner had he landed in force than the Crescent Beacon of the Great Tower blazed up and was answered from the strong castle of Enor and from the places where the watch and ward were kept by Vassal and Vavasor and the light of spearheads and helmets glinted from every brow till Ulf was compelled to go back sullenly and re-embark. So passed the time until the bravest of the Viking air was like to be foiled by a cowl and to sail back bootless and laggard unto his own land. At length fortune through in his way a chance of success, even when his prospects seemed desperate, Leofric Abbott of St. Nicholas was a high spirited and choleric man holding the rover cheap and laughing to scorn his threats. The monk had been a soldier in his youth and still felt a kindred sympathy with chainmail and a trusty brand. It was he who had driven back in the melee the fierce Ulf and had well nigh mastered his sword. So if the uncristened Dane fumed and fretted against the shavlings, yet you may suppose that the Stout Priest railed at the Lurdane as it were then the fashion to turn the Scandinavian buccaneers and held it foul scorn to be cooped up in his walls by a rover of the sea. The feeling of bravado and of defiance soon became irresistible when Dane the Abbott looked abroad over the fairlands of Inescor. The sun lay like molten silver upon their bosom, in the valleys and amid the bright soft shadows floated like spirits brooding in a moment of repose over the earth.  The Abbott frowned as he gazed.  Bid the lay-servitors saddle my palfery and unleash the brux. We will forth to hunt a boar if all the demons of Valhalla were in our way. Thou, Alfgaar the Celera, shalt be my square of the body and thou young Edmund, my connect. Arm, my children, and to horse. Footnote. The word connect was equivalent to youth. The reckless spirit of the impetuous churchman ran like an electric shock through the bosoms of his train. Soon they bound them for the chase. Wild boars then roamed through the woods of Silly and so did the gray wolf. Even in the time of Leyland, the former were numerous at Tresco, so well-practiced at the sport and tired of their long confinement. The garrison and many of the monks of St. Nicholas sallied forth from the Great Gates. They were a gallant train. Athelston the Conqueror had scarcely ridden with more bravery when he rested these lordships from the pagans and bestowed them upon the church. Perhaps with their domains they had inherited from him their love of Sillian sports, for which indeed the county of Cornwall has always been celebrated, since Tristram invented his famous Mott upon the Horn and hunted in the Greenwood. They went forth gaily taking no heed of the raven that flew so near them and who watched their progress as the cavalcade wound round the head of the lake and disappeared. Their course was apparently pleasant and secure. The day was spent in their unwanted enjoyment, and it was evening ere they returned, bringing with them a huge boar slain by the hand of the abbot himself. They reached without interruption the little pier at the lower town and were passing the breaks that clothed the extremity of the Abbey Hill when their progress was rudely barred.  Ulf to the charge, Ulf for the raven standard, and on came the ferocious invaders and at their head was Ulf, brandishing his spear and looking in his wrath as black as the demon whom he served. The Abbot saw his danger but faltered not. In the good old Saxon times every man was brave and every man was inured for war and expert in arms. Calling to his train to close up, Lea Frick shouted, St. Nicholas for in a score and charged home. The fiery onset broke through the Danish ranks and left in their gore three of the bravest there. The way to the Abbey was now open and all was clear and safe, but the blood of Lea Frick was up. He feared lest the Dane should cut off some of the prickers or footmen, wheeling round his horse and placing himself in the rear he covered the retreating force. He shook on high his boar spear and remembered the days of his youth and seemed more like a gallant thane than a cowled bunk. Ulf pressed upon him as he backed his steed and they exchanged thrusts until blood flowed on both sides and once the Dane went down. When they had reached the stranger's house, which was just within bow shot of the walls, and the skirmish was well nigh over the Abbot halted for a moment to look back upon his disappointed foe. That moment of delay was indeed a fatal one for him. A stray arrow from a Scandinavian bow pierced right through the eye of the Abbot's charger, even unto his brain. It rolled over, stunning its rider in the fall. Before the train, already fire in advance could return to rescue him, Ulf was upon his prostrate foe. He was dragged from the spot and hurried into the covert and up the slope and though the Saxons flung themselves upon their foes with all the energy of despair, the vantage gain was too great to be repaired. Their zeal and devotion were thrown away. The hunting party had come indeed to a gloomy end. The servant of the cross was vanquished. Lea Frick the Saxon was a captive in the hands of Ulf the Dane. False shavling said the Viking to his prisoner when they were on board. False shavling, I read ye to know that thou shall dearly rue the hour in which thou was bold enough to defy the son of my fathers. I will carve the spread eagle upon thy vile body, until every bone and muscle is laid raw and bare, and until thou dyes to death vile, then that of the unhappy prisoners whom thou castest down to rot in thy dungeons. Footnote, a common torture applied by the Danes to their prisoners was to bind one of them firmly against a tree with his body naked and his feet and arms outstretched, and then with a sharp knife to cut the figure of an eagle with spread wings upon the breast. By removing the skin, the form of the bird was shown on the raw flesh. Footnote ends. False pagan, quoth the abbot, I would have ye take tent also that Lea Frick the Saxon hath in his veins the blood of a line of kings, yea, even of the great Alfred himself. If thou find him mansworn or nithering like a base surf, bury him in a basket of wicker work in the next marsh, as was the customer of our forefathers, touching recreants and runnigets, yet it is ill to speak thus. Unworthy servant of the church, though I be, I fear not to look death in the face and thou, Ulf. At a king's son, therefore, it becomeeth thee, not to boast thus largely against a fallen foe. By the skull in which my father quaffs mead, and feasts in Valhalla, replied the Dane. Thou speakest sooth-bold monk, the eagle knows the eagle, and the viking honours the spirit of the brave. Today, shalt thou pledge me in the banquet of Bards, and tomorrow, thou shalt do me reason. So they feasted together, the Prince of Denmark and the Saxon abbot, in a long and loud carouse, it ended not till midnight. The guests separated mutually well pleased with each other. Pity it were, said Ulf to his Armour-bearer, that this Saxon is a cow-dweller in cloisters. By the shade of Odin, had he been a sea rover, he would have drained deep draughts from the skulls of his slaughtered foes. I would that he might take service with me. Days, however, passed by, and Leofric, though unharmed, was still the guest, rather than the prisoner of Ulf. In truth, the fault was not with the abbot. He spoke often of his ransom, but could come to no agreement with his captor, whose demands were exorbitant, amounting even to the surrender of the abbot, so they made no pact, but yet dwelt in fealty together two bold and fiery spirits, each respecting the other. Sometimes Leofric would speak to Ulf about religion, and endeavour to convert him to Christianity. He would read to him the holy book and expound its mysteries, and make them as plain as possible to the somewhat slow and uncultivated mind of the Dane. In some things, Ulf was an apt pupil. He loved not the gospel and its tidings of peace, but his whole soul kindled, and he brightened with the warrior's pride when the abbot read to him of the triumphs of Gideon and of Joshua, and of the chivalrous Maccabees. Then, indeed, his eye reddened with its inward lightning, and he professed himself an amour of that glorious faith, and ready to embrace it, and to do battle in its cause. He assured the Holy Father that he could now understand why the Saxon brotherhood was such lusty men of war since they believed, so stirring a creed. The good abbot felt rather embarrassed at these compliments, and groaned in spirit at the blindness and perverseness of his even convert, but he said nothing, being as it were in the lion stand, and fearing to arouse the wrath of his martial neophyte. One day the abbot had been explaining to him the history of David, whose connection with Jonathan reminded all of their own, and, as old Joinville says in his quaint French, Soncourt attended it, but when the priests spake of the miraculous victory of the shepherd's son of Jesse over Goliath, the dain laughed him to scorn. He was but a little man. That same giant Goliath said he, the being our saga's many mighty men of renown in other days, to whom he would be but a babe. Yes, the great goddess Freya herself is, even according to thy story of Lofty, a stature than thy dog of Philistine. He died the death he deserved. What bot were it to be a warrior, and not be able to defy a boy's sling? I like not thy champion, abbot. Nor do I value his arms. Footnote, bot, that is, boot, prophet, footnote ends. My son replied, abbot, lyre foot gravely, do not thou jest on holy things which are peradventure too hard for thee?  Thine is but a poor hero, gif he worketh not by manlier weapons, nor in an obla way, such is not the slayer of warriors. Such are not the gods of Valhalla, nor in our eve of a fight the choosers of the slain.  Three weird women were supposed to go through a host on the eve of a battle, and select the victims of the morrow. Footnote ends. But come, thou friend, abbot, we will land and approach thy walls, it may be that when they behold thee in bonds their hearts will relent, and they will consent to purchase thy liberty even at a worthy price. So they disembarked and proceeded together to the abbey. They approached the building with that hesitation, for Lyrafrick was a hostage in their hands, as he walked beside Elf, and his course concerning his ransom. The abbot's heart was sad and depressed. The words of the proud scoffer had galled him, and had wounded his faith as a Christian man. Surely he thought this pagan will-not escapes got free. He cometh against us with a sword, and with a shield, and with the weapons of the fleshbed god, and St. Nicholas, are greater than he. By this time they had reached the walls upon which were gathered the Pryor and the Sacristan, and the Celera and the Obedian Tiari, and the cloistered bunks, and the novices, and the laborer Theron, and the men at arms. And great was the outcry and piercing the wail they made when they saw their beloved lord appray to the Egyptian, and a captive to his bow and spear. There was considerable bustle among them, and they conferred together eagerly, and then many of them left the ramparts. Meanwhile, Ulf parted a little from Lyrafrick and advanced towards the abbey, with the intention of addressing the Pryor, but he was cut short, and interrupted in a manner that he little expected, even as Cicera was smitten by the hand of a woman, and Goliath, struck down by the weapon of a peasant boy, so was the great warrior of the day, and Ulf, the red-handed, punished for his blasphemy. One of the connects of the abbey, famed for his skill and the use of the sling, avowed himself of a little post and gate, and while Ulf drew near, stole forward and approached him unobserved under cover of the broken ground. Welling his little leaven bag around his head, he sent the pebble it contained full at the bosom of Ulf. It entered there deeply and mortally. Not a word was spoken, nor did he give a cry, nor did he struggle, but at the feet of the abbot, and by the very instrument he had reviled, he bowed, he fell, and where he bowed, there he fell dead. At the same moment, a sally was made from the gates headed by the young connect, who had accompanied the abbot to the chase. The Danes were in no mood to resist, their hearts melted within them, even to water. They therefore turned and fled, and Lyrafrick was born in triumph to his old home with shouts and congratulations, and smiles and tears of welcome. The body of the Viking was likewise carried with them and laid down in the outer court, beneath the great oak tree in their midst. There was at first a talk of hanging it on a gibbet for the crows and kites to tear and rend, but Lyrafrick sternly forbade all such unseemly treatment. Whatever Ulf might have been, bloody perhaps, and ferocious, yet still he had not used the abbot unworthily as, from the bitter feelings existing on either side, he might have been expected to do. So the monk who himself, a brave man, could appreciate bravery and worth in others, felt respect for his dead foe, and soared over him, as over one who had begun to listen to the truth and might perchance, in after-days had been a mighty champion of Christendom, and he looked sadly upon the cold, calm features of the royal youth, and bade them prepare him reverently for internment. Ulf could not lie in consecrated ground, for he was unbaptised. The grave was therefore made for him upon the brow of the pleasant hill, that shields the abbey from the wind. It faced the east and the sun might, at his uprising, throw a smile upon it. He was buried after the fashion of his people between smooth slabs of stone, and the place of his sepulcher was known, by tradition, as the Dane's grave. Long centuries after, one sunny day in spring, a stranger, in whose veins ran the blood of the Danish kings, was standing on that very spot. As was before stated, the workmen plying their pickaxes broke into an antique grave lined with large flat stones and containing the skeleton of a man. There were in it no arms nor ornaments, but on a closer examination there was seen, upon the spot where the breast had been, around pebble, such as would be fit for a sling. That stone is now on the mantelpiece of the drawing-room at the abbey. The bones were carefully collected and buried in holy ground, and we left the Dane's grave. End of section. Recording by Timothy Ferguson, Gold Coast, Australia. Chapter 13 of Silly and its Legends by Henry John Widdfeld. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Timothy Ferguson. Saint Martins. Gratesla Rus, said Napoleon, at vu travorez la tata. Civilise the Celtifu, please, but his nature constantly betrays itself. As an Australian savage runs away from education and the restraints of cities, to freedom and his favourite dish of roasted maggots in the wilderness, and as old Blutcher replied, when someone told him that Beaumont had become a royalist and had mounted a white cockade, you may stick a peacock's feather in a door's tail, but the bird is a door still. We are at Saint Martins today. There is elsewhere are the remains of former cultivation, and of a population far more numerous than at present day. On the island are two small towns. One of them on the higher ground facing Crow Sound is neat and comfortable. The valley below it is carefully tilled and would bear a comparison, both as to husbandry and fertility, with any part of Silly. The old breed is pretty well extinct here, from frequent crosses, but the lower town has unmistakable evidence of its Celtic colony, with its dung hills and pools full of refuse and general untidiness, and even its paltry, for the Celt love's eggs, and a friend who accompanied me and who called the place Pigtown told me that here was the spot to lay in a stock of them. This was the state of the whole group in Woodley's time, now the scene is a striking exception to the rest of the property. A youthful wag, who wanted to describe the grand characteristics of his countrywomen in these islands, once chalked up on the pier at St. Mary's the following lines, scads and tatties all week, and a green veil on Sundays. Foot note, alas for the truth of this dish-tick, scads are no longer caught. The people are too well off to eat them. Times have changed indeed, just before the coming of the present proprietor, salt was sixpence a pound, and the wretched and starving population ate their dried fish without it, not being able to buy. A petition was sent to government begging for a remission of the duty on account of the frightful destitution of the poorer classes, and I believe that some indulgence was shown. In opposition to this fact I will give an illustration of the state of Tresco now. In May of this present year there were a few shillings derived from the offerings at the sacrament to be given away and out for population of four hundred and twenty souls. There was some difficulty in finding persons poor enough to be qualified to receive it. Rittersnote, footnote ends. I'm sorry to say that not only at St. Martin's, but in other places, this slovenly way of living and this love of finery still present a disagreeable contrast. Footnote, parasols are in universal request. In fact I am told that they are even used by girls when they go milking. Rittersnote, footnote ends. One reason has been assigned, and perhaps with some truth, for the inferiority of St. Martin's there is no resident clergyman. The schoolmaster, who is a dissenter of a sect called the bryanites, now very prevalent here, is the only minister of any denomination in the island. There is, out of the present day, a strong feeling in favor of the established church and of increasing its sufficiency. Large sums are lavished upon it and every attention is paid to its pomp and to its beauty, but when fifty pounds a year would win to Christ such a district as this there are no funds from which that pittance can be obtained. The virtue of Cornwall is wealthy and is hoarding up a large surplus, for what purpose heaven only knows, and it is vain to ask and very uncharitable to conjecture, but with all this provident economy on the one hand and profuseness on the other, this sui apatens, a lianai profusus. It is, it seems, utterly impossible to find sufficient income for a clergyman here, even by uniting the officers of schoolmaster and of curate, as is done at St. Agnes. Footnote, clerical matters are indeed, like other things, in rather an exceptional state in Silly I was myself, lectured by a clergyman on the impropriety of my baptizing on a Sunday, ridden at footnote ends. St. Martin's is a single kind of ridge rising out of the sea. It appears a long spine knot I should think less than two miles and a half long, nor more than three quarters of a mile in breadth. It is principally down, but there are some parts of great richness and capable of bearing anything. Could they only be sheltered from the winds, which blow with the violence irresistible and hardly to be described. An excellent road is in progress. A few years ago there was not one wheeled carriage in Silly, now there are dozens, and this improvement, with so many others recently introduced, is to be ascribed solid to the judgment and liberality from which the islands have already so largely benefited. The natives are said to be singularly proud of St. Martin's and to be very jealous of strangers. I could not, for the life of me, help thinking how applicable to this feeling, was the beginning of the old monkish catechal, Omihibiata Martin, so quaintly parodied by the reformers in the words All My Eye and Betty Martin. By the way, many of our vulgar expressions are derived from this source, that is, from corrupted Latini. For the nonce, please the pigs, Pigs, Hocus Pocus, Hocus Corpsus, other jests of the day when a sneer at the ancient faith fell in with the humor of the majority. The people here are very fond to find names among them are Elmyra, Tomasina, Thamysina, Melinda, Amelia, Florence, Joyce, Honor, and while on the subject of names, I may add that it is a popular article of belief that a person may be christened a second time. I heard of a girl who disliked her name, which was Joyce, so she recristened herself Jesse and Jesse. She's called accordingly. There was not one inhabitant on St. Martin's 160 years ago, according to Troutbeck. He described it as unfit for cultivation, while in another place he said truly that in early times it was till universally. I can add to this statement a fact that confirms it strongly. Above the higher town there was many years ago apparently a waste of sand. This covering, though about 12 feet deep, was removed by the wind and below it was discovered good soil with the ancient enclosures quite un-injured. A century ago there were but three families here. Mr. Eckens, the first resident of the Godolphans, encouraged people to come hither and settle. In Troutbeck's time the population had increased to 30 families and 180 souls. In Woodley's day there were 60 houses and about 280 people. At present its inhabitants are not quite so numerous, but its prosperity is very much on the increase. The potatoes grown on it are considered to be the best in Silly, near Hightown as the little church, the cemetery of which is the only portion now used. The church takes here an enforced care for the dead body, while she neglects her duty to the living soul. Footnote. Since writing the above I find that an expedient has been adopted or rather has been revived to remove the evil, though like most expedients it only makes matters worse. The curate of St. Mary's goes over to St. Martin's on Sunday afternoon to do duty there. Now the people are all bryonites and the schoolmaster, who is a most respectable man, is also, as I had previously stated, the bryonite minister. The islanders have, therefore, the compulsory service of taking four journeys backwards and forwards in all weathers, in order that a clergyman in whom they don't believe, and of whom they know nothing and see nothing further, may gabble over a few prayers and discern merely to have it said that the duty is again done at St. Martin's. These makeshift do more harm than good. They affect nothing. What is wanted is the presence, the friendly countenance, the example of a resident, clergyman. When one of the former chaplains used to go over on Sundays, as is now done, the boatman often abused him to his face for the trouble he gave them. The church is supported in silly from a private source, with the noblest liberality, and it is a pity that none of its wealthy societies can come forward to its aid. A neighbouring eminence, one hundred and sixty feet in height, is crowned with a building called the Daymark, raised by Mr. Ekans in 1683 as a guide for ships. Over the doors are his initials, T. E., with the date of erection. On a lonely hill, footnote called Crothers, footnote ends, at the western extremity of St. Martin's are three objects of greater interest than any other on the island. I allude to the circles, or carns, or barrows, for they partake in part of each character to be seen there. They are very perfect, though many of the stones have been removed for building purposes. Still, enough remains to show the outline. There beneath those great rocks lie the hands that once tilled these lands, and the feet that once trod them. These warriors of the age of hills tell us a solemn tale. How or when the nation that dwelt here became extinct, says Borlaise, we have no means of judging. All we know is that they are gone. Their place knows them not. Like those of Petro, who dwelt in the clefts of the rocks, the men of that forgotten brood lie here on every headland, each in his stone and lonely sepulchre. The arms that piled above them, that mass of stones, are dust and ashes, like themselves. The emem, and the avam, and the zumsam of scripture, are as unreal and as indistinct to our sense as these chieftains. I stand now by the open cell of one of them, and the words of Ossian come upon me with a strange and appropriate truth. Why dost thou build the hall, son of the winged days? Yet little while in the blast of the desert comes it howls through thy deserted courts, and whistles round thy half-worn shield. The transition from these dim religious dreams to the cultivation and cleanliness of Hightown is certainly unromantic, but it is scarcely unpleasant. The Spaniards have a proverb, which is not malaprop here, and indeed it would be difficult to find a circumstance to which they have not applicable some quaint old sore, that which occurs to me now seems at first sight rather alien to the character of that most unpractical and impracticable nation. They say El Premiero Estel Omnipotente y Don De Niro Esuluga Teriente. The chief one is the omnipotent, and Don Money is his lieutenant. I'm afraid that even the aspect of this little old rock, resembling what an Irishman once called the backbone of the world picked by the old one, is proof of this saying. The capitals went on these islands by a generous and skillful hand, has developed the resources placed within their reach by God. We come down from the dreamland and leave the narrow homes of those to whom worldly good and evil are now a like of no account and stand in the hollow below high town and look upon the many traces of its peace and plenty, yet the reputation of the recipients by no means corresponds with these blessings. The people of St. Martin's are said to be the hardest and most unfeeling of any of the inhabitants of these isles. I've heard some singular stories of their selfishness and want of heart, such as the following. The wife of a sick man, who was very well to do with the world, bought two pounds of meat for making broth. Before it could be put into the pot, the husband died and his spouse, seizing the piece of mutton, ran out of the house and went round to the neighbors, trying to dispose of it. We ascend the steep hill, enjoying at once the prospect, the walk, and the gleamy sunlight that brightened every object around. My companion was one who had a right to take pride in what we beheld. While we toiled up the ascent walking slowly and detained by our remarks on what we saw, I was irresistibly reminded of an anecdote which I once heard adduced as an evidence of Irish wit and readiness. The Duke of Wellington, as everyone knows, is extremely punctual in keeping even the most trifling appointment. He was one day when an island, going out, I believe, to dinner and the horses being such as they usually are in that ingenious country, where you find everything handy, but what you really want, came nearly to a standstill. The Duke put his head out of the window and swore like forty pictons, and he, it is said, swore like forty dragoons.  He turned half-round on his saddle and, coolly confronting the angry Duke, addressed him thus, Is it weak you call them the poor beasts? Sure it is not weak they are at all. Your honour well knows that it isn't the carriage that they feel, but it's the weight of your honour's glory that keeps them back, and the rogue beat the Duke, who drew in his head and held his tongue. End of Chapter 13, Recording by Timothy Ferguson, Gold Coast, Australia. Chapter 14 of Silly and Its Legends by Henry John Whitfield. This Librivox recording is in the public domain, recording by Timothy Ferguson. A cruise round the western Isles. The chief boatman and pilot of Tresco is waiting for me to set off on a sailing excursion to Annette, and to the islands of the west. My conductor is himself a curiosity in his way. He is a handsome, dashing sailor of first-rate skill in his profession, and as civil and obliging as he is trusty. The people of Silly speak the purest English of any of the Queen's legions. Footnote, some of the phrases used are odd. I asked a man how his wife was, and he told me she was quite clever and easy, that is, well. A person surprised is said to be frightened. Brave and punctual signifies firm. Rich means good. Footnote ends. Their correctness both of language and of pronunciation is really marvellous, and Alcoxson is quite equal to other Solonians in this accomplishment. From some circumstances which was out of his power to avoid, he was a little behind his time, that it was not his fault that he was so. I am very sorry to have kept you waiting so long, ma'am, said he to a lady of our company. You must have thought me very much wanting in courtesy. In fact, quite a deceiver. And he handed her over the dank seaweed and slippery rocks with a manner worthy of Sir Charles Granderson. Footnote, there is a general tone of good breeding in the manners of the Solonians that strikes a stranger forcibly. They have a self-respect which gives them confidence and real dignity in the presence of their superiors, and which is very far removed from presumption or what is misnamed independence. When a person addresses you, it is with no assertion of equality, and yet there is, in the air of the people of the lower orders here, something indefinable, but striking, and very different from the subdued manner of the English peasantry. If you go into a cottage, you observe the same thing. The owner, whether man or woman, does the honours of the house without embarrassment, hands you a chair with quiet civility, and gives you a simple welcome with the self possession of one who knows the place both of the visitor and of the host. I certainly never saw in humble life so much could taste so much what may be really termed well-bred ease as at Silly. Footnote ends. We spread our sails to the wind and ran gaily through St Mary's Pool. Here formally lay the frigate of the Grand Duke Cosmo receiving and returning the salutes of the castle. A little farther on is the rock on which the Dutch East Indians struck and went to pieces having on board a treasure of two hundred and fifty thousand guilders, many of which have been, and are still, picked up. The lady to whom it belonged was a passenger and was drowned. She was proceeding to join her husband and by this sad accident, as the account somewhat quaintly adds, was prevented from seeing him again. Onward yet a little more, and we see the scene of the awful disaster that befell the fire families, the whole population of St. Agnes, on their return from their wedding excursion. I'll ask for all these terrible records of wreck and destruction. The sea glances from our bow in a thousand rainbows catching the sunlight on the crest of every wave. A homeward bound corvette comes within hail as we go merrily on. It turns out to be the old lioness, once the packet to Penzance, but now altered in her rig and engaged in the foreign trade. She belongs to the Port of St Mary's, and we learn from her crew as she passes us that all is well on board. Such incidents are very frequent here, but the voyage home is not always so lucky. The wreck of a West Indian man, the Mary Hay, is now in sight. On the shore of Brier, and the renown, a ship of 600 tonnes from America to Liverpool, is lying alongside the new pier, waiting to be broken up. She took fire from spontaneous combustion, beginning, I believe, among some cashew nuts, and her cargo of cotton and tobacco was almost entirely spoiled. The hulls of the two wrecks look, but sadly, amid the gay rigging and smart finish of the Selonian vessels, which are remarkable for their symmetry and neatness, the glowing sunbeams seem out of place upon those battered and disabled veterans. The swell that sits in between the garrison and the guff makes our boat, the crimscape, so-called from being a wave saved from a wreck on the crim rock, dance and heal over to leeward till she goes gunnel under from the influence of the fresh breeze. We soon, however, are under the shelter and abreast of Santa Wounds Cove, readers note that's spelt St. Warner, W-A-R-N-A, but there is a pronunciation note in a later chapter, readers note ends. The grim abode of the grim saint, or rather of the sinner, diified by sinners like herself, frowns down upon us. We care little for her malign influence. Time was that we should have shuddered to bar so shrine without an offering or at least a deprecatory prayer. Now her memory dwells alone with its solitude, and her once-dreaded name is mentioned only in connection with a legend or a jest. As the former of these two alternatives, she is fortunate in being associated with it. Considering that these islands are of a respectable antiquity and have an historical pedigree of so many centuries, they are sadly unprovided with traditions. There is not, I believe, a satisfactory ghost in any of them, and accordingly a good phantom, a warning spirit, or even a dream that is verified, are sought in vain. Pixies are among the things fit to be told to the marines, and lovers of the supernatural had better buy Mrs. Crowe's book and find out an apparition for themselves, for none is to be seen or mentioned here, but all this while we are gliding along towards Annette, with just enough motion to keep us alive as we recline idly in the boat, and listen to the cry of the puffins from the rock surround us. Annette, or Agnet, little Agnes, has an extent about fifty acres, it is entirely uninhabited. Seabirds frequent it in great numbers and come here to breed, but it lies among the breakers treacherously and beautifully still, and when you look round it you see desolation almost approaching savage grandeur. We go into our boat and sail on, but still we find rocks and still lines of reef and broken foam and little points dotting the surface and scarcely emerging from it. We tack and steer in a westerly direction. The Gilston that was fatal to Sir Cloud's lee shovel is pointed out to us. Everywhere evidences of alliance submerged are spread around us, everywhere danger, everywhere death. We pass under those fine cliffs that form the western extremity both of the gulf and of the Wingleton Downs. The shadows are becoming longer as the day declines, and lie ominously dark upon the bosom of the Blue Sea. We talk about the shoals with which the coast is rife, and tales of destruction and of wreck are repeated. A sad low tone for each speaker is more or less in his own person concerned in some of these. One of them excited a vivid interest from the locality in which it occurred and from the greatness of the disaster, so I will close my sketch of our little trip by relating it as I heard today. At the beginning of the great French War and about the close of the last century the Navy at France was more powerful and bolder in its actions, and it became at a later period when Nelson had confined the poor remnants left to it within their ports, and had bequeathed to his successors the inglorious task of watching and locating them as they rotted away in harbour. When the war first broke out expeditions frequently sailed forth, and threatened the English coast, and menaced even a descent. One evening two large vessels were seen from the heights of St. Agnes, boldly approaching the island. Their character was unknown. They came on as though they were friendly or were sure of the skill of their pilot, making a glorious show as light fell upon their white sails and newly painted hulls. They did not communicate with the shore nor answer the signal shown. A crowd soon collected composed of those inured to the sea, whose eyes were too practiced and too keen to be deceived. Their opinion was formed at once. The strangers were a friendship of the line and a frigate. They evidently came with hostile intentions to make an incursion at least, if not to seize the islands. There was no force at hand to repel the attack, if seriously made. All was there for terror and alarm. A boat was manned and sent across to St. Mary's to give notice to the garrison of the coming foe. The best and ablest of the males prepared to follow them, hoping to be of some assistance in manning the batteries, and at least to do their duty if they could effect no more. By the time it was dark they were gone, and sad, and sorrowful were the hearts of those that remained. They could offer no resistance whatever to the landing of an enemy. They could only suffer and be still. Should they be doomed to per hold, as was most likely, the rifling of their little houses and perhaps to undergo worse violence at the hands of the ferocious Republicans, in such a manner and with such anxious forebodings, past that dreadful night, as soon as morning dawned those who had kept their painful watch through the darkness, hastened again to the cliffs. They looked over the broad sea, but they saw nothing. Far away in the distance gleamed a white speck like a seabird's wing. Though already on the horizon the old sailors pronounced it to be the smaller of the two French vessels, it was evidently alone. Where then was its consort? Where? At some few hundred yards from the western point of St Agnes was an object that at last caught their attention, not being able with the naked eye to make it out. They examined it with a glass and discovered a tricoloured pen and attached to what was like a flag staff and seemingly not more than a yard above water.  When they reached it a mystery was unraveled. The disappearance of the hostile squadron cleared up.  Her consort had fled in terror. All that was seen of the noble vessel was the pennant that had floated from her main mast. That slight streamer of silk was the funeral pole of six hundred brave men who had perished in silence and in the darkness of the night, their efforts to escape unavailing, their cries for help unheard. A few bodies only were thrown up by the waves and they were buried in the church out of St Agnes. Footnote, amid the former misdeeds of the islanders, the manner in which the church was built deserves to be remembered as a set-off. In 1685 a large sum allotted to them for salvage was voluntarily devoted as a freewill offering on their part to the erection of a house of prayer. Two others had stood and fallen successively to ruin near the same spot. Footnote ends. The islanders point out their graves covered simply with turf for they are strangers who sleep below and their names none can tell. End of chapter 14 recording by Timothy Ferguson Gold Coast, Australia. Chapter 15 of Silly and Its Legends by Henry John Whitfield. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain recording by Timothy Ferguson. St. Agnes. The channel between St. Mary's and St. Agnes is seldom still or calm. There is generally a swell rolling in from the ocean sufficient to tell you that it is a ground upon which you must venture warily for that whereon thou standest is hallowed by many a fearful legend of wreck and disaster. You soon however reach the Gyou, a part of St. Agnes. Once only a peninsula but since the time of Borlae's who describes it thus entirely cut off from the main island at every tide. The Gyou faces the Hugh at St. Mary's. There are many of these oriental rhymes here perhaps derived from the Indo-Germanic origin of the Celts for an Asiatic is so fond of this jingle that in speaking of Cain and Abel he alters the former to Cable to make it correspond with Abel. You land soon upon the neck of the sand at a place called Poconga or Port Conga Bay. It is a curious fact that at both extremities of the islands you arrive at a spot so named. The Rock of Sileatside Briar is supposed to be thus termed from Silia which as I mentioned before is the Cornish for Conga. Climb the hill above your landing place if you have in your nature a spark of romance or the slightest sense of natural beauty if you find the sublime language of that solitude with spirit communes with God and God with it. Stay and enjoy and now are spent perhaps as you have never spent one before.  The case is not an improbable one enthusiasm is sometimes qualified as that which makes us mad. My poor friend Hayden was considered insane for reciting Shakespeare aloud. Some early acquaintances of mine once called upon me after a lapse of many years. I had filled my house with antique furniture, old India China and plate and was in Lord Byron's words guilty of being innocent of the fact that my hobby was somewhat singular and that few would sympathize with it. We had been looking in a magnificent carved oak bed which with its crimson curtains and suite of massive fittings was in my eyes the perfection of solemn and ancient splendor when one of my guests suddenly cried out, Good heavens, where did you pick up all this hideous rubbish? There is in the world a multitude perhaps a great majority of persons who feel thus. They are all the happier for it, those keen and fine and exquisite sensibilities that charm and win our spring. No blessing to their possessors. So if you are fortunately for yourself insensible to the stern beauty of that haunted down with its carns, its rifled sepulchres and all its wild ancestral memories, go home and thank God for it. On the whole extent of the view are scattered rocks of every shape. Many of them are pointed than I have seen in the other islands. There are likewise a number of circles, some of which are small and others of the usual extent containing those large sepulchres which from their size seem to belong to a family rather than an individual. There is also a man in her as it is called in Brittany, or tall upright rock for worship. Footnote, I suppose this is the derivation of the Cornish name Tremon here, tree, men here. Footnote ends. From the quantity of little funeral rings still remaining, one would suppose this spot to have been a general burying place. The names of some of the points are very quaint, for there is wet nose and drop nose. These fanciful appellations are to be found everywhere in the footsteps of the Anglo-Saxon race. In the midst of the sounding terms, furnished by Oriental hyperbole, you come upon them strewn here and there. As you sail out of the Indus, you round a bold headland. Nearchus gave it a fine Greek designation, but the English christened it cat's head. And cat's head it remains. From the extremity of the Giyu, you see a rock which has maintained a melancholy interest. It is the Gilston. In October 1707, as I stated in my account of Puthelic Bay, the association, the flagship of Sir Cloud's Lee Shovel, with two other ships of the line, the Eagle and the Romney, struck here and were lost with 2,000 men. Footnote, it is sometimes called the victory. Footnote ends. In fact, standing upon this headland and looking over the innumerable peaks and shoals extending for miles in every direction, one ceases to wonder at the Solonian proverb that for one man who dies a natural death nine are drowned, or at the complaint of Mr. Tucker in his report to the Prince of Wales that the chief hindrance to making a roadstead and hubba of refuge arose from the prejudice of sailors against it. The colossus of the line was lost here with, I believe, all her crew. So was the Nabukto, so were the Thames Steamer, and the Jewelrow, nor is this all. Many a wreck takes place, and the deep swallows up all memory of the disaster. In 1842, the top mast of the vessel was observed above water, not far from the shore of St. Agnes. She proved to be the William Proben from Shields, but there ended all knowledge of her. Her sailors were drowned. She lay there as men saw her, but they were ignorant of all those connected with her. The disappearance of vessels is so common as to excite little surprise. The woman who waits upon me has been married two years. Her husband, who was made in an outward bound trader when he was last heard of, sailed off from some foreign port four months since, but no further tidings, have reached her, and she has gone into service without a murmur, setting aside the dim twilight of the laurel grove that clothes the aisles of grease. These rocks resemble them as they are described by Byron. Fair climb where every season smiles, benign and all those blessed aisles, where mildly dimpling ocean's cheek reflects the tints of many a peak, caught by the laughing tides that lave those Eden's of the eastern wave. In both cases the beauty is rendered mysterious and solemn by its associations, at least to those who think and feel, those who do not, are a little worth. I do not envy the man's as old Samuel Johnston very truly, whose bosom does not beat with patriotism on the field of marathon, or with piety amid the ruins of Iona. Cross the neck of sand at Poconga and ascend a little slope, you will find yourself in the main town of St. Agnes, which boasts a population of about 200, nearly every other man being named Hicks. Here is the pretty parsonage in the school. The clergyman fills both officers, being both curate and schoolmaster, an arrangement much wanted at St. Martens, a little further on is the lighthouse with its revolving beacon. For note it is well worth a visit. There are three faces and ten lights in each face, which is visible for a minute. The entire revolution being affected in three. The large reflectors are of silver and have been in use for nearly 50 years, but are still as bright and fresh as ever. Footnote ends. These are in excellent order, but oh ye rulers of the Trinity House, men of good intention, she may be, and if high nautical science, but alas for your taste. The residence attached to the establishment is large, larger in fact than its requisite. It is built very expensively. The door posts are of granite, the chimneys elegantly carved, are of Portland stone, and the Palladio or Wren of the Trinity House has most carefully painted them. Below the lighthouse is a small church and a beautiful little model farmhouse built of course by the proprietor, to whom is due the credit for every improvement, and from whom every plan for the comfort and benefit of the islanders meets with the generous and disinterested support. Footnote, a peddler with whom I was talking one day, said to me that 17 years ago all the people here were paupers, but now they are all gentlemen. Footnote ends. The bay beneath is a curious specimen of etymological corruption. It is called prigles, or priglis, the proper name being Portus Ecclesiae, or Church Bay. There is another word, the root of which I cannot unravel. It is Saint Asprey Neck. Probably, as Mazepe says, it is some lurking saint, but who he may be, passes man's powers to discover. Above the town is a white down called Wingal Tang, which like the Gyu, almost approaches sublimity. It presents a marvellous contrast to the cultivated fields behind and to the soft blue sea, and to that azure haze above your head. You find, as soon as you reach it, a very remarkable rock called the Devil's Punchbowl, with a large basin on the top. Borlaise says that it is a Logan, and may be moved by pushing it with poles. It is, at all events, a very grand and striking object. Indeed, over the whole extent of Wingal Tang down and on the Gyu, are scattered profusely the finest and most picturesque masses of stone, no to or like, but bearing this resemblance, as has been observed, that they all dip to the north. You have here an excellent view of the Western Isles and amongst others of Annette, but your heart sickenes as you look upon their fantastic outlines and pinnacles, just emerging from the water, studying it with so many deaths. Having made the circuit of the moor, we arrived at a little cove or bay, lying between immense masses of rock, as calm and happy as Valambros where the Aturian shades high overarched in Bower. The circle here was no woven fretwork of leaves but a great wall of granite, frowning above the turf at its foot. It is the very scene for a marvel, for its aspect prepares the mind for one and a marvel is ready to your hand. This island was formerly dedicated to Santa Wound, an Irish saint, who landed here one day in a coracle or boat of wicker-work covered with skins from the Green Isle. Footnote pronounced Santa Wound.  There are several names resembling this in Cornel and Devin, Perrin, Berrien, Berrien, Berry, and all derived from Ireland. Footnote ends Riddesnote. The author is emphasising a difference in the spelling between W-A-R-N-A and the pronunciation, which is W-A-U-N-D. Riddesnote ends. Her maidenhood must have been a sad loss to the bachelor's of those days. What a sailor's wife the lady would have made and how she would have spliced the main brace. Be that as it may, the Good Islanders very naturally believe that so bold a voyager must be a patroness of those who live by the sea in more senses than one, for her holiness was supposed to preside not only over fair sailing but over foul, since her power extended to wrecks. Her shrine was here and here is even now the sight of her mystical well, into which whoever drops a pin, as into that of St. Winifred, and uttered a wish will obtain what they seek.  Footnote ends. People pray generally according to their tastes. The Solonians usually asked for wrecks and I have heard of one man who threw a pin into the little basin with these words, at least a first-rate Indian man. In former days, Santa Wound played a very conspicuous part in all transactions hereabouts. The Reformation by no means put an end to her empire. The fiery race of Hicks, whose squabbles with that of Mortimer show that the ladies of the house were well skilled in the language peculiar to the apostolic occupation of the sale of fish practised by their lords seemed to have only patronised the Irish Saint. Footnote the old court books which I was permitted to inspect through the kindness of Mr. Augustus Smith are infinitely amusing as to the habits of these insular belligerents. In one case, Hicks versus Mortimer for scandal in which the plaintiff accused the defendant of having had a child more than the law allowed and the defendant rejoined that if she had at least not killed it the bench most impartially imposed a good fine upon both parties and made them share the burden of the costs. The ducking stool for scolds formerly a frequent mode of punishment must have been very often set to work. Nor were the magistrates of justice very particular as to the sex of these recipients of their judicial bounties. One woman for theft received at the public weapon post forty stripes. Footnote ends as Cadmus when he immigrated with Moses in the exode from Egypt introduced the use of letters into Greece. So St. Wound appears to have introduced the culture of the Shalala which has since flourished here as never did thorn in Glastonbury footnote. Another Irish peculiarity possessed by these islands is that no snake nor any noxious reptile is to be found here. Footnote ends.  I learned many of these historical anecdotes by the side of the ancient basin now well nigh choked up at the age of unbelief has succeeded to the age of miracles. The islanders literally don't care a pin for St. Wound. The old man disgorced with me of the past as we stood on the site of her vanished shrine and the scene of other days arose vividly before my mind's eye I could see the country folk coming to kneel before the rude figure of their idol and to pray for wrecks. So the Roman peasant brings her child to bow in prayer before the image of the Madonna and to lisp in orisons to mama as has been done so often in my hearing the amphitheater of rock looked down upon them as it now frowned upon us the great sepulchres of yonder hill were then as yet unviolated and the sleep of the buried warriors undisturbed the population was numerous and wealthy before war and natural convulsion and the elements had played their part in disuniting and depopulating the islands of the blessed. Footnote. Silly was supposed to be the fortuneata insulae of the ancients. Footnote ends. How soon that day of splendour was all cast that bright brief day too beautiful to last. By degrees the dwellers in the land dwindled away until even the pathetic language of Scripture was inapplicable to their lot for there was not a single inhabitant abiding here who could say and I even I only am left to tell the tale. How is this brought about? Quoth I to the patriarch who babbled to me of these bygone events his reply was in substance as follows and we will call his tale The Legend of Santa Wound. End of Chapter 15 Recording by Timothy Ferguson Gold Coast, Australia. A numbered section of Silly and Its Legends by Henry John Widfeld. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Timothy Ferguson. The Legend of Santa Wound. Once upon a time very long ago when from frequent inroads and civil broils the whole country was brought down into a low and feeble state when law was so little known or so little regarded that a man who did wrong was at the mere will of his lord placed on a rock with some bread and water and left to be washed off and drowned by the receding tide. When the good old days of Earl Richard and Earl Edmund and Earl Reginald were remembered with regret they had dwelt in St. Agnes five families only and those of the poorest class. The old faith had been supplanted by one plain and stone. The tabernacles of our fathers had everywhere been thrown down and ruined and the sons and daughters of prayer were driven forth from their peaceful cloisters into a strange and unknown world. Many there were in those times who disdained to purchase life by submission. Many there were who refused to partake of the new rites or to enter their churches and who said in the spirit for adventuring the very words of the Hebrew prince when threatened with danger at the hands of an apostate from their erst common belief shall such a man as I go up into the temple to save my life. I will not go up but others from coarser and darker motives clave to their antique worship. The power that dwelt in St. Agnes was believed to be strong over those who followed their business on deep waters. Many a time when a gallant ship was seen approaching land in fancied safety walking grandly upon her way the dim shadow of the hostile saint was thought to appear brooding like a cloud above her and leading her unconsciously upon some one of the concealed terrors that lurked below many a time a light burning upon the shore like a friendly signal hurried the homeward bound bark and her trusting company upon rocks from which no human hand could rescue them in all these cases Santa Wound was held to be the presiding influence the unseen shade that did her terrible spiritings even at her own stern will. So when the holy rude was pulled down and the shrines defaced and their relics scattered abroad and the people went about breaking down the carved work thereof and shivering into fragments these be thy gods O Israel the few remaining inhabitants yet abiding on St. Agnes clung to their old faith more fervently perhaps because it was fallen and perhaps also because they feared less the new one should by depriving Santa Wound of her supposed authority of the elements robbed them of the profits derived from the frequent wrecks which they believed her to have driven upon their rugged shores at that period as I before said five families alone were left upon St. Agnes they were unwilling to admit strangers among them lest they should be obliged to share the advantages of their wicked gain with a greater number and so diminished their unholy store they bowed daily before the altar at Santa Wound and daily through pins into her well and offered up their supplications for wrecks many of these there were and their hearts were gladdened and they grew wealthy on their spoils the corpses of the crews they stripped and then flung back into the sea some missionaries of the reformed belief assayed to come and teach them the things that concerned their peace but the islanders stoned them and drove them away even as the idolaters of Ephesus cried great is Diana of the Ephesians so did they magnify Santa Wound the source of their bad prosperity they were like the leeches ever craving for more blood for they were still unsatisfied even by the abundance people prophesied against them and were told for them an evil end but those of St. Agnes were ever and are now a dour raised disagreeing among themselves and only uniting to oppose some common enemy so they went on sacrificing to Santa Wound and laying snares for unhappy mariners and increasing their profits at the expense of their souls the preachers of the gospel faith held that the demon was permitted for a time to personate the saint and so to do these works of darkness and truly it seemed probable for they prospered in their ungodliness and even went so far as to take up their parable against the new ministers and stoutly appealed to their well doing as a proof of the efficacy of their prayers and the influence of Santa Wound one day a vessel was seen to approach the island in a quarter the most dangerous and generally the most carefully avoided all five households of St. Agnes were only alert they knelt before the shrine and vowed their offerings in case their prayers were heard they then hurried to the shore and saw there as they believed a plain proof of the power of their patroness the vessel hired by some miraculous chance passed and it with its wide reefs and shoals tempted by the appearance of deep water and safe anchoring ground the crew bore up and made straight for sure for some time there was no sign of danger the tall ship came on bravely and without fear at last however the foam head gave notice of breakers on the bow and the helmsman endeavoured to wear but in vain the devoted craft missed stays and was next moment lifted upon a sharp rock the peaks of which pierced her sides and held her fast she struggled and reeled too went fro but every shock lengthened her agony and the water rushed in through the leak thus made and then as her stout timbers gaped and yawned from each successive blow she parted in midships and the sea was covered with her fragments her crew and passengers were beheld in the water swimming with the energy of despair or clinging to portions of the wreck on which they hoped to reach the shore but man held out to them no helping hand one by one they sunk and were seen no more the wretched islanders watched their expiring struggles but made no effort to aid them all their exertions were directed towards seizing and dragging forth high and dry upon the beach such articles of value as the tide had already begun to cast up while they were thus engaged a mass of timbers was born to the strand unnoticed by those around three or four times it was left apparently by the waves and was again as often sucked back amidst the breakers yet loud as was the howling of the wind and the thunders of the angry deep they were issued from among them a cry awfully distinct and clear it caught the ears of some of those rude pillagers and made them for a moment pause it came from that heaving fragment of woodwork which had so nearly been flung clear upon the land but to which the billows clung with such desperate and fierce tenacity as it whirled round in the vortex formed by the advancing and retiring currents that were seen upon at two objects that might well excite compassion and stir up to the rescue even those little accustomed to pity or to spare a white haired and reverend man in the dress of a priest of the reformed faith was lashed firmly to a plank and held in his arms a beautiful child it was the plaintive appeal of the latter that had penetrated through the roaring of the storm patriarch uttered no cry made no complaint but still holding the infant clasped to his bosom looked pityously to those on shore it was a sight to touch the heart of a savage but it made no impression upon the wreckers they gazed coolly and callously upon that struggle between man and the elements they felt a kind of curiosity as to the result of the strife and they never moved a step nor a hand to aid the contest was a short one every wave as it broke over the frail raft weakened the vital powers of the old minister already enfeebled by the previous trials and horrors of the day his eye lost its expression a quick shiver from time to time passed over his limbs his face assumed a livid paleness and he became by degrees insensible to his sufferings and his perils still however the instinct of love in him he never for a moment relaxed his clasp of the child he seemed in his agony and at the moment of dissolution to cling closer to that tie whatever it might be which even now was next to his heart as he grew feebler so did the little object of his care and love what's fainter too the cry sunk into a wail and the wail into a stifled moan and then nothing was heard but a sharp convulsive sob and then again all was still close strained infant dead lay there happily beyond the consciousness of sorrow or of pain the raft rolled round and round in the furious eddies but the plashing of the waters upon it was the only reply it gave the divine had ceased to inhabit the earthly and had gone no one knew wither to tell its tale of wrong and to ask for redress from God that night the grim leader of the wreckers was lying in bed when he saw a vision it might have been a dream a vivid fearful reality for if ever ghosts in the words of Ocean ride upon the storm it must be after such dark and unhallowed deeds there stood or there seemed to stand beside his bed two figures one of them was the old man who was drowned in the catastrophe that morning he was pale as he had seemed in life but the expression of his countenance was changed it had undergone such a transfiguration as death only affects the dignity of an undying spirit his eye was no longer pleading with sad eloquence in the name of God and of humanity for mercy which was denied his brow was Solomon majestic rather than stern it had passed through the ordeal of the grave and had borrowed from its depths a power which life cannot possess the other figure was one with which the islander was well acquainted it was the saint before whose rudely sculpted form was a career of existence the similitude of her graven image in stone it was centre wound the child of the new faith and the canonised representative of the old worship stood face to face silently regarding each other then the ancient woman raising her arm by an impulse that was not like an act of life stretched it over the pallet on which lay the trembling wrecker and said in accents low and clear apostle of strange doctrines why comes thou hither to trouble us before our time these are my children therefore do thou harm them not the lips of the old man move not yet he spake teacher of deceits said he and of a faith of demons thou and thy children shall soon be no more their hour and thine is come they that live by wrecks shall perish by a wreck the moon shall not reach her full sin and murder shall be desolate they who pollute it now shall die the death they have given to others thy shrine shall be left worshipless and be cast down and disappear from the face of the earth even as a tale that is told this is the Lord's doing and it is marvellous in our eyes the voice ceased there was silence the two ghostly phantoms lingered for a moment and then melted into thin air the terrified man gazed into space but he saw nothing he listened but all was still the impression made by this ghostly interview did not outlive the hours of darkness next day the hardened sinner went about his plunder as usual he spoke to others of the occurrences but they laughed at his relation the young girl to whom he was affianced gestured with her lover about his lonely situation that made him suffer from ill dreams so he held his wedding which was to take place in a day or two at Enor or as it is now called St Mary's footnote innis moor great island footnote ends the morning fixed upon for its celebration arrived it was dark and lowering the channel between the gyu and the Bay of Old Town boys disturbed was now agitated with a heavy swell from the eastward while the wind as as usual from that quarter was puffy and after a stormy passage which tolman hid in safety sorely and unwillingly had the inhabitants of St Agnes consented to enter a church of the reformed creed and have a marriage celebrated among them according to its rights the good clerk rebuked them for their adulterous practices and they retaliated on him with bitter and profane scoffs and when they left the church the last words that passed between them were of warning on one side and of scorn and defiance on the other so they left that shore but they never reached their own alive the wind had increased to a gale and from a gale to a tempest scarcely had they got beyond the pulpit rock and on a level with that which is called the gull when a tremendous sea broke over them and hurried at once to the bottom the hull of their little fleet of the cruise not one person escaped neither was one of the bodies recovered the boats as if conducted by an avenging providence drifted across the straight and were found in the bay in this saw the prediction of the shipwrecked divine was accomplished no human being remained on St. Agnes nor was it again peopled for many a day nor was the worship of St. Wound ever renewed let's try and escape the violence of the iconoclasts owing to its situation for none visited nor saw it but it could not avoid the inroads of time which in the words of Bacon innovated greatly indeed but gently and by degrees scarcely to be perceived with the lapse of years more rapid certainly again sought the island and as though a man who knew not St. Wound they did not reverence her little retreat so it gradually moulded away her well was filled up by neglect rather than by any act of violence and her name lived only in some legend or tradition connected with the wild times and the wild dwellers of the past in the train of the reformed faith came in gentler and purer doctrines bringing glad tidings of good things the beauty of holiness was taught by a ministry derived from those fathers of the gospel faith one of whom died upon that beach in the days when men bowed down before stocks and stones so while we regret much that the past has taken from us let us prize that which the present still enjoys when we quit the hillside the evening sun plays around the grey rocks and green slope a cento ounce bay as it goes down we are left in shadow but its beams still linger all and an affecting moral in what is thus passing before our eyes the faith of other days lies in shadow desolate and forgotten while the faith in which we walk today breaks into the light which is from God the brightness of scripture truth has wrapped it in a glory unshared by its deserted rival below when all else is dark the departing gleams from heaven have rested on it for a while the day spring from on high hath visited it end of section recording by Timothy Ferguson popular superstitions these are not rife in silly there is in the islands as little of romance and as much a matter of fact and of commonplace as would be looked for in a Manchester meal in fact the sentimental is discouraged and the practical set up in its place until the lovers of the marvellous fervent fervent fervent fervent fervent fervent fervent fervent fervent fervent fervent fervent fervent fervent fervent fervent fervent fervent fervent fervent fervent fervent fervent fervent fervent fervent fervent fervent fervent fervent fervent fervent fervent fervent fervent fervent fervent fervent fervent The Longabard, or Aelman, never troubled himself with the apparitions of his Roman predecessors. The Arab knew nothing of Gothic marvels, beyond the story of Count Julian and Lecava. The Norman warriors sneered out and buried in Oblivion. The Saxon hobgoblins of Croyland, or of Ellie. All the tales of irrespective belonged to the Fanshares and the Berensfids, to the Lords of the Pale. And thus it is with silly the whole population dates no further back than the days of Cromwell. It is entirely modern, having its tales of horror indeed but relating only to smuggling and wrecking and disasters akin to them. The most remote of these dark scenes scarcely remounts up to a period of a hundred years ago. The shades of the departed race that peopled these rocks when they formed a wide and smiling land may hover around the heaths on which we see their tombs and circles and altars. But the eye of modern unbelief beholds them not. The voice of no descendant records their exploits. The song that celebrated them and the hearts in which that song found an echo are alike cold and still. The only part of the islands in which I have met with any spectral records of respectable antiquity is Tresco. I stumbled there by mere chance upon a trace of some ghosts with a pretense to a decent ancestry. They would be held in little respect by such persons as the worthy Gale who, on hearing the name of a countryman mentioned, replied contemptuously who that upstart only came in with finagle. In fact the oldest of my spirits is supported by the high authority of the great grandfather of my informant, so after all the revenant is only a visitor of yesterday and may well be ashamed of his shadowy pedigree. Where Tresco Abbey now stands, there's to informally a religious establishment. This was plundered at the Reformation and had the finishing touch put to its tail of ruin at the great rebellion. On its site and resting against the walls of the old church, four or five cottages gradually arose, built of the consecrated materials, intruders upon the hallowed ground and forming by the scenes perpetrated in them and by the characters of their occupants a fearful contrast to the memory of what had once existed there. The principal inhabitants of these cabins all belong to a family now I believe extinct, but in those days rather numerous, one of them was, in two ways distinguished from his neighbours. He was preeminent for wickedness, even in those times of piracy and plunder, and for his faculty of seeing supernatural appearances. He was even visited, as my informant worded it, by the evil one himself, for I observed that a true Selonian like a real Kelt never mentioned Satan by name, just as an Irishman speaks of the good people, that is, the fairies. Now Dick the Wicked, who dwelt in the desolation of the sacred precincts, feared neither their associations nor the remembrance of deeds of strife and violence since committed there. He was a man it was said who defied all agencies, human, diabolical and divine. His life had been spent in the midst of lawless deeds, and he had grown old and infirm in the quiet nook, whose blessed influences had never moved his spirit to aught but a revolting jest.  Near the spot where the present farm building stood some tale was told of a poor shipwrecked Dutchman who was murdered and buried in the sandbank. Footnote, the islanders refused burial in consecrated ground to those cast ashore from wrecks. The bodies of all who died in this manner were interred in the sand or on the downs. Many little carns or heaps of stones mark the sides of these hasty graves. Footnote ends. People feared to visit the spot after nightfall but the old wrecker had no such scruples. Often he said when he passed, the form of the dead man was seen pacing gloomily up and down by the side of the present road. He never spoke nor when spoken to did he reply but moved silently onward and at the end of his beat turned back again. The path to the ruins then mounted over the Abbey Hill. The old sailor was once going along it when he suddenly encountered the apparition of a deceased person whom he had known. There is an idea prevalent that a ghost on meeting anyone always takes the right hand. He did so on this occasion. The fiery blood of Dick the Wicked was up in a moment. What said he? Does thou take the right hand of me? The shade answered not, but turned and followed him to his door and there only left him. On another occasion he was passing through the burial ground and entering his house and there he remembered him an ancient comrade in his wildest scenes who had now gone to his accountant was sleeping quietly in the turf beneath his feet. It appears that they had often in former days spoken of one of them in case of death visiting the survivor. As yet the promise made by him that was departed was unfulfilled. Dick was pondering these old passages of his early life and as he crossed his threshold he called out, Johnny Johnny wilt thou not keep thy word. Even as he spoke there was a report like thunder so terrible that his hat, as it were, rose upon his bristling hair while it stiffened with intense horror and in that fearful sound his friend's voice seemed to reply. It appeared to shake the walls and the roof until they trebled again. Many times he had calls in the night and an invisible hand moved his clothes and his squalid furniture about. At last, after innumerable glimpses of spiritual life and communings with the dwellers in another world, Dick one night received a still darker summons. He had been long bedridden but was neither cured of evil passions nor converted from his evil ways. One midnight some visitant, at whom it was impossible to do more than guess, entered his room. Next morning he was found wrapped in a long loose coat which he was in the habit of wearing at a considerable distance from his house. It was whispered that one, scarcely more wicked than himself, had thus assayed to be him bodily away. He died soon after believing that Satan had been the agent in this mysterious fitting but fearless and hardened to the last. His son was the last of the family who possessed this sort of second sight. He was rather an improvement on his father but still was evidently no great shakes. One evening he brought his horse down to an outbuilding in the churchyard and was engaged in foddering it when he felt the animals start and tremble violently. He looked up and saw standing on the hedge, that is, the wall, the figure of a man pale, grim and stern, clad in antique garb and wearing on its head a three-cornered hat. He turned away in terror and leaving the animal tethered as he thought securely, walked to his own abode, but the presence of the unearthly was too much for the poor beast. By a strong and sudden effort it broke the halter and was at its master's door as soon as he. Some years ago when the cabin's yet stood about the haunted churchyard and the whole place possessed that evil reputation, which it is scarcely lost, some young men were strolling among the tombs ingesting lightly and in a scoffing manner respecting the terrors of other times. One of them bolder and more careless than the rest uttered a sort of invocation or defiance against the shadows that were supposed to claim the consecrated precincts for their inheritance. He had just uttered the words of the psalm, as wind blows chaff away so in the presence of the Lord the wicked shall decay, when a sudden burst as of thunder was heard above and around enveloping, as it appeared, the scorner himself and lifting from his head his hat which was world round and dashed against the wall. The electric shock, or whatever it might be, made a great impression on the thoughtless party and sent them away frightened indeed, if not cured. The old man who died lately, aged ninety-six, at Brier, was said to see visions. His wife, who had departed this life long years ago, came to his bed as he believed every night, with many an appearance of glory and angelic shapes and spirits from another world. The patriarch was evidently held in respect among his children and his children's children. The shadows and the mysteries of an age gone by seemed to invest him with a peculiar sanctity and to give him the ghostly privileges which are denied to the stern and practical habits of today. Witches are a salonian article of faith. Formally they were said to swarm at Tresco. The son of Dick the Wicked got a taste of their quality that he found somewhat unpalatable. Walking one evening near the present farm buildings he beheld five old women, of the true sort for Hopkins the Witchfinder executing by moonlight, a kind of demon dance and riding, as it were, on sticks that were placed after the fashion of children's hobby horses between their legs. He came upon their ghastly merrimentan wares. All at once the sport stopped. One of them, a varago of his own blood, called to him by name and bade him go home and see that he spoke to none what he had beheld. But the poor man in his aura almost lost his senses and either forgot or disregarded the injunction, for he related the occurrence to his wife. In case of disobedience he had been threatened with a mark of their wrath, which he should bear to his grave. He had long black hair. When he got up next morning it was white as snow. Again one of the same brood came down one day to a neighbour's house and tried to sell him a sheep and a lamb, but the price asked was so exorbitant that the farmer refused to deal. The old woman departed muttering strangely. That evening a choice ran belonging to the poor man died, another of the flock followed daily, till ruin stared him in the face. At last he went off to consult a weird sister on the course he should pursue.  The holocaust was soon ready for ongoing to the field he found a you cold and stiff. He lighted a large pile of furs and placed the sheep upon it. As the flames blazed up he raised his eyes and saw close to him upon the hedge, wrapped in her little red cloak and grinning diabolically the hag. The cause of all this mischief, though she was then bodily in her own house, and from that time the plague was stayed. In the old days of wrecking and of worst deeds many crimes were committed that might well be supposed to bring back the victim to the scene of his sufferings and his wrongs. About sixty years ago a large merchant man was captured by a pirate and afterwards retaken and brought in to Silly.  She had no middle deck. As he was looking through the cracks in the partition where it would have been had there been one he saw what seemed to be a kind of hen coop newly painted green and against it was a figure of a gentleman dressed in a dark suit with high boots and falling lace collar and a three cornered cocked hat on his head. The lad looked long and earnestly to make sure of the fact that he mentioned it an inquiry was made but nothing could be seen or heard of the shadowy visitant. There was no speech nor language that told its tale. Some years afterwards the youth had become a man and was in the service of the state. Another vessel was brought in to port under suspicious circumstances and he, with a brother officer, was placed in charge of her. It was his watch and his seat went evening in the state cabin as he thought alone. Opposite to him was a large chair apparently empty as he gazed on it mechanically he saw in it the figure of a gentleman richly habited holding in his hand an instrument of music and on his knees sat a little boy who was playing with him and clasping his neck. As he stared upon the apparition the beholder's hair stiffened with agony and his senses were strung to such a pitch of unearthed tension that his ears as he expressed it seemed to open to his brain and he heard the first footfall of his companion who was then coming to relieve him even as it touched the key. He was found in a state of ineffable terror by his comrade but the intruder upon his vigils had done its errand and was gone. These superstitions are rude and course and simple but they illustrate the state of Selonian life at the period when they occurred. It was an age of universal barbarism when there was so little law that the crew of a vessel man chiefly by Irish landed and having had a row with the islanders swore to exterminate every soul in the place. The people fled in their boat and the crew of a second vessel was brought on shore and employed to reduce the Ibernians to submission. In those days both here and in Cornwall lanterns were fastened to the horns of cows, which were sent at night to the beach as a beacon to mislead unwary pilots. Some of the tales connected with these times are terrible in one case a poor rich who had escaped from a wreck and had clung fast to a rock offered a large sum of gold to the crew of a boat from St Agnes as price for his rescue. The children of Centaurown made him give his money up and then left him to die. In another a friend and associate from the upsetting of his craft had been flung into the sea and had managed to swim to a point in the waves. His companions came near him and threw out their grapnel so as to swing round to the spot where he was but the current ran strongly the gale blew fiercely and the seemed a good chance of losing their grapnel so they hauled it up and pulled away and the poor fellow was as they expected drowned. The men in the boat were of one family and for this act which was Ampou Trop Four even to St Agnes they got a surname indicative of cruelty which their descendants bear to this day. There was in the south of France a place called Carpentras the inhabitants of which are what those of St Agnes only were barbarous and uncivilized. I heard the other day of a story of them so very applicable to the silly of other and world of days as well as to its parson's that I cannot help giving it here. Premising that it loses half its force by not being told in a broad Langdokian accent. I do not know whether Carpentras remains unchanged since the delivery of that sermon but the differences wrought by the last few years in Silly and the Salonians is little less than miraculous. I came hither like everyone else full of prejudices looking to find only a poor assemblage of fishermen and prepared to pass a lenient judgment. Upon habits contrary to those of civilized life I met with order subordination improvement with progress unexpected as it was unexampled and with a state of social and intellectual culture strange indeed and marvellous in a place so lately abandoned to pauperism and to crime. The shadow of time has rested heavily upon these fair islands. The sea has conquered from them many a rude of smiling land. The dwellers on their shores waxed few and feeble. They became as it were the inheritance of the wild man whose hand was against his fellow and whose life was a life of violence and of blood. The dark and melancholy spirit of those days is fled with the ignorance from which it sprung. All is now pleasantness and peace. In the midst of the comfort and prosperity so visible around a Salonian pastor might reverse the sarcasm of the Qire de Carpentras and to say truly of his flock, mail the avid dance. Hero j'ai vous le rang. End of chapter recording by Timothy Ferguson, Gold Coast, Australia.