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TALES OF THE WEST.

'I‘HE AUTHOR OF

LETTERS FROM THE ‘EAs'rg

IN TWO VOLUMES“

VOL. I.

 

ﬂewmrk :

APRINTED BY J. <9 J. HARPER°

SOLD BY COLLINS AVD HANNAY, COLLINS AND (‘10., 3}. AND C
CARVILL, WILLIAM B GILLEY, A. '1‘. GOODRICH 0 A. ROORBACK;
ELAN! BLISS, C S. FRANCIS, AND WILLIAM BURGESS, JR.

—__._

1828.

 

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“gt, xiii};

PREFACE

 

\

THE following Tales are drawn from authentic:
sources : and are the result of the writer’s personal
observation in a wild but interesting region, or founded
on the communications of his friends. The Legend of
Pacorra is intended to illustrate the traditions and an-
tiquities that still exist in the province, together with‘its
manners and customs at a remote period;

 
 
, ~""~ " aw—g-wvw ..m,¢-.WW._,..__~_, r.“ ;.

CONTENTS
OF THE
FIRST VOLUME,

‘ Page
VALLEY OF THE LIZARD ~ - a - 9
THE MINER .. — - ~ 2 49
THE EXILE _ . a < «I ‘ :15
THE LEGEND or PACORRA ~ 4 a 105

 
 

 

v:

THE VALLEY OF THE LIZARD

 

 
 

 

 

 

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4. .

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TALES
1; , ' or ‘
T H‘E} WE S '1‘.

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9

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THE VALLEY OF T111")L LIZARD.

:3

CHAPTER I.

THE long sweep of coast, which, terminating:
in the Lizard Point, stretches into the Atlantic, com
rains, in spite of its rugged and often ominous asm
pect, many’a‘ sweet..and tranquil spot.

ln'a‘ fwild valley, opening on the sea, and enclosed

on each side bybarren eminences, are situated the
church and hamlet of Landiwednac.. There are no
sheltering groves around the spot ; no luxuriant vein
dure or places of loveliness ; yet, seldom would the
contemplative mind wish for a more romantic and;
cairn retreat than it once afforded. The world was
indeed excluded ; the sides of the valley shut in the
small hamlet and fenced it from the keen and biting
winds of the north and east. The graceful spire ol'
the ancient church rose high, and formed of this
deep retirement the sole and conspicuous ornament.
And when the bells pealed slowly on the Sabbath
mornings, to call the slender populationto this
place of worship, the sounds swept so solemnly
clown the vale to the shore, and over the face 'efthe
Vol. l.»——~B -

 

 
 

 

10 . TALES on THE WEST.

waters beyond, as to seem like a summons from the
dreams and cares of the world. '

The church-yard was not thickly peopled with
graves; so pure was the air, and temperate the'
habits of the people, that the grassy mounds were
thickly covered with verdure, and the simple tomb»
stones told that ﬁerce diseases,,or early dissolution,
had committed few ravages there. ' '

The single handsome monument, (proud it might
he called where all around was, so devoid of orna»
ment,') marked where the last rector slept amidst the
ashes of his people, when full of years and labours;
it was of stone, and surrounded by an iron railing.
In this quiet cemetery there was no rival and overm
weening tomb, so often seen in the Cornish church-
yards, in memory of the squire, as he was called,
of the parish, with gilded railings, and shrine per-
haps of marble. Here the rector was lord of the.
ascendant, the richest as well as the greatest man.
in the village; in voice stilled every dispute, and
calmed each angry bickering; and no man dared,
not even the most opulent farmer in the parish, to
quit his pew when the service was ended, till the
rector was already in the aisle, and his family pro-
cession towards the door. \

And this was one of the very few places where
this excellent custom of former times still survived,
in others the growing degeneracy of the age had
entirely banished it. Often do aged men now la-
ment the days when the common people stood in
absolute awe of their digniﬁed and wealthy supe-
triers ; then the squire 0f the ancient family passed
from the church, in his scarlet waistcoat laced with
gold, and his'three-cornered hat in his hand; the
parishioners, who stood on,each side of the path,

 
      
 

THE VALLEY on THE ermn. ll

raising their eyes with awful. respect, and bowing
low and reverentially as to an ﬂriental chief. But
the sad system ol equahtyrand the sturdy preten—
sions of the lower ranks reworth and talents, now
cause men of high degree to pass without even a
hum of admiration, much less a prostrate and ser-
vile obeisance.

The parsonage house, though not a samptuous,
was a very neat and almost imposing ediﬁce, as it
stood rather aloof from the meaner dwellings
around it. The garden in front showed, indeed,
that the breath of heaven wes there too ﬁerce and
Wild for the (ultivation of many iiuits, or foreign
plants and ﬂowers , yet there were a lew, that with
care looked healthy and ﬂourishing, and many a
plant of healing virtue weekly lifted its head. A
group of oak trees, that spread their shelter over
the dwelling. broke the dreariness of the scene, and

‘ might be deemed a luxury, inasmuch as their sight
was grateful; and when the blast swept hollow
through their branches, the “sound, to an excited
imagination, inspired mournful yet pleasingthoughts.
“Within, the rectory possessed every requisite for
comfort and even enjoyment. The parlour was
Well carpeted, and held many a volume of ancient
lore on its shelves , the chimney- piece was adorned
with rare and choice specimens of the mineralogi-
cal treasures oi the neighbouring hills. The bright
and hospitable the-side looked out on the waste of
waters , for as the valley declined by a centinuous
descent to the shore, the scene was ever clearly
and beautifully visible. And such a savage as well
as sublime loneliness dwelt around that shore, that,
had thedneamytandfaded days of Catholicism still

existed here, its deep caverns would have become

H1 ‘
,., \ 1-1, < -~w-u 1

   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
    
 

 

, i2 TALES or THE WEST,

the scene of many a miracle and holy deed. Often,
in sailing along the lake of Thourn,tin Switzerland,
the eye rests onthelofty cave, or rather eyrie, in
the precipices where the good St. Beate dwelt for
many years and died ,; having existed on a rill of
water that trickled down the walls, (to which pil-
grims still resort to taste this water,) and when the
saint came, as was his wont sometimes, to the'
mouth of the cave, the inhabitants beneath gazed
intensely, as from his aspect they always drew a
presage of fair or gloomy weather on their snowy
mountains. In the spacious caverns of this coast,
also, might the poor recluse have dwelt in peace,
have made his cell in their depths, have placed
crosses over the graves of the many victims of the
tempest cast on this fearful coast, or given his
prayers and benedictions to the wanderers of the
main. But now the spirit of the storm (that, knows
little intermission,) seems alone to wake and wait
in these dreary dwellings of the cliffs; and when
the waves rush furiously on the narrow beach of
sand beneath, and the barks of many nations pass-
ing by are driven wildly and helplessly along, the
tenant of that valley enjoys amore sublime and
heart-stirring spectacle than the loftiest Alpine
height, or the boundless desert of the East, can all
ford. Yet there were few eyes in the vicinity who
gazed on that scene with any admiration, save for
the gain it not unfrequently brought: rarely did
the feet .of the passing traveller linger there, but:
busier steps pressed the strand, and active and
resolute spirits made it the scene of their forbidden
toils. -‘ , "

In one of themost respectable dWe-llings resided
withhis parents a youngman of the name of Roses

   

 
 

, Q i N
W , . , . engarm‘cxwgam - “

THE VALLEY or'rm: LIZARD. 18

wine. Although they wished to bring'him‘ up to

'some reputable calling, and could well‘aﬂ'ord to do

so, (being possessed of some property,) he had
long looked with aversion on every proposal of the
kind. - From a boy he had loved a wild and hazard~
ous way of life; and had often left his tranquil
home with joy, to engage in some coasting voyage,
or to pass days and nights at sea, even in the

_ stormiest weather, in those pilot-boats that charita-

bly watch”? :japp'roach of foreign vessels, to con-
duct them to larbour, and enjoy a rich redompense
for the risk they have run. 7 / M

But as Rosemaine grew older, this taste grew"
more decided as well as more culpable; and hes
coming acquainted with a party of smugglers, (of
Whom this coast was then the favourite retreat,) he
sometimes joined in their pursuits. For dark and
dangerous as they often were, to an unsettled and
enterprising mind they had» a charm of no ordinary
description. In that day, little restriction was set
bn this illegal trafﬁc, and the laws were often uni
availingly put in action against men Whose number,
as well as intelligence, (and sometimes property,)r
enabled them to deride and to defy detection and
punishment. They had, too, their titles of honour,
and many of them, in the course of a-few years be--
came extremely rich. - ’

The parents of the youth with tears besought
him to desist from his dangerous path, and warned
him of the consequences.‘ But his native valle
could no longer detain him, whenﬂags both of the
east and west swept proudly in his View, and vessels
heavily laden with precious merchandise [tempted
the most supine to adventure. The barkethat bore
him and his companions pushing quickly from shore,

B 2

 
 

is! sues or run mm.

was soon beside the indiaman, and their eyes
gleamed with delight as the rich bales of silk were
spread out, and the spices, and other products of
distant lands; or (little less inferior in -attraetion,_:)
the heavy galliot lay, loaded almost to the water’s
edge with prime spirits of various kinds. Often,
in the silence of night, the peaceful sands echoed
with the quick rolling of the casks full of the pro~
ductions of every quarter of the globe, which were
deposited in the neighbouring caves, to be resold
at an enormous advantage. It is said, too, that
deeds of a more questionable nature were done by
some of the natives of this coast ; deeds that bring
guilt and misery on the‘spirits that could plan and
perpetrate them. A strange tale is yet told of a
Dutch East-India ship, on her passage home, being
boarded .in peace by these men, who, ﬁnding the crew
unsuspioious, suddenly attacked them: in the sur—
prise of the moment, they took the vessel, (though
their own number was .a mere handful,) and mas~
sac-red without mercy, its numerous crew, together
with several ladies, and many other passengers.
Eﬂbrts have at times been made, even till within
these few years, to discover the particulars and the
actors of this deed, but without effect. Certain it
is, the large and valuable Indiaman was last seen
near the Lizard, and never reached her destined
port, though the weather was ﬁne and her voyage
nearly ended : and rich and elegant dresses, many
of them 5t" foreign make, were observed to adorn
the. wives and daughters of sea-faring men ; while
ladies’ ornaments of a costly kind glittered on the
ﬁngers and forms of many a gay village girl, but
no one whispered whence they came.

,. Arcareer like the one in which Rosemaine was

 

 
THE VALLEY or we mznan. . '15

engaged,though hewould have recoiled frame cruel
a'scene as the above, could not be pursued'nithout
perils, and in one or two skirmishes that took place
with the Revenue-oﬂicers, in which wounds Were
given on each side, he distinguished himself so con-
spicuously in defence of his comrades, that he could
return no more to his home, and was obliged to
cast himself wholly on the life that had ﬁrst temp-ted
him.

His remaining scruples were stiﬂed by the con»
sciousness that he was now compelled, almost in
self defence, to adopt this ;course; and his daring;
spirit soon gained ascendancy over the fierce, and
outlawed men who were his associates. As their
resources daily increased, they were, ere long, able,
to procure a small but fast-sailing brig, of which he
was unanimously made commander. He wasnow
at the height of his ambition: in the very situation
that when a boy, he would have passionately longed
for, but dared- not hope to attain. Often in this '
vessel, that knew no master but himself, he sailed
proudly past his native valley, gazed on its quiet
and lonely aspect with contempt, and pitied the
daily laborious application that characterized the
path of its contented inmates. ‘

A few years had passed, in which interval his
name had become the terror of the coast for his
fearless exploits, and his vessel had been the marl;
and hoped-for prey of many a cruizer; but some~
times he had fought his way and still oftener had es-
caped by swiftness of sailing,‘ But the event which
destroyed this career, and drove him a fugitive to
more distant scenes, he detailed :to me in a simple
narrative when he was advanced in years, and when, '
in his composed features, calm accent, and high

 

 
 

1‘6 « TALES on THE WEST. -

andrclear forehead, (down which the gray hair
smoothly fell,) it was impossible to recognise the
dreaded "and undaunted smuggler. ,

They hadbeen- chased warmly for several hours
by a King’s ship of far superior force, and had kept
up a distant cannonade ; but the enemy gained on
them so quickly, that it was resolved to run the
vessel into a cove on the north shore of the country;
and by getting into shallow water, (the evening also
drawing on fast,) there'was a hope of baffling the
pursuit.

The brig accordingly ran in close to the shore :
hut contrary to their expectation, they soon saw
the enemy enter and east anchor at no great dis-6
tance, opening instantly a heavy ﬁre. There was
no thought of surrender on the part of the puru
sued ; avprice was set upon their lives, which they
resolved to sell dearly, since there was no hope of
pardons It now grew dark, and the outlaws re»-
turned for some time with fury their enemy’s ﬁre ;
but so destructive was the latter, that they fell ra-
pidly on every side, and their resistance grew
gradually fainter. The boats of the cruizer inw

‘ stantly drew nigh, and the chase, already over-
powered, was boarded by men who were determined
not to spare. ,

Yet on their deck the remnant of the smugglers
fought fearlessly and long: the cutlass of Rosemaine
ﬂashed amidst the throng, while he animated his
comrades still to make head- against their foes. But
it was in vain; he saw them fall one after the other
at his feet, and covered with wounds he was soon.
stretched beside them. When all resistance was
over, the crew of the man-of-war began to secure
their prize, which they found, to contain a very

 
 

THE mum or THE mzann. 17‘

valuable cargo; and in about half an hour after~
wards, when the lieutenant returnedfrem making
the report to his commander, he ordered the deck
to be cleared of thedead and (wounded..2
The slain were immediately throwno-verboard ;_
but as it was now quite dark, it was frequently
necessary to place the light close to the features of
the vanquished, in order to discover if signs of
animation yet remained, before the body was com-
mitted to the deep. Rosemaine, whose wounds
had bled profusely, had in the meantime recovered
his senses so far as to be conscious of what was
passing around him; and he gazed wildly at ﬁrst
on the moving ﬁgures that passed to and fro upon
the deck, and the light that glared over the ghastly
‘ ccuntenances of his fallen crew; on whom bent
the features of the victors with an eagerness, as if
unwilling that death should yet have rescued the
captives from their hold. The lamp at last ap-
proached the spot where he lay, and an exclama-
tion burst from theagroup that this was the captain
,of the prize. His presence of mind did-notzforsake
him in this extremity ; he closed his eyes, drew in
his breath, and was sensible in-every nerve of the
full blaze which was thrown on his features, and
dwelt there amidst the doubts and misgivings of his
cruel examiners. He heard the voice of the ofﬁcer,
low at ﬁrst, as he bade them carefully observe if he
did not live; and gradually growing louder, and
breaking forth into execraticns, as rage and disap-
pointment got the better of hope. “ He is dead,”
they all exclaimed, “ and we have lost the reward;”
while the prostrate ﬁgure lay still and wordless as
if in the grasp of the grave, and on the counfe’nance.
(from which all the passions of the conﬂict had

 

 
 

   

i8 TALES on THE WEST.

passed away,) was that settled paleness and fixed;
ness that tell when the spirit’s strife has ceased,

They left him at last, and he listened to their
retiring steps. In ashort time all was hushed; a
boat, with the lieutenant, pushed off from the prize,
and the‘sullen splash of the oars fell on his ears
like sounds ofsuccour to a dying man. He opened
his eyes, and gazed cautiously around; the stars
were shining brightly from a clear winter’s sky, and
the cold wind swept piercingly over the scene of
slaughter, bearing the waves unceasingly against
the sides of the bark. A stiﬂed groan came at in~
tervals from some prostrate comrade near him;
and sharp agony ran through every limb, as the
bark rose and fell with each dash of the billow.

He felt that he was bleeding to death, and strove
to rally all his ﬂeeting strength, both of body and
mind, to make one desperate effort for escape.
Raising himself with difﬁculty on one hand, he be-
held a small group of the enemy’s crew, seated
around their supper at the other end of the vessel;
and, turning his eyes to the shore, they rested on
the‘low beach of white sand, that lay distinct in the
pale starlight, and on the. cottages of the hamlet
beyond : if he could” arrive there, he was safe, for
the people were all in his interest. He drew his
wounded body slowly along the deck, dropped si—
lently into the water, and being an excellent swim~
mer, struggled hard to gain a footing, but in vain,
. the depth around being greater than he had ex~
‘ pe-cted. The shore was close at hand; it seemed
he could almost touch it, and he bore up against
the waves in despair, with his enfeehled frame
bleeding at every pore ; and ﬁxed this look on the
cottages, from which all the lights had now-disapa»

 
 

.49., ‘

arm VXLLEY or mm LiZARD. 2 '

CHAPTER. II. -

iN the city of Rio, it was not difﬁcult for an ex:
pcrienced seaman from his native isle, to ﬁnd speedy
employment; and as the appearance and manners
of the adventurer were above those of a common
mariner, he soon obtained the command of a mer»
chant vessel, being aided by the recommendation of
the captain with whom he had taken his passage.
Many a Voyage he made with various success along
the extensive line of the southern coast, and more
1 than once doubled Cape Horn, the passage so~
muclydreaded of old. The love of enterprise, (the
predominant feeling of his mind,) found abundant.
t matter to feed on in these undertakings. True, it
was not the high excitement of days of yore, from
H which he had been reluctantly driven,—-—the perilous
heayet golden adventure,—the nights of watching and
days of revel. Often did he recall the busy and
waﬁdaring scene displayed upon his own deck, when
Renhe gazed on the supineness and want of energy that
“metharacterized the people among whom he now»
a nm1iled: yielding to the charms of their beautit‘ui
Ehafeimate, they gamed‘and smoked the hours away, or
ior Rank in the shade great part of the day, without
years v conception of the joys that spring from alife of
mm, aIon, from which they recoiled with instinctive
h‘s bedung. He resolved,“however, to attach himself
3031“,“? ly to the path before him, as one into‘which,‘
quit 1‘: fOIwerseverance and address, gain neither’tardy
"BSOIV‘fd tconsiderable was sure to ﬂow." The small

night was a

   

 
 

 

i8 TALES on THE WEST.

passed away,) was that settled paleness and ﬁxed;
mess that tell when the Spirit’s strife has ceased.

They left him at last, and he listened to their
retiring steps. In ashort time all was hushed ; a
boat, with the lieutenant, pushed off from the prize,
and the‘su-llen splash of the cars fell on his ears
like sounds of succour to a dying man. He opened
his eyes, and gazed cautiously around; the stars
were shining brightly from a clear winter’s sky, and
the cold wind swept piercingly over the scene of
slaughter, bearing the waves unceasingly against
the sides of the bark. A stiﬂed groan came at in-
tervals from some prostrate comrade near him;
and sharp agony ran through every limb, as the
bark rose and fell with each dash of" the billow.

He felt that he was bleeding to death, and strove
to rally all his ﬂeeting strength, both of body and
mind, to make one desperate effort for escape
Raising himself with difﬁculty on one hand, he be
held a small group of the enemy’s crew, seattr
around their supper at the other end of the vesse .
and, turning his eyes to the shore, they restedn
the low beach of white sand, that lay distinct in ld'
pale starlight, and on the cottages of the has”;
beyond : if he could arrive there, he was safe a
the people were all in his interest. He dream
wounded body slowly along the deck, droppgnd
lently into the water, and being an excellent
mer, struggled hard to gain a footing, but ilpmi‘- ,

, the depth around being greater than he } well

pe-cted. The shore was close at hand; “gazed
he could almost touch it, and he bore “be that
the waves in despair, with his enfeehl of the
bleeding at every pore ; and ﬁxed, his lfavourite
cottages, from which all the lights hadiuccessful

.l.

   

 
.49., ‘

sine VALLEY or The LIZARD. 2

CHAPTER II. -

EN the city of Rio, ’it was not difﬁcult for an ex:
perienced seaman from his native isle, to‘ﬁnd speedy
employment; and as the appearance and manners
of the adventurer were aboVe those of a common
mariner, he soon obtained the command of :1 mar»
chant vessel, being aided by the recommendation of
the captain with whom he had taken his passage.
Many a voyage he made with various success along
the extensive line of the southern coast, and more
than once doubled Cape Horn, the passage so~
much-dreaded of old. The love of enterprise, (the
predominant feeling of his mind,) found abundant. .
matter to feed on in these undertakings. True, it
was not the high excitement of days of yore, from
which he had been reluctantly driven,—-—-the perilous
yet golden adventure,—the nights of watching and
days of revel. Often did he recall the busy and
daring scene displayed upon his own deck, when
he gazed on the supineness and want of energy that,
characterized the people among whom he now;
sailed : yielding to the charms of their beautifui
climate, they gamed'and smoked the hours away, or
drank in the shade great part of the day, without
any conception of the joys that spring from alife oi“
action, from which they recoiled with instinctive
loathing. He resolved,“however, to attach himself
wholly to the path before him, as one into which,
with perseverance and address, gain neither‘tardy
nor inconsiderable was sure to ﬂow: The smali

C

 

 
 

 

«

22 TALES or THE WEST.

property he had saved from the wreck and brought
with him, he laid out in trading adventures. At
one time he sailed up ,the gulf of the Rio de la
Plata, and entered at last the river ‘Parana,that ﬂows
through a vast extent of country of the most various
aspectz—a wilderness, tenanted by herds of wild
animals, or a rich and smiling territory, inhabited to
the water’s edge. As he proceeded inland, the na-
vigation became more tedious, and the wilds spread
farther and more lonely: and often did the outlaw
gaze on the vast river that swept silently and almost
uselessly by, uncovered by a single bark save his
own; the thick woods, too, grew out of the wave,
and even their fruits and foliage drooped into it, as
if a lassitude had fallen on Nature, as well as on
man. At such periods of observation, Rosemaine
longed even to be amidst the tempest, though it
should hear him on a rocky shore.

At the next inhabited place at which he arrived,
he quitted his bark with two of the crew, and a num-
ber of mules and negro attendants, and travelled
inland to the more opulent towns of Paraguay.
This was a career better suited to his taste: the
cottage of the'harmless Indian,-the more reﬁned
but often eqnally humble abode of the Jesuit mis-
sionary, (the pastor of the lonely territory,)—~—or the
hospitable and homely roof of the farmer, that fre-
quently stood, the only asylum in the endless plain,
where he lived with his half wild ﬂocks and servants, t
cutoff from the busy world :—these were alter—
nately Rosemaine’s abodes, amidst many privations,
yet their novelty came in rapid and constant suc-
cession. ' The love of Nature, too, in these wan.
derings amidst her most hushed and glorious aspects,
grew upon his mind,—-—a feeling till then unknown

 
THE VALLEY or run LIZARD. -23
by him. When resting for the night in the depth of
those noble forests, amidst universal silence, while
the last beams of golden light rested on the tops of
the tall trees, no cheerful and accustomed sounds

' told of the fading day, no lingering and varying

hues reconciled the eye by their beauty to its de~
parture. The sun seemed to sink at once on an
immense solitude, that pressed upon the soul, and
whose intricate and untrodden recesses the eye
sought to pierce in vain. R either did evening bring
with its approach voices from the distance that,
while they appal, excite in the traveller a deep and
fearful interest. There was a rush of beautiful
wings and plumage of every hue; but no melody
arose from the peopled branches; and no beasts of
prey moved in their deepening shade. . When the -
tire blazed fiercely and threw its light some way off,
the retreating steps and the shrill and timid cries
were heard of the feeble animals of the forest, the
deer, the tapir, and others, who ﬂed from the glare
of the ﬂame. The heavens, brilliant even at night
in such aiclimate, were unseen through the thick
canopy of the ancient forest, that was scarcely
stirred by the breeze sweeping by. In'such a situa-
tion, the mind is forced to reﬂect in spite of itself;
and while Rosem‘aine gazed on the sleeping ﬁgures.
of his attendants, stretched round the embers, the
past became painfully distinct, and dark were the
colours in which it rose to view. Often when he
had sunk to sleep, reclined on the trunk of a tree,
he was awakened by the fancied rush of the billows, \
the clamours of dying men, and the voice of the
pursuer ; and welcome were the ﬁrst beams of
morning, penetrating the mass of foliage above his
head. As be advanced toward the western frontier

 

 
 

21 TALES or THE WEST.

ofBrazil, the country became better peopled ; and
the base of the Andes, with the many cities situated
near- it, arose at no great distance. The scene
presented amore rich and cultivated aspect, enclosed
lands, more numerous habitations ; and (a sure sign
_ that neither poverty nor famine dwelt in the land,)
a church was seen in almost every hamlet ; the tall
spire, indeed, first announced, across the plain, the
approach to a town, and the streets were ﬁlled with
sleek and complacent-looking priests.

But, in that vast continent, there were pastors in
the wilderness as well as in the city, though at
hermit life was followed by few. One day Rose-
maine and his party, fatigued With a long progress
over a difﬁcult and almost pathless tract, in the
bosom of an'endless forest, suddenly saw several
habitations close at hand, and issued out on a small
yet pretty village, that seemed absolutely shut in on
every side. It was inhabited jointly by Spaniards
and Indians, and the greatest harmony prevailed in
the small community, which was mainly promoted
by the good pastor, whose dwelling stood close to
the white walls of his church, and was thickly sur—
rounded by the guava, the ﬁg, and the mimosa trees,
From him our traveller found a hospitable receps
tion, and an entreaty that he would abide beneath
his roof during his stay: for in this remote place,
the arrival of a stranger from such distant scenes,
was quite an event, and gave a fresh excitement to
its simple inmates. The habitation of the curé was
extremely neat in the interior; the ﬂoors of the
apartments were covered with mats, woven by the
Indians with great skill; and amidst the paintings
of saints and martyrs that adorned the walls, were
a few which indicated a, more masterly hand than

 

 
-amiwa .W~

Van)“

THE VALLEY or THE LIZARD. 25

that of a devotee; whilst, in like manner, among
the missals and books of devotion, appeared several
of a more literary and tasteful cast—these things
had evidently come from another clime. The
pastor himself was neither venerable nor particu-
larly saint-like in his looks ; he was yet young, with
a ruddy and good—natured countenance, Where
fastings had traced no line or furrow, and his con-
versation was cheerful and intelligent, but from his
never having lived out of the country, it was con~
ﬁned to few subjects.

He had one companion, an only sister, who
might be said to be the light and solace of his dwells
ing; although, such were the familiar and friendly:
terms whereinthe good man lived with hisﬂock,
and from which strictness and servility were alike
excluded, that he would have felt no loneliness had

4 his abode been, like that of so many of his brethren,
' ccmpanionless. But Isabel was a lively and amia—
ble being, who knew no attachment save to her
brother. Their parents 5'had;emigrated from Old
Spain, and (lying many yearsago, had left the two.
children almost dependent on the kindness of their
friends, who had provided‘for the brother’s educai
tion in the priesthood ; and he had, after- a course
of years, been appointed to this charge. Here they
had lived a long time in perfect contentment; to
him it was a welcome release from the monastery,
and to her, who had shuddered at the proposal that
had been made her of taking the veil, it was a free
and Joyous existence.

Isabel was not one who would have drawn the
teil over her features in joy that it shut out the
world, or folded it on her breast in token that the
avenues of passion and pleasure were closed for

C 2

 
r , ,,_”'za.v‘ “-2
“Wk”. 9,3“

:16 TALES on THE WEST,

ever. A Spanish woman, and a lovely one, in the
prime of life, could not thus act without a deadly

, combat; and this she was not exposed to. Among
the books brought by her parents to a‘foreign land,
were some tales of chivalry: of passionate love, and
its fearful as well as blissful consequences, and she
had mused on these things with the deepest interest,
so strong» was the contrast they presented to her
own secluded situation. There was little in her ap.
pearance that denoted the power of feeling which
dwelt within ; the sole companion of ,her brother,
the direction of his small. establishment devolved on
her, and she did its honours with a simplicity and
good-will, that gave assurance of welcome to all
who came. ,

But there were moments when the soul ﬂashed.
forth from Isabel’s dark eyes, and dwelt on her e107
quent lips, as she listened to the tidings of other
lands, of their crimes and sorrows, brought by some
rare and passing traveller. Although a Catholic,
she was not so bigoted as her brother, who would
have sent every heretic to torment, without the
benefit of a single mass. Rosemaine could not long,
(look on this woman, so situated, without emotion:
iove is often the very creature of circumstance
Had he met her in a street or mansion of a city, his
spirit was one of the last to be captivated ; but
here—so unexpectedly, and after long and weary
journeying through unfrequented wilds, to be kindly
welcomed to a stranger’s roof, and that by the voice
and look of loveliness, the pirate and the savage must
have yielded, as well as the man of peace or plea-
sure. His pursuits were neglected, and his depar-
ture delayed, as, day after day, thispvillage in the
forest obtained a stronger hold on his feelings. Nor

 
THE VALLEY or THE ermn. 2‘7

could Isabelbe well insensible to the incessant attena
tions of her brother’s guest: she gazed on his manly
ﬁgure and bold bearing, and listened to his ardent
expressions and high-ﬂown compliments that were
little unwelcome to a southern ear. ‘

He then thought he could live years in such a

'spot with this girl, and feel happy; but ere many
moons had passed, it would have become a prison to
his feelings, and he would have cursed its monotony.
Yet that residence, though simple, had its luxuries.
The wines of Chile, of several kinds, found a place
there; some bottles of the Xerés of the mother
country were added by the guest ; and there were
choicest fruits from the garden, while cattle as well
as game ran wild on every side : besides that, the
good priest kept not strict Lent, and the hours often
ﬂed gaily and even jovially away within the walls of
the peaceful parsonage.

Although these‘ substantial enjoyments were
highly welcome in such a precarious course, there
were others that appealed perhaps more irresistibly
to his feelings. He walked in. the forest at sun-rise
with the fair Spaniard, who led him on from one
far and intricate path to another, till the very hea-
vens were lost to the View ;———then, suddenly
emerging from the hopeless thickets, stoo’d upon-
some verdant slope, and pointed where the broad
river rolled in the distance through the silent plain,
and "then plunged into an immense forest, from
which it issued again like a giant, rejoicing in its
course. Behind were the Andes, covered with
their eternal snows, on which no cloud rested, but
the sun ﬂamed from a spotless sky. His guide
spoke With animation and even rapture of the ob-
jects” in view; yet while she gazed on mountain.

 
 

1.:- . . ’ , “~— --»~> - WW..-“ aM"; e

28 runs or THE Wear.

1.” ﬂamt.

and stream, and dwelt on the pleasures of which hr,
every season they had been the source, her fancyr
wandered to other things more seductive. She saw
she had made a conquest of the stranger; and de-
light glowed in her ﬁne countenance, as she put
‘ back her rich dark tresses, which the wind had dis~
ordered, and adjusted with the grace of a Spanish-
maiden the simple black mantilla, so as=to soften the
ﬁerceness of the sun, but not to hide the exquisite
proportions of her form. It was true, she knew
not the past life or character of this man, but he
was a superior being to the simple and rustic people
who composed her brother’s ﬂock, among Whom
she had never dreamt of a lover. Then” his faith
was quite hostile to hers, and she almost started at
her own passiveness ; for she had ever heard her
brother describe heretics as a treacherous and aban-
doned race, from whom no good could possibly
come. But when does an impassioned woman, and
at such an age, think much on the religion of the
lover to whom she has given her affection? After
a few passing doubts and self-reproaches, the sub-
ject was "dismissed altogether from her thoughts.
To Rosemaine, in the ardour of his feelings, this
passion seemed heaven-sent: his mind had for years
heen tossed and unsettled as a stormy sea :——-disap-
pointed, outlawed, he had brooded over fancied
wrongs, and cherished feelings to whosevdesperate
course peace was an utter stranger. Here a scene
opened, where happiness seemed to have taken up
her dwelling-place, and the anxious and harassed
man dwelt on it with that intenseness which minds
accustomed to violent extremes are apt to feel. He
told Isabel with truth that he deeply loved her, and
a few days before he departed, vows of lasting all

 

 
run VALLEY or THE LIZARI). . 29

t'ection were exchanged between them. But Rose»
inaine was not a man to linger away his days,
however delightfully, in the dreams of passion; he
wasproud and aspiring, and he determined ‘not to
unite his fate with hers till he had secured a home
of independence and even of afﬂuence, to receive
her. To effect this, he cared not for fatigues,
dangers, or privations; but would endure them all .
with pleasure, as he had already found his various
expeditions highly proﬁtable. There was another
obstacle of a more serious nature; the invincible
dislike-the'hrother was sure to manifest to his union
with his sister. The pastor was fond of his society;
listened with pleasure to his tales and adventures;
but to have a heretic for his hrother-in-laW,——to see
him fostered in the heart of his family,—he would.
as soon have cherished in his bosom the couleuvre,
the most fatal serpent of the woods. it was resolved,
then, between the lovers, not to mention a syllable
of their plans or hepes at present to the sincere yet
bigoted curé, but to trust to a period when his heart
would perhaps be more’softened. _

It was with many expressions of regret that he
heard of the traveller’s departure ; whom he ens
treated with much earnestness to repeat his visit,
if in his journeyings he should pass again that way,
and to remember that this home in the wilderness
was ever open to him: A few sentences, too, (but
without any deep energy of expression,) were in»
cluded, warning him to beware of the vanities of the
world, and the temptations that were always“ as-
sailing the enfeebled heart; The parting with the
high4souled Isabel was attended with tears and en»
treaties. “Yet a few months,” said her lover, 1‘ and

. they should 'meet again, and then their hope would
be brighter, and their sorrow pass away.”'

 
 

 

Hz

9;

e30 TALES or THE WEST.

The sun had not yet risen when Rosemaine and
his party were advanced on their journey. Though
he felt for the ﬁrst time that he was no longer an
independent and masterless being ; that many a
long-cherished plan was quenched, and many a be-
setting feeling suppressed before the torrent of this
new emotion ;-—-yet its inﬂuence was so sweet and
inspiring—«such a charm did it cast over every
weary step—the mountain snows, or the friendless
wild,——that hisvvery soul clung to it and treasured
it, as her‘ehoicest portion on earth.

Nearly two years passed away ere he saw that'
retreat again, during which interval be bent his
steps to the opulent cities situated on the east of the
Andes: to the city of Mendoza, built on a lofty,
site, and enjoying a mild and even warm climate,
while the mountains on which a perpetual winter
reigns, cast their shadows above ;-—to St. Jago, in
the midst of a hot and weary plain, a mixture of
splendour and meanness, possessing a handsome
cathedral and palaces rising above a mass of low
dwellings, that present rather the appearance of a
Chinese than a Spanish capital. In these and in
many other places, his industry and address turned
his mercantile tours to a lucrative account: and he
passed again by long journeys to La Plate and Rio,
returning with additional quantities of English
goods, which were rare and highly prized at that
time in the interior.

During this interval no call of pleasure or dissiu.
pation, no voice of voluptuousness, where it is so
often heard, lured him for a moment from his on»
ward path; and never on the deck of his lawless
bark, when, borne before the wind, she left behind
every pursuer, did he feel so much pride, as when

 
I

THE mamas: came- Luann. 31

he came, having, well gained a handSo‘me independ—
ence, to claim his bride.
. Alsabel had occasionally though not oftenheard
. from her lover, and never distrusted his tide-
lity; but she was ignorant of the hour of his
coming, and great was her surprise and joy, when
the~cavalcade that accompanied him entered the
village. ‘ His state was , somewhat altered : the
mules were exchanged for handsome horses, and
the bales of merchandise had given place to the
rich robes and tasteful dresses of European lands,
sought with care for: her- acceptance, while a few
well-habited attendants waited emrtheir master,
whose air was rather haughtier and his tone more
decisive ; for who can withstand the subtle and
delicious inﬂuence of wealth? , '

When he clasped his betrothed in his arms, it
was the happiest moment of the outlaw’s life ; bet-
ter, had he known none beyond it, and been spared,
when too late, the keen reproaches of his own
conscience !

The friendly, warm-hearted priest was delighted
to see his ancient guest return, and looked forward
to many a sweethour of converse, with many a
good ﬂask of Xerés or“ Madeira to enhance its
attraction. He was not aware that a more bitter
draught was preparing for him‘;~and great was his
astonishment, and almost horror, when, a few days
afterwards, as his heart was opened in a social mo-
ment, his companion entreated permissionto 63pouse
his sister. The colour ﬂed from the pastor’s ruddy
cheeks, at the same moment that the full and spark-
ling glass of ancient vintage fell from his hand : his
black and curling locks did not turn white, as those
of some heads have done, on fearful occasions; but his:

 
 

 

yum“. \r

32 TALES OFV'THE WEST.

lips moved hurriedly without Speaking, and his eyes
gazed full and sternly on his guest for several mo-
ments. In fact, the conimunicati'on‘took him all
unprepared; he had never entertained a concep—
tion of the possibility of such an event. The die:
honour of his family, in mingling the blood of an
ancient descent with that of a heretic—still more,
the dishonour to religion, the withdrawing his sis-
ter’s soul from the true faith to that which led only
to perdition—the cross trampled on—the saints
outraged; all these ideas presented themselves in
startling succession to his fancy, and he gave a ﬂat
and enraged denial to the proposition. '

The prayers of Rosemaine, and the tears of the
sister, were alike unavailing to move him ; his de-
meanour became sullen and distant; hints were
given to the former, that his visit had been sufﬁ-
ciently long; and some imperfect eitpressions on
one occasion conveyed a prospect of a convent for
the latter, as the best security against evil affec-
tions, and the inﬂuence of the powers or" darkness.
But his guest was not a man to yield to an opposi-
tion such as this, which indeed, he had previously
reckoned on. He resolved to possess Isabel for a
wife, in spite of both secular and spiritual arms;
and he implored her to ﬂy From her native village
as the only step by which their union could possibly
be secured. She trembled at ﬁrst at the idea, then
hesitated, wept at the unkindness of such conduct
to her only brother, and at last consented. In such
a country, where solitudes stretched on every side,
it was a measure easy to be achieved: they quitted
the peaceful abode of the pastor early one morning,
and returned no more. Horses awaited. them at
the distant skirts of the wood, and without dream—

 
{HavszLEf OF THE iIZARD. :53

ing of pursuit, the fugitive conducted his fair com-
panion and her attendant by slow and easy jour~
neys to the coast ; and there, ﬁnding a passage to
the capital of the Brazils, they arrived at his home
after an impatient progress, and were united by the
Catholic as well as'by the Protestant clergyman or“
the piece»

V01. I..—-—D

 

 
 

 

34 TALES on THE wnsr

vCi—IAPT‘ER III.

THE wanderings of Rosemaine were ended : he
more the sport of the waves, or doomed to journey
through weary and distant scenes, the goal he had
painted for was gained, and he might now bid his
spirit take her rest.

His residence was a handsome dwelling at Rio,
provided with more than comforts, for luxuries had
found their] w’fiy there : it was furnished in an ex,
pensive manner; and beside it was a large garden.
Around. the’gentle declivity whereon it stood, the
many hills obvered with woods and mansions» rose
like a splendid amphitheatre. Was it possible to do
enough for tbe‘happiness of his beloved companion ’l
could he haveransacked the stores of the south and
east, he would have strewed them joyfully about
her path. ’7

Bht lsabel needed not these things, and desired
them not ‘: she had brought from her home in the
wilderness the simple tastes to which she had been
habituated ; above all, she thought only of her
husband ; his affection was the shrine in' which her
soul dwelt, and before which splendour and pleasure
offered their incense in vain.

Yet there was no extravagance in this display;
Rosemaine’s active mind would have scorned to sit
down and enjoy tranquilly the fruits of his labours :
he was now a merchant on a larger scale, and the
facilities for gm extensive commerce which his situa-
tion afforded were skilfully turned to advantage;

 
um VALLEY or THE mum). 35

He had become the owner of several ships, of
which he planned the various destinations, and fol-
lowed in fancy their near or distant course, and the
valuable cargoes with which they were to return at
a fortunate moment to the market, with all the
avidity of a successful speculator. The attention to
his affairs necessarily occupied many hours of the
day, and he entered at evening with eager step the
root from which he seemed to have been an exile,
and was met by the form that he loved best on earth
to see, and the voice that banished every care. The '
mind of Rosemaine had never been. cultivated; nor
could literature, in any form, have charms for him ;
but he possessed an acute observation, and a prac-
tised insight into the characters of men ;——strange,
that he had not formed a juster estimate of his own.

Thus ﬂed many months, and even when the ﬁrst
' brilliant scene of love gave place to a calmer
prospect and more passionless hours, resources were
not wanting to bid them pass happily away. He had
travelled long and variously ; had proved the ex-
tremes of many climes; had looked death in the
face in conﬂict, and smiled at his approach in the
tempest. It was often the delight of lsabel to bid
him recount some of the passages of his life, when
the rainy season had set in; when the gloomy skies
without and scanty visits of the sun rendered it un-
pleasant to quit their dwelling, and when even the
blazing ﬁre cast a welcome glare over the luxurious
apartment, as the torrents descended, and the winds
woke loudly at approach of night. And Rosemaine
felt often an intense interest in the retrospect, while
his eye lightened as he dwelt on the path he had
traversed—011 his rise above dependence and per-
secution. Alone and friendless he had struggled

   

 
 

 

.r’i 'i

:36 TALES or THE WEST.

and conquered: these were dangerous recollection-s,
for they brought back on his soul the high and in»
cessant excitements of the past hour; and even in,
the detail—her features bent on his,—Isabel some~
times saw that their impassioned expression was not
meant for her, and that the tear that even fell during
passages of sorrow was caused by emotion wherein
she had no share.

Few wanderings ever gave such exquisite plea.-
Sure in actual experience, as when their detail was
listened to by a fair and beloved auditor: yet often
did the sweet excitement awaken the slumbering’
passion for novelty, and the stiﬂed desire of
tempting anew the wild adventure and the romantic
travel. ' v
To the memory of Isabel, the past offered no
ample stores, so conﬁned and uniform had been her
life ; but a thirst for knowledge and a ﬁne imagina-
tion were given her by nature ; she therefore
ardently availed herself of a tolerable collection of
books got together by chance and industry, and the
novelties gathered here it was her delight to com—
municate, embellished by the simple eloquence na-
tural to her. She knew not then, that the food for
internal enjoyment she Was thus treasuring, was
soon to be her sole resource; and that the mind
often struggles on through the desert of wedded life, .
whenthe Eden of the heart is withered.

Then there was a circle of acquaintances more
numerous than select, whom Rosemaine loved to
see at his well-spread table : it gave an enjoyment
to which his precarious career had at times rendered
him vividlyaiive; and as the glass, the song, and
the tale went round, his spirits were borne away,
and indulgence was sometimes carried to excessi
THE VALLEY or" Tut; LXZARD. 37

fit ﬁrst, these parties had been rare, and the bounds
of temperance were observed ; but of late they had
become more frequent and unrestrained, Often
did Isabel wait long the presence of her husband,
tune her guitar to the wild Spanish air that he loved
best, and count the hours as they rolled slowly
by—till midnight came, and he was still away.
The rains had ceased, and the ﬁne season had
again commenced: the beautiful country around
Rio rose to the eye with renovated freshness and
verdure ; the cassia, the palm, and mimosa trees
waved their lofty summits in the sea breeze that
tempered the sultry heats which already began to
prevail; and ﬂowers of extreme beauty, the passion-
fiower, the silver—leaved plant, and others without
number, revelling in the luxurianee of a tropical
soil, added their perfume to that ol the numerous
time and orange groves. Parties from the city were
often formed by the merchants and their families to
go a few hours‘ distance into the interior, and in
some of the deep and romantic valleys lying between
those wooded hills that rise almost close to the
eapital, enjoy the freshness and purity of the air,
heightened by cheiee wines and refreshments. Isa.
he} loved these exeursiens, for the wildness of the
scenes they afforded, for in such had her childhood
delighted. Often while the rocks echoed to the
jovial sounds of those who sat round the rural repast,
her steps wandered to: the heights, where a thousand
gay and song‘less birds ﬂuttered amidst the deep
silence of the woods; till the rapid approach of night
as arned the party to hasten their return to the city,
This was just. such a life as suited the enterprit
sing merchant; alternate business and pleasure;
the cares of the former repaid by the sure luxuries:
1) e

H

 
 

:58 TALES on THE wnsr.‘ ‘

that its gains afforded, and the busy day frequently
closed in by the revel of the night. And what could
this man went more to complete his happiness ?—-
had not the thirst of affluence been gratiﬁed l—the
love too, that had been long the star of his life—wits
object, impassioned and beautiful, was his own for
ever. Often when he walked at evening on the \
terraced roof of his dwelling, did his heart swell
with pride as he gazed on the scene beneath and
around him; the towering cliffs that circled the
harbour, in whose calm bosom, sheltered from
every wind, were many rich and wooded islands,
lighted by an evening sun ; gay houses and palaces
rose on the right and left, where the streets climbed
the acclivity; and beneath, amidst the ﬂags of
manynations, his eye rested on several ﬁne ships of
his own. Then he thought of his rude and simple
valley, but it touched no cord of attachment or
feeling ; that scene of obscurity and disappointment
was drear and sad compared to the Oriental mag»
riiﬁcence that now surrounded him ; and the sim—
ple village girls, in their wild native charms, what
were they to his Spanish bride'.l

Why then did he cease to gaze on that bride
with the same admiring fondness Cl—Months had
passed away, even years, but they had produced
no change in her beauty, and her love had known
no estrangement. But his had faded—he knew not
why; even his own- heart, had be consulted it,
could assign no cause: yet he met not her dark
and melting eye with any emotion of joy, though
once its every glance spoke to his soul ;——and her
voice had no longer the power to engage: in the
wilderness it had been music, and it still gave its
plaintive tones to the dearest themes—but he heeded

 
 

THE VALLEY or THE uzann. 39

them not. Could love for such a being pall so
soon ?——in a few short years only, and in the sense
of What was due to her devotedness of feeling, and
the memory of all that romance of circumstance
that gave amidst the forest and the Wild such a
charm to passion—had this died also? All had
sunk into that quiescence of feeling, as calm and
cold as the slumber of the grave.

Yet the spirit of Rosemaine had been ardent in
its affections, and impetuously devoted to their ob.
ject ; but he paid the penalty of being too early the
subject of strong and vivid excitements; the native
insubordination of his mind had been fanned by the
desperate emotions of his early career, and his sub-
sequent life, on which novelty in every form had
rolled its perpetual tide, had alike unﬁtted him for
calm and constant enjoyments, however exquisite.
A long course of prosperity, too, had produced its
effects on his ill-regulated disposition: his temper
grew haughty and capricious, and there were in-
dulgences sought after, at which both duty and

honour should have shrunk. , '
r Isabel had long' seen the gradual decay of her
' husband’s affection with anguish ; it was the strong
anchor on which she had reposed all her happiness,
and over the early wreck she wept bitterly Each
art was tried by the lovely and ill-fated woman to
regain the empire she had lost—but it/ might not
he: the dresses and ornaments that used, in his
fancy, to become her most, and which he had pros
fuscly lavished, were worn to attract his eye, and
when he returned at evening, wearied with his
many and perplexing concerns, her features were
dressed in smiles, her voice assumed its sweetest:
accent, and then she spoke of the brilliant hours 0t

 
 

 

~10 - TALES or THE wast.

their first interviews, when he came a wanderer ta"
her native roof, and how affection grew in that
solitude, but the blissful memory fell on her break-
ing heart alane. The colour left her cheek, but
the lustre of her eye was bright as when all within
was happy ; she never suﬂ’ered a murmur to escape
her lips at the neglect that now grew daily more
and more apparent. And at such an age, and in the
full power of her loveliness, when not more than
twenty summers had passed over her ! There were
times when the native haughtiness of her spirit rose
at the injury, and ﬂashed from her wan yet noble
.t'eatnres, and had she loved less—ethe Spanish
woman would have revenged her wrongs.
Rosemaine saw, he could not but see, the effect
of his conduct on his enduring and high-minded
bride, and a self-accusing feeling would sometimes
ﬂit across his mind, as he came and Went from his
shoe happy dwelling. But it was soon forgotten.
in the persuasion that there was no act of flagrant
unkindness on his’ part, nothing to awaken remorse
or sorrow. Is there a greater curse than ﬁckleness
of heart 2-»how rarely is such a cup of human hap-
piness put to the lips, as was now in his grasp, and he
dashed it idly, ceaselessly, away Fortune, as he
had proved r’nay be lost and ainedg again; and so
may fame : but a fair and devoted woman, whose
only ambition is to bless the heart that is beloved
by her—she comes but once in the path of man,»
cheers but once this valley of tears with her pre-
sence-wand when scorned and sacriﬁced, can the
earth cover her wrongs, or its waste places again
tool: bright? Success smiled upon all Rosemaine’s
commercial undertakings, and riches seemed to
come on wings into his grasp ; yet the lot that all

 
 

THE VALLEY OF THE LIZARB. 4%

might have envied was embittered by discontent;
he had no children to inherit the property he was
rapidly amassing, and a parent’s joys he pictured
as exquisite ; they would make him inﬁnitely hap-
pier. But the poisoned arrow was in his heart,
and had this desire been granted, ere 16ng it would
have turned to drink at other fountains. So soon
the pure ones he possessed were to cease to be
poured into his bosom.

Isabel’s spirit fell fast beneath the sorrow that
never quitted it. As long as her declining strength
permitted, she continued to frequent her luxuriant
garden, the care of which had been her favourite
employment. The palm of Brazil was there, and
the orange and myrtle grew in profusion around the
fountain that Fell in several streams into a spacious
marble basin, which looked like a mimic lake; for '
rocks rose out of its wave, and ﬂowers olievery hue
grew w’ildupon its banks. A small and thickly-
shaded terrace ran along the lower end of the gar-
den, and overhung the sea; from hence might be
heard the songs of the mariners and ﬁshermen,
and the mingled sounds that rose from the Wide
bay, while immediately around all was solitude
and silence. And here, as moonlight slept on
the surface of the sheet of water and scarcely
pierced the thick branches of the trees, Isabel
thought of thefar and eddeared paths of her home
in Paraguay—the hours of undoubting affection—n
the vows of eternal constancy, that time had proved
to be as the leaves scattered by the storm.

This could not last: nature yielded to the con-
ﬂict of feeling, and she sank~ unpitied on her dying
bed. The embers of Rosemaine’s attachment were
awakened at such a moment, but too late, too lama

 

 
 

 

w‘, -~Mb-h.,_ ,, :"Irv' i . --

12 TALES OF THE WEST;

guidly, to be of any avail. He could not but leave
his other pursuits, and give her all his society.
While seated day after day by her bed-side, he wit-
nessed the resistless progress of her disorder, and
regarding her still lovely yet faded features, his
heart sank within him ; for she had cast herself on
him as her only friend on earth ;, had ﬂed her own

_ distant home for his arms, and thus had he requited

her. Isabel heard with a faint smile his protesta-
tions of sorrow and reviving regard: they could
not but ele-vate her spirit, for even in this hour it
heat for him passionately as ever, and while her
hand was clasped in his, her looks were turned on
him with a tenderness in which she triumphed, even
while it sunk her to an early grave. He sum~
moned the best medical advice the city could af;
ford, but it was unavailing as his own cares and
attentions ; and he found it harder to bend oveﬁthe
last scene of such a woman, than to meet death in
its wildest forms :—for each look, more lingering
than the last, told a tale to his soul, of desertion,
ingratitude, and abandonment, that might never
pass away. ‘

One night, the last, he stood watching intently,
and in silence, as slowly and treacherously the king
of terrors called his youthful victim away. The
half-shaded lamp shed a partial light on her dying
form;—in one hand shé“ clasped a small cross,
worn from her childhood, and essayed at times to
place it on her heart: it had been her mother’s;
the look that she struggled to raise to heaven, wan—
dered still to the being she had never ceased to love.
She spoke faintly of her brother, whom she had so
nnkindly left, and begged that her heartfelt adieus
might be conveyed to him, and her prayers for his
 

THE mater or THE LIZARD. .45.;

fiergiven‘ess. No expression of sorrow escaped for
her sewn fate :-—she ardently thanked Rosemaine
for the many proofs of his kindness, and as :he
strove to utter the strong compnnction he felt, she
waved her hand gently to repress it, and bade him
think of their early love 3 then, as its memory
rushed in a full tide over her thoughts, her tears
fell fast and helplessly; yet her voice was more
clear, and a brighter lustre was in her eye as she
spoke, for the last time, of her abode in the forests
of Paraguay, the sweet village, the river, the dis“
tant mountains of eternal snow, and the beautiful
solitudes that were so dear to her Where her lover
came, and his preSence was like that of an angel in
her wilderness. Life ebbed away ‘in that retro»
spect :-—-her words faltered, her breathing grew
fainter, and in a few moments ceased for ever!

As the heart-stricken survivor gazed on the
countenance, whereon the last strong expression
yet rested; while a crimson hue still dwelt upon
the lips, and the small lovely hand lay powerless in
his own—it was more than he could bear ;—-—these
were the charms that had once been dear beyond his
soul’s welfare, and the love that animated them had
been his only earthly stay. But now—that beauty
and that spirit had departed for ever ;—he raised
his look to heaven, broke out in a loud and passion“
ate burst of sorrow, andﬁwould have given worlds,
had he possessed them, to 11 re recalled, and made
atonement for, the past ;-—hut it might 'ncit be—Jnis
tears of'hitter anguish fell in lyain.’

‘ Months had passed away since the death of his
wife, and though Rosemaine followed his usual
pursuits with ardeur, he'found his situation greatly
changed. Whatever luxury could 'aﬂ‘or‘d was his:

 
 

 

_..,_:» 1., has...” _

~44 TALES on THE WEST.

own, but there was a desolation in his home to

which he could not reconcile himself. Though

tenderness had expired, and remorse was fast lulled

’ asleep, he could not hide from himself that he had

heartlessly cast from him a being such as the pre-

carious path of the worldwould never give him

again. The pleading look, the animated converse,

the form of loveliness ever at his side, and minis-
tering to his every, desire; yes, though we love no

more, the consciousness of being beloved is still
dear to the most selﬁsh mind. He felt this, and
severely ; wherever he looked, there was now left
neither parent, relative, nor friend, who cared for

his weal or wo._ All sympathy for him was en—
tombed in Isabel’s grave, and even inthe hardness

of his heart he confessed as much, and began to

' feel reckless of the future. Ere long the spirit of
adventure and the love of novelty retook possession .
of his mind : it appeared long since he had felt their

charms; he had been years in Rio, and he resolved
to change the scene. / With his excited feelings,’to

resolve was speedily to execute ; and in spite of the

advice of his many associates, he began to wind up

his mercantile concerns, and to dispose of his pro—

perty. His handsome dwelling and gardens were

sold, his lucrative pursuits abandoned, and with the

same inconstancy of heart, and nearly the same

self-abandonment with wlﬁch he ﬁrst came to Rio,

he quitted it for ever.

His wandering steps traversed many a land: he
went ﬁrst to North America, and visited some of its
most prosperous provinces, and ﬁnest scenes; from
thence he took passage for France, and passed a
few years in that kingdom and in Holland, some-
times giving loose to all the indulgences that money

 
 

THE VALLEY or THE 12.12.5111). 45

could purchase, and again preserving a strict and
regular course of life. The property he had ac-
quired at Rio, though handsome, could not last for
ever, and as he observed it rapidly diminish, and
felt that his youth was past, and the buoyancy of
his spirits broken, he grew wearied at last of per-I
petual wandering, and sighed for a settled abodea
it was not difﬁcult to ﬁnd this, and he resolved to
seek his native land, and return to the vicinity
where he ﬁrst drew his being. It was strange, that '
a spot so obscure, and possessed of so few attracs
tions, should be his choice, but there is no account—
ing for the waywardness of taste. ’

He came to the valley he had left twenty years
before in perfect security, for no one could recog-
nise the outlaw who had ﬂed in secrecy. His bold
and spirited features had a more calm and subdued
expression, though the lines of many toils and
hardships Were on them. The valley was the same
as when he had quitted it, as tranquil and as thinly
inhabited; he gazed on the graves of his parents,
but without much emotion, so long had been the
interval since he had parted from them. After a
while, he purchased with his remaining property,
a farm in the neighbourhood, and pursued for seve-
ral years a course of regular industry. He rose
early, and went himself into the ﬁelds to direct the
labours of his people, in which he often shared, and
returned to a plain and plentiful meal, which he-
might be said to have earned by the sweat” of his
hrow. Finding his borne solitary, he fermed an
attachment to the daughter of a nei bouring fab
mer, several years younger than hi, self, and mar-
ried her. His income was quite sufﬁcient for coms
petence, in a province so cheap as his native one,

VOL. I.—-—E

 
 

~46 TALES on THE west

and was much improved by his own care and applica»
tion; he enjoyed not now the luxuries of Bio, of
his elegant residence and profuse expenditure ; but
his sleep, purchased by fatigue, was unbroken ; his
health acquired a tone and vigour it had not known
for years ; and inconstancy and the love of change
invaded not the unvarying habits and feelings of a
farmer’s life. When he told the tale of his che-
quered course, which, though rather averse to, he
was sometimes prevailed on to do, it might well.
excite wonder to see how. this man could lead a
composed, and even dull life, after the indelible
excitements he had proved. It has been said, that
men of strong feelings and passions, carry them in
their bosoms to the grave : but certainly it was not
thus with Rosemaine,—-the daring outlaw :——the
husband of Isabel, can now talk of the past vivid
moments of his life, as if they had been a dream ;
almost unmoved and untroubled; and can be pleased
with the companion he has chosen, a woman of his
own land, sincere and affectionate it is true, but
Without any attractions; and can nourish her in
his bosom, that has been the resting-place of an
angel. In his rides to the distant market-towns
along the dreary hills, amidst which his dwelling is
situated, and which are often hid by drizzlin‘g rain
and fogs, hismemory might well turn to the splendid
scenes of Brazil, and the rapid gains that made it
to him a golden land ; and amidst which he would
have cast scorn on such a plodding career as his
present one. He has now lived to a good old age,
with a constitution unbroken; has seen his chil-
dren, of whichvhe has several, grown up around
him; and still preserves the same equanimity 0t"
temper. Whether the impetuous feelings that at

 

 
 

THE VALLEY OF THE LIZARD. - 47

tended his early life have died within him, or have
only slept for want of strong occasions to call them
forth, it is difﬁcult to say. When seated by his
own blazing hearth at evening, while the winter
winds blow ﬁerCely around his exposed dwelling,
where there is neither grove nor tree, it is an in-
structive lesson of the waywardness of the human
heart, to hear this once reckless wanderer speak of
the past ;—of the time when he drank, as it were,
the very essence of the most darling passions; and
without a roused spirit or ﬂashing eye, tell of the
beautiful and devoted Spaniard; who, for his love,
left her calm home in the forest, and sank by an
early doom,—-—that in her tomb, beneath the palms
of Rio, sleeps a peerless woman. Then he passes
to other themes ; to his many changes and perils;
and lasty, dwells upon the comforts of his present
ﬁfe, and the calmness of its decline.

 
 

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THE MINER.

QHAPTER I.

,rgA SLnANGER, who for the ﬁrst time savv“ the
30113 and weary wastes of many, it may be said of
most, parts of Cornwall, might imagine he wandered
Offer the dreary territory of Hialtland, or of Patau
gonia, instead of one of the most productive pro-a
times, in respect to its size, of the kingdom of
England. Many a foreigner who has landed from
his distant and far different country at the port of
Falmouth, and traversed the peninsula from west-

to east, has lifted up his eyes in astonishment, and: . .

deemed that the tales told him of the fruitfulnes?

and beauty of “the famed isle" were like those 0 J

{the blest lands in the Arabian Nights, Such ideas

imight well enter the mind, whilepassing over in,

‘Paxgicular the downs that form the approach to the
ancient capital of the county,—a tract that
brownies and elves might choose for their favourite
and unmolested dwelling-place; a dank, dismal
Linaste of ﬁve or six leagues in length,iwithout a hill
,6? elevation to relieve its hopeless -,ﬂatness,——not a
Leottage whose curling Smoke might show there was
life there, nor a spot of cultivation, even of the
gradest' kind. g Fast as the wheels of the mail,

 

7"?" ,w- ,l / ”Wu/x M... ._MFVI'N1 V v’W'N ""‘” ”Fm” "’"V'm

 
,«wlm. w"

 

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y-wwz‘“) . we». 3‘3 9» ' .' ”r, «,,
_ . «as “5“,anf‘w V 4., Nu-‘xM-‘ﬁw V~Wm.v dart-“ﬂ W

52 TALES on THE WEST.

hasting to softer scenes, now move over it, they
move all too slowly: so, at least, has every one felt
who has been whirled across it at whatever speed
for the last half century.

The people, however, are better than their land;

/ for the miners, who form a considerable part of the
population, are an acute, sober, and intelligent race
of men, enduring poverty and distress, when they
come, with the fortitude and passiveness of Stoics,
though the same observation cannot apply to their
days of prosperity:-——and their manner of occupa-a
tion exposes them peculiarly to the two extremes.
In general they dornotre‘eeingulagwagesin em
mines wherein they work; but prefer that their
gains should depend in a great measure on their own‘
sagacity, aided by their good fortune. This system
has all the charm and excitement of speculation,
often remarkably successful, and as often attended
by uncertain returns, even to penury and long and
sickening expectation. '

The various and extensive possessions of the
copper—mines are let, if the expression may be used,
at regular intervals, by auction, to the best bidders;
that is, those who will work them for the lowest
wages per fathom: the old, the new, and the pro-
mising ground of various bearings and hope, that
lies at a greater or less depth, being assigned int
various portions, is thus taken by a certain number
'of men, who receive a share of the produce of the
discoveries they make or carry on. These are
sometimes, and not unfrequently, so valuable, that
wealth pours in upon these men as if they dug at thé .‘
bottom of the mines of Potosi or Peru: from poverty
they become, in a few months comparatively rich,
while others toil on from day to day, still cherishing

 
THE MINER. 7 5‘3

sanguine hopes; which, often their only portion)
fortunately never forsake them.

At the foot of a bill that descended by a long slepe
into a ravine, through which ran a stream, whOse
red and discoloured hue was derived from the metal
that had mingled with it, lived in a poor cottage two
brothers of the name of Gilbert, who supported
themselves by daily labour in an adjoining mine.
Each day and night alternately they had several
miles to traverse to their place of occupation, and
their steps were retraced as duly as the sun-rise or
set bade them ﬁnish their short but severe labour.
Poorly as they now lived and fed, they were the
last of a rather old family that could at least boast
of having possessed for several generations a good
and ancient-looking house, situated beside the same
stream that ran close to the young men’s hovel, and
at no great distance. They had indeed been bred

up delicately: only afew years since they had lived

in that building, indulged in every wishrthatjdleness
and plenty could prompt. ' The father, however,
lived too fast and free for his income; he was a
fox-hunter, and bounds and horses, and the frequent
substantial dinners he gave, with the unlimited
freedom of the bottle, were parts of the expenses
that eat up by degrees his good property. The
greater part of his estates were mortgaged; and
wlien he died, the mansion itself was seized to help to
pay his debts, and the two sons were turned out al~
most friendless on the world. It might well be said
friendless, for of the many who had feasted at their
father’s board, not one took a kind or eﬂ‘eotual in-
terest in their condition, and they saw that they
must either earn their living by the sweat of their
brow, or starve. They were now advancing into

 
 

:34 . TALES or THE WEST.

manhood, and the manager of the large copper,

mine on the distant hill, when addressed by them

in an humble tone for employment, gazed-doubtm
ingly on their delicate features and hands, all unused
to toil. Their handsome clothes, and hats witlfa.
broad band of gold lace, (such was the fashion with
the squires’ sons of the day,) were dotted, and they
were simply and meanly clad. Employment was
instantly assigned them, and with some feeling of ‘
sympathy, the same wages given as to hardier menf
nor was it long ere the brothers learned, though
with difﬁculty, to earn them, They were obliged
to descend during six out of the twenty-four hours
some hundred fathoms deem—at. ﬁrst with a dizzy
head and a trembling heart, clinging to ladders ﬁxed
to the perpendicular sidesof the shaft with one hand,
and Carrying a lighted candle with the other. ~ They
bore the chilling and constant damps and moisture
so far beneath the surface ; wielded the heavy pick-
axe and shovel without ceasing amidst a sometimes
close and stiﬂing air; where a few small‘lights only
relieved the grave-like darkness of the place.

They succeeded, however, and a few months had
scarcely passed, ere it was difﬁcult to discover, in
the bronzed features, hardy looks, and active limbs
of the lanourers, the two young and luxurious de-
scendants of one of the chief families in the parish.
It was not all hardness and suffering; they tasted,
for the ﬁrst time, perhaps, in their lives, the sweet-
ness of a meal purchased by ‘their own-exertions,
and the delicious ﬂavour that keen hunger gives to
the plain repast.’ The cellar of their father’s house, ‘
well stocked with wines, they might not enter again,
nor sit down at his rich‘and well-spread table: but
their gains were now sufﬁcient to enable them to ,
 

‘THE‘MINER. , 5.5

provide occasibnally a good substantial repast,
cheered with the best ale the neighbourhood af-
forded; and when the Sabbath came, this was
always the case. It was in truth a day of rest to
the two unfortunatemen; and they enjoyed it ex-
, quisitely. They set out in the morning along a
pleasant path that led to Gwinear church, whose
gray tower, on the hill, might be seen at a consider:
able distance around :—-in the church-yard they
met a few of their acquaintances, for fewthey were ‘
who now took notice of them, save those of a lower
degree! The magnates of the land, who had hunted
with their father, and drunk his wine, passed them
with a cold nod, or perhaps stopped a moment to
inquire into their prospects, and commend their in-
_ dustry; but there were some, who had tasted, as _
dependants, of the fatness of, their home, who re-
membered them in the day of their distress, and
that with a grateful“ and even respectful feeling,
After the service was over, they returned to their
dwelling, and sat down to their plentiful hoard, with
a comforted and elated spirit; ‘
We are creatures of habit, whether of good or
ill, of sorrow or of joy; and in two or three years
their condition sat almost as easily on the two young
men, as if they had never knowna better one,
Often, indeed, at ﬁrst, had they need to cast a wist—
ful eye toward the ancient building, which they had
always regarded as their own: it was full in view
from their cottage, and the lame trees, that had
sheltered the front, having been thely cut down by
the creditors for sale, the well-kmown walls were
thrown bleakly open: then they sat and talked sadly
of former days and pleasures, when care was a
_ stranger, and on passing sometimes beside the place,

 

 

 
 

» 56 uses or THE WEST.

in the way to their daily toil, they stopped, as if by
a mutual impulse, cast on-it a long and melancholy
look, and saw that—the rank weeds Werspread the
garden, that the pond was ﬁlled up, “and that the
spaciousdwelling was let in small portions, to, low
tenants, whose noisy and squalid families made a
common area of the whole. But now their feelings
were more hardily, as well as coarsely strung; the
sentiments and thoughts of humble life had become
habitual; there were, it is true, gleams of memory
at times, but‘these seldom interrupted their comfortsi
The spot near which they resided presented in
itself a singular spectacle, from which a man who
had tasted the hitters of adversity might have drawn
_ a useful lesson. The long slope of the hill from the
summit to the bottom, (a space of more than a mile,)
was thickly covered with the remains of a very rich
and ﬂourishing copper-mine. Almost as far as the
memory of the oldest native could stretch, it had
been a scene of numerous and joyous population;
and the veins and lodes' of the costly mineral had
long seemed exhaustless. The hopes, the pros-
perity, and the despair of a whole generation had
been centred in the spot,——not of the lower ranks
only, for what mind is not infected with the thirst of
speculation and rapid gain? Within the last few
years, however, all this had ceased, and the place
was utterly, deserted.“ ‘il‘he many tall structures
which had .‘enclosed the ﬁre or steam-engines, and
were built at an immense expense, rose at intervals
on the slepevof the hill, like the ruined towers of
some feudal cl reftain; the grass waving rank on
their rooﬂess walls, and the wind sweeping hollow
through their large empty chambers.

 
' s; unnsigrnan. 57

Conspicuous on the most elevated spot, was the
mansion; of ﬁne stone, erected for the management
0“ the extensive and exeiting scene, and for-the

ameekly and monthly dinners shared by tile sanguine
“adventurers, where the glass circulated freely; and;

‘ the welcome punch-bowl was often drained, till Elsi
Dorado itself came all glorious before them, and
heaps of silver, waiting but the furnace, and counts
less piles of rich metals glittered before their eyes.
It was shut up and forsaken now : the round kind
face of the cook, installed in the situation for nearly
half her mortal term, that the hungry and jovial~
eye no more. No one regretted the sad change
more than she; she had lived in the mine, had heard
her culinary skill praised and admired by all, and
had seen many an aspect that came at ﬁrst smiling
and sanguine to the successive dinners, grow gloomy
and desperate as time rolled on, and instead of a,
sudden fortune, ruin came, like a spectre, with rapid
strides.

Hundreds on hundreds passed from the scene,
that had been the means of ample support to them
and their families, Where every one, from infancy to
manhood, could gain a livelihood. It was like, on
a larger scale, the going forth of the “wanderers
from the deserted village,” though not to so distant
a destination. The mandate had gone forth, how-u
ever, that the Wide source of labour and enterprise
was to be abandoned ; and the cottages poured out
their dejected groups to other and remoter spots ;
uncertain to ﬁnd there the same warm hearth, well—
tilled garden of vegetables, and the same course of

. prosperous industry. In a few weeks the place
thus became a wilderness, where not a voice echoed,
or a foot-fall was heard. To the stranger’s eye it,

VOL. I.-——F

 
 

58 TALES OF THE WEST»

now seems to resemble the ruins and the desolation
of some Eastern city, especially when the moonlight
is on the fantastic shapes that cover the face of the
hill. Vast piles of the ore, some of them still sutii~
ciently valuable, covered with a rank verdure, rise
on every side, like the mounds or tumuli that mark
where an ediﬁce has sunk, or a warrior has fallen
The many Cottages that stand beside, or at a short
distance, are doorless and windowless; and the
streams of water that formed the copious reservoirs,
brawl harshly amidst the decay—the only sound in
the once noisy and tumultuous arena.

Often, when the brothers passed this way, though
their habits of life had little to do with feelings of
sensibility, they could not help being. struck with
the melancholy view; for they had known it in their
happier days, when its fame was high, and its wealth
abounding. An old miner would sometimes pass,
shake his head, and observe, it was a lonesome place
to what it used to be ; or a chance traveller would
occupy himself curiously in selecting some mineral
Specimen from the heaps of many hues that were
strewed thickly on the soil ; or would seat himself
and gaze with surprise on the vast wreck that was
spread before him, where many a golden hope, and
actual fortune lay buried.

It happened, that, after a few years success began
to smile steadily on the Gilberts; 'they had taken
what is called a fortunate pitch, and in the course
of working it, had discovered a small though valua~
ble vein of copper. It lasted for several months,
and their gains grew high. “7 hen the day of pay-
ment came every month, the sums they received
were such as would have spread joy over any coun-
tenance: and they had felt so keenly the hard

 
 

‘ THE MINER. , 59

reverse of condition, from afﬂuence to poverty, that
they were now intoxicated with pleasure. This
burst of prosperity produced no change, however,
in their habits of life, save that their board was better
spread, and an occasional guest seated there; the
friendless state in which they had been lett had made
them strongly attached to each other: they la-

houred together, taking always the same spot of

ground; they associated little with their fellow
miners, and had never been a day apart since they
had entered their present abode. They had re-
solved never to marry, let fortune smile asyshe
might,but the vow was made in the day of adversity.

An event happened soon after the instance of

good fortune above recorded, that broke entirely
these plans of life, and showed how closely sorrow
often follows on the footsteps of success.

One night the brothers were busy at their work
at the bottom of the mine, where the ground they
had taken- lay at a depth of more than a hundred

fathoms. They were talking with great glee of

their prospects; and that if the present run of luck.
should last for a year longer, hoped to be able to
purchase back again the old family dwelling, dila-
pidated as it was, and live there once more.

The elder brother was obliged to go above
ground, to ask advice of one of the captains, re-
' specting some new appearance in the lode, and
said he should return again shortly. With his small
candle, he mounted quickly by the ladders, a
perilous ascent to a stranger’s foot, and the staves
too are sometimes rotten and frail. He had de-
iivered the message he wished, and had descended
some distance on his return, when part of the earth,
as sometimes happens, at the edge of the shaft

 

 
 

 

 

60 TALES or IKE WEST,

loosened, and a large stone falling, struck the un‘
fortunate miner from his ladder. He plunged in-
stantly to the bottom. The-other, hearing the rush
and fall of a heavy substance, ran to the spot, and
by his glimmering light beheld the mangled form
and features of his brother. He had been dashed
to pieces by the shock ! and the younger’Gilbert,
kneeling beside him, ﬁlled the place with his cries,
Whichno one heard, for they had been quite alone,
and in a remote part of the mine. His ﬁrst impulse
was to ascend, and attempt to carry? the body to
the surface ; but seeing that all aid was now a
mockery, he lifted, and bore it to the spot he had
just left, and there sat down beside it. The perished
man was his only friend and relative: the single
companion of his life through distress and prOSperi-
ty; they had borne contempt and neglect—had
mourned and hoped, together; and he called on
his brother’s name in wild and earnest accents, and
iooked, and looked again, on his broken form and
lifeless features. There was something fearful and
horrible in the silence that was around, and in the
echoes of the arched caverns and hollow avenues
that returned his brother’s name on his ear. The
candles that still burned there, (his companion’s
had been extinguished in the fall,) rendered dimly
visible the damp sides and roof of the place. With
the superstition of his prevince, he placed one light
at the head, and another at the feet of the body,
and this arrangement rendered the scene still more
ghastly. Gilbert sat a little apart, nearly shrouded
in the darkness, and gazed (he could not withdraw
his gaze,) from the form on which the sickly light
fell. With all his tenderness for the object, he felt
in every nerve the fearfulness of regarding sudden

 
 

 

1,”ka ‘ .., ”1'5 1 "

THE MINER. 6’1

and violent death: the features were miserabl

laéerated, the mouth open,‘and the frame so bowed,
that'the head was almost beaten into the breast,
and the blood oozed slowly from every pore, more
cruel to look at, than if lite had issued swiftly in a
lull tide. The cold damps of fear gathered on the
survivor’ s bro ow, and coursed 1n large drops down
his face: he placed his hands belore his eyes, but
the! light came 1hrough the screen, and 111 that light
was his biother’ s corpse, so distinct to the excited
fancy that reality could have done 11:1 more. rle
rose and went farther into the gloom ot the excava-
1ions they had made , but it was impossible, in so
contracted a space, to prevent his glance wander
ing at times to the fatal object, and then he. fancied
straneelv, as the corrents or” air made the ﬂame
lie r to and fro, that he :111' his brother beckon

him to com e, an d that th 1 head raised itself from

 

the chest 011 which the blow had howea‘ 1 it, and the

ghastly and disﬁgured face was turned on him
Then he wildly drew near again, and found that
the Si cap or death was last 011 Chis victim.

'11 he hours rolled drearily away toward morning;
and each one seemed prolonged beyond endurance.
At his feet in}? the piles of rich black ore which
their loint hands had just exultingly broken: he
r1egirded them with 11111111111" rice—wibr the world,
amidst his griel, seemcdlil he a d :sert to him. The
time came at last, when, at the cm of the allotted
six hours, two other miners descended to take their
turn at the same labour, and relieved Gilbert from
his cruel situation. These bore the remains to'the
open air. The young man went'to his distant
home with far different feelings from those where»
with he ,eh (1 left it the preceding evening. lolitude

ll 11

 

 
 

......

 

6:2 TALES or ma wear.

and desertion are hard to hear at every period of
life, and still more so when they come without
warning or expectation. lf Quarles wept over the.
death of his poor and faithful attendant, and Fer-
nandez felt forsaken when the mute inmate of his
bower was missing in the woods, the loss of that
being who had been the miner’s constant associate
and friend might well cause the survivor to murmur
at his lot. There was no voice but his own in the
dwelling; the well-known footstep was gone ; and
during the nights, (and they were long and dreary,)
sleep was a stranger to his eyes.

Gilbert followed the remains of his brother to
the distant church-yard; he was buried beside the
father, though in an humbler grave ; his survivors
and relatives had given the latter a handsome tomb,
out of pride perhaps, but the poor miner slept ob-
scurely, mourned by a scanty yet sincere retinue.
There is little of what occasions burial-places to he
sometimes called “ beautiful” or “imposing,” in
that of Gwinear, yet its whole character is both
pleasing and impressive; the yew and the cypress
do not tower mournt'ully there, nor rows of ancient
oaks ﬂing their shadow owr the solemn resting-
places beneath, but it is ancient, and surrounded
with a venerable wall; and well and variously is
the area within peopled, from the tombs of the
poor, (overgrown with a Wild verdure,) to those of
the heads of the chief families of the parish, for a
term of between one and two centuries, and rare
are some of the antique inscriptions.

The church itself, in the interior, possesses ex-
treme neatuess and venerableness united, and used
to be remarked for its good choir of singers, and
the sweetness of its psalmody ; for it was a point of
 

ma MINER. 63

ambition with the young men in the parish, who
had good voices, or could play on any instrument,
to‘ muster their forces here each Sabbath morning.

CHAPTER II.

FROM that time Gilbert’s place of residence began
to grow distasteful: he strove hard to keep up his
spirits, and laboured with greater ardour than ever ;,
nothing, however, came with the same zest as be-

fore, and he said that he had felt less keenly when ,

turned from his father’s door, on a cold and friend~
less world, than now—He sat down to the soli- »
tary meal that he had dressed, and found that his
appetite forsnok him, when his eye rested on the
vacant chair opposite, Where his companion had
always sat; and, above all, when the Sunday came,
he knew not what to do to pass the leisure time
away. They had frequently read the Bible toge-
gether in the hours that were unemployed, (and
they were many,) and he now took‘i‘t up to seek
;eonsolation there ; but his thoughts {wandered in-
sensibly; and he sat for hours at times in the small
window-seat, with the open volume inhis hand, his
look bent upon the stream, and the decayed man-
sion, on its banks, and one reverie after another ,,
coursing through his thoughts“ .g

It was an advantage that, ere their sorrows ori-
, ginally came upon them, the young Gilberts had
hath received a better education than their after

 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

   

G4 TALES or THE tvnsr,

   

path of life could have admitted, and the dwelling
possessed a few books which had beguiled many a
heavy moment. But the night was the worst to the
survivor: his imagination, as well as feelings, had
received a dreadful shock ; and in his dreams, the
miserable scene was constantly repeated. He heard
the rush and the fall, and bent again distractedly
over his unhappy brother ; but it seemed that the
earth closed over them, and the living and the dead
were there, in that dim and hopeless tomb, hun-
dreds of fathoms deep, whence his cry could reach
1in human ear—41:» human hand could extricate
him. The visionary night and day passed on :——=
he regarded them little ;—-the dim li:;jl1ts‘11e\’c1’ went
out; and the oody, freshly slain. was ever before
him, and knew no corruption. Then he would
wake in agony, yet in rapture to ﬁnd that the eter~
nal prison was burst ; but sleeping again the vision
was changed. He seemed. in the act of breaking
the damp and rich mould, when. a large portion
rolled down, of stones and earth, and enclosed him
helplessly. At the same moment his brother fell,
quite near him ; and fatally wounded, yet stillalive, ‘
he stretched out his hands to Gilbert, and called
faintly on his name. The latter struggled and
writhed in every limb to free himself from the heavy
earth, but he could not—and as he madly thrust‘it
from him, it was no comfort that it was changed
into the most precious substances ; silver and gold,
~— he pure metal from the ore,m—~glittered in his
eye, and pressed on his limbs-«he loathed them,
and Springing convulsively forward, his brother’s
death-cry was in his ear‘as he awoke.

He was obliged to pursue his labour in the same
spot; it was too productive to be forsaken for anon

  
rm: MINER. . ‘ 65

ther, and its returns continued to be very valuable;
it was necessary, indeed, they should be , so, to
c mpensate for the annoyances, imaginary, (in
pa :‘t, it is true,) that pursued him.

The miners have their full share of the supersti-
tious feelings of the country, and often bear with
alarm the noises, as it were, of other miners at work
deep under ground, and at no great distance. The
rt ‘ling of the barrows, the sound of the pick-axes,
am. the fall of the earth and stones, are distinctly
heard through the night,—often, no doubt, the echo
of their owu labours; but sometimes continued
long after that labour has ceased, and occasionally,
voices seem to be mingled with them. Gilbert be-
lieved that he was peculiarly exposed to these vi-
sitations; he had an instinctive shrinking from the
place where the accident had happened, and when
left alone there, it was in vain that he plied his toil
withvdesperate energy to divert his thoughts. Anow
tber person appeared to work very near him : he

' stayed his lifted pick, and listened—the blow of the
other fell distinctly, and the rich are followed it in
aloud rolling: he checked the loaded barrow that
he was wheeling; still that of the unknown work-
man went on,and came nearer and nearer, and then
there followed a long faint cry, that thrilled through
every nerve of the lonely man, for it seemed like the
voice of his brother. These sounds all ceased on a
sudden; and those which his own toil caused were
the only ones heard; till, after an interval, without
any warning, they began again, attimes more near,
and again passing away to a distance, and the de~
scent of his fellow workmen at last down the shaft
was a welcome relief.

Time by degrees made him more reconciled tn

 

 
 

c.)- “aw.“a‘an

tie TALES or THE WES'L

these things; and the supernatural sounds grew
iess harassing, though theyi never entirely were
away. After some interval, in prosecuting the
course of the lode, that had very much fallen oﬁ.‘
both in size'and value, the workmen made a sin-
gular discovery: in driving a level in an opposite
direction, they were astonished to ﬁnd that the earth
fell hollow on the other side, instead of that where
they were excavating. The spot was quickly en-‘
larged, and passing through it, they found them-
selves amidst the lofty and extensive remains of an
ancient and abandoned mine. The most singular
Circumstance was, the depth at which these were
found below the surface. They displayed not only
the ruin of great and skilful labour, but in many
places the entire parts; for much of the work, so
iong kept from external air, was in good preserva-
tion. To aminer’s eye this discovery was like the
wanderer in‘the Laureate’s poem coming to the city
beneath the wave, whose palaces and towers, though
discoloured and seaobeaten, were still ﬁrm and
beautiful. ‘ ,
It must have been the work'of more than a cen-
tury before; since, on inquiry, nothing more than .
a tradition appeared, that there had been a large
and ﬂourishing mine there in former days. .The
vast and well-arranged works were supported and
strengthened by lofty and massive beams of wood,
still ﬁrm and undecayed gwthe‘long, various, and
high excavations, in certain parts, resembled arched
caverns ; while in others the foot passed on to some
distance, and its free, hollow tread showed that, far
and near, the earth had been visited by thedaring
and curious research of their forefathers. The
lights of the many visiters (for the unusual scene

 

 

 
run MINER. t5?

excited much curiosity) fell faintly on the gloomy
walls and roofs that had been closed for an age,
and had once been the source of deep speculation,
and perhaps of great wealth. It proved that the
passion of the former day for mining had been as
determined, and in some measure carried to as great
an extent, as that of the present; for the expense,
as well as perseverance lavished here, must have
been extreme. In a few directions the water that
had gushed from some ancient and riﬂed lode had
overﬂowed and formed large pools, in contrast to the
general dryness of the other parts. In one spot,
particularly, the stream still continued to pour from
some height, and fell on the ﬂoor beneath with a
distinct and ceaseless sound; and at such an im»
mense depth, and amidst such gloom, this resem-
blance to a fountain’s fall in upper air, and in the
sun, was singular and striking. There was one
object found here, however, that was tar more so;
it was the scarcely tangible remains of an unfortm
nate miner, who had perished on the spot : his hair
was nearly entire, and some remnant of his clothes,
that were attached to a small portion of the shale"
ton. He might have been surprised by the sudden
irruption of a torrent, as is not usually the case,
ere he could escape, or have been crushed by the»
descent of some detached mass, and meta more
sudden fate.

The tide of prosperity still continued to ﬂow on
our miner’s path: and at the end of a few years he had
quitted his distant dwelling, and taken a more cem.
fortable and better provided one nearer to the
scene of his labours. His habits insensibly became
less lonely; guests and acquaintances not unfre~
quently came beneath his roof, and it was in his

 
 

68 TALES on THE wasr‘

power to entertain them well. He scarcely knew
how this happened, for he sought society almost as
little as during his brother’s life; but the keen eye
of others saw that he was a prospering man,—one
whom, to use their expression, a run of good luck
had set in on, ' and was ,not likely to forsake.
Whether it be really chance, or the effect of their
own desponding fancies of, predestination, there are
certainly in this numerous body of men many indi-
viduals, who, as keen in their judgment and un-
wearied in thrir exertions as their neighbours, seem
doomed to suffer a continual tide of ill fortune.
Let them take the most promising or kindly portion
of ground, which other candidates have bid high
for, they discover nothing; ﬁnd merely a small
sprinkling of me, just enough to keep appetite
alive, and mock their labours. They are unlucky
beings, with whom it is well not to join; for the
Water, perhaps, rushes in, and in an instant destroys
the toil of many months ;. a bunch of ore comes in
their way, rich to excess, and beautiful to the eye;
did it last but a few weeks, money would be poured
into their grasp ; but it is limited to days or hours,
and they see it end with a bitter feeling, like an
oasis in the desert, while the same dull, barren,
thankless tract opens beyond. They then throw it
up, in disgust—others come to the same spot, and
soon dig into a valuable vein. These are cer-
tainly born under a fortunate star: take What pitch
they will it hardly ever turns. out “ barren or
nought;” their very presence seems to ensure some-
thing good being struck out.

Gilbert was universally regarded as one of these
fortunate beings; and, in truth, he began to con-
sider himself so, and to believe that the adverse fate

1k

 

 
 

ran MINER. 69

that had so long haunted his steps, was about to
ﬂit from him, and disappear for ever. He now hired
a domestic, and his small garden beside the dwelling
was kept neat and stocked with choice vegetables,
and even ﬂowers. His dress underwent a visible
change; the Sunday’s garb was of the choicest
kind ; and whether or not it was from this addition,
his looks were materially improved, and his air that
of a man‘who was getting the better of the world,
and felt that he was doing ‘so.

With the money he had gained, he began to ad—
venture by- little and little in one or two mines;
fast and strong the thirst of speculation grew on his
mind. He had sometime since. laid aside manual
labour, and was advanced to be a captain in the»
mine, a situation for which his experience well
qualiﬁed him. He did not quit his second dwell-
ing: he remembered, in his father’s case, the folly
of attempting too rashly to build on prosperity : his
foresight that had thus fan-not been deceived, saw
before him a long path of the latter; but which
constant care and penetration, to seize as well as
anticipate each lucky chance and prospect, could
alone ensure. _

Years passed away, and a material alteration had
taken place in Gilbert’s condition. With many an
up and down of Fortune, many a frown and smile,
the general course of his adventures had been pros»
perous, at least one of them had always been good
enough to overpay the losses of another. A tho:
rough adventurer, he still possessed so much cau-
tion and shrewdness, that Where, on more than one
occasion, others had sunk to rise no more, he still
kept his head above the tide, and came to shore
well and heavily laden,

VOL. I.——G ,/

 
 

7O TALES on THE wast;

He had now resigned his situation of manager ;
for he did not need the salary attached to it, and
preferred to be independent. Every thing indeed
had changed with him; habits, views, society, all
but the favourite pursuit that engrossed his thoughts
both sleeping and waking; it had given him ano-
ther and a better destiny, and he could not but love
it. When he sat at table at the counting-house
with men, who a few years before had never heed.»
ed or noticed the obscure miner, but now regarded
him as their equal, and looked with a pleased eye
at the good cheer that loaded the board, and the
full punch-bow], composed by an experienced hand,
he could not help thinking that fate had dealt kindly
and fairly with him. Feelings and manners long
forgotten, of his ﬁrst life, came back on him now,
and enabled him to play his part in some measure
as a man to whom afﬂuence had been familiar”
Qualities and even graces were discovered in him
also, which certainly were not revealed till they
were seen through that best of all reﬂectors, a
golden mirror.

‘Men of property thought him a lively and agree“
able companion, and they proved their belief by
often entreating his company at their tables, as welt
as by appearing at his own. The eye of the fair,
too, if not the heart, told their opinion of the pros--
. perous Mr. Gilbert, “the only descendant of an
ancient family ;” and as there was many a distin-
guished but portionless spinster in the parish, it was
deemed strange and unaccountable that he persisted
in living aione.

The man had, however, after all, no particular
attractions thatcould win hearts, or unite voices in
his praise ; his manners were simple, and his mind
had ‘no feeling of hautenr. He had learned to

   

 

 
THE MINER. 71

know the world ; it had been to him in distress as
a broken read, and he did not embark his faith or
happiness now in its ﬂattering breezes, He had
one master passion, that when it was felt, (and rare
was the hour when it was notfelt,) gave inﬁnite ani-
mation to his discourse, and even eloquence to his
tongue : when the subject Of mining was started,
how his eyes sparkled! his countenance beamed
with intelligence, and his opinions were listened to
with deep attention; his excellent experience and
tong success being well known. Columbus never
felt more ardour and enthusiasm in the Western
Ocean, or Park in the wilds of Africa, than Gilbert
did when dwelling on the mysteries, the chances,
the exciting uncertainties of mining. His mannér
is before me now, by hearsay, for his day is past.
The cloth was removed; the glasses and decan—
ters already freely in motion; there was a good
ﬁre, for it was a winter’s day; a large bow-window
was at each end of the apartment, partly for the
convenience of seeing more distinctly over the wide
area of the great copper-mine, in the midst of
which the house stood. Not a tree, not a shrub,
or blade of grass, met the eye ; the deserts of Ara-
bia were not more unsightly. The clamour of
tongues was almost‘unceasing on the excellence of
one adventure, but lately commenced, whose praises
reached to the sky : a deep full voice is heard on
the opposite side landing the merits of one mine that
has succeeded for half a century, so deep and yet
_ so lasting, that shares rise higher every month.
The tone of others is more variable and anxious, for ~
each has smarted more or less. There is the trium-
phant laugh, the envious look, and the forced smile,
when the prospects and merits of a new, extensive,
and united concern are brought on the carpet. Not

 
 

 

72 TALES on THE WEST,

only from London, and from the shores of the Brism
tol channel, buteven from the borders of Scotiand,
had adventurers risen, anxious and. eager to embark
in the splendid speculation ; all cell on Gilbert for
his opinion, and every voice is hushed. The con-
cocter of the magniﬁt ent bowl of punch has just,
ﬁlled his glass to the brim—in vain! it touches not
his lips; he had listened in silence to the various and
conﬂicting opinions on the subject, till his soul
warmed within him, his fancy kindled, and he felt
—not like the war-horse that rushes to the conﬂict
—but like the master pilot, who marks the shoals
and hazards of the course, and smiles amidst the
doubts and fears around him. He looks round on
each expecting face with the calm, clear gaze where- ’
with he used to regard some newly discovered vein
by the glimmering taper, and leaning his left arm
on the table, while the energetic action of his right
aided his descriptions and explanations, he entered
on a survey of the intended speculation, so just and
yet so acceptable, inclining to the brilliant side. of
hope, and handling the stern difﬁculties witha ve-
teran’ s hand, that each ete grew brighter as he
went on, and each wavering resolve was conﬁrm-
ed , and when he had ﬁnished, the clash of tongues
was as the strife of waters.

The last great event came, in the miner’s life,
one for which he had long patiently yet anxiously
waited: he purchased again the ancient dwelling
of his family. It was true, the heyday of life was
past when he was enabled to do this, and youth and ,
middle age had begun to decline into the vale of
- years. He had delayed this step till his wealth had
gathered fast and ceaseless as the April showers of
his own province; and then he left the plain habita—
tion in which he had resided, and went, with feels

   

 

 
wt)
1

THE MINER.

:ng-s the most agreeable perhaps he had ever known,
to take possession of his purchase. The low’and
poor tenants that had for years inhabited its many
apartments, had all been ejected, or prevailed on
to quit; the garden was in a measure restored from
its forlorn and neglected appearance, and the pond
cleansed and ﬁlled anew: it was impossible to re-
store the old oaks that had thrown their shadow
over the front, and kept of? many an eastern blast
—they had been felled, but the walls were repair
ed and beautiﬁed, and the ancient, gloomy apart-
ments again assumed their wanted aspect.

Is there anything so delightful as to rear again
the forsaken home of one’s fathers? to stand be“
neath the roof and beside the hearth from which

re have been driven as outcasts, and say, “I am
lord of the domain, to build, and to plant, and no
stranger shall linhabit nere "P So thought the pre-
sent possessor, as he looked around with a gratiﬁed
heart and an exulting eye. The samered stream
still ran before the gate; the same spectacle of ru- ,
ined speculations still rose on the side of the oppo—
site hill ; and about a mile down the ravine was the
cottage, untenanted,‘ where the brothers had taken
refuge when expelled from their" own home. He.
had bought it, and would never allow anoth’er‘te
'nantto live there. The loneliness of the mansion
.seembd to have passed away, as that of its present-
master; the gate that hung so long half-broken and
unclosed, was now besieged ,with frequent guests of
vari ons descriptions. There were cousins of as
many and remote degrees as ever claimed kin to
the Llewellyn 01 the Douglas blood. The wealthy
of the land also came, and among them some who
had been dark comfotters in the hour of his destlw

G 0 ‘

 

 
 

a»)

‘74- TALES or THE WEST,

tution ;——-their memories now suddenly revived of
the virtues of: the father, which, however, it was
agreed, lost greatly by the contrast with the good
qualities and talents of the son. It was not the
least pleasant circumstance to Gilbert’s feelings,
that all, now that he owned the family home, .gave
him the appellation of Squire : he smiled at his own
weakness ; but there was‘something to his ear irre-
sistibly melodious in the sound; there was some
thing, hereditary in it : it had been enjoyed by each
of his ancestors : it was like “ the Laird” to a High-
land, and “ the Jarl” to a Norwegian car. When
he saw a goodly number of guests once more in the
old dining-room, among Whom his voice found ready
attention, it was his delight at times to tell over
the reverses and chances of his past life : how hard
he laboured, and how hopeless were his prospects :
and the event of his unhappy relative’s death, which
he never mentioned without strong emotion. The
ﬁrst Sabbath morning after he had been established
in his new residence, he passed along the same
pleasant path they had formerly trodden together:
he entered the church, where one of the best pews
awaited him, and gazed up at the small gallery
where the choir of singers stood, in whose ranks he
had been glad to mingle. The clergyman was the
same, but now stricken in years and with a head
white as snow, whose discourse had then often given
them comfort—Gilbert was strongly affected; and
when the congregation had departed, he went to
his brother’s humble grave, bent long and sadly over
it, and felt how clondless would have been the day,
how pure his joy, could the only and affectionate
companion of his adversity have lived to share it, to
drink out of the same cup, and like himself sit ho«
«toured in their father’s hall.

, m, ,,: ,1; ‘ -a . KN. raw,» . ,. ., ww. ‘ . i a J?“

 

 
 

T HE- EXILE.

 
THE EXILE.

CHAPTER I.

No'r very distant from the extreme point of the
most western province of the kingdom, is situated
a very ancient village, of no account, save for-the
beauty of its situation and its climate. Itsrwhit'e
cottages are spread along the shore in a circular
sweep, and their walls are almost washed by the
tide. \

At the distance of a short walk, and at the sum-
mit of the hill behind, the tower of the ancient
parish church rises ﬁnely to the View. When the
Spaniards landed here in the reign of Elizabeth,
and ﬁred the small town on the shore below, with
one or two others, they attempted to burnthis
church ; and the ancient porch, partly consumed,
yet offers its scorched remains to the eye, uncle--
cayed by time, having been screened long ago by a
new portico, the framers whereof had too much of
the love of antiquity in them, to destroy what was
left of its predecessor. The interior of the ediﬁce
is remarkable for its neatness and beauty, even in a
county, the parish churches of which excel in ap-
pearance those of most other provinces. And here
are the arms and coat of mail that belonged to a
ehief of the Godolphin family, who fought bravely

 

 
 

 

78 TALES OF THE WEST.

in the wars of the Revolution. Holinshed says,
that spear-heads, battle-axes, and swords of copper,
have been found beneath the soil around Mousal,a
proof that warlike deeds must once have been
wrought there.

In front of the village beneath, and not far from
it, is a small and picturesque isle, consisting of little
else than rocks. Celebrated as the climate of the
bay deservedly is for its softness and mildness, the
air of the village of Mousal is more genial and warm
than that of any other spot on the surrounding
shores : a consumptive patient would ﬁnd health in
its sequestered retreat, far more surely than on the
distant shores of Italy and France, subject as they
are to frequent and violent changes, Its people
are remarkable for their kind and simple manners,
and the exquisite .neatness of the interior of their
dwellings, on which they pride themselves, as well
as on their superiority in moral and religious
habits of life, to the inhabitants of the neighbouring
places. Certain it is, there were a few individuals,
in this village, of intellect and feeling far above their
rank; who, having been much abroad, and passed
the chief part of their life in constant voyages, had
brought the stock of information they had acquired,
to their native village in the decline of their days;
for to them it was the sweetest spot upon earth.
Although its inhabitants were now, with regard to
the possessions of this world, in general on a happy
footing of equality, possessing a bare competence,
free alike from riches and penury, this had not
always been the case. The roomy and massive
dwelling of the last survivor of an old family, the
only grandee of the place, had not very remotely
become the chief in the village; yet the faded

   

 
 

 

THE EXILE. ' 79

portraits on some of the walls,'the, gloomy air of

many of the spacious apartments, and, above all,
the‘decaying walls, on parts of which the ivy had
grown, of the ancient and now neglected garden~
proved that the possessor had been a man of opu—
lence, and, as was still recollected, of inﬂuence in
the village, almost equal to that of a feudal Chieftain.

Of the numerous and romantic walks on every
side the bay, there is none so beautiful as that along
the high and winding beach, that conducts to this
village; the sea-breeze always blows freshly on it;
the hills rise immediately above, with here and there
a scattered hamlet; and the air of seclusion and
peace that reigns around the peopled shore, with
the rocky isle in front, has induced more than one
stranger to make it their abode for years. Being
one evening seated in one of the small and exqui»
sitely neat cottages, the owner, who was an intelli»
gent man, related the following tale, the leading
circumstances of the‘chief character in which had
been well known in the neighbourhood, where some
of his surviving relatives still reside.

“It was on a voyage,” said Harvey, “thatI
made several years ago, in a vessel bound up the
Mediterranean to Egypt, for a cargo of corn, that
we were obliged by a SlICthSSlOU of contrary winds
to put into'Algiers and remain there several days,
before we could proceed on our destination, to
Alexandria. Several of the crew took the opporm
tunity, one day, to go on shore to see the town and
enjoy themselves. Having soon gratiﬁed their cum
riosity, as they strolled about the streets, looking
anxiously, but in vain, For some place of refresh—
ment, the weather being very sultry, they were at
East directed to what proved to he the chief coffee-

I

4.. up“

 
 

' “w;

80 TALES on THE WEST.

house in the city: refreshments were set before ,
them, consisting of some kind of meat, and coffee,
While they were eating and talking, the landlord,
whom they had observed attentively listening to
their conversation, approached, and, addressing
them in their own language, inquired if they were
not Cornishmen? They gazed with astonishment:
at the Algerine (as his dress and aspect bespoke
him): he wore a laﬁe turban and a robe and slip»
pets, with the other articles that compose an East-
ern dress; his complexion was dark, his head desa
titute of hair, and a handsome pair of black mus-
taches ornamented his upper lip. His look was
ﬁxed eagerly on them, as, in excellent English,
with a strong western accent, he repeated his ques-
tion. One of them replied, that they came, himself
at least, and twb others, from the village of Mousal,
‘ Then you know,’ said their host, a family Of the
name of ,1 that live not far distant?’ On
being answered in the aﬂirmative,—-‘ And one of ‘
the sons,’ he continued, ‘ has been missing several
years, and no tidings ever heard of him.’ Of this
circumstance the others were well aware. ‘ I am
that son,’ said the suppOSrd Algerine, ‘who was
believed to be lost at sea, and has long been num-
bered, no doubt, by his family among the dead.’
He was much affected at hearing that both his pa»
rents had expired a few years before; and said, if
they would have patience to listen, he would res.
late his whole story, and the reason why they found
him there, and in that dress He then ordered the
best that the house afforded, to be set before them ;
the wine, forbidden by the law of the Prophet, also
made its appearance; the table was quickly covered
with a various and excellent repast, to which their

 

 

 
THE EXILd‘, It“ 81

host joinedthe most pressihg’éntt‘eaties to make
theinselves at home; and when they were. satisﬁed
with the good cheer, and the bottle not yet being
. exhausted, (he himself declined to partake of ii
he began the story of his wayward fortune, ‘
The vessel in which he had sailed had been taker,
after passing the Straits of Gibraltar, by a corset '
from Algiers, and carried into that port. The ore
“were a few days afterwards sold for slaves; ans}
was with feelings of anguish that they saw ther-
selves separated by the different masters who is. '
bought them, and conducted into servitude.
Pentrail was bought by an elderly Algerine, ""2
whose dwelling he was immediately taken. It a;
a good house, in a pleasant and retired sites
without the town. His work was not severe, is;
did his condition at all resemble slavery, save t}; ’
he was the property of his master. The ethnic;
ment required of him was to labour in the gem
‘ the whole of the day ;——he had two meals, one
sunrise, at the commencement of his toils ; and
more substantial one, according to the custom
the country, in the evening. At ﬁrst, the suiiﬁs
heats of the weather oppressed him greatly; £11».
strength frequently failed, though the work was
no means extreme; but the climate was utterly
different from his own genial one. His master ; ‘
a kind-hearted man, and frequently stopped to
questions to the Christian, when he walked in
garden, as soon as the latter had picked up soot.
cient of the language to render himself intelligihrﬁ
The manners and customs of the land of the i, i:-
dels seemed to interest the Moor, Whose ideas 71"»;
things were probably bounded, like those of
Orientals, by the land and sea he saw around
VOL. l.—H "

   

 

  
  

 

 
 

SB TALES or THE WEST.

He used many persuasions to induce his captive
to change his religion and embrace that of Islam,
but in vain; for, though the latter had seldom
thought deeply about his own faith, he could not
bear the idea of becoming a Turk, a name he had
always heard mentioned with execration in his own
country. The arguments of his master were thrown
‘away, as well as his entreaties; threats he never
used, as he was of too humane a disposition to comm
pel his slave by force to embrace the turban.

Pentrail had not been more than a few months in
his servitude ere he became more reconciled to it.
He met occasionally with his fellow countrymen ot'
the same ship, on those days, which occur so rare-:
ly, when slaves are released from their daily toils-
and allowed to enjoy a holyday. It was the great»
est solace the days of their captivity ever brought
them, to meet thus and talk about the land they
had left perhaps for ever. Their friends and fami~
lies, who had long vainly expected their return, rose
before them, with those looks and voices of affecn
tion that now they could not hope to meet again,
How lovely does the land we have quitted come-
back on the thoughts in the days of‘exile; yet Me»-
mory herself could not invest it with beauty com-
parable to that which now spread around them,
The bare and wild hills that formed their native-v
shores, the far and desolate heaths that spread in~
land, with here and there a lonely cottage of the
rudest kind, were surely less attractive than the
superb scenes on every side of Algiers. The po-
sition of the city, the streets of which rise above
each other on the face of the hill like a noble am—
phitheatre, mingled with the cypress, the palm, and
the sycamore ; and the various hills around so

 
THE ’EXILE. V 83

thickly covered with luxuriant gardens, in the midst
of which were handsome country houses ; and a
cloudless climate lighting up the bold and beautiful
scene ! But the eyes of the captives turned sicken-
ing from the whole :——the sweet and free air of their
own bleak coast came not therez—the hours of
past pleasure, that had ﬂed almost unregarded
away, seemed now a separate and blest existence.
In the midst of one of these gardens stood the
house of Pentrail’s master, overlooking the harbour,
with a part of the town, and the numerous ship—
ping. The garden was full of orange and Citron-
trees, above which towered at intervals the lofty
palm; and various rich ﬂowers bloomed beneath,
particularly around the small fountain in the mid-
dle, the waters of which, falling from several spouts,
united in a rapid stream. To enjoy this spot, seats
were placed around, where the owner of the house
and his friends loved. to sit during the heat of the
day, smoking their long pipes and sipping coffee
with so much zest, that the call for evening prayer
from the minaret often induced them to wonder at
x the swift passage of time. Theythen washed their
‘ faces and hands in the fountain, laid aside their chi-
houques, and, addressing themselves to devotion,
knelt down on the bank of verdure beside, and,
with their faces turned to the East, devoutly went
through their form of prayer. Hamed, who lived
this tranquil and to him happy life, was a very de—
vout man; he rose always at daybreak, and the
moment he had drunk his cup of coffee, which was
instantly presented him by a slave, in a small apart-
ment with a divan beside the wall, he lgnelt on one
of the cushions, with his face bent to the earth;
then prostrated himself on the carpet, and, in Iowa

   

 
 

 

84 TALES on THE “insult

muttered accents, continued for near a halllhour,
blessed Allah for all his “mercies. Nor was this the
only excellence of the good Moor, who made a
practice every day to distribute charity to the dism
tressed with his own hand; and when they came
not to his door, he repaired to the public hospital, a
place of reception for the unfortunate, and where
he never failed to ﬁnd them. ’ -

Ola/serving constantly so calm and virtuous a life,
Pentrail began to lose some of his bitter prejudices
against the people who had made him a captive, and
the faith they so obstinately followed. The house»
hold to which he was attached was very small, con-
sisting, besides the devout Islamite, who was a wi—
dower, (having lost his wife some years before,) of
his only daughter and a few domestics. In this girl
the old man’s affections were wholly bound up ; the
Orientals are particularly fond of their children,
but with him it was the only and reigning passion,
and seemed to constitute the very charm of his exw
istence. And Aischa was well worthy her father’s
love, being of a mild, affectionate temper; and since
the death of her mother, she had devoted her care
and attention to supply that loss. She had mingled
in the world, such as it is found to he at Algiers :
, the small circle of friends who came at times to her
father’s house she sometimes saw : but chieﬂy loved
(like all the women of her faith) to pay frequent
visits to the harems of her acquaintances. In
these meetings, the favourite pastimes were to talk
over the news and scandal of the day, and indulge
in the endless delight of dis playing their dresses and
ornaments. Sometimes too, but rarely, they make
excursions in pleasure-boats along the shore, gazing
with childish pleasure on the bright sea spread out

 
THE EXILE. 85

hefme them, and the various shipping that coursed
alonw1ts bosom—and then they landed in some
small creek or shaded spot, partook of the various
refreshments they had brought with them, and lis-
tened to the sound of music. To the Moorish wo-
men in general, this was like a momentary release;
it broke agreeably on the monotony of their lives,
and the stated avocations of their harems, and gave
them for a time independence and liberty. But it
,was not thus with Aischa ; her home was one of too
much kindness and indulgence, for her to rejoice at,
being severed f10m 1t, and she returned without 1e—
gret to its tranquil and unvarying duties

And that home had its enjoyments, as well as
duties, so far as competence could procure them;
for the owner was not rich. The hall of the man-
sion was paved with marble, and opened on the
trees without ; a few seats stood around, and vases
of ﬂowers were placed there, for this was the cool-
est apartment during the heat of the day. A stair-
case conducted hence to a small saloon, the carpets
of which were Turkish ; and the cushions, that
were placed in rows along the walls, covered with
silk : this opened into a corridor, which also led to
the other apartments, among which, its windows
almost sh'rowded by the drooping branches ofthe
trees, was the harem ofl tl 1e lady, to be entered only
by her female friends.

it could scarcely be supposed that even in this
(almioutine of life, with so little to awaken the
passions, the heart of the fair Moor was cold and
insensible. Where is the Eastern bosom that can
ever be said to be so? The propensity, so [dear to
their feelings, of exploring whatever is forbidden or
withheld,——and the very restraints of their life,

H 0 '

5w

 

 
 

$6 ' TALES on THE was-rt

(which serve as excitements,) make the passion oi
love most welcome. ‘
Had Aischafbeen told that: she could ever have
loved a Nazarene, she would have recoiled at the
thought; but 'she was not the ﬁrst proud and beauu
tiful woman who, seeing a handsome form and
countenance continually before her eyes, though
belonging to one of another faith and rank in" life,
has grown ardently attached to what at ﬁrst was,
merely noticed with transient admiration. And in
the case of the youthful Moor,——her eyes had sel»
dom rested on any features they approved of; the
few friends Who came to visit her father were chieﬂy
elderly men, and the one or two candidates who
had expressed to Hamed their wish to marry his
daughter, had met her decided disapprohation. The
sttanger slave, though an inﬁdel, she saw was of
good demeanour and well behaved: often in her
walks through the garden, when the thick foliage
partly screened her from observation, had she
1,,idélﬁﬁd to look at him while engaged in his daily
“shears. Captivity had not quelled. the spirit that
glanced from his bright eye, or taken the comeliv-
nest-s from his ruddy countenance; and, like most
v}; the natives of his sequestered village, he was tall«
and of a powerful make. She had observed him at
times pause in his work, and shed tears, as he cast
hiseyes over the wide bay beneath : she could not
see so young and friendless a man in sorrow and“
‘» afortune without sympathy; and the Captive found
his situation. softened by many additional comforts
ere he knew the source whende they came, or ima-
gined he had a kind benefactress in his patron’s-
daughter. He had at times beheld her, as she ‘
walked with her father amidst the trees, or when,

 

 

 
THE EXILE. ‘ 87'

, the latter stopped to converse with him respecting

his labour, when'the veil that she wore on those
occasions but partially concealed her person. And
this could scarcely be gazed at with perfect impu-
nity, even by a slave; for the Moor was a very
young and attractive woman, with all the richness
of her country’s beauty about her. This, it\ is
true, exists oftener in romance than reality: but
here there was a large dark eye ; a complexion that
had little colour, but which the sun had never been
suffered to embrown ; a full ﬁgure; and that kind
and engaging: expression of features which, when
cast on the unfortunate, is to them a hundred-fold
dearer than the mast dazzling charms. So thought
the captive, Vvho always beheld the approach of his
young mistress with the greatest interest; and it
was not long ere he had reason to imagine, without
vanity, that he was not quite indifferent to her.
She ventured at last to stop and converse with

him alone, by means of the imperfect knowledge of, ,

the Turkish language he had picked up during his
abode there; and attended by a female domestic.

And more than once, whenthe father had gone to the

mosque, and it was past sunset, did the fair daughter
seek with eager and undissembled pleasure the so-
ciety of the Christian slave. This could not long
continue ;—-it was never the intention of Aischa to
carry on an intrigue; though she could not subdue
her passion, she would not so far degrade herself.
There were a few struggles, perhaps, on the score
of pride and the ridicule of some of her Moorish.
acquaintance: the difference of religion was yet a
more serious obstacle ; but‘ the Nazarene surely
would never hesitate between his ovm vile faith and.
the possession of her, He must renounce the for~

 

 
 

 

 

88 TALES or THE WEST.

mer : if not, she would scorn him with as deep disc-
dain as she now passionately loved him. She con-
fided in the indulgence and; affection of her fatherS
and resolved, throwing herself on those partial feel».
ings, to tell him candidly all her sentiments and
hopes.

A-‘favourable opportunity soon occurred. One
morning, they were. seated at an, early hour in the
shade of some sycamores‘, to enjoy the freshness of
the air, before the advancing heats of the day should
conﬁne them within doors, Hamed was sipping
his sherbet made by Aischa’s own hand, and utter—
Eng his usual. ejaculations on the goodness of Pr0~
ridence, when the fair Moor, impatient of restraint,
ventured to disclose her passion for the Christian
slave. _ ' ' ‘ ‘

Had Hamed ,beheld the gilded crescent fall.
ominously from the spire of the great mosque, he
could not have testified deeper astonishment, which
was unable, fer some morm-nts, to ﬁnd relief in
words, and then vented itself in fervent expostula—
tions rather than in menaces. But the more he
untreated her to overcome so absurd an attachment,
and warned her of the evils that might ﬂow from it,
the more obstinate became the enamoured Moor,
who, finding her father persisted in his objections,
had recourse to a ﬂood of tears, a mode of argu-
ment from an only and beloved child that could not
fail to be irresistible. The aged Islamite at length
yielded with a deep sigh, and with his hands clasped
on his breast, and then uplifted, as if he felt
his tenderness had betrayed him, hastened to the
mosque, whence the Muezzin’s cry came shrilly up
the hill, to implore pardon of Alla.

Next morning he approached Pentrail as he was

     

 

 
 

T HE EXILE.

engaged as usual in the garden, and, after a few
moments’ conversation, frankly told him of his
daughter’s attachment, and declared that he should
become his son-in-law, in case he consented to re—
linquish his faith and turn Mussulman. The sur-
prise and wonder of the captive at such an offer,
were quite as great as those of the master had been
the day previous. He gazed on Hamed for some
time in silence and perplexity, and then, in broken
and confused accents, attempted to declare his
sense of the honour that was offered him, and
begged to be allowed a short time to consider it
more maturely. “His patron agreed to this, and
walked silently away without reply. ,

The young sailor laid down the work in which
he was engaged, and abandoned himself to' the
thoughts that rushed on his mind. Here was free-

dom at once offered from his degraded state of

slavery: his chains were broken, at least a few
words from him would loosen their grasp for ever,
and Liberty came like an angel, but not alone ; she
brought competence, wealth,——indeed, it appeared-
in his eye, that had contemplated poverty so long,
overﬂowing wealth. But, more than all, she brought
the possession of his kind and beautiful mistress:
she who had so often pitied and relieved his sorrows
and his/servitude, would now surrender herself to
his arms: those sweet features, that dark and
haughty eye, those raven tresses, on which he had
gazed at an humble and reverential distance,were to
be all his own, and given with a true and devoted
attachment. He was dazzled by the prospect,
which, from the suddenness and brightness with
which it was disclosed to him, resembled more a
splendid dream than a sober reality. Never in the

 

 
 

/d TALES OF THE WEST.

days so dear to his memory, in his own native land,
could he have hoped for such a destiny. But
then !—the fearful alternative broke on his reveries:
the inevitable'condition to which he must submit,
of forsaking his own faith, and embracing that of
the Prophet. He must sacriﬁce the only true and
living way, for that which his conscience told him
was one of falsehood and imposture. He had been
brought up by his parents in a devout attachment
to the religion of his own country; and often, in
the sad and solitary hours of his captivity, had he
ﬂed thereto for reiuge and consolation; and could
lie lightly abandon 1t ’l—nay, even more, could he
publicly dishonour it in the sight of its hitter ene-
mics, and by his apostacy cause them to pour fresh
ridicule on the faith that had sustained him. He
1ecoiled at the thought, anl vowed Still to embrace
the chains of slaveiy, rathel than to break them
asunder by such an action

   
 

THE EXILE. ' 91

CHAPTER 11.

BUT what vows or resolves can stand against the
united fascinations of liberty, competence, and
loveliness to a poor, friendless, and fettered man?

‘ When morning returned, there lay the habits of
servitude which he had. worn so long: he resumed
them with a disdainful and discontented feeling, and
almost shrank from the burthen of his accustomed
task during the oppressive heat of the day. The
resignation of his mind was gone ; and at evening,
when he heard the footstep of Aischa, and saw her
advancing to the spot. where he was occupied, he
felt a conﬂict of thoughts, in which joy and triumph,
however, were conspicuous. And the sounds or
her voice, that spoke only of kindness and sympa—
thy, went to his heart, and her brilliant and melting
eyes met his. It was in vain to strive—faith, duty,
and conscience all took ﬂight,——and in a few days 1
the captive had abjured his religion, and embraced
that of Mohammed. He was received as a true
convert by many of “the Faithful,” and regarded
as a faithless renegade by his own countrymen,
He obtained, however, the. meed he sought. Ali
signs of servitude were for ever cast away—~the
mean garb and scanty cap of the slave ! He was
invested with the turban, wore a handsome robe,
and felt himself, as he trod the streets of Algiers,
risen into a higher and premier state of existence.
In a few days more he was married to his master’s
daughter, and found himself at the very pinnacle of

 

 
 

 

92 TALES OF THE WEST.

happiness. He had indeed reason to think so, as
far as regarded this world. He had been hitherto
an humble and unnoticed man, and the highest des-
tiny he could ever have anticipated was to retire
with his scanty gains to his native village, and share.
them with some maiden of lowly station like his
own, and endowments that rose not above it.

Day ﬂew on after day, and Pentrail heeded not
the passage of time, while every thing around in~
\‘ited only to enjoyment and indulgence; for the
apostate heard not yet the voice of conscience,
He met sometimes his fellow captives, with whom
in the days of sorrow he had held close intimacy ;
but they now anxiously shunned him, and turned
from his aproach as from that of the pestilence.

The affection of his young Moorish bride knew
no bounds :--—she had dared ridicule and reproach
for its object, and in him seemed to centre the whole
happiness of her existence. But in spite of his re“
gard for her, which was sincere, Pentrail soon be~
gan to ﬁnd that it was far easier to pass from the
extreme of misery to that of rapture than to banish
from the mind its wonted habits. Novelty delighted
strongly at ﬁrst ; but the ceaseless custom of
smoking a pipe, and sitting in the shade by the foun-
tain-side the greater part of the day, whether in
silence or conversation, soon grew tedious. And the
frequent devotions at the mosque, the appearance
of which, at least, he was obliged to keep up, were
not a little annoying to his feelings, for other eyes
were upon him besides those of love—and the re-
gard of the Moslemin was sometimes bent on him
jealously and suspiciously.

Impatient, at last, of the quietude of his situation,

’ he expressed to his wife, when a few months were
THE EXILE. 93

gone by, his strong desire for a more active and
busy scene. The old Moor was consulted, and
though he looked very grave and reluctant to take
any step that deviated from his usual habits, yet in
the course of some weeks, after much sedate reﬂec-
tion and deliberation, (which cost an additional
number of chibouques and argillés,) it was agreed
that, having many acquaintance, he should establish
his son-in law in a new and handsome coﬁee-‘iouse,
which was much wanted in the city.

The proposal gave general satisfaction, save that
Aischa deemed this new employ might take him too
much from her society. The plan was not difﬁcult
to be accomplished in a city where so much coffee
is drunk and fragrant pipes emptied ; and ere very
long, Pentrail found himself, to his great joy, at the
head of such anestablishment, with plenty of cus-
tomers, and occupation enough to ﬁll the greater
part of his time. In the evening he always returned
to the house of his father-in law, where the warmest
welcome awaited him, and soon. after sunrise re-
paired again to his coffee-house, which his servants
had already opened, and prepared for the business
of the day. Here, listening to the news, which, in.
a place like Algiers, was brought from all parts of
the Mediterranean, and conversing with the natives
of ditTerent countries, who resorted thither, he
passed his hours greatly to his satisfaction, and at
each evening saw the ﬁne eyes of Aischa beam with
pleasure at his return to their retired abode It
was at this time that he met with his countrymen
from the West of England, and heard the accents
,of his native province, which revived all his recolﬁ

‘lections. He had now passed many years at; ‘-
giers, where his affable and frank manners, as well

VOL. I.——I

 

 
 

 

 

94 TALES on THE WEST.

as cautious conduct, had made him much esteemed;
and he lived in good repute in the town. He was
perfectly reconciled, he said, to the manners and
customs of the country, and never expected to see
his native land again.

Here ended the relation of the supposed Algerine,
which had much engaged. the attention of his comv
panions. He heaped civilities upon them, as well
as more substantial marks of kindness, and gave
them a pressing invitation to .come and see him at
his country-house without the town. This, how—
ever willing, they could not accept, being in hourly
expectation of a favourable wind; and, taking a
friendly farewell of their quondam comrade and
kind entertainer, went on heard their vessel, and
sailed on the following day for Alexandria.‘

Thus far had all gone smoothly with the convert
to Islamism ; Adversity had never laid her iron
hand upon him, or touched his dearest possessions.
A few years were gone, and he was still prosperous;
the venerable ﬂamed had (ﬁ'ed, and been buried
with his fathers, in the full hope of awakening
again amidst the bowers and gardens of his Prophet.
But a fearful change now came on the fortunes of
the renegade. Aischa was seized with a dangerous
illness, and in spite of all that the most skilful phyu
sician in the city could do, it was evident that the
decree of fate was gone forth. The still young and
attached weinan looked on the approach of death
with dismay : it found her unprepared yet to leave
her adored husband, and never were the .dark foot—
steps of Azrael less welcome. Amidst vain regrets
and lamentings, to which her parent’s last hour
had been a stranger, she died, and left him an alien
in the land. He wept over his faithful wife, and‘

 
THE EXILE, 95

saw the earth close on her remains with a fore~
boding of sorrow. She was interred in the cemetery
without the walls, where the palm tree stoOd-beside
the tombs, and the cypress spread a shade over them.
then day again broke, he sought the city, and
strove amidst his usual occupations to shake off the
oppression that hung upon his mind.

This effort was unavailing. Weeks and months
rolled on, and Pentrail was no longer the same
careless, light-hearted being. Utter loneliness now
fell on his heart: the only tie that bound him to a
land Whose faith, and all whose usages were hostile
to his inclinations, was broken : that silver cord
was loosened, and what had hitherto sat lightly on
his full and satisﬁed heart, was now a burden heavy
to be borne. And he resolved he would hear it no
longer ;-—-the sight of a turban grew hateful to his
eye; and the voice that called him to adore at the
shrine ofthe Moslemin, sounded like a summons to
the bar of conscience. Was it that remorse yet
spoke? or that his steps were no longer followed
by the eyes of his Moorish wife, or her soft accents
poured on his ear? 4

He sat by his fountain side, and for hours listened
to its ceaseless gush of waters, the only sound that
broke on the silence of the place; he entered the
house, and bade his attendants bring the few simple
instruments of music it had been their daily wont
to play : but there was no melody in the sounds;
and they served only to awaken the memory of the
past.

He tool: his resolution, and proceeded to accom~
plish it in caution and secrecy, lest the suspicions
of the Moors should be awakened. He converted
as much as possible of his effects, by degrees, into

 

 
 

96 TALES OF THE WESTa

money; occupied himself as usual in his affairs;
and one night, the extreme darkness of which

‘ favoured the attempt, he left his coﬁee-house an ‘,

chateau, and, hastening to the shore, was conveyed
on board a merchant vessel in the port, that waited
only the return of tide to sail. On the following
morning, with a prosperous wind, the city and its
many hills disappeared gradually from view; and
he saw the sun set on its lofty dwellings and groves
for the last time without a sigh. The vessel was
bound to Liverpool, and the weather continuing
favourable for the passage through the Straits, she
made a rapid progress. The fugitive took the ﬁrst
opportunity to change his dress, and once more re-
sumed the habit of a Christian. '

The voyage had lasted three weeks, when they
were becalmed one morning opposite the northern
coast of Cornwall. At no great distance, the Ex-
ile ﬁxed his eyes on it with ardour, and, as it was
impossible for the vessel to proceed on her course,
be entreated to be put ashore. The captain grati-
ﬁed his request, and in two or‘three hours he was
landed with his effects on the solitary beach. He
knew the spot well, for he had often come, years
before, in the ﬁshing boats of his village, to
this part of the coast, which was held in fear by

mariners, on account of the high and shelterless 7

precipices of which it was composed. He had been
landed in a small cove, enclosed and overhung by
these : sitting down beneath a narrow ledge of rock,
and gazing on‘the waters that slept calm and mou
tionless, he abandoned himself to the reﬂections
which crowded on his mind.

The distant sound of bells roused him from his
reverie; he ascended the cliff, that rose fearfully

 
 

)1:

THE EXILE. . 91

above his head, and perceived at a short distance a
rude village, surrounded by a few cultivated patches
of ground wrested from the hard and thankless soil,
whose surface was covered with furze, the blos-
soms of which now threw a golden hue. over its
harrenness. A few tumuli in one part proved to“
the curious eye that the feet of warriors had for-
Inerly moved here; and a large ancient cross of
stone, that still stood erect beside the hamlet, show—
ed that another mode of the Christian faith had
once ruled over this wildeland. There was a range of
dark hills close behind, whose summits were ,scathed
and bare :—-yet, with all its dreariness, the vil-
lage of Rosemergie is one of the most romantic
and impressive spots in the province. The Exile’s
eye paused on every object, as on what had long
since been familiar to him ; and sought, as he
passed near the village, to discover some cornte~
nance that he had known in happier days, when his
heart was lighter, though his lot had been more ob-
scure. But all who passed him gazed with sur-
prise on the sunburnt and anxious stranger, who
moved through their secluded neighbourhood like a
' native ofanother land. It was a Sabbath morning,
tranquil and lovely, andthe pure air blew fresh and
inspiring, far ditferent from the sultry breezes he
had left behind ; the inhabitants of the village,
dressed neatly, and with serious and earnest looks,
were hastening to their accustomed place of worm
ship, the church, whose tower rose at some dis-
tance. He felt that he had no part with them. Each
sound and sight had been so long estranged from
him, that they came like forgotten things. There
was no longer the cry from the minaret of “ Alla el
Alla: God and the Prophet! fall down and adore
I 2

 
 

 

$18, TALES or THE WEST,

them l”—-No longer the haughty and voluptuous
followers of the Koran bowing their heads to the
dust,—-but the simple and pure devotion of his
earlier days. ' '
At that moment mingled sounds ,came from an
‘ adjoining cottage ; it was a hymn sung by a number
of people gathered together for worship: their
voices, without art, yet not unmelodious, rose
sweetly on the air, and the words expressed the ar—
dent feelings of a repentant and grateful heart.

Pentrail paused, as if a charm had arrested his

progress, and giving way to emotions which he
could no longer resist, the apostate bent his face to
the earth, clasped his hands, and wept in bitter
anguish,—-—-for the past came before him in its true
and undisguised colours, a career of guilt, however
beautifully veiled, and of apostacy from his God.
He had avowed a faith that he knew to be false.
Conscience refused any longer to be lulled asleep
w—the lure of beauty and afﬂuence came not now—
‘the remembrance of the pains of slavery had died
away—and he would have recalled, even at the.
price of life, the hour when he perilled the eternal
hope of his soul. Even the image of his own
Aischa rose like that of a temptress before him, so
fearful was the price she had demanded.

He drew near to the dwelling whence those
sounds still issued, and entered a small and neat
apartment, where a group of villagers were en-x
gaged in their simple yet sincere worship. How
different was this humble temple from that in which
he had been accustomed for the last twenty years
to ‘ worship ! The lofty pillars of marble that
adorned the chief mosque ; the sentences in letters
cf gold that covered the walls; the rich and flow~

E
amt LM.!L» , i

 
 

 

THE EXILE. 99

Eng garments of the worshippers ; and the dim and
solemn light cast from the small windows in the
roof :-—what had this magniﬁcent imposture done
for him?

So thought the self-accusing man, as he strove,
but faintly, to join in the devotion of these humble
people. When this was ﬁnished, and they had dis
persed to their several homes, he still lingered be-
hind, for well he knew the apartment, which was
regarded with veneration by all the neighbourhood ;
it was the same that had been always used by the
well-known man whose follOwers they were, and
exists to this hour in the like state, for every article
is preserved with as scrupulous a care as if they
had been relics of St. Francis or St. Dominic, or
the trappings of the white camel of the Prophet of
the East.

It is a chamber which was built expressly for the
entertainment ofthe celebrated Wesley, during his
journey through this Wild part ofthe country, which,
as the Laureate says, seems to have been his favoUrite

resting place, and, at that time, no inn VCR-hospitable ‘

mansion was to be found. He always made it this
lodging and his resting- place, and, when wearied or

henighted, was often indebted to this lonely apart-1i

ment, else the rocks or the heath must have been
his bed. It was a favourite spot, and seems to
have been selected as well for its romantic beauties
as for theconvenience of its situation ; for Wesley
appears in his journeys to have had a keen and
likely taste for the picturesque. The arrangement
of the chamber was after his oWn direction.

‘ A few steps lead down to the clean wooden floor:
on one side, in a recess, is a small bed, of dimenn
sion precisely suited to the stature of him who re»

’I‘

 
 

Jan

 

 

 

LOO TALES OF THE WEST.

posed in it; on the opposite side of the apartment
is a book-case, that might almost be made a travel.—
ling companion; and a few of the works are still
there that were once perused by this indefatigable
man, whose maxim was, not to let a moment slip
by unimproved. A table and a single chair stand
beside the diminutive grate, in the same position as
they were left when he came here for the last time,
and the very inkstand that he used remains un-

‘ touched.

The only window looks out on the tremendous
rocks beneath, and the vast sweep of the North Sea
beyond and on each side. To this place Wesley
sometimes came when the winter’s storm, hurling
the hillows with fury against the precipices, howled
round his solitary retreat ; and" lighting the ﬁre that
was previously prepared, and with a candle before
him, (the only light that appeared amidst the darln
ness of the night,) he partook of some simple re-
freshment, or read the dreary hours away. Ever
since his death, this chamber has been preserved.
with religious care; and a small cottage has since-
been added to it, by whose tenants it is kept in or-
der, but who never presume to make it for a mo-
ment their abode. It is the delight of the followers 01'
thatsingular man to assemble there on the Sabbath
to worship, and it was on one of these occasions
that the apostate passed by.

Strangers are sometimes led to visit these bleak:
cliffs, from a curiosity to see the yet surviving asy—
lum of a man whose labours effected so great a
revolution in the minds and manners of a consi‘
derahle part of the population. Pentrail, overcome
by his own emotions, requested of the tenants of the
«cottage to be allowed to rest there, ere be pro-

~-—: ,:~ ;,.~._ »-<‘~ - sat rum); 4m» we» a.» 3,.
 

THE EXILE. mi

seeded on his way. His request was readily
granted, and he was invited to partake of their
homely but plentiful repast. His hosts, who Were
at a loss to reconcile his conversation and den
meanour with his foreign aspect and appearance,
could not forbear asking him a variety of questions.
In order to satisfy their curiosity, he requested them
to listen to his SiUl‘y; they accordingly formed a
circle around him, while be related the events of
his residence at Algiers. The hours ﬂed away last,
and evening drew on ere the tale was ended. '
He was not unrewarded for this disclosure. It
was the ﬁrst time he had nnbosomed his sorrows
to a human being, or found any to sympathise in
them, and he felt it was Sweet to see those of his
own land and faith shed tears for his sad and guilty
career. And the surest as well as richest consola»
tions were earnestly offered by persons who, they

said, however humble their lot in life, had also ‘

bowed beneath afﬂiction, and risen triumphant from
the blow. He retired to rest with a spirit less agi-
tated and wretched.

At an early hour, on the following morning, Pen~
trail quitted the hamlet, and bent his steps over the-

long and useless waste that conducted towards his

well—remembered village, though at a considerable
distance. The evening was advancing as be de-
scended the hill that rose over his long-deserted
home; he paused to gaze 0n the calm and beauti-
ful scene. The sun was going down on the bay,
its beams lingering on the rocky islet that he had
often wandered over in childhood, and on the
village whose neat whitewashed cottages were
ranged along the rocks, where the inhabitants were
gathered in peaceful groups to enjoy the freshness

--- ”a l. a»... n- .-(.... «WNWWM

 
 

.umitﬂ',

’ 102 TALES or THE WEST.

of the evening, and gaze on the boats that were issu»
ing from the harbour to their distant ﬁshing-grounds.
He had left the place a poor and dependent man,
and he returned comparatively rich, with an ample
provision to give him ease and independence during
the rest of his life. In so small and secluded a spot,
it needed not a large portion of wealth to ensure
many a warm and friendly greeting: and the long
forgotten sailor found himself kindly received by
those of whose faces he retained no remembrance.
Of the elder ones, who still recollected when he
had sailed long since, some listened with a wonder—
ing and attentive ear to his recital; while others
turned sternly away from the apostate, and said that
the depths of the sea had better have covered him,
ere he denied the faith of his fathers. He found
that few'of his relatives were left in the place : his
parents had died—and his brothers had settled in
other parts, or were engaged in distant voyages.
He took a house on the cliff near where he had
formerly resided, and though still almost in the
prime of life, and many a fair villager would have
willingly wedded withthe rich Exile, he ever after
remained single ; still cherishing the memory of his
Moorish wife, her ﬁdelity and affection: he saw
not her equal around him in beauty or attraction.
Pentrail lived many years afterwards, till old age
came on him, and even then it was his favourite
pastime to sit several hours in the day before his
dwelling, just above the wave, and to speak (and he
seldom wanted listeners) of the country where he
had passed so many years—-of its sultry days and
scorching nights—of the Winds of the desert that
sometimes came there, blasting as they passedmof
the splendour of the place and of its strange ens-

 
‘0.- . i..." m. “M”. . —~w5~.;wnug

THE EXILE. 103

toms. And his eye would grow bright, and his voice

once more animated—for in these moments his vani—

ty was at times stronger than his remorse, and told 2
him, that with regard to this world, that had been

the golden period of his life—when youth and for-

tune and successful love had all been his, and not a

cloud darkened the prospect, save what his own
accusing spirit raised.

It was long ere that spirit was lulled to rest. It
was long ere repentance could efface the dark
remembrances and fearful forebodings which haunt-a
ed both his waking and sleeping hours. These
were felt oft and vividly, when the excitements
of his career had subsided in the even tenour of his
village life: he strove at ﬁrst, though faintly, against
them, but they would not be withstood. The me~
mory, however, of better and purer days was here,
—the scenes Where they had passed before his
eye ;——-the converse of the elder men, who had
been friends of his parents, and now warned their
mistaken son,——the hope of an enduring peace, '
which he sighed for, now that the dearest tie of the
world was broken,—all urged him to seek in a deep
and bitter repentance the pardon, which the Heaven
that had been veiled from him the mercy that he
had forsaken, could alone accord.

'Nor was his penitence unavailing: often, while
seated, in his own parish church, on the summit of
the hill, to which he went as long as his strength
allowed, his ﬁxed and humble aspect, and the tear
that sometimes stole down his sunburnt counte-
nance, (on which the thin white locks fell,) showed
that anguish as well as hopelessness had passed
away.

 
 

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THE LEGEND OF PACORRAg

VOL, Emu-K

 
 

 
 

_, .~_ . Nww an}; - .«

 

THE LEGEND OF PACORRA.

CHAPTER I.

IT was a ﬁne evening in the month of August,
and the soft air that breathes on the western coast
of Cornwall partook of the inﬂuence of the season
even to sultriness. The many barks that were on
their passage up the channel lay idle, without a
breeze; and the bold precipices, in general lashed
by the surges, were undisturbed, save by the cry of
the sea-birds that had their nests far down their
sides.’ My steps wandered along the shore with
out aim, yet not without pleasure, since every ohn
ject around, barren and naked though it might be,
aided to give Wings to the fancy, and hid it create
a world of its own. There was not a cloud in that
sky, as pure and as brilliant as is ever spread in the
climes of the South and East; and far as eye
could reach there was not the motion of a billow.
Each samphire-covered steep, and crag, and tur~

preted rock were reﬂected with such clearness in

the deep beneath, as to look like the city of Indus,
over which the green wave has rolled, while its
spires and domes still sparkle beneath.

Led onward by the loveliness of the scene and.
hour, along a path scarcely discernible, which, from

 
 

 

 

108 TALES or THE wnsn

the summit of the airy heights, descended abruptly
upon a narrow beach of silver sand, distance was.
unheeded, and time ﬂed away unperceived, when
I arrived at a spot that ﬁxed all my attention.
it was not the place itself, though that was suiﬁ~
cieutly romantic, with the puny ruin (within whose
mouldering walls the grass grew rank) and its lonely
site,-—not a cot, nor a vestige of one, within View,
These had before excited an interest, and given
rise to many a fanciful speculation. But the form.
of a stranger was now seated on the low wall, his
arms crossed on his bosom, and his countenance
marked by sad and anxious reﬂection. He had a
foreign aspect; his garb certainly belonged neither
to the age nor land ; and, the marks of long travel,
as well as of suffering, were visible in‘hoth. He
raised his eyes from the earth as I drew near, and
courteously saluted me. ’Solitude soon creates in—
timacy: we began'to speak of the spot on which
. we now stood ; and on my expressing my belief
that this triﬂing and obscure ruin belonged proba.
bly to the monastic age, his eye kindled, and his
dark features were lighted with enthusiasm. “I
deemed it so ;” he said, “ it is the ﬁrst sacred scene
to which my feet have wandered since they landed
on this shore: but are there not many such,” he
asked anxiously, f‘ and more entire than the one,
before us’.l The end, the hope of my journey, will
surely not be lost—no, faith of my fathers! I will
trace thy every fallen stone, thy every gray and illusu,
trious fragment, though the grass covers them, and
the harvest has waved above them.” I gazed with
Surprise as the stranger spoke. He had not yet
reached middle age: his eye, though melancholy,
‘was full of tire, and his. dark hair had scarcely a

 
rm: LEGEND on menus. 109

tinge of gray. It belongs not to youth in general to
be ovenzealous for a departed faith ; rather to the
harder feelings and stronger prejudices of age; but
here therewas a passionate remembrance, and an
unquenched attachment, for what had long been
numbered with forgotten things.

The latest rays from the west had some time
passed from the spot, and a gray light was spread
around, that rendered it more solemn, though less
picturesque. The dull heath was on every side un~
touched by the hand of man, its solitude unbroken
by any sound; and the hushed sea and silvery sky
appeared in the dimness to be mingled together.
In such a scene, the most insigniﬁcant vestige of
former ages awakens a deep interest. So it was
here : the pilgrim, for such he now appeared to be
by his scalloped hat, the small image at his breast,
and the staﬁ'that supported his wanderings, gazed
on the low walls with a sympathy as if they had
been the ancient hold of his race, and he the sole
survivor. Darkness was fast advancing, and as he
appeared to have no certain destination, I asked
him, where his home was to be for the night, and if
his course lay much farther on Z He said he had
no home or friend in the land; that he had come
from a distant and sacred country; and that love
of his faith had drawn him to this remote province,
which had been the dwelling-place of his fathers,—
but long, very long since.

He consented to accompany me to a village
about two miles off, with an assurance on my part
that he would ﬁnd kindness and hospitality. Itwas
not long ere we drew near it, and the stranger
paused and gazed on the scene beneath with/much
admiration, The moon had risen, and shene full

6')

H

 
 

110 TALES on THE WEST.

0n the beautiful valley of Penberth, enclosed hem
tween hills of nearly equal height. A river, clear
as crystal, ran throngh‘its whole extent,—-and lost
itself in the sea, at whose edge the village stood.
There were scattered houses also, by the river’s
side, sweetly situated; and neither the north nor
east wind might invade here, the air even in the
Winter being peculiarly mild and soft. Isolated
rocks, of fantastic shape, stood here and there on
the broken slope of the hill above the habitationst
“ My steps have travelled far,” said my companion,
“ through the famed lands of warmer climes, but
seldom have I looked on a lovelier landscape than
this. “(hat a noble situation for a monastery on
the banks of that stream, beneath the brow of the
bold descent, and with the ocean spread out in
front 3' the world would be well left for such a re"
tirement.”

The, village of Treene, at which we had arrived,
was on the brink of the hill that sloped down into:
the valley, and we entered the cottage that was to
be our resting-place for the night. Though the
dwelling was not of large dimensions, it was neat:
and clean almost to excess; and the kitchen, with
its bright wooden ﬂoor, pots and pans that shone
like mirrors, and brilliant ﬁre, was at this moment:
more tempting than a fair and well-carpeted salOon;
In a large arm-chair beside the chimney, busily cc.»
eupied in knitting a substantial pair of stockings,
sat the mistress of the house, the ﬁrst glance of
when). proved that poverty and she had long been.
strangers. A pair of spectacles, on a- nose sutﬁ-u
eiently prominent; keen, searching eyes; and a
small cap, beneath which the gray hair luxuriantly
Cscaped; a chin that denoted at'onee shrewdness

i

   

 
rnr. LEGEND or moonm. ill

and complacency, and formed a ﬁrm and project:
ing foundation to the countenance, where, amidst
a long and habitual expression of piety, the world
lurked and looked out in manya corner,—such
was the tout ensemble of the good lady’s visage.
She was much regarded in the hamlet, where she
had brought up and sent into the world twelve
goodly sons and daughters, on whose temporal
prosperity she greatly prided herself,——and had re-
served a decent competence to make the remainder
of her life comfortable. For forty years, the mi~
nisters that exerted their zealous and wandering
labours throughout the province had been received
into her house. In her early youth, a staunch fol-
lower of the established church, she had‘ heard the
founder of her prosperous sect, and had ever since
been his devoted follower. Much had she ob-
served, in her long course, of the various char-acw
ters that had fallen within her ken ; and a most re—
tentive memory had treasured up a rich store ot

' anecdote, in which her own caustic and characterw

istic remarks never failed to be mingled.

She lifted her eyes as we entered, and ﬁxed them
with a suspicious and inquiring expression on us.
4‘ What, is it you, Mr. , come to the village at
this time of night ’l and what brings you here, wan~
dering in the lone country, when other people are
in their quiet homes, and their own families around
them ?”

“ We are benighted, and have lost our way, are
wearied and hungry, and come to‘ ask shelter for
the night.” .

“ And is it so ’lmthen sit you down by that blazw
ing ﬁre, and you ’11 ﬁnd more comfort than the top
of a crag, or the old gray walls you are so fond of.

 

 

 
 

312 TALES or THE WEST.

can give. But you look like a stranger, Sir, in
these parts ;” turning to my companion. ,

On his explaining that he had come from a fo~
reign land, and was a Catholic; the storm that inc.
stantly gathered on our hastess’s brow, and ﬂashed
from her gray eyes, was quite startling. “ A Rom
man!” cried she; “and how could ye dare to
bring One under my roof 2' what but evil, and no
good, can come of it ?--—-upon the very ﬂoor, too,
where gracious men have trod ! And are ye come
to bring the fagot and the sword again into a
peaceable land ? But go your ways!” pointing with
, one hand to the door, as she stood erect, and the.
half-ﬁnished stocking hung gracefully from the
other :——-“ go, and tabernacle amidst the cold walls
and stone heaps that are left of your former gratin
deur ;—ye ’11 ﬁnd them up the wild ‘heath, and the
grass is aye rife upon them—But the night’s 'chill,
and he ’s weary and forworn,” continued she, in a
somewhat softer tone, ﬁxing a closer regard on the
object of her wrath, “and though a dark-faced
man, he has n’t the look of a parsecutor, and has,
may be, known afﬂiction; so sit ye down, Sir. It:
is written, ‘Thrust not the stranger from your
doors ;’ but ye never read the Word, blind,‘mis-
guided creature !” and thus ﬁnishing her address,
she hustled out to prepare some supper.

This made its appearance ere long, in the form
of some excellent coﬂ'ee, cream, and eggs, as the
traveller, observing perhaps some penance, do»
clined taking more substantial fare. They were
placed on the table beside the ﬁre, around which
we now formed a frugal and social circle. It was
incumbent to praise the good woman’s fare—web
come, though not very copious. “ And thecoﬂ'er

 

 
 

THE LEGEND or PACORRA. 11‘s

is to your liking?” addressing me : ‘,‘ you are e’en.
hard to please, but it’s true Mocha, and ye ken the .
ﬂavour well. -—May be, Sir, you may have been 1111
the parts where it s gr‘own, for you are sunburnt
enough. ?” ﬁshing for my companion’ s land and des~
tination. But his mind was wandering, it ap-
peared; for he heeded not the question, any farther
than the concluri‘ mg words.“ Sunburnt enough,
it is true,” he said,“ for those Eastern scenes may
not be traversed with impunity. Yet what are the
climes of the sun, and their awful ruins of former
ages, to the vestiges that are left of a glorious and
expiring faith '2 Is not the spot that has borne the
tread of a saint’s footstep precious? Do not‘the
winds that blow around their graves bear sweeter
perfume than if they had passed through groves of
oranges and spices? The very weeds that grow
rank on the sod are more lovely to the eye—”
Here he was interrupted by the hostess, who,
struck with the fervour of his manner, had listened
with a most approving look, with one hand laid on
the table, and the foreﬁnger of the other placed be-
side the nose, as was her attitude when highly
gratiﬁed with some new trait; she now partook of
his enthusiasm.“ Precious, indeed, Sir, is the
lootstep of a saint! and the very spot, as you truly
observe, Where he has trodden. lt revives to my
mind a very gracious scene, which seems almost
now before me. it was a charming summer’s even
hing, when that powerful man, Mr. Thomas Sanw
dal, paid a visit to these parts. He had a wonder~ -
ful name, and was truly a great man ; though when
(he came into this cottage, and sat where you are
sitting now, it was remarkable, I thought, that so
small a man should have so great a name. He

 

'L’n‘mﬂ‘w" “Wye-rear“ -=- - '

 
 

114 TALES or THE WEST.

was very pale, and, indeed, diminutive, and his
voice was weakly; but his eye, through which, as
the" poet says, the spirit is discerned, had a peculiar
smartness and ﬁre. So that when the people were
gathered on the heath, not very far from here, in
a lonely spot, where there are some ruined walls,
he stood on them; and every word he spoke was
sweet as silver; and so clear, for there was n’t a
wave heard upon the shore, and the very birds of
the air were still : and as the setting sun shone full
upon his face, there was a peculiar lus—-”

Here the full tide of her description was in turn
broken by her gdest, whose eyes ﬂashed'ﬁre, and
over his composed and sad aspect spread deep in»
'dignation. “ St. Dominic l” exclaimed he, “ a
heretic trample on those venerable walls, and make
them a stepping—stone to promulgate his vile doc~
trines from, where the forms of martyrs, perhaps,
have reclined, and their sighs and groans have been
echoed amidst penances and suﬁ‘r-ringsl—alas! I
looked not for such degradation l”

The coffee-pot, that had been lifted by the good
dame, in the 'full complacency of her thoughts, to
replenish her guest’s cup, was planted on the table
with a ﬁerce and sudden clang, and awful was the
full gaze wherewith she met the intruder. Still
redder grew the nose and chin: and the lips, that
looked full of eloquent wrath, were closely com—
pressed, as if to gather it all into one volley; when
suddenly reclining back in her seat, she raised her
eyes to the ceiling with a deep sigh, took a pinch
of snuff, and with a sharp and bitter smile, that
mantled the whole of her expressive countenance,
she said, “ Why should I strive with this potsherd,
and fall into the snare of anger for such a child of

 

         
mum" on pxc’onm. 115

error, that worships things made with men’s hands?
See how he presses that image to his bosom, a
mark of the woful idolatry within; and glooms
upon it withhis dark eye, as if the creature could
both hear and see ! Ah ! well might be speak of
weeds being lovely to the eye, even amidst groves
of spices and perfumes, or glory over a decayed
heap of stone, more than in the powerful word that
sounded forth from above them! He never tasted
the true spice of the myrrh, or walked in the gar-
den of delights! as clear Mr. R. used to say ;——you
never remember him,” turning to me with a trem-
bling voice: “had you had but a glimpse of his
form or face, ’twould have been more memorable
than all your travels. The last time I saw him, he
was just going out to the sea ; ‘ Sally,’ says he to
me,—I was young then and single,”—(and a soli-
tary tear stole down her not naturally tender feat.
tures, which was wiped away by an ancient red Cotw
ton handkerchief ;)——“‘Sally,’ says he—he was
a singularly clean man in his apparel—‘ do you
see that speck of dirt on my shoes’!’——)Which were
always so bright as to reﬂect his comely form al»
most like a mirror. ‘ Yes, Sir,’ says I :—-‘ Such ,

says he, ‘ is the smallest taint of idolatry; it wars

the purity and understanding of the whole man.’
He went to sea to the islands soon afterwards, and
was heard of no more, but I’ve often thought upon
his parting words.” ’

The stranger had by this time recovered from
his emotion, and his countenance once more re“
‘sume‘d its composed character. 'He spoke of the
extensive journeys he had achieved in pursuit of
the same object that had‘drawn him here; said that
he had traversed the ancient Land of Promises/u

 

has" ‘ .7,-

«.

 
 

.‘A- 3—.“va . V

116 TALES OF'THE WEST.

had sojourned in the Wilderness of the 'Baptistr—u
drank of the waters of the Jordan,—and poured

- his tears of penitence on the same spot where the

Apostles had shed theirs. :

It was easy to perceive that there was a wild en~
thusiasm strewed over the whole current of this
man’s feelings, which obscured the effects of a good
education, and the exercise of an acute and well-
informed mind. Yet this enthusiasm excited ins
terest, rather than blame or pity in others ; for it
had evidently been felt in his earliest infancy, had
been drawn round him even by the handsof pa-
rental affection, and every step of his after-life had
been closely inﬂuenced thereby. It seemed in«
deed to be part of his nature; and if by chance
his conversation wanderedfor a time to other to—
pics, the favourite one was soon ardently resumed.
This propensity created the most ludicrous con-

fusion between him and his hostess, and the most,
' sudden transitions from gc%d-will to open rupture.

Caught by the sound of the “Land of Promise,”
she gave the most ﬁxed and riveted attention to his
discourse. “ As I passed, on a calm evening, down
the steep descent that leads from the road to Da-
mascus, the purple rays that fell on the beautiful
summit of Olivet, lingered as if in fondness over
the adored tomb of the Virgin Mary, while each
rock and olive-tree around were left in gloom.
Giving loose to the rapture of my feelings, and
kneeling in the marble porch.” “ And could, you
really be such an idolater ’l” broke in the words of
sharp reproof, “ as to kneel to the Vargin, and in
a white marble tomb too ! brought all the way from
Rome, I’ll warrant, that seat of Antichrist? May-

‘ hap she had silks and satins on, and goold and sit»

   

 

as!
  
   

11?:

 

‘ C
yer orna ints, not to be counted for cof‘ ss!
‘ id she died there,'Sir? show me' the
g with all your larning; peopl'é
were a yaysghuried where they died,-in my time;
but, I suppose, ’twas easy for tomb and all to ﬂy
through the air, like a whole chapel I have heard
tell of, in Italy: ye have worshipped there too,
perhaps? but to place such an object in ”that pre»
cious valley l" " . > g

A deep sigh here followed the grin of strong sa:
tisfaction that had accompanied the latter part of

  

her reply. But her‘antagonist kept his temper this '

time, feeling the contest too perilous, or ashamed
to quarrel over; the board of whose hospitality he
was partaking. With a faint smile, he said, “.YO‘uth
and age both had their prejudices, and both re~
garded them as inviolable; as a person of her? ex;
perience, whp had seen so much of the world, must
be very well aware of.” The propitiation was
most graciously acceptied: the indignant aspect gave
way to an expression of deep complacency; and
proﬂ'ering her antique, well-worn snuff-box, “ Ex:-
perience l” she‘replied, “you may well say so:
’tis sartain, I’ve had my share, both of the sorrows
‘ of the wilderness, as well as the joys : yet the com-
plaint of the motherless, ‘ as though they were not,‘
never was mine. Twelve goodly sons and daugha
ters, Sir, the very pride of the country, and one
only laid beneath the sod of the valley: he was
. about your age, and had much the same aspect,
though as fair as the driven snow. Robert was a
weakly creature, but of an enlarged mind, and of
a temper like a lamb. 'His favourite walk, as long
as he was able, was to those fragments of walls,
where the idol—hem! the Romans of old times
VOL. I.-—L

 
   
 
    

  

118‘ BS on THE WEST, _

Q a ‘ ,
use congregate. Not coming hom ne even»
in \ .7 sual, I went there hastily,erid and him
sitting amidst the gray stonesand ' ' “ : nd the

Wild ﬂowers, but his spirit had sou ' '- t , _
and I have loved the spot evergsince‘mgii" a;
'it‘kept in order, and not sutfered‘sthegbehht'S'OF the
ﬁeld to come near it. Often, ofgagia-ey‘ening, I go
there now, though my steps. are weary; and sitting
on the ruin, when all is so still around me, think of
the passage of- my child into the world of spirits,
' so calm and sweetly : 'and I wish to follow him ; for
many years are my portibn, and their rushing can-
' not he. stayed.” ‘ \

Her look was bent ﬁxedly uprﬁds, while the
tears coursed each other in rapid succession down
her face ; and her hands, claspedbeforef‘her, tremg
bled with the deep emotion of the mother for the
son. , , '~ ” '

Her guest‘was thoroughly softeneh; the more
so, as there was a-degree of reyerence expressed
for a spot to which he had becd'me attached; and
he said something of 'the pleasure of breathing
one‘s last in so venerable a place, where the ashes
of sainted men might have reposed ; he had no
higher ambition, he said, than to lay his head also
beside them.

“And would your head sleep softer in such a
bed of error and darkness? better lay it amidst the
snows of the rock. Repose, indeed ! that ’5 pretty '
sharp by this time, if all is true, that these cruel
men did, in their day.” Her eye kindled again:
“ It’s well, if they are saved. If I might venture
to speak of one,” with-a solemn voice and uplifted
ﬁnger, “ whose very name is a cordial to the mind,
and who made this cottage his resting-place, 'what

 
   

 

 
1111111 Leeann 01': 111100113; 119 '

gleater ambition can I have than 1131:5110“; him?
His head was white with the toilistof nearly a cen-
tury when he laid it in the grave: his wo’iads, never:

to be forgotten, have been spoken to me ~ and his ' »

looks, full of strength and victory to the last, have

been often turned upon me. Beside him it were

sweet indeeito sleep. "” With these words, as the ’

clock, that stood at the other end of the apartment,
struck loudly the passage of time, she arose from
her seat, and casting a look on the ﬁre, that still
burned hrightiy, Wished us a cordial good- night
The abstraction that had ﬁrst marked the6 stran-
ger’ s manner was now qnite Worn away, and he en-

tered into conversation with the spu it of one who.

had been for‘ some time accustomed to no associate
but his own thoughts. His family had emigrated,

he said, from this part of the country at the time of
_ the Reformation, inorder to avoid the effects of

the frequent persecutions directed against the lives
and p1 operties ot' the Catholics It was with deep
regret that they had quitted their native soil, to
which they were pasionate‘iéy attached, for Italy,
the very seat and nursery of their faith. It _was
from barienness to loveliness, and from the naked
heath to groves of cypress and orangetrees, in a
favoured clime. Still it was an exile, and they had
felt it so, and had bequeathed to their descendants
a portion of the same love of country, though in
a lesser degree.

“ 111 me,” he Continued, “ it has been fostered
by long wanderings , and after having visited many
a. scene more distant, and perhaps less patriotic, l
resolved to turn my steps to the place where my
ancestors once lived long in esteem and aﬂiuence ;
when the true faith reigned in the land; before

     

,‘1
i.

it
1
G
71
‘3

 

12‘

 
 

320 _ TALES‘OF THE WEST:

heresy and anarchy raised their heads, and spoiled
and destroyed the» religion of ages, and all the
learned and venerable buildings where she had

\made her resting-place. Time has spared some

vestiges, and; however faint, they will serve to re-
kindle feelingswhich have been the delight, as well
as sorrow, of my life.” ,

He then made several inquiries, with! much ear»
nestness, respecting some remains which are known
to survive ;——if the ruins of the chapels of St. L0}r
and Lanyon were still visible; and if the ancient
cross beside the church of Buryan was preserved ?
On being told that this had been placed on an ele-
vated site, so as to be gazed at by every passenger
along the road, and that the ruins of the chapels
remained, he expressed himself much gratiﬁed. He
then asked after the ancient shrine and well near
Madron, Where they‘once stood monuments, he
said, of the geodness of the saint; and not a dis~
ease in that or the neighbouring. parishes, that was
not wholly or partly healed by faith in the miracu-
lous water :1 the maimed and the wretched, the
diseased and the discontented, came in troops from
hamlet, cottage, and town, till the wild moor was
peopled with the multitude, and echoed with count-
less prayers and wishes put up for health and riches,
and every other good gift: then the water ran su»
pernaturally clear, and rose, and bubbled, and
whirled, when any offering was thrown into it, While
Saint Maddern, in the niche CIOSe by, stood smiling
in mercy.

“ It is‘gone,” he answered, “ fountain, and shrine,
and all—not a vestige remains: not an aisle is left
standing to receive the hollow sighing of the Wind on
the heath: the grass grows rank and free, but it

   
THE LEGEND O’FVIFACORRA. 121

conceals no remnant ; not a gray stone, not a moss-
covered mound, is left. The basin of the fountain
is there—but no water, for when its virtue passed
away, the spring, it is said, became exhausted ;
though so late as the last century it was still resorted
to. ’
_ ,“ But I will visit these spots, as well as others,”
answered he, “and will judge for myself. There
.is another scene also, yet more dear to me, which
yoirr exertions must aid me to discover. It is a rude
valley, that cannot be very far from this village, and
is Lolose to the sea. There formerly stood the seat
of my ancestors, whence they were driven partly by
persecution; which they left with tears, and never.
ceased to think of but with passionate regret. Have ,
you ever observed the ruins of a dwelling in such a
spot 2”

“ Perhaps you mean the vale of Pagora, that is
within a short league of this place, and answers to
your description. The steep, whose green bosom
slopes into the water, is the same; but there are
no vestiges'of an ediﬁce left: probably the tide,
that has encroached to such an extent along the
coast, has long since covered them.”

“It is the same,” he replied eagerly, “there
cannot be a doubt; though the ancient name was
somewhat diﬂ'erent. At the nunnery of Lanherne,
that still ﬂourishes in the north of the county, and
to which my steps will soon be directed, there may
exist, perchance, some memorial of the time. ’In
this manuscript,” he continued, drawing forth from
his bosom an envelope of papers tied with peculiar
care, “ you will read a tale not wholly without in-
terest, of the time of my family’s prosperity as well
as misfortune. It was written by the son of the

L 2-

 

 
 

 

122 emote ram WEST? ,

then lord of the dwelling. Read it, should it are
please you, to-night; and to-morrow, at an early
hour, let us pursue our search after the place to
which it relates.” Saying this, he rose to retire to
rest, on the plearof extreme fatigue, and left me:
alone.

With much curiosity I unfolded the manuscript:
anxious to know something, though only of the am
cestors of a being who had deeply interested the:
and trimming the ﬁre while all was hushed within,
as well as in the village without, and not; a sound.
arose from the shore beneath, I began,
rnntaemvn or mcoam. 123

CHAPTER II.

AT the conclusion of the r ign of the Eighth
Henry, there remained 'no pat of the kingdom,
however remote, that had not been visited, more or
less, by the troubles attendant on the forcible re»
formation of religion. Although the people had in
general yielded implicit obedience to the capricious
mandates of the King, the often-renewed and stub-
born resistance offered, both by nobles and vassals,
in Westmoreland and its neighbouring counties, as
well as in some other parts of the realm, proved
that there still existed a. strong attachment to the
ancient faith.

On the western territory, however, these disorders
fell less heavily, and at a later period. The mo-
nastic establishments, which had every where else
been crushed with unrelenting hand, were here too
poor to render their possessions an object of imme-
diate desire either to the King or the instruments he
employed, and which latter often shared the chief
portion of the spoils. These remote domains of
the Church thus lingered in existence longer than
their more richly endowed associates ; and the same
transient immunity was enjoyed also by the more
opulent Catholic families. They heard the sound
of war afar off, but it came not within their doors;
and they were spared awhile’ the innumerable and
petty vexations and oppressions, which, at the arbi—
trary will of the King‘s examiners, were frequently

 

 

 
 

 

124 TALES on THE WEST. :

heaped on these houses most devoted to the falling
came. ‘

In a rude valley, opening on the sea, at the very
extremity of a province in that day little known ex-
cept by name, stood a substantial dwelling. Its
distance from cities and towns was remote indeed,
though several similar dwellings stood at long inter:
vals on the bleak hills and vales, of which this part
of the cdunty (that measured scarcely two leagues
in breadth from the North to the South Sea) was
composed. The mansion had not the appearance
of a castle, though the purposes of defence had evi-
dently not been forgotten in its construction. It
stood on a narrow eminence, that sloped down ab-
, ruptly into the sea, and was built of the ﬁne stone
found on the hills a few miles to the east. All un‘
polished however, as was the outside of the walls,
they were massively constructed, and, as was 'suited
to the state of the times, answered more the ends of
strength than of beauty. The ediﬁce was low,
. with a sloping roof of tiles that projected nearly two
feet beyond the walls, for the convenience of carry-
ing off the‘frequent and profuse rains that fall in this
climate full half the year. . The large gate of en-
trance opened into a conﬁned court, coarsely
paved, that ran along the front of the dwelling, the
lower apartments of which co‘inmanded a prospect
of a few yards only, as far as the tall barriers of this
court, and were therefore dark and gloomy. A door
in each Wing, if it might be so called, opened on the
kitchen and the buttery, or rather dairy, since the
large earthen vessels of solid cream, peculiar to the
province, seldom had their contents transmuted‘ ere
they were devoured. , In front was a largewooden
porch, with a seat on each side for the convenience, »

 

 
THE LEGEND OF Paeoaaa. 125

it could not be said luxury, of such as chose to take?
there the freshness of the morning and'evening air,
that came pure and bracing from the Wave beneath.
This porch conducted by a narrow passage into a
large hall~ and also into a side parlour of very infe-
rior dimensions. ' The ﬂoor of the hall was strewed
with rushes of a ﬁne and soft kind, brought from
the vicinity of a vast marsh about Inine miles distant:
the chimney was large and naked, and the smoke
’that eddied through it, often, on account of its bad
construction, found its way in volumes through the
apartment, especially when the Wind blew from the
south. Chimneys, indeed; Were a luxury very
lately brought into fashion, fer each family had been
accustomed to make their ﬁre against a’reredosse ,
in the hall where they dined. The small windows
of glass, that had long succeeded those, of horn
even here, were slightly arched, and, being only
two in number, admitted no very brilliant light to
the apartment. The ceiling was very low, and it is
, well there were no ‘giants in those days,’ for the
armed man that came sometimes there, was obliged
to doﬂ' ‘ his casque and plume ere he could obtain
entrance. _ A narrow ﬂight of stone steps con»
ducted to the upper story, which was chieﬂy) occu-
pied by the sleeping aipartments, resembling much
the cells in a monastery in their size and accom—
modations. There was no garden attached to the
dwelling; the attempt to raise ﬂowers would have
been. nearly as useless as to plant a grove of trees
to give shade, or shelter from the ﬁerce southern '
blasts. The best defence of the mansion, however,
was the sea, that washed the foot of the eminence
on each side, beneath the spot where it stood. Nor
was its situation totally destitute of beauty; a clear

 
 

. rrweeugrmn- , , u" »— —v , --~ a..- -,. ‘, -

 

I26 TALES or THE WEST,

stream that ran through the valley maintained a
perpetual verdure in its narrow bosom ; not a tree
-—neither oak, beech, nor fir—was to be seen; the
sides, though steep, were verdant,_and afforded ex-
cellent pasture for the sheep that grazed thereon;
two or three gentle green swells stood in the midst
beneath, and the stream wou d at their feet, but
their summits were disﬁgure by a few hovels of
wretched appearance, loosely built of wood, and
covered, both sides and roof, with reeds and straw.-
Although the scene had little softness, the eye that
gazed on it from the upper part of the narrow ter~
ritory, (that did not exceed a mile in length,) paused
for some time in pleasure on the rocky steep far in
front, whereon the naked gray walls of the mansion
rose like a tower of defence against all intruders,
while on each side were glimpses of the ocean be=
yond, wild and boundless.

It is probable that the tenants of this domain didL
not deem it a cheerless abode: their fathers had
lived and died here before them, and they had
never known scenery more soft or genial. The
saying might with good reason have been used by
the. poor as well as the afﬂuent, both of this and the
neighbouring inhabited districts, that every man’s
house was his castle; for who would come to so
remote and uninviting a tract to invade or molest
them ?—Yet, the plea of independence availed not
now :—the peel of Reformation had sounded forth
through all the land ; and cot and tower, monas-
tery, and chapter-house, heard it alike either with
anxiety or dismay. To a people who lived so re-
mote and tranquil—so removed from the reﬁne-
ment in arts or manners,—Who rarely found'their
irayiinto the more central part of the kingdom, so

 
 

THE LEGEND or PACORRA. 127

that few who chanced to wander here from the
court, imagined they had stumbled on another
and a savage land,—it Was cruel to be thusdisturbed
and invaded in the exercise of their religion. But
the gross ignorance’wherein the greater part of
them lived disarmed the sympathy of' others on their
account. The temporal loss to the province by
the destruction of its few religious establishments
was probably much greater than its spiritual. In
a land wild and waste like Cornwall, the Catholic
faith had its charms: the fewness of its towns and
villages made the monastic retreats most welcome
to the .traveller or wayworn passenger. A hospi-
table reception awaited him, as well as a substan-
tial repast in the refectory, and lodging for the
night. The rustic, too, shared in these advantages,
and saw perhaps more comfort, if not luxury, in
the interior of the monastery than was presented
by the dwelling of his afﬂuent landlord.

In none did the agitations of the period excite

deeper emotion than in the tenants of the lonely ,

dwelling of Pacorra. These consisted oftbe owner,
a rather elderly man, whose mind and manners were
such as characterized the country gentlemen of the
period—illiterate and somewhat superstitious ; and,
as his steps had never wandered beyond his native
province, his ideas, in spite of a good understanding,
were as conﬁned as the limits of his own valley.
To hunt the game that abounded on the neighbour-
ing hills ; to drink hard at the boards of his friends, as
well as at his own, (for hospitality was ever a feature
in the character of the people ;) to farm his paternal
acres, and look after his scanty ﬂocks and pasture-
ground,—Were the sole avocations of the lord of the
place. Such an existence possessed in its coarse and

 
 

£28 TALES or THE WEST.

unvaried habits little to be envied ; and his family
partook of its routine, though not of its monotony.
The mistress of the mansion was a being of another
hind : mild and amiable, she seemed more ﬁtted to
dwell in some conVent solitude, in a richfclime,
and amidst richer scenery, and to give her spirit and
, the hours of its pilgrimage to contemplation and
prayer, to deeds of kindness and gentleness, than to
be the mate of the rude and boisterous Cornish
squire.

There were two goodly sons also, as far as tall
stature and strength of limb went ; hoth‘now grown
up to man’s estate: and one daughter completed
the family list.

In such-a situation, What could be expected ofa
girl so brought up, but that she should be either a
wild, u’ngovernable hoyden, with robust health and
spirits, rude as her native blasts,—or a timid, shy,
reserved being, who would tremble at the approach
of a stranger, and never soar to any destiny beyond
her own sea-girt walls'.l The child of this couple
united a portion of both these characters, with
enough only of the former to give occasional ﬂashes

, of energy and spirit, (when any circumstance called
them forth,) to the usual calm and peaceful current
of her thoughts and expressions. The mantle of
her mother, had indeed fallen on her : the soft
glance of the blue eye, and the sweetness of voice
that ever accompanied Mrs. Trastere’s address,
were the dowry of 'herrfavourite daughter, and the
same kindness of temper also.

These were not qualities common to the age or
country, and may be rather said to have been trans-
planted from a more, indulgent clime. Squire
Trastere had met and fallen in love with the sister

 

       
 

{div C ‘

 

THE LEGEND or: meow. . 1.29
of ah‘o’pulent Italian merchant, whose affairs had
brought him to England: they had both come to
this western country to visit a brother who had been
for several years a member of the celebrated mo-
nastery of Trywardreth. During the few weeks
which they passed in the neighbourhood of their
relative, the merchant had fallen ill, and died in the
odour of sanctity, as the friar declared ; who took
possession of the greater part of his goods and chat-2
tels ; earnestly recommending his sister, at the
same time, to enter into a nunnery, and devote her
life to contemplation and» good deeds. The young
Genoese was too handsome and. loved the world too
well to be very ambitious of such a step ; she bad

\

resolved to return to the English metropolis, and "

thence ﬁnd her way back to her own land as she
might, when she was seen and passionately admired
by the Lord of Pacorra, at that time on a visit to a
friend in the north of the county. There was iittle
similarity in, mind, temper, or taste, between, the
fair and well-educated Italian and the Cornishman’ :
but love even in a savage, where it is sincere, has
been known to excite sympathy in the female heart»:
besides, the lady was an exile from her native land ;
and a feeling of desolationhad come over her mind

since the death of one brother, and the unkindness-

of the other. The small property she possessed
would soon be exhausted : these reasons, to which,

though of less force, were joined the advi‘ceanci

ontreaties of her interested brother, determined her

to become the bride of her western lover, who to

sincere attachment added the recommendations of

a‘good face and ﬁgure. ' She came to the sea-beat

valley—«Oh what a change from the luxuriant and

Eden-like vicinity of Genoal—neternal reeks {2'23
VOL. I.——-M
 

130 TALES or THE WEST.

her gardens of oranges and myrtle l—ﬁerCe waves
for the calm and lovely exPanse 'ofsher bay! and in
place of the splendid and‘sultry skies, clouds, dense
fogs, and ceaseless rains ! The palaces of her
city’s nobles too Were in her memory when she
entered the naked court and low smoky hall ; yet
Anna was neither ambitious nor vain-glorious :—-a
few deep sighs and even tears were all thatwas
given to past scenes and enj‘oyments: she-resolved
to be reconciled to the lot she had embraced, and
to adhere faithfully to the path before her.
She had much to endure for many years, but the
sweetness of her temper bore and conquered all.
The rough and untamed habits of her husband
yielded in a measure to its resistless inﬂuence : his
affection never diminished ; it was the best redeem-
ing virtue he possessed,'and would have atoned for
~ many frailties.’ In all companies where he hap-
pened to be, or where the bowl had passed freely
round, he bore both jeer and taunt respecting him-
self or his proceedings : but if any one presumed to
reﬂect on the foreign origin and manners, or retired
habits, of his wife, he! must instantly consent to en-
'dure the “ rough word and the rude blow.” And
so well was this point in the Squire’s character
knowu and tried, that envy, which had been rife at
ﬁrst at the Italian’s superior accomplishments and
reﬁned address, gave way at last, awed by the in-
voluntary respect which her excellent conduct in~
spired, as well as by the husband’s ﬁercer temper.
It was true, the wives and daughters of the neigh»
bouring gentry could not always repress their spite
and discontent on the rare occasions of visiting Pa-
corra Seat, as it was called. They could neither
sing nor play; and the soft, rich accent ‘of the
 

 

run LEeENn or PACORRA.‘ 13l

stranger, as she accompanied the guitar she had
brought from her native soil, placed the “rude ac‘r
cents and home-spun ballads of the visiters at an
immeasurable distance ; while in conversation they
listenedin mute wonder as she told of foreign glow
ries, temples, and palaces: and no sooner had they

achieved the steep descent behind the house, on *

their return, than the words provincially uttered,
“foreign minion,” “impreper’rolling of the eye,”
with other like expressions, were heard bandied
about, to console the uneasiness they felt, when
brought fairlyvinto contact with their neighbour.
As to the lady herself, these were things she heard
or heeded not; :—-—happy in the society of her chil-
dren, she chieﬂy occupied herself in their educa-
tion—a beloved as well as indispensable employ-
ment, as there was no proper seminary at that time
in the land. Other cares and duties also found
their way into her path, though of minor import:
for where is the sphere, however conﬁned, that

does not offer to its possessor abundant means of

doing good or of decreasing the fearful lot of hu-
man misery? To alleviate the latter was a favour-
ite care ofthemistressof themansion; and not a
week passedbut the huts of the tenantry, both in
her husband’s and other land's,jwere visited and re-
lieved. Often was she seen ascetnding, the wild
heights, and pursuing the scarcely visible path over

dreary moors, accompanied by her favourite childb

Years had ﬂed as fast and pitilessly in the valley
as in the courts of kings, and at that period of our
story to which we now advance the Squire of Pa-
corra, as well as his wife, were past the middle of
life. The slight gray tinge that had mingled with
the thick raven hair of the former, was the on? ‘

 

 

 
 

 

132 TALES be THE WEST.

sign of age that be exhibited ; his strength and the ’
tone of his spirits were little abated, ,

It was an evening in the gloomy month of No— '
vember, that had marked its reign ill-the territory
less by frost ‘or snow than by drizzling rains and
thick fogs, which atmorn and eve were accompa~
nied by extreme cold. The family were assembled
round the table in the hall to supper, though it was
yet only six o’clock ; and though there was no
curfew-bell to sound the passage of time, the ex~
treme regularity of the domestic habits never al_
lowed the hour to be mistaken. The early dinner
at mid-day gave interval enough for the appetite to
grow keen for‘the evening meal, and the few but
substantial viands that now appeared on the board
were well suited to gratify it. A joint of excellent
mutton, and a fowl, a tempting dish of mullet,
caught the same morning oﬁ" the shore, and a huge

silver ’ﬂagon, whose size denoted the thirsty prom

pensities of the father and his two sons,“ stood at the
head of the table, on which pewter trenchers were
placed ; and the dishes were of the same. material,
for plate was an indulgence conﬁned to the monaste~
ries and the nobility. The Squire, indeed, possessed
a few old-vessels of silver, bequeathed b‘y'his ances-a
tors, but to use them, except on rare and important
occasions, would have been a cardinal sin. The
weather was calm,though cheerless, so that the large
turf ﬁre that ﬁlled a considerable portion of the chim—
ney sent its smoke by geod fortune upward, instead of
casting a dense shroud oyerthe forms and features of
the company. At the head of the table sat the lord of
the dwelling, a tall, square-shouldered, bony man,
with a character of countenance in which good-

nature was mingled largely with an expression 05’

 

 
 

run LEGEND or ”courts. 133

wilfulness and absolute rule. A short jet beard
‘ contrasted well with his still ruddy aspect, and his
large black eyes were turned in succession on the
different individuals who composed the party, while
' he continued toeat rapidly :—but they rested with
peculiar pleasure on a delicate female who sat dear
him on the right,~and seemed rather to witness than
share in the pleasures of the repast. Her mild blue
eye met her father’s with joy, and with her smile
of inexpressible sweetness conveyed an impression
of her temper and character that could not deceive.
Her dress was simple, andgtasteful also; the silk
gown, conﬁned by a girdle of the same material,
was surmounted by the coat, waistcoat, or short
tunic, (-by each of which names it went,) of green
cloth, lined with fur, and suited to the advancing
season. But she were one article of luxury that
was rarely found at that day even in the halls of
nobles, orthe bowers of the most curious dames;
it was a shawl of Eastern manufacture, and had
found its way to Pacorra from one of the Phceniu
cian ships which camemthe Mount’s "Bay for tin ;
and as the Squire possessed some share in the pro-
duce of the mines, that were even then, worked a
few miles distant, he had caught eagerly, in part of
payment, at this shawl for his fairdaughter. , It was
of cashmere, and its rich colours and exquisite wprks
manship gave to Mary’s slender and elegant form,
particularly at night, a character almost Oriental ;
while her oWn taste, as well as the observation of
the seller, as to the custom‘ of his country, induced
her to weave it frequently round 'her head in the
form of a turban.

“What ails you, my child,” said Trastere, “that
you do no honour to the good meal? and—your look

M 2

\

 

 
 

 

§34 TALES or THE when

is paler than it is wont to be ! The walk over the
hills with your mother to yonder peasant’s cottage
has OVer-wearied you. Those rocky heights are
too rude for your strength.” ’

“ It was farther than we thought,” said the mis-
tress of the dwelling, in her sweet-accented voice;
“ the day was so lovely we heeded not the distance,
‘ and the toil was richly paid by the pleasure we ex»
perienced.”

“ But the girl has not your Italian ardour of punk
suit, Anna, that would defy the desert or the pesti~
lience in search of its favourite object,—or even the
wilds of death, the Maremma, which you, have so
often told me of; neither are her feet on your soft
sunny shores of Genoa—William !” calling to a
tall youth, at the farther end of the table, in a voice
that might have rung down the steep without, “ bring
inegfnomthe'press on your right-hand a flask of
Musﬁat, that cheers the ﬂagging spirit, and would
almost bring back life to a drowned man. And you
will pledge me, Mary,” he continued, as the bottle
was given him, “in the small silver cup that you
never exceed ; it will restore the life to your
cheeks, and we will drink your favotzrite "toast;
‘ May the‘true Church defy the eﬁ'orts of her ene-
mies l’ ” Thus saying, he ﬁlled a goodly ﬂagon and ‘
' drank it, off with inﬁnite satisfaction; while his
daughter obeying his entreaty, herlook grew more
animated, and a faint colour came to her aspect, as:
she named the toast. ' a

“ I knew,” cried Trastere, “that the geod wine.
would not belie its virtue; it would drive despair
itself from the blanched cheek.-—But, Dick,” exr.
claimed he to his second son, in, an angry tone,
’3‘ who gave you leave to empty the bottle at that:

 
up; LEGEND or madam. 135

rate {have you no more conscience ?—-Look! it
the swigbelly has not nearly drained it to the bot-a
tom !-—-ten years in the cellar, too—and only ﬁve
more left !» Look you, my lad, I’ve often warned
you of the love of liquor: many a family have 1
known, and many a goodly man, made shipwreck
of :—so, if you ever Wish to prospers-abut hand me
up the bottle ! there ’s no trusting it so near you.”
“ The hunt toy-day has sore worn me: the fox
took up Pertinny Hill, and away to the north shore,”
said the son: “ and that wine has brought dule
(comfort) to my \heart and limbs, that I should n’t
mind another start—or even a round of cudgels :--
it beats ale all to nothing l” ,
“ So much the worse for your future comfort,
you graceless dog ! Have you forgotten the distinc»
tion Father Peter made the other day,———‘ that good
ale only unsettled the head, and made the hands
like edge-tools—but that old .wine stole away the
heart, and made death and destruction lie in wait.
on each side ?’ Is it more than a few months ago
Squire Treseigh tumbled over the head (cliff) of
Tol-y-pedn, mistaking the light on board a ship for »
his own helm—did not young Carelew, going home
last year from his aunt’s funeral, walk into a tin-
shaft upon Carnbrae, and thereby leave a fine pron
~perty to go to his cousins ? What a property !” t he
added with a sigh: “ all Sermon Green for sheep-
Walks :—glorious ﬁshing in the coves below :-—and
ﬂocks of Wild-fowl in the great pool, enough to
darken the sun. And all lost for a ﬂagon of Ali-
eant too much ! so take warning, Richard, in time ;
your head is not so old as mine; but the Muscaa
dine,” as he poured the last contents of the bottle

 

 
 

 

3‘36 "TALES OF THE west

into the cup, “is a lighter wine” than the Spanish,
and farmore innocent.”

As the jolly-hearted Squire ﬁnished these words,
' the door opened,_and a personage entered, in whose
mien or form there was nothing, at the ﬁrst glance,
very impressive. He was somewhat advanced in
years, and from his aspect it might be thought that
the world, which had hitherto spared, had begun
to deal hardly with him ; for sorrow sat there like
a stranger: and as he gently advanced to the upper
end of the hall, he was warmly greeted by the
whole party, but especially by the ladies, whose sa~
Iutation he very courteously returned. “ You are.
most welcome, good faiher,” said the host : “ and
not the less so, because unexpected :-:-it’s a weary
‘inile to the monastery, and you seldom choose such
late hours for your visits ”‘ '

“ None but an unusual occasion would have
drawn me here,” said the visitor, in a mild yet ear-
nest voice: “ it is seldom I venture forth at such
a time, and on so damp and dark a night. Had,
not my mule found out the path better than his
master, we had yet been wandering on the wild
paths, shrouded in the dense fog. . But your ﬁre
burns cheerfully, and its warmth and light are most
grateful.” He accepted the full cup presented by -
his host, took the chair placed at the chimney-side
hm fairer hand, and then continued: ‘ Would that
all” of my ﬂock were as you are l but many, very
many of them, wander now like sheep without a
shepherd, and my declining years will go down in
bitterness. O St. Nicholas ! little did I look for
this day. Have I not strove night and morn, in-
spite of the occasional wanderings of my brethren,
to make St. Buriens like a ﬂower in the land, that

 

   
 

ma LEI-GEN? or savanna. 137

all men might draw unto? "and now it will soon be

desolate, and its gray walls, it may be, that have

stood the strife of ages, entered no more by the
faithful foot, or clung to by the helpless heart l”

‘ “ You are deeply moved, good father,” said the
elder lady : “ has any new and evil event occurred
to agitate you thus ’l” t

“ Not yet, my daughter, not yet; but the hour

‘ draws nigh: rumours have reached me that the

wolves of heresy will soon bend their steps this 1
way, to prey upon the lonely fold that has thus far

been spared—for what has St. Buriens left to
tempt their greediness, or even their thirst of de»
stroying’! The few lands are reft which the col-
lege once called its own; few benefactions now ﬁnd
their way there ; we are impoverished even to the
, bone. Most of the brethren, you know, have left
me since the hour of distress came upon us; Fa-
ther Austin alone With old Paul remain, because
their superior is the only stay they have on earth.”

“Think not so darklyrof the hour to come,”
said Mary, in a tone of deep feeling; “ should the
enemies in truth ravage your home, is not our hall
open as your retreat? The beggar and the friend»
less are not turned from this door, and will it net
be opened with joy to receive our guide and con-
fessor, our dear and ancient friend 1” "

“ Thanks ,for those words,” said the agitated
man, ﬁxing his eyes with a look of paternal fo‘ﬁtlu
ness on the speaker, “they were not necessary to
assure me; yet sweet it is in the day of darkness
to hear the voice of ﬁdelity and consolation, and
seldom do my ears now drink it in. I am come,
my friends, to take your opinion,—-—fer eyen the

spiritual superior may seek counsel from. the chiei‘

 
138 V TA‘LES or THE WEST,

of his ﬂock, when those of his own brotherhood
desert him ; to consult if it be not better to resist
to the last those ﬁerce oppressors, and be buried
amidst the ruins of my beloved house, than tamely
to surrender it at their demand, or submit to terms
that are still more degrading.”

We will leave, however, for a while, the colloquy
that took place, as well as the measures that were
embraced or rejected, in order to revert to the pe-
riod a few months previous to the father’s visit, and
to the monastic retreat already spoken of, which
might truly be called the last in the land, since the
Atlantic spread its waves at a short distance, and
its stupendous barriers forbade all farther advance.

The origin of the establishment of St. Buriens
was extremely remote—even in the year 460, when
St. Berian, (or ‘Burianna, according to the most
learned antiquaries,)—came into this country from
Ireland, and landed on the north coast. She was a
holy woman, and the daughter of a king ;—-twb
qualiﬁcations which in any age would be sufﬁcient
to produce great things, much more in the barba»
rous and superstitious period that was blessed with
her wanderings. She was accompanied, says the
tradition, by many persons of high birth and dig-
nity; and thus attended, advanced farther a few
leagues towards the west, and settled in the terrim
tory that is still called by her name. On this very
spot she built an oratory, and passed there the
whole of her subsequent life, though not the most
laborious researches of antiquaries have yet dis-
covered whether she was a young and lovely wo-
man when she landed, or an experienced lady
stricken in years, which would have made the sa-
criﬁce less, as well as shortened the period of her

a

 

       
THE Lnennn or sitcoms. 1391

penance. The sanctity which this oratory obtain-
edthrough all the land continued fresh and undi-
minished till the days of Athelstan, who conquered
Cornwall about the year 930. The historical tra-
dition is very distinct: “ When the King was but
a few miles from the ocean, and in the present road
to it, he went into an oratory, which had been
erected by that ancient lady, who was buried in
her owu chapel. He prayed for success in his ex-
pedition againSt the Scilly isles, and vowed, if he
conquered, to erect a college there, and endow it
with a large income. The isles were subdued, and
the King returning, minded his vow, and ordered a
church to be erected on the spot, (in view of his
conquest on a clear day,) a college of clergy to
minister in it, and assigned it a large quantity of
lands. They were dedicated to St. Beriana, and
7 were exempted from all episcopal authority what-
ever, save that of the Pope. It cannot be said
that the inmates of this establishment retained long
a tithe of the self-denial or strict discipline of their
foundress. In the days of Leland they were often
absent for some time together, wandering to and
fro for their’own pleasure. “ Their longeth'to St.
Buryens,” he says, “a deane and many preben-
darys, that almost be never ther, and therebe not
above eight dwellying howses thereabout.”
Between its erection and ﬁnal suppression, howw
ever, a number of deans, of various character and
talents,had ruled over this solitary college—among
‘them was more than one foreigner, and the rule of
a Frenchmanﬁ" in the time of Edward the Third,
caused the loss of part of their patrimony. These ,—.

' * John de Mme.

 
 

140 rams on THE WEST.

had: lived and died in. good and: peaceable times,
before the days of evil, came, that now fell heavily
on their latest successor, Alan de Stokes. Dis~
cipline had at no period been very rife within the
walls of the 'college, and it cannot be said that the
present superior, who was a tranquil‘and amiable
man, and strove to do all. the good in his power, as
'far as his. belief went, was exactly the character to
revive the decaying rules and fortunes of his house.
Yet he blenched not from the storm, but seemed to
gather ﬁrmness as it thickened around him: and
the period when he found himself left at last alone
to bear all its violence, might be said to be the best ,
and noblest of the superior’s life.

To the stranger’s regard there was little to fas»
einate about the father’s abode ; but to his own eye
and feeling it was like the hall of his ancestors to
the last of a long descent. He had lived there
almost from boyhood ; it had been to him the sole
theatre of passion, hope, and fancy, which the
world afforded. Certainly the illustrious Irish
saintess, amidst her many excellent qualities, was
not gifted with a taste for the picturesque : whether
a dream, or ,a prediction, or, may be, a desire to
mortify the fondness of the eye for looking on
lovely things, was the cause of her selecting such
a site, cannot be decided. The college stood on
rather elevated ground, though it could not be po-
sitively termed a hill; and vast was the dreary pros~
pect that stretched on every side. Often did the
passenger over the almost pathless waste bless the
moment when the tower of the church ﬁrst met
his View at a distance; for the habitations around
were poor and at long intervals, and their cheer
was worse. Stoutly and imposingly did the sacred

 
   

   

THE LEGEND or PACORRA. ’ I41

and unassuming ediﬁce brave the winds of heaven,
that seemed to meet around it from every quarter;
no sheltering hill, with a north aspect, was nigh;
no grove, or clump of trees, lent softness, to the
scene, or waved round the gray walls, w .ich rose
all bare and bleak to the eye, and gave no outward
Sign that there was enjoyment or luxury within.
The monks of all ages have been remarkable for
good taste in the selection of the sites of their re-
sidences, and seldom have had reason in after-times
to ridicule thechoice of their founders. But often
in their hearts did the inmates of this college. curse
the choice of the excellent Sigﬁerianaigvliile con-
fined within the walls of-theii‘nwild endgampest-
beaten home: why did she not choose a inorééshel-
tered place? there was the sweet valley of Rese-
inoddris within View to the south, on lower ground,
and richly shrouded by foliage; for still, solitary
devotion, it was just the thing; the winds blew soft
and mildly there, and green sunny slopes rose on
every side. They rose not, however, around St.
,Buriens ; for,-on descending the gradual declivity
whereon it stood, long, dank moors awaited the
traveller, to which there seemed no end.

These moors were tenantless ; on their surface
were seen frequent and turbid pools of water, ’
caused by the plentiful rains, and to their banks in.
winter came numerous ﬂocks of wild fowl, whose
shrill ory was the only sound heard on the waste.
In summer, the sun-beams fell not on one object of
loveliness within the circuit of many miles: there
were somehollows at the foot'of the long hill on
either side, that ran along for some distance ; their
bosoms washed by yellow and, rapid streams: the

‘whole presented a seclusion that Would have been
VOL. I.——N
   
  
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
   
 
 
    

142 TALES on THE- WEST.

coveted by a monk of the Thebais, butnot by the
lazy and luxurious inmates of Saint Buriens. The
lands that belonged to their foundation, however,
. lay on the ﬂat grounds immediately around, and
were productive and-well-farmed. Corn,suﬂicient
for their own consumption, was produced here, as
well as a Surplus quantity that was annually sold:
cattle grazed in the meadOWS, and sheep, of excel-
lent ﬂavour, on the pastures of [the hills, The cel-
lar of the college might have tempted a dainty
Norman knight to prolong his stay ; for the conve-
nience of good ports on either side the Peninsula
enabled the, judicious superiors to obtain, as often
as they chose, the most approved and various wines
of France. Fish, of every kind known in the realm,
was to be had in abundance from the neighbouring
coasts. Thus provided, it may be deemed the good
monks had little reason for meriting the censure of
Leland, ‘that they were often absent from their
dwellyng’f more "especially, when their peculiar
privilege is taken into account, that they were ex«
empted from the authority or jurisdiction of any
other order “or monastery whatsoever, The cele-
hrated one ofthe Benedictines of Trywardreth; or
that of the Knights Hospitallers still nearer, could
neither censure nor interfere with the lives or pro-=-
cecdings of the small and lonely, brotherhood of
Saint Buriens. Then there were a few pleasing:
features attached even to their exposed situation:
the view from the tower of the church, and also e
from the Windows of the residence, looked on the ‘
noble sweep of ocean to the south and west: on
a clear summer or autumn evening, the distant
Seilly isles were visible, of various and romantic,
forms—a scene the eye might delight to dwell on,
 

THE LEGEND or PACORRA. 143

as a contrast to the monotony nearer by. To the
discredit of the good fathers’, taste, however, it

must he said, that they seldom troubled themselves '

to gaze either on the ocean or the sky: to them,
the ﬁelds of waving corn, the fat herds, the poultry—
yards, and, above all, the nobly-stored-cellar, had
not only ideal but positive beauty. At times, in-
deed, some brother, less indolent,-,would hie to the
shore and there pass hours in gaining a plentiful
dish of ﬁsh for the evening meal : and on cccasions,
they would hurriedly ascend, mom and eve, the
ancient tower, ,and look far anda’nxiously to sea-
ward, to catch a glimpse of the bark bound from
the opposite coast with a fresh stOCk of Burgundy

or Gascoigne. But they were few in number, and

deemed their resources also few, envying the more
fortunate sites of some other brotherhoods: the
Cistercians for instance, who dwelt near the gay
town of Bodman, (the capital of the province,)
whose dames were as affable as eminent for their
comeliness ; and St. Germains also, whose deep
shades and ﬁne _ri-Ver were not its only attractions.
The wooden Oratory of the saintess had for more
than ten centuries been replaced by the Solid stone
Saxon ediﬁce :, small, yet massive in its preportions ;
and as it was the sole religious temple in all those
parts, it might well pass among its votaries as im-
posing and venera‘nlem The church itself was low,
and of; scanty dimensions within, being scarcely
more than forty feet in length: the walls, of rough
hewn stone, were several feet thick, and faced
at the corners with square and more polished
blocks: outside, it was roofed with slate. Conﬁned
as the area was, it was nevertheless divided into
two aisles by a few slender stone columns, of rude

 

 
144 ‘ - TALES OF THE wasra , ‘

workmanship. The windows, that looked out
upon a‘wild scene on each side, were very long and
narrow, and ornamented wit-hefree-stone cut in cu- “
rious fashion. The single Western window (which
was the largest) was of stained glass, and fronted
the setting sun, whose light was thus thrown with ﬁne
effect on the pillars and the ancient pavement, and
on the tombs of the many superiors who slept be-
neath, each in his stone coﬂin, and having left the
‘ full odournf sanctity behind him. On the walls,
in different parts, were ranged the goodly and re-
vered ﬁgures of saints of various nations and van
rious virtues. Conspicuous over all, in a niche be-
side the altar, stood, or rather kneeled, the marble
form ofthe gracious St. Beriana, clothed in a drape-o
ry of scarlet silk; her Irish extfa’ctionspeaking in
her eloquent, cheek, and her high descent marked
by a gilded circle, intended for a crown, on her
_head. On her features time had had little inﬂu-
ence; there was still the same resolved and self-i
denying expression ; the same scorn of the pas-
sions, of power, and of all the good things of this
World. it is probable, that the ediﬁce had been
rebuilt or repaired since its ﬁrst erection, by King
Atheistan; and that this ﬁgure, universallyadmired,
as Well as two or three rude paintings, had either
been the fruit of improvement in the ﬁne arts, or
- imported from the realm of ltaly. ,

The care of these treasures was the chosen pro-
vince of the present superior, who having been
educated and fostered within the walls, had, in spite
of his general good sense and discernment, drunk.
largely of the frivolous superstitions and weak ob-
servances of the age. Unlike many of his profes-
sion, Alan was strongly attached not only to the

x

       
 

meessmy or PACORRA. 145

 

heading; * ‘es of his faith, but to its mysterious
traditions and sweet and Wondrous fables , whereto
”he clung with the fondness and pertinacity of the
«inmost ignorant beldame 1n his diocess. His com~
' ‘munity often sneered at this trait in his character,
:3" ‘and listened with abstracted thoughts to his details
5“ “and eulogiums on great and canonized mew The
3 prevailing unbelief in these things, he would some-
" 7 times say, had much to do in bringing on the deso-
lation of the church: inﬁdelity had spread, like a
torrent, over the land. He would fain, in the com-
mencement of his rule, have tightened the reins of
discipline to regar‘z’dt 0 his breth1en; but he saw it
was in vain, and his easy temper soon yielded to
the various innovations and indulgences that mark-
ed their careei.

The college stood at a short distance from the
chapel, and, like the latter, was neither extensive
nor magniﬁcent; yet it possessed every requisite
for the comfort of its inmates. its apartments were
few; of these, the kitchen and the refectory were
the largest, and probably the Best regulated: then
there was “the deane’ s parlour,” and the library,
better stored with manuscripts, than the conﬁned _
nature of the institution would give reason to sup-4
pose. Many of these were in foreign languages,
brought by John de Maute, (the superior in Ed-
ward the Third’s reign,) from abroad.

The stables also were an indispensable appen-
dage. Father Alan was perfectly contented with“
his own mule, which had grown old in bearing
him the distance of a few miles out and home again.
But the younger and more restive brethren liked
ooursers of mettle, good in appearance and Swift
of foot; and often, to the scandal of the Church,

N 2,

 

 
 

148 7 frame on THE wssr-

-—a scene that St. Beriana would have wept bite
terly over,—would these gay friars ride merrily and
fast along the roads to the dwelling of some hospi‘
table squire or farmer, to share in the banquet 01'
the game, So well known, in- fact, was the mirth~
fit] and idle life of these college brethren, that oft-

times there came of other fraternities, far and near, .

to share their hospitality on various pretences of
saints’ days, festivals, &c. ‘

To men thus worldly, and from whom retirement
from the world (as it was called) had not taken a
single enjoyment, the tidings of the Reformation,
that came fast and fearfully, were like a summons
to the judge’s bar. ‘lt was soon after several of the
larger abbeys had fallen, when the same fate was
dreaded even by the lesser and more'remote, that
the inmates of the dwelling of St. Buriens were
assembled in the refectory; the unusual number
of the party denoting that an event of some mom
ment was in contemplation. From the rapid man»
nor in which the ﬂagon was at ﬁrst ﬁlled, the hura
ried and sometimes hushed conversation, and the
variety of tone wherewith it was carried on, the
party resembled more one of military men on the
eve of a desperate battle, and” seeking to stiﬂe or
excite their feelings, than of lazy and peaceable
monks, to whose existence one day rolled on in
the same routine as the past. Yet the cause of the
alarmed aspect, pale or ﬂushed, exhibited on this
occasion by each of the fathers, could not be
slight; it was evidentall their hopes, their comfort,
nay their very being, were closely connected with it.

The evening, had been lovely; the setting sun
glanced through the windows of the refectory, and
fell on a few of the ﬁgures who were seated at the

r

   

c

 

 
 

THE LEGEND OF momma, E437
table. The startled look, [the quivering lip, and
anxious, almost anguished“ features of two or three
of the eldest, were shown more vividly in the yel-
low beam ;——for what could be more cruel to men
grown gray beneath an indulgent and luxurious
roof, than the prospect of being driven forth on the
world, to get their living by the way-side, or to.
starve ’l The dull and incessant murmur of the sea
upon the north shore was brought to their ears
amidst the stillness of the evening; and by the
silence and abstractedness that at times, in spite of
all their eﬂ'orts, came over the party, it would, seem
as if they listened for the distant approach of an
enemy, or the fearful sound of the Spoiler’s step.
News, indeed, had reached them the same day that
the commissaries had made a visitation to the
monasteries in the north of the province, and that-
their proceedings had been ruthless and unsparing ;
soon would their feet be at their own door also.
Next the superior was seated a venerable-looking
man, who spoke little, and seemed to be quite over-
whelmed by the pressure of some calamity. His
long white beard rested on his breast, and his eye~
brows, of the same hue, almost sank on his large
gray eyes; his garments, of costly material, were
disﬁgured by travel and the usage of rougher hands
than those of his attached domestics, His long,
meagre hand, that rested on the table, was occasiom
ally lifted in mute wonder, or in sorrow that might
not be uttered ; and his earnest and. eloquent look
accompanied the gesture. It was the Abbot of Ta-
vistock, a few months previously expelled from his
retreat—which expulsion, in consequence of the
old man’s obstinacy, had been accompanied with in;
sult and blows; and he had found his way at last to

 

‘1 "its. ”-5

 
 

its was or THE wasrf

the remote'dwelling of his ancient friend Alan, as an
asylum hitherto untouched.

The only one in the company who showed any
signs of ﬁrmness, was the superior: he sought to
cheer the drooping spirits of the fathers ; and while
his mild and expressive features were turned on
them, he urged with zeal the adoption of stricter
discipline and unwearying devotion as the best
means of averting the threatened evil.

“‘ Is it not so, Abbot?” he said, addressing his
associate; “ does not the deep malice of our foes,
spurred on as they no doubt are by the powers of
darkness, require to be combated—not by the ba-
ron’s towers, or the knightly lance—but by wean
pens more rcsistless '2”

The old man neither heard nor heeded him, or
he might haye said how he had "watched, and wept,

and fasted, ere his ancient asylum was rent above

his head. His thoughts were wandering to past

hours of peaceful seclusion; of undisturbed en-

joyment; where the stream ran amidst fruit-trees

and ﬂowers of his own garden which he delighted

to rear. His looks were turned wistfully on the

declining day, as it sank in the distance on the

wave, as if he too longed to be afar, and at rest: '
from his troubles.

Alan then turned to Father Michael, the oldest
of his community, who had been a greater home-
keeper than the others. “ It is for us, my brother,’2
he said, “ to set the example, that less experienced
of our members may follow it. In the pure and
ancient times of the Church, more, a thousand»
fold more, was done by the penances and denials
of devoted men, than the sword of the warrior
could effect. By such means were the holy orders
THE LEGEND or ”cones. ' 149

of our faith rooted and prospered; and, by the
same also may they now be preserved from perish-
ing. Ah! did St. Francis of Assisi, or the blessed
St. Bruno, now move in their pilgrimage, the foes
would be scattered before the breath of their
mouths. Let us then begin to wake at midnight
to our prayers; and again at cock-crowing, ere the
eyes are well closed in sleep: let the tapers burn
all night in the chapel; then will our matins be
sweet after watching. A spare diet also, without
wine ; and, instead of lying down at noon to slum»

, , her, let each repair to his own cell, to meditate and

‘ strive for the Church’s good.”

' Fa!her-Michael shook his head sadly, and uttered
% a groan that spoke not of eager acquiescence in
his superior’s design ; while something like a shud~
der ran through the junior part of the assembly, at
1:; thetproposal of severe and incessant exercises to
4 Which they had long, been strangers. No one
. 9 spoke in reply to the address, as to most of them
- the case seemed too desperate to be thus retrieved;
and the crater, discouraged by the lukewarmness

’ as wellas terror that had evidently fallen on his
charge, did not repeat his exhcrtations. He leaned

E; hack in his massive chair,and resting his head on “
"a one hand, While the other grasped a rich cross that
:hung on his breast, he looked earnestly and s0r~
"t”: rowfully at the silent group before him. Twice did
,"C’Father Nicholas, the cellarer, advance to the table
to rep! ,nishthe large antique silver vessel that stood
gifLmotionless, and twice he withdrew his hand on per»
4,; ceiving that its contents were not half drained.
v: “ For thirty years,” he murmured, “have I ﬁlled
it? that ﬂagon, but never did I know the rich old Gas—
-‘.;coigne slighted till now.” The unhappy thoughts-

 

 

 

 

 

   
  

 

  

 

 

 
 

 

E50 TALES or THE WEST.

which the excitements of the former hour had
lulled for a time, re-awoke with oppressive power;
and as day faded into the darkness that spread
slowly around, each monk sat lost in the sad con-
templation of the destiny before him: the friend-
, less, homeless lot, the toiling for a poor subsistence
with the sweat of their brow, must be the portion
of every one; but imagination, a very tyrant in
such moments, pictured for some even a ﬁercer
visitation : the bitter scorn of the persecutor—thc
loud laugh of derision—imprisonment, long and
cruel, ended only by the stake or by sterner tor-
tures. At intervals, the long-drawn sigh and the
stiﬂed whisper told of the internal agitation of these
unfortunate men, who had made no provision for
the day of adversity :—no memory of gracious
deeds or feelingsmof private or public ﬁdelity to
their calling, rose now to give consolation. At this
moment, gay and mingled voices came from one of
the cottages of the V‘llage at a short distance—none
of the “eight dwellyng howses” of which it was
composed; lights were seen to glance from the
windows, and one peal of merriment was succeeded
by another. On former occasions, more than one
of the friars would probably have joined the group;
for fair faces were there—faces on which they
lovedto gaze ; and tlié'inmates of the college were
known to be generous as well as gallant. 'But now
the sounds broke on the stillness of the apartment,
as if in mockery of their feelings ; they brought to
mind many a guilty pleasure, which, in fulness of"
heart and wantonness of the senses, they had
shared, and which they were doomed never to
share again. Conscience, not a cloudless one, lent
bitterness to the certainty of future desolation,
 

 

THE LEGEND 01:: PACORRA. 45" 151

One friar after the other quietly stole from the re-
fectory to his own cell ; and when the tapers were V
brought, the light discovered only the Abbot and
his friend, still seated at the upper end of the long
table. Silence was broken by the superior, who
took the‘hand of his more aged companion in his
own. “ Mine ancient friend,” he said, “ we are
fallen on evil times; and the cup of bitterness, that
was spared in our youth and manhood, is reserved
for our latest hours. It was not thus at Tavistock,
when many years since it welcomed me.

“ Alan,” said the Abbot, with a sudden burst of
emotion, while his hand trembled and his large gray
eye waxed bright,“ as the parent thinks of the
lost and only child, so does the memory of those
days cleave to me. My abbey, shrouded in its
deep rich“ woods—you have seen it, Alan: you
‘have sat with me in the shadow of its gardens;
were they not lovely and well ordered? no voice
of an enemy came nigh ; and I thought that when
my race was run, my bones were to rest there.
Oh ! that they rested there now! that the earth
I loved coveredgfhem l”

“ It was a cruel stroke, my brother; yet the
memory of along and cloudless career can give
1ieh consolation.”

“ Not for myself only do I mourn,’ ’said the old
man with Increasing emotion, “but for my poor,
myunoffending brethren: they were to me as a
family, Alan, in that beloved heritage of Tavis-
tock; they loved me as aparyent. Even the stern
examiners, who sought it eage1ly, could discover
no disorders, no crying iniquities, among them.
They were turned forth rudely: they prayed for
pity, but there was none , they looked to me fot

 
 

' ESQ TALES or THE WEST.

protectiOn, and gathered round me, the old and the "
young, with cries and tears, for they trembled to'
face a~-friendless world. I lifted my hands and
voice, and knelt to the hard and pitiless men,——~
for nobles were among them,-—-and besought them,
by the love of God—by their own hope of eternal
mercy, to spare my brethren : to wreak their malice
on me—but to spare those who had no other asy-
' lum——no other resting-place on earth l”

“ And did not the persecutors 'listen to your
prayer ?” said his sympathising friend.

“ They heard, but pitied not :——they gazed on
our desolation as men gaze upon the ﬁeld whereon
their enemy has fallen; and thrust us forth from
that home, from which our feet had never wan-
dered, even in our days of pride. ,We turned and
looked back, for earth had nothing so dear to our
eyes. The hour is before me now—the still, the
holy shades that had been hallowed by the feet of
saints! and going slowly on our desolate way, we
paused and lingered, as the towers faded slowly
, from our View, till they were lost, quite lost in the
distance. We were still a united band, though
misery was our companion ; I strove to arm my »-
fainting people with hope, and spoke of brighter
days to come. But misfortune soon severe the
oldest bonds ; in a few days they fell from me like
leaves in autumn: they should have strengthened
the hands of their Abbot, and cheered his way :‘
. but they melted, from my side, Alan, as snow—
‘W’reaths in the southern blast, save two or three,
whose advanced years left them no other hope.”

The venerable man clasped his hands ﬁrmly
together on his breast, whereon his head slowly
sank: his lips moved at times, and by the low¥mt1tv
 

THE LEGEND or , momma. 153

s tered sounds it could be discerned that his beloved
retirement was present to his view ; was again
around him~perhaps in its peace and power, ere
the hour of spoliation came.

CHAPTER III.

THE day had been cold and windy, and the sky,
covered with dark clouds, seemed to reﬂect its
gloomy aspect in the waters, that rolled with short
and broken waves on the shore; the evening of
the—\cheerless December’s day set in rapidly.

In an apartment that rose high above the outer
wall, and looked out on the deep, were seated the
two female inmates of the dwelling of Pacorra, the
elder intent on the care of adding to the family
wardrobe, and the daughter more carelessly en-
gaged in embroidering a tasteful garment for her
own use. The occupation of each admitted of~ an
almost uninterrupted converse, which they seldom
failed to ﬁnd more suited to their taste than the long,
loud, or various discmirse of the neighbouring
parties ; for the young beauty of the ‘ mansion
idolized her mother, and few things gave her more
heartfelt enjoyment than to be her companion either
'within the walls or on a distant walk. The room
in which they were seated exhibited more comfort
in its arrangements than any other in the dwelling;
The sides were “ celyd,” or covered with wainscot;

and on the ﬂoor was a large piece of carpet, of
s: Turkye makynge,” and which though frequently
Von. I.-—O ‘

, ,l m. 1. »g,"",‘« ,9 r. ‘4; menu

 
 

 

I54 TALES or THE WEST.

seen in the affluent mansions of the period, found
its way here probably by the Eastern ships that
entered the neighbouring bay. The small “turnyde
chai1s” were such as were afterwards met with in
the poorest houses ; and the awndyern, or cobirons
en the narrow hearth supported the wood that
burned clearly. N o mirror hung its graceful length
011 the walls, which nevertheless were not destitute
of adornments; among which was a striking image
of Saint Francis, not of marble of Carrara, but of
wood, gaudily painted in colours that made the lady
sigh sometimes, when she thought of the purer
taste and material of her own land. In spite of
the saint’s vivid outﬁt, the seller, who was a foreign
pedlar and artist, had thrown inﬁnite gravity and
sternness into the features, in the idea perhaps that
the wild natives of the province required to be
frightened, 1at1‘1e1 than allured by kind and gracious
looks. Opposite to this impressive ﬁgure was an
ornament of a softer and more attractive character;
it was a Magdalen in the desert ; beautiful amidst
the agony of her repentance ; and enclosed by rocks
and howling wastes in a manner that drew the ad-
miration of the delighted guests. It had been
brought by the italian merchant as a present to
his priestly 1elati1e, who, having got hold of the
more useful chattels, allowed his siste1 to retain
' the picture. A small oak table, whose misshapen,
proportions did little eiedit to the artist’s skill,
stood near the window; and many specimens oi'
the exquisite shells found along the shore were
placed on it, amidst paits of dresses, both neces-
sary and ornamental

In this apartment its two inmates were accus-
tuned to spend the greater part of the day; not

 
run LEGEND or means. 155

always employed alike; for on a shelf on the wall
were several volumes, chieﬂy of foreign literature.
' The poems of Dante,.and even of Ariosto, were
‘there; and many an hour was beguiled while the
mother and daughter read alternately the works of
that native land, whose language the latter compre-
hended, though unable to converse in it. From
this habit, and the unwearied pains taken by a fond
parent, Mary often evinced an elevation of thought
and expression quite inconsistent with the manners
and reﬁnements of the place and society in which
she lived. There was a gulf ﬁxed between the
ideas and conversation of most of the young wo-
men around, and her own; and this was caused
chieﬂy by the almosttotal deﬁciencies of education
they laboured under, and the peculiar advantages
she possessed. An hour-glass, that stood, on the
table, had been of late much and anxiously cone
suited. , A

“ It is a drear scene, my mother, that is now be-
fore us,” said the younger lady; “the hoarse
sounds on the beach, and the shrieks of the birds,
forebode a tempest. For hours I have watched
that helpless vessel at a distance, that is stripped of
all her sails, and drives at the mercy of the blast.
It will be afearful night, and I dread that the wind
which blows full on this dangerous coast, sounds
the knell of many of the barks we saw this morn-
ing striving to gain a port.”

“ May Saint Francis avert it i.” said the other,
hastily looking at the image: “ our prayers should _
he offered to him on such a day as this, that he
would protect the wanderers on the main ;——_-and
they have not alWays been in vain. You remem-
her the rich Spanish ship that came from the In-

 
 

 

156 TALES or THE WEST.
dies,——the New World lately discovered, that they
call by that name. She was full, it was said, of
gold and silver, and many were the longing glances
and grasping hands stretched by the ﬁercenatives
for her destruction. Just as her fate seemed nigh,
I was on my knees to my patron saint, and at that
moment the wind changed, and the vessel bore in
an instant proudly away, and held on her course
till (she was lost in the distance.”

“It was a singular event, this, which you have
often related to me. Was there not a holy man on
board that ship, who had been a missionary to the
New World ’!——I saw him stand on the highest part
of the deck, with an aspect of terror, his hands up-
lifted,—and thought he looked like that ﬁgure of
St. Peter sinking in the waters, that you have de-
scribed to me as looking like the living apostle.”

“ The painting you allude to, my love, is truly a
noble one: but how many others equally so are
there in every Italian city l—Oh my own land,
where the arts are in all their glory, and nature is
of perfect beauty! when shall I see thee again 2”
and the tears gathered as she spoke. “ Had you
seen the works of Raphael, Mary, the divine ex-
pression he has cast on the forms and features of
saints and martyrs, and of the blessed .Virgin also,”
devoutly crossing herself, “ you would have been
willing, like many an Italian woman I have known,
to forego the bonds of this world, for some se-
clusion in that delicious clime, where, on every
wall and altar are seen those master-works of ge~
nius that was surely inspired.”

“No, my mother,” answered the girl, in a tone
of decision foreign to her _usual manner, “these
treasures of art, though more than earthly, would

,

 

 
 

THE LEGEND or racoam. 15’?"

not have charms to induce me to forego the world,
its associations, its friendships, the many attach-
ments by which it weaves its silken web round the
soul ! There are those who have made the sacri-
fice, and have afterwards perhaps exulted in it ; but
it is a cold, cold exchange.” '

“ There is emotion, my child, in your words as
well as looks, more than the few ties that here at-
tach you can prompt. Is there not a deeper cause?
Nay, turn not your regard from me; it can detect
no frown or harshness on your mother’s brow :—
she would watch for you and counsel you as a -
guardian angel, not as a judge. And much, if my
, suspicions are true, will you need her counsel.
You have said that to leave the world for the faith
would be too great a sacriﬁce ; I do not doubt it:
but wander not, i implore you, into any of the bye~
paths that are now spread for the heedless step;
You mourn with me the heresy that stalks, like a
spirit of darkness, over the land ;——beware when
it comes with an ensnaring aspect and a silver voice:
where the heart yields, not long does the reason
delay to follow it.” i
' “ I will beware,” replied the daughter, in a voice
that trembled with emotion; “ but do not think
that my heart can ever falter in its allegiance to the
only faith :--had it been all false and dangerous, as
its cruel enemies describe it, the path of-my parents
should be mine. But I have proved its sweetness :
am -—Maria ! my protectress and friend 1” she said,
gazing on a small silverimage of the Virgin, that hung
at her neck, “from my earliest memoé‘g thou hast
been near my heart: never will it turn from thee,
ortbecome cold to thy care and love 1”, V
4‘ Then will you ever be guarded from its delui:

Q 2

 
 

 

158 TALES or rm: wnsr.

sions ; and they are of no common kind : for less
hard is it to brave the stake, than to crush the
power of a young and ardent affection. Yet when - ;
duty and conscience call, it ought to be ﬁrmly re-
sisted. I know the object is engaging, and is not
without worth and honour ;——-but has he not fallen,
Mary, into the fatal errors of the times ? And if he
Wanders to the desert of heresy, she that loves must
follow him there, and dream not of his return, for
men say his character is decided and unhending:
and to reclaim him !—the ivyvythat clings to the oak
gives loveliness to its branches, but impairs not its
ﬁrm and rugged nature.”

“ Decide not so hastily, I entreat you,” said her
companion, confused and hesitating. “It is but
little, very little, I know of the youth of whom you
speak. He has cherished, it is true, some of the
sentiments of the Reformers, who have taken pains
to instil them into his mind. But I will not believe
that they have taken strong root there. But how
the storm rages !” she added, anxious to divert the
conversation ; “the bark too, that has kept all day
her course in the distance, comes fast towards the
shore; the clouds are driven through the sky as
rapidly as the waves along the deep; and the light-
ning ﬂashes from their dark hosoms on the face of
the precipice. Maria! that watches over the fora
saken, have pity on the mariners, who seem to long
for, yet shrink from, the shore they are approaching.
, And look ! how the billows rush on the rocks on
each side the walls ! their foam rises on the green
hank above, and their noise is like the yell of the
lion for his prey.”

“ Alas! there is no place of safety,” said the
elder lady, gazing on the fearful spectacle, “ on the
tnﬂrrvw tr-v4"*’ w "Wf-4-_.._‘ .,

we LEGEND or “can“. 159

coast; no harbour to ﬂy to for shelter; and the
1uggéd beach forbids all approach. But let us go
down to the hall, our chamber 13 too exposed to the
‘vi-olence. of the storm, and your father and brothers
are by thistime returned from the hills that look far
to seaward on every side.” ,

They descended the narrow stone staircase, that
seemed to rock with the fury of the winds ;' and
entering the hall, found the rest of the family as-
sembled there, drying their wet garments before a
large ﬁre.

“ Human aid can do nothing for them,” said the ,
loud voice of the sire; “ ’tis a strong southerly wind,
hard in-shore, and no boat can live. Since I was
a boy, never was I out in a ’worse night : the tide
has broken in upon Pacurno valley, and ﬁve of my
best sheep are missing; and the stone wall built
, for the luth (shelter) for them, is most of it blown
down.” ,

“ Perhaps,” said one son, “ she may be a French
ship, like the one that came ashore two years ago,
with a cargo of wine from Bordeaux, when we
picked up so many casks of claret, that you praised
so much, father. I thought I saw them throw
some overboard from the top of Tol-y-pedn, just
now: with this Wind they’ll drive all snug upon the
sand.”

“And the poor wretches on board, ” said the
eldel of the hopeful heirs of the mansion,,who par-
took of his mother’s milder temper, and had been

.destined to the Church, “they ’11 perish without
, absolution; it may be they are Reformers, to whom
it would be of little avail. ' Alas! if so, the stOrm
itself IS less fearful than their state. '” ‘

“A few hours will determine . in the mean time,

 

M/uﬂ...‘ a

 
 

I60 - TALES or Tuswssr.

let ’s have supper; meal time stays for no man:
fair weather or foul, one must eat ; and as you have
spoken of claret, Richard, and the driving rain on
the hill has given me a thorough chill, let ’5 have a
ﬂagon, and let the toast be, ‘ Safety to the poor
hark that drives without hope on land or deep !’
for life is dear to every man, heretic orrnot. Would
that King Harry were for One hour betvtreen her
/ planks ! he would learn to spare the keen axe and
fagot a little oftener.” And the rude and good-na-
tured Squire, whose discourse was mingled with
provincialisms, which would here be unintelligible,
sat down hastily and anxiously to the repast, listen—
ing at intervals for new sounds in every pause of
the blast. And he waited not long, ere voices
came mingled from without, faintly at ﬁrst, but gra-
dually growing more distinct andstrong, till they
,. prevailed above every other sound: they seemed
to be at once of distress, of triumph, and of misery.

The family rose from table, and instantly rushed
into the open air : the two females felt the wild ex-
citement of the scene, even amidst the soft promptv
ings of humanity. The strength of the infant was
here as mighty to aid as the giant’s hand : the un—
fortunate ship was urged close to the shore one
moment, and hurled back with ﬁercer impulse the
next; and ever as they drew near, the numerous
erew uttered the most moving appeals for help : but
among the crowds of spectators with which the ad-
jacent rocks were covered, no eye pitied them, no
heart prayed, for their safety. At the repeated
commands of the elder Trastere, a rope was thrown
towards the ship, but it was a. mere mockery of aid.
As the struggle of the frail bark approached its
‘ elose,-. those who looked on drew nigher to the

     

‘ qumz. “M.“‘ez—M:
 

THE LEGEND or momma. 161

wave, some even rushed into it, and there stood in
extreme peril, in order to be the ﬁrst at the spoil.
Most of them were armed with some weapon of of-
fence, hatchet or club ; even old men tottering
with years were there, and the days of their youth
seemed'to come back again as they watched eagerly
for the coming wreck, their long gray locks driving
in the wind, and their _withered hands clenching a
weapon. The wretched sailors rent their hair and
beat their breasts in despair at this scene ; for well
they knew the character of the coast. They still
stretched out their hands to the merciless natives,
who heeded them not, but bent their eyes ﬁercely
on the expected prey, and uttered ferocious cries
of joy Whenever the surge bore it near them. “ Can?
men’s hearts be thus cruel,” exclaimed Mary,
struck with horror at the scene, “ and wish the de-
struction of those that the very elements, ﬁerce as
they are, would spare '1”

As she spoke, the fate of the vessel was decided :
it dashed on the rocks, and in a few moments the
sea was covered with masts, broken planks and
ﬂoating merchandise, amidst which were discerned
at intervals the wretched mariners struggling to
avoid their fate. Several reached the shore, and
the ﬂashes of lightning discovered more than one!
arm raised to crush the feeble life that the waves
had spared : those who were well-dressed, or
had any thing valuable on their person, had no
chance of’ escape; of the common sailors, some
struggled unnoticed to land. .One man, who ap-
peared‘ to have 'b'een a passenger, had striven hard
against so cruel a death, and, exhausted with eﬂ'ort',
stretched out his hand to a peasant, atthe same
moment that he sank senseless at his feet at the

 

 
 

 

162 TALES 02‘ THE WEST,

water’s edge. The hand was grasped by the nan.
tive, but not to save, and his uplifted club was
arrested at the critical moment by the strong grasp
of the elder Trastere. “Villain!” cried he, “would
you kill a defeneeless man?”

“ Is it you, Squire,” said the other, enraged at
the interference ; “ who gave you a right to take
the wreck from atween my teeth? the chain of
gould too, hanged to his neck, and the cross;
’twould ha’ been the best night’s work I shall ever
cast eyes on : and the man ’5 dead, and all about
un goes to the ﬁnder”—still clinging to his prey.
“ He is not dead,” said the rescuer; “ so lift him
instantly from the water, and help to hear him to
the house, or you shall taste before morning of the
cell below ground; ’tis not the ﬁrst time your
cruel deeds have deserved it.”
~ With many a suppressed curse and murmur, the
wrecker reluctantly obeyed, and the stranger was
soon safely placed in the hall, where the speedy ex—
ertions of those around ere long restored his senses.
He looked wildly for some moments about him.
“ You are in kind hands, my good father,” said his
host, who perceived by his garb that he was a
priest,“ and out of all danger; so, be composed,
and cheer your spirits.”

The stranger crossed himself earnestly, mur-
mured some indistinct words of thanksgiving, and
accepted the entreaties of his host to take refresh-
ment, to recruit his languid strength. “ It is the
sound of the waves,” said the lady of the house,
who observed his still alarmed look; “and the
voices of the servants without, who are busied in
saving some of the articles driven on the beach.’_’

“I am glad that it is so,” he replied; “but my

   
 

 

‘THE LEGEND or PACORRA. I63,

mind still wanders: methoughtl heard the shouts of
those wretches, more cruel than the bowling of
wolves : never will their sound leave my'ears ; but
they are the faces and forms of friends that Irnow
‘ see.” - .

The board was again hospitably spread, on his
account, and he soon got the better of his terrors;
his pallid features glowing with returning animation
and health. He appeared to be youthful, and his
dark hair, steeped in the wave, hung long and
loosely on his shoulders, in the fashion of the
times, which many even of the priesthood followed.

This man had been a friar of the monastery of
Carthusians of the Charter House, that had been
entirely suppressed and despoiled. The fraternity
were all either expelled or doomed to a worse fate ;
the latter of which he had avoided by a timely re-
treat. Yet he knew not what to do, he said, not
being a native of the land ; having come from the
north of Italy a few years before, induced by mo-
tives of piety to quit the world. His dark features:
glowed with indignant feeling as he told how, in his
friendlessness, he had applied to the mansions of
some whom he had known staunch friends of the
faith, and guests of the monastery; and had been
received with coolness or contempt, or- repulsed
from the door, even by menials. He had found, by
good fortune, a vessel of his own country bound
homeward, and embraced with joy the occasion of
returning thither, where the sword of heresy neither
wasted nor destroyed.

As night was now far advanced, it was proposed
that the household shbuld retire to rest, and the
shipwrecked man soon lost in refreshing sl’umbers
the memory of the perils from which he had been

I

 

 
 

If ‘1“

164 TALES or THE wssr.

rescued. VWhen he arose next day, and met the
family in the hall at their morning meal, the sun
shone brilliantly, and the heavens were clear 2 but
the terrors of the night were still visible on the
beach, whereon the fragments of the ship were
thickly strewed, together with many portions of the
cargo, the most valuable part of which, however,
had been conveyed to the cottages of the peasants
during the night. The break. of day still found
many of these unwearied in their search, grasping in
jealousy of each other at what the surge momently
threw up, even amidst the bodies of the foreign
sailors that lay on the sand, stripped of every article ‘
of dress worth taking. ,

The young monk was soon aware he had abun-
dant cause to be satisﬁed with his present situation.
The hospitality he received was not momentary;
his destitute estate, and sympathy for the cause in
which‘he suffered, as well as his sacred calling,
procured him a pressing invitation to reside at the
mansion till fortune should open a more favourable
path, or an occasion present itself of return to his ,
own land. Had he been an Irish or English priest,
he had perhaps found his stay less pleasing; but
to be a fellow-countryman from the same loved
shore where the lady of the dwelling drew her
breath, and who was well skilled to converse also
of its many attractions, was a recommendation
more potent than any other.

Many an hour ﬁitted by that broke delightfully
on the sameness of the life at Pacorra, in reviving
old and fond recollections of scenes long since left
by its mistress—of the churches, palaces, carnivals,
and enchanting gayeties that had been dear to her
youth. The guest was a well-educated man, in a
 

run LEGEND or raconaa. 165

~superior degree to most of the priesthood of the
country wherein he now resided. Indeed it was
evident, from the knowledge he possessed of the
world, that his days had not always been, passed in
, a cloister ; in his air and manner there was less of
the devoted recluse than of one who had drunk deep
of the cup of pleasure, and still remembered the
sweetness of the draught. ;

In truth, he had given an impartial detail neither
of himself nor his past life, on the night of his being
saved from perishing,-—-except so far that he had

Jquitted ltaly to enter the monastery, from which,
faith the rest of his brethren, he had been driven.
’5'But the cause that led him to embrace the mo‘
.- naStic life he had not told. L He Was a native of
Florence; had wasted much of his patrimony on
his pleasures in various parts of the kingdom ; and
one night, excited by wine and a ﬁerce dispute with
Fa companion» to whom he had lost a larger sum at
gaming than he could well afford, had taken the-
not unusual revenge of his country, and with a
. blow of his stiletto had slain his adversary. He was
.toonew in crime not to feel the liveliest remorse
for: this deed. He resolved to quit his native scene
" for a distant one, to pass over to England, and de-
vote himself to the Cloister, in the hopethat his con-
science,would be calmed, and his rash act atoned
for in silence and penance.
Several years had thus passed, but long ere their
"termination he repented the hasty step he had taken.
It was consequently with more satisfaction than re-
gret that he saw the progress of the Reformation,
: and the downfal of his own as well as of other re-
' treats. He had determined, on his arrival: in Italy,
to throw off the garb as well as habits of a recluse,
Von, I.——P

 
  
 

.1.

   

3'.

 

 

 
 

166 , TALES or ran wssr.

and enter again the scenes he had lived in, where
no one knew of his past vows. His expressive
“features, that had worn by constraint the humble'
and penitent look, grew bright with joy when he
dwelt on the attractions from which he had been so
long estranged. The deed that had exiled him,
though not forgotten, came with less pain to me~
mory; and the penance he had achieved he deem-=7
ed more than half an atonement.

In the hospitable family with whom he now re-
sided, he felt constrained, however, to support the
sacredness of his character; and this fell the more
bitterly on his feelings, as he saw and met every
day, in the daughter, a being who reminded him of
the most fascinating females of his own land, while
he found himself obliged to conceal-every feeling of
admiration, and to repress its faintest expression.
It was doubly mortifying too, that he was compelled
to dwell on objects and avocationsconnected with
his own profession, (to which the conversation was
often turned,) at the very time when the words of
eulogy and perhaps of tenderness trembled on his
tongue,a-and to recount the excellent deeds of one
good father of his convent, or the more surprising
miracles of another, when these were wormwood
and gall to his spirit. Traditions too, however old
and long; strange legends,-so peculiarly acceptable .
to the female ears of the day, he was called on to
relate, and to tax his memory to its utmost extent.
Some young men would have exulted in the deep '
attention of the auditors, have putforth all their
eloquence to portray the characters of self-deny-
ing abbots, all their fancy to bring vividly to View
the exquisite unction of some martyr’s words-Jet
not so Paolo, A
THE LEGEND- or PACORRA. 167

The conversation of his’host was even sometimes
a relief from these thoughts; for Trastere had many
m3 'to ask at times respecting the Scuthern
ﬂountry, over every part of which the steps of his
guest had wandered. In his social moments he
loved to listen to the latter’s descriptions (which
we re given with zest) of his travels, the sulphureous
lake, the burning mountain, and ‘the sad ’territory
whose stiﬂing air brings death upon its wings, yet
which shepherds and their ﬂocks still haunt, Where
dwellings are seen to rise at long and lonely inter—
vals: all passed, in review. The latter theme,—
with details of rich pastures, and hills luxuriant to
the very top withherbage or vines,-—pleased the
friendly listener more than disei’msi'onS on temples
and antiquities ; and often he broke in withexpres-r
sions of admiration of so fair 3; land. He would
then:.h:imself“take up the converse, and enlarge on
the resciiireesbf his own sterile province, which he
loved, however, from his soul. ‘ Of the. tin mines, to
receive whose produce the Phoe'nicians came into
. the country several hundred years before Christ,
and carried back such an account of the reﬁnement
of the natives, as rendered them famous through
the East. Thus Diodorus writes, (for the Squire .
appealed from the Dean of St~ Burien’s information
to antiquity z) “ ‘ These Britons who live near the
, promontory Belerium, (the Land’s End,) live in a
very hospitable and polite manner, which is owing
to their intercourse with foreign merchants. They
prepare with much dexterity the metals which their
country produces..’ Thus,” said the narrator,
“while the rest of Britain was sunk in barbarism
and ignorance, Cornwall (and particularly the
western part, where the mines are situated,) was

 
 

1.68 ' , “has or runwnsry

remarked for its reﬁnement and polite manners,
insomuch that historians dwelhnpon its praise.”
(His companion thoughtrdiﬁeréntly perhaps, though
he did not care to express his dissent.) “ There
were certain mines, whose treasureslay beneath the
sea, whence some were daring enough to gather
them; and in various forms they were to be met
with in the farthest cl-imes of the globe. Do you
meet with vessels, utensils, or even weapons of war,
———of lead, "tin, copper, or brass, in the remotest
lands, and remark how eagerly the nations seek
after and prize them’.l They all come, friar, from
the bleak hills and shores you see around. Which,
then, is better? a lovely land, like yours, that earn
ries all its good upon the surface, or, a dreary one,
such as ours, that ’5 like- ahajﬁhﬁr‘ India. under
ground 2” Asthexthemecpened-on his view, the
Squire’s imaginaﬁcn warmed into enthusiasm, till
scarcely a spot upon earth appeared soillustrious
as his native province, '

 
 

 

eHAPTERIW. ,

THE sabbath morning was a bright and cheerful
une, on which the usual large assemblage of people
was gathered together near tlle‘ehurch of :St. Ma-
dern, of great antiquity. It has been contended
that a virgin was the patroness‘of this church ; that
she was buried at Minster; and that man-y miracles
were performed ether grave. A learned cem-
mentator, however, is satisﬁed that it was St. M0-
tran, ‘5 who was one of the large company that did
come from tlreland'ervit-ha St. Beriana, and he was
slain at the month. of the Hayle: thetbody was
begged, and afterwards buried here.” Near by
was the miraculous well of St. Madern, over
which a chapel" was built, so sacred was it held:
It stood at no great distance on the moor, and the
soil around it was black and boggy, mingled with
a gray moorstone. Not the loftily perched chapel
erected by the Greek pilgrims on. the. top of Mount
Sinai, was ever regarded with more veneration than
this lonely well and shrine upon the moor. No one
of either sex, young or old, proﬂigate or sober, ever
passed even within the most distant view thereof, with-
out devoutly cressing themselves. The newly dis-a.

covered Indies scarcely gave rise to more numerous

vicissitudes of good and evil fortune, of sanguine hope,

3' This chapel was destroyed by the fanaticism of Major Ceely, in
{3&8 days of Cromwell.
1? 2

i’f’fﬁ‘ J"—*"=" - ., .. v "

 
 

 

. .170 , TALES or THE WEST,

cruel. suspense, and defeated expectation, than did
this celebrated spring. It could not indeed well be
otherwise, since scarcely a gay and light-haired
girl, thriving farmer, ancient beldame, or roaring
squire, passed a year or even amonth of their lives
without coming to consult the infallible properties
of this thrice-blessed water. ' The votaries bent aw— «
fully and tremblingly over its sedgy bank, and
gazed, on its clear bosom for a few moments ere
they proved the fatal ordeal; then an imploring
look was cast towards the ﬁgure of St. Motran ;.
many a crossing was‘repeated, and at last the pin
or pebble held aloof was dropped into the depth be-
neath. Often did the rustic beauty ﬁx her eye in»
tently on the bubbles that rose, and broke, and

‘ disappeared; for in that moment the lover was lost,
or the “faithful husband gained. It was only on
particular days however, according to the increase
or decrease of the moon, that the hidden virtues of
the well were consulted. .

The appearance of the assembly that now stood
on the moor was rude and various, consisting chieﬂy
of the peasantry, among whom came some of the
afﬂuent landholders, “ few and far between” howw
ever, for they had begun to feel the inﬂuence of the
times. The congregation, that awaited only the
arrival of the priest, though little diminished in
number, was by no means so unanimous in sentia
ment as formerly, when one deep feeling of venera.
tion and awe animated [the whole. Some were on
their knees to a few, rude images over the door of
entrance, or in the niches of the walls ; while
others of the rustics, affected in some degree by the‘
tide of unbelief and incredulity that had found its
way-ereuinto their minds, stood with a wavering

‘ » +234; 'w- ‘2; -,

 
. \ Tm: wanna or mama? 1:71

and doubtful lock, or indulged ins-:3 stupid smile.
The oldwomen wore an air or pious wonder min:
glad With horror, at several of the expressions that

'fell from a few by—st-anders; and expressed their
,. feelings with no little vehemence in their :own pro~

vincial and expressive tongue.

  

“ Who said,” exclaimed a beldame with spark-

ling eyes, her skinny ﬁnger, lifted to a level with

her long gray hair, that ﬂoated with her agitation,
like a streamer in the» wind: “ who said that the
blessed lock of St; Agnes could be burnt with
ﬁre, likeTseIiful things 2 or: that the dear ﬁgure of
St. Motr’an had left OK to nod ,his gracious head ;
or by token that he wudden forgit the oﬂ'erin’? and
Maddern Well too,” raising her voice to the highest
pitch, “ that I ha’ ken’d to cure the dead palsy,
and bring akindlyvhusband and sweet bairn to my
Only: dafterﬂeivhosays the vartue is clean gone ?”

“ I did!” said a short roundfarmer, in a broken
voice, While the tear stood ready to roll down his
great cheeks: “ you know the black mare, An Ca.
tran, that-I was otferedfthirty nobles for,——she fell
deadly sick, so I goes to the Well, just in the night
0’ full 1110011, and drops in my old father’s gould
ring, that he died with upon his ﬁngers; and the
Well bubbled three times, and I was sure of the
mare, and Friar Tummas said nothing could reseest
gould. But before I comed with a light heart to
my own door-stane, my wife called out the mare
was dead, and Igsee’d the ring upon Friar Tum~
mas’s ﬁnger as he h-eldsu‘p St. Marget’s apron for
us to kiss.” " s

“ Gaffer Trewren,” said his- antagonist. hastily,
“ ’twas because you hadn’t got faiths-inegtheripfeeiOus
water; and dare ye turn to the blind heresy for the

 

 
~A-...\~h.,~~_.r:.-» v' P; _ - L—L » , 5 ~ “gum

 

 

"1’72 TALES or THE WEST.

saake of a ring ’l—ye’ll be bound yerself, where
none can loosen ye, but not with a goulden ring;
with something sharper and harder, that the ﬁre
ye ’ll be in won’t melt, ye faithless man} And will
ye mean for your black mare then, or for your»
self?”
It should seem for the latter, as the complain»
ant turned very pale at the fearful menace, and for-
* got both his losses for the moment in his terror, as
he muttered, “ Me turn from the ould way !-——no,
no, better be a Roman and loose chattels‘and all,
than ioose my own self.” At this moment he was
crossed and jeered by the schoolmaster of the vil-
lage, a self-opiniated Wight, who, with a small circle
around him, had been haranguing in favour of the
new opinions; and it should seem, from the per-
plexed looks of " severalof the auditors, ”not whOlly
without effect. Suiting the action to the word,
and with his long arm waving in the air, he had
been demonstrating that images of wood and stone
could neither hear the prayers, nor- perceive the
distresses, of those who called on them :——in ﬁne,
i that the saints were some of themno better than
they should be, and that the priests (here he low-
ered his voice and looked cautiously behind) were
drones who lived upon the poor and industrious.
To his. avocation of teacher to the urchins of the
village, this man added that of c-ieerone to the holy
places and antiquities of the neighbourhood, both
to strangers and pilgrims; and had thus fallen into
the company and converse of some who had come
from other provinces, that had been the hot-bed of
the Reformation; in communing with whom, he
had eagerly drunk of the cup of heresy; and over
enemies books, which they had left with him,

 
 

 

THE LEGEND or meenm. 17.3

{works of the ref01mers,) he had pared, night (and
day, till he had actually made every argument and
dogma his own. Here was a ﬁeld worthy the new
convert’s ambition: from advancing his novel prin»
ciples at the public-house to a staring company,
over muddy ale, he began to spread them from
dwelling to dwelling. With spare features, eye
perpetually wandering, nose and chin'alike sharp
and aquiline, and a lathy form that seemed foodifor
the northern blast, the zealous but apostate guide
sped over hill and wild, glorying in his doctrines.
Twice was he waylaid by the friars of St. Buriens,
and only escaped through extreme swiftness of foot.
Now, emboldened by the near approach of the
party whose disciple he boasted to be, he took his
stand every Sabbath on the moor, with an unbeu
lieving gaze and a hard scornful smile that never
left his lips. Often did his stealthy footstep draw
near .the cottage on the rude common by night,
and, seated by the dull turf ﬁre, while the wind
whistled shrill without, his voice was heard yet
shriller, while. he urged his bold sentiments ; thence
driven forth, sometimes ‘with blows and curses, he
retook his way in darkness and sadness.

The effect which a restless being of this kind may
produce in an ignorant a:- -d ( redulous distriot, can
hardly be measured :—-sufﬁce it to say, many was
the tranquil mind he unhingeil and troubled. Sela
dom, however, had he gone so far as on the present
morning , no doubt the-hews of the speedy downa
fal of the chapels. had ﬁned his zeal, and in the ful-
ness of his heart he, was met by Catran, the cham-
pion offall'mg Catholicism. She had always treated
him with sovereign contempt, and, ncwﬁxed her
eye upon him with a keen malicieus expresswn

 
 

 

174. TALES or THE WEST,

“ D’ye think, Atty White, ye ’re Iarning the hairns
in your dark roome at home, that ye wauve your
shrevelled hand in the wind, like the thestle on
Carnlye ? And ye mak’ it alight thing to mislaid
sowls ! I ha’ seen yere starved body and hungry
sneering look in the wind, the rain, and the dark-
ness, skim the heath and the hill, like houns after a
haare :——and what for, ye mallin ! what for 'l—to
' guide others to the pit; but your time is not long,
Atty White,—your hour is high ;——I ha’ seen your
mother !” whispered she‘in a solemn tone.

The ancient speaker, Who in her poor circle
might have been pronounced a keen observer of
human nature, knew her man, whose look of pride
faltered beneath her own; and in atone that evi-‘u
dently quavered, he asked what she-meant?

“ ’Tis three nights agone, I was crooning by the
Well-side in the bright moonlight, to span if my
dafter’s bairn shuld git past his ailins, when I saw
yere mother, man, that was mine own crony,—-but
not bye the gray stone, or the greene moss :——bye
her own grave she stoode, with a ﬁerce look and a-
warnin’ hand, and shook her gray hairs as if hope
was ower. Andken ye why, you wretch’L—the
aunciente cross—the blessede cross was torne by
your own hands from her grave, and ye brake it.
‘ Where is the cross 2’ she cried, ‘ that covered my
bones '9’ and the long deep cry went up Carnlye
syde, and» I saw the well rise and girgle above the
banks ;-—-and she lookedto the sky, and» then to the
yerth, and said—'- My sonne, my own sonne’s
deed !’ and she ﬂeed from the grave like the wind,
and her voice cam’ back upon the moor. ‘ All is

, ower !—all Is ower !’ ’Twas for‘ you, ye postate!
for sheg’s safe and comfortable with St. Motram”
 

THE_LEMND or “cones. ‘ 1’75

So was not the unhappy Whyte, who staggered
beneath the blow. The ﬁrm belief held by every
one in these appearances, took from him the power
‘of offering a single doubt or retort. He trembled
violently : his long arms sank powerless to his side ;
his aspect took a mixture of extreme terror, strug-

> gling with vanity ; and at last, with a long yet faint
step, he sought shelter amidst the crowd. His an:
tagonist gazed after him with an exulting laugh, and
then entered the church.

In one part of the ediﬁce a kneeling and admiring
group was gathered, by whom many a pitying tear
was shed, and many a sigh heaved; maids, wives,
and widows, moved by one common sympathy,
joined in the united 'wail of sorrow. The priest,
who was to ofﬁciate that day, to quicken the fading
faith of his people, had hung up a painting of St.
Bartholomew, just ﬂayed alive, and holding his skin
in his hand. The performance was rude, it is true,
and might be called, _“ a sad dauh.;” yet, to the .un-«
practised eye of the gazers, there was inﬁnite force
of expression in the rueful ﬁgure- and features of
the sufferer. It had the rare claim, of originality,
also, in .a territory where a gallery of pictures as
yet'formed no part of a grandee’s establishment;
and many and moving Were the gestures, words,
and motions. On some it had all the power of fas-
cination : these stood rivetted tothe spot with staring
eyes and open mouths,without being able to utter a
sound :to evince their surprise and delight. The
sanguine hopes of the good father were fully ac.-
complished. ~

Just as service was about to commence, two
strangers drew near the scattered fragments of the
crowd which yet remained without. One was an
elderly man, of a staid but not contented express

 

 

 
 

 

$76 TALES on THE WEST.

.sion: of countenance; he was attended by a youth
ful companion, who, from the strong resemblance;
appeared to be his son. They were each clad in
what was called, by the French writers, 8. chape-d-
plum—a largercloak or mantle thrown over the
usual dress, and open in front: and in the moist
clime, at this season, few things could be more inc
dispensable. The rather high cloth bonnet of the
younger was lined with velvet, from beneath which
his hair, worn, after the fashion of the time, ex;
tremely. long, fell over his face and eyes, so as part-,
1y to obscure their expression. His doublet was
of cloth; while the hose, that were worn not far
below the knee, and the short boot, showed to adv
vantage his well-made but not masculine form,
They entered the chapel immediately, and, turning
aside from thermore busy part of the assembly, ado
dressed themselves to their devotions. It was of
the father however, alone, this could truly be said:
he knelt and crossed himself devoutly to several of
the saints who were ranged along the walls, and
especially to St. Francis, who was represented
rudely enough in~a mountain cavern, absorbed in
the celebrated rapture that all his followers hold as
an article of their faith. The son looked more un—
concerned about him, and seemed rather intent on
the curious groups dispersed in the area of the
chapel. When at last the service was ﬁnished, the
two strangers went on their way, scarcely ex-
changing a salute with any one present. Walking
at a quick pace over .the common, and up the long
hill to which it conducted, they were soon lost to
the view. . _ ' ’

Although courted by few, there was not one of
the motley congregation of that day,——not even the
THE LEGEND on mcoam. 1‘7"?

tew rich lairds of the northern coast, or the pro-
prietors'of the mines in the vicinity,—'—whose lot
might compare in interest with that of these stran~
gers. It is true, they were often regarded with a
respect that their present condition did not seem of
itself to .command,and which was rather extorted
by the former career of the elder. After walking
several miles along an open and almost pathless
country,.they turned to the left, and entered an exm
tensive wood that ﬁlled the whole-of a spacious level
tract, or bottom, as it was called, to which the low
,eminences on each side sloped gently down, about
a mile to the east of the village of St. Just. ' Their
habitation was in the middle of this space : a less
desirable place of residence could scarcely be cons-
eeived: the soil was rendered damp and unwholea
some by two or three small streams that ran amidst ,
the wood, and there was not one kindly object
within view. Above the trees appeared, on each
side, dreary wilds that stretched along the higher
grounds, and the naked hills of Karnidjeck and
Bosavern rose conspicuous. To term the retreat a
solitude was to belie it, for the rude voices and un:
couth songs of the peasants sounded from the high
road at frequent intervals; and in the more immea
diate precincts of thisrecluse home, the miners had
begun to deface the luxuriance of nature—for
beauty it could not be called, and to make the »-
shaded spot as sterile as the tracks that overlooked
it. The beds of the streams that ran through this
enclosure were .rich in tin, and, to facilitate the
obtaining it, they enlarged the channels of the
waters, diverted them at times to the right and left,
and cut down many of the trees that impeded their
operations; a sacrilege that could, scarcely be par——
VOL. I.-—Q ,

 
 

178 '- TALES on THE WEST.
v!
doned in so unclothed a land. The rivulets were
thus spread over much of the soil ; which they so
moistened, that in the course of years the ancient
trees were sapped and prostrated, so as not to leave
a vestige of their existence: save that when any
chance labourer now invades the almost useless
land, he quickly comes to the ancient tenants,
deeply imbedded in the soil over which they once
spread their shadow. ,
The occupier of this unenviable place was a
Devonshire gentleman of good family, who had
been deeply engaged in the last insurrection in
favour of the Pretender Perkin Warbeck’s right to
the crown ; and on the total defeat of that attempt,
while most of the ringleaders (among whom Were
many of his friends) were executed at Taunton, he
had ﬂed for safety with his only son, then a child,
‘into’ the west of Cornwall, where he had dwelt for
many years. After the accession of the present
monarch, he might have returned with impunity to
his native place, but he had grown accustomed to
hissolitary life ; the greater part of his property
had been sequestered, and he resolved to remain in
the retreat in which he had so long dwelt. The
"son was now twenty-four years of age, and the faw
ther began to feel that every onward step he took
grew frailer ahd feebler; yet the prejudices of his
earlier days became more rooted as life advanced :
to his dislike of the reigning monarch (to dethrone
~whose father he had sacriﬁced fortune and all the
luxuries it brings) was added a hatred of the Re—
fOrmation that was fast covering the ,land. The
Catholic faith was to him as the apple of his eye :
and if any judgment might be formed from the ge-
ner’al tone of his conversation, the overthrow of

a i .. = V‘ M”*~
run LEGEND or means. 179

the ancient hierarchy sank deeper into the heart of
Mr. Maldon than the loss of home and affluence;
or the destruction of his plans of ambition. V

The decline of his life had one bitter draught

that he had not looked for: the apostacy, as he
termed it, of his only son ; who had, by means that
bafﬂed his conception, imbibed a portion of the
heretical sentiments of the day. In so secluded a
situation, mingling so little in society, and'every
work that savoured of the new doctrines kept, like.
the pestilence, at a fearful distance, the father had
believed that his child drank at the same fountains
with himself: he had knelt for years before the
same altar, adored the same favourite saints, joined ,
his prayers to those ofthe priests for the souls of"
his departed mother, sisters, and friendsslain in a
just cause ; and now the old man saw with anguish
that he was wandering from the fold. But the
youth had judged for himself: he had by chance
perused some of Luther’s writings, and had con»
versed with more than one intelligent as well as
zealous Reformer. , .
i The two inmates entered their dwelling, that
could boast of few luxuries. The damp ﬂoors of
both parlour and kitchen were covered with sand,
in fault of a softer material: a noble wood-ﬁre
blazed, however, in the former, beside which they
sat down and took a frugal meal, prepared by the
only domestic The repast ﬁnished, some time
was spent in silence, which was ﬁrst broken by the
elder.

“ A goodly assemblage to the mass this morning,
William—thanks to St. Nicholas ! the faith of our
fathers is still honoured in the land, driven as it is
ifrom cities and courts to these hills and wastes:

 
 

 

380 TALES or THE wnsr;

Yet here, too, will these vile Reformists set their
destroying footsteps: what corner, what rock,
, forest, or cavern is there, which the blood-hounds
of heresy have not scented out, thirsting for their
prey? Have the wilds of Cumberland, or the
heaths of Scotland, been spared? Here also, to
the very bounds of the land, they are advancing:
and their cries of spoil and havoc already come
down the wind. Shall God’s shrines fall thus be?
fore the touch of rude, rapacious laymen ; their
precious relics be scattered, and many a holy image ,
deﬁled,—-broken to pieces, if it be gold or silver,»—

or trampled in the dust, if wood or stone ?”

“The means these men have taken to redress
the religion of the country cannot be rpalliated,”
said the son calmly; “ancient feelings andsenti-
ments are too rudely assailed; and the eventuai
success of their measures is doubtful.”

“ Success !” replied the other, with increasing
energy; “ can they indeed hope for it? Do they
think to make their new faith ﬂame forth from the
ashes of the old? those still burn secretly and
ﬁercely, and can never be consumed ! is there a
dwelling or a hovel in the land that does not con;
tain some spirit that weeps for the desolation of the
Church? Yet better is it to look at the noble abs
beys given to the torch, their halls unroofed and
blackened by the ﬂame, than to feel that desolation
of the heart that is the lot of him who has forsaken
the faith of his fathers, and knows not where to
seek nor What to believe ! I have heard the heart
less laugh and the ﬁerce threat of many of the Rem
formers over the very shrines at which they had not
long before kneeled, and have marked their unset~
tled look and the secret trembling at each new
THE LEGEND or “Gonna, 18-1

mandate of the King, that he has bade them be-
lieve, on pain of death—till belief became mockery!
Not into my heart, and oh! St. Francis, grant!
not into my household come these snares! What
comfort have I felt for years in praying and having
masses offered up for your mother ; for my Cathe‘
rine, who died while the rich glow of youth was on
her! These are illusions, saith the new decree,
forthere is no purgatorial ﬁre to cleanse the soul:
—not that she tarried long there; such was the
odour of her life, that the Prior would have can
nonized her, had she died out of the nuptial bond;
Even now, I implore her intercession oftener than
my patron is perhaps pleased with.”

“ But my mother, you have often told me, was
a devout woman, and delighted in deeds ofchaa.
rity and mercy: n0 heresy can aﬁect.”

“ Say not so, young man! Admit doubt on one.
article of your faith, and soon its whole fabric wili‘
be broken up. Remember the 'words of Bishop
Fisher, when he warned the Lords of the danger
0113 power they were placing in the King’s hands:
= you give a handle to the axe of the King, on the ,
pretence of his levelling one tree, but soon the-
whole forest will fall beneath its blows,——even all
the cedars of Lebanon.” And my conﬁdence in
the protection of my guardian saint—that too, the
new tenets would say, is illusion; but they blas—
pheme ! Did he not save my life in the battle of
Blackheath, when the body of gallant Cornish,
with whom I marched to-redress their wrongs,
were attacked by the father of the present evil
monarch '5 (Perish the race of Tudor!) The Lord
D’Aub‘eny, breaking into our ranks, was made
prisoner by my hand 2 in the second onset he was

 
 

 

 

 

7- i» , , r -———~—«‘ .. n—

V -__n e"... ~~.., Vﬂmhr,~~ ‘,r\-~..m .sph I r - v

182 TALES or THE WEST.

rescued by his men, who, enraged at the desperate
resistance opposed, attacked me in numbers ; and,
when falling beneath their blows, I called on his
name, clasped his image to my heart with one hand,
and still struck with my sword in the other: and,
though severely wounded, my life was saved from
their rage then, and from the axe of the execu»
tioner. afterward.”

“Was it not rather a higher power that inter“
vened ’i” said the youth hesitatingly, “before whom
saints and martyrs are but frail creaturesof the
dust, and may nOt claim glory to themselves, or be
soothed with our homage and praises, that can add
little to their happiness.”

“And this from you, William!” exclaimed the
parent, in a tone of bitter emotion: “ strikes the
blow there’.l It is, then, as I have long suspected;
m—but where and how, unhappy boy! have you
drunk of the fountain of heresy’.l Have you read
the writings of the proud and deluded Luther, that
spirit of darkness? There was a time when I
would rather have seen you lie dead at my feet,
than that you should listen to that serpent’s voice :
-—But not now ! solitude and suffering have made
us too dear to each other!” The old man pron
ceeded, as if to himself :—-—“ He, my only s'on,—-
the image of my lost Catherine—“and earth has no
other remembrance of’ her! but must he bring
down my gray hairs with sorrow to the grave 2’?
And he covered his face with his hands, and shed
tears of unrepressed grief.

The other could not see this without being
deeply moved ; he repented that he had uttered a
single expression to wound the heart of his only
friend, and vowed internally that his lips should,
THE LEGEND or moons: \ 183

henceforth be sealed on the dangerous subject.
He clasped the hand of his parent, and entreated
forgiveness ; the other gazed at him for a moment,
and then said, “ Can there be a brighter faith, my
son, than that in which your mother died? and
would you choose another path than her’s, or than
that in which my feet are hastening to‘meet her 2”
' This was an irresistible appeal, and the youth
felt it to be so :—-he sighed deeply, turned from his
father’s look, and abruptly quitted the apartment.
The evening was mild and clear, as young MaL
don walked slowly on: the smoke of the cottage
rose in an unbroken column above the bare, and
leaﬂess trees, and the bell of the chapel of the
village of St. Just,_at a short distance above, an—
nounced the last service, for it was a festival day;
The mind of the young man, strong and pene~
trating as it naturally was, was agitated by con“
tending thoughts. He could not stiﬂe the doubts
that he had long cherished respecting the faith of
his father, or blind‘his eyes to the ﬂagrant idolatry
inevitably connected with it;' yet- he reproached
himself for grieving him. Happily for the predo~
minance of his new faith, his other parent had died
before he had known her affection :~ for what can
resist the memory of a mother’s love, or of her
parting, warning, or benediction ’2 His conscience
called him to embrace sentiments that cast scorn
on those of the authors of his being, and on the
path they had trodden,~was it really one of error
and danger ’l—this was a question he shrank from
answering; and felt all the uncertainty and painful
emotions of amind decided [on abandoning the re«
ligion it has been taught to consider the most ex
cellent, and launching into a sea of new hopes,

2e

 
 

 

i841. , TALES or THE WEST,

thoughts, and researches, where it scarcely knows
yet what rocks to avoid, or what gale to conﬁde in.
“ Still there are recompenses, and rich ones too,”
he said, “to be gathered. The conﬁdent assurances
of Luther, and the sweet persuasions of Me—
lancthon, cannot both be false. N o l my feet shall

> not turn back ; the doubts and fears that yet harass

me will soon give way to greater light and comfort :
it is a bright though an arduous path ; and like that
which lured the Paladins to ﬁght for the Cross, the
obstacles are many, but the meed will be high 1”
and the enthusiasm of his thoughts gave to his
youthful countenance an eloquent and animated
expression.

Daylight had faded while Maldon indulged in
these musings; and" passing along the downs on
which the wood issued, he soon found himself the
only passenger there. They presented at this hour
a singular scene. The side of the hill, that rose
with along and gentle acclivity on his right, p05«
sessed a scattered population, though few dwellings
immediately struck the eye ; and loud and mingled
voices were heard. There were many low and
wretched hovels built partly against the rocks or in
hollows of the ground, for greater shelter; and
some, excavated out of the banks, were divided
into two or three subterraneous apartments, where
these men, who were miners, and their families
lodged. The smoke curled out of these miserable
abodes, and the lights glanced from crag and bank,
and glared from beneath on the barren soil they
occupied, While tones of merriment seemed to issue
from the bowels of the earth. The deep shafts dug
in search of the ore were scattered over the waste,
and in some parts stood close to the dwellings, ren~
 

“RV;

gum—mm van—t. :129

THE LEGEND or Madam. 185

dering a nightly ramble dangerous to a stranger’s
foot. These people, little removed in- mind or
manners from the beasts of the ﬁeld, were contented
with their hard lot, and bore the extreme of toil and
poverty cheerfully. On two or three mounds apart,
were ﬁxed large stone crosses—and 3 Wooden . ~
image of the Virgin, nearly as large as life, of the

.coarsest workmanship, standing on a lofty rock;

nor did a miner ever descend to his employ without
ﬁrst raising his eyes devoutly toward it, and in~
voking, with many crosses, its protection. The man
chinery for working these mines was not yet
brought to the perfection which it afterwards at-
tained, and the manual labour was of consequence
far more severe. A large slouched hat, coarse
woollen dress, naked legs and feet, and uncombed
beard, composed the personal appearance, but little
inviting, of the rude miners of the district. In a
life of such-speculation, however, neither the saints
nor the priesthood were allowed to be without em-
ploy; of the former, St. Keby, (son of Solomon,
king of Cornwall,) and St. Blaze, held the chief
place ; and not a day passed but vows were made,
and offerings promised, in caseJhe adventure then
in hand should terminate successfully.

As he «drew near the sea, Maldon saw beneath
him a singular scene z—Far down the side -of a
shelving cliff, where the surface had either fallen,
or been broken up, a body of miners wereat work.
A vein of copper had been discovered here, some .
weeks before, by the brilliant or ruddy colour of?
the cliff, and the gossan, or ochrous stone observed,
had been considered “ highly promising ;”,_ a- phrase
applied alike to the faintest or most ﬂattering ape
pearances. Some, more enterprising than the rest,

 
 

 

186 TALES or THE WEST‘

had resolved to prosecute the discovery, had dew
scended, by dint of ropes and narrow ladders, to
the spot, and were now busily employed. They
were several hundred feet above the surface of the
sea, which rolled hoarsely on the black and hollow
rocks beneath, whereupon a false step, or the
breaking of a rope, would have precipitated the ado
venturer. , The lights which} they held in their
hands, or ﬁxed amidst the stunted shrubs, rendered-
each form and movement perfectly distinct, while
the obscurity of a cloudy and starless night was
upon every object. Their voices rang amidst the
surrounding echoes, and were mingled with a loud
and sudden Splash, in the wave below, of the masses
of earth and stone detached by their blows, as they
proceeded with their adit or excavation. At inter.
vals, one of the party was seen to detach himself,
and ascend the shelving ladder with a noiseless step,
his light glancing like a- meteor up the face of the
ascent. The hope of gain softened, and perhaps
entirely concealed, the danger ofthe operation ; for
more than one of the short ladders, which were tied
together by cords, were old and frail, and several
of the steps wanting; but use had rendered the
miners careless of these things, and a cry of joy
and impatience, now and then heard, proved that
the adventure did not disappoint their hopes. In
such an hour and scene, these poor men, like the
statesman at his midnight reverie, or the merchant
at his wasting taper, saw riches, or a higher step in
the career of life, opening in fancy before them. V
The youth gazed at their proceedings with interest
for some time, and then passed down'the declivity
that led to his quiet home.
r, ”17,; W. V . v ,
.. v _. in _ ; [VQJ'TLQV‘JPIKHW-H» u ' " ’ u, 12? .,‘,<:. '
‘ 7 My w. ,-_, a

’

THE MGEND or PAeonnA; 187

CHAPTER V.

THE following day drew these two retired beings
"to abusier and more cheerful scene. Though Mr,
Maldon rarely joined the society or the board of
the hospitable gentry who dwelt around, he‘did not
always refuse their invitations. And the present
was one, to have rejected which might have been
construed into an affront. The inviter was the
wealthiest landholder in the West, and the occasion
was no less than the marriage of one of his daughu
ters to the son of a neighbour, also asubstantial
man. As travelling was a thing almost unknown
in these days, few ever ventured beyond the pron
Vince in search of a bride. They grew up, wedded,
had children, and were buried~all within the sound
of their own curfew-bell; and could point to the
tombs of their ancestors, that stood in goodly arm
ray, like the columns. of a portico, although not so
graceful, with inscriptions in the ancient Cornish
tongue. ,,

’As they rode slowly to the dwelling, the younger
thought of the tales he had loved to hear from some
pilgrims to the sacred land of the East, of the de-
Serts they had at times passed through making a

fair country look like the’mansionssof the blessed.
' It was not wholly unlike this,\when the eye that had
for some leagues looked only on barrenness, ﬁrst
saw the smiling territory in which stood the house
of the entertainer, A river ran rapidly along, that

 
 

 

 

i388 rams or THE mass.

was crossed by an ill-constructed stone-bridge, be«
yond which was an ancient and massive gate. This
opened on an avenue of ﬁne tall trees, well stricken
in years, like the ediﬁce that was dimly seen through
their branches. It was a lofty building, and on its
gray elevation was a thick covering of ivy, more
than half shading the scanty windows. This, and
still more the garden in front, proved the supe-
rior softness of the air in this vicinity: ﬂowers of
different kinds might be said to revel here; they
were unfolding their hues at this early season, and
might well seem lovely to the natives of the bleaker
coast, though of little value in the eye of the connoisu
seur. Of fruit-trees and vegetables the catalogue
might well be deemed scanty, when the monarch of
the land himself considered on one occasion a pre-
sent of apples from the north of France a most ac-
.ceptable thing; the luxury of various fruits, indeed,
was rare even in his daughter‘s time ; and it could
not, therefore, be expected they should greet the
eye of the guests so near the remote end of the
realm.

As they entered the path leading directly to the
dwelling, they saw many guests in gay attire, on ‘
horseback and on foot, bending their steps from
different parts to the same destination. At some
distance, however,a group was observed advancing,
that from their looks as well as pace Seemed to be
bound to the house of mourning rather than of feast-
ing. Their steps were slow and weary, and as
they drew near, their garb denoted them to be a
parcel of monks, exiled from‘ftheir own warm homes.
The falling hierarchy was more sadly visiblein the
demeanour of these helpless men than in sacked
balls or deserted shrines. A few of them had tried
 

rnn LEGEND or PACORRA, 189

to labour for their daily bread, but the unwonted
effort had borne hard upon their slothful limbs, and
the small pittance they gained had scarcely suﬂiced
to support nature. They were not the oppressors
or deceivers of the people now, but lay at the men
cy of every peasant whose charity they implored.
One or two had saved a few faVourite relics, which
were carried forward, to their manifest inconvea
nience. One old friar, bent nearly double with
years, bore on his shoulder a wooden image of St.
Anthony, that had for at least half a century been
the inmate of his cell; and as he faltered along,
often addressed his murmurings and vexatiOns to his
patron, the only friend he had in his aﬂiiction.
Several were burley, able-bodied men ; whose once
full cheeks and worldly eyes, though on the wane,
still grappled stoutly with the pressure of poverty:
they looked round them with a sullen gaze, in
which was little hope of better things.

As these men regarded the merry bearing and
goodly array of the different parties that hastened
down the slope to the banquet awaiting them, the
cruel contrast of circumstances could not fail to
present itself forcibly to their mind; they longed,
were it but for a day, for an hour, to join the fess
tivity, to sit once more at a sumptuous table, to be
treated once more as equals by the rich and the
happy. It was only a few days since, and their
own halls had welcomed and feasted both high and
low, and now “ no man gave unto them.”

On entering the hall, the scene gave comfort
both to the sightand feeling of the company, after
a progress through the cutting wind of a frosty
December’s day.— There was a hurrying to and
fro of the domestics without, which, with the loud;

VOL, I.--—R

 
190 TALES or 7 THE WEST;

accents of the men and shrill clatter of the women’s
Voices Within, the large apartment, formed the re»
verse of that solemn waiting and gazing on each
other that took place in after-times. Several pieces
of armour hung on the walls, for one of the host’s
ancestors had fought in the battle of Bosworth
against Richard; the helmet and breast-piece, how-
ever, were rusted, as well as the mailed gloves and
sword by their side, for the present owner was a
man of peace, and had signalized his loyalty to the
House of Tudor by a more gainful exploit, having
had a share in the late plunder of a priory in the
north of the province. The pieces of stained glass
that once belonged to, the latter, now formed the,
rare adornment of the windows of the hall, and had
much beauty in the eye of his guests, particularly
as the'light of a clear sky, that came brightly through
them, threw azure and purple hues over the forms
and visages of the company. This was singularly
at variance with the appearance of the roof, that
was composed onl of rude rafters, half-blackened
by smoke,- and so deeply shrouded by the ivy were
the windows at the upper end ofthe room, that, but
for the prodigious ﬁre crackling in the chimney,
many a fair and aspiring countenance would have
remained unseen. High rose the blaze, (for the
‘ ancient trees had not been spared on the occasion,)
and the party eagerly gathered round it. The
walls, coated with wood, Were neatly covered by
white plaster, and the planked ﬂoor, whose clean-
liness took the eye, was strewed, in fault of a
warmer material, with the very ﬁne light sand
brought from “ The Sylley isles.”
Various were the dresses, and manifold their
hues, adorning and distinguishing the female portion

1 \

t
is
l

 

 
THE LEGEND or mean“. 191

or“ this goodly company. The choicest habili’niéi'ig'
were sported on the occasion ; the loveliest asiwe’ll
as most important airs assumed» Many tr Squu'e s

° ‘ I. . n - . > - —
tr :ﬁgyncéame inher gown otsca ier rosy face, broad

WW . ' la y ; a feW‘ wore their satin gowns, in a
- fashion reprehended "by a writer of the period, so
close to their bodies, (he compares it to “ stays or
whale-bone,”) that the minutest proportions of their
ﬁgure were fully exhibited ; and it so chanced (for
when will woman see herself aright ?) that these
ﬁgures were by no means models of beauty, but
meagre, pointed, and formidable to any but a lover’s
eye. Several more ancient and motherly dames
swept in their taralingales of green and yellow, the
same as were worn by their mothers before them,
and many was the look of scorn they cast on the
sparer and Venus-like ﬁgures around. The neck,
that fairest part, was little exposed :—on account
of the weather many wore Comfortable collars,
lined with the fur of f? X or otter ;‘ and the tippet,
that ancient ornament, dri‘ended the shoulders of
others. The maidens came, “ all in their wimples
white,” or veils ot snowy linen; the hair in some
instances was neatly braided ; and even the cloth
stockings could not wholly hide the small foot,
though fearfully augmenting the size of the large
one.
rAmidst that numerous female party, the straw:
ger’s regard would have rested on the pale and
beautiful Mary Trastere. There were other eyes
as bright, and other forms as faultless; but they
lacked utterly the expression of thought and feel-
ing, by which the spirit_gives its character to the
countenance, and arrests the interest of such as

 
 

192 V * TALES or 1111-: 111151.,

gaze on it. 30 thought the younger Maldon, as}
(indifferent to every other gohjeot his Icoks followed
- her form w iéﬁnoVed'. It was not the ﬁrst

4:51;: 1i”: 1“an 0"de thw _
ous delrght; he 111116???“ Wk 3 deep andvdange:
oasions, and the attractions that 1111 *giﬁtigus 1,9; '

his attention, he now felt to be irresistible There
were times, too, hough rarely, wh en they had met,
and his passion was richly recompt nsed by the con—
viction that he was not indiﬂerent to her. Each
saw in the othe1 a he 111g, who, though endowed
with no extraordinary virtues or qualities, it were
in vain to seek again through the whole circle of

_‘ the society the) moved 111 From the. earl y misfor~
tunes of MI. Mai don, and the seclusion in which '
he had subs1quently lived, the son 1 ad been a meet,
his sole companion, had grown up with the same
resolute temper a1 d habits ol retire ment and reﬂec»
tion; and though mingling in the society of the
young and more ignorant men of the neighbour;
hood, he had given little into their rude or bois-

, terous manners and temper. The dress of the girl
he loved was sin- pic—ct white linen, with open
sleeves that disclosed the ﬁne proportions of the

7 arm; her hair had no ornament, and was allowed
to fall m long ringlets upon her neck.

Voices of Joy, and the trampling of horses’ feet
were now heard without :—-it was the wedding pro-
cession returning from the ChUICh of St. Buriens,
and a large accession of guests came in its train
Young and old, the g1 a) -haired and the gay, were
there, and quick and loudly did the tread of their
coursers ring on the hard frosty path The softer
portion 01 the cavalcade were mounted on mules
and horses, or else trotted more safely though less

 
 

 

THE LEGEND OF Paconaa. 193

gracefully behind, on the animals that bore their

‘ husbands or brothers. Many a rich joke and res
partee’ passed on dale and hill ;rwhen theyeame to
the door of a lonely ale~house by the road-side, a
general halt wasmade, in order to observe the‘gbbd
old custom-of: thestirrup-‘cup, that must‘be drunk:
intake ‘saddl‘e'to the heahhofthe bride and bride-7
groom. lt’was broughtby the ale-wife, a little no-
table body,:in a huge round hat, put on in honour
ofthe occasion, thgt half hid her shrewd and smirk-
ing teem—the stit'lup-cup,10aming with good ale;
ﬁrmly clasped in both her hands: its contents
touched the fair lip, as well as that of the hardier
part of the company, who with many a loud rev-
mark and jest not over nice, drained it by turns to
, the bottom. The bride had her'charms, and gaily
and fearlessly rode a handsome pony, with her
cousins, the bride-maids, on each side. Had the
well of Saint Keyne been in view, or even within a
few leaguesdistance, she would have been probably
disposed to try the race with her liege lord; nor

would brook, or ditch, or hedge have stayed her * I

passage. But unfortunately it was too far off, and
the prospect of obtaining its exquisite privilege
opened not to her hope. ‘Saint Keyne came to.
this celebrated well about ﬁve hundred years before
the Norman conquest,and imparted a strange virtue
to its waters—namely, that whichever of a newly
married couple should ﬁrst drink thereof, was to
enjoy the sweetness of domestic sovereignty ever
after. Hence rose for ages a fearful rivalry, a
wary, well-planned, and desperate struggle, be—
tween those who were just united for life, which
should ﬁrst taste the delicious spring. It has been
\even known that the fondest lovers have in this prim
R 2

 
 

I

E94 TALES or ran wssr.

mary moment of their union forgotten all previbus
sighs, tears, and endearments, and hastened, as it-
their existence were at stake, to the side of this fa‘
mous fountain, over which a sacred arch of four
ancient trees spread its shadow. And deeply it is to
he regretted, that some of those old writers, who
employed themselves in gathering together the 16.
gends and miracles attaching to several neighbour-
ing spots, did not rather give us the history of some
ofitihese emulations for mastery, and of the conse~
Equences on the after-life and felicity of thevparties.
Thereby, many rich domestic scenes, thefaith of
vows, the constancy of strong love, &c. might have
heen perused to our beneﬁt. An old writer, who
is the most circumstantial, thus dwells on the subs-v
ject :-—“ Not Kayne, the manqueller, did give this
excellent quality to the well, but one of a gentler
spirit, and’inilder' sex , to wit—a woman.

“In name, in shape, in quality,
This well is we quaint,
The name to lot 0 Kayne befel--
No over-holy. saint.
The shape, four trees of diverse kind,
Withy, oak, elm, and ash,* .
Make with their roots an arched roof '
WhoSe ﬂoor this spring doth wash.
The qualit , that man or wife,
Whose c ance or choice attain
First of this sacred stream to drink
The mastery Shonld gain :— , _
And fast the speed, and bore the strife,
3nd deem e draught they took!
Hard ’tis to mind of man or wife
Thatlife-lengwle to brook.

”1" About’ﬁfty years since, these venerable trees, that had stood so
many 3 es, Were blown down by a thunder-storm ; and the proprie-
tor».o£ t e domain instantly anted four. others, namely, an>oak,.an
elm, and two ash trees, which now spread their shadow over. the me;
notable spat. ’ ' ,. * L

 
 

 

THE LEdEND‘ or ”coma. 195

It appears that the power of thisﬁunta—in was
well known and believed throughout'the province,
and that from far and near people came to en.
joy its virtue; while some to whom the journey
was impracticable, were obliged to have the water
brought by stealth, and with it their chance of ‘at-
taining the chief dominion within their own walls.
Whether this was the case with the youthful couple
here Spoken of is not known, but onward they came
to the paternal mansion, and loud and universal was.
the greeting with which the y were received. Soon
afterward, to the special joy of a great part of the
assembly, (for the usual time of their rcpast had
elapsed more than an hour,) dinner was served, and
all sat down to table. Not the tender passion, nor
the spectacle of its consummation in the happy
pair, had the smallest diminishing effect On the ap-
petites of' the company, and the goodly dishes were
assailed with littleeiithtermission; the rather, as the
wealth of the host enabled himto‘ procure,» though
from a distance, some delicacies not uﬁualiy seen,
on the tables of the neighbourhood. ‘Strong ale
seemed to .be most in request among the hearty
squires and their Sons; and for the ladies, old and
excellent mead passed: not slowly from lip to lip, in

small horns tipped with silver; 13hr; elder dame-s.

began to talk fast of the days of their youth, of their
lovers," and of the splendour of. their weddings;
and then digressed to their younger representatives,
. whose charms and pretensions were .fa-st pushing
themselves off the stage, The song went round ; and
though the melodies offthe, district have since been
entirely lost, no doubt they-had theirforce' of ex-
pression and imagery at the time. ,iz'Ait‘ last, evening
having'eet in, the candles being lighted in various

 
 

 

in? 11': "

it:
.,

 

 

396 TALES or me wasrt,

parts of the hall, and the long table removed,

'dancing commenced with spirit. Reﬁned and airy

attitudes were out of the question ; enjoyment was
the sole order of the evening, and the rustic move-
ments, and high as well as heavy foottalls, made the
ancient hall ring again. The groups of sires and
dames, who joined not in the exercise, sat and
looked on with a satisﬁed and merry air; among
the latter, to grace the nuptials, were one or two
of superior quality, to whom the host or his wife
had the honour to be dist-at tly related. Ladies
they were of high degree (t leir husbands knigﬂhts,

as was evident by the silk dresses with silver tissue.
stiff enough to stand 01 theii own accord, if placed
on the ground—collars lined with minever,—and
hoods of goodly stuff that fell down behind, leaving
the hair (whether gray 01' auburn) all uncovered.
As the hallcould not boast of a dais,the seatofhonour
consisted of two enormous chairs rudely carved,
with cushioned bottoms, and stools at the feet: the
mass of the company had been accommodated on

forms, which were now ranged beside the wall.

When the dancing had continued a few hours,
the hall was once more put in order, the huge “oak
table arranged, and spread with smoking and sub»
stantial viands; whilst the hilarity as well as the

'~ noise appeared to increase as the Witching hours of

night drewon. A grave, substantial landholder
{mm the north coast was in the middle of a song
fin avoice that, though it inspired 110 soft ideas.
ran along every cranny and rafter of the ancient
apartment, ) on the popular theme of the noble
King Arthur, born at Tintagel Castle, on the wild
shore, son of the bold knight Uter by the fair Iger~
na,-when he wasinterrupted by aloud noise from

 
.w» . w , , , w. -«k:an’iw..$._

THE LEGEND or exconm. _ 197

 

without, that broke roughly on the heroic and me-
lodiOus strain. It was caused by the observance of
an ancient Christmas custom, known by the name
ofwassellmr Warsall. Several men, having furnished. .
themselves with a large bowl, set out at the close of
the year to visit the villages and hamlets. They
‘ 1 Mar to these only in the night, and after the
candles are .t :1 , ,. 4,. Awning- the
door, begin to sing a strain of some old Bal'biiuuuo
song, that neither themselves nor the. hearers un-
derstand, accompanying it by striking at intervals
on the bowl, with a request that those within will
bestow meat, drink, and money. “ The idea (an
historian of the province observes) which the wasl‘
sell is designed to convey, is to express a wish of
health and good neighbourhood to all within; and
it was ordained ’to follow the departing year, that
hours and days being now no more, all remem-
brance of private feuds should expire.” ‘ Hence,
whoever presumed to repeat a former difference,
or Seek revenge, after the wassell had been sung,
incurred a. degree of infamy. ' v
These men, in their lonely wanderings, had seen
the lights issuing from the mansion, and had drawn
near, in hopes of a good harvest; they sang the
Cornish rhimes in voices not quite unpleasing, but
the strains of Orpheus himself would have been
destroyed by the hollow clang of the copper bow],
at the close of every stanza. When the song was
conluded, the choristers were called for,handsomely ~
rewarded, and ordered into the kitchen to regale "
L themselves ; for the Squire took it as a good omen
that it should have been sung at his door on the
night of his daughter’s wedding. '
it now grew late, and the company began to

“ax, _ u , 1

 
198 TALES on THE WEST.

think of departing: the wide hearth now presented
only a mass of gh wing embers , the sounds of 101-
lity gradually died away, as the numerous coursers
were brought in succession to the door, and were
heard to clatter furiously off in the clear cold nightg‘
the stepsof many dashed through the river in front,

in fault of their rider’ s tact to ﬁnd the b

 
 

  
 
 
  
  
  
    
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  

, : CHAPTER V1. .

‘IT is new time to return from the scene of fes~=

tivity to one of more interest and loneliness. To
the elder son of Trastere, the friar’s residence in
his home was a source of great satisfaction. His

own views being ﬁxed on a conventual life, inspite‘

of the' clouds and troubles that now gathered round
it, the experience and information of the guest were
most welcome. As he descanted on the dignity
and wealth which the Abbot of his order had en—
joyed, dreams of ambition began to rise in his com-
panion’s mind. The seclusion of the valley grew
daily more irksome; the conﬁnement and unvary-
ing duties of the Cloister rose far more inviting to
the young man’s fancy than the pure air and bounds
less freedom of his native hills ; and though it was
evident that the church was falling into swift de~
cay, his resolution did not falter, and he resolved
to cleave to its fortunes in some other and, distant
land. . '
Not so his new associate, who smiled at the ardour
of the other’s expressions on a theme that had long
grown tasteless to himself: when he paced the shore,
and gazed on the expanse ofthe sea, and the sublime
barriers that conﬁned it, he wondered how he could
so long have borne the wearisomeness of the mom
nastery, the plainly furnished cell, the convent gar—

, den, the society of the fathers, most of them igno;

ﬂuent and low-bredmeng and the regular and sys-

-------

‘ a, ;‘s—.‘-.._‘..;-.<rw.-r.-r-
 

 

200‘ TALES on THE wssr,

tematic devotions. Amidst these, for many years,
he had lived ;' happy or contented heknew he had

not been; and but for the arbitrary decrees of the .

King, there he had lingered till death had set him
free. There were other paths in which crime might
have been atoned for besides that of ascetic and
cheerless solitude ; wherein the years of gloom and
self-denial brought no balm to his thoughts. But
the vow was” given, and he could not cast the
mist over others‘ eyes with which he strove to
darken his own. He sometimes took up the volumes
of his country’s poetry that were placed in the ladies’
apartment; he felt, as he had used to feel in past
times, the power of their impassioned descriptions,
and hope faded from the eyes of the ardent Italian,
for in thesc he could now have no part. Some—
times he made them the companions of his walks,
and, wandering along the beach, delivered up his
mind to the inﬂuence of those emotions which
swept across it resistlessly ; and these volumes had
the more power, as, during the period of his
retreat, he had allowed himself only to peruse
works of devotion, often of the most puerile and
tedious kind—interminable legends—the lives- of

the whole catalogue of saints, and their strange and

savage sufferings—till his imagination was affected

and overwrought.
There were then intervals when his crime re-

turned to memory with tremendous force]; and

brooding over the deed, its cause, and the dark re-
sults it might possibly produce, the image of the
associate he had deprived of life seemed to stalk
forward and accuse him,-—and he deemed that he
too must go through self-inﬂicted sufferings and
cruel penances ere any peace could be known

I .

9» s;

 
”I’M“... I‘M“ '0 .; > .' ‘ Jar M'ﬁ - 7; A > » "-"L' I_ \ dameava'LlAﬂa gag-"n

THE LEGEND on “comm. 201

The few weeks he had enjoyed of liberty had ef~
fected a rapid change in his feelings; but never
till now was that change so vividly felt. -The in-
terest others evinced in his fate—and these, beings
of a most engaging character; the kind endsym.
pathizing look and expressitm; the smile, and the.
consolation often so sweetly given ;——before these,
the gloom and even despair that had so often visited
his mind ﬂed away; conscience was lulled. to rest,
and its wounds, he ﬂattered himself, were closed
for ever. He had been long estranged from his
' family, with whom since his ﬂight he had held no
communication whatever; the voice of a friend
had-long been‘fhreign to his ear, for in the heart—
less and selﬁsh intimacies of the monastery. he had
felt no interest. - , .
In such a state of mind, softer thoughts might
well ﬁnd entrance: so long doomed to gaze only
on the dull and eternal features of his brother
monks, and bear their caprices, he felt the full \
‘power of an engaging temper and manners in a
young and lovely woman. The very eﬂort con-
tinually to shroud his emotions beneath the austea
Iity of his profession only added to their energy, ,
“ Were I but, as formerly," he thought with an-
guish, “free to choose my own lot in life, and t
love where my heart prompted, What a compani
for my future path would that woman be!
these bonds! Would that they had never Ben
embracedﬁ-or were for ever broken l”
Hopes to the latter effect, after a whi ,began
to arise in his mind, and on very plausibl grounds;
as the tyrannical decrees respecting e Catholic
, faith, that succeeded each other so 1' idlyy'seemed
intended to work an entire revolu 'On in its whole
VOL. I.--=S /'/

/ Q

 
 
   

 
 

 

 

 

$202 TALES on THE WEST.

discipline. A great number of the expelled and
impoverished monks had, had recourse to manual
labour and mechanical employments, whereby to
gain a livelihood: some had entirely thrown aside
their priestly character, and availed themselves of
the privileges of laymen. Above all, the decree
that those brethren who had not yet arrived at the
age of twenty-four were at liberty to forsake their
monastic profession, and return to the .world, ex-
cited his liveliest emotion; for he had not yet
reached that term. But these thoughts were con—
ﬁned to his own breast: to have imparted them
Would, he saw, compromise his footing in the family,
who looked on him only as a sufferer in the good
cause, and in some respects its martyr. Although
the monastic character in these times was by no
means maintained in a strict and unsullied man-
ner; yet to minds who knew and regarded the
vows of its professors to be binding and irrevoca—
ble, any attempt to break them would have ap»
peared a heinous sin. The converse and intimacy
of the mother and daughter were enjoyed by the
youthful friar with the same freedom and unreserve
as if he had been their confessor; indeed, the
“younger lady, had his engaging qualities been ten—-
fold what he really possessed, would not have
dreamed of a lover beneath the cowl. ‘

His society, in his present remote sojourn, was
not wholly conﬁned to the tenants of the dwelling ;
in so narrow a tract of country, where every event
of any note was quickly known, the escape of the
Carthusiaq from a shipwreck, in which nearly 'all
others of the crew had perished,eprocured him
considerable notice. Among many indeed of the
more devout, his preservation passed for nothing

 
—‘ aw,” -m ' "'-A .W" ” , ,.-~ .» 'g . .v, «hump

THE LEGEND or PACORRA. 203

less than a miracle: some said he was snatched
from the waves by an invisible hand, and landed on
the top of the rock without the least injury ; others,
that he had in reality taken leave of this world, be-
ing picked up a senseless corpse, but had come to
life again in the Squire’s hall, by the agency of a
powerful saint, whose image he wore round his
neck. What with these various rumours, the friar
found he had not seldom created expectations that
it scarcely lay in his power to satisfy : it was con~
eluded, of course, that the object of such an inter-
position must' be a singularly devout man ; it might
be, some gracious abbot in disguise, whose abbey
being destroyed, and safety threatened, chose to be
thus obscure; or hermit, older in good deeds and
penances than in years. Often he found, in his
excursions, that the old women ran to their doors »
with uplifted hands and eyes, and the younger ones
wondered so self-denying a man could yet retain
such comeliness of feature. He was doomed to
ﬁnd also, that in some companies where his pre-
sence had been solicited, a closer scrutiny did not
altogether satisfy the good people’s hopes and
wishes. Had he possessed, or chosen to practise,
the arts of not a few of his brethren, he might have
sustained his high reputation, have been one of
the most revered and saintly men of his day, and.
perhaps transmitted his fame to posterity. But he
could not prevent himself from catching the spirit
of the jovial and hospitable boards at which he
was sometimes a guest; and the friendly hosts,
though they admitted he was not the “gracious
being” they took him for, were so content with his
powers of pleasing, that they generally thought
them a more than sufﬁcient atonement for the ab‘

 
 

3304 TALES on THE WEST.

sence of more exalted things. He had been ears
nestly solicited by the Dean of St. Buriens to come
and abide within his walls ; to take possession of a
cell, of which there was more than one to spare;
and unite with him in earnest efforts to avoid the
evrls that 'mena'ced them. During the last two
months, the brethren of the college had one after
the other deserted its falling fortunes, and the ve~
nerable Abbot of Tavistock had sunk under the
'pressure of his sorrows, and slept in the burial~
ground of the Church. Paolo, however, turned a
cold ear to the entreaties of his friend: he had
proved more than once the plentiful board and
daily indulgences of the richer monasteries; and
whenever he gazed on the gray walls of the col~
lege in passing near, and thought of the meagre,
cheerless interior, he could not refrain from an in»
voluntary shudder. '

Having engaged, however, to pass one day with
the goad father, he set out on his walk on a ﬁne
spring morning, and in the course or two hours
stood at the gate of the building. No well-fed
brother waited there to receive the stranger, and
assure him by his looks of the good cheer withing
He entered the refectory; it was empty ; the eel-1
larer came not with the knowing glance of a man
who has choice of good wines under his key : the.
long table was spread, it is true, but in a manner
that would have suited St. Bruno’s taste better than
that of a hungry man. Passing from one naked
and silent apartment into another, he called, but
no one answered ; and at last he bent his steps to—
ward the chapel, where he found the superior so
absorbed in his interesting employment, that the
sound of a cataract would not have disturbed him.

 
1

THE LEGEND OF PACORRA. _ 205

A vivid delight was spread over his features, as he
busied himself in cleaning the various canonized
and illustrious worthies from the profane dust that
had gathered on their venerable and winning forms.
He bent gently and reverently over them, and with
a silk napkin, white as snow, wiped the limbs and.
features with such exquisite care, as soon restored
their primitive brightness and purity. He held at
that moment a good-sized ﬁgure of St. Benedict,
elevated a little ; and paused amidst his beloved em—
ployment at times to contemplate the visage of the
celebrated man, the founder of so powerful an
order. Hearing his name pronounced at last in no
gentle tone, he turned, and beheld his guest by his
side, whom he received with great kindliness.

“ You ﬁnd me engaged,” said he, “ iii the great-
est solace of my solitary hours: look how ﬁne is
the resignation of the saint’s eye, as if even now
the world and its charms were as nothing to him.
Now that the duties of my charge are so few,—-
and, in fact," with a smile, that was belied by the
deep sigh that accompanied it, “ they are reduced
to a mere shadow—to empty and silent walls—I
am not quite alone, but have still a resource left
me.” J

On the friar’s observing that he had walked far,
and should be glad it the morning meal were ready.
“ Is“ it possible?” said the other. “I have been
here since day-break, as soon as matins were over,
and have not yet broken my fast.‘ Indeed, one
might well cease to think of eating in such an oc-
cupation, and here are proofs that I have not been
idle ;” pointing to the now sad and neglected
worthies that stood each in their cold niches;—-—“not
a speck, not a spot,” proceeded he, “ sullies their

S o

H

 
 

206' TALES or THE WEST.

forms: that blessed Saint Nicholas, the whiteness

of whose hoary locks and beard was quite dimmed

by the dust and dirt that for the last two months of
agitation have gathered there, the driven snow is
not purer now. But rude hands, alas !’-’ he conu

tinned, as the tears fell from his eye, “have de--
molished part of the cavern in which St. Francis is
kneeling, and the fragments-have fallen on his head ;,
and the last time mass was performed in the chapel,

some audacious heretic broke three of the ﬁngers
from his outstretched hand. I have done what}.

could to restore‘ their beauty, and truly the task

brings its sweetness with it: but what ﬁre can be

hot enough for the sacrilegious hand that could thus

deface ” ,

“ But have you no domestic left—'-—no fathers at
home 1” said the t'riar, who, less alive to sympathy
for the images around him, grew impatient; “ as I
passed through the refeetory, I perceived no preu
paration for the morning repast.”

“Ah! my son, we are too neglectfui of these
things in our desolate state, perhaps. Now I re-I
member, Father Paul is gone to attend a sick pert.
son; and Austin has set out for the next farmu
house, in order to furnish the meal forth better ;-—»~
for he mourns more, poor man! over the decay of
the larder than the fortunes of the Church; but
he will soon return, and then we will attend to the
calls'of appetite. Not so didst' thou, blessed St,
Bruno l” apostrophising the image, which looked,
indeed, the veriest skeleton that stone could emm
body ; ‘7‘ Thou didst weep to feed the body once
spday with water and a little bread made bitter with
ashes ; how sharp those gracious features are worn
with penance ; the eyes look forth from the shriu

 
 

THE LEGEND or moor-um. 207

veiled body as if they already saw the rich reward,
and the lifted hands are wasted to the bone. Alas l
we are fallen on degenerate days; did a few such
pillars yet survive, the Church might lift its head
above the storm!”

“I doubt it, my good friend,” said the other;
'~‘ the tide of oppression is too strong, and may not
be resisted. How very few of our revered esta—
blishments yet survive; and you will soon have
only the deserted walls.” .

“ And what, then?” replied the father, in an ani~
mated tone; “ can I have a. more desired resting-,
place than these walls, though I should be their
only tenant? or a dearer tomb, should the hand of
the oppressor pursue me even here? not a stone is
beneath us that these feet have not passed over,
daily and nightly, or my knees pressed in supplicau
tionto the sainted forms around. Can 1 mourn at
solitude and neglect, when their honours are for~
gotten, and no oﬁering is presented, no voice raised
in their praise ’i Pardon me, St. Neot ! if my proud
heart has swollen, when those who bowed before
me, now laugh me to scorn. No, sweet and fa-
voured is the desolation of which these are the
companions—these the partakers.”

“ Evil is indeed come in your days,” said Paolo;
“those who repose here,” casting his eyes on the
monuments of former superiors, strongly carved in
stone, “knew not persecution; their path was one '
of peace to the last.” ‘

“ It was so, my son; their trials and wars were
few : our ancient and excellent foundress, St. Be- A
riana, could not have lived and died in a more deep
tranquillity. The mantle of that noble lady IS dew
parted from us now Often, often do I envy he:

 
 

, r" . m‘fw.
L4“

208 TALES or THE WEST;

lot ! a king’s daughter, yet leaving her father’s
court and all its. pleasures, in Ireland, to come to
this secluded place. Her oratory of wood was to
her at once a sanctuary and a palace. Gracious
deeds she wrought: though a fair woman, she
would not be gazed on by men’s eyes, but loved
to be retired ; was revered by all, and her memory
is a sweet odour even in these days.”

The discourse was here interrupted by the voice
of Father Austin, in a tone that announced he had
not come empty—handed ; he had, indeed, returned
successful from his morning foraging excursion,
and had arranged in the refectory the materials for
a comfortable meal. “ The people’s hearts are
turned to stone,” said the old man impatiently, as
the Dean and his guest sat down to the table ; “ but
a year agone, it was who should make the fattest
offering to the college: one farmer sent a fat pig,
or some barn-door fowls ; another, a lamb ; forbye,
the game and wild fowl from the Squire : but now,
the churls give hard looks for full hands, and
harder words ; there did I standwrangling full half
an hour to get that ﬁne ham from Dame Fender,
that has a well-stocked yard and granary to comfort
her Widowhood; and the cold roast leg of mutton
would never have come from farmer Vingan’s shelf”
so easily, but that I threw in something about his
reverence’s prayers to. St. Nicholas for his son,
that’s upon his last bed.”

“ You have done admirably,” said the wella
pleased guest, “ and this wine, Austin, is too good
to come from either the churl or squire’s dwelling?”

“ You may well say so, Sir; the lilie is not to be
found in west or east : it was here long before our
superior’s time, who cares little about such matters.

 
_’ any, -_«a~ra‘,_,'m‘"f~r> ,5, .. - --» 4m... _ 9:: amt—wwwwV ,. W

{V .

THE LEG-END or momma. 203

'ii‘ather de Maute, rest to his memory! who came
from France, was Dean long” since, and he brought
it over with him. He always drank it out of the
rich silver ﬂagon which one of the commissioners
Stole at the same time with the vessels from the
altars, and it goes to my heart to put such wine
into stone vessels, it hurts the ﬂavour. But, stone
or silver, all will soon be one ; these walls will soon
be no place for us,-—we must ﬂee, and leave them
to the heretics.” ‘

“ Not so, Father Austin, not so ; dear is his own
hearth to the oppressed man. We will stay, though
the moss should grow there, and the birds of the
air make their nests.” ; .

The cellarer replied only by turning up his eyes,
and shrugging his shoulders, as those he served
rose from the table. The wanton ravages of the
Commissioners, as they were called, during the
visit they had paid about two months before, were
visible in almost every apartment; in the library,
the manuscripts that had been treasured for many -
years with the utmost care were great part of them
torn and scattered about the room, because their
contents Were chieﬂy connected with the Catholic
faith. The antique furniture was injured: the
huge dark old chair, of wood curiously carved, that
had been the favourite seat of every dean, since the
period chairs were ﬁrst known, (which was not very
remote,) had been broken into fragments, which
the father’s hands had striren to rejoin ; and even
the leaves of one or two beautiful illumiued missals, .

‘ rent andsoile'd, met the eye. Alan groaned deeply,
as he trOd cautiously over the ﬂoor; and proceeded
with the friar to search for ah ancient manuscript
containing the history of the establishment, from its

 
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210 TALES on THE west:

    

earliest time. The room, t” "“ﬁaot extensive,
had a very literary appeaiﬁné‘é,‘an' had evidently,
from the look of the volumes, been less used by
most of the late inmates than by their ancestors,
The works of Marvels, Lives of the Pontiﬂs, and
Awful Warnings of the Church, had met the worst
treatment from the examiner’s hands, having been
cut into shreds, or cast to the winds. Misused as
the place had been, it was yet a loved retreatfor a
man to whom study had become habitual ; and who,
in the meagre and wretched literary stores of the
wealthiest dwellings within reach, found no sub»
stitute for those he left behind. So thought Alan
de Stokes, who, though not of distinguished learn»
ing, possessed a much \ larger portionthan some of
the prelates of . the day.

END OF VOLUME 3).

 
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