pardoned. In 1612 she presented the corporation
of Penryn with a big silver cup, in gratitude
for the sympathy they had shown her.

Not far from Falmouth, in the parish of
Constantine, was the scene, many years ago, of an
unprecedented escape. A Mr. Chapman, of
Carwithenick, was returning, on a dark night
friom Redruth, with his servant, the worse
for wine, but just conscious that there was
danger of abandoned and unfenced shafts.
They were both leading their horses, when
all at once Chapman's horse started back
and his master fell into a pit twenty fathom
(ninety feet) deep. Wonderful to relate, he
dropped fifteen fathoms, and then was stopped
unhurt by a cross drift only three feet above
six fathoms of dark water. Hearing the earth
and stones splash below, he thrust his sword into
the earth to hold by, and planting his feet
against the opposite wall, clung there seventeen
long hours, till those who searched for
him in the neighbouring shafts heard his groans,
set tackle over the black chasm, and drew him
up unhurt. He lived many years after.

A beat of the wings further west to Helston
pleasant on its hill ruling over the valley
opening to the sea. It was here that Satan,
carrying a huge rock (broken up in 1783)
that had once closed the mouth of hell, to
balance him in his flight through Cornwall,
dropped his burden when attacked and put to
flight by Michael the Archangel, who ever
defends the town. This victory is still
commemorated by Furry Day, a festival on the
8th of May. No Helston man works on that day.
Furry Day morning is born to the merry sound
of church bells. At nine o'clock the people
assemble at the grammar school, and demand
their annual holiday. They then collect money
and go into the fields; "fade" into the country
as they call it. About noon they return laden
with flowers and green boughs, then till dusk
they dance hand-in-hand through Helston
streets, and in and out of the different houses,
preceded by a fiddler playing the old British
Furry tune, and chanting in chorus some
traditional doggerel, which commences:

  Robin Hood and Little John they both are gone to
        fair O,
   And we will to the merry green wood to see what they
        do there O.

Cutting the bar of Looe pool, is another
Helston festival. When in winter the stream
of the Cober cannot filter through the bar of
pebbles that Tregeagle dropped, and mills are
stopped and floods begin, the mayor of Helston
comes with workmen, presents the lord of the
manor with his feudal fee of three halfpence
in a leather purse, and obtains permission to
cut the bar.

Far west now, the crow passes within sight
of the mount that looks towards "Nomancos
and Bayona's hold," and within hearing of the
booming Atlantic waves; past the mansion of
the Godolphins, now a farm nouse; past Pengersick
Castle, built by a merchant whose weight
of gold broke his donkey's back; past Prussia
Cave, where about 1780 an audacious smuggling
landlord actually opened fire on a revenue
sloop; and lastly Tremen Keverne, where there
are some boulders of ironstone, to which is
attached a most damaging legend of St. Just. The
legend deposes that once on a while, St. Just, of
the Land's End, paid a visit to St. Keverne of the
Lizard, who entertained him hospitably. The
fact is, however (we cannot conceal it), that St.
Just behaved with shameful ingratitude, for he.
went off with several valuable articles of plate in
his pockets. St. Keverne, counting his spoons,
discovering his loss, and more than suspecting
his artful guest, started at once in pursuit,
only stopping at Crousa Down to pocket
three large blocks of granite of about a quarter
of a ton each. He overtook his saintly
brother at Breage, and at once charged him
with the robbery. St. Just was at first
astonished, then angry, lastly furious. The
great and good men, lamentable to say, came
to blows; but St. Keverne so plied the erring
man with stones that he at last took to his
heels, disburdening himself of the plate as
he ran. The missiles of the injured St. Keverne
are those very stones now lying by the roadside
at Tremen Keverne.

At Perran-uthnoe, on the coast between
Cuddan Point and Marazion (the Jews' town),
just as Mount's Bay opens to the eye, there is a
rocky recess shown, where an ancestor of the
Trevelyans, the only survivor, rode ashore when
Lyonesse, with its one hundred and forty
churches, and all the land between the Land's
End and the Scilly Isles, was submerged by a
sudden inundation of the sea. There is a legend
at Cuddan Point, close by, that a wicked lord of
Pengersick was feasting in a boat, in which there
was a silver table, when the craft suddenly went
down. Fishermen have seen the table in deep
water, with the skeletons still seated round it.
One thing is certain, that the sea even now
is making great inroads on this coast. The
Eastern Green, between Penzance and
Marazion, has been sensibly diminished during the
last fifty years; and the Western Green, now a
sandy beach, was all pasturage in the reign of
Charles the Second. Beneath the sands of St.
Michael's Bay black vegetable mould is found,
with nut-leaves and branches, roots and trunks
of oak-trees, and bones of red deer and elk. As
ripe nuts have been dug up, it is supposed that
the sea must have broken in in the autumn.

Penzance, sacked by Spaniards in 1595, and
by Fairfax in 1646, boasts one curious custom,
which perpetuates the old sun and fire worship.
On the 23rd and 25th of June, the summer
solstice, the eves of St. John and St. Peter, the
people of Penzance, Mousehole, Newleyn,
Marazion, and the Mount, light tar barrels and
brandish torches, till the whole bay glows with
a crescent of flame. The people then join hands
and play at thread-the-needle, in the streets,
running madly about, shouting, "An eye! an
eye! an eye!" When they suddenly stop,
the last couple, raising their clasped hands,
from the eye, through which all the other
couples run. The next day is spent idly on the