for very horror, and you could see him panting for breath. We were all so sorry for him, for he was such a pretty boy, and looked prettier in his girl's dress.

"Presently through the door and up the steps came the princess. She had been sent for by the king. I do not think she knew at first why she had been called, but when she saw her lover there she understood at once. She came up as near to him as she could, and knelt down before the king. She looked in great distress, and tears came into her eyes and ran down her cheeks. She looked only at her lover, she never looked at the king or queen or any one else. He was so afraid, I do not think he even knew she was there he was quite distraught. Then there was an inquiry. It did not take long, for the princess confessed at once. She said it was all her fault; the boy was not to blame, she insisted. If any one was to be punished it must be she, for it was by her orders that the lad had been brought into the palace. She pleaded and pleaded for the boy, and I think the king looked sorry, but the queen only got more and more angry. She was especially furious at the love-letter, the little love-song the princess had written to her lover, which was found on him when he was searched at the gate. He had always carried it with him. It was a terrible scene, Thakin. Such an end to all their love-making! I can remember it all now. I can see it as if it were before me. The room with gold-and-red pillars, and the sad king, and the angry queen, and the princess, and-"

Her voice had begun to quaver, and she stopped suddenly and began to cry softly; she was so sorry for them both. Poor child, it must have been a dreadful scene for a little girl of only twelve years old to witness. No wonder she remembered it so well. Her tears seemed to give her relief, but I said, "Do not go on if it hurts you. I can imagine the end."

"I will finish now, as I have begun," she said. "There is not much more. The inquiry was soon over, for there was no doubt about it. No one denied what had happened. The boy, still in his girl's dress, was led away, and the princess followed. Many of us who could escape unseen went after them to see. The boy went along between his guards like a man in a dream. Once without the king's presence, the princess tried to get to her lover to kiss him, but the guards repulsed her, and her attendants took hold of her to take her to her chambers, as the king had ordered; but she broke from them, and seized a golden bowl of drinking water which one of her attendants was carrying for her. She went up to the guards again with it. Give it to him,' she said, my last gift.' The guards saw no harm, and gave the boy the water, and he drank to her with lacklustre eyes. Then her attendants took her away. Be of good courage,' she cried as she went. Be of good courage, for I love you always. She did not care who heard. The boy tried to speak, but his throat was choked, and they went each their own way, and they never saw each other again.

The princess was shut up in a special prison. After a few days she was told that her lover had been exiled to Mogaung, far away on the Chinese

frontier. It was told her so that she might not be too distressed. But she knew that he had gone to no Mogaung. She would not believe. She knew he was dead; and in a few days more, brooding over her misery, she went mad.

"There she was found when Mandalay was taken. She was released then, and gradually got back her senses and became a nun. She is now alive in Mandalay-a nun.

"And the boy? No one can love a princess and live. He was drowned in the Irrawaddy. He was tied up in a sack with great stones, and thrown from a boat into the waters of the great river."-Blackwood's Magazine.

THE other day as I-a country doctor in a remote part of Cornwall--was driving home from one of the longest rounds on which my profession calls me, I occupied myself in thinking of the vast difference which I see between my rustic neighbors and the inhabitants of more thickly peopled regions of England. I could indeed without much difficulty make out an excellent case for concluding that this difference is in some respects to the advantage of the Cornish; but putting such controversy aside, I greatly doubt whether it can. be understood by any save those who have lived among these people how strangely their thoughts and actions are mingled with the traditions and superstitions of the past. Dead faiths and dead beliefs lie about this country side like withered leaves in autumn. My feet rustle in them wherever I go; and from day to day I encounter some hoary fragment of antiquity brought forth from a memory where the tradition of centuries has planted it, and displayed not as a curiosity, but as the ground of some important action.

It was not merely a wandering fancy which set my thoughts in this train as my horse trotted homeward across the breezy down. A singular instance had been presented to me that very afternoon of the amazing durability which is sometimes possessed by the formula of an old belief, keeping the husk in existence long years after the kernel has withered away. I had been visiting a patient at a farm high on the border of the moor; an old woman, the widow of a freeholder, and coming herself of a family whose record in the parish where she dwelt could be traced back almost to the first pages of the church registers. My patient leads a lonely life in her distant farm, and is generally eager for such news as I can give her on the days of my periodical visits. My chief piece of intelligence on the day in question was that a relation of my own, whom she had once seen, was about to be married. The old woman was greatly interested, and asked the name of the bride. On hearing that it was Margaretta, she at once

assured me that was a lucky name, and begged me most earnestly to let the bridegroom know how to reap the full advantage of the luck; he must, it seemed, pluck a daisy on the eve of the marriage, draw it three times through the wedding ring, and repeat each time, very slowly, the words, "Saint Margaretta or her nobs."

But what, I asked, did this mystic formula mean? To my ears it sounded like pure gibberish, and I hinted as much. But my patient, though quite unable to assign any definite meaning to the words, harped always back to the conviction that they were lucky, and pleaded this so earnestly that I should have given her real offence if I had seemed to doubt it. Promising therefore that my relation should be duly warned how to secure his luck, I took my leave, wondering rather idly whether the nonsensical words had originally any meaning at all. It was not until far on my homeward journey that it flashed suddenly into my mind that the words were a prayer, Sancta Margaretta, ora pro nobis," a genuine Latin intercession, handed down from Roman Catholic time. Who knows with what rapture of devotion in days long past Saint Margaret's prayer had been repeated in that very farmstead by the lips of men and women taught to feel a personal devotion to the Saint; and though now even the holy character of the words is forgotten, yet. the fact that they have been kept in memory through so many generations, in never so corrupt a form, proves the strength of the feeling which once sanctified them, showing that in some one's mind the prayer was stored up not to be forgotten, with a lingering trust that it would bring a blessing yet.

It was, as I said, this rather striking incident which turned my thoughts to the strange empire which the traditions of the past exercise over the lives of the people in this country; and my mind reverted to a scene which I had witnessed a few months before, the like of which can very rarely have been seen outside Cornwall.

Driving home in the dark one wintry

66

evening after a long day's work, I saw a little group of people entering a solitary cottage by the roadside. The woman who passed in first was in tears. I knew her well; she was the tenant of the cottage and wife of a sailor whose ship was long overdue. Another woman, who seemed to be trying to console her, passed in with her, while the third member of the party, an old fisherman with whom I have held many curious conversations both before and since that evening, remained standing by the roadside. He greeted me, and I pulled up my horse. Any fresh trouble there, Peter ?" I asked. "Ez, zur," he answered; poor Jan's drooned." "That's bad news indeed," said I. "Then you have heard that the ship is really lost?" "Naw, zur," was the reply; "oonly poor Jan." "I don't understand you," I said; "is the ship safe then ?" "Uz doan't know about the ship, zur. Betty she said hur couldn't goo on like this waitin' and waitin', and not knawin' whether her man was dead or alive. So she went and called 'n on the shoredown by the watter," he added, seeing that I did not understand him. "Well, and what happened? Did you go with her?" "Ez, zur." he answered in his slow way; "and Tamson Rickard over to Polmorth, and Betty her stood at the edge of the watter, crying out, 'Oh, Jan, my man, my good man ; till Tamson catches her by the arm and tells her to hush; an' then, just very low, we heard 'n answer. The old man shook his head and stepped back to allow me to proceed. There was something in his manner so solemn and dignified as effectually to check any disposition to pry further. He had the aspect of one who had indeed been present at an actual communing with the dead. The widow called her husband; they all heard the spirit auswer; so much might be told, but what remained was sacred to the bereaved woman's grief. I drove on after a few words of sympathy; and as I followed the coast road beneath which the winter surges were beating heavily in the darkness, and glanced out at the line of foam across which the drowned sailor had answered the cry of his desolate wife, I began to wonder whether there

might not be truth in some things, at least, across which we have long since drawn the bar of incredulity.

Near the little town in which I dwell a tidal river flows down to the sea through a deep and wide valley, or rather a gorge in the hills. The freshwater stream winds like a narrow ribbon through the wide expanse of sand which fills the bottom of the valley; and at low tide foot-passengers cross the water on a bridge consisting of a single plank, while vehicles of all kinds drive through a ford close by. At the proper time this is safe enough; but when the tide begins to flow, the salt water races through the gorge with astonishing speed; the little foot-bridge is submerged, and the ford, even at the first coming of the tide, is easily missed.

So

The river has an evil reputation. Countless disasters have occurred there; and the souls of drowned men and women are perpetually flitting to and fro across the waste of sand, in the guise of little birds, pointing out to the traveller where the footing is secure. runs one of the traditions; and indeed the valley is infested by flocks of birds. But there is another sign of warning in this river-bed, especially by night and when the salt water is streaming fast over the sandy flats. Then as the wayfarer pauses in doubt whether he can reach the foot-bridge, or the farmer in his gig hesitates before dashing into that wide stream which is fast drowning the ford, while his mare snorts and plunges as the water ripples round her feet in the darkness, suddenly a hoarse shriek resounds close beside him, a wild inarticulate cry, which the least superstitious man might interpret as a note of warning. It is the crake, and for many miles there is no man, woman, or child who, having once heard that scream, will not turn and go five miles round rather than cross the river-bed that day. Whence the warning comes, if indeed it be one, I know not. Some say the shriek is from a bird; others again philosophize about noises in the wet sand; while most of the peasants can tell a wild story about a wicked man who perished at the crossing in the endeavor to bring a priest to the bedside of a dying woman. His one

good deed rescued his soul from utter damnation, and won for him the privilege of flying forever about the scene of his act of self-sacrifice, gifted with the power of warning others in this wild way against the danger which proved fatal to himself.

There is an easy wisdom in smiling at such stories when one reads them in a warm well-lighted room; but I have not always felt them ludicrous while driving down into the river-valley on a winter evening, chilled and wearied by a long day's work. On such a night, when the hills are shrouded with vapor, the very sound of the surf beating on the rocks is enough to fill a man's fancy with strange throughts; and I take no shame in admitting that it is sometimes an effort to drive the traditions of the place from my mind. But enough of these uncanny matters; I have brighter pages in my note-book, and as I turn them over many a half-forgotten incident starts to life again.

It would probably surprise many good people who are accustomed to put confidence in their doctor, to know with how many others that confidence has to be shared in Cornwall. White witches, gypsies, wandering quacks, all dispute my pre-eminence, while my patients play off one of us against another with inexhaustible skill, or shall I say impudence? This has long ceased. to wound my vanity. I can tell the story of my old friend Mary without a pang.

Mary, let me say, was on the whole the most contented person I ever knew. She dwelt in a little hovel beside the open road which cuts across the downs, a structure looking as if it had been thrown together hastily to shelter sheep, and so unfit for a human habitation that I used to wonder that it was not condemned by the local purveyor. Mary suffered from heart-disease; neither my skill nor the whole demonology could make her any better, or save her from occasional attacks of violent pain. She had a continual hankering after witchcraft, and though I did my best to persuade her not to risk any charlatanism, I knew she would turn from me to the demons at last; so that when she came to meet me, one day with a smiling face, say

ing cheerfully, "Shan't want 'ee no moor after to-day, thank 'ee kindly zur," I had no doubt what had occurred.

Why, Mary, have you got well all of a sudden ?" I asked, getting down from my dog-cart. "No more aches and pains ?" "I can't tell, zur," she answered, still smiling hopefully," but I've found out what's the matter with me." Have you indeed ?" I said. "I have an idea about that too, but tell me yours." She was ready enough to tell me, since she felt really obliged for my care, and thought it might be useful to me to know that my diagnosis was all wrong. It was no such thing as heart-disease that troubled her; somebody had laid a load" upon her, and she was going to Truro to find out who it was. Her information was derived from a wandering gypsy, who had called at her house on the previous evening, and who had supported her credit by telling Mary she following striking and authentic tale:

There lived a few miles away a small farmer called John Hocken (Mary said she knew him well, but I have reason to doubt this), who to judge from the gypsy's description of him must have been a worthy person with a rasping manner. At any rate he was by no means so popular among his neighbors as his solid virtues might have led one to expect. In fact Hocken had enemies, as he was soon to discover. One morning he was on his way to market with three fine calves, for which he hoped to obtain a good price. On the way he met a neighbor, who stopped to pass the time of day. "Wheer be gooin', Jan ?" Jan explained, and the other turned to look at the cattle. "Vine beasts," he admitted after a critical examination. "What do 'ee want for them ?" "What I can get,' replied John cautiously, whereon the other promptly offered him ten shillings a head, an offer which John put aside as too foolish to need an answer, and went on his road, leaving the keen bargainer casting sour looks after him. John on his part thought no more of the matter. When he reached the fair he saw no calves so good as his. Everybody admired them, but still no one

bought; and when night came John had no choice but to drive them home again, which he did in a very bad temper. But this misfortune proved as nothing beside that which confronted him the next morning when he found all his fine young calves dead in the cow-house. This was a serious calamity; but John had still three pigs fit for sale, and he at once set out for St.

where it happened to be market day, driving the pigs before him. The road was not the same by which he had driven the calves, and it was curious that when he had got about half-way he should meet again with the man whom he had encountered on the previous day. There was something about the man's look, too, which John did not like; so he preserved a rigid silence when accosted. and deigned no answer to the question where he was going. The man walked on beside him for a little way, plying him with questions, and at last turned down a byway, observing as he went, with one of his sour looks, "You might as well have dealt with me, John." John was glad to see him go; but something seemed to be wrong with the pigs. They grunted, staggered about, and finally, lying down in the dust, were in a few minutes as dead as the calves. John began to see that something more than common was the matter with his affairs; but, upset as he was by the serious loss he had sustained, his chief feeling was a conviction that the powers of darkness were employed against him. He drew the carcasses under the shadow of the hedge, and set off home as fast as he could go. He was nearly there when some one looked over a stile, and asked in a sour voice, How's your wife, John ?" John needed not to look to see who it was. Terror seized him and he fairly took to his heels. When he reached home he had to run at once for the doctor, for his wife had had a fit, and lay dangerously ill for many days.

66

Now here, as Mary triumphant.y pointed out to me, was a case which I could not have mended in the least. It was clear enough that "a load" had been laid on poor John Hocken. Well, and to whom did he go to get it taken off? Not to a doctor; that was the

point! He went to the White Witch in Truro !

I always pique myself on knowing my place, so as soon as Mary put the matter to me in this light, I saw there was nothing left to do but to express a humble hope that the witch might succeed where I had failed, and to pay Mary's omnibus fare into Truro, which I did accordingly, parting with her on the best of terms. Poor Mary was back on my hands erelong, neither better nor worse for the witch's remedies; but she never would tell me exactly what had happened. I suspect she was treated in the same manner as another old patient of mine who had had two paralytic strokes, but who might have lived for years if she could have kept the witches out of her head. As ill luck would have it there came to her house one day a learned gentleman who said that for three guineas he would rub her all over with something that smoked, and the temptation of this novel mode of treatment was too much for her. The witch promised to cure her, and so he did, not only from paralysis, but from all other earthly ills besides. I have my doubts whether he ought not to have been prosecuted for it.

Mary was also called Jecholiah, a name popular enough in my neighborhood, but so little known elsewhere except at Scripture-readings that it may not be uninteresting to put on record the circumstances to which it owes its popularity in the West.

Jecholiah, the first of that name who made any figure in profane history, was the last, or thousandth, wife of the giant Bolster, a hero of ancient times when giants were common in the world, or at least in that important portion of it which is now called Cornwall. The deeds of Bolster would fill a volume; but it is only with his views on matrimony that the story of Jecholiah is concerned. In Bolster's opinion the proper and natural duration of that state was one calendar year. There appears to be in some quarters in the present day a disposition to approve of varied natrimonial relations; and in such quarters interest will be felt in Bolster's simple and direct method of securing the desired sequence of wives. An ideal which had worn out was to