Legend Land, Vol. 3 / Being a Further Collection of Some of the Old Tales Told in Those Western Parts of Britain Served by the Great Western Railway
Date: 2022-01-16T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Folklore -- England; Tales -- England; Folk literature; English

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Legend Land, Vol. 3

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Title: Legend Land, Vol. 3

Author: G. Basil Barham

Release date: January 16, 2022 [eBook #67175]

Language: English

Original publication: United Kingdom: The Great Western Railway, 1923

Credits: Emmanuel Ackerman and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LEGEND LAND, VOL. 3 ***

LEGEND LAND

Being a further collection of some of the Old Tales told in those Western Parts of Britain served by the Great Western Railway

Volume Three   Price Sixpence

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LEGEND LAND

Being a further collection of some of the OLD TALES told in those Western Parts of Britain served by the GREAT WESTERN RAILWAY, now retold by LYONESSE

VOLUME THREE

Published in 1923 by

THE GREAT WESTERN RAILWAY
[FELIX J. C. POLE, GENERAL MANAGER]
PADDINGTON STATION, LONDON

CONTENTS AND ILLUSTRATIONS

Contents and Illustrations | Page 2
Foreword | 3
A Prince who would hang a Mouse | 4
St. Melangell and Her “Lambs” | 8
Where King Arthur Sleeps | 12
Bronwen and the Starling | 16
The Swan of Glasfryn | 20
The Wonders of St. Govan’s Chapel | 24
The Fairy Gardens of Treen | 28
How the Dodman was Named | 32
The Charmer of Pengersick | 36
How St. German left Cornwall | 40
The Spectre of Rosewarne | 44
The Legend of the Four Halls | 48
“John Dory,” a “Three Man’s” Song (Supplement) | 52

This is a reprint in book form of the third series of The Line to Legend Land leaflets, together with a Supplement, “John Dory,” an old Cornish “Three Man’s” Song.

The Map at the beginning provides a guide to the localities of the six Welsh legends, that at the back to those of Cornwall and “John Dory.”

Printed by Kelly & Kelly,
Moor Lane, London, E.C.2.

FOREWORD

This third volume of Legend Land tells some more of the old stories of those peoples, kindred in origin, the Welsh and the Cornish. They are mostly the old tales that have survived—who shall say how many generations?

If you look into them, with the eyes of imagination, you will see behind them the simplest romances of a very simple people; a people that explained some uncomprehended thing with some comprehensible story, or who would invest the memories of their great men and women with records of wonderful achievement often formerly attributed to some yet earlier hero.

But that is a student’s occupation. Many weighty tomes have been written upon the origins of folk-lore.

For us it is sufficient to be glad that the old legends have survived. Let us enjoy them without speculation as to their beginnings, remembering only that they had a beginning, most of them in an age so long ago that history cannot place it.

These romances are perhaps the most “genuine antiques” that our country can offer, and they come from the corners of our land where romance still lingers and where, to the country folk, rocks and lakes, streams and great hills, are matters of history—not geology.

And we, who travel to these distant parts of Britain, can better enjoy their charms if we go there knowing something of the stories that have clung about them for many centuries, and if we leave our critical business method of mind behind us locked in our office desks.

That is why these old tales are again retold by

LYONESSE.

A PRINCE WHO WOULD HANG A MOUSE

On the very border line of “The Little England Beyond Wales,” as South Pembrokeshire is known, a land of many splendid old castles into which the sea bites deep at Milford Haven, stands Narberth Castle, famous for many things, among them that its owner once tried to hang a mouse.

It is a queer old story of magic and sorcery, and as the tale goes, far, far back in history, Prince Manawyddan lived at Narberth Castle with his stepson Pryderi and Cigfa his wife. One day a great darkness fell upon the land, and when it had passed Pryderi and all the retainers had vanished. Narberth was left unpeopled save for the Prince and Cigfa.

So these two fell to work to cultivate the land themselves. They worked hard and when harvest time came they were rewarded by the sight of many fields of waving corn. But, when they began to reap, Manawyddan and his daughter-in-law found to their consternation that the grain had been eaten from every ear of corn and that all they reaped was straw. The Prince suspected sorcery, and resolved to watch that night in an adjoining field which had not yet been robbed.

Towards midnight he heard a weird rustling sound, and, gazing from his place of concealment, he saw a horde of field mice roaming over his crops, nibbling away at the ears of wheat. Manawyddan sprang forward and captured one of the marauders, and the others scampered away.

For safety he placed the captured mouse in a glove and then returned to Narberth Castle determined to hang the thief. He erected a little gallows, and was fashioning a noose of string in order to carry out the execution on the castle slopes, when there came along a scholar who enquired what the Prince was doing.

Manawyddan told him, and the scholar protested, saying that it was unseemly for a prince to act a hangman’s part. “Come, I will give you a pound to ransom the thief,” he added, but Manawyddan refused. So the scholar passed on and presently a priest approached. He too enquired as to the Prince’s task and also tried to dissuade him from it, offering five pounds as a ransom. But the Prince was adamant.

Then as he was about to release the mouse from his glove and string it up, a bishop came by. Like the other two strangers he began to argue with Manawyddan and offered ten, then twenty pounds to have the mouse set free. But the Prince’s suspicions were now aroused. “No,” said he, “the thief shall hang.” Then the bishop fell into a great rage and stamped his foot in anger, and as he did so his mitre fell off disclosing the fact that he was no bishop but a noted sorcerer of the neighbourhood.

“Name your price,” he said at last, “the mouse shall not hang, for she is my wife.”

So Manawyddan drove a bargain. He demanded the return of his stepson; that all spells should be removed from his land and never replaced; and that no vengeance should be wreaked upon him. To this the enchanter agreed, and the Prince untied his glove and out ran, not a mouse but a beautiful lady who went away with her rescuer.

That night the stepson and all the retainers returned, the cornfields grew rich and ripe, and ever since Narberth and the lands round about have been amazingly fertile.

You may prove the truth of this latter to-day if you visit this pleasant and prosperous land, with its mild climate and abundant crops. There is a station at Narberth, but Tenby, that picturesque and attractive little town on the coast of Carmarthen Bay, is perhaps your best centre for the district. The coast to the westward is wild and rocky, while inland is a glorious country, scattered more thickly than any part of our islands with the remains of noble medieval castles.

Tenby itself is one of the most delightful seaside towns in the country. It has extensive sands between its rocks and the sea’s edge. The place has ample accommodation for visitors of all kinds, and the praises of Tenby’s reputation for sunshine at all seasons of the year have been sung by writers for many years past.

Narberth Castle.

St. MELANGELL AND HER “LAMBS.”

Up in the Montgomeryshire mountains, three or four miles from the shores of Lake Vyrnwy, is the little village of Melangell, named after a saint who for fifteen years, so the story goes, lived a lonely life in the midst of the wild hills, sleeping on the bare rock, rather than marry the man her father had designed for her.

St. Melangell was the daughter of a Welsh chieftain, and when she ran away, to avoid the undesirable bridegroom, she hid herself in a remote but lonely spot at the head of the Tanant. Every effort to make her return to her father’s home failed and she continued to live her secluded life, choosing the birds and the animals for friends.

After some fifteen years of this solitary existence, they say, Brochwel, Prince of Powis, was hare hunting up in the hills and ran his quarry into a dense thicket. He entered in pursuit and soon found himself face to face with a woman of marvellous beauty beneath whose robes the frightened hare had taken refuge.

This strange woman raised her hands in supplication, and begged the Prince and his party to depart and spare the life of the animal that had come to her for succour. It was one of her friends, she said. The Prince, much impressed by this incident, halted, unable at first to understand what was happening, but his attendant huntsman, ignoring the gentle plea and anxious only to be on with the chase, raised his horn to his lips to rally the hounds.

Then a strange thing happened. No sound issued from the horn, nor could he remove it from his mouth to which it remained stuck fast.

In terror, the man fell upon his knees, and tried to beg forgiveness, but he could not articulate. Then Prince Brochwel, realizing at once that he was in the presence of a very holy woman, stepped forward and asked her pardon, promising that the hare should receive no hurt from him. The holy woman smiled and the huntsman regained his speech, his horn dropping to the ground.

The Prince then asked Melangell what he could do to serve her. Melangell asked for a grant of a small piece of land to serve as a sanctuary. The Prince immediately gave her far more than she asked and besought her to found upon it a convent.

So the good woman proceeded to carry out his wishes and lived the rest of her holy life in a cell, which you may see to-day at the east end of Melangell Church. And upon the cornice of the oak screen of the church you will find carved many scenes from her life story.

St. Melangell ever retained her love for wild animals and is considered to have taken hares, which she called her “lambs,” under her particular protection. They say that even now, if you call upon St. Melangell to aid a hare pursued by hounds, the animal will escape; consequently, the holy woman is not greatly beloved of huntsmen.

Her lonely hill-side bed, upon which she slept for fifteen years, still survives near the church. It is a recess in the rock now overgrown with bushes, but is there for all the world to see, to prove conclusively—if you require proof—the truth of this charming legend of the solitary lady of the hills.

Melangell and the lovely country of hill and stream, and glittering waterfalls, thickly wooded little valleys, and bare upstanding mountains, that stretches all about it, is best reached from Llandrillo Station on the picturesque line that runs from Corwen to Bala by the valley of the Dee. This is a fine sporting country, where the red grouse flourishes and where the streams and lakes hold trout in abundance. “The Welsh Highlands” it is aptly called.

The Berwyn Mountains, that here divide Merioneth and Montgomeryshire, rise to over 2,000 feet in Moel Ferna near Corwen, from which station there is a motor car service in summer to Bettws-y-Coed, a place, perhaps, more famed than any in Wales for the beauty of its surroundings.

Lake Vyrnwy.

WHERE KING ARTHUR SLEEPS.

The old stories tell that King Arthur and his gallant knights are not dead; they are only sleeping and will awake with renewed vigour, should ever they be needed to fight the enemies of their beloved land. And their resting place is within the great upstanding limestone rock of Craig-y-Ddinas in South Wales.

There is a tale told of a Welshman from Llantrisant who was accosted on London Bridge, of all places, by a strange little man with a grey beard, who asked where he had cut the hazel staff he carried. The Welshman replied: “In my own country not far from my home.”

“Where that staff was cut,” the grey beard said, “is gold beyond counting and I can show you how to get it.” So the Welshman invited his queer acquaintance to accompany him to his home, and shortly afterwards the two set out for Craig-y-Ddinas, which is a few miles away in the Vale of Neath.

They came to an entrance of a cave close by where the hazel staff had been cut, and the stranger bade the Welshman enter. Within the entrance was a silver bell hanging from the roof, beyond which a passage led to a great cavernous hall where, around a massive oak table, were a number of warriors, fast asleep, but still clad in their armour and with their weapons by their sides. One of these ancient warriors, with a long silver beard, wore a crown upon his head. This was the great King Arthur himself, the stranger said.

But what most attracted the eye of the Welshman was a mighty stack of gold piled high in the centre of the table, upon which the light from the flickering flames of a fire in one corner of the underground chamber glinted pleasantly.

“Now help yourself,” said the stranger, “but in carrying out your gold, do not ring the bell or you will awaken the knights. If you should chance to ring it be ready to answer immediately for they will ask: ‘Is it day?’ and you must reply: ‘Sleep on, it is still night.’ Then all may be well.” With this the mysterious stranger disappeared.

The Welshman did as he had been instructed, although in his hurry to escape with the treasure he did cause the bell to chime. But his answer satisfied the awakened warriors who instantly returned to their age-old slumbers.

For many years this Welshman lived in luxury and ease upon his stolen treasure, but at last it was exhausted, and he determined to go back again to the cave and seek some more. This time his greed tempted him to carry away more gold than he could easily lift. He staggered panting with his heavy burden to the entrance, and then again he blundered against the silver bell which gave out its warning notes.

The ancient warriors awakened. “Is it day?” they cried, but the Welshman was so breathless with his exertion that he could not reply. Then the knights rose from their chairs and fell upon him, beating him cruelly before they ejected him roughly from their cavern, and closed and locked the door behind him.

The greedy fellow lived for many years after this adventure but he never recovered from his trouncing and he died a cripple and a pauper in the town where he had lived in such opulence, and although he tried many times to find the treasure chamber again he could never do so. And so it is supposed that King Arthur and his knights still sleep on in Craig-y-Ddinas, awaiting the call to further action which may some day come.

Llantrisant, where the hero—or should it not be villain?—of this strange old story lived, is a charming little town straggling up the steep slopes of a wooded hill with—in this part of the world—the inevitable ruined castle close at hand. It is a forgotten little place in the midst of varied country with fine views from the top of the hill, over a moorland district towards the mountains of Brecknock.

Craig-y-Ddinas you will find in the beautiful Vale of Neath a little further west. It rises precipitously from the edge of the little river Mellte, and from its top, where the fairies dance of nights, you get a superb view of the lovely valley. Here you are in some of the grandest scenery in Wales, a country particularly rich in waterfalls and rushing brooks.

It is a lovely land skirted on the south by the Great Western Line, that runs from Neath to Aberdare. Neath, on the main line, is a good centre from which to start to explore this beautiful valley.

And when you tire of the mountains, you can turn southwards and see that stretch of little known coast, with its bold headlands and spring-turfed cliffs that runs from Briton Ferry as far as busy Barry Docks. Strangers do not often come here, yet in all our land it would be hard to find a more attractive district, made yet more pleasing by the absence of other holiday makers.

The Vale of Neath.

BRONWEN AND THE STARLING.

This is the story of the sad fate that befell a sister of a British King who lived at Twr Bronwen, which stood where Harlech Castle now stands, and who married Matholwch, an Irish King, and sailed with him across the seas. Bronwen was her name, and they say that she was the most beautiful woman in all the land.

When Matholwch came across to Harlech to court her, he and Bronwen’s step-brother Evnyssien had a fierce quarrel, and so deeply insulted was the Irishman that the match was nearly broken off. However, Bronwen’s brother Bran, the King, managed to placate the angry suitor by giving him a staff of silver as tall as himself and a plate of purest gold as wide as his face, and presently the marriage was celebrated with greatest festivity, and the happy pair sailed away for Erin.

But though their King might forget this quarrel, wild subjects would not. They nursed a grievance against their new queen and stirred up so much trouble that at last Matholwch himself turned against his bride, putting slight after slight upon her, until in the end he degraded the beautiful princess to be cook in the palace where once she had reigned.

Bronwen tried to send word of her sad plight to her brother at Harlech, just across the Irish Sea, but the vengeful Irish circumvented all her efforts, destroyed her letters and killed her messengers.

At last, in despair, poor Bronwen hit upon a plan. A Welsh starling, blown across the sea by an easterly gale, fluttered into her kitchen one day, and the Princess fed it and tended it, hiding it in the great kneading trough where she was forced to make bread for the whole household. When the bird recovered she wrote a letter to Bran, tied it to the starling’s leg, and released it.

The bird flew straight back to Harlech, but finding that King Bran was away at Carnarvon, followed him there, and perched upon his shoulder as he sat at dinner, ruffling its feathers and whistling loudly. Bran put up his hand to seize the bird to discover the cause of its amazing behaviour, and so found Bronwen’s letter.

The King fell into a mighty rage and ordered out his fleet, then sailed across to Ireland to rescue his sister and wreak vengeance upon her cruel husband. A great battle took place and Bran and his forces were eventually driven back, although they managed to rescue Bronwen. But King Bran was fatally wounded by a poisoned dart and died soon after he reached his Welsh home. Before he died, he commanded that his dead body should be taken to London and buried on the White Mount—upon which later the Tower of London was erected. Poor Bronwen, broken-hearted, survived her brother but a short time. She was buried at Ynys Bronwen in Anglesea, where, only a few hundred years ago when the mound tomb was opened, an urn was found containing the ashes of the unhappy princess.

This is a sad little story to centre around so charming a place as Harlech, now dedicated, it seems, only to the happy laughter of contented holiday makers. Harlech stands upon the side of a castle-crowned hill, separated from the sea by those magnificent golf links famous throughout the world.

It is an ideal holiday resort in the midst of a district teeming with objects of natural beauty and antiquarian interest. From it, the railway line, which follows the greater part of the Cardigan Bay coast, gives easy access to such places as Barmouth, Aberystwyth, or northward to Criccieth and Pwllheli, while inland is a district of little lake-studded mountains and moorland, offering endless attractions to the walker, the artist, or the fisherman.

Harlech Castle.

THE SWAN OF GLASFRYN.

That part of Carnarvonshire in North Wales that stretches out into the sea to Braich-y-Pwll, and forms the northern boundary of beautiful Cardigan Bay, is known as Lleyn. Lleyn is a peninsula of splendid scenery, both round the coast and inland by its mountains and moorland lakes; and almost every square mile of the place has its legend, or brave tale of historic times to tell.

Midway between its two coasts is the lonely little tarn of Glasfryn, about which a story is told reminiscent of that connected with Bala Lake which has been recorded in a previous story of Legend Land. Llyn Glasfryn, as the modern maps call it, was once Ffynnon Grassi, or Grace’s Well, which supplied water to those who lived by, and cultivated, the fertile fields now engulfed by the waters of the lake. Grace was a village girl whose task it was to tend this well, and one of her duties was to see that the cover which enclosed it was always kept closed when the well was not in use.

One day, so many years ago that nobody can rightly tell how long since it was, Grace neglected her duty. Some say that it was because of a mysterious and strikingly handsome youth who came down from Yr Eifl, the splendid mountain that rises nearly 2,000 feet into the sky, a couple of miles away. Others, that she was the victim of sorceries of a beautiful but evil enchantress from Anglesea. But anyhow the cover of the well was left open one night, and, as happened at Bala, soon after the weary country folk had retired to rest, they were aroused, in alarm, by a great flood which came from Ffynnon Grassi, which was pouring out a stream of water, that nobody could check.

Soon the prosperous farms and fertile lands round about were submerged beneath the waters, and Llyn Glasfryn was formed. But the careless Grace to whose negligence the great misfortune was due did not escape unpunished. She was turned into a swan, and her fate was that, until the Day of Judgment, she must swim about the lake which her forgetfulness had caused to be created.

Some say that after many years she was forgiven, and died; but others hold that even to this day you may hear poor Grace’s piteous cries at the dark of night, as she swims her never ending course up and down the surface of Llyn Glasfryn. And if you chance to see this mournful bird you will find that its head is that of a beautiful maiden.

They also tell that beneath the surface of the lake lives a mysterious monster called “Old Morgan,” who, perhaps, is he who in those far away days beguiled Grace to forget her duty at the well. “Morgan” is a terrible person, with whom the country children round about are threatened when they misbehave.

This pathetic story of Grace and her sad fate is but one of the many that cling about Lleyn. March, the husband of the fair Iseult, had a castle here, and from that grim fortress, Iseult eloped with Tristan.

Near Yr Eifl, Vortigern fell a victim to the charms of the beautiful Rowenna, daughter of Hengest, and to win her favour agreed to assign Kent to her Anglo-Saxon father. Cromlechs and other remains of early man are to be found on nearly every hill side.

But you must visit this fascinating corner of Wales fully to appreciate its charm and romance. Criccieth or Pwllheli is a good centre. Each is an attractive little town by the sea facing due south and sheltered by mountains from the north or east winds.

Noble Snowdon, its summit over 3,500 above sea level, is not far away, and an excursion to the far end of Lleyn, where Bardsey Sound divides remote Bardsey Island from the mainland, takes the visitor through one of the most beautiful—and least known—districts in the whole of our country.

For the sportsman there is trout fishing in abundance here, and in season wild fowl shooting of a kind seldom known in more popular parts of the kingdom. For the artist there is the endless variety of rocky coast and mountain scenery, and for the average holiday-maker an unspoilt land swept by mild health-giving air, where he may idle away the days in perfect quietude and restfulness.

Yr Eifl.

THE WONDERS OF ST. GOVAN’S CHAPEL.

In a ravine that cuts into the rugged cliffs by St. Govan’s Head on the south coast of Pembrokeshire, is a little chapel, once the hermitage of the saint whose name the headland bears. St. Govan was a disciple of St. David, and he had an adventurous life in this lonely part of Wales many hundreds of years ago.

The district was harried by pirates from the sea, and savage pagan tribesmen from the interior, and the very rocks and stones of his sea-girt dwelling place had often to come to the rescue of the holy man. But though he has been dead these fifteen hundred years the rocks, they say, still work wonders for the visitor who goes to the little chapel with a believing mind.

It is a tiny little place, twenty feet by twelve, with a stone tower up which runs a staircase of over fifty steps. Exactly how many there are you must try to count for yourself, for it is said that they vary, and never number the same going up as they do coming down. Once fierce pirates landed here and stole a silver bell that hung in the chapel.

Poor St. Govan was forced to hide from these wretches on many occasions. A friendly rock would then come to his aid—you may see it to-day to the left of the altar in the chapel. This rock would open, when the saint was pursued and disclose a hollow within just big enough to enclose his form. Then it would shut and hold the holy man in security until the danger was passed.

After St. Govan died, the rock remained part open as it is now, and they say that it will adapt itself to the size of anybody, who really believes in its powers, who wishes to enter it. And if, when you are in St. Govan’s hiding place, you make a wish, and do not change your mind before you have turned round to come out again, you will surely obtain your desires.

For many years, so the story goes, there was close by the chapel a rock that gave out a beautifully clear and musical note when struck. This rock, they said, contained the silver bell that the pirates stole, for these wicked men were not allowed to escape with their booty, for their ship was caught in a tremendous hurricane and swept on to the rocky shore, and all the miscreants were drowned.

But the stolen bell was saved by some miraculous power and carried to the rock, which became known as the “Bell-stone,” where it remained in security.

St. Govan’s holy well is situated a little below the chapel, and here cripples from all over Wales would travel to bathe in the healing waters which gave relief to their sufferings. There is another healing property in the cliffs near at hand, in the form of a deposit of red clay, which for centuries has had the reputation of curing sore eyes. But whether or not the earth and the waters around St. Govan’s Chapel will work their magic for you now, the winds that blow straight in from the Atlantic to this rockbound Pembroke coast will cure most ailments, and bring back health and renewed vigour to the most weary.

Pembroke is a good centre for this hilly land of castles. From here you may make excursions to some of the finest coast scenery in Wales, or crossing Milford Haven adventure into that beautiful and little known country that fringes the shore of St. Bride’s Bay.

Haverfordwest, a fascinating sleepy old town with three ancient churches, is a few miles on the other side of Milford Haven, which you cross in a steam ferry; and from there a motor omnibus service will take you to far away little St. Davids, the “Cathedral Village,” with its wonderful Norman Cathedral Church. It is a magnificent journey that, from Haverfordwest to St. Davids, across a wild and windswept country with seventeen steep hills to negotiate in sixteen miles, and a magnificent view from the top of each one of them. And at the end of the road one of the choicest churches in the whole country, nestling in a sheltered valley, awaits you, and that sense of complete peace and quiet that can only be found in a place utterly remote from crowds, and the hustle and worry of modern life.

St. Govan’s Chapel.

THE FAIRY GARDENS OF TREEN.

The Small Folk, or Fairies, as strangers call them, are very fond of flowers. They have their own particular gardens in many places around the rough Cornish coast, but mostly they are to be found near the base of jagged cliffs in little green tracts, inaccessible either from the sea or from the summit of the cliff above. There are several of these near the foot of the cliffs round Trereen or Treen Castle, that rugged headland near the Lands End, upon which stands the famous Logan Rock, or rocking stone.

You can generally tell a Small Folks’ garden by the many sea pinks that bloom there in season, and the peculiar brightness of the green of the ferns that nestle in the moist shade of the rocks. There is nothing much else to distinguish them by day, but of a summer night it is very different. Then if you chance upon one of them—which is very rarely—you will find the soft green of the cliff turf spangled with wee flowers of all colours, rare and beautiful, such as mere mortals never know.

And you may see the Little People dancing happily in rings around some sea pink which towers above their heads, or busying about with tiny water-pot or spade tending their beloved blooms.

The fishermen sometimes see them when, on a still summer night, their boats drift silently close in by the cliffs. They hear the strains of sweet soft music coming from close down by the water and see a constant moving of hundreds of tiny bright lights flickering in and out among the fairy flowers; and sometimes, on calm warm nights, the delicious scents of the flowers drifts far out to sea, a scent that is ten thousand times sweeter than any that came from a mortal garden.

Those who have been lucky enough to witness this wonderful scene say that you must be perfectly silent and hardly move, or you will frighten the Small Folk. They are very beautiful little creatures, seeking to harm nobody. They hold periodical feasts or “Fairs,” as they are called, sometimes upon some lonely hill top, or in a glade in the depth of a thick wood. Then, when thousands of them are assembled together, their lights may often be seen for miles.

But you must not interfere with the Small Folk or they will punish you. They have their own ways of doing this. They will lead you astray for hours, or make you drop stitches at your knitting, or make you lose your path on a dark winter’s night. But to those who wish them well they will never do real harm and they seem often to be sorry for the mischief they have caused, and will reward their victims with some piece of good luck soon afterwards.

At least this is what the old people who have known the Little People will tell you, but they will not talk much about them nowadays for fear of not being believed.

Still you may see the Fairy Gardens for yourself by Trereen Castle if you will, and see all around some of the finest coast scenery in all Cornwall.

The Logan Rock itself is one of the sights of the country. It is a huge boulder of granite said to weigh 65 tons, so poised that without great effort it can be rocked to and fro. Once it was easier to move, but a mischievous naval officer pulled it from its base about 100 years ago. He was made by the Admiralty to replace it, but it has never rocked so freely again.

This is the westernmost corner of England, and a succession of magnificent headlands thrust themselves into the sea between Trereen and the Lands End. A few miles inland is Sennen, the “last” parish in the country.

Penzance is the best centre for visiting this remote district. A regular service of motor buses runs from that place to the Lands End, carrying the visitor within an easy walk of Treen Castle and its Fairy Gardens, and traversing on the way a wild windswept, almost treeless country, abounding in relics of our earliest ancestors—strange stone circles and British villages. The moorland hills here rise to 800 feet in height, and from them extensive views are to be had comprising, on ordinarily clear days, the far isles of Scilly, lying out in the Atlantic, thirty-five miles away.

This is a land of health and rest where Small Folks’ gardens seem far easier to understand than in the grime and turmoil of a great city.

The Logan Rock.

HOW THE DODMAN WAS NAMED.

Somewhere about the middle of the south coast of Cornwall, a noble headland, the Dodman Point, stretches abruptly into the Channel, towering, at its summit, 370 odd feet above the waves. It is one of the landmarks of the south coast well known to every sailorman.

Unimaginative people, like antiquaries and professors, will tell you that Dodman only means “Stone Point,” and is merely a corruption of the old Cornish “Duadh Maen”; but the country folk take no heed of that; they know the old story handed down from long dead ages. They know that Dodman means “Deadman,” and this is why.

Ever so long ago there lived a giant in his castle on Dodman Point. The rugged earthworks, remains of the castle, are there to-day for you to see if you doubt it. This giant was the terror of the neighbourhood. He fed upon the best of the cattle and sheep, and very often children were missing, for the giant liked variety in his food.

The country people were powerless against this ogre whose size and strength were stupendous. To keep off intruders he dug, in one night, the great ditch—which is still there—that runs from sea to sea across the Point. But one stormy night he fell sick, and his howls of agony were heard for miles around, terrifying the simple peasant folk with their blood-curdling tones.

At last, towards midnight, there arrived at the village of St. Goran, a mile and a half inland, a messenger from the giant demanding the local doctor instantly, and threatening horrible revenge were he to delay. Now the local doctor was a very brave man, also he had suffered a good deal from the depredations of the evil giant, so he obeyed the summons and went back with the messenger, his neighbours never thinking to see him again.

Arrived at the castle, he found the giant rolling in agony on the ground, and he swiftly devised a plan for ridding Cornwall—and the world—of this horrible ogre.

“You must be bled,” he said, following the general medical treatment of the day.

The giant roared out that he would do anything to be rid of his pain. His voice was so loud, they say, that he could be heard distinctly at Mevagissey. So the doctor got to work and the treatment gave relief.

To complete a perfect cure, the doctor explained, the giant must sit on the edge of the cliff at the point of the headland, and the giant obeyed the instruction. And then the doctor, standing by and looking very wise and serious, allowed the monster’s blood to flow away until with weakness he became unconscious. The huge and hideous head sank lower and lower, the great powerful body crumpled, until at last the doctor, with a mighty effort, rolled his evil patient to the cliff’s edge—and kicked him off on to the rocks beneath.

Then he returned to tell the glad news to St. Goran, where, to celebrate it, they held a feast lasting five days. And ever after that the Giant’s promontory was known as the “Deadman,” or as we have come to call it, the “Dodman.”

There it is to-day as wild and beautiful a headland as any in Cornwall. In the giant’s mighty bulwark known locally as the “Hack and Cast,” wild flowers bloom. From the summit a wonderful view, from the Lizard to the west to the Devon coast eastward, extends.

Mevagissey, one of the most characteristic of Cornish fishing ports, is less than four miles away, and all about is a fascinating little known country of deep fertile little valleys and seldom-visited villages, while the coast scenery of Mevagissey and Veryan Bays, which the Dodman practically divides, is rugged and charming.

Here you get the full freshness of the Atlantic breezes, fierce enough at times, but more often soft and soothing.

St. Austell is your nearest railway station, an interesting old town, the centre of Cornwall’s china clay industry. It is on the main line and may be reached easily from any part of south or west Cornwall, and from there country omnibuses will take you within a few miles of the remote Dodman, the scene of that village doctor’s wonderful “cure,” so many centuries ago.

Mevagissey.

THE CHARMER OF PENGERSICK.

The Pengersick Castle that you find to-day, built by the coast between Parran Uthnoe and Porthleven near Helston, is a mere upstart building, little, if any of it, more than four centuries old. This story is about the older castle built on the same site nobody knows how long ago.

It was a grim fortress inhabited by grim and eerie folk, about whom many wild and creepy tales are told. The old Pengersicks were a strange family who trafficked with the powers of evil. One went to far eastern climes and learned the black arts of sorcery, and brought back with him as his bride an “outlandish Saracen” woman of surprising beauty.

Nobody knew actually where she came from, but she arrived unexpectedly at the castle, one winter day, with her Lord and two eastern attendants, all mounted on priceless Arab horses. They spoke in an unknown tongue and disappeared behind the frowning gates, seldom to be seen abroad again.

Some say that this strange party arrived before the castle was built, and that it was this saturnine Lord of Pengersick who, by supernatural aid, erected the first grim fortress; but all agree that the beautiful Eastern lady possessed the most wonderful voice that had ever been heard.

No living creature could resist its appeal. Men and women, birds, animals, even fishes, stopped spellbound to listen when she sang. And she and she only could control her evil husband.

When engaged in his blackest sorceries, brewing strange potions that sent their exotic aromas throughout the country for miles around, or when, in the middle of a storm, he sat upon the battlements of his castle conjuring the Prince of Darkness, the Lord of Pengersick could always be quieted by the sound of his Lady’s voice singing her strange Eastern songs to the strain of her harp.

She seemed a sad, beautiful Lady, this Saracen woman. Sometimes at night, or at summer dawn, she sat by her lattice window overlooking the sea, and played and sang to herself the plaintive melodies of her own land. Then, as the fisherfolk would aver, they sat motionless at the sound of her sweet voice. Even the fishes would come to the surface to listen; birds hovered over the castle, and mermaids from the Lizard caverns would float across the bay, enchanted by the appealing tones.

For many years these strange happenings went on at Pengersick castle; the fair lady’s harp sent its sweet music through the air, the forbidding Lord continued his incantations, until one wild and stormy night—the darkest ever known in those parts—the countryside was startled by an eerie gleam in the sky. Presently angry flames burst forth, and the frightened people, hurrying from all sides to discover what this huge conflagration might be, found that Pengersick Castle was ablaze.

Nothing they could do would still the flames, the massive pile burnt itself out, and the next morning only the fire-scarred walls remained. The whole of the inside—furniture, books, pictures—everything was destroyed; and what was more curious, from that day onward neither the Lord of Pengersick nor his Lady was ever seen again. They had vanished just as mysteriously as they had arrived.

Years later a rich merchant—some said he had been a pirate—built upon the site of the ruins a new castle. That is the one you see to-day, a mellow old building looking peacefully out to sea. You may visit it either from Helston or Penzance, it lies about midway between the two.

Near at hand is famous Prussia Cove where, in the 18th century, a smuggler armed his house and opened fire upon the Revenue men with small cannon. To the west is Mounts Bay with the more famous St. Michael’s Mount, and to the east low undulating cliffs stretch in a graceful curve, until they rise to the rugged headlands dividing the sheltered coves of the Lizard Peninsula.

This coast is the very end of England, enjoying a climate mild even in the depth of winter. Spring comes here fully six weeks before it reaches London, the Midlands and the North; summer lingers almost until Christmas time, and, like the Strange Lady of Pengersick, the sea and the hills of this part of the Duchy exercise a charm that none can resist.

Pengersick Castle.

HOW ST. GERMAN LEFT CORNWALL.

Some fifteen hundred years ago the Church in Cornwall had fallen into grievous heresies, and the Roman Emperor Valentinian decided that a stern, strong man was needed to pull these erring people back into the right way. So he instructed St. Germanus of Auxere to go to barbarous Britain and tell the Cornish all about it. And accordingly St. Germanus, or St. German, as we call him, came.

But the erring people were not at all pleased with their visitor. They preferred their own priests and their old teachings, and good St. German had a very hard time of it. But he stuck to his task, preached the true faith, performed remarkable miracles and erected a beautiful church. Yet the stubborn Cornish would not make friends with him. On the contrary they persecuted him in many ways, doing their utmost to drive him away, so that they might be left in peace with their old-fashioned doctrines, which they much preferred to the right and proper teachings of this foreigner.

And at last the patience of the saint gave out. The unruly people started a brawl in church during a Sunday morning service. St. German tried to reason with them, but they would not hear him. He prayed for them but they jeered at him, and their conduct became so threatening that the good saint’s companions, fearing for his life, persuaded him to escape from the church.

Poor St. German was heartbroken. He felt that his mission had failed utterly. And in the depths of despair he wandered away out to lonely Rame Head, where he sat by the cliffs’ edge and lamented his lack of success. Here he was compelled to hide from his persecutors for some days, and they say that the very rocks wept with him in his grief, and still weep at St. German’s well.

But at last the furious mob discovered the saint’s hiding place, and a vast crowd, led by the local priests, came swarming up the hill side of Rame determined to destroy the holy man.

St. German faced the maddened rabble fearlessly, praying only for deliverance from their anger. Then, as the first stone was thrown, there came a crash of thunder, and in a blaze of light a fiery chariot was seen descending the hill.

The mob started back in terror, but the chariot rolled on to where the saint stood. Two glittering angels were in the chariot. They tenderly lifted St. German from the ground and placed him between them. There followed a great rushing wind, and the amazed and terrified crowd looked upward to see the fiery chariot ascending into the heavens. Then, in mighty dread at the result of their wickedness, the people scattered and fled.

St. German was carried safely overseas, where he lived for many years to continue his pious works. It is even said that after a time he returned to Cornwall again and completed his appointed task. At any rate St. German’s Well still flows, and for many centuries—perhaps if you looked hard you could find them still—the marks of the chariot wheels were to be seen burnt into the rock of Rame Head.

Rame is a magnificent headland, the easternmost of Cornwall, surmounted by an ancient ruined chapel dedicated to St. Michael. It is the nearest point of land to the Eddystone, and from it on a clear day you can see to the Lizard—the whole length of the county.

St. Germans, a quiet little place named after the saint, was the seat of an early bishopric, the splendid old Norman church marking the site of the ancient cathedral. Both St. Germans and Rame Head are easily reached from Plymouth, St. Germans being under ten miles by rail from that place, and in summer boat excursions may be made to Cawsand, a little over a mile from Rame Head, and up the beautiful Lynher River to St. Germans.

This part of East Cornwall has a distinctive charm of its own. The Tamar, which forms the county boundary, is most attractive to explore. There are many early churches and castles round about, and the variety of river and sea scenery offered here is obtainable nowhere else in the Duchy. That great arm of the sea, that runs up from Plymouth Sound and comprises the Lynher, the Tamar, and the Tavy estuaries, will in itself provide interest for many excursions, while the barren heights of both the Bodmin Moors and Dartmoor are more easily accessible from Plymouth than from any other centre.

Rame Head.

THE SPECTRE OF ROSEWARNE.

Near Camborne, in the mining district of South Cornwall, is Rosewarne, where was once one of the great houses of the county. Two hundred years or so ago an avaricious attorney named Ezekiel Grosse obtained possession of the place by shady means, and this is the fate that befell him.

One night, after he had taken possession of the place, Ezekiel, engaged in studying some deeds, looked up to find standing before him a queer wizened little man of ghostly appearance, motioning him to follow. The crafty lawyer, afraid only of losing money, told the apparition to go away. But the little man remained, still making his strange signs.

At length Ezekiel asked what he wanted, and the ghost replied: “To show thee where much gold lies buried.”

Gold was a bait the lawyer could never resist, but there was something so grim about the manner of his strange visitor that an unfamiliar feeling of dread came upon him, and he was unable at first to rise.

“Come,” commanded the ghost. “Gold, Ezekiel, gold.”

Ezekiel at last staggered to his feet, now quaking with fear.

“Follow me,” said the spectre in a hollow voice, and the lawyer, torn between emotions of fear and greed, obeyed.

The spectre led the shivering lawyer out into the grounds of Rosewarne and, after a long walk, they arrived at a little dell surrounded by high banks and trees, in the centre of which was a small carn of granite boulders. In the darkness Ezekiel noticed that his guide seemed to emit a weird phosphorescent light, and he was yet more terrified.

Then the spectre turned upon him and said: “Thou longest for gold, Ezekiel, even as I did. Yet I could never enjoy it; see if thou canst. Dig there. Beneath those stones is gold aplenty. Win it and enjoy it, and when thou art happiest I will come to visit thee again.” With this the strange figure gave a wild mocking laugh and disappeared in a blaze of white light.

Ezekiel Grosse recovered his nerve and ran back to the house for tools. All night he dug, and uncovered a huge pot filled with ancient gold pieces. It took him seven nights to remove them all, and when he had completed his task he found himself one of the wealthiest men in all the countryside. His ghostly visitor never returned, and after a few years Ezekiel almost ceased to remember him.

Time passed by and the world forgot the past reputation of Ezekiel Grosse. Because of his great wealth, honours and position were showered upon him. Then came a night when he was entertaining a magnificent party in his great Hall. Laughter and the sound of music and dancing made the old rafters ring until, of a sudden, the gaiety ceased as if by magic. In the midst of the Hall appeared the aged spectre.

Ezekiel did his best to turn the matter into a joke, but his guests could not be roused from their inexplicable gloomy emotions. One by one they made excuses and departed and at last the lawyer was left alone with his ghostly visitor.

From that time onward whenever Ezekiel had a party the wizened figure of the spectre was present. He would sit without speaking at the banqueting table or walk slowly among the dancers until at length, gazing full at the Lord of Rosewarne, he would utter an unearthly laugh of derision and disappear.

Soon Ezekiel Grosse’s friends all deserted him and he was left an old and lonely man, whose sole companion was one, John Call, his clerk.

So Grosse sought to bargain with the spectre, and had at last to consent to give up all his worldly possessions to John Call. When the deeds were signed the ghost finally disappeared, uttering one last demoniac peal of laughter as he went.

Old Ezekiel only survived for a few weeks. One morning he was found dead, and the country folk tell that at his funeral a crowd of grinning demons appeared, which afterwards flew away over Carn Brea, and that from its midst came the same horrible laughter that the spectre had been heard so often to emit.

Rosewarne, the scene of this story, lies in that barren mining country which every visitor to Cornwall should see. It is intensely interesting, and permission is not difficult to obtain, to visit some of the tin mines where an industry, carried on in Cornwall since the days of the Phoenicians, still survives.

The hills and moorland of this district are scarred with old workings and abandoned mine buildings. Rugged Carn Brea, crowned by prehistoric remains and the ruins of an ancient castle, rises 740 feet high, close by the main line between Redruth and Camborne. Here, they say, was the chief centre of Druid worship in the west. This district is easy of access from St. Ives, Penzance, Falmouth or Truro, and a visit to it will ever be remembered with pleasure, bleak and dreary though the mine riddled land may seem at first sight.

Carn Brea.

THE LEGEND OF THE FOUR HALLS.

Many an old tale is told of that great waste of sand-hills which fringes the coast of Perran Bay between Newquay and Perranporth. They say that there stood the lost city of Langarrow, once a busy town, that became so wicked that it was swallowed up in a night of fierce storm by the sands, and no trace of it left to offend the earth.

Right on the very edge of these sands, in the parish of Cubert, is the hamlet of Ellenglaze. Hellenclose was its old name, and that means the “Four Halls.” There is a little known story about this place, or rather about the house that stood there in the very old days, and it explains why the place was so called.

Hellenclose was once much nearer to the sea, but three times the relentless sands overwhelmed it, and each time the Lord of Hellenclose set himself to erect a new dwelling further inland, for they were of a stubborn race in those days, and would not easily submit even to the power of the storms and the winds.

It was a young Lord who built the fourth hall, in defiance of all advice, close by where the present house stands. Wise men warned him that the same fate would befall that as had overtaken the others, but he laughed at them, and his house finished, he rode off to fetch his bride from Meneage by the Lizard.

The night he returned was an ominous one. A great gale was getting up, and the retainers eyed anxiously the restless sand-hills not so far away. But the young Lord was happy and careless and bade his people sleep soundly for no harm would come. But the next morning the invading sands were seen approaching, and panic fell upon the household, who cried out that there was a curse upon the land.

Presently they dragged to the anxious Lord and his new-made wife an old hag whom they had found hiding in a barn. She was a witch they said, and to her was due all their troubles. By this time the cruel sand was already sweeping around the walls of the house, and the young Lord in his trouble gave orders for the hag to be hanged forthwith, saying that she should not live to cackle over the result of her evil designs. But his beautiful young bride intervened.

Casting herself weeping at her bridegroom’s feet she begged him to spare the old woman’s life. “I believe she is no witch, but one in misfortune as we are,” she cried, and so eloquent were the pleadings of this beautiful girl that all who heard her were moved to tears—all, that is, save the old woman who remained dry-eyed throughout the whole scene. At last the husband relented so far as to promise that the supposed witch should be spared until nightfall. If by then the house remained safe the old woman should go free; if not: “By St. Pirran, she shall hang,” he vowed.

The young bride agreed to this compromise and herself undertook to be responsible for the old woman’s safe keeping. She led her outside the hall, where the sand was now driving in low clouds over her lord’s land, and besought the old dame, if she had any power to do so, to avert the almost inevitable tragedy.

The hag avowed her innocence. “Then the Saints aid us all,” replied the girl, and with that she planted a kiss upon the old woman’s shrivelled cheek.

Now a witch cannot shed tears—that is one of the ways you may always tell one—but a kiss given freely and with good will, can break the bonds of magic that bind a witch; and no sooner had the young bride of Hellenclose kissed the aged woman than tears began to well from her eyes. These fell to the ground and caused first a tiny trickle then a regular stream which flowed on through the sand towards the sea at Holywell Bay.

And as the stream grew in size, so the invasion of the sands ceased for sand cannot cross running water, and the Fourth Hall was saved.

To-day you will find Ellenglaze separated from the barren sands about a hundred yards away, by a little brook. So long as that flows, the hamlet is safe, but should it ever dry up, they say there would have to be a fifth hall, and the waste would sweep on until perhaps it reached St. Cubert’s Church on the hill inland.

The lonely and fascinating Perran Sands are easily reached from either Newquay or Perranporth. The coast on the Newquay side is particularly fine, for a succession of steep rocky headlands here thrust themselves into the Atlantic rollers, and between them are quiet little sand-fringed bays where one may idle away a summer afternoon with only the sea birds for company.

Newquay itself, with its many fine hotels and its bathing beaches, is one of the most attractive of all the north Cornish coast towns, from which the most impressive of that coast scenery may easily be visited.

Ellenglaze.

THE STORY OF “JOHN DORY.”

This very old song commemorates the brave doings of the “Fowey Gallants,” as the mariners of that wonderful old-world Cornish seaport were called. They were men, famous throughout the middle ages, as the boldest and most daring of sea fighters.

It possibly has reference to some heroic action fought in Edward III’s reign, when Fowey’s contribution to the King’s fleet is said to have been 47 ships and 770 men.

The song itself was perhaps written a hundred years later than this, but it is certain that in Tudor times it was one of the most popular songs in the land, so well known in the West that Richard Carew in his “Survey of Cornwall,” published in 1602, refers to it in his account of Fowey, and calls it old then.

He says: “Moreover the prowess of one Nicholas, son of a widow, near Foy, is descanted upon in an old three man’s song, namely, how he fought bravely at sea, with John Dory (a Genowey, as I conjecture), set forth by John the French King, and (after much bloodshed on both sides) took and slew him, in revenge of the great ravine and cruelty which he had forecommitted upon the Englishmen’s goods and bodies.”

Carew’s assumption is that John Dory was a Genoese employed by the French King.

Many writers of the 16th and 17th centuries spoke of the song; Dryden described it as one of the most popular in his time. But gradually it came to be forgotten as songs in praise of newer heroes arose.

But at any rate we can take it that “Nicholl’s” feat was no ordinary one, for he came of a race that loved fighting. The Fowey mariners were always ready for a sea fight, engaging in a little private piracy when legitimate warfare was not available. And they took their full share in the struggles against the Armada, and late against the Dutch admiral De Ruyter.

Fowey—Q’s “Troy Town”—has seen as stirring a life as any of our seaport towns. It is still a busy, picturesque little place, straggling along the edge of its beautiful sheltered harbour, at the mouth of which remains of its ancient castle-fort still stand.

It is a fascinating place in which to spend a holiday, warm and sheltered, with excellent opportunities for sailing or sea or river fishing; and its neighbourhood abounds in pleasant walks and places of interest.

[Click on score to see it in higher resolution.]

“JOHN DORY”

Verse 1.

1st MAN. As it fell on a ho-ly day, And up-on a ho-ly tide-a,

John Do-ry bought him an am-bling nag, To Pa-ris for to ride-a,

To Pa-ris for to ride-a, And up-on a ho-ly tide.——

As it fell on a ho-ly day, And up-on a ho-ly tide-a,

John Do-ry bought him an am-bling nag, To Pa-ris for to ride-a.

2nd MAN. As it fell on a ho-ly day, And up-on a ho-ly tide-a,

John Do-ry bought him an am-bling nag, To Pa-ris for to ride-a,

To Pa-ris for to ride-a, And up-on a ho-ly tide.——

As It fell on a ho-ly day, And up-on a ho-ly tide-a.

3rd MAN. As it fell on a ho-ly day, And up-on a ho-ly tide-a,

John Do-ry bought him an am-bling nag, To Pa-ris for to ride-a,

To Pa-ris for to ride-a, And up-on a ho-ly tide.——

The first man that John Dory did meet; was good King John of France-a

John Dory could well of his courtesie, but fell down in a trance-a;

But fell down in a trance-a at good King John of France.

“A pardon, a pardon, my liege and my King, for my merie men and me-a,

And all the churles in merie England, I’ll bring them bound to thee-a,

I’ll bring them bound to thee-a, my merie men and me.”

And Nicholl was then a Cornish man, a little beside Bohyde-a;

And he manned forth a good black bark, with fifty good oars on a side-a,

With fifty good oars on a side-a, and he dwelt beside Bohyde.

The roaring cannons then were plied, and dub-a-dub went the drum-a;

The braying trumpets loud they cried, to courage both all and some-a,

To courage both all and some-a, and dub-a-dub went the drum.

The grappling-hooks were brought at length, the brown bill and the sword-a;

John Dory at length, for all his strength, was clapt fast under board-a,

Was clapt fast under board-a, by the brown bill and the sword.

NOTE.—The “1st Man” should be he of the loudest voice of the three; the others should so restrain themselves that the words of each verse may be clearly heard.

HOW TO SING A “THREE MAN’S SONG.”

The “Three Man’s Song” was the precursor of the more familiar “Round.” It should be sung in this manner: The first man sings, alone, the opening line of each verse and as he proceeds with the second, the second man starts to sing the first. In like manner the third man joins in the harmony with the first line when the first man has reached the third and the second man the second.

In order that all three singers should complete each verse at the same time, it is necessary for the first man to repeat the first and the second lines, and the second man to repeat the first line.

St. Catherine’s Castle, Fowey.

[Click on the map to see a higher resolution version.]

Miniature of the front cover Illustration of Volume Four

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE

Obsolete, archaic and unusual spellings have been maintained as in the original book. Obvious typos have been fixed silently.

In the story of John Dory, the phrase “in revenge of the great ravine and cruelty” appears. The word “rapine” comes from French, and a popular form of this word in old French was “ravine”. Consequently I believe that a rendering of this phrase in modern English would be “in revenge of the great rapine and cruelty.”

The cover page was produced at Distributed Proofreaders from material found in this book. The cover is hereby placed in the public domain.

The author, “Lyonesse” is a pen-name for George Basil Barham.

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Table of Contents

- LEGEND LAND

- CONTENTS AND ILLUSTRATIONS

- FOREWORD

- A PRINCE WHO WOULD HANG A MOUSE

- St. MELANGELL AND HER “LAMBS.”

- WHERE KING ARTHUR SLEEPS.

- BRONWEN AND THE STARLING.

- THE SWAN OF GLASFRYN.

- THE WONDERS OF ST. GOVAN’S CHAPEL.

- THE FAIRY GARDENS OF TREEN.

- HOW THE DODMAN WAS NAMED.

- THE CHARMER OF PENGERSICK.

- HOW ST. GERMAN LEFT CORNWALL.

- THE SPECTRE OF ROSEWARNE.

- THE LEGEND OF THE FOUR HALLS.

- THE STORY OF “JOHN DORY.”

- TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE