Falmouth has by more than one famous sea captain and well-known yachtsman been referred to as “the finest harbour of the English coast.” It is not necessary for us to dispute the truth of this statement, or point to other havens (Milford, for example) which some may think have equal or greater claim. Those, indeed, who know Falmouth well, or have spent pleasant days there, at anchor or under canvas, will certainly do it justice and agree without demur to any praise which may be given it. One of the chief attractions of Falmouth to seafaring and especially to yachting folk is the “mildness” of its tides. There is no rush out of it as though a mill race were set to balk one’s efforts to get in and snugly moor. It is quite possible to accomplish both these things against the tide and wind, if one knows one’s way; and when once inside Black Rock there is, for sailing, no place to beat it.

Falmouth Harbour, too, is the very paradise of charming creeks, many of the largest of which have sufficient water to let one sail right in with a moderate-sized vessel, while almost all the others can be explored in a launch or dinghy. The vast expanse of green sea, enclosed on all sides save the south with sweet woods and fields, flower-spangled at almost all seasons of the year, has a wonder-spell peculiarly its own at sunset and sunrise, and during the half-lights which succeed and precede day-dawn and dusk. Then there are, indeed, sky-pictures to be seen, whether one be afloat, on the hills near St Mawes, ashore amongst the quaint, straggling streets, or on the quays watching the wide stretch of calm water take on something of the glory of the colours in the sky, mingled with the reflection of houses by the waterside, or anchored vessels. Then, as dusk creeps on apace, the old town, with its huddle of houses, its murk of blue-grey smoke, its quaint chimneys and broken roofs silhouetted against the sky-line, and its glow-worm lights coming out one by one in the casements, to be answered by the riding lights of ships at anchor throwing yellow, wavy lines on the surface of the water, presents a picture of indescribable charm and mysterious beauty.

The last of the great harbours of the south-west coast, it is, in many respects, the most gracious and beautiful. On it stand several little seaports, which in ancient times made history, and to-day form such delightful holiday resorts and ports of refuge for the yachtsman who loves to dawdle close along one of the most delightful, if terrible, of coast-lines. As is the case with Dartmouth and the Dart, and Plymouth and the Tamar, so it is with Falmouth and the Fal; but with this difference—it is only in the lower reaches that the Fal is either beautiful or interesting; and it is difficult to say where river ends and sea begins. In the many creeks into which the sea obtrudes when the tide flows in from the Channel one has a variety of scenery which never palls, visit it when one may. And over the low-lying mud banks and marsh land the cleansing flood of the open sea comes with a rippling song, and even in surroundings of fertile fields, woodlands, and hills, a fresh brine in the air tells one that, however far from blue water one may imagine oneself, the “spirit of the sea has but to stir to flood the spot with the keen freshness of ocean’s breath.” Amid the windings of the Fal, King Harry’s Reach, and Truro River, one may spend many pleasant days, touching now and again on ancient things as some grey old church comes into view, with its spire piercing its environment of trees, or some quaint and pretty village, with romantic traditions of the smuggling days, peeps at one across the fields which border the river’s snake-like course. Falmouth itself is a quaint one-street town of no great antiquity as seaports go in the west country; but it is still sufficiently old-fashioned to have about it a certain charm distinctly pleasing in this modern and materialistic age. One writer says of Falmouth that the beauty and popularity of the town is largely due to “letting Nature well alone,” and that it is “one of the few unspoilt and much resorted to places in England.” Be this as it may, there is no possible doubt regarding the very great popularity of Falmouth with yachting and holiday folk. There are yet some people left even to-day to whom narrow streets, none too sharply defined pavements, and quaint domestic architecture appeals, and all of these things may be found in Falmouth.

Apparently in more remote times the streets, or street, and Falmouth architecture came in for more adverse criticism, as the Cornish historian, Tomkin, writing about 1730, grumbles thus: “It is a pity when Falmouth was began to be built they had not been more curious (careful) in the choice of the site, which they seem to have, in a sort, entirely overlooked. It would then, considering its extent and the many good buildings in it, have vied with most towns in the west of England, whereas now its principal part consists only of one very long street stretched out at the bottom and on the side of a steep hill, as high as the tops of the houses backwards, and winding mostly as that does,” adding, “but this will always be the case where towns are built without any fixed design at first, and every one hath the liberty to carry on his design according to his fancy.”

But, all the same, had Tomkin lived, he would have found that the features he decried were those which mostly attract folk to the old town.

As we have before said, Falmouth is not of very remote origin, although there is a legend that it (or some other place which stood for it) had some sort of existence in the far-off times when Phoenicians came to get Cornish tin, and did their bartering for it upon, one would think, the somewhat inconvenient surface of Black Rock. The town as we know it, however, had no more ancient origin than that of Arwenack House, which was built some short time prior to Richard II’s time, and was later described by Carew as entertaining one with a pleasant view. The heiress of the Arwenack family married in the reign of the monarch just mentioned one Killigrew of Killigrew, in St Elme. Even so late as the reign of Henry VIII, who caused the castles of Pendennis and St Mawes to be built to guard the haven from the incursions of the French, and possibly also to protect Penryn—which appears to have been then a place of some size and importance—Falmouth in a Chart of the Haven especially prepared for the king’s information seems to have consisted of but the one house erected by the Arwenacks. About this time, however, it should be remembered that both Truro and Tregony (which is now high and dry) were ports with considerable trade.

The history of the Killigrew family is so bound up with that of Falmouth, and has so many elements of romance, and stirring incidents connected with it, that we find ourselves compelled to deal with it somewhat at length. Moreover, the story serves to throw considerable light upon the life and events of that period when Falmouth was slowly emerging into a place of some maritime importance. That the Killigrews were sometimes lawless, as many of their neighbours undoubtedly also were, goes without saying; but they appear to have had a truly humorous, if somewhat partial, idea of justice, which the following anecdote will exhibit. “All is fish which comes to Killigrew’s net” was the sarcastic observation of a succeeding age, but it may be said to apply equally well, and with as considerable a force, to this earlier period in the family history. Somewhere about the year 1582 a Spanish vessel, of the port of St Sebastian, hard by Biarritz, belonging to one Philip de Ovyo and his partner in the enterprise, John de Chavis, was kidnapped from Falmouth Harbour, so the losers declared, by servants or agents of Sir John Killigrew, the then head of the family.

The complaint seems to have been pressed home in a manner decidedly awkward and distasteful to the accused, and it was decided that the matter must be investigated. The authority appointed was naturally the Commission of Piracy. Happily (for himself) Sir John happened to be the Commission, and what was more natural (at least, in that easy-going age) than that he should investigate and sit in judgement on a case in which he himself was somewhat nearly interested? But to avoid suspicion of bias or evil he invited another prominent man of the district, Godolphin by name, to act with him. The impartiality of the latter might in this more particular age have been questioned, seeing that Godolphin had been accused of misappropriating some of the cargo and treasure which had come ashore in the wreck of a Portuguese ship not very long before Killigrew’s servants’ affair.

But for once justice appears to have been done somehow or other by unexpected means. After it was discovered that some of Killigrew’s servants were missing from the time of the disappearance of the Spanish vessel, and that one of Sir John’s own boats played a prominent part in the affair of cutting out the ship, the Commission (i.e., Killigrew and Godolphin) found that the vessel had been misappropriated, and that the owners were entitled to commiseration. The servants of Killigrew were declared outlaws, and in return for the loss they had suffered the Spanish merchants were given permission to export one hundred and fifty quarters of wheat without paying duty. This may not appear to us adequate compensation for the loss of their ship and its cargo, but they probably made the best of a bad bargain, and considered themselves fortunate to obtain any sort of redress. Piracy would about this time appear to be the staple industry of this particular district, if not, indeed, also of the greater part of Cornwall. Although outlaws, Killigrew’s servants were not long in Ireland, whence they had fled with the Spanish ship, for a short time after the Commission had given its verdict either they or others were once more in trouble, having been concerned in an attempt to rescue from custody “a notorious and bold pirate, Captain Hammond by name, who had been fortunately captured.” The pirate and his captors appear to have been on their way to the gaol, where, doubtless, the former would have languished until tried and ultimately “depended for the example and terror of evil doers.” The master was, as before, much distressed at the evil deeds of his retainers, but how genuine the sorrow was it is not easy to determine. Suffice it to say that his professed dislike of piracy was not shared by a descendant, one Lady Jane Killigrew, who some few years later, upon seeing a couple of Dutch merchantmen entering the harbour under stress of heavy weather, promptly dispatched her servants to inquire into the cargoes borne by the ships, and other details of how many they had as crews and how they were armed.

The report proved so satisfactory that on the return of the gentle lady’s expedition of inquiry she determined to go aboard herself and secure what she wanted. Perhaps she was distrustful of the bona fides and honesty of her servants, who knows? So she, “thinking it well to pay the Dutchmen some compliment of estate,” had a large boat got ready, and, lest there should be trouble, a good strong crew in it well-armed for emergencies. One can imagine—if a knowledge of the Killigrew methods of welcoming strangers had reached Holland—with what distrust the poor Dutchmen, who had only run into the haven for shelter, must have regarded the approach of her ladyship and her well-armed galley. The boat speedily swept across the intervening water, Lady Jane and part of the crew clambered up the steep sides of the vessel, whilst the remainder of the party made for the other ship. The Lady Jane soon made clear her demands to the Dutch skipper, whilst the rest of her friends and servants were engaged upon similar work on the other vessel.

It would appear from the account which has come down to us that as far as the Dutch themselves were concerned they were prepared, or at least disposed, to accept the inevitable without forcible resistance. There were Spaniards on board the ships, however, and these were not likely to take things quite so philosophically. The result was that some of these were killed. Tradition asserts that the piratically inclined Lady of Arwenack gave the signal for their dispatch. Be this as it may, the Lady Jane succeeded in confiscating a considerable amount of booty, which tradition again asserts to have been, inter alia, two hogsheads of Spanish money, whilst her servants and the crew of the galley followed her example with alacrity, and annexed anything of value upon which they could lay hands. Times were rough and justice often lagged, and when it did catch up the evildoer sometimes failed to exact a commensurate retribution. But to Lady Jane, the freebooting owner of Arwenack, punishment was ultimately meted out. She was haled to Launceston Castle (where, doubtless, the notorious Captain Hammond also lay in durance a few years before), and was tried, found guilty, and condemned to be executed. Let us hope, with due regard for her birth, breeding, and daring enterprise.

It would seem that after the escapade of Lady Jane Killigrew, although piracy flourished and at times was conducted in a somewhat barefaced manner, little was done to check it or to bring the chief offenders to justice. Most of the vessels engaged in piratical expeditions to the opposite coast of Brittany doubtless came down from Penryn, as it was not for a century after the affair of the Dutch ships that Falmouth assumed any great proportion or came into note as a western port.

It was that enterprising adventurer, Sir Walter Raleigh, who first appears to have grasped the possibilities of Falmouth’s magnificent harbourage, when on returning from one of his voyages and putting into the haven he found only one or two houses in addition to Arwenack. Here, thought he, was an unrivalled natural haven absolutely wasted. The impression made upon his astute mind was such that upon reaching London he sought to bring his views before the authorities, detailing to them a scheme for the formation of a haven at Falmouth with a view to assisting vessels not only by a safe anchorage in stress of weather, but also by supplying them with stores and the means of repairing damages received in the open sea. It was undoubtedly in consequence of Raleigh’s representations that about 1565 a few houses were erected at Smithick, which name still survives in the portion of the town surrounding the church. This was the beginning of what was afterwards destined to develop into present-day Falmouth.

Mr John Killigrew, afterwards knighted, whose estate of Arwenack had become extended, until it seems to have included Pendennis Head, was quick to see the growth of a town would be greatly to his personal advantage and emolument, and in consequence he appears to have set about to instigate the building of other and better houses at Smithick. As was not unnatural, the existing ports of Penryn, Truro, and Helston, seeing their supremacy, and perhaps even existence, threatened by the new-comer, bestirred themselves greatly to prevent the proposed expansion of the recently built village, even going the length of presenting a petition to James I, pointing out in no measured terms the injury and ruin which would result to them if a rival port were permitted to arise so much nearer the sea, and so much more convenient to mariners. So serious did the matter seem to those in authority that for a time the development of Smithick was checked, pending an inquiry, which was ordered to be held by Sir Nicolas Hals, who was then Governor of Pendennis Castle. His report appears to have been favourable to the proposed enterprise, and many more houses were erected.

Although this particular portion of Cornwall was far removed from the great issues of the Civil War, Smithick, or Falmouth, was destined, on account of the vicinity of Pendennis Castle, to feel something of the struggle for ascendancy between Charles and his Parliament. Prince Charles (afterwards Charles II) himself, after having been driven west from Bristol and into Cornwall from Barnstaple in 1645, came here in hot haste and sought temporary refuge in the castle ere taking ship for France, and Queen Henrietta Maria in the previous year also had come hither to embark for the Breton coast and safety. But after the siege of the castle by the Parliamentarians, and the settlement of the country on the death of the king, Smithick appears to have gone on its untroubled way as a rising though still somewhat obscure port.

Under the Commonwealth Sir Peter Killigrew, who had been appointed Governor of Pendennis Castle by General Monk, obtained several advantages for the town in which his ancestor had taken so lively an interest. Chief amongst these was the institution in 1652 of a market, and a little later, the transference of the Custom House to Smithick from Penryn. It was about this period that the town became known as Pennycomequick. The origin of this peculiar name is by no means clear. By some authorities it is supposed to be a cynical reference to its rather “mushroom” growth, or to the eager desire of the inhabitants for wealth, whilst by others it is thought to have its rise in a grouping of old Cornish words, Pen-y-cwm-wick, meaning the village at the head of the valley. It was not, however, destined to enjoy for long (or be burdened with) so ambiguous a name, for at the Restoration in 1660 Charles II issued a proclamation on August 20, declaring that it was his pleasure that the town should henceforth be known as Falmouth, and in the following year granted the town a charter of incorporation under that name.

Nine years later the enterprising Sir Peter Killigrew built a quay, and Falmouth may be said to have properly embarked upon its career as a trading port.

In 1688, the year of the coming of William of Orange, was established at Falmouth the famous post-office “packets” sailing to foreign ports and the colonies. These vessels, which were at first of small size, about 180–200 tons, were usually three-masted, full-rigged ships, built chiefly for speed and passenger traffic, no cargo, and well-armed. They had the further distinctions of flying pennants as ships of war, and of having naval officers for commanders. To quote an old account of the service, which at one time numbered some fifty ships running to Lisbon, New York, Gibraltar, Charlestown, Savannah, the West Indies, and other parts of the world, “the boats were well-found and elegant, the officers and men ‘picked,’ and so handsome were some of the former that to take a packet voyage, notwithstanding the dangers of winds and water and risk of capture or attack by the King’s enemies, was much indulged in.”

To give some idea of the amount of mercantile life which this service brought to Falmouth, it may be stated that in 1705 there were no less than five of these “clippers” sailing to the West Indies, five in 1707 to Lisbon, and in the middle years of the century there were frequent sailings to the other ports and places we have named. In 1812, notwithstanding the disturbed state of Europe, and the high seas, a packet sailed “every Friday evening from October to April for Lisbon; for Barbadoes and Jamaica and America on the Sunday after the first Wednesday in every month all through the year, for Surinam and the east on the Sunday after the second Wednesday in every month, for Brazils on the Saturday after the first Tuesday in every month,” and so on.

This famous packet service remained one of Falmouth’s best assets of prosperity as well as its pride until the end of the first half of the nineteenth century, when steam displaced the old-time sailing ships, and the service was gradually transferred to Liverpool and Southampton. The loss of the mail contracts was a severe blow to the town, which not only robbed it of a considerable portion of its trade, but also of its life. This decline was inevitable, of course, as the sailing ship could not compete with the steamer, any more than the old coaches which bore the mails, when landed at Falmouth, to London and other parts, could compete with the railways which linked the ports of transference with London years before the line came to the far western port.

A book might well be written concerning the gallantry which was invariably displayed by the Falmouth packets when attacked (as they frequently were) during the French wars. As we have before said, the vessels were almost invariably well-armed and well-manned, but only for defence. They were forbidden by law to attack; but when the French and American privateers assailed them they frequently found the packets more than a match for their often superior force of arms and men.

Many stories of these naval engagements are still extant, and but comparatively few years ago there were old men living at Falmouth who had taken part in these engagements. One, at least, remembered the famous fight of the Townshend of nine guns, and a crew of twenty-eight, counting boys, Captain James Cock in command, which in 1812 on a voyage to Barbadoes, when almost within sight of port, fell in with two American privateers, the Bona and Tom, of vastly superior force, both as regards weight of metal and number of men. In the former the disparity was five to one, and in the latter rather more than ten to one. The gallant but unequal fight went on for several hours, the privateers battering the packet boat at long range, then running down alongside her and attempting to carry her by boarding. This latter manoeuvre was repeated several times, but each attempt was frustrated by the gallantry of the packet boat’s crew, and that of the passengers who bore their part in the unequal and terrible combat. As was their custom, the Americans had used chain and bar shot for the purpose of cutting up the rigging of the Townshend, with a view to preventing her escape by flight, and the condition of the vessel was such by the time that the second attempt to board her was made that to escape by superior seamanship or swifter sailing was no longer possible.

After the fight had been in progress for several hours, the Townshend was so terribly “cut up” about her rigging, and had been hulled so frequently by the enemy’s shot that she was almost unmanageable, and in addition to this so many of her small crew had been put hors de combat that to serve the guns any longer was a matter of the greatest difficulty. Soon, with the loss of her bowsprit, jib-booms, steering wheel and other important gear, she was reduced to a sorry wreck. Then she began to take in water faster far than the pumps, even if they could have been manned, would have been able to keep under. The Americans still continued to rake her fore and aft, as they could now easily do owing to her helpless condition; but still the Townshend and her commander refused to strike the English flag. The water rose so rapidly that the carpenter, who was sent down into the hold to ascertain the worst, reported the vessel actually sinking. Half the crew were killed, or wounded so seriously that they were no longer able to render the slightest assistance, and in the end, with tears in his eyes, the English captain, to save other gallant and valuable lives, which would only be uselessly sacrificed by further resistance, hauled down his colours.G

So ended one of the most notable of many engagements in which the Falmouth packet boats of the end of the eighteenth and early years of the nineteenth century took part. Often, however, though attacked by vessels of superior force they, by courage and skill, managed to avoid capture, and, indeed, both French and American privateers often found they had “caught a Tartar” in a Falmouth post-office packet ship. Such was the historic case of the Jeune (or Jean) Richard, a heavily armed French privateer carrying a crew of close upon a hundred, which, falling in with the packet boat Windsor Castle, Captain W. Rogers, with a crew of twenty-eight, and “only light guns,” almost on the same spot as that destined to be the scene of the Townshend’s engagement five years later, attacked her, doubtless expecting to gain an easy prize. The commander of the Jeune Richard had, however, “reckoned without his host,” for not only did Captain Rogers and his crew gallantly repulse each attempt made by the privateer to board them, but a happy idea of loading one of his 9-pounders with grape and musket bullets occurred to the skipper’s mind.

“This gun was then trained on the boarding party from the privateer with the happiest results.” The italics are ours. Subsequently, Captain Rogers determined to take the offensive, and with a shout of encouragement he leapt down upon the privateer’s deck followed by five of his men, who, after a sharp fight with the disorganized privateersmen, succeeded in driving them down below, and taking possession of their vessel. The Windsor Castle’s loss was heavy, considering the sparse number of her crew, namely, three killed and ten wounded. But the Frenchman lost twenty-one killed, and had no less than thirty-three wounded.

Many another equally gallant tale could be told of the old days, but these must suffice. Falmouth has remembered its heroes of the post-office packet boat’s service in a granite obelisk, erected upon the Moor by public subscription. Only too often, indeed, these “unofficial heroes” and acts of daring and gallantry are overlooked.

But heroic deeds by Falmouth seamen were not confined to those who manned the packets. The privateers of the town that sailed away into the Channel and Atlantic from the safe and beautiful haven which was the scene of such tireless activity and bustle in the days of the long French war, did yeoman service in harrying the shipping of Great Britain’s enemies, and often engaged with glory and success the smaller vessels of even the French and Spanish navies. The extraordinary feat of the Polperro ketch, the Gleaner, commanded by one William Quiller, which in the year 1814 came in sight of a Spanish man-of-war, not only of considerably greater size but more fully manned, and after a fierce engagement succeeded in capturing the Spaniard and bringing her into port can be more than once paralleled by the doings of Falmouth despatch boats and privateers.

In the stirring days of the Napoleonic wars, Falmouth was indeed a busy place. Carrick Roads were crowded with shipping merchantmen that had entered the haven to escape the French privateers (which were always hovering about the Channel on the look out for prizes) or were waiting for convoy to the West or East Indies; privateers always coming and going, sometimes returning maimed to refit, at others entering the harbour in triumph with a prize in tow; and the King’s ships on the look out for likely merchant seamen to replenish their depleted crews.

And in those days, too, the means by which the replenishment was brought about were not always distinguished either by justice or scrupulousness. Not only were merchantmen often boarded, when in harbour and waiting for a favourable wind or convoy, and their best hands impressed, so that when the wind became favourable, or convoy was to be had, they were too short-handed to put to sea; but privateers were also depleted of their crews which, when these vessels had letters of marque, was not only a high handed, but actually illegal proceeding.

One naval worthy who was in command at Falmouth in these troublous times, when, to tell the truth, England was but ill-prepared to conduct the naval and military campaign into which she had entered, was Sir Edward Fellow, who came of an old Cornish family, and after having done “some very worthy deeds and gallant things in the American War,” on the outbreak of the war brought about by the French Revolution, offered his services to the naval authorities, and was appointed to a fine frigate called the Nymphe. On his first cruise, when he had filled up his complement with Cornish miners! “owing to the lack of proper seamen,” and had finally taken on board as leaven a few prime seamen at Falmouth, he fell in with the Cleopatra, a revolutionary frigate in the mouth of the Channel, and after an astonishingly fierce engagement with the Frenchman (who had nailed the bonnet rouge to his mast head) succeeded in capturing her and bringing her in as a prize.

As a writer of the period says, “those were stirring days and restless anxious nights along the coast. But into our havens and ports came many prizes to British seamen’s gallantry, and prize money literally ran in the streets as it burned holes in the sailors’ pockets.... Whilst the officers, though perhaps a trifle more provident, yet denied themselves little of enjoyment so long as the money lasted. But they were gallant lads, one and all, who made Falmouth thus merry by day and night. And when the ‘rhino’ was spent sailed away with light and stout hearts in search of more glory and prizes.”

At the commencement of the nineteenth century, when the war was ended by the Treaty of Paris, Falmouth had grown a port of size and note, and it might have been expected that its position would have been maintained, if not improved upon. Vessels of all nations and from almost every quarter of the world made it their port of call, discharged their cargoes there, or refitted. But for some reason or other, in the third and fourth decades of the century, a marked decline manifested itself, and Falmouth of to-day is of less importance than it was a hundred years ago.

The introduction of steam, though of enormous benefit to commerce at large, and indeed to many other ports appears to have adversely affected Falmouth. Ships went more and more to ports further east, and vessels which in former times called in to report arrival or to get stores were no longer compelled to do this by reason of the establishment of Lloyd’s signalling station at the Lizard, and the introduction of steam power which made the shortage of stores that so often happened on a long and unduly protracted voyage less and less frequent. Even the building and opening of the extensive docks about half-a-century ago, and the coming of the railway in 1863 have not, as was so sanguinely hoped, enabled Falmouth to retrieve its lost greatness. That so splendid a haven should be less used than formerly cannot fail to be a matter for regret not alone to those for whom Cornwall has a fascination and an undying interest, but to those also who look upon such a circumstance in the light of a valuable commercial and national asset lost.

But if denied the greatness which should rightly belong to it as a port, Falmouth has of recent years come considerably to the front as a health and holiday resort. Much has been done to add to the town’s natural attractions of a fine climate and beautiful scenery, and in future years the place may hope to become one of the most popular of seaports in the West Country.

Though the streets and alleys are many of them quaint, Falmouth possesses few old or important buildings. In the town itself Arwenack House, with its memories of the Killigrew family, is certainly the chief. The fine house, formerly by common consent considered at the time as one of the most handsome and magnificent in the Duchy, built by that John Killigrew who died there in 1567, was unhappily destroyed by fire during the Civil War. One account of its destruction states that the then owner, who was a staunch Royalist, himself set fire to it to prevent it falling into the hands of the Parliamentarians. But another story states that it was fired by the “malicious and envious Governor of Pendennis Castle.” The present house, a low rambling place, is substantially the same building as was built in its stead; but although by no means deserving the eulogy lavished upon it as “the palace of John Killigrew,” yet has an interest because of its many historical associations, and an old-world air which arrests attention. It is now the property of the Earl of Kimberley.

The Killigrew family was widely extended in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. It was probably a member of the Middlesex branch of the family, one Thomas Killigrew, who founded Drury Lane Theatre, and opened it on April 8th, 1663, under a patent granted to him by Charles II, whom he had served in exile. He was (like other members of his family, Lady Jane, to wit) “rather greedy for offices and spoil.” But according to one authority his main idea of opening the theatre and entering into management was the fact that he had himself written plays. Perhaps he is to be looked upon as the first of actor-managers. It is interesting to note the prices in those early days of the theatre. The first of Killigrew’s productions was a comedy called “The Humorous Lieutenant,” and the prices in the theatre were 4s. for boxes, 2s. 6d. for the pit, 1s. 6d. for middle gallery (dress circle), and 1s. for gallery. “Sometimes the house was worth £50, and often less, or not more than half,” we are told.

One of the most famous players under Thomas Killigrew’s management was “Sweet Nell of Old Drury,” of whose acting “in a comical part” Pepys has left a complimentary opinion, although he thought Killigrew’s first production “a silly play.”

It was this Thomas Killigrew who was a noted wit, and whose portrait by Van Dyck hangs in the Royal collection at Windsor. A writer in The Gentleman’s Magazine tells an interesting story of Killigrew’s introduction to Louis XIV. The King took him into a picture gallery, and upon pointing out a celebrated picture of the Crucifixion, inquired of Killigrew whether he knew who the principal figures were or the incident it represented. “No, sire,” replied Killigrew.

“Then,” said Louis, “Monsieur Killigrew, I will tell you who they are. The figure in the centre is that of our Saviour on the cross, that on the right of him is the Pope, and that on the left myself.”

After a pause Killigrew replied, “I humbly thank your Majesty for the information you have given me, for, although I have often heard that our Saviour was crucified between two thieves, yet I never knew who they were till now.”

The reply of the King to this witty, though caustic and uncourtierlike, speech is unhappily not recorded. The sarcasm was rendered more mordant from the fact that both the King and the Pope were, at the time, engaged in persecuting and robbing the former’s Protestant subjects.

Another story of a much more tragic nature is connected with Falmouth, and relates to an old couple who lived towards the latter end of the sixteenth century, a few miles out of the town on the way to Penryn. They had two children—a son and a daughter; and the former—partly owing, so the story goes, to his parents falling upon evil times—ran away to sea, and of him they heard nothing for many years.

One winter’s night, however, when a great gale was blowing in the Channel, and sweeping across the land from the Atlantic, a stranger came to their door and asked for food and shelter. The old couple allowed him to come in, and gave him food; and whilst he was refreshing himself and warming his chilled bones by their fireside he entertained them with wonderful stories of his adventures amongst pirates and in foreign lands, for he was a sailor man. At last he fetched out of his pocket a piece of gold with which to pay them, and asked them to give him a bed. The old woman, surprised at such wealth, after a time persuaded her husband to permit the strange traveller to remain the night, and showed the sailor upstairs to a room. She remained chatting with him for some time, and during their talk he showed so much money, jewels, trinkets, etc., that she was perfectly dazzled at the sight. The old woman, whose greed had been awakened, left him to his slumbers, and the tired wanderer lay down to rest, well content thus to have obtained shelter from the storm.

Next morning the daughter—who now lived at Penryn,—appeared on the scene, and after the usual greetings she said, “Did not a sailor man come to see you last night?”

“What do you mean, my child?” asked her mother, adding hastily, “A sailor man! What could have put such a thought into your head?”

“Because,” answered the girl, “one asked his way here last night, and said he wanted to see you.”

“No, no,” continued the old woman. “No sailor came here.”

But all the while the girl’s father was fidgeting and looking as though the subject and the questioning was unpleasing to him.

“Father, do you, too, say no one came?” inquired the daughter, anxiously. “Because it was our Dickon who came to see me, and told me he had come back from foreign lands, where he had found a gold mine, and had got as rich as the Grand Mogul himself.”

“Dickon!” screamed the mother. “Impossible. I should know my Dickon anywhere.”

“Then a sailor did come here!” exclaimed the girl. “Oh, mother, where is he? Has he gone away again? There was a scar on his left arm that he got at sea.”

The old man had disappeared during the last few words, and suddenly there was a thud of some falling body overhead. The wretched old woman hurried up the narrow staircase, and entered the bedroom the sailor had occupied. The daughter followed her, but was only in time to see her mother fall in a pool of blood and expire.

There in one room lay three dead bodies. The sailor son concealed temporarily under the bed; the father who, at the instigation of his wife, had killed him so that they might become possessed of his wealth; and the old mother herself.

“For many years,” so the tale continues, “none would even approach, let alone occupy the accursed dwelling, so that at last it fell into decay. But those who passed at nightfall or during the dark hours did often hear the wailing of the distracted and wicked mother, and some even say they have seen the sailor man’s ghost.”

Pendennis Castle, upon its jutting headland, is the other ancient building of the possession of which Falmouth can boast. It was erected in 1543 as a portion of a scheme of King Henry VIII’s for the complete fortification of the harbour in view of the coming war with France. St Mawes Castle was built upon the opposite shore to Pendennis; but the two other fortifications contemplated were never finished. The importance of its strategic position is apparent to anyone, however unversed in such matters; commanding as it does the coast line, the entrance to the harbour, the Roads, and a large portion of the town of Falmouth itself. The first Governor was John Killigrew, and he was succeeded in the year 1567 by his son Sir John. Queen Elizabeth in 1584 appointed Sir Nicholas Parker, who was succeeded at various times by others, including Sir Nicholas Hals (a relative of his more famous kinsman Hals, the historian of the county); until Sir John Arundell, of Trerice, known to history as “John for the King,” was appointed in 1643, and was perhaps the most famous of all Governors of the Castle.

Early in 1646 the Castle, which has the distinction of being the last fortress in the country, except Raglan Castle, to hold out for King Charles, was besieged both by land and sea, by Roundhead forces commanded respectively by Colonel Fortescue and Admiral Batten. The Governor, though eighty-seven years of age, stoutly refused to yield up possession when called upon to do so; and the siege lasted six months. Fairfax and Blake both came to the attack; and brave men themselves, they must have been full of admiration for the stubborn old hero who held out against them so gallantly. In Clarendon’s History of the Rebellion is the following account of a siege which was as notable for the zeal of the besiegers as the heroism of the defenders. “The castle refused all summons,” writes the historian, “admitting no treaty till they had not victuals for twenty-four hours, when they carried on the treaty with such firmness that their situation was never suspected, and they obtained as good terms as any garrison in England.”

The defenders were (according to one account) about two hundred strong, and consisted of two companies of one hundred each; armed pikes, sixty men; calivers the same number; muskets, eighty men; and a few watchmen and other servants.

There was, after the Castle’s capture, a rapid succession of Roundhead Governors; but when the King came to his own again, Richard, Lord Arundell, a son of the brave defender, was appointed to the post.

The Castle has seen no other vicissitudes of a warlike character since the famous siege; but from time to time additions have been made to strengthen it, and bring it more into conformity with modern ideas. It is manned by companies of the Royal Garrison Artillery.

From the Castle tower there is so fine and comprehensive a view of Falmouth, the harbour and surroundings, that none should miss it. It is, indeed, only when seen from such a point of vantage as this that the true extent and beauty of this magnificent roadstead can be adequately realized. Away but a short distance under the hill of Trefusis lies the quaint little town of Flushing, with its stretch of quays and cottages clustered upon them, and its perfume of orange and lemon trees which flower and fruit in the open air. Opposite is St Mawes; and a little distance to the north-west lies Falmouth itself, with the picturesque jumble of grey and red roofs, and the docks and quays in which and alongside of which lie vessels from all parts rearing slender masts skyward, or perhaps with an added picturesqueness lent them by drying canvas flapping idly from the yards. Across the water up above St Mawes is charming Gerrans, where one may shove one’s nose and lie easy in any weather, conscious only of a snug haven and a charming village.

Picturesque St Anthony should be visited—it can be reached easily in the dinghy from St Mawes, and lies only a few hundred yards inland from the shore of the creek—on account of its fine church, which is generally agreed to be the best example of Early English architecture in Cornwall, and has a beautiful Norman arch to the south door.

But we might advise a score of other excursions up the many lovely creeks of this beautiful haven of Falmouth. Those who have passed through the tree environed “King Harry’s Passage” on the way up to Truro, or have explored St Just’s creek, or Restonget, or—well a score of others equally lovely, will not need to be reminded of the wealth of interest and beauty here spread out before them.

But there is yet the last haven between us and the wide Atlantic—Penzance. We must pass by unentered the many charming creeks of the Helford River, where the woods come down to the waterside, and the inlets provide a snug anchorage for small craft in almost any weather.

Right onward from the Manacles almost to Penzance itself the coast is rocky, dark, and uninviting. No trees soften the brows of the stark looking cliffs, which are here and there torn into great fissures, which look from a little distance out at sea like dark gashes cut with a knife. The coast is not one safe for near approach, and there is, indeed, nothing in the scenery to invite close inspection.

Rounding the Lizard, either in a fresh easterly or westerly wind, is generally a wet job for craft of small tonnage, as a heavy sea speedily gets up. But once round there is a straight run for Penzance Bay, the last haven of any size (and that not a very good one) on the south-west coast.

Penzance lies in the north-western curve of a fine bay, which is, however, too open to afford an ideal anchorage, or much protection in most prevailing winds. As one enters the bay the one striking object is not the town—that, at a distance, is not notably picturesque, and near by is disappointing—but the fine rock of St Michael, which, like its Norman prototype, stands “solitary amid the waste of waters, a townlet upon a rock.”

The origin of this outstanding mass, connected with the mainland only by a causeway covered save at low water, is “lost in antiquity,” as historians are wont to explain when nothing detailed or more satisfying is forthcoming. Some authorities, however, have thought that the Roman occupation or a period only a short time anterior to it saw the formation—by reason of seismic convulsion—of St Michael’s Mount, which was “cast up out of the bed of the sea.” Others assert that once the Mount was set inland amid forest glades and primeval woodlands, and was then known as the “hoar rock in the wood.” But whatever the origin may be, the fact remains that at the bottom of Mount’s Bay undoubtedly lies a forest, which was probably engulfed when the Scilly Isles were torn away from Land’s End, which gives some colour to this latter theory.

The legend in connexion with this tremendous event is that, when the ancient and romantic land of Lyonesse was overwhelmed, one inhabitant, Trevelyan, swam ashore, and landed and built his house near where the Seven Stones now stand. And whatever truth may underlie tradition, there to this day remains Trevelyan’s Field.

Max MÜller says that the early monkish owners called the rock and abbey “Mons Tumba,” and this connects it with the sister mount set fair and lovely in the wide bay of Avranches.

One thing, however, appears certain, namely, that the Phoenicians in their trade with Cornwall for tin knew St Michael’s Mount when they lay off Marazion bartering with the inhabitants of that then important place. As was the case with the other Mount of St Michael across the Channel, the origin of the monastery was the vision of St Michael which appeared to a hermit. But there is no record of the foundation of a religious house on the rock until long after the visit of St Kyne on a pilgrimage from Ireland in 490. Then, by permission of King Edward the Confessor, a Benedictine Priory was established, which was afterwards taken over by monks of the Gilbertine order who owed allegiance to the Abbey on the Norman St Michael’s Mount. The religious foundation underwent various vicissitudes until its final passage into secular hands. Edward III dispossessed the alien monks of Normandy, and the property came into the possession of the Sion Nuns, passing into the possession of the Bassett family (probably on the dissolution of the monasteries), and two hundred years later was sold by them to the St Aubyn’s, whose descendant, Lord St Levan, still owns it.

Like many another Abbey throughout the land, St Michael’s Mount has a history as a fortress as well as a sanctuary. Though far removed from the whirlpool of civil war, which engulfed middle England in the long struggle between the Houses of Lancaster and York, St Michael’s Mount was destined to catch an echo of the strife which was laying the chivalry of England in the dust on bloody battlefields and stricken heaths. It was to this fortress that the Earl of Oxford came after the loss by the Lancastrians of the Battle of Barnet in April, 1471. He gained admission to the castle in the disguise of a pilgrim, and once inside made a stout resistance to those of the triumphant Yorkist adherents who attacked it in their endeavour to capture him. Afterwards the Earl surrendered, on being assured of a pardon.

The next notable person to claim sanctuary in St Michael’s Mount was Lady Catherine Gordon, the wife of Perkin Warbeck, who, on landing at St Ives in September, 1497, to claim the English throne as Richard IV, under the patronage of Margaret, Duchess of Burgundy, sister of Richard III, and the Scottish King, James IV, was received by the Cornish folk enthusiastically. Lady Catherine lay in sanctuary there while Warbeck and his adherents marched on London—only to take refuge in flight on the approach of Henry VII’s troops when he was engaged in besieging Exeter.

Although during the disturbances which followed in Cornwall on the introduction of the Reformed Prayer Book the fortress saw some fighting, it was not until the Civil War between King Charles and his Parliament that it once more played a prominent part in history. It was commanded for the King by Sir Francis Bassett, and, like most other Cornish fortresses at that period, was gallantly defended. During the siege a former Governor Humphry turned traitor and attempted to gain possession for the Parliament; but his plan was frustrated, and he himself was executed. Sir Francis Bassett surrendered eventually to the Parliamentary forces under Colonel Hammond, the Royalist garrison retiring to the Scilly Islands.

Since that siege the castle has played its part in no other event of great importance, although during the Napoleonic Wars there was a certain amount of activity within its walls, brought about by the universal dread of invasion. But a few years previously the guns of the castle had been brought into service for the purpose of scaring off an Irish pirate vessel, which had chased some merchantmen into the Bay. We fear that the weapons must have been allowed to fall into a bad state of efficiency, for we are told “they caused the pirate ship to desist in its attempt to capture the vessels, but alas! did no other damage save kill two of the gunners, which sad event was caused by the bursting of one of the cannon.”

On the northern side of the mount, which is about a mile in circumference at its base, there is a small but snug little harbour, along the quay of which are grouped the fishermen’s cottages and other houses belonging to the village. Above these, to a height of nearly 250 feet, rises the Mount, crowned by the imposing and picturesque castle and church. In the early morning, and on days when the mist struggles with the sunshine, it is a weirdly beautiful pile. The oldest portion of the buildings is the central tower, which is probably fourteenth or early fifteenth century work, and forms so prominent a sea mark. The hall and chapel date from the fifteenth century, and there is an ancient cross just above the steps leading to the latter building. The chapel has from time to time been altered and restored, and it was during some building operations of recent years that a Gothic doorway was discovered, bricked up on the right side of the east end of the church. Behind this was found a vault approached by a flight of steps, and in it was the skeleton of a man supposed to be that of Sir John Arundel.

On the top of the tower is what is known as St Michael’s Chair, in which recess there is just room for one person to be seated. The tradition connected with this somewhat giddy and overhanging seat is that any bride who has “nerve” enough to climb into it will be gifted with the power of ruling in her own home. But, notwithstanding this, comparatively few ladies, we were told, are prevailed upon to try.

The old mansion, which was erected upon the site of the priory, has largely disappeared; and many of the seventeenth-century rooms have been done away with to allow of apartments more in keeping with modern ideas and requirements. But in the Chevy Chase room, formerly the refectory of the monks, with its stuccoed cornice depicting hunting subjects, a good many interesting details have been preserved.

The views from the summit of the tower and upper walls and windows are very fine and extensive, including not only the whole of the bay, but a stretch of the coast both eastward and westward. Perhaps the most beautiful picture of the Mount itself is from Penzance, when the sunset glow bathes its hoary grey walls in roseate light, and gives to the solitary and impressive pile a mysterious beauty and significance.

In the old smuggling days Mount’s Bay was a veritable hotbed of the contraband trade. Many are the stories told of the bold smugglers of Penzance and Marazion; but of all that of one daring free trader, John Carter, known as “the King of Prussia,” and his famous retreat at Prussia Cove, a short distance eastward of Cudden Point, has the truest savour of romance.

Carter must have been not only a desperately bold and resourceful smuggler; but also what is known as an “original.” As a boy he doubtless got to know every nook and cranny of the little inlet, situated about six miles eastward of Penzance, which ultimately was so intimately associated with him and his daring deeds. Then the place was almost isolated from the outside world; an ideal smuggler’s retreat. Even nowadays it is cut off from the rest of the world, and although a most beautiful spot, comparatively few people find their way to it.

It was here, with the little island forming a natural breakwater to the cove, that young Carter spent his youthful days, probably planning the deeds which afterwards caused his name to be a household word in the district. He was probably equally well versed from his youth in the ways of the smuggling fraternity, and took to the trade himself as naturally as the proverbial duck does to water. In those days a “likely” spot was not often overlooked by the Cornish smugglers, and doubtless Prussia or Bessie’s Cove was used for illicit purposes long ere John Carter was of sufficient age to make the place notorious from Plymouth to Penzance. A writer of the period does not give the people of the coast just above here an enviable character, for after accusing them of wrecking and murdering (when necessary) the unfortunate seamen washed ashore, he goes on to say that their chief occupations were drinking, fighting, smuggling, and all kinds of other wickedness.

Long before Carter reached his majority, he—and his brother Harry, who, from a diary which has been preserved, appears to have possessed a somewhat sanctimonious soul—began to play his part in the local smuggling enterprises. And it was not long before he became recognized as a leader on account of his masterful character and his resource in daring expeditions planned to defraud the Customs. The nick-name of “the King of Prussia,” by which his fame has been handed down to posterity was bestowed upon him by his playmates in boyhood’s days; and was doubtless traceable to the interest which the doings of Frederick the Great were just then arousing throughout the civilized world. The house in which “the King” lived is still by happy chance standing to form a link with the old days of romance, which are so rapidly passing even out of recollection. It is just a typical, low, two-storied thatched cottage with a small fore-garden, and rising ground at the back. When Carter came to live here first is not clear, but it is evident that it was whilst he was quite a young man. He soon set to work to make the Cove, over which he had set up a kind of sovereignty, as perfect as could be for the daring enterprises in which he intended to become engaged. He cut away the rocks at the entrance, deepened and improved the fairway and approach to the beach; and rendered the numerous existing caves more convenient for the stowage of smuggled goods. In addition to all this, a good path was cut in the cliffs connecting up the caves and beach, and road inland.

But, perhaps, the most astonishing part of Carter’s work was the fort which he erected on the point to the westward of the entrance to the cove, for the purpose of defending his goods. The remains of it can still be plainly traced, though it is nearly a century and a quarter since it was dismantled.

The battery of guns which “the King of Prussia” placed in position commanded all the sea approaches, and for a time successfully overawed the “preventives,” as they were doubtless intended to do. Anyway, there are records existing of the most daring acts of smuggling which took place right under their noses.

However, on one occasion the revenue men from Penzance, when “the King” was absent, perhaps upon one of his periodical visits to the French coasts, came round in force to the Cove, and took possession of a cargo lately landed from France. The bales and “tubs” were swiftly conveyed to the security of the Customs House Store at Penzance. And doubtless the revenue men chuckled over their pipes that night on the easy capture they had made. They reckoned, however, without their host. In due course John Carter returned to the Cove to discover the loss which had happened to him. It did not take him long to make up his mind. “The King of Prussia” was a man of decision. He must get back those “tubs” and bales of his. Besides (as he is reported to have told his adherents) he had promised delivery to “a gentleman of substance and position, and other customers, by a certain date, and as an honest man he was bound to keep his word!”

The same night there assembled on the waste land near “the King of Prussia’s” house two score or more of well-armed men, who marching down to the beach took boat for Penzance, where they broke open the Customs House, took forcible repossession of the goods, and sailed away across the bay to Prussia Cove.

That such proceedings should have been possible at the end of the eighteenth century seems almost incredible to the modern mind. But one must remember that Cornwall, or at least the extreme western portion of it, was at that time almost as isolated and remote as the Scilly Isles or portions of the north coast of Scotland.

Such a daring exploit could not, however, long be overlooked; and the Customs House authorities of the district determined to make a supreme effort to put down John Carter and his gang.

So one day not long afterwards the look-out man at the Cove was surprised to see a large cutter approaching, which his knowledge of smuggling and revenue craft at once told him was a foe. The alarm was given, the smugglers hastened to the beach, and manned the battery on the point. The guns were loaded and run out, and with a daring which must have astonished those aboard H.M.S. Fairy, the battery opened fire.

For a time the smugglers held the revenue men in check, and prevented them from landing, but at length the latter succeeded in entering the Cove. The battery was stormed and captured. The guns were dismounted and thrown into a pool hard by, reputed locally to be bottomless, and the place was dismantled.

History, somewhat strangely, is silent regarding the ultimate fate of “the King of Prussia” and his companions after their defeat. But it is quite evident that the event put an end to Carter’s smuggling exploits; or, at all events, to further ones of the barefaced nature in which he had up to that time indulged with impunity.

All along the coast the revenue men were not altogether unwilling to deal leniently with the smuggling fraternity, and even benefit by such a course of conduct, and it seems, therefore, very probable that “the King of Prussia” lived a quiet life upon the handsome profits of the many successful ventures in which he had been concerned, until the time came for him to leave the scenes of his exploits.

At all events the “stirring and veracious history of ‘the King of Prussia’ and his comrades” forms not the least entertaining and informing narrative of the old smuggling days in these parts.

The town of Penzance, except for its picturesque fishing fleet, and certain old associations, is not a place of any particular charm. To use the words of a local historian, “It is a town of to-day, and has little or no history.” But it is not, after all, of such entirely mushroom growth as the said historian would be held to imply. Its seal, which dates from 1641, is an extremely interesting one. St John the Baptist’s head on the charger appears in its design; with the legend “Pensans,” which by some is thought to give a clue to the origin of the town’s name, Penzance—pen being Cornish for head, and sans meaning holy. Some more prosaic folk, however, assert that the name has nothing to do with St John, and try to derive it from the ancient chapel to the patron saint of fishermen, St Anthony, which once stood on the land near the quay. In the present town, which, even from the sea, is not as picturesque as ports usually are, there is preserved in Alverton Street the old name of the district, which comprised not only Penzance, but also Newlyn and Mousehole.

In the Domesday Book it is referred to as Alwaretone, and was at that period one of the most valuable estates in Cornwall. In ancient times there stood at Penzance, Castle Horneck, the home of the lords of the place; and from the middle of the fourteenth century a weekly market and a seven days’ annual fair have been held. Existing records tell us that the town prospered to some considerable extent during the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries; but at the end of the latter, although news was brought to Penzance of the Armada’s approach, the Spanish galleons did not even put into the bay, but stood up Channel for Plymouth and the English fleet. Perhaps the inhabitants of the town were lulled by this providential escape from molestation into a sense of security which was to cost them dear. For in the year 1595 on a July morning, when the sea and bay alike were veiled in all too secretive mist, as Carew narrates the event, “four gallies of the enemy presented themselves upon the coast over against Mousehole, and there in a fair bay landed about two hundred men, pike and shot, who forthwith sent their forlorn hope, consisting of their basest people, unto the straggled houses of the country ... by whom were burned not only the houses they went by, but also the parish church of Paul, the force of the fire being such that it utterly ruined the great stone pillars thereof. Others of them in that time burned that fisher town Mousehole; the rest watched as a guard for the defence of these firers.”

After which we gather from another account the galleys moved away to Newlyn, when, after setting that village on fire, the men who had been landed for the purpose marched on Penzance. Here had gathered a little band of the inhabitants—terror-stricken as they undoubtedly were—headed by Sir Francis Godolphin, who was urging them to offer a stout resistance. But alas! the defenders that should have been were so consumed by fear that when Sir Francis came into the market place to organize his force and appoint to them their several duties, he found only “two resolute shot, and some ten or twelve others that followed him, most of them his own servants. The rest, surprised with fear, fled, whom neither with his persuasion nor threatening with his rapier drawn, he could recall.”

This is not a very flattering account of Penzance valour; but the result of the cowardice shown must have been a heavy punishment. In a few hours the town was but a mass of smoking ruins. Having accomplished what they had set themselves to do, the Spaniards re-embarked; and appeared to have seen the wisdom of not proceeding further along the coast. At all events, ere the English Fleet, which was hastening to give them battle, could arrive, they had set sail for Spain and made good their escape. In this wise came to pass and ended the most complete and serious invasion of these shores ever made by Spaniards.

Penzance arose Phoenix-like from its ashes, and in the middle of the seventeenth century “was become a place of some importance and size, so that King James granted it a charter of incorporation.” Till then, at least, Marazion across the Bay, behind St Michael’s Mount, had continued the most important town in the immediate neighbourhood. Leland speaks of it as a “great long town,” and whatever the origin of the name may be, and whether (as tradition asserts) Joseph of Arimathea was connected with it and its tin trade, does not nowadays much matter.

Penzance, during the Civil War, remained for the King, and the town and its inhabitants were destined to pay a heavy price for the privilege of loyalty. The place was seized by the Parliamentarians—at the time they were attacking St Michael’s Mount—and they plundered, partially burned, and sacked as though foreign invaders had landed and had been permitted to wreck their vengeance unmolested.

At his restoration Charles II, to mark his appreciation of the Penzance folk’s loyalty to his father, gave the town the dignity of a coinage town. To it, in consequence, all tin within the Stannary of Penwith and Kerrier had to be brought to have a corner or “coin” cut off to test its quality. And, until 1838, every hundredweight of the metal was so tested, and had to pay a tax amounting to four shillings.

Nowadays Penzance is chiefly seeking to advance its claims for recognition as a health and holiday resort. With many, however, the old world claim of romantic interest will weigh more heavily than either those of climate or modern amusements. But, as a sapient guide book relating to a more ancient town, which is also making a bid for popularity on similar grounds, avers, “a town cannot live upon its romantic interest alone, nor on the light of other days,” whatever that last may be. And so we must regard Penzance from a new standpoint, which is easier, as it possesses practically no ancient or historic buildings, and only one street, Market Jew Street, in one of the houses of which Sir Humphry Davy was born, which dwells in our memory as being of any note or picturesqueness.

But sometimes Nature is more than kind to Penzance, and we have seen her transform the distant town, as we lay at anchor on the bosom of Mount’s Bay, into something of almost ethereal beauty, as the soft, pearly light of a June evening enveloped it against a background of crimson and powdered gold.

THE END