with the farms and cottages around, all combined to produce one of those successions of interesting objects so well suited to panoramic painting. We continued our way across some fields, where, on gaining a particular spot on the side of a hill, not far distant from the river, the fine baronial residence of Warleigh, its avenues of noble trees, gardens, and plantations; the whole backed by the clear blue waters of the Tavy, at once burst upon our sight; and as we descended towards the house, every step presented a new combination of scenic and beautiful effects. We proceeded on to Warleigh; but, as in the following pages I shall have occasion to speak more at large respecting this venerable mansion, I shall here only observe that we found it a substantial and noble piece of architecture; originally built in the reign of king Stephen, but altered and enlarged in the times of Henry the Seventh and Henry the Eighth, and having very recently received the addition of a rich doorway, quite in character with the original building. After shewing us the hall, and the greater part of the interior, Mr. R- led the way to a small apartment adjoining the hall, and looking towards the gardens in front of the house. Here were many books; in fact, it was the library. The volumes it contained, Mr. R- told us, had been chiefly collected by an uncle of his, since dead, who was partial to literature; and being also somewhat of an antiquary, had been a careful preserver of all the old family deeds, leases, letters, records, etc., etc. The books spoke at once the character of their late proprietor; they were full of marginal notes, in his own handwriting. Mr. R-, anxious to afford us all the information we could desire respecting the former inhabitants of Warleigh, produced a bundle of old brown dusty parchments, containing records as far back as the reign of King Stephen. Most of them were in Latin, and in a character cramped, worn, and almost illegible in many places. These were far beyond 1 y antiquarian skill to decipher; and, like one who travels in a country with the language of which he is unacquainted, I could only admire, without understanding, the very things that lay before my sight. On some of the parchments there were curious seals, in a high state of preservation. Here and there I could make out a word or a line that rather piqued than gratified curiosity, till I was, at length, obliged to give up the investigation, and could only regret how much information I must lose by not being able to read old writings and monkish Latin. However, though I failed here, I was successful in reading the plain fair hand of the deceased antiquary; and, on care lessly looking over a bundle of papers-having permission to open any I pleased-my attention was at once arrested by seeing a very small packet, carefully tied up with pink tape. It would be needless, perhaps, to tell the reader, that this was a packet of exciting interest. I was allowed to gratify my curiosity; and though I confess the information it contained might be less full than could have been desired, still was it sufficient to excite and stimulate imagination. The following pages owe their existence to the few, but remarkable, facts connected with the tradition of the Copplestone Oak, which thus became known to me: and as, in all works of fiction, nothing adds so much to their interest as a knowledge of their being founded on truth, I thought it better to relate the above particulars for the satisfaction of my readers. Man seems born with an innate love of truth; it is natural to him: for, if you relate a tale but to a child, the first remark that passes his lips, as he stands looking with wonder in your face, will be"Is it all true?" I have but one more observation to make respecting the traditionary lore on which some parts of the following narrative are founded; and that is, to tell the reader that I am aware one circumstance of the tale borders on the marvellous: nor do I pretend to argue the point of its truth with any critic who may feel disposed to be sceptical on the subject. Be it false or true, it was an oral tradition, and as such, was sufficient for my purpose, especially as it will be found connected with the spirit of former times. The following narrative, however, I ought to remark, is but little concerned with events of a public nature; not more so than must ever be the case in the history of every family, who may have the misfortune to live in troublesome times, and to learn the truth of an observation which avers--that private happiness cannot hope for security during public dissensions and calamity. Vicarage, Tavistock, Nov. 1, 1830. A. E. B. CHAPTER I. "Tis pleasant, by the cheerful hearth, to hear SOUTHEY'S "MADOC." THE Eddystone Light-house has long been celebrated, not only as the most remarkable structure of the kind in this kingdom, but, perhaps, in the whole world. The dangerous reef of rocks on which it stands, surrounded, and in a storm, covered, by roaring breakers, is supposed to derive its name from the number of contrary eddies that here meet and strive amidst their deep and dark abysses. These rocks are distant at least twelve miles from the coast of Devon, entirely insulated, and lie directly in the way of such vessels as may chance to coast the Channel. To have approached them at any time, unless under the guidance of an experienced pilot, must have been hazardous; but during a dark night, or in a gale of wind, no other than certain destruction; nay, seldom in former times could any vessel, during a storm, escape the fatal reef, did she attempt to reach Plymouth harbour amid the hours of darkness. Dangerous, toilsome, and almost impracticable as it seemed, yet the genius of man triumphed over the difficulties presented by the Eddystone; for in the year 1696, Winstanley, the Merlin of his age, erected upon it a light-house, which, having withstood several tremendous assaults from the tempestuous ocean-that once, it is said, hurled its waves more than a hundred feet above the fabric, cresting with foam its burning top-the founder deemed was as capable of endurance as the rocks on which it stood. With too much presumption, perhaps, on his own skill, and too little thought of God's power to overthrow the strongest works of man at his pleasure, he even expressed a wish, that the first time he visited the light-house, the greatest storm might blow that ever shook the heavens. The wish, rashly formed, was too soon, and too fatally gratified; for the floods arose, and "the Most High uttered his voice, and the channels of the sea appeared," and the strong walls and their unfortunate founder were swept away together; so that, when the sun arose, nothing was to be seen but a few black specks amid the breakers; even the rocks which remained firm, and unshaken, and, alas! as destructive as ever. The light-house which now stands on the reef, was erected by Smeaton, on a better planned foundation, at a subsequent period: and in here adverting either to the one or the other building, we certainly have been guilty of digressing, since what we have to detail, respecting the dangers of the Eddystone rocks, refers to a period before Winstanley achieved his bold and surprising work, when not a year passed without fearful and multiplied losses of ships, cargoes, and human lives, on the most fatal reef that skirted the western coast. It was during the vernal equinox of the year 1617, that two English merchant vessels, the one called the Virginia, and the other the Old James, heavily laden, and homeward bound from the Western Indies, were making their way through a stormy sea in a very distressed condition. The Virginia, however, was, to use a nautical phrase, more seaworthy" than her companion; and it is with the fortunes of the Old James that we are here principally concerned. The latter ship had already suffered by a tempest, and it seemed but too probable that she was destined still to suffer more (perhaps complete wreck) near that very coast to which she had looked with an eye of longing and of hope. The particulars that, at this distant period, have reached us respecting the distresses of the Old James are but few, yet sufficiently fearful; and, according to the credulity of the times, have not been forgotten the various signs and bad omens (some of them being nothing more than natural phenomena observed at sea) which were considered as indicative of what was to happen. First, then, the vessel had set sail on a Friday, and without taking the precaution of nailing a horseshoe on the foremast, to keep off the witches, who soon profited by the omission; and giving their imps and familiars possession of the masts and rigging, they speedily capered about, and played up what was called "a devil's mass' board the ship. For several nights together strange and sweet sounds were heard about the sides of the vessel; yet no mermaid, no sea minstrel appeared seated on a dolphin's back, chanting her wild melodies as she combed down her long locks of silken hair. But though the musicians were invisible, there was seen an unknown aquatic bird, that settled on the mast head, or hovered round the ship during many days: the seamen attempted, by more than once firing at it, to get rid of so singular a visitant; but the bird, as if proof against on danger, seemed neither hurt nor dismayed by these hostile attempts upon her life. There was also seen playing about the vessel a light, like that of a small star, which would appear and tremble, and anon disappear, and then would come again and stream with a brilliant flame along the mast, shooting from "shroud to shroud," darting, flaring, or blazing like Ariel in the Tempest, and, like that "dainty spirit," might be said sometimes To flame amazement; sometimes to divide, Setting aside the credulity of the age, we presume these lights to have been nothing more than a "sea fire," not unfrequently witnessed before, as well as during, a violent storm; certainly ominous of anything but calm seas and hopeful weather. In the present instance, these prognostics had been followed by a formidable tempest, that had dreadfully distressed the ship. For many days she had laboured in a hollow sea, partly dismasted; and, at the time she neared land, remained little better than a hulk, at the mercy of those winds and waves that seldom exert their full powers in angry conjunction but for destruction. During the last twenty-four hours, the storm had been so violent, that it seemed to the minds of the unfortunate crew as if it could scarcely be worse; yet worse it was, and that speedily: for the tempest, which hitherto had made itself felt by sudden bursts and squalls, now became more constant in its terrors, as the winds rose higher and higher in their fury. Though it was noonday, yet was there darkness; a "thick darkness," like that of Egypt, which could be felt as well as seen. In the extreme distance, a red streaky line of light, as of blood, gave a distinguishing character of horror to the horizon. The clouds, vast, black, and spreading, seemed in that state of agitation which made them resemble the stormy sea, over which they east their awful shadows; as a worker of wicked spells and foul enchantments is said to cast the shadow of his body over the creature whom he destines to perform his destructive will. Onward they came, rolling from the west, in volumes of darkness, yet surcharged with the electric elements of light. At one moment they were black as midnight, at the next a sheet of fire, as the redoubling thunder burst at intervals in fearful combination with the roar of ocean and of the wind that, loud, steady, and appalling, howled along the deep. The sea seemed to rise and dash its waves against the sky, whilst the rain poured down in such a flood, as if “the windows of heaven were opened, and the fountains of the great deep were broken up." By the sudden gleams of |