MONTHLY BELLE ASSEMBLÉE, INCORPORATED WITH THE LADIES' COMPANION. DECEMBER, 1854. THE MERCY OF THE WINTER'S WAVES. BY SILVER PE N. Very cosily has Johnny Craftbox, the pedler, slept in the huge feather-bedded and worstedcurtained bed of the St. Columb's Arms-for Johnny is a man of substance-and he now descends the little creaking staircase into the spacious kitchen, where Margery Thwistle and her daughter Bridget are grilling him a smoked pilchard, and preparing the other condiments of a true Cornish breakfast. Though not more than eight o'clock, Margery and her five blooming daughters have breakfasted these two hours, and done prodigies of work in the interval, in both primitive bar, dairy, and bakehouse; and the kitchen, freshly washed, and rubbed and dusted, and with a glowing fire of seaborne coal, now looks a picture of homely comfort. Johnny once safe at breakfast, beside a little table in the chimney's corner, Margery resumes her previous task of chopping a huge pile of suet, at a dresser no great way off. With the exception of an old post-woman, who calls to leave a letter, and a rough weatherbeaten fisherman, who drops in to have a pint of mulled beer, the warm kitchen is undisturbed by visitors; and Johnny proceeds with his comfortable meal uninterrupted, except by Margery's daughters, who come to and fro on divers household errands. There is some attraction in Johnny's presence; for, once in the kitchen, they linger-wisely, for they enrich the picture by their youthful and comely looks. "Going up to the Head, Johnny?" asks Margery for Mr. Craftbox is an old acquaintance. "Yes," is the reply. "More from habit though, than profit or comfort. There won't be much of one or t'other, I daresay; but, like a gin-horse, I keep my old rounds." "Thee needn't, Johnny, thee needn't," says Margery, with a meaning shake of the head. "But thy heart's in the right place; for I know thee. The Lord love thee! I know, as many know, what takes thee to the Head." Johnny does not reply, but absorbs himself in his pilchard, and a herring to boot. "I'm thinking, sir," says the fisherman, now warmed by his ale, "thee must go shore-ways. The wind's blowing dead upon the land; and a man, unless made of lead, could never keep his feet along the cliffs. The tide will sweep in soon, and roughly; but with care you'll take no harm." "None, friend, none," said Johnny, curtly; "I've braved it in a wilder day than this." "Well, sir," adds the fisherman, "this'll be wild enough; and the coming night! the Lord's mercy be with those who have to bide its horrors; for no man living on these coasts will have seen a worse, indeed if such. You may know what's likely, when the Scowles and them sort o' chaps be getting ready for a wreck; for an Indiaman's been beating off the coast these two days for a passage up-channel, and can't get in. Last-night she made but a narrow miss of Deadmen's Rocks; to-night her fate is sure, if the wind blows another gale on land; because the tide 'll sweep her in." "An Indiaman!" repeats the pedler; “why what in the name of fortune are they doing at the Lighthouse?" "Why last night the water was well-nigh over it; and they put out the signal for oil; but no boat would stand the sea. To-day they're to try again, as there has been a "more light telegraph sent on from Falmouth. To-night, if the reflectors are spent, or the waves burst over, the Indiaman must go. God help those who float within her!" This is said with profound, though rugged feeling. "And to-morrow night Christmas Eve," whispers two of Margery's daughters. In reverence, perhaps, to her guest's digestion of such important edibles as the pilchard and herring, Margery, after due pause, broaches another subject. "I thought, Mr. Craftbox, that old Kitty Austell was one of thy best customers. She's fond of dress, I know; and the day was, when she could get to and fro to Falmouth or to Bodmin, she did not care how the guineas went, so she could show richer clothes than other folks. Ah! she made up for all the pinching years she was kept bare by her old father; and even now-a-days, bound as she is by the rheumatics to the house, she don't spare for either back or belly." Mr. Craftbox nods his head acquiescently. "Ye see, Margery," he says presently, "it ain't profit only as takes me to the Head. It seems to be a sort o' duty I canna' forego, to see that poor thing Eddy every now and then; and the bit o' pedlery hides the real fact from the sight o' Kitty. But how's the poor cre'tur been going on since I wur last o' these parts ?" gowns and things o' that sort; as if my pocket had as many score pounds in it as Falmouthbank. But that's their way, Mr. Craftbox; 80 I suppose you mun just let 'em pick and choose. There'll be a bit of a dance in the big room 'afore the Christmas be over, and the lasses 'll like to look smartish!” "Well, well," is the pedler's reply, "I don't think I shall be forgetting 'em this year, more than t' others. The box up-stairs 'll be for their picking; but I canna wait now, or I shan't see the Headland to-day.” Speaking thus, he shoulders his pack and a small box, pockets the letter for the aged clergyman, and reaching the door, nods a good-day. But Margery has still another word for him; is to ask the hour of his return. He says it is uncertain, as he has more than usual business to transact. "Well," is the kind reply, "if it be towards eight o'clock, there'll be a bit o' comfortable supper for thee, Johnny-a fowl, or something o' that sort; and mind, if thee should get a quiet-speaking word with Eddy, give Margery Thwistle's and her girls' kind duty, and say that good prayers and honest wishes are Mrs. Thwistle shakes her head. "She wur mighty bad, Johnny, soon after thy visit in the spring. Whether Kitty's conscience wur pricked or no I canna say; but she sent right away to Bodmin for a doctor. He pretty soon found out how Eddy was kept moped in the Headlighthouse for weeks together, and what she pined for. He said they must let her have some rags to make a babby, and be kept from the lighthouse, as well as being so often wetted by sea-water; and what wur more, to have leave to go a bit about the garden or the shore. Well, she was soon better, but Kitty must begin again her old doings, by sending her off to the light-hers." house for days together. So just as the doctor said she would be, she's been ill again these six weeks, with one of her moping fits, which have always been the worst part o' her madness. Ah, Mr. Craftbox, her's has been a hard lot; and one that I think the Lord in his time must pity." 66 He need," replies the pedler, with a sigh; "for her grief has been a long one-full thirty years, now, poor thing. But I suppose she was cut off going a bit by the sea-shore, for the old reason!" "You're right, Johnny. They traced her up to the Headland parsonage, and there was a rare to do. For what sort o' cause, Kitty best knows; for a kinder or more Christian gentleman than Mr. Mervyn canna be. But this brings to my mind that the letter the postwoman brought is for him; so, if thee be going there, Mr. Craftbox, thee may'nt mind carrying it?" The pedler nods assent, and having finished his pipe, rises to go, as the fisherman reminds him that, if he means to reach the Headland by the sea-shore, he must lose no further time: he therefore goes up-stairs to fetch his outer coat, his pedlery-box, and pack. His absence is a signal for Margery's pretty daughters to gather round their good mother, and besiege her with all sorts of irresistible entreaties and questions, that bear reference to the contents of Johnny's pack and box. Too fond and loving, to refuse, and too well to do, to be niggardly, Margery nods assent to an inspection, and ad libitum purchase of gowns, ribbons, and collars; whereat there are rosy smiles and happy looks, that are a fitting advent for the Christmas! "Johnny," says good Margery, when the pedler is once more in the kitchen, "here's my lasses at their old Christmas nonsense, o'wanting The pedler nods assent, closes the door, and mutters, as he braces himself to face the howling wind and thick-descending sleet, "A blessing on thy threshold, Margery; for thou hast a good warm woman's heart"-a truth which many knew beside the honest pedler. The little fishing hamlet, thus graced by the St. Columb's Arms, lies in a hollow between two massive granite cliffs, and is thus in some degree a sheltered spot. A sandy road winds upwards to the bleak, high bluffs above; whilst another still more sandy and rugged slopes precipitately to the shore. This latter, deeply worn with ruts, is wet from the heavy spray of the sea, and strewn with masses of weed and fragments of splintered wood, swept in by the might of the night's storm. Passing by this to the wet, strewn, shore-though not without a friendly greeting to rough-clad fishermen, watching in groups the mighty storm that is rising; and to women peeping round the shelter of their cottage-doors; or without forgetting to promise here and there that he will look in byand-bye-good Johnny makes his way along the wet and lessening sands, towards a lofty, rock-clad headland in the distance. Round the base of this the mightiest waves of a wintry sea now leap and dash with awful wildness; and beyond lies the Headland Lighthouse, buried, or almost so, amidst the waves, and which for minutes together overwhelm it. Ordinarily, a natural causeway of jagged rocks leads to it from the shore; but this is now altogether hidden by the mighty sea that hurls its waves against it. Perilous as this only accessible path along the shore really is, it has more than one traveller towards the Headland, and Mr. Craftbox soon overtakes a country-lad, carrying some game and a basket of apples. Knowing him, he stops to ask after old Sir John Camborne his master; questions, and hears with a great degree of interest, that the old man is ill; that the hall is falling into ruins; and that the once lovely sylvan park is fast becoming wild and overgrown. The pedler then passes onward to encounter various others, proceeding in the same direction. There are some fishermen and rough-clad lighthousemen, bearing huge coils of rope and a keg of oil; others still in advance, with grappling irons and a portable lifeboat; and further on, and near upon the Headland, he overtakes a file of women, picking their way along the treacherous sea-washed sands, and variously bearing baskets of grocery, fish, poultry, meat, eggs, and butter. If all these be intended for the larder of the solitary Headland cottage, it will not be an empty one. On a sort of staithe, or landing, formed of wattled boughs, and from which a rugged path cut in the rock winds up the awful precipice, some lighthouse-men are grouped, awaiting the arrival of the oil, making signals with those within the wave-clad lighthouse, and preparing for such methods as may make communication with it feasible. With these the pedler stays awhile to talk, and then toils his way up the path with baffled feet, for the higher he climbs, the fiercer sweeps the mingled sleet and wind. whilst two rough-clad men wait in a distant part of the kitchen. A sort of closet, or little office, is close beside her; and this is filled likewise with ledgers, papers, charts, compasses; and in its great window, looking boldly seaward, is affixed a huge lamp or lantern, with many burners. Though clearly a slattern by habit, this great, coarse, mannish woman is richly dressed. A gold watch, as big as a small pancake, is at her side: rings adorn her vast hands as well they may-for Miss Kitty Austell is the renter of two lighthouses, is the owner of another, has money in all the banks in Cornwall, sends out a fleet of pilchard-boats to sea-to say nothing of her reputed interest in deep-sea fisheries, and in vessels which go forth to slay the mighty monsters of the deep. She has been talking hoarsely and angrily to the men, but ceases as the pedler enters. He greets her, glances furtively round, puts down his pack, and goes to the fire. Presently she looks towards him, and has something harsh and coarse to say to him. "Well! what, are you come on the old errand, Johnny Craftbox? to pick my pocket, and sell rubbish, eh? But I tell you, it won't do this time. I want a rich dark satin, at some seven or eight shillings a-yard; so if you've brought nothing o' this kind, don't unstrap thy pack. Bodmin or Truro shops 'll hold what I needas they do for folks with a ready penny, such as mine." She ends these words with a coarse, loud laugh, as she always does this constantly reiterated boast of her riches and selfish extravagance. Placed on the loftiest peak of the Headland, and with portions which verge on the precipice's edge, the low, rambling cottage has a comfortable and substantial look, though weatherbeaten and roughly built with timber. Its door lies landward, as does its garden and few farm-buildings; whilst its casements, for the most part facing the sea, are thickly clad The pedler quietly assures her that he has that with long-grown ivy, that, springing from the in both pack and box which will exactly suit little space of ground about the precipice's edge, her. He then addresses the old servant, sits and often from the fissures of the rock itself, down in the chimney-corner, and when the climbs about the cottage, and in one more shel- mannish woman has resumed her pen, he looks tered aspect, festoons the sheer descent of sam- about him. The most singular feature of this phire-covered cliff. Moreover, weather-stained, vast old kitchen, which has angularities, and and russet with long years' growth of lichens, closets, and recesses enough in it for a labythe cottage is very picturesque-more so within, rinth, is its intense lightsomeness; as, towards where the door, of which the pedler lifts the the ocean, and on the three points of the Headlatch, opens into a large and low brick-floored land, it is full of windows. Three of these light, kitchen, lighted by casements looking seaward, a kind of jutting oriel, open to the kitchen, and and warmed by a huge crackling fire of drift-built on the very verge of the precipice, or inwood. A bare-footed Cornish lass is rubbing up the clock and oaken dresser: an older woman sits in the distance, plucking a fowl, and otherwise preparing the essentials of a capital dinner; whilst the mistress, whose enjoyment this is for, luxuriates in an immense easy chair, housebound by stiffened joints and gouty feet, but otherwise as quick-witted and as alive to self and self-interest as in her hey-day. She is a large, corpulent, red-faced woman of about sixty, with a hard, sensual, weatherbeaten countenance, that some might fear, but none could love. Her occupation is a business one; for a large, old-fashioned, bespattered office-desk stands before her, at which she writes in various dirty little books, files papers, stuffs others in dusty pigeon-holes, notes figures in dog-eared ledgers, and transacting this business evidently deed extending beyond it. It is full of light, as well it may be, being all windows, and like an eyry or a watch-tower, commands the wide, wild sweep of ocean. In this sits-where she almost always sits when at home-a woman many years younger than Miss Kitty, though still past middle life. Yet her bending figure, as it may be seen from the fireplace, is still rounded, and of exquisite symmetry; and though her face looks seaward, with an absorbed and wistful gaze, her massive folds of raven hair, lightly tinged with grey, and disheveled, as they are twined about her head, irresistibly attract the looker-on. A young goat, not many weeks' old, is lying at her feet, which she sometimes stoops to caress; otherwise she never moves, but gazes fixedly upon the horizon of the surging sea. She watches, evidently, the |