Returning somewhat late on the following evening, from a long ramble to see remarkable places in the neighbourhood, we found the manager of Zennor stamps and the other old cronies seated in their accustomed places by the fireside.

Shortly after the landlord came in from his work. He was a sturdy fellow of fifty or thereaway, burnt as brown as a berry. Most of his time was passed at work on his farm; he had a good size one for that part of Zennor, and the public-house was left to his wife’s management.

During the evening, after much coaxing, our host told the story which his wife had spoken of as a true one: telling how a company of smugglers, of his acquaintance, had been driven away from Market-jew Green by small-folks (fairies.)

There is some hope that all the fairy-folk have not yet entirely forsaken this neighbourhood, as there are persons now living who have seen them dancing and holding their revels on the Eastern Green within the last fifty years. At that time, however, there were many acres of grass-grown sandy banks there; and a broad belt of soft green-sward, which skirted the carriage road, afforded a pleasant walk from Chyandour to Market-jew bridge.

Great part of this green has now been swept away by the waves, and much of what the sea spared has been enclosed by the grasping owners of adjacent land, though their right to this ancient common is very questionable.

The following fairy adventure was told to me a short time since by a grave elderly man who heard it related by the principal person concerned in it.

Tom Warren, of Paul, was noted as one of the boldest smugglers round. On a summer’s night, about forty years ago, he and five other men landed a boat-load of smuggled goods at a short distance from Long Rock. The brandy, salt, &c., having been taken above high-water mark, two of the men departed for Market-jew, where their best customers lived, and one went over to Newtown to procure horses that the goods might be secured before daybreak.

Tom and the other two, being very tired, lay down by a heap of goods, hoping to get a doze whilst their comrades were away. They were soon disturbed, however, by the shrill “tweeting” of “feapers” (slit quills or reeds, which give a shrill note when blown in.) Besides there was a constant tinkling, just like old [93]women make by rattling pewter plates or brass pans to frighten their swarming bees home, or to make them settle.

The men thought this noise might be from a company of young folks keeping up a dance on the Green till a very late hour. Tom went to see who they were and to send them home, for it wasn’t desirable for everybody to pry into the fair traders’ business. Having passed the beach, he mounted a high sand-bank to have a look round, as the music seemed very near him.

At a little distance, in hollows, between sand-banks, he saw glimmering lights, and persons like gaily dressed dolls skipping about and whirling round. Going nearer, he beheld, perched on a pretty high bank in their midst, a score or so of little old-looking chaps; many of them blew in mouth-organs (Pan’s pipes); some beat cymbals or tambourines; whilst others played on jew’s-harps, or tweeted on May whistles and feapers.

Tom noticed that the little men were rigged all in green, except their scarlet caps (small people are so fond of that coloured head-gear that they used to be nick-named “red-caps.”) But what struck him and tickled his fancy most was to see the little, old, grave-looking pipers with their long beards wagging.

In moving their mouths over the reeds, stuck in their breasts, they looked more like buck goats than anything human, so Tom said; and that for the life of him he couldn’t forbear shouting—“Will ’e be shaved—will ’e be shaved old red-caps?”

He hailed them twice, and was about to do so again when all the dancers, with scores and hundreds more than he noticed at first sprang up, ranged themselves in rank and file; armed themselves in an instant with bows and arrows, spears and slings; then faced about, looking like vengeance. The band being disposed alongside, played a quick march, and the troops of “spriggans” stamped on towards Tom, who saw them getting taller as they approached him. Their threatening looks were so frightful that he turned tail and ran down to his comrades, and roused them, saying, “Put to sea for your lives. There’s thousands of small people and bucca-boos ’most on our backs! They’ll soon surround us!”

Tom made off to the boat, and his comrades followed close at his heels; but, on the way, a shower of pebbles fell on them, and “burned like coals ’o fire wherever they hit them.”

The men pulled many fathoms from shore before they ventured to look up, though they knew themselves safe when on the sea, because none of the fairy tribe dare touch salt water.

At length, casting a glance landward, they saw, ranged along the shore, a company of as ugly-looking creatures as they ever beheld, making threatening gestures and vain endeavours to sling stones at them.

When a furlong or so from land, the men rested on their oars, [94]and kept watching their assailants, till near daybreak; then horses being heard galloping along the road from Market-jew, the small people retreated to the sand-banks and the smugglers rowed to land. Tom again shouted to the retiring host, “We’ll shave ’e all, and cut your tails off, ef you ever show here any more.” But the fairies disdained to notice his impudence and presently disappeared.

The other smugglers, who were now on the beach with plenty of help, on seeing their mates leaving the boat, inquired if the riding-officer had hove in sight. In such a case smugglers usually took to sea that they might not be known; they didn’t mind his seeing the goods, for the most valuable would be secured before the king’s men came to take them.

After spileing an anker (tapping a keg) and treating all the neighbours who came to help or purchase, or both, Tom related how they had to run for their lives and take to sea in order to escape an army of small-people. Some could scarcely believe it, though others thought the story likely enow. All blamed Tom for mocking the fairies, and said bad luck would cross his path, ere long, for that night’s work. Aye, and their forebodings were verified before another summer came round. However, without further mishap for that night, the goods were quickly disposed of—the greater part in Market-jew, and the rest left at an old tin work, near the Marsh, till wanted.

We have not heard of fairies having been seen on the Eastern Green since they were thus shamefully derided by Tom Warren.

“They’re never was a better pare (company) of fair-traders than Tom and his mates,” continued the landlord, “and they found good customers in the old well-to-do farmers of Zennor, who dearly loved their toddy, the Lord rest them.”

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