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II.–SAINT PIRAN AND THE VISITATION.

A full fifty years had St. Piran dwelt among the sandhills between Perranzabuloe and the sea before any big rush of saints began to pour into Cornwall: for ’twas not till the old man had discovered tin for us that they sprang up thick as blackberries all over the county; so that in a way St. Piran had only himself to blame when his idle ways grew to be a scandal by comparison with the push and bustle of the newcomers.

Never a notion had he that, from Rome to Land’s End, all his holy brethren were holding up their hands over his case. He sat in his cottage above the sands at Perranzabuloe and dozed to the hum of the breakers, in charity with all his parishioners, to whom his money was large as the salt wind; for his sleeping partnership in the tin-streaming business brought him a tidy income. And the folk knew that if ever they wanted religion, they had only to knock and ask for it.

But one fine morning, an hour before noon, the whole parish sprang to its feet at the sound of a horn. The blast was twice repeated, and came from the little cottage across the sands.

“‘Tis the blessed saint’s cow-horn!” they told each other. “Sure the dear man must be in the article of death!” And they hurried off to the cottage, man, woman, and child: for ’twas thirty years at least since the horn had last been sounded.

They pushed open the door, and there sat St. Piran in his arm-chair, looking good for another twenty years, but considerably flustered. His cheeks were red, and his fingers clutched the cow-horn nervously.

“Andrew Penhaligon,” said he to the first man that entered, “go you out and ring the church bell.”

Off ran Andrew Penhaligon. “But, blessed father of us,” said one or two, “we’re all here! There’s no call to ring the church bell, seem’ you’re neither dead nor afire, blessamercy!”

“Oh, if you’re all here, that alters the case; for ’tis only a proclamation I have to give out at present. To-morrow mornin’–Glory be to God!–I give warnin’ that Divine service will take place in the parish church.”

“You’re sartin you bain’t feelin’ poorly, St. Piran dear?” asked one of the women.

“Thank you, Tidy Mennear, I’m enjoyin’ health. But, as I was sayin’, the parish church ‘ll be needed to-morrow, an’ so you’d best set to and clean out the edifice: for I’m thinkin’,” he added, “it’ll be needin’ that.”

“To be sure, St. Piran dear, we’ll humour ye.”

“‘Tisn’ that at all,” the saint answered; “but I’ve had a vision.”

“Don’t you often?”

“H’m! but this was a peculiar vision; or maybe a bit of a birdeen whispered it into my ear. Anyway, ’twas revealed to me just now in a dream that I stood on the lawn at Bodmin Priory, and peeped in at the Priory window. An’ there in the long hall sat all the saints together at a big table covered with red baize and plotted against us. There was St. Petroc in the chair, with St. Guron by his side, an’ St. Neot, St. Udy, St. Teath, St. Keverne, St. Wen, St. Probus, St. Enodar, St. Just, St. Fimbarrus, St. Clether, St. Germoe, St. Veryan, St. Winnock, St. Minver, St. Anthony, with the virgins Grace, and Sinara, and Iva–the whole passel of ’em. An’ they were agreein’ there was no holiness left in this parish of mine; an’ speakin’ shame of me, my childer–of me, that have banked your consciences these fifty years, and always been able to pay on demand: the more by token that I kept a big reserve, an’ you knew it. Answer me: when was there ever a panic in Perranzabuloe? ”Twas all very well,’ said St. Neot, when his turn came to speak, ‘but this state o’ things ought to be exposed.’ He’s as big as bull’s beef, is St. Neot, ever since he worked that miracle over the fishes, an’ reckons he can disparage an old man who was makin’ millstones to float when he was suckin’ a coral. But the upshot is, they’re goin’ to pay us a Visitation to-morrow, by surprise. And, if only for the parish credit, we’ll be even wid um, by dad!”