The following story came to my knowledge under somewhat curious circumstances:—
I had gone to Cornwall, my native county, to spend my summer vacation, and there met with an old college chum, who asked me to accompany him on a walking tour.
"Where?" I asked.
"Let us do the Cornish coast," he replied, "it is the finest and most rugged coast in England. The scenery around is magnificent; there are numberless old legends told about many of the places we shall see; and I know that legends have always had a great attraction for you."
I must confess to a weakness for anything romantic, and was attracted by the proposal. Accordingly, we journeyed by train and coach to the most northern watering-place on the eastern coast of Cornwall, viz., Bude, and commenced our journey southward.
As this personal reminiscence is only written to tell how I came by the remarkable history which follows, I shall say nothing of our journey that has not a direct bearing on that history.
We had been walking some days, I need not say how many, when we saw, standing on a rough headland, and yet some little distance from the sea, an old house. It caught my attention the moment I first glanced at it. Grey and lonely, it looked the residence of some misanthrope or hermit, and its tower and battlements gave it the appearance of some feudal castle.
"That's a strange looking old place, Will," I said to my companion.
"It is, indeed," he replied. "It looks in good repair, too. I wonder if it's inhabited?"
"The best way to know is to go and see," I replied, and accordingly we bent our steps thither.
As we drew nearer we saw a hollow, which looked as though it had been scooped out by some giant's spade. In it were built two or three cottages, and by the fact of there being some tumbled-down houses near, we came to the conclusion that at one time a little village must have stood there.
"What in the world have people to do or live for here?" said Will. "We are five miles from any place that can be called a town, and there's scarcely a house near. Everything is as weird and lonely as the wilderness of Judea."
"I expect they live on the fish they catch, and the produce of their little farms," I said; "but come, there's a man yonder, we'll question him."
Accordingly we hailed him and he waited, evidently with some degree of curiosity, until we came up.
"What's the name of this place?" asked Will.
"Trewinion," was the reply.
"Trewinion? Is it in the parish of Trewinion?"
"Iss."
"Is there a parish church anywhere near?"
"Iss."
"Where?"
"There," pointing southward.
We saw a little grey tower about half a mile away, evidently a part of the building after which we had been inquiring.
"Are there any houses there?" we asked.
"Five."
"Whose are they?"
"Passon Teague's, Muster Yelland's, Bill Treloar's, Tom Williams's, and Jack Jory's."
"And what's the name of yonder place?" asked Will, pointing to the old house we had seen on the great headland.
The man looked at us curiously, and then replied:
"Trewinion Manor."
"It looks old," I said. "Is it?"
"Ould's Mathusla," was the brief reply.
"Who lives there?"
"Th' oull Sir Nick."
"Sir Nick" is the term usually applied by the Cornish people to his Satanic Majesty. Scenting a story I eagerly inquired what he meant.
"Well, he d' live there," was the reply.
"And what does he do?"
The man shook his head gravely. "Nobody knows but hisself," was the reply.
"But does the devil live there alone?" asked Will.
The man looked at us again, as though he wondered who we were.
"Who be you?" he said.
"We are simply out for a holiday," I replied, "and, as we were walking along, we saw that old place, and wondering what it was, and to whom it belonged, we thought we'd ask."
"Then you be'ant no friend or 'lation to un up there?" he said.
"None."
"Nor you wa'ant say nothin' to un ef I tell 'ee?"
"Not a word."
"Well, then, ould Squire Trewinion do live there."
"Alone?"
The man shook his head.
"Two ould servants," he said, solemnly.
"Is there anything strange about him?" I asked.
"Shud think ther es," he replied.
"What?"
"What! Why he've sold hisself to tho'ull Sir Nick, who do stick to un like a limpet to a rock."
As this mediaeval belief has scarcely died away among the Cornish people, I attached no importance to it, but asked in a jocular way for what he had sold himself.
"Nobody knows," the man replied, "but he hev sould hisself, and now he do never come out to shaw hisself nor nothin'. He wa'ant speak to nobody, and is as ugly as sin."
"Are these Trewinions important people?" asked Will.
"'Portant!" said the man, "sh'd think they be; why oal the land round do belong to un, and I've heerd my faather say as 'ow in th' ould days it was the grandest plaace in oal Cornwall; but now—m—m—m!"
"Now, what?" I asked.
"Hunted!"
"Hunted! Haunted, I suppose you mean. By what?"
"Ghoasts and evil sperrits, as well as with th' oull Sir Nick."
"Do you ever go up there?"
"No; I kip away in the daytime, and as fur goin' ther after dark, I wouldn't for a crock of gould."
We asked the man many more questions, but could get nothing much further from him. All I could gather was that the Trewinions had been a great people, but had fallen on evil days as the result of their own sinning, and that the present representative of the family was a recluse, living alone in the old Manor House, and that many curious stories were told about him.
"Well," said Will to me, "I think we've heard enough; let us get away from this outlandish place."
"Not until I've inquired at the place itself," I replied.
"You are mad," said he. "Evidently this old man is some strange creature, who prefers living alone, and will no doubt think it a piece of impudence on our part if we call. Perhaps he will set the dogs after us."
"Nevertheless, I'm going," I replied. "If you like to remain behind, you may do so; but I want to know the truth of this. I suspect a good story."
"Oh, well, if you will be foolish, I'll go," said Will, "but remember we have to walk twelve miles before we get to our resting-place to-night."
I did not reply, but went away in the direction of Trewinion Manor, while Will, grumbling, came on behind.
As we ascended the hill the view became wondrously grand. At least fifteen miles of coast were to be seen, with great rugged cliffs, hundreds of feet high, while huge rocks stood out in the sea as if inviting the fury of the waves as they broke upon them. In winter it must