My arrival produced, at first, both astonishment and suspicion.  The fishermen of Cornwall still preserve almost all the superstitions, even to the grossest, which were held dear by their humble ancestors, centuries back.  My simple neighbours could not understand why I had no business to occupy me; could not reconcile my worn, melancholy face with my youthful years.  Such loneliness as mine looked unnatural—­especially to the women.  They questioned me curiously; and the very simplicity of my answer, that I had only come to Cornwall to live in quiet, and regain my health, perplexed them afresh.  They waited, day after day, when I was first installed in the cottage, to see letters sent to me—­and no letters arrived:  to see my friends join me—­and no friends came.  This deepened the mystery to their eyes.  They began to recall to memory old Cornish legends of solitary, secret people who had lived, years and years ago, in certain parts of the county—­coming, none knew whence; existing, none knew by what means; dying and disappearing, none knew when.  They felt half inclined to identify me with these mysterious visitors—­to consider me as some being, a stranger to the whole human family, who had come to waste away under a curse, and die ominously and secretly among them.  Even the person to whom I first paid money for my necessaries, questioned, for a moment, the lawfulness and safety of receiving it!

But these doubts gradually died away; this superstitious curiosity insensibly wore off, among my poor neighbours.  They became used to my solitary, thoughtful, and (to them) inexplicable mode of existence.  One or two little services of kindness which I rendered, soon after my arrival, to their children, worked wonders in my favour; and I am pitied now, rather than distrusted.  When the results of the fishing are abundant, a little present has been often made to me, out of the nets.  Some weeks ago, after I had gone out in the morning, I found on my return, two or three gulls’ eggs placed in a basket before my door.  They had been left there by the children, as ornaments for my cottage window—­the only ornaments they had to give; the only ornaments they had ever heard of.

I can now go out unnoticed, directing my steps up the ravine in which our hamlet is situated, towards the old grey stone church which stands solitary on the hill-top, surrounded by the lonesome moor.  If any children happen to be playing among the scattered tombs, they do not start and run away, when they see me sitting on the coffin stone at the entrance of the churchyard, or wandering round the sturdy granite tower, reared by hands which have mouldered into dust centuries ago.  My approach has ceased to be of evil omen for my little neighbours.  They just look up at me, for a moment, with bright smiles, and then go on with their game.