Meanwhile, as we ply the peaceful calumet, mine hostess tells of quaint old customs that, until only the other day, survived in this quiet countryside. 'I mind the time,' says she, 'when I was a girl, when there used to be a Vanity Fair in the village every Michaelmas tide. It lasted three whole days, and the men and maids would turn out in their best then, and all the housen must be smartened up and put in order; and Squire, he give every working man in the place a bran-new suit of clothes to his back. Ah, there was fine doings then, and I've a-hard tell that they'd used to run a keg of spirits, or what not, from the big cellars down Tenby way. But that was afore my time.' A stroll around the village reveals some picturesque corners here and there; a few of the older cottages retaining the vast rounded chimneys, bulging ovens and pointed doorways of an earlier age. The church, too, contains attractive features. A peep into the little edifice reveals a curious vaulted interior, with its queer 'squint' passage set askew, and flat limestone arches of peculiar form on either side of the chancel. The honours of the place are done by a garrulous old dame, whose russet-apple complexion, set amidst well-starched frills above a homespun 'whittle,' shows how well she has weathered her fourscore hard-working winters. Upon the gable wall outside, we notice a memorial slab commemorating a venerable couple who attained the mellow ages of 102 and 104, respectively; and a singular epitaph on Archdeacon Rudd: while the broken shaft of an ancient cross rises amidst the well-tended monuments of this flowery God's acre. On our return to Tenby we pass a ruined water-mill, standing in a wooded dingle beside a reed-grown stream. Lanes and field-paths lead us down the valley of the Ritec, beside a group of tumbled houses whose massive, ivy-wreathed walls, with their narrow loopholed windows, may possibly guard those big cellars of which we have lately 'a-hard tell.' Thence through a hollow dingle, where golden Fritillary butterflies float to and fro in the dappled sunlight; and where the fast-disappearing badger may still at times be met with. Anon we diverge to Carswall, to examine a group of remarkable stone buildings with vaulted chambers, huge fireplaces and bulging chimneys--puzzling objects to the archæologist. From Carswall we strike across upland pastures, where a farm lad is 'tickling' the ruddy soil with a primitive kind of harrow, composed of a bundle of brushwood drawn behind a horse. Erelong we turn aside to explore the recesses of Hoyle's Mouth; a vast cavern worn deep in the solid limestone of the Ridgeway, and fringed with fantastic stalactites resembling gigantic icicles. Relics of remote antiquity, discovered here, prove that the cavern has been a place of refuge in times beyond tradition; and a local fable affirms that it is connected with that 'mervellows caverne,' yclept the Wogan, far away beneath the Castle of Pembroke!