If he had adopted the proper method to be observed when meeting spirits, _i.e._ if he had stood up and “said his Nummy Dummy,” all would doubtless have been well; this form of exorcism being in Cornwall of great repute and never known to fail: being nothing less, indeed, than the Latin _In Nomine Domine_ in disguise. But the real truth of the matter, as the readers of these lines who can see further through a brick wall than others may readily perceive, was that those savage spooks and mischievous, Puck-like shapes, were really youthful local smugglers in disguise, engaged at one and the same time in a highly profitable nocturnal business, and in taking the welcome opportunity thus offered in an otherwise dull circle of establishing a glorious “rag.” Parson Dodge himself was something more than suspected of being “ower sib” to these at once commercial and rollicking dogs, and Talland was in fact the scene of many a successful run that could scarce have been successful had not this easy-going cleric amiably permitted. It is thus peculiarly appropriate that we find to-day in this lonely churchyard an epitaph upon a smuggler of those times. It is a tragical enough epitaph, its tragedy perhaps disguised at the first glance by the grotesquely comic little cherubs carved upon the tombstone, and representing the local high-water mark of mortuary sculpture a hundred years or so ago. They are pursy cherubs, of oleaginous appearance and of this-worldly, rather than of other-worldly paunch and deportment. In general, Talland churchyard is rich in such carvings; death’s-heads of appalling ugliness to be seen in company with middle-aged, double-chinned angels wearing what look suspiciously like chest-protectors and pyjamas, and they decorate, with weirdly humorous aspect, the monuments and ledger stones, and grin familiarly from the pavement with the half-obliterated grins of many generations back. One of them points with a claw, intended for a hand, to an object somewhat resembling a crumpled dress-tie set up on end, probably designed to represent an hour-glass. Such is the mortuary art of these lonesome parishes in far Cornwall: naïve, uninstructed, home-made. It sufficed the simple folk for whom it was wrought; and now that more conventional and pretentious memorials have taken its place, to serve the turn of folk less simple, there are those who would abolish its uncouth manifestations. But that way—with the urbanities of the world—goes old Cornwall, never to be replaced. Here is the epitaph to the smuggler, one— ROBERT MARK; late of Polperro, who Unfortunately was _shot at Sea_ the 24th day of Jany. in the year of our Lord GOD 1802, in the 40th Year of His AGE * * * * *