“I looked, and there I saw a strange, great chest, seemingly bound with iron bands, and with two or three great iron locks on it. At the top of that chest was placed a fine great glass, with a long stem, full of the nicest-looking drinking-stuff that ever I saw. Above that, on a peg, or something of the sort, against the wall was hung what he called the sword—a great, long, broad, heavy, ugly thing, nearly as long as myself.

"I looked them all over and over, and over again, considering which job to do, for I dursn't, for the life of me, think of not doing what that dog bade me. The chest looked much too strong for me to open-besides, I had no tools with me that would be likely to open it with; and, as for the sword, I knew nought about sword work, I had never held one in my life, and should be quite as likely to cut myself as anyone else with it, so I thought I would let it alone. Then there was naught but the drink left for me, and I began to feel rather dryish, what with rambling about the place so long, and what with the drop of drink I had before I started; so, says I to myself, Here goes at the drink!' I took hold of the glass with my hand, the dog all the time glowering at me with all the eyes he had; and, I assure you, he had two woppers-saucers are not so big; they were more like pewter plates, and gleamed and glittered like fire.

"I lifted the glass up to my mouth and just touched my lips with the stuff, to taste before I gave a big swig; when, would you believe it? it scalded just like boiling

water, or burnt like fire itself. All the skin's off my lips and tongue-end with it yet. If I'd swallowed all the lot it would have burned my inside clean out, and I should have been as hollow as a drum; but I stopped short of that, or else I should have made a bonnie mess of it. I just tasted the stuff, but what it was I cannot tell; it was not the colour of aquafortis, but it was quite as hot. As soon as ever I tasted it, up flew the lid of the chest with a bonnie bang; and I do declare if it didn't seem to be as full of gold as ever it could cram: I'd be bound to say there were thousands upon thousands of pounds in that very chest. But I'm no better for that, nor ever shall be, for I'll never go there any more. The sword, at the same time, was drawn by somebody's hand that I didn't see, and it glittered and flashed like lightning. I banged the glass down, and don't know whether it broke or not, but all the stuff was spilt. In a minute after all was dark as pitch; the fire went out; my lantern had gone out before; the music gave over playing, and instead of it such a howling and yelling struck up and filled the place as I'd never heard in my time; it seemed as if hundreds of dogs were all getting walloped at once; and something besides screamed and yelled as if it were frightened out of its wits. Oh, it was awful! I fell down flat on the floor, I think in a swoon, and I could not have done better. How long I lay I cannot tell, but for a goodish bit, I think. At last I came to myself, rubbed my eyes, and glowered about me, and wondered where I was. At last I bethought myself, and scrambled up, and after a

great deal of ups and downs, I got my carcase dragged out; and now, you may depend upon it, you'll not catch me going in there any more of a sudden."

Such, says Mr. Grainge, was the result of the search for hidden treasure in the ruined vaults of Dobb Park Lodge. Since that time no one appears to have ventured into those subterranean recesses, so that the chest full of gold still remains, waiting for some explorer to brave the terrors of "The Talking Dog" and his surroundings.

DOSMERY POOL.

WHO, knowing anything of Cornwall, but is acquainted with Tregeagle, the Demon of Dosmery Pool, on Bodmin Downs? How long he has haunted "Old Cornwall" is difficult to say; but his terrible howling, when the wintry blast rushes over the Downs, is proverbial, and "to roar like Tregeagle" is a time-honoured saying. Mr. R. Hunt, in his interesting Popular Romances of the West of England, recounts many exploits of this famous spirit, whose voice is still heard, and whose shadowy form is even still seen, when the winds are at their highest and the nights are the most stormy.

"Who has not heard of the wild spirit of Tregeagle?" asks Mr. Hunt. "He haunts equally the moor, the

rocky coasts, and the blown sand-hills of Cornwall. From north to south, from east to west, this doomed spirit is heard of, and to the Day of Judgment he is doomed to wander, pursued by avenging fiends. For ever endeavouring to perform some task by which he hopes to secure repose, and being for ever defeated. Who has not heard of the howling of Tregeagle? When the storms come with all their strength from the Atlantic, and urge themselves upon the rocks around Land's End, the howls of the spirit are louder than the roaring of the winds. When calm rests upon the ocean, and the waves can scarcely form upon the resting waters, low wailings creep along the coast. These are the wailings of this wandering soul.

"When midnight is on the moor, or on the mountains, and the night winds whistle amidst the rugged cairns, the shrieks of Tregeagle are distinctly heard. We know that he is pursued by the demon dogs, and that till day-break he must fly with all speed before them."

This Tregeagle, whose attributes are so mysterious and, according to the district where related, so varied, is traditionally reported to be the spirit of a "tyrannical magistrate," a "rapacious and unscrupulous landlord," who was 66 one of the Tregeagles who once owned Trevorder, near Bodmin." At the demise of this hardened sinner, who had committed more crimes than the decalogue contained, the foul fiend wished to at once obtain possession of what he deemed rightly his, to wit, the criminal's soul; but the wretched man, in the agony of

despair, consigned his wealth to the priesthood, that they might fight with the evil spirits, and save his soul from its just doom.

The power of the priesthood so far prevailed, that as long as Tregeagle's spirit had "some task difficult beyond the power of human nature" to perform, demoniac agency should be unable to carry him away. His tasks were to extend into eternity, so that repentance might have time to gradually work out his sin. His only chance of ultimate salvation was in perpetual toil: as long as he continued his labour the demons could do him no real harm. Frequent were the tussles he had with the fiends: on one occasion his restless spirit is said to have even given evidence in a court of law, when his relentless pursuers vainly endeavoured to carry him off.

Tregeagle's first and most famous task was the emptying of Dosmery Pool, a mountain tarn, some miles in circumference; and local lore would have he is still engaged upon this endless operation. The difficulty of this gigantic labour was increased by the supposed fact that the lonely pool was bottomless; and yet one learned ecclesiastic was not convinced of the hopelessness of the work, and, to decrease the prospect of it ever coming to an end, he proposed that the wretched sinner should only be provided with a limpet shell, with a large hole in it, for the purpose of baling out the water. The Evil One did not lose sight of the doomed Tregeagle, but kept a careful eye on him, and tried every possible means to divert his attention from his