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Updated: June 26, 2025
"And hallo!" says my grandfather, staring across the patch of turf outside. "Surely here's signs of a violent struggle. Human, by the look of it," says he, picking up a thigh-bone and holding it out towards Mrs. Polwhele. She began to shake like a leaf. "Oh, Calvin!" she gasps out. "Oh, Calvin, not in this short time it couldn't be!"
So, very sad-like, he went back to his own chaise that was now slewed about for Falmouth and off the procession started at an easy trot, the good man bouncing up in his seat from time to time to blow back a kiss. But after awhile he shouted to the post-boy to pull up again. "What's the matter, love?" sings out Mrs. Polwhele, overtaking him and coming to a stand likewise.
Polwhele, remarks that in Truro Church, about the year 1800, he had seen several people sitting with their hats on, as they might have done at Geneva, or in the time of the older Puritans. This, however, was something wholly exceptional at that date. One of the things which had displeased English Churchmen in William the Third was this Dutch habit.
Parson Polwhele stared from the rock to the stick and couldn't say. So he turns to Arch'laus Spry and asks: "Any person taken ill in your parish?" "No, Sir." "You're sure Billy Johns hasn't been drinking again?" Billy Johns was the landlord of the "Passage Inn," a very ordinary man by rule, but given to breaking loose among his own liquors.
Helm's alee! Steady so. Let draw! Easy! easy! There she fills!" And after a few more rapid orders the handy little craft was dashing away, with the wind abaft the beam, and her head about two points north of east. "Uncommon quick in stays!" cried Polwhele, who had taken to the helm, and now stood there. "Wonder what Britishers will think of that?"
He remembered the death of Polwhele, a young officer who died before him. He had work to do. He was aware of the Fall of Dongola, but had not been present in spirit at the banquet at Cairo afterwards. He knew more than he did in life. He remembered our conversation in Cairo. Duration of life in the next sphere was shorter than on earth. He had not seen General Gordon, nor any other famous spirit.
Now, the Parson doted on his wife, as well he might. He was a very learned man, you must know, and wrote a thundering great history of Cornwall: but outside of book-learning his head rambled terribly, and Mrs. Polwhele managed him in all the little business of life. "'Tis like looking after a museum," she used to declare.
"Human, you see," said he, picking up one of the bones and holding it under the Parson's nose. "One of your ancient Romans, no doubt." "Ancient Romans? Ancient Romans?" stammered Parson Polwhele. "Pray, Sir, where did you get these these articles?" "By digging for them, Sir; in a mound just outside that old Roman camp of yours." "Roman camp?
Ne'er a thought had he, as he flounced through the churchyard, of the train of powder he dribbled behind him: but all the way he blew off steam, cursing Parson Polwhele and the whole cloth from Land's End to Johnny Groats, and glowering at the very gates by the road as though he wanted to kick 'em to relieve his feelings.
"Why, it occurs to me, my angel, that you might get into my chaise, if you're not too tightly wedged." "There's no saying what will happen when I once begin to move," said Mrs. Polwhele: "but I'll risk it. For I don't mind telling you that one of my legs went to sleep somewhere near St. Austell, and 'tis dreadfully uncomfortable." So out she was fetched and climbed in beside her husband.
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