man, drily, "what is possible, and what is not possible."

Here the conversation ended, and the whitewashers went on with their work-dab, splash-dab, splash.

At length one of them said he would just take a peep to see how the old gentleman got on. He went up and looked, but found nobody there.

"How did he get down?"

"Nay, how did he get up?" said the other. It was altogether very odd.

When they had finished their work they got into their boat to return to Portsmouth, but at Portsmouth the boat never arrived. They were all drowned.

In the course of the evening it was arranged that we should visit the principal part of the island together. We were to take a jaunting car in the morning to Newport, and on our way we were to visit Woolverton Wood and the Culver Cliff, about which there was a curious story, which he told me in the following terms.

THE HERMIT'S CAVE.

On the banks of Brading Harbour is a wood extending to the water. There is nothing particular in its appearance to attract the attention of the Isle of Wight tourist. Should he, however, make inquiries respecting it, he would probably only be informed that it was called Woolverton Wood, and that it belonged to the Lord of the Manor. If his curiosity should even tempt him to take a nearer view of it, he would perceive nothing but a tangled maze of hazel and brambles, with a few tall oaks spreading out their branches above. But if urged on by a genuine antiquarian zeal, and he were prepared to set thorns and swamps at defiance, he would find with surprise, amidst this lonely wilderness, numerous vestiges of former activity and wealth; he would see the rank foxglove nodding its head upon heaps of rubbish, the remains of some building of other days, surrounded by bits of carved stone and broken

pottery. Walls, indeed, there are none. All the materials fit for the mason have been taken away centuries ago, to build the comparatively modern town of Brading. But the curious antiquary may still trace the line of the streets by long low mounds that contain the only remnants of the walls that once enclosed the busy habitations of man. Here and there, indeed, the foundation stones remain, and one may form a tolerable guess at the size and importance of the building. The earthen rampart and the wet foss proclaim the importance of the place in days long past. But the ground is everywhere so thickly overgrown with copsewood and briars, that it can only be seen in detail, and by an indefatigable and thick-gaitered antiquary. If you ask a neighbouring peasant for its history, all he can tell you is, that he believes that there was a town there formerly, and that the church was on a neighbouring knoll, as skeletons and broken tombstones have been dug up there.

There has always been a certain mystery attached to the place. Some of the old in

habitants of the neighbourhood used to shake their heads when the name of Woolverton was mentioned, as much as to say that they knew a great deal more about Woolverton than other people, if they did but choose to tell it. But these are all gone to their place of long rest, and even the very mystery itself is fast dying away.

There was, however, one old man who used to shake his head more than anybody else, who lived to within a few years ago. His heir found at his death, among a heap of old account books, receipts for charming warts and driving away the cramp, a pocket containing memorandums of many of the old traditions relating to this place, out of which the following history of the destruction of Woolverton has been collected.

In the beginning of the reign of Edward the Third, a pedlar, or marchant, as they were then called, made his appearance in the borough of Woolverton. He appeared to be a very old man; he was dressed in a rusty suit of black that had almost worn itself

brown, and he carried a small pack of merchandize upon his back.

When the marchant opened his parcel, and the neighbours crowded round to examine his stock, (for there were then but few shops in remote parts of the country,) there was some article or other that hit the fancy of almost every one—some little darling of a thing that they had been often longing for. The prices were as reasonable as his goods were pretty, and his stock was soon sold.

town.

It was late when he arrived at Woolverton, and by the time he had disposed of his wares the evening was far advanced. However, instead of seeking a lodging for the night, he took his stick and empty pack and left the Where could he be going to so late? Their surprise was increased when he did not take the round to the neighbouring village of Brading, or to Carisbroke, but went in a contrary direction by a path that, with the exception of the manor-house and one or two cottages at Yaverland, led only to the sea. But at Yaverland it was afterwards ascer