Lizard.' A
few miles to the west is Thurlestone, and all about here the coast is
most dangerous. A ship flung in a storm towards the shore has no chance
on the jagged rocks that spur-like, jut out from the cliffs, and the
tide races inshore with terrific power, even when it is not driven by a
wild south-westerly wind. This part of the coast was naturally a happy
hunting-ground for smugglers, and was not altogether innocent of
wreckers. A fearful wreck that happened in 1772 is still remembered. A
large vessel--the _Chantiloupe_, from the West Indies--went ashore in
Bigbury Bay. All the passengers but one were drowned, and over the death
of a lady there hangs a terrible doubt. On realizing the desperate
plight of the ship, she had hurriedly dressed herself in her most
beautiful clothes and jewels, no doubt hoping that, as they were so
close to land, there was a good chance of escape. She was, indeed,
thrown up on the beach, but, it is to be hoped, already dead, for, with
shocking callousness, the people watching there snatched away all her
valuables and left her lying there. An account of the wreck, written in
1874, tells that at that date a lady living near the bay still had a
corner of the victim's apron, a very beautifully embroidered bit of fine
muslin. The unfortunate passenger's name was never really known, but
rumour has always connected her with Edmund Burke; for it is certain
that he feared some relatives or friends of his were on that ship, and
on hearing of the wreck he came down and investigated the matter of the
lady's death himself. But he could get no information. The account of
the wreck goes on to quote the views of a man who lived near the spot:
'The old man who seemed to know most about it said: "The lady _was_
a-murdered, he believed; Jan Whiddon's father's dog found this here lady
buried in the sand, he scratched up her hand."' The story is quoted at
some length, and is characteristic of a Devonshire countryman's combined
caution and sense of fate, for it finished: '"'Twas never found out who
murdered her ... but all who were concerned in it, or supposed to be
[the villagers obviously believed three men to be guilty] came to a bad
end."'

In repeating these stories, I feel rather in fault, for I have listened
to, and been impressed by, the views of a native of these parts, who was
extremely severe on anyone that wrote about wreckers and reflected
discredit on this coast, giving the idea that 'we robbe