Scilly has not a single river; and no wonder, for where would there be room? But neither does it abound in brooks and rivulets. I can only recall one tiny stream. The islanders depend for their water on wells, and on the rainfall, and only in very exceptional seasons do they run short. There are fresh-water ponds on St. Mary’s, Tresco, Bryher, and St. Agnes, but most of them are near enough to the sea to have been spoiled occasionally in times past by the entrance of the waves and spray during storms. In the summer of 1909 the ponds on Bryher and St. Agnes dried up for the first time within the memory of man.
The inhabitants of St. Mary’s are wont to say that though they have no rivers they have two bridges! One of these spans the fosse of Star Castle, and the other is thrown across a corner of the beach to make a short cut to the lifeboat-house.
In spite of the scarcity of trees and the absence of streams and rivers, I cannot agree with Parson Troutbeck, who writes: “Here, upon the whole, the poet would have a bad time of it, and might sigh alike for the purling stream and the shady grove.” I fear I should feel but scant respect for any poet who found cause for sighs and regrets in Scilly.
And this is a paradise without even a serpent, for the islands are as destitute of snakes and vipers as is the blessed isle of Saint Patrick. Hence arose an old saying that when the Almighty had finished creating Ireland there were a few handfuls of mud (sic!) left, which, being cast into the sea, became the Scilly Isles. I think this saying must have originated with an Irishman—and that is the only excuse I can find for it!
Rats there are, whose ancestors are said to have all arrived in a ship from Shields. And in Troutbeck’s time there were cockroaches—such cockroaches! His very description of them makes one shudder! “A large sort of flies, sometimes several inches long, but not so large here as in some other places; esteemed great curiosities and scarce known in any other part of the world.”
Fortunately these “curiosities” seem not to be so much in evidence now.
The Scillonians are a mixed race. They are thought to be descended partly from the ancient Iberians, that small and swarthy people, of whom so little is known and so much conjectured. No doubt they have also much Celtic blood in their veins, but they have never had any distinctive language, like others of the “Celtic fringe,” and the English that they speak is remarkably pure. Their descent has likewise been traced from the Scandinavians who once frequented the islands; and doubtless other strains as well have mingled with their blood.
There is a tradition that a ship of the Armada was wrecked off the coast of St. Agnes (at how many points of the British coast is there such a tradition!), and it is said that some of the Spaniards who escaped with their lives made that little island their home. According to the old chronicler Leland, St. Agnes was entirely depopulated somewhere about the beginning of the sixteenth century, the five families who lived there being all drowned on their way back from a marriage feast at St. Mary’s; so it is possible that if the Spaniards landed here they found a free field.
The present inhabitants of St. Agnes are a fine race, but quite distinct in character from the rest of the islanders; and I have heard it said that when they get excited or angry “you can see the old Moor coming out as plainly as anything.”
St. Martin’s men are tall and fair and handsome, and seem to show signs of Scandinavian descent.