solitary pair was still not cleared up, superstitious doubts spread
widely through the neighbourhood. Harmless as the conduct of the ladies
always appeared to be, there was something so sinister and startling
about the unearthly seclusion and secrecy of their lives, that people
began to feel vaguely suspicious, to whisper awful imaginary rumours
about them, to gossip over old stories of ghosts and false accusations
that had never been properly sifted to the end, whenever the inhabitants
of the cottage were mentioned. At last they were secretly watched by the
less scrupulous among the villagers, whom intense curiosity had endowed
with a morbid courage and resolution. Even this proceeding led to no
results whatever, but increased rather than diminished the mystery.
The expertest eavesdroppers who had listened at the door, brought away
no information with them for their pains. Some declared that when the
ladies held any conversation together, they spoke in so low a tone that
it was impossible to distinguish a word they said. Others, of more
imaginative temperament, protested, on the contrary, that their voices
were perfectly audible, but that the language they talked was some
mysterious or diabolical language of their own, incomprehensible to
everybody but themselves. One or two expert and daring spies had even
contrived to look in at them through the window, unperceived; but had
seen nothing uncommon, nothing supernatural,--nothing, in short, beyond
the spectacle of two ladies sitting quietly and silently by their own
fireside.
So matters went on, until one day universal agitation was excited in
the neighbourhood by a rumour that one of the ladies was dead. The
rustic authorities immediately repaired to the cottage, accompanied by a
long train of eager followers; and found that the report was true. The
surviving lady was seated by her companion's bedside, weeping over a
corpse. She spoke not a word; she never looked up at the villagers as
they entered. Question after question was put to her without ever
eliciting an answer; kind words were useless--even threats proved
equally inefficient: the lady still remained weeping by the corpse, and
still said nothing. Gradually her inexorable silence began to infect the
visitors to the cottage. For a few moments nothing was heard in the room
but the dash of the waterfall hard by, and the singing of birds in the
surrounding wood. Bitterly as the lady was weeping, it was now first
observed by everybody that she wept silently, that she never sobbed,
never even sighed under the oppression of her grief.
People began to urge each other, superstitiously, to leave the place. It
was determined that the corpse should be removed and buried; and that
afterwards some new expedient should be tried to induce the survivor of
the mysterious pair to abandon her inflexible silence. It was
anticipated that she would have made some sign, or spoken some few words
when they lifted the body from the bed on which it lay; but even this
proceeding produced no visible effect. As the villagers quitted the
dwelling with their dead burden, the last of them who went out left her
in her solitude, still speechless, still weeping, as they had found her
at first.
Days passed, and she sent no message to any one. Weeks elapsed, and the
idlers who waited about the woodland paths where they knew that she was
once wont to walk with her companion, never saw her, watch for her as
patiently as they might. From haunting the wood, they soon got on to
hovering round the cottage, and to looking in stealthily at the window.
They saw her sitting on the same seat that she had always occupied, with
a vacant chair opposite; her figure wasted, her face wan already with
incessant weeping. It was a dismal sight to all who beheld it--a vision
of affliction and solitude that sickened their hearts.
No one knew what to do; the kindest-hearted people hesitated, the
hardest-hearted people dreaded to disturb her. While they were still
irresolute, the end was at hand. One morning a little girl, who had
looked in at the cottage window in imitation of her elders, reported,
when she returned home, that she had seen the lady still sitting in her
accustomed place, but that one of her hands hung strangely over the arm
of the chair, and that she never moved to pick up her pocket-handkerchief,
which lay on the ground beside her. At these ominous tidings, the
villagers summoned their resolution, and immediately repaired to the
lonesome cottage in the wood.
They knocked and called at the door--it was not opened to them. They
raised the latch and entered. She still occupied her chair; her head was
resting on one of her hands; the other hung down, as the little girl had
told them. The handkerchief, too, was on the ground, and was wet with
tears. Was she sleeping? They went round in front to look. Her eyes were
wide open; her drooping hand, worn almost to mere bone, was cold to the
touch as the waters of the valley-stream on a winter's day. She had died
in her wonted place; died in mystery and in solitude as she had lived.
They buried her where they had buried her companion. No traces of the
real history of either the one or the other have ever been discovered
from that time to this.
Such is the tale that was related to us of the cottage in the valley of
Nighton's Keive. It may be only imagination; but the stained roofless
walls, the damp clotted herbage, and the reptiles crawling about the
ruins, give the place a gloomy and disastrous look. The air, too, seems
just now unusually still and heavy here--for the evening is at hand, and
the vapours are rising in the wood. The shadows of the trees are
deepening; the rustling music of the waterfall is growing dreary; the
utter stillness of all things besides, becomes wearying to the ear. Let
us pass on, and get into bright wide space again, where the down leads
back to happier solitudes by the seashore.
We now rapidly lose sight of the trees which have hitherto so closely
surrounded us, and find ourselves treading the short scanty grass of the
cliff-top once more. We still advance northward, walking along rough
cart-roads, and skirting the extremities of narrow gullies leading down
to the sea, until we enter the picturesque village of Boscastle. Then,
descending a long street of irregular houses, of all sizes, shapes, and
ages, we are soon conducted to the bottom of a deep hollow. Beyond this,
the bare ground rises again abruptly up to the highest point of the
high cliffs which overhang the shore; and here, where the site is most
elevated, and where neither cottages nor cultivation appear, we descry
the ancient walls and gloomy tower of Forrabury Church.
The interior of the building still contains a part of the finely-carved
rood-loft which once adorned it. Its rickety wooden pews are blackened
with extreme old age, and covered with curiously-cut patterns and
cyphers. The place is so dark that it is difficult to read the
inscriptions on many of the mouldering monuments, fixed together without
order or symmetry on the walls. Outside are some Saxon arches, oddly
built of black slate-stone; and the window-mouldings are ornamented with
rough carving, which at once proclaims its own antiquity. But it is in
the tower that the interest attached to the church chiefly centres.
Square, thick, and of no extraordinary height, it resembles in
appearance most other towers in Cornwall--except in one particular, all
the belfry windows are completely stopped up.
This peculiarity is to be explained simply enough; the church has never
had any bells; the old tower has been mute, and useless except for
ornament, since it was first built. The congregation of the district
must trust to their watches and their punctuality to get to service in
good time on Sundays. At Forrabury the chimes have never sounded for a
marriage: the knell has never been heard for a funeral.
To know the reason of this; to discover why the church, though tower and
belfry have always been waiting ready for them, has never had a peal of
bells, we must seek instruction from another popular tradition, from a
third legend of these legendary shores. Let us go down a little to the
brink of the cliff, where the sea is rolling into a black, yawning,
perpendicular pit of slate rock. The scene of our third story is the
view over the waters from this place.
In ancient times, when Forrabury Church was still regarded as a building
of recent date, it was a subject of sore vexation to all the people of
the neighbourhood that their tower had no bells, while the inhabitants
of Tintagel still possessed the famous peal that had rung for King
Arthur's funeral. For some years, this superiority of the rival village
was borne with composure by the people of Forrabury; but, in process of
time, they lost all patience, and it was publicly determined by the
rustic council, that the honour of their church should be vindicated.
Money was immediately collected, and bells of magnificent tones and
dimensions were forthwith ordered from the best manufactory that London
could supply.
The bells were cast, blessed by high ecclesiastical authorities, and
shipped for transportation to Forrabury. The voyage was one of the most
prosperous that had ever been known. Fair winds and calm seas so
expedited the passage of the ship, that she appeared in sight of the
downs on which the church stood, many days before she had been expected.
Great was the triumph of the populace on shore, as they watched her
working into the bay with a steady evening breeze.
On board, however, the scene was very different. Here there was more
uproar than happiness, for the captain and the pilot were at open
opposition. As the ship neared the harbour, the bells of Tintagel were
faintly heard across the water, ringing for the evening service. The
pilot, who was a devout man, took off his hat as he heard the sound,
crossed himself, and thanked God aloud for a prosperous voyage. The
captain, who was a reckless, vain-glorious fellow, reviled the pilot as
a fool, and impiously swore that the ship's company had only to thank
his skill as a navigator, and their own strong arms and ready wills, for
bringing the ship safely in sight of harbour. The pilot, in reply,
rebuked him as an infidel, and still piously continued to return thanks
as before; while the captain, joined by the crew, tried to drown his
voice by oaths and blasphemy. They were still shouting their loudest,
when the vengeance of Heaven descended in judgment on them all.
The clouds supernaturally gathered, the wind rose to a gale in a moment.
An immense sea, higher than any man had ever beheld, overwhelmed the
ship; and, to the horror of the people on shore, she went down in an
instant, close to land. Of all the crew, the pilot only was saved.
The bells were never recovered. They were heard tolling a muffled
death-peal, as they sank with the ship; and even yet, on stormy days,
while the great waves roll over them, they still ring their ghostly
knell above the fiercest roaring of wind and sea.
This is the ancient story of the bells--this is why the chimes are never
heard from the belfry of Forrabury Church.
* * * * *
Now that we have visited the scene of our third legend, what is it that
keeps me and my companion still lingering on the downs? Why we are still
delaying the hour of our departure long after the time which we have
ourselves appointed for it?
We both know but too well. At this point we leave the coast, not to
return to it again: at Forrabury we look our last on the sea from these
rocky shores. With this evening, our pleasant days of strolling travel
are ended. To-morrow we go direct to Launceston, and from Launceston at
once to Plymouth. To-morrow the adventures of the walking tourist are
ours no longer; for on that day our rambles in Cornwall will have
virtually closed!
Rise, brother-traveller! We have lingered until twilight already; the
seaward crags grow vast and dim around us, and the inland view narrows
and darkens solemnly in the waning light. Shut up your sketch-book which
you have so industriously filled, and pocket your pencils which you have
worn down to stumps, even as I now shut up my dogs-eared old journal,
and pocket my empty ink-bottle. One more of the few and fleeting scenes
of life is fast closing, soon to leave us nothing but the remembrance
that it once existed--a happy remembrance of a holiday walk in dear old
England, which will always be welcome and vivid to the last, like other
remembrances of home.
Come! the night is drawing round us her curtain of mist; let us strap on
our trusty old friends, the knapsacks for the last time, and turn
resolutely from the shore by which we have delayed too long. Come! let
us once again "jog on the footpath way" as contentedly, if not quite as
merrily, as ever; and, remembering how much we have seen and learnt that
must surely better us both, let us, as we now lose sight of the dark,
grey waters, gratefully, though sadly, speak the parting word:--
FAREWELL TO CORNWALL!
POSTSCRIPT TO
RAMBLES BEYOND RAILWAYS.
THE CRUISE OF THE TOMTIT
TO
The Scilly Islands.
THE CRUISE OF THE TOMTIT.
I.
"At any other time of the year and for a shorter cruise, I should be
delighted to join you. But as I prefer dying a dry death, I must decline
accompanying you all the way to the Scilly Islands in a little pleasure
boat of thirteen tons, just at the time of the autumnal equinox. You may
meet with a gale that will blow you out of the water. You are running a
risk, in my opinion, of the most senseless kind--and, if I thought my
advice had any weight with you, I should say most earnestly, be warned
in time, and give up the trip."--_Extract from the letter of A Prudent
Friend._
"If I were only a single man, there is nothing I should like better than
to join you. But I have a wife and family, and I can't reconcile it to
my conscience to risk being drowned."--_Report from the Personal
Statement of a Married Friend._
"Don't come back bottom upwards."--_Final Valedictory Blessing of a
Facetious Friend._
* * * * *
My messmate and I, having absolutely made up our minds to go to the
Scilly Islands, received the expressions of opinion quoted above, with
the supreme composure which distinguishes all resolute men. In other
words, we held fast to our original determination, engaged the boat and
the crew, and put to sea on our appointed day, in the teeth of the wind
and of our friends' objections. But before I float the present narrative
into blue water, I have certain indispensable formalities to accomplish
which will keep me and my readers for a little while yet on dry land.
First of all, let me introduce our boat, our crew, and ourselves.
Our boat is named the Tomtit. She is cutter-rigged. Her utmost length
from stem to stern is thirty-six feet, and her greatest breadth on deck
is ten feet. As her size does not admit of bulwarks, her deck, between
the cabin-hatch and the stern, dips into a kind of well, with seats
round three sides of it, which we call the Cockpit. Here we can stand
up in rough weather without any danger of being rolled overboard;
elsewhere, the sides of the vessel do not rise more than a few inches
above the deck. The cabin of the Tomtit is twelve feet long, eight feet
wide, and five feet six inches high. It has roomy lockers, and a snug
little fireplace, and it leads into two recesses forward, which make
capital storerooms for water, coals, firewood, and so forth. When I have
added that the Tomtit has a bright red bottom, continued, as to colour,
up her sides to a little above the watermark; and when I have further
stated that she is a fast sailer, and that she proved herself on our
cruise to be a capital little seaboat, I have said all that is needful
at present on the subject of our yacht, and may get on to our crew and
ourselves.
Our crew is composed of three brothers: Sam Dobbs, Dick Dobbs, and Bob
Dobbs; all active seamen, and as worthy and hearty fellows as any man in
the world could wish to sail with. My friend's name is Mr. Migott, and
mine is Mr. Jollins. Thus, we are five on board altogether. As for our
characters, I shall leave them to come out as they may in the course of
this narrative. I am going to tell things plainly just as they
happened. Smart writing, comic colouring, and graphic description, are
departments of authorship at which I snap my fingers in contempt.
The port we sailed from was a famous watering-place on the western
coast, called Mangerton-on-the-Mud; and our intention, as intimated at
the beginning of these pages, was to go even farther than the Land's
End, and to reach those last morsels of English ground called the Scilly
Islands. But if the reader thinks he is now to get afloat at once, he is
lamentably mistaken. One very important and interesting part of our
voyage was entirely comprised in the preparations that we made for it.
To this portion of the subject, therefore, I shall wholly devote myself
in the first instance. On paper, or off it, neither Mr. Migott nor
myself are men to be hurried.
We left London with nothing but our clothes, our wrappers, some tobacco,
some French novels, and some Egyptian cigars. Everything that was to be
bought for the voyage was to be procured at Bristol. Everything that
could be extracted from private benevolence, was to be taken in
unlimited quantities from hospitable friends living more or less in the
neighbourhood of our place of embarkation. At Bristol we plunged over
head and ears in naval business immediately. After ordering a ham, and
a tongue, marmalade, lemons, anchovy paste, and general groceries, we
set forth to the quay to equip ourselves and our vessel.
We began with charts, sailing directions, and a compass; we got on to a
hammock apiece and a flag; and we rose to a nautical climax by buying
tarpaulin-coats, leggings, and sou'-westers, at a sailors' public-house.
With these sea-stores, and with a noble loaf of home-made bread (the
offering of private benevolence) we left Bristol to scour the friendly
country beyond, in search of further contributions to the larder of the
Tomtit.
The first scene of our ravages was a large country-house, surrounded by
the most charming grounds. From the moment when we and our multifarious
packages poured tumultuous into the hall, to the moment when we and the
said packages poured out of it again into a carriage and a cart, I have
no recollection, excepting meal-times and bedtime, of having been still
for an instant. Escorted everywhere by two handsome, high-spirited boys,
in a wild state of excitement about our voyage, we ranged the house from
top to bottom, and laid hands on everything portable and eatable that we
wanted in it. The inexhaustible hospitality of our hostess was proof
against all the inroads that we could make on it. The priceless gift of
packing perishable commodities securely in small spaces, possessed by a
lady living in the house and placed perpetually at our disposal,
encouraged our propensities for unlimited accumulation. We ravaged the
kitchen garden and the fruit-garden; we rushed into the awful presence
of the cook (with our ham and tongue from Bristol as an excuse) and
ranged predatory over the lower regions. We scaled back-staircases, and
tramped along remote corridors, and burst into secluded lumber-rooms,
with accompaniment of shouting from the boys, and of operatic humming
from Mr. Migott and myself, who happen, among other social
accomplishments, to be both of us musical in a desultory way. We turned
out, in these same lumber-rooms, plans of estates from their neat tin
cases, and put in lemons and loaf-sugar instead. Mr. Migott pounced upon
a stray telescope, and strapped it over my shoulders forthwith. The two
boys found two japanned boxes, with the epaulettes and shako of an
ex-military member of the family inside, which articles of martial
equipment (though these are war-times, and nobody is meritorious or
respectable now who does not wear a uniform) I, with my own irreverent
hands, shook out on the floor; and straightway conveyed the empty cases
down-stairs to be profaned by tea, sugar, Harvey's sauce, pickles,
pepper, and other products of the arts of peace. In a word, and not to
dwell too long on the purely piratical part of our preparations for the
voyage, we doubled the number of our packages at this hospitable country
house, before we left it for Mangerton-on-the-Mud, and the dangers of
the sea that lay beyond.
At Mangerton we made a second piratical swoop upon another
long-suffering friend, the resident doctor. We let this gentleman off,
however, very easily, only lightening him of a lanthorn, and two
milk-cans to hold our freshwater. We felt strongly inclined to take his
warmest cape away from him also; but Mr. Migott leaned towards the side
of mercy, and Mr. Jollins was, as usual, only too ready to sacrifice
himself on the altar of friendship--so the doctor kept his cape, after
all.
Not so fortunate was our next victim, Mr. Purler, the Port Admiral of
Mangerton-on-the-Mud, and the convivial host of the Metropolitan Inn.
Wisely entering his house empty-handed, we left it with sheets,
blankets, mattresses, pillows, table-cloths, napkins, knives, forks,
spoons, crockery, a frying-pan, a gridiron, and a saucepan. When to
these articles of domestic use were added the parcels we had brought
from Bristol, the packages we had collected at the country-house, the
doctor's milk-cans, the personal baggage of the two enterprising
voyagers, additions to the eating and drinking department in the shape
of a cold curry in a jar, a piece of spiced beef, a side of bacon, and a
liberal supply of wine, spirits, and beer--nobody can be surprised to
hear that we found some difficulty in making only one cart-load of our
whole collection of stores. The packing process was, in fact, not
accomplished till after dark. The tide was then flowing; we were to sail
the next morning; and it was necessary to get everything put on board
that night, while there was water enough for the Tomtit to be moored
close to the jetty.
This jetty, it must be acknowledged, was nothing but a narrow stone
causeway, sloping down from the land into the sea. Our cart, loaded with
breakable things, was drawn up at the high end of the jetty; the Tomtit
waiting to receive the contents of the cart at the low end, in the
water. We had no moon, no stars, no lamp of any kind on shore; and the
one small lanthorn on board the vessel just showed how dark it was, and
did nothing more. Imagine the doctor, and the doctor's friend, and the
doctor's two dogs, and Mr. Migott and Mr. Jollins, all huddled together
in a fussy state of expectation, midway on the jetty, seeing nothing,
doing nothing, and being very much in the way--and then wonder, as we
wondered, at the marvellous dexterity of our three valiant sailors, who
succeeded in transporting piecemeal the crockery, cookery, and general
contents of the cart into the vessel, on that pitchy night, without
breaking, dropping, or forgetting anything. When I hear of professional
conjurors performing remarkable feats, I think of the brothers Dobbs,
and the loading of the Tomtit in the darkness; and I ask myself if any
landsman's mechanical legerdemain can be more extraordinary than the
natural neat-handedness of a sailor?
The next morning the sky was black, the wind was blowing hard against
us, and the waves were showing their white frills angrily in the offing.
A double row of spectators had assembled at the jetty, to see us beat
out of the bay. If they had come to see us hanged, their grim faces
could not have expressed greater commiseration. Our only cheerful
farewell came from the doctor and his friend and the two dogs. The
remainder of the spectators evidently felt that they were having a last
long stare at us, and that it would be indecent and unfeeling, under the
circumstances, to look happy. Produce me a respectable inhabitant of an
English country town, and I will match him, in the matter of stolid and
silent staring, against any other man, civilized or savage, over the
whole surface of the globe.