[Illustration: 0129]
Almost every place of popular resort has its "season," when its charms
are supposed to be at their highest, and the annual migration of
visitors sets in. The period is not always determined by climate or
calendar; and such is the caprice of fashion, that many a lovely spot
is left well-nigh solitary during the weeks of its full perfection,
the crowd beginning to gather when the beauties of the place are on the
wane. Tastes will undoubtedly differ as to the most favourable time to
visit one or another beautiful scene; but none, we should imagine,
will dispute our opinion that the best season for travel in the west of
England is in the early spring. We leave the north, with patches of snow
yet on the hills, and the first leaflets struggling in vain to
unfold themselves on the blackened branches; or, if we hail from the
metropolis, we gladly turn our backs on wind-swept streets and bleak
suburban roads, to find ourselves in two or three hours speeding beneath
soft sunshine, between far-extending orchards, in all the loveliness of
their delicate bloom, while the grass is of a richer tint, the blue sky,
dappled with fleecy clouds, of a more exquisite purity, and instead
of the slowly-relaxing grasp of winter, the promise of summer already
thrills the air. "The flowers appear on the earth; the time of the
singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our
land."
But whither shall we direct our steps? It is the perfection of comfort
in travelling to have time at command. We need be in no haste to leave
the apple-blossomy valleys of Somersetshire, even for the woods and
cliffs of Devon; and if the tourist would visit a spot which, in its
own way, is unique in England, let him turn aside, as we did, soon after
leaving Bristol, to a rift in the Mendip Hills, and make his way through
the pass between the Cheddar Cliffs. A more majestic scene it would
be difficult to find. For actual magnitude is only one element of
sublimity. The biggest mountain is not always the grandest, just as the
finest landscape is not always that which embraces the greatest number
of square miles. The Himalayas are said to be far less imposing than the
Alps. The width of the valleys, the more gradual slope of the mountains,
and the greater distance from the eye, detract from their apparent
height as compared with Mont Blanc or the Matterhorn. This little gorge
of the Mendips affords a striking illustration of the same kind.
The cliffs are less than five hundred feet high; yet under certain
conditions of atmosphere we have had as deep a sense of sublimity, and
under others as keen a sense of beauty here, as in districts where the
altitude is to be reckoned by thousands of feet instead of hundreds.
The approach to Cheddar is by a short railway from Yatton, on the
Bristol and Exeter line, or by the road, which winds through a rich
valley. The hills on either side are green to their very summits, from
which fine views may be gained of the Bristol Channel, near Clevedon and
Weston. One of them, Dolbury, is crowned by a remarkably fine British
camp, enclosing within its ample area a Roman stronghold. Wrington, the
birthplace of John Locke, is passed. Glastonbury Tor comes into view,
and remains a conspicuous object for the rest of the journey.
Immediately behind the village of Cheddar rises the bare grey ridge
of the Mendips. Cut sheer through it from summit to base is an
extraordinary cleft. The road which winds along the bottom of the
ravine is in some places only wide enough to allow two vehicles to pass
abreast. On the right-hand side a perpendicular wall of rock rises to
the height of about four hundred and thirty feet. Its surface is
broken by enormous buttresses, like the towers of some Titanic castle,
surmounted by spires and pinnacles, whose light airy grace contrasts
finely with the massive walls on which they rest. Down the face of the
cliff long festoons of ivy and creeping plants wave to and fro. The
scanty soil on the ledges and in the fissures is bright with wild
flowers. The yew and mountain ash, dwarfed into mere shrubs, seem to
cling with a precarious foothold to the face of the rock. Far above us
innumerable jackdaws and crows chatter noisily, and hawks, with which
the district abounds, soar across the narrow strip of sky overhead. The
opposite side of the ravine is less precipitous, though even here it is
steep enough to task the energies of the climber, and grand masses of
rock stand out from the hill-side. Conspicuous amongst these is the Lion
Rock, so called from its extraordinary resemblance to a crouching lion.
This district abounds in caverns, many of them of great extent and
beauty, which will well repay a visit. Local tradition affirms that one
reaches as far as Wookey Hole, a distance of ten miles.
[Illustration: 8131]
The devoted and self-denying efforts of Mrs. Hannah More must not be
forgotten in connection with Cheddar. When residing at Barley Wood, a
few miles distant, about the end of the last century, she was dismayed
at the ignorance and immorality of the villagers, who were "living like
the brutes that perish," and indulging in gross vices. Scarcely even
in the heart of Africa could more complete heathenism be found. As yet
Sunday Schools, Tract Societies and all the means of usefulness, now so
common, had no existence.
Her endeavours for the amelioration of the people were as experiments to
be tried single-handed, under the most unpromising circumstances, and in
the face of the most violent hostility and abuse.
Yet she did not shrink from the arduous duty which lay before her. A
house was taken, a pious teacher appointed, and the school was opened.
Gradually enemies were conciliated, as the happy effects of Christian
teaching became apparent. Many of the children learned to know and love
the Saviour. The influence spread from the children to the parents,
and by the blessing of God the experiment, which at first seemed so
hopeless, was crowned with a success beyond her utmost expectations. It
was in connection with her evangelistic work at Cheddar that she wrote
her first tract, _Village Politics, by Will Chip_. This led to the
preparation of her _Cheap Repository Tracts_, to be followed in due time
by the establishment of the Religious Tract Society, whose operations
now extend throughout the whole world. On the completion of the series,
Mrs. More wrote in her journal: "Bless the Lord, O my soul, that I have
been spared to accomplish this work. Do Thou, O Lord, bless and prosper
it to the good of many; and if it do good, may I give Thee the glory,
and take to myself the shame of its defects. I have devoted three years
to the work. Two millions of these tracts have been disposed of during
the first year! God works by weak instruments, to show that the glory is
all His own."
From Cheddar the traveller may either continue his journey by way of
Wells, or may return at once to the main line, passing near the coast
of the Bristol Channel, with a wide alluvial plain at his left, once
covered by an arm of the sea, with islands, as Brent Tor and others,
emerging from the waters, and reaching as far as Glastonbury or
Avalon--"apple-island," famed in legend and song.
[Illustration: 0132]
A little further, and the marshy plain of the Parret stretches away in
one direction to Sedgemoor, scene of the "last battle fought on English
ground," * that in which the ill-fated Duke of Monmouth suffered
irretrievable defeat, and in another, to Athelney, the place of King
Alfred's retreat and noble rally against the Danes. In memory of the
stories that charmed our childhood, we could do no otherwise than take
the branch line at Durston, whence a few minutes' run places us in the
marshy unpicturesque scene so memorable in English story. The whole
neighbourhood was evidently once covered with woods and morasses; good
drainage has made it fertile now, but it must be confessed that it must
depend for all its attractiveness on its associations. On or near the
traditional site of the "neatherd's cottage," an unpretending stone
pillar with a lengthy inscription preserves the memory of Alfred's
sojourn.
* Macaulay. The date was July 6, 1685
Resuming the journey westward, we soon discern the towers of the Taunton
churches, and may find a welcome night's rest in this bright and pretty
town; or turning again off the main line, may pass north west, by a
route full of interest, to the Ouantock Hills. On our way we pass Combe
Florey, famous as the residence for a time of Sydney Smith, and as the
scene of some of the most characteristic stories of his life. But we
must not linger in the valley: at every point the wooded hill-slopes
tempt us to climb upwards among shady groves of beech, over turf thick
with primroses and bluebells, then out upon the furzy heights. It hardly
matters which path we take, whether up Cothelstone, whence the view
is perhaps most magnificent, or Will's Neck, highest point of all, or
Hurley Beacon. From hilltop to hill-top we make our way, descending
into mossy glens, where the hill stream trickles down in miniature
waterfalls, or striking down some deep wooded combe, where the houses
of a village nestle among the trees, and the spacious church tells of
a time when the inhabitants far out-numbered the present scanty
population. In the valley below, to the north-east, we descry the
village of Nether Stowey, for some time the residence of Coleridge,
and further to the north, at the foot of one of the loveliest of wooded
combes, is Alfoxton, which was at the same time the home of Wordsworth.
The two friends have told us how they used to meet and discuss high
themes in many a charming stroll, their neighbours much wondering the
while, and the government of the day suspecting their advanced
opinions. The end was that they had to leave, not before they had made
imperishable record of the beauties of the place. Thus Wordsworth writes
to Coleridge, in the Prelude:
"Beloved Friend!
When looking back, thou seest in clearer view
Than any liveliest sights of yesterday
That summer, under whose indulgent skies
Upon smooth Quantock's airy ridge we roved
Unchecked, or loitered 'mid her sylvan combes:
Thou in bewitching words, with happy hearts
Midst chaint the vision of that ancient man;
The bright-eyed Mariner, and rueful woes
Didst utter of the Lady Christabel."
Coleridge, in a note to the _Ancient Mariner_, says, "It was on a
delightful walk from Nether Stowey to Dulverton, with Wordsworth and his
sister, in the autumn of 1797, that this poem was planned and in part
composed."
The great hilly range to the west, in full view across the valley from
the Ouantocks, is an outlying rampart of Exmoor, and the brown peak in
the distance is Dunkery Beacon, the highest point in Somersetshire. Our
road leads between these heights and the sea, by Dunster, with its great
ivied castle overhanging the quaint feudal-looking little town, and
Minehead, a cheerful unpretending watering-place, to Porlock, where
the ascent of what the country people call a "terràble long hill," by a
zigzag moorland road, leads to a height from which, on looking back, we
have a prospect of surpassing grandeur. Let us gaze our fill: if the day
be fine, and the atmosphere clear, we shall see nothing nobler in the
west of England. To the south the huge masses of Dunkery, brown with
heather, rise from a foreground of woods and glens; below, to the east,
lies a fair valley, surrounded with hills of every picturesque variety
in form, prominent among which is the rugged side of Bossington Beacon.
Towards the south-east, heights on heights arise, some richly wooded,
others majestic in their bareness; while to the north and north-east
stretches the Bristol Channel, with the Welsh mountains dimly seen
beyond.
[Illustration: 0134]
Then we go southwards over a reach of wild moorland, and come upon the
indescribable loveliness of Lynmouth and Lynton. Far beyond railways,
accessible only by long walking or driving over hilly roads, or by small
boats from steamers on their way up and down the Channel, this fair spot
can never attract the crowd; but those who have wandered by its streams,
or climbed its heights, are singularly unanimous in pronouncing it the
most charming spot in England. Lynmouth is in the valley, on the shore;
Lynton on the height. The name is derived from the _lyns_, or torrents,
which descend separately, each through a wooded gorge or combe, until
they meet beside the sea. Great mossy rocks everywhere break the course
of the torrents, and the luxuriant foliage which lines the banks,
the ferns and flowers, with the overhanging trees, combine to make a
succession of perfect pictures.
[Illustration: 0135]
The traveller will, of course, go up Lyndale, the valley of the East
Lyn, as far as Watersmeet, and will not omit to explore the quieter,
more luxuriant, though less magnificent West Lyn. He will climb to
the summit of Lyn Cliff, and will survey at ease the prospect from the
summer-house; and will not omit the extraordinary Valley of the Rocks,
reached by a grand walk along the face of the cliff, which overhangs the
sea to the west of Lynton. At a break in this path he suddenly comes
to a gigantic gateway, formed of two rocky pyramids, and enters upon
a scene which, to his first view, appears strewn with the fragments of
some earlier world. "Imagine," says Southey, "a narrow vale between two
ridges of hills, somewhat steep: the southern hill turfed; the vale,
which runs from east to west, covered with huge stones, and fragments of
stone among the fern that fills it; the northern ridge completely bare,
excoriated of all turf and all soil, the very bones and skeleton of the
earth; rock reclining upon rock, stone piled upon stone, a huge terrific
mass. A palace of the pre-historic kings, a city of the Anakim, must
have appeared so shapeless, and yet so like the ruins of what had been
shaped after the waters of the flood subsided.... I never felt the
sublimity of solitude before."
The drive from Lynton to Barnstaple, though not long, being, we believe,
somewhat under twenty miles, brought to us a crowd of half-forgotten
associations of early days when coach-travelling was the chief means of
locomotion. The coach itself was of the old build, spick and span in its
neatness; the coachman was of old-fashioned ways; the four sleek horses
were no mere omnibus hacks, but as they warmed to their work up and down
hill, showed a mettle akin to that of roadsters in days long ago.
Or perhaps we had only imagined until now that the old breed had
deteriorated! The villages on the way had no sign of "Station" or
"Station Hotel" about them; children ran from the cottage doors to shout
after the coach, or to bring primroses and violets to the passengers;
rustics gathered for a chat where the coachman pulled up, as he did
tolerably often, for time seemed but a small object in that old-world
region. And all around was outspread a landscape of rich, ever-changing
loveliness, ruddy in soil, rich in verdure, as at one time we descended
into lanes half-embowered by the already luxuriant hedgerows, and at
another emerged on open moorland swept by soft breezes from the sea, and
engirdled by the hazy forms of distant hills. At length the estuary of
the Taw came into view, the houses of Barnstaple appeared, the coach
drove into the station yard, and we were in the world again.
Another route might have been taken from Lynton to Ilfracombe, by way of
Combe Martin, with its fine and rocky bay; but we were anxious to
reach less crowded and familiar spots than the famous North Devon
watering-place, though this also is in its way delightful. We must,
however, see one or two further points on the coast before striking
inland again; and accordingly, took up our night's quarters at Bideford,
famed for the length of its bridge, and the steepness of its streets.
Emerging early in the morning from the highest part of the town, we
made our way to Westward Ho! that magnificent possibility, whose stately
mansions and hotels, broad quays and pier, surrounded by vessels from
all parts, with its broad level plain by the sea and noble background
of wooded hills, had so often captivated us--in railway-station
waiting-rooms. We found it all there, except the mansions, the quays,
and the ships! The bay is glorious, the plain upon the shore stretches
far and wide,--to the satisfaction of golfers, for whose favourite game
no spot can be better adapted: there is a great pebble-ridge, a natural
breakwater two miles long and fifty feet wide, composed of rounded
pebbles of carboniferous "grit;" the background of wooded cliffs is
magnificent, while a lonely pier, one commodious hotel, a bath-house on
a splendid scale, some rows of villas, lodging-houses, and one or two
educational establishments give promise of prosperity to come. A great
sanatorium or hydropathic institution, to be called "the Kingsley,"
after the gifted man who has set the stamp of his genius on this whole
neighbourhood, has been projected; and certainly for purposes of health
as well as enjoyment, no place could be better adapted than the woodland
terraces overlooking this most beautiful bay.
The mention of Charles Kingsley reminds us of Clovelly, his early home,
and to the last his favourite spot. Early in the morning we started for
this unique Devonshire village, with high expectations, and under
the auspices of the British Government, as our chosen vehicle was the
"mail-cart," in the shape of a very comfortable waggonette filled
with pleasant chatty passengers, all the livelier, perhaps, from the
good-humoured sense of merit which early-rising is apt to engender. The
road was not particularly striking, save for glimpses of the channel
seen through the light morning haze: the breath of spring was in the
air, and when we alighted at the "Hobby" gate, we were fully prepared
for the three miles' walk by which our breakfast was yet to be earned.
The path, in reality a broad, well-kept drive, is carried along the face
of the cliff, which shelves gradually, covered thickly with trees and
brushwood, to the shore, while the bank towers above, soft with moss and
beautiful with flowers. The cliff curves in and out irregularly; broken
in one or two places by deep glens, over which the road is carried by
rustic bridges. Long shadows lay, that morning, across the path; above
and below, the tender budding foliage clothed the dark branches of oak
and elm, hazel and beech, in every variety of shade; the air was musical
with birds, and, stirred by the gentle morning breeze and the whisper of
the boughs, blended with the distant murmur of the sea. It was a walk to
be remembered. At length, at a turning of the road, Clovelly came
into sight, about a mile distant--a seemingly confused heap of houses
emerging on all sides from thick woodland, and slanting steeply down
to a stone pier jutting out into a little bay. At the end of the Hobby
walk, the summit of the village was gained, and we were soon descending
its curious steep street, not without longing looks at the quaint little
lodging-houses, all untenanted as yet.
[Illustration: 8139]
Clovelly is a place to linger in, and to dream! The practical need of
the hour, however, was breakfast, during the preparation of which meal
it was pleasant to sit in the hotel balcony, and look out upon the bay,
with its lines of light and shadow, and the long outline of Lundy Island
showing clear in the distance; for now the morning mists had lifted,
and the brightness of spring was over sea and land. A walk of marvellous
beauty followed, into the park of Clovelly Court, over springy turf,
through woodlands budding into leaf, and over a stretch of rugged
wilderness, preserved with some art in its primitive simplicity. Thence,
by a winding pathway, or over a steep grassy slope, the highest
point may be reached, a noble cliff, called from some old local story
Gallantry Bower. A little summer-house, nestling in the cliff-side,
commands a grand range of cliffs, with their curved, contorted strata,
peculiar to the carboniferous formation, while many a jutting or broken
crag gives a castellated aspect to this magnificent rampart of the
coast. Inland, the scene is full of beauties of hill and glen, in almost
measureless variety; but we could not linger to survey them all; for
our way lay in another direction, before we could feast again on the
beauties of cliff and sea.
Hartland Point, a little farther on, is the true "Land's End" of
Devonshire, the terminating promontory of Bideford Bay, a tongue of
grassy land, not more than thirty or forty feet wide, at the summit of a
tremendous precipice on either side, pointing, it is said, to a similar
projection on the opposite Welsh coast, like twin pillars of Hercules, *
guarding the estuary of the Severn.
* Ptolemy, the geographer (2nd cent.), is supposed to have
referred to Hartland Point, as the "Promontory of Hercules."
[Illustration: 9140]
It would now have been easy to visit Bude Haven, and so to travel south
and south-west along the cliffs which fringe the Atlantic, but our
present plan was to strike inland to Dartmoor. The little town of
Oke-hampton was therefore our first destination, reached by a somewhat
dull route,--whichever road may be taken,--but, when gained, most
interesting. The town lies in a valley, watered by a swift romantic
river which, at one point, sweeping round a wooded hill, crowned by the
ruins of an old castle, forms as lovely a picture as anything of the
kind in England. Kingsley abuses Okehampton, unjustly, we think: but,
whatever may be thought of the town and its immediate neighbourhood,
there can be no doubt as to the wonderful interest of the excursions
that may be taken from it as a centre. From the castle hill, as from
other points in the town, the chief object that arrests the eye is the
vast brown sweep of rising ground, suggestive of mysterious desolation
beyond, which we know to be the boundary of Dartmoor. Ascending, we find
ourselves at first on pleasant, breezy, though treeless heights, but
keep to beaten paths, and pursue our onward journey. At length the
moorland track over which we have passed seems to rise behind us and
shut out the world; and as we gaze around, we feel that all pictures
which we had framed to ourselves of wild deserted solitudes are
surpassed. "Like the fragments of an earlier world," is the comparison
that naturally rises to the lips. We are not unfamiliar with moorland
scenery--with Rombald's Moor, for instance, in Yorkshire, beautiful in
its variety of colour, from the tender green and softening greys and
browns of spring, to the purple heathery splendours of the autumn,
while the song of lark and linnet overhead, or the plaintive cry of
the lapwing, gives animation to the scene. But at Dartmoor is a new
experience of desolation. The stupendous mass of granite which here
crops up from hidden depths is covered on its broken surface with thick
peat, in whose depths the blackened trunks of trees occasionally give
evidence of a time when the range was clothed with wood, but which,
for the most part, bears only coarse grass and moss, with heather and
whortleberry in the most favoured localities. Broad spaces are covered
by morass and bog, dangerous to the unaccustomed pedestrian. Scanty
streams break from the heights, and hurry in all directions down to
the valley, swollen to wild fury after a storm. The "tor," or
shapeless masses of rock, which stand out from the peaty surface in
all directions, are but, as it were, the jagged projections from the
interior rock-skeleton. Some may be readily ascended; Yes Tor (probably
East Tor, pronounced Devonshire fashion) being the highest, and on many
accounts the best worth climbing.
[Illustration: 0141]
The prospect of the moor from this or any other commanding point can
only be described as awful in its grim, monotonous, silent desolation,
the only beauty being that of swelling distant outline, or frequently
that of colour, when the atmosphere is clear between the frequent
showers, and the rays of the sun light up the heather and the moss,
diversifying the dark shadows of the tors with the various hues of
green, with the ruddy gleam of withered fern, and rushes in many a
morass. But let not the traveller be too hopeful of sunshine and clear
air! For as the local rhyme says:
The south wind blows, and brings wet weather;
The north gives wet and cold together;
The west wind comes brimful of rain,
The east wind drives it back again.
Then, if the sun in red should set,
We know the morrow must be wet;
And if the eve is clad in grey,
The next is sure a rainy day."
[Illustration: 9142]
Still, the slopes by which Dartmoor descends to the lowlands around are
beautiful. In fact, the mighty granite mass is girdled by an investiture
of fair glens and smiling villages, which make the circuit of it a
succession of some of the brightest pictures that England can anywhere
present in the same compass. The drive from Oke-hampton to Chagford,
or to Moreton Hampstead, for instance, is of wonderful charm. Near the
former village, the river Teign descends over rocks and boulders in a
richly-wooded glen, as beautiful in parts as Dovedale.
[Illustration: 8142]
The rivers, indeed, which come down on all sides from Dartmoor, are the
glory of Devonshire. Beside the Teign, there is the Dart itself, one
head-stream of which rises near the well-known prison at Prince Town,
with the Taw, Tavy, Avon, Erme, Plym, and streamlets innumerable.
Travellers in favourable weather will do well to cross Dartmoor by the
coach-road, from Moreton Hampstead to Tavistock, past the big, gloomy
prison, appropriately placed in the very wildest and most desolate
part of the whole region. Or, as we did, making Okehampton their
headquarters, they may pass on by train by way of Lidford. The railway
is carried in places at a great height, on the open edge of the moor,
which it curiously fringes: it seems essentially a holiday line; there
is no hurry, and the traveller, as he passes along, may leisurely survey
the frowning heights above, or the fair valley below, according to his
choice.
[Illustration: 0143]
Lidford station being reached, we left the train, and found ourselves
in an unfinished-looking spot, with little outwardly to attract. Having,
however, received directions how to proceed, we crossed a farmyard,
where some cattle with stupendous horns looked and lowed at us in a
manner trying to the nerves, then, emerging near a river bank, made
our way for less than a mile up the stream, on a grassy path beneath
overhanging woods, when at a sudden turn up a glen that opened to the
main stream, the gleam of waters caught the eye, at the first glance
like some tall spirit of the dell, glimmering through the foliage that
enshrouded it. A more beautiful cascade is hardly to be seen in England,
when Dartmoor has had abundance of rain. At other times they say a
friendly miller can turn on a supply of water, else thriftily economised
for his needs. Happily, no such artificial arrangement was needful on
the occasion of our visit; and we remained long admiring the lovely
picture.
[Illustration: 0144]
Retracing our steps, we climbed to the village, crossing on our way a
commonplace-looking bridge, of a single arch, at a clip in the road,
with the sound of a great rush of waters beneath.
[Illustration: 0145]
We looked over the parapet, but could discern nothing, owing to the mass
of thick shrubs and foliage which overarched the stream, and made
our way uphill to the village. Here the traveller is directed to the
churchyard, to see a curious epitaph on a watchmaker, in which some
rather obvious allusions to human life are borrowed from his craft.
Students of mortuary inscriptions are thankful often for small mercies
in the way of wit, and are not always careful to note where the humour
degenerates into irreverence or worse. We were more sadly interested in
the contrast, which we have also observed in other churchyards, between
the old style and the new; the simple piety of our fathers and the
mimic popery of some of their descendants. Both are very observable at
Lidford. One ancient tombstone bore some pathetic lines, beginning,--
"Praise to our God, whose faithful love
Hath called another to His rest."
But the modern fashion was evidently to put up a flimsy cross, with the
letters R.I.P., _Requiescat in pace!_ a prayer for the dead, who are
beyond our reach, safe in the endless rest, or in a darkness whither
our prayers cannot avail them. We left the scene with the feeling deeper
than ever, that there are growing up errors among us, against which it
becomes all true men earnestly to strive.
[Illustration: 9146]
Meanwhile we had learned something about the bridge that we had crossed
just before, and the rush of waters below. Returning, therefore, and
making application at the house close by, we were conducted down into a
rocky gorge, through which rushes the Lid, one of the Dartmoor streams,
a tributary of the Tamar. The cliffs, irregular and castellated, are
seventy feet high; a narrow, dangerous path is carried along one side
of the rock, and the wild foaming waters in the dark, narrow glen carry
back the traveller's mind to Switzerland. Certainly there is nothing
like "Lidford Bridge" elsewhere in England; the Strid in Bolton Woods
may equal it in its rush of waters; but the rocks there lie in the open
woodland, and the stream is but a few feet below their summit: here the
beetling precipices almost meet above, as at the "Devil's Bridge" in
Cardiganshire, and there are weird stories at both places of travellers
on horseback who have leaped the bridge unconsciously by night, when
broken down, only discovering their peril and their escape on the
following day.
From Lidford to Tavistock was an easy ride, and we found this pleasant
town a place every way suitable for a Lord's Day rest. Outwardly, the
great charm of the locality is the meeting-place between the wildness of
Dartmoor and the rich cultivation of the valley; while some walks by the
river are of a tranquil and serene beauty, only as it seems to us to
be found in England, and to be enjoyed on the day of rest. Perhaps our
feeling is in a great measure due to association; but if so, we have to
thank association for one of the happiest evenings we have known. Next
morning we explored the remains of the Abbey--now put to heterogeneous
uses--a public library, a Unitarian Chapel, and a hotel, with sundry
ruins in the vicarage garden; then a short railway journey carried us
across the Cornish border to Launceston, where a short climb through
pretty pleasure grounds to the keep of the old castle on the knoll that
rises steeply from the town gave us a fine view, from the bulky range of
Dartmoor on the one side, to the craggy outline of the Cornish hills on
the other.
[Illustration: 0147]
Our object, however, was now to reach the coast; and, as a good test of
our pedestrian powers, already pretty well exercised in the course
of this charming: tour, we determined to walk over the hills in the
direction of the sea, knowing that even if our powers failed, some
passing "van" would take us up, and convey us in a primitive fashion to
the nearest town. But we persevered, and, when we had accomplished nine
or ten miles of an undulating, monotonous road, were rewarded by the
first glimpse of the Atlantic, with the cloud shadows lying afar upon
the untroubled sapphire; while, though no breeze stirred, there was
a sense of freshness in the air that encouraged us to press on to our
journey's end. At length we reached it, in a village to name which is
to raise in the minds of those who have visited it memories most
delightful; while to the multitude it is and will probably remain
unknown. We will not call it Trelyon, after the fashion of a popular
novelist, who has given us some of the most charming word-pictures of
this scenery which our literature contains. Nor is it unkindness to
the happy few who already know Boscastle, and one delightful homelike
retreat from the world which it contains, to raise the veil a little
farther. That it is several miles distant from a railway station, that
there is no public conveyance to it but the "vans" already referred
to, that gas is a luxury unknown, are points in its favour to those who
think, like the Frenchman:
"How sweet, how passing sweet, is solitude!
But give me just one friend in my retreat,
To whom to whisper, 'Solitude is sweet.'"
For society may be found at Boscastle--the society of the chosen few.
The place itself is unique. Through tiny meadows a streamlet flows
swiftly towards the sea, entering a fissure where the hills, swelling
upward on either hand, rise to towering cliffs, inclosing a harbour, up
which the tide surges restlessly to meet the stream, then as restlessly
subsides. Behind the cliff on the western side, up a broad cleft from
the brink of the rivulet to the hill-summit, runs the village, inhabited
by a hardy, independent, self-contained race of Cornish people, proud
of their scenery, as well they may be. The slate cliffs, in endless
diversity of craggy pointed form, skirt the sea, which ever chafes
against their bases; here and there a little inlet far below shows
a surface of smooth white sand, inaccessible from the land, or to be
reached only by the surefooted climber, familiar with every step. Broad
grassy slopes crown the cliffs, and every turn discloses magnificent
views of sea and shore. Our walk along the cliffs to Tintagel, starting
from Willapark Point, the headland that rises so grandly to the west of
the little bay, was of an interest which perhaps no other coast scene
in England can fully match. First, Forrabury Church was passed, with
its silent tower; the bells once destined for it lying, according
to tradition, close by, at the bottom of the Atlantic. The ship that
conveyed them was nearing the port. "Thank God for a fair voyage," said
the pilot. "Nay," replied the captain, "thank the ship, the canvas, and
the fair wind." It was in vain that the pilot remonstrated; but even
while the ship was rounding the point a sudden storm gathered, the
vessel was dashed upon the rocky coast, all perished save the pilot,
and the bells sinking to the deep tolled solemnly, as if for the fate of
those who would not acknowledge God. Still, it is said, when the storm
rises high--
"'Those bells, that sullen surges hide,
'Peal their deep notes beneath the tide:
'Come to thy God in time!'--thus saith the ocean chime:
'Storm, billow, whirlwind past, come to thy God at last.'"
[Illustration: 0150]
Such is a specimen of the tales told at many a Cornish fireside. As we
pass on we feel more and more that we are in the country of legend and
song. The rolling uplands that stretch inland, with the deep vales and
furzy hollows that intersect them, are renowned as the realm of King
Arthur, the hero of British history and fable. Here, on the shore of
the Atlantic, he may have gathered his good knights around him, to stand
with them against the heathen invader; or it may be that here he was
born, according to the legend; while "the great battle of the west," in
which the hero disappeared, is said to have been fought at Camelford, in
the neighbourhood. Local legends are full of this royal name; and if,
as some will have it, King Arthur never existed, the universality of the
tradition is all the more remarkable. The impress of his memory and
life is everywhere. Of a little cottage maiden who guided us, we ask her
name. "Jinnifer," was the reply--an unconscious perpetuation of the name
of Guinevere, Arthur's Oueen.
A lovely wooded glen breaks the cliff halfway to Tintagel, at the heal
of which the explorer will find a waterfall, in a wild forest ravine,
both on a somewhat miniature scale; but in the accessories of rock-hewn
walks, with clinging shrubs and mountain spring-flowers, watered by the
dashing spray, the dell was perfect. St. Nighton's Keive, or basin, as
this romantic nook is called, is a sudden and welcome change from the
wild sublimity of the rocks above, and the ceaseless thunder of the
Atlantic. But we must reascend; and soon, from our turfy path upon the
height we come into full view of a stupendous rock, standing a little
way out to sea, the home of myriads of seabirds that circle the rock
with weird cries, or, descending in flocks, skim the surface of the
waves. They have evidently learned to fear the gun, and to distrust
mankind.
Tintagel, now approached, is an irregular village, following the lines
and descents of the cliff. The church is on a wind-swept headland to the
west, and in its stormiest corner we found the grave and monument of Mr.
Douglas Cooke, the first editor of the _Saturday Review_. It was curious
to be reminded of the conflicts of literature at this meeting-place of
storms.
Tintagel Castle itself we approached by a path that looked perilous,
but was safe enough, descending from the cliff and rising steeply to a
promontory or peninsula of slaty rock, on which the ruins stand.
These are jagged, time-worn; little plan or order can be traced; such
fragments of building as still exist are no doubt of much more recent
origin than Arthur's time: the outward glory of the scene is all in the
majestic sweep and serried outline of the stupendous cliffs, with the
long roll of the sea breaking ceaselessly into billows at their base.
The stillness is unbroken, save for this ocean music, with the hoarse
cry of sea-birds, and the occasional bleating of the few sheep who
pasture here. The sense of isolation becomes at last oppressive, and we
gladly retrace our steps to the mainland.
Boscastle remains for a time our home: it is a never-ceasing delight
to climb to some nook of the cliffs, east and west, which inclose the
little harbour, or to stroll down to the little pier--a trying walk at
certain seasons, because of a chemical manure manufactory on the way--or
to ramble over the grassy slopes, inhaling the pure breezes of the
Atlantic. The Sunday spent in the neighbourhood was one of peculiar
delight. Wandering inland, we found a church, in the depths of a wood;
the congregation seemed to emerge, we knew not how, from deep bowery
lanes and by-paths among the trees; the service was none the less
impressive for the singing of birds without and the fragrance of
spring blossoms stealing through the open windows. The sermon, too, was
appropriate, a tender, practical exhortation to "delight ourselves in
God." In the evening of the same day, in the hush of twilight, taking
our accustomed path over the cliffs, we came upon a group of people, old
and young, who had evidently come thither after an early evening service
at one of the chapels: they were holding a prayer-meeting in the rocky
nook--singing a hymn as we approached, the burden of which was "Over
there," while wistful eyes gazed across the now purple sea, to the
splendours which lingered in the west after sunset, as though reminded
by those tints of heavenly glory of the land that is very far off. It
was good for the stranger to pause by the way, to join in that touching
strain, and add his Amen to that Sabbath evening prayer.
[Illustration: 9153]
Boscastle was so attractive that the rest of a long journey had to be
performed in haste. Bodmin, Truro, Redruth, were all rapidly passed, and
after climbing Carnbrea, near the latter town, and hearing some of the
marvellous stories connected with that giant hill, we took rail for
Penzance, anxious at least to visit St. Michael's Mount, the Logan Rock
and the Land's End. But what impressed us most, when we reached that
last and prettiest of Cornish towns, was the climate. We had believed
it spring; but here it was already summer! The last struggle with wintry
frosts was over, and the woods and fields were decked with all their
wealth of verdure; the air had lost its sharpness, and the rich
colouring of every part of the scene, from the golden furze upon the
hills to the ruddy lichen on the rocks, seemed to reflect the genial
glow. Mount's Bay, still and blue, was wonderful in its contrast with
the Atlantic surges that we had just left on the opposite shore. We
thought of the words with which Emerson begins one of his lectures: "In
this refulgent summer it has been a luxury to live."
St. Michael's Mount, that extraordinary combination, geologically
speaking, of granite and clay-slate, remarkable, too, in its
correspondence with the much larger Mont St. Michel on the shore of
Normandy, is as interesting a place to visit as it is beautiful to look
upon. The views from its summit over sea and land are of surpassing
loveliness, and to enjoy them to the full it is not necessary to make
the hazardous attempt to sit in "St. Michael's Chair," the half, it is
said, of an old stone lantern, but overhanging the precipice in a
very perilous way. The villagers round the bay will tell you that the
archangel himself appears in this "chair" when a storm is raging, and
firmly believe that he is the guardian spirit of these seas.
[Illustration: 0153]
The Logan Rock, to which we next directed our steps, was disappointing
in more ways than one: the finest part of the cliff-scenery being the
great granite headland, which visitors are apt to pass unnoticed, in
searching for the natural curiosity, and in recalling the story of its
fall and reinstatement. There are, in fact, many "logan" or logging
rocks in granite districts, locally called Tolmêns; one formerly in the
parish of Constantine, between Penrhyn and Helston, being larger than
this on the coast, though without its magnificent accessories. Their
peculiar position is caused by the influence of air and moisture,
wearing a fissure in the rock, until a detached upper portion rests only
on a small central base. The wonder is in the bigness of the rock thus
balanced, and in the evenness of the process of disintegration all
around: the vast majority of boulders worn away by such agencies being
of course over balanced, so as to fall on one side.
[Illustration: 0154]
The mechanical restoration of this Logan Rock to its position, and the
appliances necessary to keep it in balance, give an artifical air to the
whole, and we were glad to turn away to the stupendous cliff scenery,
pursuing a path along the rocks to the Land's End, where every point has
its old Cornish name, and where the combinations of form and outline,
if less imposing than on the northern shore, are still very fine. The
granite of which this southern line of coast is composed is more rugged
and massive, if less variously picturesque, and the admirer of coast
scenery who has explored the two districts--from Boscastle to Tintagel,
and from the Logan Rock to the Land's End--has little' more to see or to
learn.
The great western promontory has been so often described that we
need but refer to our artist's delineation. The low descending
promontory, from the great cliff rampart behind, the narrowness of the
"neck of land" between "two unbounded seas,"--to adopt the phrase of
Charles Wesley's well-known hymn, here written,--the rocky islands near,
on which the lighthouse stands, and the ever-chafing restless surge,
make up a picture which fills the imagination in many after days.
[Illustration: 8155]
From this point "the vast expanse of ocean is at all times a grand
spectacle; it is terrible when a fierce westerly gale levels before it
the whole flow of the sea, driving forward one blinding sheet of foam,
even to the summit of the Land's End precipice; but it is yet more
solemn in its quieter mood, when, with little wind stirring, the vast
billows, propagated from some centre of storms far in the Atlantic, come
slowly to break on the rocks in measured cadences of thunder, the very
types of enormous power in repose."
But it was now time to turn our thoughts and our course homeward.
Very reluctantly, we left the south of Cornwall unvisited--the Lizard
Point, Kynance Cove, and the magnificent harbour of Falmouth, with its
flanking castles of Pen-dennis and St. Mawes.
[Illustration: 9155]
Then there were the great southern towns of Devonshire, with their
beauties manifold,--Plymouth and Torquay, with the lovely little
watering-places of Teignmouth and Dawlish, and stately Exeter itself. On
previous occasions we had visited them all, had spent long dreamy hours
in Anstey's Cove, then comparatively unvisited by excursionists, had
tenanted humble lodgings at Babbicombe Bay, before the villas were
built, and had sailed down the lovely winding Dart to Dartmouth, with
its harbour among the hills. The natural beauties are still there,
though art has done much of its best or its worst with them since those
days. But we must now pass them all by, only in imagination breathing
their soft southern airs, or casting hasty glances at one or other of
them from the carriage windows of the romantic South Devon Railway. For
we have tarried amid the attractions of the far west until the latest
possible moment. At six in the morning we leave Penzance; at six in the
evening we are in London.
[Illustration: 0156]
[Illustration: 0158]