AN UNSENTIMENTAL JOURNEY
THROUGH CORNWALL
[Illustration: ST. MICHAEL'S MOUNT.]
AN
UNSENTIMENTAL JOURNEY
THROUGH
CORNWALL
BY
THE AUTHOR OF "JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN"
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS
BY
C. NAPIER HEMY
London
MACMILLAN AND CO.
1884
_The Right of Translation and Reproduction is Reserved_
LONDON:
R. CLAY, SONS, AND TAYLOR,
BREAD STREET HILL, E.C.
CONTENTS
PAGE
DAY THE FIRST 1
DAY THE SECOND 9
DAY THE THIRD 25
DAY THE FOURTH 45
DAY THE FIFTH 53
DAY THE SIXTH 59
DAY THE SEVENTH 67
DAY THE EIGHTH 75
DAY THE NINTH 86
DAY THE TENTH 101
DAY THE ELEVENTH 110
DAY THE TWELFTH 118
DAY THE THIRTEENTH 127
DAYS FOURTEENTH, FIFTEENTH, AND SIXTEENTH 133
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
ST. MICHAEL'S MOUNT _Frontispiece_
FALMOUTH, FROM FLUSHING 1
ST. MAWE'S CASTLE, FALMOUTH BAY 5
VIEW OF FLUSHING FROM THE GREEN BANK HOTEL, FALMOUTH 7
A FISHERMAN'S CELLAR NEAR THE LIZARD 11
THE CORNISH COAST: FROM YNYS HEAD TO BEAST POINT 15
THE LIZARD LIGHTS BY NIGHT 23
CORNISH FISH 24
POLTESCO 29
CADGWITH COVE 32
THE DEVIL'S FRYING PAN, NEAR CADGWITH 34
MULLION COVE, CORNWALL 38
A CRABBER'S HOLE, GERRAN'S BAY 41
STEAM SEINE BOATS GOING OUT 46
HAULING IN THE BOATS--EVENING 50
HAULING IN THE LINES 55
THE LIZARD LIGHTS BY DAY 60
THE FISHERMAN'S DAUGHTER--A CORNISH STUDY 63
KYNANCE COVE, CORNWALL 68
THE STEEPLE ROCK, KYNANCE COVE 71
THE LION ROCKS--A SEA IN WHICH NOTHING CAN LIVE 76
HAULING IN THE BOATS 79
ENYS DODNAN AND PARDENICK POINTS 83
JOHN CURGENVEN FISHING 87
THE ARMED KNIGHT AND THE LONG SHIP'S LIGHTHOUSE 94
CORNISH FISHERMAN 100
THE SEINE BOAT--A PERILOUS MOMENT 103
ST. IVES 108
THE LAND'S END AND THE LOGAN ROCK 114
SENNEN COVE, WAITING FOR THE BOATS 119
ON THE ROAD TO ST. NIGHTON'S KEEVE 124
TINTAGEL 128
CRESWICK'S MILL IN THE ROCKY VALLEY 135
BOSCASTLE 139
THE OLD POST-OFFICE, TREVENA 145
AN UNSENTIMENTAL JOURNEY
THROUGH CORNWALL
[Illustration: FALMOUTH, FROM FLUSHING.]
DAY THE FIRST
I believe in holidays. Not in a frantic rushing about from place to
place, glancing at everything and observing nothing; flying from town
to town, from hotel to hotel, eager to "do" and to see a country, in
order that when they get home they may say they have done it, and seen
it. Only to say;--as for any real vision of eye, heart, and brain, they
might as well go through the world blindfold. It is not the things
we see, but the mind we see them with, which makes the real interest
of travelling. "Eyes and No Eyes,"--an old-fashioned story about two
little children taking a walk; one seeing everything, and enjoying
everything, and the other seeing nothing, and thinking the expedition
the dullest imaginable. This simple tale, which the present generation
has probably never read, contains the essence of all rational
travelling.
So when, as the "old hen," (which I am sometimes called, from my habit
of going about with a brood of "chickens," my own or other people's) I
planned a brief tour with two of them, one just entered upon her teens,
the other in her twenties, I premised that it must be a tour after my
own heart.
"In the first place, my children, you must obey orders implicitly. I
shall collect opinions, and do my best to please everybody; but in
travelling one only must decide, the others coincide. It will save them
a world of trouble, and their 'conductor' also; who, if competent to be
trusted at all, should be trusted absolutely. Secondly, take as little
luggage as possible. No sensible people travel with their point-lace
and diamonds. Two 'changes of raiment,' good, useful dresses, prudent
boots, shawls, and waterproofs--these I shall insist upon, and nothing
more. Nothing for show, as I shall take you to no place where you can
show off. We will avoid all huge hotels, all fashionable towns; we
will study life in its simplicity, and make ourselves happy in our own
humble, feminine way. Not 'roughing it' in any needless or reckless
fashion--the 'old hen' is too old for that; yet doing everything with
reasonable economy. Above all, rushing into no foolhardy exploits, and
taking every precaution to keep well and strong, so as to enjoy the
journey from beginning to end, and hinder no one else from enjoying
it. There are four things which travellers ought never to lose: their
luggage, their temper, their health, and their spirits. I will make
you as happy as I possibly can, but you must also make me happy by
following my rules: especially the one golden rule, Obey orders."
So preached the "old hen," with a vague fear that her chickens might
turn out to be ducklings, which would be a little awkward in the
region whither she proposed to take them. For if there is one place
more risky than another for adventurous young people with a talent
for "perpetuating themselves down prejudices," as Mrs. Malaprop would
say, it is that grandest, wildest, most dangerous coast, the coast of
Cornwall.
I had always wished to investigate Cornwall. This desire had existed
ever since, at five years old, I made acquaintance with Jack the
Giantkiller, and afterwards, at fifteen or so, fell in love with my
life's one hero, King Arthur.
Between these two illustrious Cornishmen,--equally mythical, practical
folk would say--there exists more similarity than at first appears.
The aim of both was to uphold right and to redress wrong. Patience,
self-denial; tenderness to the weak and helpless, dauntless courage
against the wicked and the strong: these, the essential elements of
true manliness, characterise both the humble Jack and the kingly
Arthur. And the qualities seem to have descended to more modern times.
The well-known ballad:--
"And shall they scorn Tre, Pol, and Pen?
And shall Trelawny die?
There's twenty thousand Cornishmen
Will know the reason why,"
has a ring of the same tone, indicating the love of justice, the spirit
of fidelity and bravery, as well as of that common sense which is at
the root of all useful valour.
I wanted to see if the same spirit lingered yet, as I had heard it did
among Cornish folk, which, it was said, were a race by themselves,
honest, simple, shrewd, and kind. Also, I wished to see the Cornish
land, and especially the Land's End, which I had many a time beheld in
fancy, for it was a favourite landscape-dream of my rather imaginative
childhood, recurring again and again, till I could almost have painted
it from memory. And as year after year every chance of seeing it in its
reality seemed to melt away, the desire grew into an actual craving.
After waiting patiently for nearly half a century, I said to myself, "I
will conquer Fate; I _will_ go and see the Land's End."
And it was there that, after making a circuit round the coast, I
proposed finally to take my "chickens."
We concocted a plan, definite yet movable, as all travelling plans
should be, clear in its dates, its outline, and intentions, but
subject to modifications, according to the exigency of the times
and circumstances. And with that prudent persistency, without which
all travelling is a mere muddle, all discomfort, disappointment,
and distaste--for on whatever terms you may be with your travelling
companions when you start, you are quite sure either to love them or
hate them when you get home--we succeeded in carrying it out.
The 1st of September, 1881, and one of the loveliest of September
days, was the day we started from Exeter, where we had agreed to meet
and stay the night. There, the previous afternoon, we had whiled away
an hour in the dim cathedral, and watched, not without anxiety, the
flood of evening sunshine which poured through the great west window,
lighting the tombs, old and new, from the Crusader, cross-legged and
broken-nosed, to the white marble bas-relief which tells the story of a
not less noble Knight of the Cross, Bishop Patteson. Then we wandered
round the quaint old town, in such a lovely twilight, such a starry
night! But--will it be a fine day to-morrow? We could but live in hope:
and hope did not deceive us.
To start on a journey in sunshine feels like beginning life well.
Clouds may come--are sure to come: I think no one past earliest youth
goes forth into a strange region without a feeling akin to Saint Paul's
"not knowing what things may befall me there." But it is always best
for each to keep to himself all the shadows, and give his companions
the brightness, especially if they be young companions.
And very bright were the eyes that watched the swift-moving landscape
on either side of the railway: the estuary of Exe; Dawlish, with its
various colouring of rock and cliff, and its pretty little sea-side
houses, where family groups stood photographing themselves on our
vision, as the train rushed unceremoniously between the beach and their
parlour windows; then Plymouth and Saltash, where the magnificent
bridge reminded us of the one over the Tay, which we had once crossed,
not long before that Sunday night when, sitting in a quiet sick-room
in Edinburgh, we heard the howl outside of the fearful blast which
destroyed such a wonderful work of engineering art, and whirled so many
human beings into eternity.
But this Saltash bridge, spanning placidly a smiling country,
how pretty and safe it looked! There was a general turning to
carriage-windows, and then a courteous drawing back, that we,
the strangers, should see it, which broke the ice with our
fellow-travellers. To whom we soon began to talk, as is our
conscientious custom when we see no tangible objection thereto, and
gained, now, as many a time before, much pleasant as well as useful
information. Every one evinced an eager politeness to show us the
country, and an innocent anxiety that we should admire it; which we
could honestly do.
I shall long remember, as a dream of sunshiny beauty and peace, this
journey between Plymouth and Falmouth, passing Liskeard, Lostwithiel,
St. Austell, &c. The green-wooded valleys, the rounded hills, on one of
which we were shown the remains of the old castle of Ristormel, noted
among the three castles of Cornwall; all this, familiar to so many,
was to us absolutely new, and we enjoyed it and the kindly interest
that was taken in pointing it out to us, as happy-minded simple folk do
always enjoy the sight of a new country.
[Illustration: ST. MAWE'S CASTLE, FALMOUTH BAY.]
Our pleasure seemed to amuse an old gentleman who sat in the corner.
He at last addressed us, with an unctuous west-country accent which
suited well his comfortable stoutness. He might have fed all his life
upon Dorset butter and Devonshire cream, to one of which counties
he certainly belonged. Not, I think, to the one we were now passing
through, and admiring so heartily.
"So you're going to travel in Cornwall. Well, take care, they're sharp
folk, the Cornish folk. They'll take you in if they can." (Then, he
must be a Devon man. It is so easy to sit in judgment upon next-door
neighbours.) "I don't mean to say they'll actually cheat you, but
they'll take you in, and they'll be careful that you don't take them
in--no, not to the extent of a brass farthing."
We explained, smiling, that we had not the slightest intention of
taking anybody in, that we liked justice, and blamed no man, Cornishman
or otherwise, for trying to do the best he could for himself, so that
it was not to the injury of other people.
"Well, well, perhaps you're right. But they are sharp, for all that,
especially in the towns."
We replied that we meant to escape towns, whenever possible, and encamp
in some quiet places, quite out of the world.
Our friend opened his eyes, evidently thinking this a most singular
taste.
"Well, if you really want a quiet place, I can tell you of one, almost
as quiet as your grave. I ought to know, for I lived there sixteen
years." (At any rate, it seemed to have agreed with him.) "Gerrans is
its name--a fishing village. You get there from Falmouth by boat. The
fare is "--(I regret to say my memory is not so accurate as his in the
matter of pennies), "and mind you don't pay one farthing more. Then you
have to drive across country; the distance is--and the fare per mile--"
(Alas! again I have totally forgotten.) "They'll be sure to ask you
double the money, but never you mind! refuse to pay it, and they'll
give in. You must always hold your own against extortion in Cornwall."
I thanked him, with a slightly troubled mind. But I have always noticed
that in travelling "with such measure as ye mete it shall be meted
to you again," and that those who come to a country expecting to be
cheated generally are cheated. Having still a lingering belief in human
nature, and especially in Cornish nature, I determined to set down the
old gentleman's well-meant advice for what it was worth, no more, and
cease to perplex myself about it. For which resolve I have since been
exceedingly thankful.
He gave us, however, much supplementary advice which was rather useful,
and parted from us in the friendliest fashion, with that air of bland
complaisance natural to those who assume the character of adviser in
general.
"Mind you go to Gerrans. They'll not take you in more than they do
everywhere else, and you'll find it a healthy place, and a quiet
place--as quiet, I say, as your grave. It will make you feel exactly as
if you were dead and buried."
That not being the prominent object of our tour in Cornwall, we thanked
him again, but as soon as he left the carriage determined among
ourselves to take no further steps about visiting Gerrans.
[Illustration: VIEW OF FLUSHING FROM THE GREEN BANK HOTEL, FALMOUTH.]
However, in spite of the urgency of another fellow-traveller--it is
always good to hear everybody's advice, and follow your own--we carried
our love of quietness so far that we eschewed the magnificent new
Falmouth Hotel, with its _table d'hôte_, lawn tennis ground, sea baths
and promenade, for the old-fashioned Green Bank, which though it had no
green banks, boasted, we had been told, a pleasant little sea view and
bay view, and was a resting-place full of comfort and homely peace.
Which we found true, and would have liked to stay longer in its
pleasant shelter, which almost conquered our horror of hotels; but we
had now fairly weighed anchor and must sail on.
"You ought to go at once to the Lizard," said the friend who met us,
and did everything for us at Falmouth--and the remembrance of whom, and
of all that happened in our brief stay, will make the very name of the
place sound sweet in our ears for ever. "The Lizard is the real point
for sightseers, almost better than the Land's End. Let us see if we can
hear of lodgings."
She made inquiries, and within half an hour we did hear of some most
satisfactory ones. "The very thing! We will telegraph at once--answer
paid," said this good genius of practicality, as sitting in her
carriage she herself wrote the telegram and despatched it. Telegrams to
the Lizard! We were not then at the Ultima Thule of civilisation.
"Still," she said, "you had better provide yourself with some food,
such as groceries and hams. You can't always get what you want at the
Lizard."
So, having the very dimmest idea what the Lizard was--whether a town,
a village, or a bare rock--when we had secured the desired lodgings
("quite ideal lodgings," remarked our guardian angel), I proceeded to
lay in a store of provisions, doing it as carefully as if fitting out
a ship for the North Pole--and afterwards found out it was a work of
supererogation entirely.
The next thing to secure was an "ideal" carriage, horse, and man, which
our good genius also succeeded in providing. And now, our minds being
at rest, we were able to write home a fixed address for a week, and
assure our expectant and anxious friends that all was going well with
us.
Then, after a twilight wander round the quaint old town--so like a
foreign town--and other keen enjoyments, which, as belonging to the
sanctity of private life I here perforce omit, we laid us down to
sleep, and slept in peace, having really achieved much; considering it
was only the first day of our journey.
DAY THE SECOND
Is there anything more delightful than to start on a smiling morning
in a comfortable carriage, with all one's _impedimenta_ (happily not
much!) safely stowed away under one's eyes, with a good horse, over
which one's feelings of humanity need not be always agonising, and a
man to drive, whom one can trust to have as much sense as the brute,
especially in the matter of "refreshment." Our letters that morning had
brought us a comico-tragic story of a family we knew, who, migrating
with a lot of children and luggage, and requiring to catch a train
thirteen miles off, had engaged a driver who "refreshed himself" so
successfully at every public-house on the way, that he took five hours
to accomplish the journey, and finally had to be left at the road-side,
and the luggage transferred to another vehicle, which of course lost
the train. We congratulated ourselves that no such disaster was likely
to happen to us.
"Yes; I've been a teetotaller all my life," said our driver, a
bright-looking, intelligent young fellow, whom, as he became rather a
prominent adjunct to our life and decidedly to our comfort, I shall
individualise by calling him Charles. "I had good need to avoid
drinking. My father drank through a small property. No fear of me,
ma'am."
So at once between him and us, or him and "we," according to the
Cornish habit of transposing pronouns, was established a feeling of
fraternity, which, during the six days that we had to do with him,
deepened into real regard. Never failing when wanted, never presuming
when not wanted, straightforward, independent, yet full of that
respectful kindliness which servants can always show and masters
should always appreciate, giving us a chivalrous care, which, being
"unprotected females," was to us extremely valuable, I here record that
much of the pleasure of our tour was owing to this honest Cornishman,
who served us, his horse, and his master--he was one of the employés of
a livery-stable keeper--with equal fidelity.
Certainly, numerous as were the parties he had driven--("I go to the
Lizard about three times a week," he said)--Charles could seldom have
driven a merrier trio than that which leisurely mounted the upland road
from Falmouth, leading to the village of Constantine.
"Just turn and look behind you, ladies" (we had begged to be shown
everything and told everything); "isn't that a pretty view?"
It certainly was. From the high ground we could see Falmouth with its
sheltered bay and glittering sea beyond. Landward were the villages of
Mabe and Constantine, with their great quarries of granite, and in the
distance lay wide sweeps of undulating land, barren and treeless, but
still beautiful--not with the rich pastoral beauty of our own Kent, yet
having a charm of its own. And the air, so fresh and pure, yet soft and
balmy, it felt to tender lungs like the difference between milk and
cream. To breathe became a pleasure instead of a pain. I could quite
understand how the semi-tropical plants that we had seen in a lovely
garden below, grew and flourished, how the hydrangeas became huge
bushes, and the eucalyptus an actual forest tree.
But this was in the sheltered valley, and we had gained the hill-top,
emerging out of one of those deep-cut lanes peculiar to Devon and
Cornwall, and so pretty in themselves, a perfect garden of wild flowers
and ferns, except that they completely shut out the view. This did not
much afflict the practical minds of my two juniors. Half an hour before
they had set up a shout--
"Stop the carriage! _Do_ stop the carriage! Just look there! Did you
ever see such big blackberries? and what a quantity! Let us get out;
we'll gather them for to-morrow's pudding."
Undoubtedly a dinner earned is the sweetest of all dinners. I remember
once thinking that our cowslip tea (I should not like to drink it
now) was better than our grandmother's best Bohea or something out
of her lovely old tea-caddy. So the carriage, lightened of all but
myself, crawled leisurely up and waited on the hill-top for the busy
blackberry-gatherers.
While our horse stood cropping an extempore meal, I and his driver
began to talk about him and other cognate topics, including the
permanent one of the great advantage to both body and soul in being
freed all one's life long from the necessity of getting "something to
drink" stronger than water.
[Illustration: A FISHERMAN'S CELLAR NEAR THE LIZARD.]
"Yes," he said, "I find I can do as much upon tea or coffee as other
men upon beer. I'm just as strong and as active, and can stand weather
quite as well. It's a pretty hard life, winter and summer, driving all
day, coming in soaked, sometimes in the middle of the night, having to
turn in for an hour or two, and then turn out again. And you must look
after your horse, of course, before you think of yourself. Still, I
stand it well, and that without a drop of beer from years end to years
end."
I congratulated and sympathised; in return for which Charles entered
heart and soul into the blackberry question, pointed out where the
biggest blackberries hung, and looked indeed--he was still such a young
fellow!--as if he would have liked to go blackberry-hunting himself.
I put, smiling, the careless question, "Have you any little folks of
your own? Are you married?"
How cautious one should be over an idle word! All of a sudden the
cheerful face clouded, the mouth began to quiver, with difficulty I
saw he kept back the tears. It was a version in every-day life of
Longfellow's most pathetic little poem, "The Two Locks of Hair."
"My wife broke her heart after the baby, I think. It died. She went off
in consumption. It's fifteen months now"--(he had evidently counted
them)--"fifteen months since I have been alone. I didn't like to give
up my home and my bits of things; still, when a man has to come in wet
and tired to an empty house----"
He turned suddenly away and busied himself over his horse, for just
that minute the two girls came running back, laughing heartily, and
showing their baskets full of "the very biggest blackberries you ever
saw!" I took them back into the carriage; the driver mounted his box,
and drove on for some miles in total silence. As, when I had whispered
that little episode to my two companions, so did we.
There are two ways of going from Falmouth to the Lizard--the regular
route through the town of Helstone, and another, a trifle longer,
through the woods of Trelowarren, the seat of the old Cornish family of
Vyvyan.
"I'll take you that road, ma'am, it's much the prettiest," said Charles
evidently exerting himself to recover his cheerful looks and be the
civil driver and guide, showing off all the curiosities and beauties
of the neighbourhood. And very pretty Trelowarren was, though nothing
remarkable to us who came from the garden of England. Still, the trees
were big--for Cornwall, and in the ferny glade grew abundantly the
_Osmunda regalis_, a root of which we greatly coveted, and Charles
offered to get. He seemed to take a pride in showing us everything,
except what he probably did not know of, and which, when I heard of
too late, was to me a real regret.
At Trelowarren, not far from the house, are a series of subterranean
chambers and galleries, in all ninety feet long and about the height
of a man. The entrance is very low. Still it is possible to get into
them and traverse them from end to end, the walls being made of blocks
of unhewn stone, leaning inward towards the roof, which is formed of
horizontal blocks. How, when, and for what purpose this mysterious
underground dwelling was made, is utterly lost in the mists of time.
I should exceedingly have liked to examine it, and to think we passed
close by and never knew of it will always be a certain regret, of which
I relieve my mind by telling it for the guidance of other archæological
travellers.
One of the charms of Cornwall is that it gives one the sense of being
such an old country, as if things had gone exactly as they do now, not
merely since the days of King Arthur, but for ever so long before then.
The Romans, the Ph[oe]nicians, nay, the heroes of pre-historic ages,
such as Jack the Giantkiller and the giant Cormoran, seemed to be not
impossible myths, as we gradually quitted civilisation in the shape of
a village or two, and a few isolated farm-houses, and came out upon the
wild district known as Goonhilly Down.
Certainly not from its hills, for it is as flat as the back of your
hand, and as bare. But the word, which is old Cornish--that now extinct
tongue, which only survives in the names of places and people--means a
_hunting ground_; and there is every reason to believe that this wide
treeless waste was once an enormous forest, full of wild beasts. There
St. Rumon, an Irish bishop, long before there were any Saxon bishops
or saints, is said to have settled, far away from the world, and made
a cell and oratory, the memory of which, and of himself, is still kept
up by the name of the two villages, Ruan Major and Ruan Minor, on the
outskirts of this Goonhilly Down.
In later times the down was noted for a breed of small, strong ponies,
called "Goonhillies." Charles had heard of them, but I do not suppose
he had ever heard of St. Rumon, or of the primeval forest. At present,
the fauna of Goonhilly is represented by no animal more dangerous
than a rabbit or a field-mouse, and its vegetation includes nothing
bigger than the _erica vagans_--the lovely Cornish heath, lilac,
flesh-coloured and white which will grow nowhere else, except in a
certain district of Portugal.
"There it is!" we cried, at the pleasant first sight of a new flower:
for though not scientific botanists, we have what I may call a speaking
acquaintance with almost every wild flower that grows. To see one that
we had never seen before was quite an excitement. Instantly we were out
of the carriage, and gathering it by handfuls.
Botanists know this heath well--it has the peculiarity of the anthers
being outside instead of inside the bell--but we only noticed the
beauty of it, the masses in which it grew, and how it would grow only
within a particular line--the sharp geological line of magnesian earth,
which forms the serpentine district. Already we saw, forcing itself
up through the turf, blocks of this curious stone, and noticed how
cottage-walls were built, and fences made of it.
"Yes, that's the serpentine," said Charles, now in his depth once more;
we could not have expected him to know about St. Rumon, &c. "You'll see
plenty of it when you get to the Lizard. All the coast for miles and
miles is serpentine. Such curious rocks, reddish and greenish; they
look so pretty when the water washes against them, and when polished,
and made into ornaments, candlesticks, brooches and the like. But I'll
show you the shops as we pass. We shall be at Lizard Town directly."
So it was a town, and it had shops. We should not have thought so,
judging by the slender line of white dots which now was appearing on
the horizon--Cornish folk seemed to have a perfect mania for painting
their houses a glistening white. Yes, that was the Lizard; we were
nearing our journey's end. At which we were a little sorry, even though
already an hour or two behind-hand--that is, behind the hour we had
ordered dinner. But "time was made for slaves"--and railway travellers,
and we were beyond railways.
"Never mind, what does dinner matter?" (It did not seriously, as we had
taken the precaution, which I recommend to all travellers, of never
starting on any expedition without a good piece of bread, a bunch of
raisins, and a flask of cold tea or coffee.) "What's the odds so long
as you're happy? Let us linger and make the drive as long as we can.
The horse will not object, nor Charles either."
Evidently not; our faithful steed cropped contentedly an extempore
meal, and Charles, who would have scrambled anywhere or dug up anything
"to please the young ladies," took out his pocket-knife, and devoted
himself to the collection of all the different coloured heaths; roots
which we determined to send home in the hope, alas! I fear vain, that
they would grow in our garden, afar from their native magnesia.
[Illustration: THE CORNISH COAST: FROM YNYS HEAD TO BEAST POINT.]
So for another peaceful hour we stayed; wandering about upon Goonhilly
Down. How little it takes to make one happy, when one wants to be
happy, and knows enough of the inevitable sorrows of life to be glad to
be happy--as long as fate allows. Each has his burthen to bear, seen or
unseen by the world outside, and some of us that day had not a light
one; yet was it a bright day, a white day, a day to be thankful for.
Nor did it end when, arriving at the "ideal" lodgings, and being
received with a placidity which we felt we had not quite deserved, and
fed in a manner which reflected much credit not only on the cook's
skill, but her temper--we sallied out to see the place.
Not a picturesque place exactly. A high plain, with the sparkling sea
beyond it; the principal object near being the Lizard Lights, a huge
low building, with a tower at either side, not unlike the Sydenham
Crystal palace, only dazzling white, as every building apparently was
at the Lizard.
"We'll go out and adventure," cried the young folks; and off
they started down the garden, over a stile--made of serpentine
of course--and across what seemed a field, till they disappeared
mysteriously where the line of sea cut the line of cliffs, and were
heard of no more for two hours.
Then they returned, all delight and excitement. They had found such
a lovely little cove, full of tiny pools, a perfect treasure-house
of sea-weeds and sea-anemones; and the rocks, so picturesque, and
"so grand to scramble over." (I must confess that to these, my
practically-minded "chickens," the picturesque or the romantic always
ranked second to the fun of a scramble.) The descent to this marine
paradise also seemed difficult enough to charm anybody.
"But _you_ wouldn't do it. Quite impossible! You would break all your
legs and arms, and sprain both your ankles."
Alas, for a hen--and an old hen--with ducklings! But mine, though
daring, were not rash, and had none of that silly fool-hardiness
which for the childish vanity of doing, or of saying one has done, a
dangerous thing, risks health, comfort, life, and delights selfishly
in making other people utterly miserable. So, being feeble on my feet,
though steady in my head, I agreed to sit like a cormorant on the
nearest cliff, and look down placidly upon the young adventurers in
their next delightful scramble.
It could not be to-night, however, for the tide was coming in fast; the
fairy cove would soon be all under water.
"Shall we get a boat? It will soon be sunset and moon-rise; we can
watch both from the sea."
That sea! Its broad circle had no other bound than the shores of
America, and its blueness, or the strange, changing tint often called
blue, almost equalled the blue of the Mediterranean.
"Yes, ma'am, it's a fine evening for a row," said the faithful Charles.
"And it isn't often you can get a row here; the sea is so rough, and
the landing so difficult. But there's a man I know; he has a good
boat, he knows the coast well, and he'll not go out unless it's really
safe."
This seemed ultra-prudent, with such a smiling sky and sea; but we
soon found it was not unnecessary at the Lizard. Indeed all along the
Cornish coast the great Atlantic waves come in with such a roll or a
heavy ground-swell, windless, but the precursor of a storm that is
slowly arriving from across the ocean, that boating here at best is no
child's play.
We had been fair-weather sailors, over shut-in lochs or smooth rivers;
all of us could handle an oar, or had handled it in old days, but
this was a different style of thing. Descending the steep zigzag path
to the next cove--the only one where there was anything like a fair
landing--we found we still had to walk through a long bed of sea-weed,
and manage somehow to get into the boat between the recoil and advance
of a wave. Not one of the tiny waves of quiet bays, but an Atlantic
roller, which, even if comparatively small and tame, comes in with a
force that will take you off your feet at any time.
However, we managed it, and found ourselves floating among an
archipelago of rocks, where the solemn cormorants sat in rows, and
affectionate families of gulls kept swimming about in a large flotilla
of white dots on the dark water. Very dark the sea was: heaving and
sinking in great hills and valleys, which made rowing difficult. Also,
for several yards round every rock extended a perfect whirlpool of
foaming waves, which, if any boat chanced to be caught therein, would
have dashed it to pieces in no time. But our boatmen seemed used to the
danger, and took us as near it as possible, without actually running
into it.
They were both far from commonplace-looking men, especially the elder,
our stroke-oar. Being rather given to ethnological tastes, we had
already noticed the characteristic Cornish face, not unlike the Norman
type, and decidedly superior to that of the inland counties of England.
But this was a face by itself, which would have attracted any artist or
student of human nature; weather-beaten, sharp-lined, wrinkled as it
was--the man must have been fully sixty--there was in it a sweetness,
an absolute beauty, which struck us at once. The smile, placid and
paternal, came often, though words were few; and the keen, kindly eyes
were blue as a child's, or as Tennyson describes King Arthur's.
"I can imagine," whispered one of us who had imaginative tendencies,
"that King Arthur might have looked thus, had he lived to grow old."
"I don't believe King Arthur ever lived at all," was the knock-me-down
utilitarian answer, to which the other had grown accustomed and
indifferent. Nevertheless, there was such a refinement about the man,
spite of his rough fisherman's dress, and he had been so kind to the
young folks, so considerate to "the old lady," as Cornish candour
already called me, that, intending to employ him again, we asked his
name.
"John Curgenven."
"John what?" We made several hopeless plunges at it, and finally asked
him to spell it.
"Cur-gen-ven," said he; adding, with a slight air of pride, "one of the
oldest families in Cornwall."
(I have no hesitation in stating this, because, when we afterwards
became great friends, I told John Curgenven I should probably "put
him in a book"--if he had no objection. To which he answered with his
usual composure, "No, he did not think it would harm him." He evidently
considered "writing a book" was a very inferior sort of trade.)
But looking at him, one could not help speculating as to how far the
legend of King Arthur had been really true, and whether the type of
man which Tennyson has preserved--or created--in this his "own ideal
knight," did once exist, and still exists, in a modified modern form,
throughout Cornwall. A fancy upon which we then only argued; now I, at
least, am inclined to believe it.
"There is Lord Brougham's head, his wig and his turn-up nose, you can
see all distinctly. At least, you could if there was light enough."
But there was not light, for the sun was setting, and the moon only
just rising. Black looked the heaving sea, except where rings of white
foam encircled each group of rocks, blacker still. And blackest of all
looked the iron-bound coast, sharp against the amber western sky.
"Yes, that's Kynance Cove, and the Gull Rock and Asparagus Island.
Shall we row there? It's only about two miles."
Two miles there, and two back, through this angry sea, and then to land
in the dim light about 9 p.m.! Courage failed us. We did not own this;
we merely remarked that we would rather see Kynance by daylight, but I
think each of us felt a sensation of relief when the boat's head was
turned homewards.
Yet how beautiful it all was! Many a night afterwards we watched
the same scene, but never lovelier than that night, the curved line
of coast traceable distinctly up to Mount's Bay, and then the long
peninsula which they told us was the Land's End, stretching out into
the horizon, where sea and sky met in a mist of golden light, through
which the sun was slowly dropping right from the sky into the sea.
Beyond was a vague cloud-land, which might be the fair land of Lyonesse
itself, said still to lie there submerged, with all its cities and
towers and forests; or the "island-valley of Avillion," whither Arthur
sailed with the three queens to be healed of his "grievous wound," and
whence he is to come again some day. Popular superstition still expects
him, and declares that he haunts this coast even now in the shape of a
Cornish chough.
Modern ghosts, too, exist, decidedly more alarming.
"Look up there, ladies, that green slope is Pistol Meadow. Nobody likes
to walk there after dark. Other things walk as well."
"What things?"
"Two hundred and more of foreign sailors, whose ship went to pieces in
the little cove below. They're buried under the green mounds you see.
Out of a crew of seven hundred only two men were washed ashore alive,
and they were in irons, which the captain had put on them because
they said he was going too near in shore. It was called Pistol Meadow
because most of 'em were found with pistols in their hands, which may
have been true or may not, since it happened more than a hundred years
ago. However, there are the green mounds, you see, and Lizard folk
don't much like passing the place after dark."
"But you?"
John Curgenven smiled. "Oh, us and the coast-guards! Us goes anywhere,
at all hours, and never meets nothing. D'ye see those white marks all
along the coast every few yards? They're rocks, kept white-washed, to
guide the men of dark nights between here and Kynance. It's a ticklish
path, when all's as black as pitch, with a stiff wind blowing."
I should think it was! One almost shuddered at the idea, and then
felt proud of the steady heads and cool courage of these coast-guard
men--always the pick of the service, true Englishmen, fearless
and faithful--the business of whose whole lives is to save other
lives--that is, now that smuggling has abated, and those dreadful
stories once current all along the coast of Cornwall have become
mostly legends of the past. No tales of wreckers, or of fights between
smugglers and revenue officers, reached our ears, but the stories of
shipwrecks were endless. Every winter, and many times through the
winter, some ghastly tragedy had happened. Every half-mile along this
picturesque shore was recorded the place where some good ship went to
pieces, often with the brief addendum, "all hands lost."
"The sun's just setting. Look out for the Lizard Lights," called out
Charles, who sat in the bow of the boat in faithful attendance upon his
"ladies,"--another Knight of the Round Table in humble life--we met
many such in Cornwall. "Look! There they are."
And sure enough, the instant the sun's last spark was quenched in
the sea, into which he dropped like a red round ball, out burst two
substitute suns, and very fair substitutes too, making the poor little
moon in the east of no importance whatever. The gleam of them extended
far out upon the darkening ocean, and we could easily believe that
their light was "equal to 20,000 candles," and that they were seen out
at sea to a distance of twenty, some said even thirty, miles.
"Except in a fog; and the fogs at the Lizard are very bad. Then you
can see nothing, not even the Lights, but they keep sounding the
fog-horn every minute or so. It works by the same machinery as works
the Lights--a big steam-engine; you can hear it bum-bumming now, if you
listen."
So we could, a mysterious noise like that of a gigantic bumble-bee,
coming across the water from that curious building, long and white,
with its two towers and those great eyes in each of them, at either end.
"They're wonderful bright;" said John Curgenven; "many's the time I've
sat and read my newspaper by them a quarter of a mile off. They're seen
through the blackest night, the blacker the brighter, seen through
everything--except fog. Now, ladies, d'ye think you can jump ashore?"
Some of us did, airily enough, though it required to choose your
moment pretty cleverly so as to escape the incoming wave. And some of
us--well, we accepted the inevitable, and were only too thankful to
scramble anyhow, wet or dry, on terra firma.
And then we had to ascend the zigzag path, slippery with loose stones,
and uncertainly seen in the dim half-twilight, half-moonlight. At
last we came out safe by the life-boat house, which we had noticed in
passing, with the slit in its door for "Contributions," and a notice
below that the key was kept at such and such a house--I forget the
man's name--"and at the Rectory."
[Illustration: THE LIZARD LIGHTS BY NIGHT.]
"Yes," said Curgenven, "in many places along this coast, when there's a
wreck, and we're called out, the parson's generally at the head of us.
Volunteers? Of course we're all volunteers, except the coast-guard, who
are paid. But they're often glad enough of us and of our boats too. The
life-boat isn't enough. They keep her here, the only place they can,
but it's tough work running her down to the beach on a black winter's
night, with a ship going to pieces before your eyes, as ships do here
in no time. I've seen it myself--watched her strike, and in ten minutes
there was not a bit of her left."
We could well imagine it. Even on this calm evening the waves kept
dashing themselves against every rock with a roar and a swell and a
circle of boiling foam. What must it be on a stormy winter night, or
through the deathly quiet of a white mist, with nothing visible or
audible except the roar of the waters and the shriek of the fog-horn!
"I think it's full time we were in-doors," suggested a practical and
prudent little voice; "we can come again and see it in the daylight.
Here's the road."
"That's the way you came, Miss," said Charles, "but I can take you a
much shorter one on the top of the hedges"--or edges, we never quite
knew which they were, though on the whole the letter _h_ is tolerably
well treated in Cornwall.
These "hedges" were startling to any one not Cornish-born. In the
Lizard district the divisions of land are made not by fences, but by
walls, built in a peculiar fashion, half stones, half earth, varying
from six to ten feet high, and about two feet broad. On the top of this
narrow giddy path, fringed on either side by deceitful grass, you are
expected to walk!--in fact, are obliged to walk, for there is often no
other road. There was none here.
I looked round in despair. Once upon a time I could have walked upon
walls as well as anybody, but now--!
"I'll help you, ma'am; and I'm sure you can manage it," said Charles
consolingly. "It's only three-quarters of a mile."
Three-quarters of a mile along a two-foot path on the top of a wall,
and in this deceitful light, when one false step would entail a certain
fall. And at my age one doesn't fall exactly like a feather or an
india-rubber ball.
"Ma'am, if you go slow and steady, with me before and Curgenven behind,
you'll _not_ fall."
Nor did I. I record it with gratitude to those two honest men--true
_gentlemen_, such as I have found at times in all ranks--who never
once grumbled or relaxed in their care of their tardy and troublesome
charge; one instance more of that kindly courtesy which it does any
man good to offer, and which any woman, "lady" though she be, may feel
proud to receive.
When we reached "home," as we had already begun to call it, a smiling
face and a comfortable tea justified the word. And when we retired,
a good deal fatigued, but quite happy, we looked out upon the night,
where the fiery stream of the Lizard Lights was contending with the
brightest of harvest moons. It was a hopeful ending of our second day.
[Illustration: CORNISH FISH.]
DAY THE THIRD
"And a beautiful day it is, ladies, though it won't do for Kynance."
Only 8 a.m., yet there stood the faithful Charles, hat in hand, having
heard that his ladies were at breakfast, and being evidently anxious
that they should not lose an hour of him and his carriage, which were
both due at Falmouth to-night. For this day was Saturday, and we were
sending him home for Sunday.
"As I found out last night, the tide won't suit for Kynance till
Wednesday or Thursday, and you'll be too tired to walk much to-day.
I've been thinking it all over. Suppose I were to drive you to Kennack
Sands, back by the serpentine works to Cadgwith, and home to dinner?
Then after dinner I'll give the horse a rest for two hours, and take
you to Mullion; we can order tea at Mary Mundy's, and go on to the cove
as far as I can get with the carriage. I'll leave it at the farm and be
in time to help you over the rocks to see the caves, run ahead and meet
you again with the carriage, and drive you back to Mary Mundy's. You
can have tea and be home in the moonlight before nine o'clock."
"And you?" we asked, a good deal bewildered by this carefully-outlined
plan and all the strange names of places and people, yet not a little
touched by the kindly way in which we were "taken in and done for" by
our faithful squire of dames.
"Me, ma'am? Oh, after an hour or two's rest the horse can start
again--say at midnight, and be home by daylight. Or we could go to bed
and be up early at four, and still get to Falmouth by eight, in time
for the church work. Don't you trouble about us, we'll manage. He" (the
other and four-footed half of the "we") "is a capital animal, and he'd
get much harder work than this if he was at home."
So we decided to put ourselves entirely in the hands of Charles,
who seemed to have our interest so much at heart, and yet evinced a
tenderness over his horse that is not too common among hired drivers.
We promised to be ready in half an hour, so as to waste nothing of this
lovely day, in which we had determined to enjoy ourselves.
Who could help it? It was delightful to wake up early and refreshed,
and come down to this sunshiny, cheerful breakfast-table, where, though
nothing was grand, all was thoroughly comfortable.
"I'm sure you're very kind, ladies, to be so pleased with everything,"
apologised our bright-looking handmaiden; "and since you really wish
to keep this room"--a very homely parlour which we had chosen in
preference to a larger one, because it looked on the sea--"I only wish
things was better for you; still, if you can make shift--"
Well, if travellers cannot "make shift" with perfectly clean tidy
rooms, well-cooked plain food, and more than civil, actually kindly,
attendance, they ought to be ashamed of themselves! So we declared we
would settle down in the evidently despised little parlour.
It was not an æsthetic apartment, certainly. The wall-paper and carpet
would have driven Morris and Co. nearly frantic; the furniture--mere
chairs and a table--belonged "to the year one"--but (better than many
modern chairs and tables) you could sit down upon the first and dine
upon the second, in safety. There was no sofa, so we gladly accepted
an offered easy-chair, and felt that all really useful things were now
ours.
But the ornamental? There was a paper arrangement in the grate, and
certain vases on the chimney-piece which literally made our hair stand
on end! After a private consultation as to how far we might venture,
without wounding the feelings of our landlady, we mildly suggested that
"perhaps we could do without these ornaments." All we wanted in their
stead were a few jars, salt-jars or jam-pots, in which to arrange our
wild flowers, of which yesterday the girls had gathered a quantity.
The exchange was accepted, though with some surprise. But when, half
an hour afterwards, the parlour appeared quite transformed, decorated
in every available corner with brilliant autumn flowers--principally
yellow--intermixed with the lovely Cornish heath; when, on some excuse
or other, the hideous "ornament for your fire-stoves" was abolished,
and the grate filled with a mass of green fern and grey sea-holly--I
know no combination more exquisite both as to colour and form--then we
felt that we could survive, at least for a week, even if shut up within
this humble room, innocent of the smallest attraction as regarded art,
music, or literature.
But without doors? There Nature beat Art decidedly.