as it may be to dwell on the top of a rock in the midst of the sea,
like eagles in an eyrie, there are certain advantages in living on a
level country road, or even in a town street. How in the world do the
St. Aubyns manage when they go out to dinner? Two years afterwards,
when I read in the paper that one of the daughters of the house,
leaning over the battlements, had lost her balance and fallen down,
mercifully unhurt, to the rocky slope below--the very spot where we
to-day sat so quietly gazing out on the lovely sea view--I felt with
a shudder that on the whole, it would be a trying thing to bring up a
young family on St. Michael's Mount.
Still, generation after generation of honourable St. Aubyns have
brought up their families there, and oh! what a beautiful spot it is!
How fresh, and yet mild blew the soft sea-wind outside of it, and
inside, what endless treasures there were for the archæological mind!
The chapel alone was worth a morning's study, even though shown--odd
anachronism--by a footman in livery, who pointed out with great gusto
the entrance to a vault discovered during the last repairs, where was
found the skeleton of a large man--his bones only--no clue whatever as
to who he was or when imprisoned there. The "Jeames" of modern days
told us this tale with a noble indifference. Nothing of the kind was
likely to happen to him.
Further still we were fortunate enough to penetrate, and saw the Chevy
Chase Hall, with its cornice of hunting scenes, the drawing-room, the
school-room--only fancy learning lessons there, amidst the veritable
evidence of the history one was studying! And perhaps the prettiest bit
of it all was our young guide, herself a St. Aubyn, with her simple
grace and sweet courtesy, worthy of one of the fair ladies worshipped
by King Arthur's knights.
[Illustration: THE SEINE BOAT--A PERILOUS MOMENT.]
We did not like encroaching on her kindness, though we could have
stayed all day, admiring the curious things she showed us. So we
descended the rock, and crossed the causeway, now dry, but very rough
walking--certainly St. Michael's Mount has its difficulties as a modern
dwelling-house--and went back to our inn. For, having given our
horse a forenoon's rest, we planned a visit to that spot immortalised
by nursery rhyme--
"As I was going to St. Ives
I met a man with seven wives.
Each wife had seven sacks;
Each sack had seven cats;
Each cat had seven kits;
Kits, cats, sacks, and wives,--
How many were there going to St. Ives?"
--One; and after we had been there, we felt sure he never went again!
There were two roads, we learnt, to that immortal town; one very good,
but dull; the other bad--and beautiful. We chose the latter, and never
repented.
Nor, in passing through Penzance, did we repent not having taken up our
quarters there. It was pretty, but so terribly "genteel," so extremely
civilised. Glancing up at the grand hotel, we thought with pleasure of
our old-fashioned inn at Marazion, where the benign waiter took quite
a fatherly interest in our proceedings, even to giving us for dinner
our very own blackberries, gathered yesterday on the road, and politely
hindering another guest from helping himself to half a dishful, as
"they belonged to the young ladies." Truly, there are better things in
life than fashionable hotels.
But the neighbourhood of Penzance is lovely. Shrubs and flowers such
as one sees on the shores of the Mediterranean grew and flourished in
cottage-gardens, and the forest trees we drove under, whole avenues
of them, were very fine; gentlemen's seats appeared here and there,
surrounded with the richest vegetation, and commanding lovely views. As
the road gradually mounted upwards, we saw, clear as in a panorama, the
whole coast from the Lizard Point to the Land's End,--which we should
behold to-morrow.
For, hearing that every week-day about a hundred tourists in carriages,
carts, and omnibuses, usually flocked thither, we decided that the
desire of our lives, the goal of our pilgrimage, should be visited
by us on a Sunday. We thought that to drive us thither in solitary
Sabbatic peace would be fully as good for Charles's mind and morals as
to hang all day idle about Marazion; and he seemed to think so himself.
Therefore, in prospect of to-morrow, he dealt very tenderly with his
horse to-day, and turned us out to walk up the heaviest hills, of which
there were several, between Penzance and Castle-an-Dinas.
"There it is," he said at last, stopping in the midst of a wide moor
and pointing to a small building, sharp against the sky. "The carriage
can't get further, but you can go on, ladies, and I'll stop and gather
some blackberries for you."
For brambles, gorse bushes, and clumps of fading heather, with one or
two small stunted trees, were now the only curiosities of this, King
Arthur's famed hunting castle, and hunting ground, which spread before
us for miles and miles. Passing a small farm-house, we made our way to
the building Charles pointed out, standing on the highest ridge of the
promontory, whose furthest point is the Land's End. Standing there, we
could see--or could have seen but that the afternoon had turned grey
and slightly misty--the ocean on both sides. Inland, the view seemed
endless. Roughtor and Brown Willy, two Dartmoor hills, are said to be
visible sometimes. Nearer, little white dots of houses show the mining
districts of Redruth and Camborne.
But here, all was desolate solitude. A single wayfarer, looking like a
working man in his Sunday best going to visit friends, but evidently
tired, as if he had walked for miles, just glanced at us, and passed
on. We stood, all alone, on the very spot where many a time must have
stood King Arthur, Queen Guinevere, Sir Launcelot, and the other
knights--or the real human beings, whether barbarian or not, who formed
the originals of those mythical personages.
All had vanished now. Nothing was left but a common-place little tower,
built up of the fragments of the old castle, and a wide, pathless
moor, over which the wind sighed, and the mist crept. No memorial
whatever of King Arthur, except the tradition--which time and change
have been powerless to annihilate--that such a man once existed. The
long vitality which the legend keeps proves that he must have been
a remarkable man in his day. Romance itself cannot exist without a
foundation in reality.
So I preached to my incredulous juniors, who threw overboard King
Arthur and took to blackberry-gathering; and to conversation with a
most comely Cornishwoman, milking the prettiest of Cornish cows in the
lonely farm-yard, which was the only sign of humanity for miles and
miles. We admired herself and her cattle; we drank her milk, offering
for it the usual payment. But the picturesque milkmaid shook her head
and demanded just double what even the dearest of London milk-sellers
would have asked for the quantity. Which sum we paid in silence,
and I only record the fact here in order to state that spite of our
foreboding railway friend at Falmouth, this was the only instance in
which we were ever "taken in," or in the smallest degree imposed upon,
in Cornwall.
Another hour, slowly driving down the gradual slope of the country,
through a mining district much more cheerful than that beyond Marazion.
The mines were all apparently in full work, and the mining villages
were pretty, tidy, and cosy-looking, even picturesque. Approaching St.
Ives the houses had quite a foreign look, but when we descended to
the town, its dark, narrow streets, pervaded by a "most ancient and
fish-like smell," were anything but attractive.
As was our hotel, where, as a matter of duty, we ordered tea, but
doubted if we should enjoy it, and went out again to see what little
there seemed to be seen, puzzling our way through the gloomy and not
too fragrant streets, till at last in despair we stopped a bland,
elderly, Methodist-minister-looking gentleman, and asked him the way to
the sea.
He eyed us over. "You're strangers here, ma'am?"
I owned the humbling fact, as the inhabitant of St. Ives must doubtless
consider it.
"And is it the pilchard fishery you want to see? It is just beginning.
A few pilchards have been seen already. There are the boats, the
fishermen are all getting ready. It's a fine sight to see them start.
Would you like to come and look at them?"
He had turned back and was walking with us down the street, pointing
out everything that occurred to him as noticeable, in the kindest and
civilest way. When we apologised for troubling him, and would have
parted company, our friend made no attempt to go.
"Oh, I've nothing at all to do, except"--he took out the biggest and
most respectable of watches--"except to attend a prayer-meeting at
half-past six. I should have time to show you the town; we think it is
a very nice little town. I ought to know it; I've lived in it, boy and
man for thirty-seven years. But now I have left my business to my sons,
and I just go about and amuse myself, looking into the shop now and
then just for curiosity. You must have seen my old shop, ladies, if you
came down that street."
[Illustration: ST. IVES.]
Which he named, and also gave us his own name, which we had seen over
the shop door, but I shall not record either. Not that I think the
honest man is ever likely to read such "light" literature as this book,
or to recall the three wanderers to whom he was so civil and kind, and
upon whom he poured out an amount of local and personal facts, which
we listened to--as a student of human nature is prone to do--with an
amused interest in which the comic verged on the pathetic. How large
to each man seems his own little world, and what child-like faith he
has in its importance to other people! I shall always recall our friend
at St. Ives, with his prayer-meetings, his chapel-goings--I concluded
he was a Methodist, a sect very numerous in Cornwall--his delight in
his successful shop and well-brought-up sons, who managed it so well,
leaving him to enjoy his _otium cum dignitate_--no doubt a municipal
dignity, for he showed us the Town Hall with great gusto. Evidently to
his honest, simple soul, St. Ives was the heart of the world.
By and by again he pulled out the turnip-like watch. "Just ten minutes
to get to my prayer-meeting, and I never like to be late, I have been a
punctual man all my life, ma'am," added he, half apologetically, till
I suggested that this was probably the cause of his peace and success.
Upon which he smiled, lifted his hat with a benign adieu, hoped we had
liked St. Ives--we had liked his company at any rate--and with a final
pointing across the street, "There's my shop, ladies, if you would care
to look at it," trotted away to his prayer-meeting.
I believe the neighbourhood of St. Ives, especially Tregenna, its
ancient mansion transformed into an hotel, is exceedingly pretty, but
night was falling fast, and we saw nothing. Speedily we despatched a
most untempting meal, and hurried Charles's departure, lest we should
be benighted, as we nearly were, during the long miles of straight and
unlovely road--the good road--between here and Penzance. We had done
our duty, we had seen the place, but as, in leaving it behind us, we
laughingly repeated the nursery rhyme, we came to the conclusion that
the man who was "_going_ to St. Ives" was the least fortunate of all
those notable individuals.
DAY THE ELEVENTH
The last thing before retiring, we had glanced out on a gloomy sea, a
starless sky, pitch darkness, broken only by those moving lights on St.
Michael's Mount, and thought anxiously of the morrow. It would be hard,
if after journeying thus far and looking forward to it so many years,
the day on which we went to the Land's End should turn out a wet day!
Still "hope on, hope ever," as we used to write in our copy-books. Some
of us, I think, still go on writing it in empty air, and will do so
till the hand is dust.
It was with a feeling almost of solemnity that we woke and looked out
on the dawn, grey and misty, but still not wet. To be just on the point
of gaining the wish of a life-time, however small, is a fact rare
enough to have a certain pathos in it. We slept again, and trusted
for the best, which by breakfast-time really came, in flickering
sun-gleams, and bits of hopeful blue sky. We wondered for the last
time, as we had wondered for half a century, "what the Land's End would
be like," and then started, rather thoughtful than merry, to find out
the truth of the case.
Glad as we were to have for our expedition this quiet Sunday instead
of a tumultuous week day, conscience smote us in driving through
Penzance, with the church-bells ringing, and the people streaming along
to morning service, all in their Sunday best. Perhaps we might manage
to go to afternoon church at Sennen, or St. Sennen's, which we knew
by report, as the long-deceased father of a family we were acquainted
with had been curate there early in the century, and we had promised
faithfully "just to go and look at the old place."
But one can keep Sunday sometimes even outside church-doors. I shall
never forget the Sabbatic peace of that day; those lonely and lovely
roads, first rich with the big trees and plentiful vegetation about
Penzance, then gradually growing barer and barer as we drove along the
high promontory which forms the extreme point westward of our island.
The way along which so many tourist-laden vehicles pass daily was
now all solitary; we scarcely saw a soul, except perhaps a labourer
leaning over a gate in his decent Sunday clothes, or two or three
children trotting to school or church, with their books under their
arms. Unquestionably Cornwall is a respectable, sober-minded county;
religious-minded too, whether Methodist, Quaker, or other nonconformist
sects, of which there are a good many, or decent, conservative Church
of England.
We passed St. Buryan's--a curious old church founded on the place where
an Irishwoman, Saint Buriana, is said to have made her hermitage. A
few stray cottages comprised the whole village. There was nothing
special to see, except to drink in the general atmosphere of peace and
sunshine and solitude, till we came to Treryn, the nearest point to the
celebrated Logan or rocking-stone.
From childhood we had read about it; the most remarkable specimen in
England of those very remarkable stones, whether natural or artificial,
who can decide?
"Which the touch of a finger alone sets moving,
But all earth's powers cannot shake from their base."
Not quite true, this; since in 1824 a rash and foolish Lieutenant
Goldsmith (let his name be gibbeted for ever!) did come with a boat's
crew, and by main force remove the Logan a few inches from the point
on which it rests. Indignant justice very properly compelled him, at
great labour and pains, to put it back again, but it has never rocked
properly since.
By Charles's advice we took a guide, a solemn-looking youth, who
stalked silently ahead of us along the "hedges," which, as at the
Lizard, furnished the regular path across the fields coastwards.
Soon the gleaming circle of sea again flashed upon us, from behind a
labyrinth of rocks, whence we met a couple of tourists returning.
"You'll find it a pretty stiff climb to the Logan, ladies," said one of
them in answer to a question.
And so we should have done, indeed, had not our guide's hand been
much readier than his tongue. I, at least, should never have got even
so far as that little rock-nest where I located myself--a somewhat
anxious-minded old hen--and watched my chickens climb triumphantly that
enormous mass of stone which we understood to be the Logan.
"Now, watch it rock!" they shouted across the dead stillness, the
lovely solitude of sky and sea. And I suppose it did rock, but must
honestly confess _I_ could not see it stir a single inch.
However, it was a big stone, a very big stone, and the stones
around it were equally huge and most picturesquely thrown together.
Also--delightful to my young folks!--they furnished the most
adventurous scramble that heart could desire. I alone felt a certain
relief when we were all again on smooth ground, with no legs or arms
broken.
The cliff-walk between the Logan and the Land's End is said to be one
of the finest in England for coast scenery. Treryn or Treen Dinas,
Pardeneck Point, and Tol Pedn Penwith had been named as places we ought
to see, but this was impracticable. We had to content ourselves with a
dull inland road, across a country gradually getting more barren and
ugly, till we found ourselves suddenly at what seemed the back-yard of
a village public-house, where two or three lounging stable-men came
forward to the carriage, and Charles jumped down from his box.
"You can get out now, ladies. This is the Land's End."
"Oh!"
I forbear to translate the world of meaning implied in that brief
exclamation.
"Let us go in and get something. Perhaps we shall admire the place more
when we have ceased to be hungry."
The words of wisdom were listened to; and we spent our first quarter of
an hour at the Land's End in attacking a skeleton "remain" of not too
daintily-cooked beef, and a cavernous cheese, in a tiny back parlour
of the--let me give it its right name--First and Last Inn, of Great
Britain.
"We never provide for Sunday," said the waitress, responding to a
sympathetic question on the difficulty it must be to get food here.
"It's very seldom any tourists come on a Sunday."
At which we felt altogether humbled; but in a few minutes more our
contrition passed into sovereign content.
We went out of doors, upon the narrow green plateau in front of the
house, and then we recognised where we were--standing at the extreme
end of a peninsula, with a long line of rocks running out still further
into the sea. That "great and wide sea, wherein are moving things
innumerable," the mysterious sea "kept in the hollow of His hand," who
is Infinity, and looking at which, in the intense solitude and silence,
one seems dimly to guess at what Infinity may be. Any one who wishes to
go to church for once in the Great Temple which His hands have builded,
should spend a Sunday at the Land's End.
At first, our thought had been, What in the world shall we do here for
two mortal hours! Now, we wished we had had two whole days. A sunset, a
sunrise, a star-lit night, what would they not have been in this grand
lonely place--almost as lonely as a ship at sea? It would be next best
to finding ourselves in the middle of the Atlantic.
But this bliss could not be; so we proceeded to make the best of what
we had. The bright day was darkening, and a soft greyness began to
creep over land and sea. No, not soft, that is the very last adjective
applicable to the Land's End. Even on that calm day there was a fresh
wind--there must be always wind--and the air felt sharper and more salt
than any sea-air I ever knew. Stimulating too, so that one's nerves
were strung to the highest pitch of excitement. We felt able to do
anything, without fear and without fatigue. So that when a guide came
forward--a regular man-of-war's-man he looked--we at once resolved to
adventure along the line of rocks, seaward, "out as far as anybody was
accustomed to go."
"Ay, ay; I'll take you, ladies. That is--the young ladies might go--but
you--" eying me over with his keen sailor's glance, full of honesty and
good humour, "you're pretty well on in years, ma'am."
Laughing, I told him how far on, but that I was able to do a good deal
yet. He laughed too.
"Oh, I've taken ladies much older than you. One the other day was
nearly seventy. So we'll do our best, ma'am. Come along."
He offered a rugged, brown hand, as firm and steady as a mast, to hold
by, and nothing could exceed the care and kindliness with which he
guided every step of every one of us, along that perilous path, that
is, perilous except for cautious feet and steady heads.
"Take care, young ladies. If you make one false step, you are done
for," said our guide, composedly as he pointed to the boiling whirl of
waters below.
[Illustration: THE LAND'S END AND THE LOGAN ROCK.]
Still, though a narrow and giddy path, there was a path, and the
exploit, though a little risky, was not fool-hardy. We should have
been bitterly sorry not to have done it--not to have stood for one
grand ten minutes, where in all our lives we may never stand again, at
the farthest point where footing is possible, gazing out upon that
magnificent circle of sea which sweeps over the submerged "land of
Lyonesse," far, far away, into the wide Atlantic.
There were just two people standing with us, clergymen evidently, and
one, the guide told us, was "the parson at St. Sennen." We spoke to
him, as people do speak, instinctively, when mutually watching such a
scene, and by and by we mentioned the name of the long-dead curate of
St. Sennen's.
The "parson" caught instantly at the name.
"Mr. ----? Oh, yes, my father knew him quite well. He used constantly
to walk across from Sennen to our house, and take us children long
rambles across the cliffs, with a volume of Southey or Wordsworth under
his arm. He was a fine young fellow in those days, I have heard, and an
excellent clergyman. And he afterwards married a very nice girl from
the north somewhere."
"Yes;" we smiled. The "nice girl" was now a sweet silver-haired little
lady of nearly eighty; the "fine young fellow" had long since departed;
and the boy was this grave middle-aged gentleman, who remembered both
as a tradition of his youth. What a sermon it all preached, beside this
eternal rock, this ever-moving, never-changing sea!
But time was passing--how fast it does pass, minutes, ay, and years! We
bade adieu to our known unknown friend, and turned our feet backwards,
cautiously as ever, stopping at intervals to listen to the gossip of
our guide.
"Yes, ladies, that's the spot--you may see the hoof-mark--where General
Armstrong's horse fell over; he just slipped off in time, but the poor
beast was drowned. And here, over that rock, happened the most curious
thing. I wouldn't have believed it myself, only I knew a man that saw
it with his own eyes. Once a bullock fell off into the pool below
there--just look, ladies." (We did look, into a perfect Maëlstrom of
boiling waves.) "Everybody thought he was drowned, till he was seen
swimming about unhurt. They fished him up, and exhibited him as a
curiosity."
And again, pointing to a rock far out in the sea.
"That's the Brisons. Thirty years ago a ship went to pieces there, and
the captain and his wife managed to climb on to that rock. They held
on there for two days and a night, before a boat could get at them.
At last they were taken off one at a time, with rockets and a rope;
the wife first. But the rope slipped and she fell into the water. She
was pulled out in a minute or so, and rowed ashore, but they durst
not tell her husband she was drowned. I was standing on the beach at
Whitesand Bay when the boat came in. I was only a lad, but I remember
it well, and her too lifted out all dripping and quite dead. She was
such a fine woman."
"And the captain?"
"They went back for him, and got him off safe, telling him nothing. But
when he found she was dead he went crazy-like--kept for ever saying,
'She saved my life, she saved my life,' till he was taken away by his
friends. Look out, ma'am, mind your footing; just here a lady slipped
and broke her leg a week ago. I had to carry her all the way to the
hotel. I shouldn't like to carry you."
We all smiled at the comical candour of the honest sailor, who
proceeded to give us bits of his autobiography. He was Cornish born,
but had seen a deal of the world as an A.B. on board her Majesty's ship
_Agamemnon_.
"Of course you have heard of the _Agamemnon_, ma'am. I was in her off
Balaklava. You remember the Crimean war?"
Yes, I did. His eyes brightened as we discussed names and places once
so familiar, belonging to that time, which now seems so far back as to
be almost historical.
"Then you know what a winter we had, and what a summer afterwards. I
came home invalided, and didn't attempt the service afterwards; but I
never thought I should come home at all. Yes, it's a fine place the
Land's End, though the air is so strong that it kills some folks right
off. Once an invalid gentleman came, and he was dead in a fortnight.
But I'm not dead yet, and I stop here mostly all the year round."