THE TWO LOOES
East Looe--Church--Narrow and picturesque streets--A fair--A
strolling company--West Looe--Looe Island--The Fyns--
Smuggling--The East Looe river--Duloe--S. Keyne’s Well--
Liskeard--Menheniot--The West Looe river--Trelawne--The
Trelawny ballad--Polperro--Privateers--Robert Jeffrey--Tom
Potter--Lanreath.
East and West Looe, separated by a tidal stream, the Looe (the same as
Liffey from Welsh _llifo_ to flow, _llif_ a flood[16]), and united by a
long bridge, at one time returned four members to Parliament.
East Looe is the more considerable place of the two, and possesses
a new and respectable Guildhall, and some quaint old houses and an
ancient picturesque market-house. The church is modern and poor of its
kind--one of those structures that do not convey an idea to the mind
of either beauty or of ugliness, but are mediocre in conception and
execution. It occupies the site of an earlier church dedicated to S.
Keyne, but it is now dedicated to S. Anne, who formerly had a chapel on
the bridge.
The streets are narrow and full of quaint bits. As I first saw Looe
it struck me as one of the oddest old-world places in England. A man
had been there selling paper flags and coloured streamers also of
paper, and the children in the narrow alleys were fluttering these, and
had hung them from the windows, and were dancing with coloured paper
caps on their heads or harlequin sashes about their bodies, whilst
an Italian organ-grinder played to them. From the narrow casements
leaned their mothers, watching, laughing, and encouraging the dancers.
A little way back was a booth theatre, hardly up to the level of that
of Mr. Vincent Crummel’s, enclosed in dingy green canvas. Reserved
seats, 6_d._; back seats, 3_d._ and 1_d._ The _répertoire_ comprised
blood-curdling tragedies. I went in and saw “The Midnight Assassin; or,
The Dumb Witness.”
Next evening was to be given “The Vampire’s Feast; or, The Rifled
Tomb.” The tragedy was followed by Allingham’s play, “Fortune’s
Frolick” (1799), adapted to the narrow capacities of the company. It
was performed in broad Cornish, and interspersed with some rather good
and, I fancy, original songs. But surely nowhere else but at Looe could
such a reminiscence of the old strolling company-show of fifty or sixty
years ago be seen.
But this is not all. A stranger having seen something I wrote about
puppet-shows in a paper, wherein I said that the last I had sat through
was sixty years ago, wrote to me:--
“At West Looe, far more recently, at the annual fair,
which commences on the 6th May, I saw a show in which the
figures were all moved by strings manipulated from above.
I regret that I am unable to remember the subject of the
play, but the droll antics of the puppets, the rapidity of
their movements, and the cleverness of the whole thing,
remains distinctly impressed on my mind.”
I believe that venerable amusements we old folks saw in our childhood
are “resurrected” at West Looe at that 6th May fair. Therefore, if
you want to see funny things, go there. The place is still out of the
world, but will not long be so, as a London company has bought the
cliffs, and is blasting a road in them to make promenade, hotel, and
bring the world and the twentieth century to Looe and rumple up the old
place.
East Looe is properly in S. Martin’s parish, and the church was a
chapel-of-ease to it. At S. Martin’s are a Norman doorway and an early
font.
West Looe has a little church, dedicated to S. Nicholas, that long
served as town hall and as a theatre for strolling players. Here also
are some quaint old slated houses; the “valleys” are not leaded, but
the slates are so worked as to fold over the angles very ingeniously
and picturesquely, and admirably answering the object in view of
carrying off the water.
Off the coast lies Looe Island. This was for many years the
dwelling-place of a man named Fyn and his sister, “Black Joan.” They
were son and daughter of an outlaw, who had spent his life since his
outlawry on the Mewstone off Gara Point, at the entrance of Plymouth
Sound. Here he and his wife lived a wild life like sea-mews, and there
reared their young, who grew up without any religious, moral, or
intellectual training. The outlaw died on the Mewstone, and Fyn and his
sister, accustomed from infancy to an island life, could not endure
the thought of going to the mainland for the rest of their days, and
so they settled on Looe Island. Here they were joined by a negro, and
by their united efforts honeycombed the ground under their hovel and
the large barn adjoining for the accommodation of smuggled goods. Their
only associates were these free-traders.
One day the black man vanished, and it was never known what had become
of him, whether he had left or been murdered by Fyn and his sister.
There were naturally no witnesses; nothing could be proved against
them. Recently a skull has been dug up near the house, and is kept in
a box in the dwelling, but it is not that of a negro. Actually there
is a layer of human remains about two feet below the surface of the
turf, exposed on the east side of the island, where wind and spray are
gnawing away the cliff, and any number of teeth and bones may be picked
out. Whether these are the remains of an early Christian monastic
cemetery, or of shipwrecked sailors buried on the cliffs, cannot be
told, as no investigation has been made to discover the approximate
period to which this layer of dead men’s bones belongs.
Formerly there was a chapel on the summit of the island, but only its
foundations remain. The island belonged to the monastery of Lamana
(_lan-manachau_, the church of the monks) on the mainland.
But to return to the Fyns.
On that island they spent many years, hand in glove with the smugglers.
There was an old fellow, a farmer on the mainland, who rode a white
horse into Looe. He acted as spy, and was intimate with the preventive
men, who trusted him, and perhaps some of them had their palms greased
to give him information. If the white horse were seen returning along
the coast road to the west, that was a signal to Fyn that all was safe.
But sometimes the horse was too lame or tired to return home, and the
farmer went his way on foot; that always coincided with activity among
the officers of the revenue.
From Looe Island, Fyn or his sister signalled by lights to the
smugglers lying in the offing.
At length their daring and their success induced the Government to
establish one of their guard on the island itself--the station is still
there--and the man was bidden keep a watchful eye on Black Joan and her
brother.
Now the Fyns had their secret stores full of a cargo they desired to
run ashore, but were afraid of being seen by this man.
One day Black Joan hastened to the preventive officer with, “Oh, my
dear! Now ther’s that terr’ble put out I be. What du ’y think now? My
boat hev a broke her moorings, and is driftin’ wi’ the tide out to say.
Oh, my dear man, du ’y now bring her in for me.” The officer ran to the
cliff, and sure enough there was the boat slowly floating away on the
ebb of the tide.
Being a good-natured man, and suspecting no ill, he at once got into
his own boat and rowed hard after that which was adrift. The moment he
was gone, a swarm of boats and men appeared on the shore on the further
side of the island, and before the fellow was back, every keg had been
carried across to the mainland.
But the officer in command had great difficulties with the station on
Looe Isle. Partly through Black Joan’s fascinations, mainly through the
liberal flow of drink at the hut of the Fyns, and the tedium of the
long evenings in solitude, he could never rely on a man who was sent
to Looe Island. In some way or other he was bamboozled, so that goods
were landed there and transferred to the mainland almost as freely as
formerly.
What was the end of this family I have not learned.
A few years ago, when a picnic party went to the island and were
allowed the barn to feed in, as a drizzle had come on, suddenly the
floor collapsed, and it was thus discovered that beneath was a cellar
for the accommodation of spirits that were not intended to pay duty.
The East and the West Looe rivers unite above the bridge, where also
formerly stood a most picturesque tidal mill. Each stream runs through
a narrow, well-wooded valley, and passes points of some interest.
Ascending the East Looe, we have on the right the creek of Morval with
the ancient house of the Bullers. Further up on the left is Duloe, with
S. Cuby’s holy well, and a so-called Druidical circle. The place takes
its name from being between the two Looes. Higher up again on the same
side is S. Keyne, with an interesting church and a well, the story of
which is sufficiently known, made the subject of a ballad by Southey.
Liskeard is a town that was surmounted by a castle that has now
disappeared. Its name implies that it was a _lis_ or court on a rock.
A copious spring, once a holy well, pours forth from the rock and
supplies the town. But no ancient masonry remains about it.
Liskeard Church has an interesting lych-gate, a fine tower, and a good
pulpit of 1627. At Menheniot (_Maen-hên-Niot_, the old stone of S.
Neot) are some fine camps, Padesbury and Blackaton Rings. Clicker Tor,
under which runs the line, is an outcrop of serpentine, which stone
does not reappear till the Lizard is reached. A visit to S. Neot, with
its superb old windows, should on no account be omitted. No collection
of ancient stained glass comparable to it exists elsewhere in Devon or
Cornwall.
The West Looe flows past several camps, two of which are in Pelynt
parish. The church here is dedicated to S. Nun, mother of S. David, and
her gabled holy well remains in tolerable condition. In this parish
also is Trelawne, the seat of the Trelawny family, an ancient house,
but much modernised. It contains some fine portraits, and in the church
is a model of the pastoral staff of Bishop Jonathan Trelawny, one
of the non-juring prelates who were turned out of their sees on the
accession of Dutch William. He was one of the seven bishops who had
been committed to the Tower by James II. Of him the song was sung:--
“A good sword and trusty sword!
A merry heart and true!
King James’s men shall understand
What Cornish lads can do!
“And have they fixed the where and when?
And shall Trelawny die?
There’s twenty thousand Cornish men
Will know the reason why.
“Out spake their captain brave and bold,
A merry wight was he;
If London Tower were Michael’s hold,
We’ll set Trelawny free!
“We’ll cross the Tamar, land to land,
The Severn is no stay--
With One and All and hand in hand,
And who shall bid us nay?
“And when we come to London Wall,
A pleasant sight to view,
Come forth! come forth! ye cowards all,
Here’s men as good as you.
“Trelawny he’s in keep and hold,
Trelawny he may die--
But twenty thousand Cornish bold
Will know the reason why!”
With the exception of the choral lines--
“And shall Trelawny die?
Here’s twenty thousand Cornishmen
Will know the reason why!”
the rest is mainly, if not wholly, the composition of the late Rev.
R. S. Hawker, of Morwenstow. It was written by him in 1825, and was
printed first in a Plymouth paper, and then by Mr. Davies Gilbert,
the antiquary and historian. It appeared in the _Gentleman’s Magazine_
of November, 1827. Sir Walter Scott, and later, Lord Macaulay, quite
thought it was a genuine ancient ballad.
That it is not an antique is almost certain, as it has no local and
original air to which it is set; it is sung to “Le Petit Tambour,” and
no old miners or labourers know it.
There is a novel by Mrs. Bray, _Trelawny of Trelawne_, written in
1834, that relates to this house, and by no means deserves to be
forgotten. Mrs. Bray’s novels, though old-fashioned, are guides to
the neighbourhood of Tavistock, and that just mentioned interests the
reader in the district about Trelawne.[17]
“Looe,” says she, “beautiful as it is, is not to be
compared to Polperro, two miles distant from Trelawne. The
descent to it is so steep, that I, who was not accustomed
to the path, could only get down by clinging to Mr. Bray’s
arm for support; it was slippery, and so rocky that in some
places there were steps cut in the road for the convenience
of the passenger. The view of the little port, the old
town in the bottom (if town it can be called), the cliffs,
and the spiked rocks, that start up in the wildest and
most abrupt manner, breaking the direct sweep of the waves
towards the harbour, altogether produced such a combination
of magnificent coast scenery as may truly be called
sublime.”
Access to Polperro is very much easier than it was in 1833, when
visited by Mrs. Bray. A good many of the quaint old houses have been
pulled down, but the place is still eminently picturesque, and is a
haunt of artists.
In 1807, the year of the treacherous peace of Tilsit, privateering was
carried on briskly at Polperro. Among other vessels, the _Lord Nelson_
sailed from this port, manned by a crew of hardy and experienced
sailors. After cruising in the Channel for a week without success,
she put into Falmouth for provisions. Here she was boarded by the
_Recruit_, and several of the men were impressed. Amongst these was
one Robert Jeffrey, who had been brought up as a blacksmith by his
stepfather. The _Recruit_ was a sloop-of-war commanded by Captain
Lake, which at once sailed for the West Indies. Whilst cruising in the
Caribbean Sea, Jeffrey got at a barrel of spruce beer. The captain,
very angry, ordered the boat to be lowered, and Jeffrey to be taken to
a barren rock and left there.
The order was obeyed with some reluctance, and the poor young fellow
was deserted on the rock, without food, and with nothing save a
kerchief, a knife, and a piece of wood, which had been given him by his
comrades for the purpose of signalling any passing ship.
The place on which he had been left was the islet of Sombrero, one of
the Leeward group, desolate and treeless, a naked lump of rock, with
no springs. Jeffrey suffered frightfully from hunger, and worse from
thirst.
The _Recruit_, on leaving the island, steered for Barbadoes to join
the squadron under the command of Admiral Sir Alexander Cochrane. The
story of Jeffrey’s punishment got wind, and the admiral, hearing of
it, severely reprimanded Captain Lake for his brutality, and ordered
him to return to Sombrero and rescue Jeffrey if he were still alive.
Captain Lake accordingly went back to the islet, but found no one on
it. A pair of trousers (not Jeffrey’s) and a tomahawk handle were the
only vestiges of humanity discoverable. The admiral was satisfied that
the poor fellow had been rescued by some passing ship, and let the
matter rest.
The story was, however, so widely circulated, that on his return to
England Captain Lake was court-martialled and cashiered.
Whilst this was passing, the greatest uncertainty existed as to the
man’s fate. His wrongs were commented on in the House by Sir Francis
Burdett, and the case was kept so perseveringly before the public, that
the Government issued orders for a strict inquiry to be made as to
whether he were still alive or dead.
Presently an account was received, purporting to be by Jeffrey, giving
an account of his rescue and his condition in America; but as to this
was appended a cross for his signature, whereas Jeffrey was known to
have been able to write, the public were led to suspect that this was a
fabrication contrived by Lake’s relatives and friends.
To settle the matter finally, a ship was despatched to bring Jeffrey
home, and he arrived at Portsmouth in October, 1810, three years after
his adventure on the island of Sombrero.
His escape had been due to his signals of distress having been seen
and responded to by the captain of an American schooner, but when taken
on board he was too exhausted to speak. He was conveyed to Marblehead,
in Massachusetts, where he had remained working at a forge, and had
culpably neglected to send home word of his escape. The reason he
gave for not having signed the paper relative to his being taken off
Sombrero was that it was presented to him by gentlemen, and he was too
nervous in their presence to append his proper signature.
There was vast rejoicing at Polperro on his return. Almost the whole
village turned out to welcome him, with a band playing and flags flying.
He was then persuaded to let himself be made a public show, and hired
himself out at some of the minor London theatres to be exhibited as
“Jeffrey the Sailor.” After a few months he returned to Polperro with
money in his pocket enough to purchase a small schooner intended for
the coasting trade.
The speculation was unsuccessful. Jeffrey fell into consumption, and
died leaving a wife and daughter in great poverty.
Polperro was also a notorious hole for smugglers. The last affair with
them in which life was lost was in 1810, or thereabouts.
One morning a lugger was descried by the crew of the revenue boat,
then stationed on shore. She was lying becalmed in Whitsand Bay. The
glass informed them that it was the _Lottery_, of Polperro, well known
for her fast sailing qualities, as well as for the hardihood of her
crew. There was little doubt that with the springing up of the breeze
she would put to sea. Accordingly the officer in command, with all
despatch, manned two or three boats and put off, making sure of a rare
capture, for there seemed little chance of an escape.
Their movements were, however, observed by the smugglers, who made
preparations for resistance. The boats, on seeing their intentions,
commenced firing when at a considerable distance; but it was not until
they had approached her pretty near that the shots were returned from
the lugger, which now assumed an unmistakable attitude of defiance.
When within a few yards of the expected prize, Ambrose Bowden, who
pulled the bow-oar of one of the attacking boats, fell mortally wounded.
It was plain that the Polperro men had come to a determination not
to give up their fine craft and valuable cargo without a struggle,
so the boats withdrew, and allowed the _Lottery_ to proceed to sea.
This affray was reported to the authorities, and orders were issued
at all hazards to arrest the vessel and her crew. The smugglers were
alarmed at what had been done, and at the dogged manner in which the
officers of justice pursued them. They were kept continually concealed
in pilchard cellars, in barns, in closets, and were liable at dead
of night to have their houses surrounded and searched by a troop of
dragoons, who made stealthy descents on the town.
At length a certain Toms, who had formed one of the crew of the
_Lottery_, gave himself up, and declared that a man named Tom Potter
had fired the fatal shot.
The Polperro people made common cause of this, and resolved at once to
preserve Potter and to punish Toms. The revenue men knew the danger in
which the latter stood, and they took him on board a cutter cruising
off the coast
On a certain occasion the cutter was off Polruan, when some of the
Polperro men persuaded Toms’ wife to decoy him on land, solemnly
assuring her that they would not touch his life, and that all they
desired was to remove the only evidence that existed against Potter.
She fell in with their wishes, and by her means Toms was seized and at
once carried off, kept in hiding-places till an opportunity occurred,
when he was shipped to Guernsey, preparatory to conveying him to
America. But he was traced, and was pounced on by the Government
officers in the hold of an outward-bound vessel.
Meanwhile the dragoons, who had been engaged in the search at home,
discovered that their movements were observed, and that intelligence of
their approach from Plymouth was sure to precede them to Polperro. A
detachment was therefore sent to Truro, with orders to march from the
west, in which way they were enabled to come on Polperro unobserved.
On one of these visits Potter was captured. He was taken to London,
tried at the Old Bailey, convicted on the evidence of Toms, and hanged.
The evidence, however, was strongly believed to be false. The shot had
entered the breast of Bowden in a direction opposite to the fire of
the smugglers; and one of the coastguardsmen who were engaged in the
affair averred that the unfortunate man Bowden was accidentally shot by
one of his own crew.
Toms was never able to show his face again in Polperro, and a place was
found for him in a menial capacity in Newgate, where he ended his days.
Lanreath stands between the Fowey and the Looe rivers, about midway.
It has a fine church with a beautiful screen. Usually the paintings on
these screens are mere daubs, but such as remain at Lanreath, though
sadly defaced, show that there was at the end of the fifteenth or
beginning of the sixteenth century a school of real artists in the
West. Unhappily, only scanty remains of the paintings can be seen. A
late rector is said to have proposed to scrape one half the screen if
the parish would do the other half. Accordingly he effaced all the
beautiful painted work of the portion between nave and chancel. The
parish, however, did not like this sort of “restoration,” and happily
refused to complete the defacing of this work of art.
Court, near the church, is the old nest of the Grylls family, a
picturesque mansion containing much of interest. It is in such a
ruinous condition that it will have to be largely rebuilt, but the
owner, Mr. T. H. Spry, purposes doing this in a thoroughly conservative
spirit. The house contains one very handsome room with rich carved oak
panelling.
NOTE.--Books to be consulted on Looe and Polperro:--
BOND (T.), _Topographical and Historical Sketches of East and West
Looe_. London, 1823.
COUCH (T. Q.), _The History of Polperro_. Truro, 1871.