Falmouth--Gerrans--St Mawes--Penzance
Falmouth has by more than one famous sea captain and well-known
yachtsman been referred to as “the finest harbour of the English
coast.” It is not necessary for us to dispute the truth of this
statement, or point to other havens (Milford, for example) which some
may think have equal or greater claim. Those, indeed, who know Falmouth
well, or have spent pleasant days there, at anchor or under canvas,
will certainly do it justice and agree without demur to any praise
which may be given it. One of the chief attractions of Falmouth to
seafaring and especially to yachting folk is the “mildness” of its
tides. There is no rush out of it as though a mill race were set to
balk one’s efforts to get in and snugly moor. It is quite possible to
accomplish both these things against the tide and wind, if one knows
one’s way; and when once inside Black Rock there is, for sailing, no
place to beat it.
Falmouth Harbour, too, is the very paradise of charming creeks, many
of the largest of which have sufficient water to let one sail right
in with a moderate-sized vessel, while almost all the others can
be explored in a launch or dinghy. The vast expanse of green sea,
enclosed on all sides save the south with sweet woods and fields,
flower-spangled at almost all seasons of the year, has a wonder-spell
peculiarly its own at sunset and sunrise, and during the half-lights
which succeed and precede day-dawn and dusk. Then there are, indeed,
sky-pictures to be seen, whether one be afloat, on the hills near St
Mawes, ashore amongst the quaint, straggling streets, or on the quays
watching the wide stretch of calm water take on something of the glory
of the colours in the sky, mingled with the reflection of houses by
the waterside, or anchored vessels. Then, as dusk creeps on apace, the
old town, with its huddle of houses, its murk of blue-grey smoke, its
quaint chimneys and broken roofs silhouetted against the sky-line, and
its glow-worm lights coming out one by one in the casements, to be
answered by the riding lights of ships at anchor throwing yellow, wavy
lines on the surface of the water, presents a picture of indescribable
charm and mysterious beauty.
The last of the great harbours of the south-west coast, it is, in many
respects, the most gracious and beautiful. On it stand several little
seaports, which in ancient times made history, and to-day form such
delightful holiday resorts and ports of refuge for the yachtsman who
loves to dawdle close along one of the most delightful, if terrible, of
coast-lines. As is the case with Dartmouth and the Dart, and Plymouth
and the Tamar, so it is with Falmouth and the Fal; but with this
difference--it is only in the lower reaches that the Fal is either
beautiful or interesting; and it is difficult to say where river
ends and sea begins. In the many creeks into which the sea obtrudes
when the tide flows in from the Channel one has a variety of scenery
which never palls, visit it when one may. And over the low-lying mud
banks and marsh land the cleansing flood of the open sea comes with a
rippling song, and even in surroundings of fertile fields, woodlands,
and hills, a fresh brine in the air tells one that, however far from
blue water one may imagine oneself, the “spirit of the sea has but to
stir to flood the spot with the keen freshness of ocean’s breath.”
Amid the windings of the Fal, King Harry’s Reach, and Truro River, one
may spend many pleasant days, touching now and again on ancient things
as some grey old church comes into view, with its spire piercing its
environment of trees, or some quaint and pretty village, with romantic
traditions of the smuggling days, peeps at one across the fields which
border the river’s snake-like course.
Falmouth itself is a quaint one-street town of no great antiquity
as seaports go in the west country; but it is still sufficiently
old-fashioned to have about it a certain charm distinctly pleasing
in this modern and materialistic age. One writer says of Falmouth
that the beauty and popularity of the town is largely due to “letting
Nature well alone,” and that it is “one of the few unspoilt and much
resorted to places in England.” Be this as it may, there is no possible
doubt regarding the very great popularity of Falmouth with yachting
and holiday folk. There are yet some people left even to-day to whom
narrow streets, none too sharply defined pavements, and quaint domestic
architecture appeals, and all of these things may be found in Falmouth.
Apparently in more remote times the streets, or street, and Falmouth
architecture came in for more adverse criticism, as the Cornish
historian, Tomkin, writing about 1730, grumbles thus: “It is a pity
when Falmouth was began to be built they had not been more curious
(careful) in the choice of the site, which they seem to have, in a
sort, entirely overlooked. It would then, considering its extent and
the many good buildings in it, have vied with most towns in the west of
England, whereas now its principal part consists only of one very long
street stretched out at the bottom and on the side of a steep hill, as
high as the tops of the houses backwards, and winding mostly as that
does,” adding, “but this will always be the case where towns are built
without any fixed design at first, and every one hath the liberty to
carry on his design according to his fancy.”
But, all the same, had Tomkin lived, he would have found that the
features he decried were those which mostly attract folk to the old
town.
As we have before said, Falmouth is not of very remote origin, although
there is a legend that it (or some other place which stood for it) had
some sort of existence in the far-off times when Phœnicians came to
get Cornish tin, and did their bartering for it upon, one would think,
the somewhat inconvenient surface of Black Rock. The town as we know
it, however, had no more ancient origin than that of Arwenack House,
which was built some short time prior to Richard II’s time, and was
later described by Carew as entertaining one with a pleasant view. The
heiress of the Arwenack family married in the reign of the monarch just
mentioned one Killigrew of Killigrew, in St Elme. Even so late as the
reign of Henry VIII, who caused the castles of Pendennis and St Mawes
to be built to guard the haven from the incursions of the French, and
possibly also to protect Penryn--which appears to have been then a
place of some size and importance--Falmouth in a Chart of the Haven
especially prepared for the king’s information seems to have consisted
of but the one house erected by the Arwenacks. About this time,
however, it should be remembered that both Truro and Tregony (which is
now high and dry) were ports with considerable trade.
[Illustration: ST. ANTHONY’S LIGHTHOUSE, FALMOUTH]
The history of the Killigrew family is so bound up with that of
Falmouth, and has so many elements of romance, and stirring incidents
connected with it, that we find ourselves compelled to deal with it
somewhat at length. Moreover, the story serves to throw considerable
light upon the life and events of that period when Falmouth was slowly
emerging into a place of some maritime importance. That the Killigrews
were sometimes lawless, as many of their neighbours undoubtedly
also were, goes without saying; but they appear to have had a truly
humorous, if somewhat partial, idea of justice, which the following
anecdote will exhibit. “All is fish which comes to Killigrew’s net” was
the sarcastic observation of a succeeding age, but it may be said to
apply equally well, and with as considerable a force, to this earlier
period in the family history. Somewhere about the year 1582 a Spanish
vessel, of the port of St Sebastian, hard by Biarritz, belonging
to one Philip de Ovyo and his partner in the enterprise, John de
Chavis, was kidnapped from Falmouth Harbour, so the losers declared, by
servants or agents of Sir John Killigrew, the then head of the family.
The complaint seems to have been pressed home in a manner decidedly
awkward and distasteful to the accused, and it was decided that the
matter must be investigated. The authority appointed was naturally the
Commission of Piracy. Happily (for himself) Sir John happened to be the
Commission, and what was more natural (at least, in that easy-going
age) than that he should investigate and sit in judgement on a case in
which he himself was somewhat nearly interested? But to avoid suspicion
of bias or evil he invited another prominent man of the district,
Godolphin by name, to act with him. The impartiality of the latter
might in this more particular age have been questioned, seeing that
Godolphin had been accused of misappropriating some of the cargo and
treasure which had come ashore in the wreck of a Portuguese ship not
very long before Killigrew’s servants’ affair.
But for once justice appears to have been done somehow or other by
unexpected means. After it was discovered that some of Killigrew’s
servants were missing from the time of the disappearance of the Spanish
vessel, and that one of Sir John’s own boats played a prominent part
in the affair of cutting out the ship, the Commission (i.e., Killigrew
and Godolphin) found that the vessel had been misappropriated, and that
the owners were entitled to commiseration. The servants of Killigrew
were declared outlaws, and in return for the loss they had suffered
the Spanish merchants were given permission to export one hundred and
fifty quarters of wheat without paying duty. This may not appear to us
adequate compensation for the loss of their ship and its cargo, but
they probably made the best of a bad bargain, and considered themselves
fortunate to obtain any sort of redress.
Piracy would about this time appear to be the staple industry of
this particular district, if not, indeed, also of the greater part
of Cornwall. Although outlaws, Killigrew’s servants were not long in
Ireland, whence they had fled with the Spanish ship, for a short time
after the Commission had given its verdict either they or others were
once more in trouble, having been concerned in an attempt to rescue
from custody “a notorious and bold pirate, Captain Hammond by name, who
had been fortunately captured.” The pirate and his captors appear to
have been on their way to the gaol, where, doubtless, the former would
have languished until tried and ultimately “depended for the example
and terror of evil doers.” The master was, as before, much distressed
at the evil deeds of his retainers, but how genuine the sorrow was it
is not easy to determine. Suffice it to say that his professed dislike
of piracy was not shared by a descendant, one Lady Jane Killigrew,
who some few years later, upon seeing a couple of Dutch merchantmen
entering the harbour under stress of heavy weather, promptly dispatched
her servants to inquire into the cargoes borne by the ships, and other
details of how many they had as crews and how they were armed.
The report proved so satisfactory that on the return of the gentle
lady’s expedition of inquiry she determined to go aboard herself and
secure what she wanted. Perhaps she was distrustful of the _bona
fides_ and honesty of her servants, who knows? So she, “thinking it
well to pay the Dutchmen some compliment of estate,” had a large boat
got ready, and, lest there should be trouble, a good strong crew in
it well-armed for emergencies. One can imagine--if a knowledge of the
Killigrew methods of welcoming strangers had reached Holland--with
what distrust the poor Dutchmen, who had only run into the haven for
shelter, must have regarded the approach of her ladyship and her
well-armed galley.
The boat speedily swept across the intervening water, Lady Jane and
part of the crew clambered up the steep sides of the vessel, whilst the
remainder of the party made for the other ship. The Lady Jane soon made
clear her demands to the Dutch skipper, whilst the rest of her friends
and servants were engaged upon similar work on the other vessel.
It would appear from the account which has come down to us that as far
as the Dutch themselves were concerned they were prepared, or at least
disposed, to accept the inevitable without forcible resistance. There
were Spaniards on board the ships, however, and these were not likely
to take things quite so philosophically. The result was that some of
these were killed. Tradition asserts that the piratically inclined Lady
of Arwenack gave the signal for their dispatch. Be this as it may, the
Lady Jane succeeded in confiscating a considerable amount of booty,
which tradition again asserts to have been, _inter alia_, two hogsheads
of Spanish money, whilst her servants and the crew of the galley
followed her example with alacrity, and annexed anything of value
upon which they could lay hands. Times were rough and justice often
lagged, and when it did catch up the evildoer sometimes failed to exact
a commensurate retribution. But to Lady Jane, the freebooting owner
of Arwenack, punishment was ultimately meted out. She was haled to
Launceston Castle (where, doubtless, the notorious Captain Hammond also
lay in durance a few years before), and was tried, found guilty, and
condemned to be executed. Let us hope, with due regard for her birth,
breeding, and daring enterprise.
It would seem that after the escapade of Lady Jane Killigrew, although
piracy flourished and at times was conducted in a somewhat barefaced
manner, little was done to check it or to bring the chief offenders to
justice. Most of the vessels engaged in piratical expeditions to the
opposite coast of Brittany doubtless came down from Penryn, as it was
not for a century after the affair of the Dutch ships that Falmouth
assumed any great proportion or came into note as a western port.
It was that enterprising adventurer, Sir Walter Raleigh, who first
appears to have grasped the possibilities of Falmouth’s magnificent
harbourage, when on returning from one of his voyages and putting into
the haven he found only one or two houses in addition to Arwenack.
Here, thought he, was an unrivalled natural haven absolutely wasted.
The impression made upon his astute mind was such that upon reaching
London he sought to bring his views before the authorities, detailing
to them a scheme for the formation of a haven at Falmouth with a view
to assisting vessels not only by a safe anchorage in stress of weather,
but also by supplying them with stores and the means of repairing
damages received in the open sea. It was undoubtedly in consequence of
Raleigh’s representations that about 1565 a few houses were erected
at Smithick, which name still survives in the portion of the town
surrounding the church. This was the beginning of what was afterwards
destined to develop into present-day Falmouth.
Mr John Killigrew, afterwards knighted, whose estate of Arwenack had
become extended, until it seems to have included Pendennis Head, was
quick to see the growth of a town would be greatly to his personal
advantage and emolument, and in consequence he appears to have set
about to instigate the building of other and better houses at Smithick.
As was not unnatural, the existing ports of Penryn, Truro, and Helston,
seeing their supremacy, and perhaps even existence, threatened by
the new-comer, bestirred themselves greatly to prevent the proposed
expansion of the recently built village, even going the length of
presenting a petition to James I, pointing out in no measured terms
the injury and ruin which would result to them if a rival port were
permitted to arise so much nearer the sea, and so much more convenient
to mariners. So serious did the matter seem to those in authority that
for a time the development of Smithick was checked, pending an inquiry,
which was ordered to be held by Sir Nicolas Hals, who was then Governor
of Pendennis Castle. His report appears to have been favourable to the
proposed enterprise, and many more houses were erected.
Although this particular portion of Cornwall was far removed from the
great issues of the Civil War, Smithick, or Falmouth, was destined,
on account of the vicinity of Pendennis Castle, to feel something of
the struggle for ascendancy between Charles and his Parliament. Prince
Charles (afterwards Charles II) himself, after having been driven west
from Bristol and into Cornwall from Barnstaple in 1645, came here in
hot haste and sought temporary refuge in the castle ere taking ship
for France, and Queen Henrietta Maria in the previous year also had
come hither to embark for the Breton coast and safety. But after the
siege of the castle by the Parliamentarians, and the settlement of the
country on the death of the king, Smithick appears to have gone on its
untroubled way as a rising though still somewhat obscure port.
Under the Commonwealth Sir Peter Killigrew, who had been appointed
Governor of Pendennis Castle by General Monk, obtained several
advantages for the town in which his ancestor had taken so lively an
interest. Chief amongst these was the institution in 1652 of a market,
and a little later, the transference of the Custom House to Smithick
from Penryn. It was about this period that the town became known as
Pennycomequick. The origin of this peculiar name is by no means clear.
By some authorities it is supposed to be a cynical reference to its
rather “mushroom” growth, or to the eager desire of the inhabitants for
wealth, whilst by others it is thought to have its rise in a grouping
of old Cornish words, Pen-y-cwm-wick, meaning the village at the head
of the valley. It was not, however, destined to enjoy for long (or be
burdened with) so ambiguous a name, for at the Restoration in 1660
Charles II issued a proclamation on August 20, declaring that it was
his pleasure that the town should henceforth be known as Falmouth, and
in the following year granted the town a charter of incorporation under
that name.
Nine years later the enterprising Sir Peter Killigrew built a quay, and
Falmouth may be said to have properly embarked upon its career as a
trading port.
In 1688, the year of the coming of William of Orange, was established
at Falmouth the famous post-office “packets” sailing to foreign ports
and the colonies. These vessels, which were at first of small size,
about 180-200 tons, were usually three-masted, full-rigged ships, built
chiefly for speed and passenger traffic, no cargo, and well-armed. They
had the further distinctions of flying pennants as ships of war, and of
having naval officers for commanders. To quote an old account of the
service, which at one time numbered some fifty ships running to Lisbon,
New York, Gibraltar, Charlestown, Savannah, the West Indies, and
other parts of the world, “the boats were well-found and elegant, the
officers and men ‘picked,’ and so handsome were some of the former that
to take a packet voyage, notwithstanding the dangers of winds and water
and risk of capture or attack by the King’s enemies, was much indulged
in.”
To give some idea of the amount of mercantile life which this service
brought to Falmouth, it may be stated that in 1705 there were no
less than five of these “clippers” sailing to the West Indies, five
in 1707 to Lisbon, and in the middle years of the century there were
frequent sailings to the other ports and places we have named. In 1812,
notwithstanding the disturbed state of Europe, and the high seas, a
packet sailed “every Friday evening from October to April for Lisbon;
for Barbadoes and Jamaica and America on the Sunday after the first
Wednesday in every month all through the year, for Surinam and the east
on the Sunday after the second Wednesday in every month, for Brazils on
the Saturday after the first Tuesday in every month,” and so on.
This famous packet service remained one of Falmouth’s best assets of
prosperity as well as its pride until the end of the first half of the
nineteenth century, when steam displaced the old-time sailing ships,
and the service was gradually transferred to Liverpool and Southampton.
The loss of the mail contracts was a severe blow to the town, which not
only robbed it of a considerable portion of its trade, but also of its
life. This decline was inevitable, of course, as the sailing ship could
not compete with the steamer, any more than the old coaches which bore
the mails, when landed at Falmouth, to London and other parts, could
compete with the railways which linked the ports of transference with
London years before the line came to the far western port.
A book might well be written concerning the gallantry which was
invariably displayed by the Falmouth packets when attacked (as they
frequently were) during the French wars. As we have before said, the
vessels were almost invariably well-armed and well-manned, but only for
defence. They were forbidden by law to attack; but when the French and
American privateers assailed them they frequently found the packets
more than a match for their often superior force of arms and men.
Many stories of these naval engagements are still extant, and but
comparatively few years ago there were old men living at Falmouth
who had taken part in these engagements. One, at least, remembered
the famous fight of the _Townshend_ of nine guns, and a crew of
twenty-eight, counting boys, Captain James Cock in command, which
in 1812 on a voyage to Barbadoes, when almost within sight of port,
fell in with two American privateers, the _Bona_ and _Tom_, of vastly
superior force, both as regards weight of metal and number of men. In
the former the disparity was five to one, and in the latter rather more
than ten to one. The gallant but unequal fight went on for several
hours, the privateers battering the packet boat at long range, then
running down alongside her and attempting to carry her by boarding.
This latter manœuvre was repeated several times, but each attempt was
frustrated by the gallantry of the packet boat’s crew, and that of the
passengers who bore their part in the unequal and terrible combat. As
was their custom, the Americans had used chain and bar shot for the
purpose of cutting up the rigging of the _Townshend_, with a view to
preventing her escape by flight, and the condition of the vessel was
such by the time that the second attempt to board her was made that to
escape by superior seamanship or swifter sailing was no longer possible.
After the fight had been in progress for several hours, the _Townshend_
was so terribly “cut up” about her rigging, and had been hulled so
frequently by the enemy’s shot that she was almost unmanageable, and
in addition to this so many of her small crew had been put _hors de
combat_ that to serve the guns any longer was a matter of the greatest
difficulty. Soon, with the loss of her bowsprit, jib-booms, steering
wheel and other important gear, she was reduced to a sorry wreck.
Then she began to take in water faster far than the pumps, even if
they could have been manned, would have been able to keep under. The
Americans still continued to rake her fore and aft, as they could now
easily do owing to her helpless condition; but still the _Townshend_
and her commander refused to strike the English flag. The water rose
so rapidly that the carpenter, who was sent down into the hold to
ascertain the worst, reported the vessel actually sinking. Half the
crew were killed, or wounded so seriously that they were no longer
able to render the slightest assistance, and in the end, with tears
in his eyes, the English captain, to save other gallant and valuable
lives, which would only be uselessly sacrificed by further resistance,
hauled down his colours.[G]
[G] See _The History of the Post-Office Packet Service
between 1793 and 1815_ (Macmillan & Co.)
So ended one of the most notable of many engagements in which the
Falmouth packet boats of the end of the eighteenth and early years of
the nineteenth century took part. Often, however, though attacked by
vessels of superior force they, by courage and skill, managed to avoid
capture, and, indeed, both French and American privateers often found
they had “caught a Tartar” in a Falmouth post-office packet ship. Such
was the historic case of the _Jeune_ (or _Jean_) _Richard_, a heavily
armed French privateer carrying a crew of close upon a hundred, which,
falling in with the packet boat _Windsor Castle_, Captain W. Rogers,
with a crew of twenty-eight, and “only light guns,” almost on the same
spot as that destined to be the scene of the _Townshend’s_ engagement
five years later, attacked her, doubtless expecting to gain an easy
prize. The commander of the _Jeune Richard_ had, however, “reckoned
without his host,” for not only did Captain Rogers and his crew
gallantly repulse each attempt made by the privateer to board them, but
a happy idea of loading one of his 9-pounders with grape and musket
bullets occurred to the skipper’s mind.
“This gun was then trained on the boarding party from the privateer
_with the happiest results_.” The italics are ours. Subsequently,
Captain Rogers determined to take the offensive, and with a shout
of encouragement he leapt down upon the privateer’s deck followed
by five of his men, who, after a sharp fight with the disorganized
privateersmen, succeeded in driving them down below, and taking
possession of their vessel. The _Windsor Castle’s_ loss was heavy,
considering the sparse number of her crew, namely, three killed and ten
wounded. But the Frenchman lost twenty-one killed, and had no less
than thirty-three wounded.
Many another equally gallant tale could be told of the old days,
but these must suffice. Falmouth has remembered its heroes of the
post-office packet boat’s service in a granite obelisk, erected
upon the Moor by public subscription. Only too often, indeed, these
“unofficial heroes” and acts of daring and gallantry are overlooked.
But heroic deeds by Falmouth seamen were not confined to those who
manned the packets. The privateers of the town that sailed away into
the Channel and Atlantic from the safe and beautiful haven which was
the scene of such tireless activity and bustle in the days of the
long French war, did yeoman service in harrying the shipping of Great
Britain’s enemies, and often engaged with glory and success the smaller
vessels of even the French and Spanish navies. The extraordinary feat
of the Polperro ketch, the _Gleaner_, commanded by one William Quiller,
which in the year 1814 came in sight of a Spanish man-of-war, not
only of considerably greater size but more fully manned, and after a
fierce engagement succeeded in capturing the Spaniard and bringing her
into port can be more than once paralleled by the doings of Falmouth
despatch boats and privateers.
In the stirring days of the Napoleonic wars, Falmouth was indeed a busy
place. Carrick Roads were crowded with shipping merchantmen that had
entered the haven to escape the French privateers (which were always
hovering about the Channel on the look out for prizes) or were waiting
for convoy to the West or East Indies; privateers always coming and
going, sometimes returning maimed to refit, at others entering the
harbour in triumph with a prize in tow; and the King’s ships on the
look out for likely merchant seamen to replenish their depleted crews.
And in those days, too, the means by which the replenishment was
brought about were not always distinguished either by justice or
scrupulousness. Not only were merchantmen often boarded, when in
harbour and waiting for a favourable wind or convoy, and their best
hands impressed, so that when the wind became favourable, or convoy was
to be had, they were too short-handed to put to sea; but privateers
were also depleted of their crews which, when these vessels had
_letters of marque_, was not only a high handed, but actually illegal
proceeding.
One naval worthy who was in command at Falmouth in these troublous
times, when, to tell the truth, England was but ill-prepared to conduct
the naval and military campaign into which she had entered, was Sir
Edward Fellow, who came of an old Cornish family, and after having done
“some very worthy deeds and gallant things in the American War,” on the
outbreak of the war brought about by the French Revolution, offered
his services to the naval authorities, and was appointed to a fine
frigate called the _Nymphe_. On his first cruise, when he had filled
up his complement with Cornish miners! “owing to the lack of proper
seamen,” and had finally taken on board as leaven a few prime seamen at
Falmouth, he fell in with the _Cleopatra_, a revolutionary frigate in
the mouth of the Channel, and after an astonishingly fierce engagement
with the Frenchman (who had nailed the _bonnet rouge_ to his mast head)
succeeded in capturing her and bringing her in as a prize.
As a writer of the period says, “those were stirring days and restless
anxious nights along the coast. But into our havens and ports came many
prizes to British seamen’s gallantry, and prize money literally ran in
the streets as it burned holes in the sailors’ pockets.... Whilst the
officers, though perhaps a trifle more provident, yet denied themselves
little of enjoyment so long as the money lasted. But they were gallant
lads, one and all, who made Falmouth thus merry by day and night. And
when the ‘rhino’ was spent sailed away with light and stout hearts in
search of more glory and prizes.”
At the commencement of the nineteenth century, when the war was
ended by the Treaty of Paris, Falmouth had grown a port of size and
note, and it might have been expected that its position would have
been maintained, if not improved upon. Vessels of all nations and
from almost every quarter of the world made it their port of call,
discharged their cargoes there, or refitted. But for some reason or
other, in the third and fourth decades of the century, a marked decline
manifested itself, and Falmouth of to-day is of less importance than it
was a hundred years ago.
The introduction of steam, though of enormous benefit to commerce
at large, and indeed to many other ports appears to have adversely
affected Falmouth. Ships went more and more to ports further east,
and vessels which in former times called in to report arrival or
to get stores were no longer compelled to do this by reason of the
establishment of Lloyd’s signalling station at the Lizard, and the
introduction of steam power which made the shortage of stores that so
often happened on a long and unduly protracted voyage less and less
frequent. Even the building and opening of the extensive docks about
half-a-century ago, and the coming of the railway in 1863 have not,
as was so sanguinely hoped, enabled Falmouth to retrieve its lost
greatness. That so splendid a haven should be less used than formerly
cannot fail to be a matter for regret not alone to those for whom
Cornwall has a fascination and an undying interest, but to those also
who look upon such a circumstance in the light of a valuable commercial
and national asset lost.
[Illustration: FALMOUTH, FLUSHING SIDE]
But if denied the greatness which should rightly belong to it as a
port, Falmouth has of recent years come considerably to the front as
a health and holiday resort. Much has been done to add to the town’s
natural attractions of a fine climate and beautiful scenery, and in
future years the place may hope to become one of the most popular of
seaports in the West Country.
Though the streets and alleys are many of them quaint, Falmouth
possesses few old or important buildings. In the town itself Arwenack
House, with its memories of the Killigrew family, is certainly the
chief. The fine house, formerly by common consent considered at the
time as one of the most handsome and magnificent in the Duchy, built by
that John Killigrew who died there in 1567, was unhappily destroyed by
fire during the Civil War. One account of its destruction states that
the then owner, who was a staunch Royalist, himself set fire to it to
prevent it falling into the hands of the Parliamentarians. But another
story states that it was fired by the “malicious and envious Governor
of Pendennis Castle.” The present house, a low rambling place, is
substantially the same building as was built in its stead; but although
by no means deserving the eulogy lavished upon it as “the palace of
John Killigrew,” yet has an interest because of its many historical
associations, and an old-world air which arrests attention. It is now
the property of the Earl of Kimberley.
The Killigrew family was widely extended in the seventeenth and
eighteenth centuries. It was probably a member of the Middlesex branch
of the family, one Thomas Killigrew, who founded Drury Lane Theatre,
and opened it on April 8th, 1663, under a patent granted to him by
Charles II, whom he had served in exile. He was (like other members of
his family, Lady Jane, to wit) “rather greedy for offices and spoil.”
But according to one authority his main idea of opening the theatre
and entering into management was the fact that he had himself written
plays. Perhaps he is to be looked upon as the first of actor-managers.
It is interesting to note the prices in those early days of the
theatre. The first of Killigrew’s productions was a comedy called “The
Humorous Lieutenant,” and the prices in the theatre were 4_s._ for
boxes, 2_s._ 6_d._ for the pit, 1_s._ 6_d._ for middle gallery (dress
circle), and 1_s._ for gallery. “Sometimes the house was worth £50, and
often less, or not more than half,” we are told.
One of the most famous players under Thomas Killigrew’s management was
“Sweet Nell of Old Drury,” of whose acting “in a comical part” Pepys
has left a complimentary opinion, although he thought Killigrew’s first
production “a silly play.”
It was this Thomas Killigrew who was a noted wit, and whose portrait
by Van Dyck hangs in the Royal collection at Windsor. A writer in
_The Gentleman’s Magazine_ tells an interesting story of Killigrew’s
introduction to Louis XIV. The King took him into a picture gallery,
and upon pointing out a celebrated picture of the Crucifixion, inquired
of Killigrew whether he knew who the principal figures were or the
incident it represented. “No, sire,” replied Killigrew.
“Then,” said Louis, “Monsieur Killigrew, I will tell you who they are.
The figure in the centre is that of our Saviour on the cross, that on
the right of him is the Pope, and that on the left myself.”
After a pause Killigrew replied, “I humbly thank your Majesty for the
information you have given me, for, although I have often heard that
our Saviour was crucified between two thieves, yet I never knew who
they were till now.”
The reply of the King to this witty, though caustic and uncourtierlike,
speech is unhappily not recorded. The sarcasm was rendered more mordant
from the fact that both the King and the Pope were, at the time,
engaged in persecuting and robbing the former’s Protestant subjects.
Another story of a much more tragic nature is connected with Falmouth,
and relates to an old couple who lived towards the latter end of the
sixteenth century, a few miles out of the town on the way to Penryn.
They had two children--a son and a daughter; and the former--partly
owing, so the story goes, to his parents falling upon evil times--ran
away to sea, and of him they heard nothing for many years.
One winter’s night, however, when a great gale was blowing in the
Channel, and sweeping across the land from the Atlantic, a stranger
came to their door and asked for food and shelter. The old couple
allowed him to come in, and gave him food; and whilst he was refreshing
himself and warming his chilled bones by their fireside he entertained
them with wonderful stories of his adventures amongst pirates and in
foreign lands, for he was a sailor man. At last he fetched out of
his pocket a piece of gold with which to pay them, and asked them to
give him a bed. The old woman, surprised at such wealth, after a time
persuaded her husband to permit the strange traveller to remain the
night, and showed the sailor upstairs to a room. She remained chatting
with him for some time, and during their talk he showed so much money,
jewels, trinkets, etc., that she was perfectly dazzled at the sight.
The old woman, whose greed had been awakened, left him to his slumbers,
and the tired wanderer lay down to rest, well content thus to have
obtained shelter from the storm.
Next morning the daughter--who now lived at Penryn,--appeared on the
scene, and after the usual greetings she said, “Did not a sailor man
come to see you last night?”
“What do you mean, my child?” asked her mother, adding hastily, “A
sailor man! What could have put such a thought into your head?”
“Because,” answered the girl, “one asked his way here last night, and
said he wanted to see you.”
“No, no,” continued the old woman. “No sailor came _here_.”
But all the while the girl’s father was fidgeting and looking as though
the subject and the questioning was unpleasing to him.
“Father, do you, too, say no one came?” inquired the daughter,
anxiously. “Because it was our Dickon who came to see me, and told me
he had come back from foreign lands, where he had found a gold mine,
and had got as rich as the Grand Mogul himself.”
“Dickon!” screamed the mother. “Impossible. I should know my Dickon
anywhere.”
“Then a sailor did come here!” exclaimed the girl. “Oh, mother, where
is he? Has he gone away again? There was a scar on his left arm that he
got at sea.”
The old man had disappeared during the last few words, and suddenly
there was a thud of some falling body overhead. The wretched old woman
hurried up the narrow staircase, and entered the bedroom the sailor had
occupied. The daughter followed her, but was only in time to see her
mother fall in a pool of blood and expire.
There in one room lay three dead bodies. The sailor son concealed
temporarily under the bed; the father who, at the instigation of his
wife, had killed him so that they might become possessed of his wealth;
and the old mother herself.
“For many years,” so the tale continues, “none would even approach, let
alone occupy the accursed dwelling, so that at last it fell into decay.
But those who passed at nightfall or during the dark hours did often
hear the wailing of the distracted and wicked mother, and some even say
they have seen the sailor man’s ghost.”
Pendennis Castle, upon its jutting headland, is the other ancient
building of the possession of which Falmouth can boast. It was erected
in 1543 as a portion of a scheme of King Henry VIII’s for the complete
fortification of the harbour in view of the coming war with France.
St Mawes Castle was built upon the opposite shore to Pendennis; but
the two other fortifications contemplated were never finished. The
importance of its strategic position is apparent to anyone, however
unversed in such matters; commanding as it does the coast line, the
entrance to the harbour, the Roads, and a large portion of the town
of Falmouth itself. The first Governor was John Killigrew, and he was
succeeded in the year 1567 by his son Sir John. Queen Elizabeth in
1584 appointed Sir Nicholas Parker, who was succeeded at various times
by others, including Sir Nicholas Hals (a relative of his more famous
kinsman Hals, the historian of the county); until Sir John Arundell,
of Trerice, known to history as “John for the King,” was appointed in
1643, and was perhaps the most famous of all Governors of the Castle.
Early in 1646 the Castle, which has the distinction of being the
last fortress in the country, except Raglan Castle, to hold out for
King Charles, was besieged both by land and sea, by Roundhead forces
commanded respectively by Colonel Fortescue and Admiral Batten. The
Governor, though eighty-seven years of age, stoutly refused to yield up
possession when called upon to do so; and the siege lasted six months.
Fairfax and Blake both came to the attack; and brave men themselves,
they must have been full of admiration for the stubborn old hero who
held out against them so gallantly. In Clarendon’s _History of the
Rebellion_ is the following account of a siege which was as notable for
the zeal of the besiegers as the heroism of the defenders. “The castle
refused all summons,” writes the historian, “admitting no treaty till
they had not victuals for twenty-four hours, when they carried on the
treaty with such firmness that their situation was never suspected, and
they obtained as good terms as any garrison in England.”
The defenders were (according to one account) about two hundred strong,
and consisted of two companies of one hundred each; armed pikes, sixty
men; calivers the same number; muskets, eighty men; and a few watchmen
and other servants.
There was, after the Castle’s capture, a rapid succession of Roundhead
Governors; but when the King came to his own again, Richard, Lord
Arundell, a son of the brave defender, was appointed to the post.
The Castle has seen no other vicissitudes of a warlike character since
the famous siege; but from time to time additions have been made to
strengthen it, and bring it more into conformity with modern ideas. It
is manned by companies of the Royal Garrison Artillery.
From the Castle tower there is so fine and comprehensive a view of
Falmouth, the harbour and surroundings, that none should miss it.
It is, indeed, only when seen from such a point of vantage as this
that the true extent and beauty of this magnificent roadstead can
be adequately realized. Away but a short distance under the hill of
Trefusis lies the quaint little town of Flushing, with its stretch of
quays and cottages clustered upon them, and its perfume of orange and
lemon trees which flower and fruit in the open air. Opposite is St
Mawes; and a little distance to the north-west lies Falmouth itself,
with the picturesque jumble of grey and red roofs, and the docks and
quays in which and alongside of which lie vessels from all parts
rearing slender masts skyward, or perhaps with an added picturesqueness
lent them by drying canvas flapping idly from the yards. Across the
water up above St Mawes is charming Gerrans, where one may shove one’s
nose and lie easy in any weather, conscious only of a snug haven and a
charming village.
Picturesque St Anthony should be visited--it can be reached easily in
the dinghy from St Mawes, and lies only a few hundred yards inland
from the shore of the creek--on account of its fine church, which is
generally agreed to be the best example of Early English architecture
in Cornwall, and has a beautiful Norman arch to the south door.
[Illustration: HELFORD CREEK]
But we might advise a score of other excursions up the many lovely
creeks of this beautiful haven of Falmouth. Those who have passed
through the tree environed “King Harry’s Passage” on the way up to
Truro, or have explored St Just’s creek, or Restonget, or--well a score
of others equally lovely, will not need to be reminded of the wealth of
interest and beauty here spread out before them.
But there is yet the last haven between us and the wide
Atlantic--Penzance. We must pass by unentered the many charming creeks
of the Helford River, where the woods come down to the waterside, and
the inlets provide a snug anchorage for small craft in almost any
weather.
Right onward from the Manacles almost to Penzance itself the coast is
rocky, dark, and uninviting. No trees soften the brows of the stark
looking cliffs, which are here and there torn into great fissures,
which look from a little distance out at sea like dark gashes cut with
a knife. The coast is not one safe for near approach, and there is,
indeed, nothing in the scenery to invite close inspection.
Rounding the Lizard, either in a fresh easterly or westerly wind, is
generally a wet job for craft of small tonnage, as a heavy sea speedily
gets up. But once round there is a straight run for Penzance Bay, the
last haven of any size (and that not a very good one) on the south-west
coast.
Penzance lies in the north-western curve of a fine bay, which is,
however, too open to afford an ideal anchorage, or much protection in
most prevailing winds. As one enters the bay the one striking object is
not the town--that, at a distance, is not notably picturesque, and near
by is disappointing--but the fine rock of St Michael, which, like its
Norman prototype, stands “solitary amid the waste of waters, a townlet
upon a rock.”
The origin of this outstanding mass, connected with the mainland only
by a causeway covered save at low water, is “lost in antiquity,” as
historians are wont to explain when nothing detailed or more satisfying
is forthcoming. Some authorities, however, have thought that the Roman
occupation or a period only a short time anterior to it saw the
formation--by reason of seismic convulsion--of St Michael’s Mount,
which was “cast up out of the bed of the sea.” Others assert that once
the Mount was set inland amid forest glades and primeval woodlands, and
was then known as the “hoar rock in the wood.” But whatever the origin
may be, the fact remains that at the bottom of Mount’s Bay undoubtedly
lies a forest, which was probably engulfed when the Scilly Isles were
torn away from Land’s End, which gives some colour to this latter
theory.
The legend in connexion with this tremendous event is that, when the
ancient and romantic land of Lyonesse was overwhelmed, one inhabitant,
Trevelyan, swam ashore, and landed and built his house near where the
Seven Stones now stand. And whatever truth may underlie tradition,
there to this day remains Trevelyan’s Field.
Max Müller says that the early monkish owners called the rock and abbey
“Mons Tumba,” and this connects it with the sister mount set fair and
lovely in the wide bay of Avranches.
One thing, however, appears certain, namely, that the Phœnicians in
their trade with Cornwall for tin knew St Michael’s Mount when they
lay off Marazion bartering with the inhabitants of that then important
place. As was the case with the other Mount of St Michael across the
Channel, the origin of the monastery was the vision of St Michael which
appeared to a hermit. But there is no record of the foundation of a
religious house on the rock until long after the visit of St Kyne on a
pilgrimage from Ireland in 490. Then, by permission of King Edward the
Confessor, a Benedictine Priory was established, which was afterwards
taken over by monks of the Gilbertine order who owed allegiance to
the Abbey on the Norman St Michael’s Mount. The religious foundation
underwent various vicissitudes until its final passage into secular
hands. Edward III dispossessed the alien monks of Normandy, and the
property came into the possession of the Sion Nuns, passing into the
possession of the Bassett family (probably on the dissolution of the
monasteries), and two hundred years later was sold by them to the St
Aubyn’s, whose descendant, Lord St Levan, still owns it.
Like many another Abbey throughout the land, St Michael’s Mount has
a history as a fortress as well as a sanctuary. Though far removed
from the whirlpool of civil war, which engulfed middle England in the
long struggle between the Houses of Lancaster and York, St Michael’s
Mount was destined to catch an echo of the strife which was laying the
chivalry of England in the dust on bloody battlefields and stricken
heaths. It was to this fortress that the Earl of Oxford came after
the loss by the Lancastrians of the Battle of Barnet in April, 1471.
He gained admission to the castle in the disguise of a pilgrim, and
once inside made a stout resistance to those of the triumphant Yorkist
adherents who attacked it in their endeavour to capture him. Afterwards
the Earl surrendered, on being assured of a pardon.
The next notable person to claim sanctuary in St Michael’s Mount was
Lady Catherine Gordon, the wife of Perkin Warbeck, who, on landing at
St Ives in September, 1497, to claim the English throne as Richard IV,
under the patronage of Margaret, Duchess of Burgundy, sister of Richard
III, and the Scottish King, James IV, was received by the Cornish folk
enthusiastically. Lady Catherine lay in sanctuary there while Warbeck
and his adherents marched on London--only to take refuge in flight on
the approach of Henry VII’s troops when he was engaged in besieging
Exeter.
Although during the disturbances which followed in Cornwall on the
introduction of the Reformed Prayer Book the fortress saw some
fighting, it was not until the Civil War between King Charles and his
Parliament that it once more played a prominent part in history. It was
commanded for the King by Sir Francis Bassett, and, like most other
Cornish fortresses at that period, was gallantly defended. During the
siege a former Governor Humphry turned traitor and attempted to gain
possession for the Parliament; but his plan was frustrated, and he
himself was executed. Sir Francis Bassett surrendered eventually to
the Parliamentary forces under Colonel Hammond, the Royalist garrison
retiring to the Scilly Islands.
Since that siege the castle has played its part in no other event
of great importance, although during the Napoleonic Wars there was
a certain amount of activity within its walls, brought about by the
universal dread of invasion. But a few years previously the guns of
the castle had been brought into service for the purpose of scaring
off an Irish pirate vessel, which had chased some merchantmen into the
Bay. We fear that the weapons must have been allowed to fall into a bad
state of efficiency, for we are told “they caused the pirate ship to
desist in its attempt to capture the vessels, but alas! did no other
damage save kill two of the gunners, which sad event was caused by the
bursting of one of the cannon.”
[Illustration: HEAVY WEATHER OFF LAND’S END]
On the northern side of the mount, which is about a mile in
circumference at its base, there is a small but snug little harbour,
along the quay of which are grouped the fishermen’s cottages and other
houses belonging to the village. Above these, to a height of nearly 250
feet, rises the Mount, crowned by the imposing and picturesque castle
and church. In the early morning, and on days when the mist struggles
with the sunshine, it is a weirdly beautiful pile. The oldest portion
of the buildings is the central tower, which is probably fourteenth
or early fifteenth century work, and forms so prominent a sea mark.
The hall and chapel date from the fifteenth century, and there is an
ancient cross just above the steps leading to the latter building. The
chapel has from time to time been altered and restored, and it was
during some building operations of recent years that a Gothic doorway
was discovered, bricked up on the right side of the east end of the
church. Behind this was found a vault approached by a flight of steps,
and in it was the skeleton of a man supposed to be that of Sir John
Arundel.
On the top of the tower is what is known as St Michael’s Chair, in
which recess there is just room for one person to be seated. The
tradition connected with this somewhat giddy and overhanging seat is
that any bride who has “nerve” enough to climb into it will be gifted
with the power of ruling in her own home. But, notwithstanding this,
comparatively few ladies, we were told, are prevailed upon to try.
The old mansion, which was erected upon the site of the priory, has
largely disappeared; and many of the seventeenth-century rooms have
been done away with to allow of apartments more in keeping with modern
ideas and requirements. But in the Chevy Chase room, formerly the
refectory of the monks, with its stuccoed cornice depicting hunting
subjects, a good many interesting details have been preserved.
The views from the summit of the tower and upper walls and windows are
very fine and extensive, including not only the whole of the bay, but
a stretch of the coast both eastward and westward. Perhaps the most
beautiful picture of the Mount itself is from Penzance, when the sunset
glow bathes its hoary grey walls in roseate light, and gives to the
solitary and impressive pile a mysterious beauty and significance.
In the old smuggling days Mount’s Bay was a veritable hotbed of the
contraband trade. Many are the stories told of the bold smugglers of
Penzance and Marazion; but of all that of one daring free trader, John
Carter, known as “the King of Prussia,” and his famous retreat at
Prussia Cove, a short distance eastward of Cudden Point, has the truest
savour of romance.
Carter must have been not only a desperately bold and resourceful
smuggler; but also what is known as an “original.” As a boy he
doubtless got to know every nook and cranny of the little inlet,
situated about six miles eastward of Penzance, which ultimately was so
intimately associated with him and his daring deeds. Then the place was
almost isolated from the outside world; an ideal smuggler’s retreat.
Even nowadays it is cut off from the rest of the world, and although a
most beautiful spot, comparatively few people find their way to it.
It was here, with the little island forming a natural breakwater to
the cove, that young Carter spent his youthful days, probably planning
the deeds which afterwards caused his name to be a household word in
the district. He was probably equally well versed from his youth in
the ways of the smuggling fraternity, and took to the trade himself
as naturally as the proverbial duck does to water. In those days a
“likely” spot was not often overlooked by the Cornish smugglers, and
doubtless Prussia or Bessie’s Cove was used for illicit purposes long
ere John Carter was of sufficient age to make the place notorious from
Plymouth to Penzance. A writer of the period does not give the people
of the coast just above here an enviable character, for after accusing
them of wrecking and murdering (when necessary) the unfortunate seamen
washed ashore, he goes on to say that their chief occupations were
drinking, fighting, smuggling, and all kinds of other wickedness.
[Illustration: A BREEZE OFF THE LIZARD]
Long before Carter reached his majority, he--and his brother Harry,
who, from a diary which has been preserved, appears to have possessed
a somewhat sanctimonious soul--began to play his part in the local
smuggling enterprises. And it was not long before he became recognized
as a leader on account of his masterful character and his resource
in daring expeditions planned to defraud the Customs. The nick-name
of “the King of Prussia,” by which his fame has been handed down to
posterity was bestowed upon him by his playmates in boyhood’s days; and
was doubtless traceable to the interest which the doings of Frederick
the Great were just then arousing throughout the civilized world.
The house in which “the King” lived is still by happy chance
standing to form a link with the old days of romance, which are so
rapidly passing even out of recollection. It is just a typical, low,
two-storied thatched cottage with a small fore-garden, and rising
ground at the back. When Carter came to live here first is not clear,
but it is evident that it was whilst he was quite a young man. He
soon set to work to make the Cove, over which he had set up a kind of
sovereignty, as perfect as could be for the daring enterprises in which
he intended to become engaged. He cut away the rocks at the entrance,
deepened and improved the fairway and approach to the beach; and
rendered the numerous existing caves more convenient for the stowage
of smuggled goods. In addition to all this, a good path was cut in the
cliffs connecting up the caves and beach, and road inland.
But, perhaps, the most astonishing part of Carter’s work was the fort
which he erected on the point to the westward of the entrance to the
cove, for the purpose of defending his goods. The remains of it can
still be plainly traced, though it is nearly a century and a quarter
since it was dismantled.
The battery of guns which “the King of Prussia” placed in position
commanded all the sea approaches, and for a time successfully overawed
the “preventives,” as they were doubtless intended to do. Anyway, there
are records existing of the most daring acts of smuggling which took
place right under their noses.
However, on one occasion the revenue men from Penzance, when “the King”
was absent, perhaps upon one of his periodical visits to the French
coasts, came round in force to the Cove, and took possession of a cargo
lately landed from France. The bales and “tubs” were swiftly conveyed
to the security of the Customs House Store at Penzance. And doubtless
the revenue men chuckled over their pipes that night on the easy
capture they had made. They reckoned, however, without their host. In
due course John Carter returned to the Cove to discover the loss which
had happened to him. It did not take him long to make up his mind.
“The King of Prussia” was a man of decision. He must get back those
“tubs” and bales of his. Besides (as he is reported to have told his
adherents) he had promised delivery to “a gentleman of substance and
position, and other customers, by a certain date, and as an honest man
he was bound to keep his word!”
The same night there assembled on the waste land near “the King of
Prussia’s” house two score or more of well-armed men, who marching down
to the beach took boat for Penzance, where they broke open the Customs
House, took forcible repossession of the goods, and sailed away across
the bay to Prussia Cove.
That such proceedings should have been possible at the end of the
eighteenth century seems almost incredible to the modern mind. But one
must remember that Cornwall, or at least the extreme western portion of
it, was at that time almost as isolated and remote as the Scilly Isles
or portions of the north coast of Scotland.
Such a daring exploit could not, however, long be overlooked; and the
Customs House authorities of the district determined to make a supreme
effort to put down John Carter and his gang.
So one day not long afterwards the look-out man at the Cove was
surprised to see a large cutter approaching, which his knowledge of
smuggling and revenue craft at once told him was a foe. The alarm was
given, the smugglers hastened to the beach, and manned the battery on
the point. The guns were loaded and run out, and with a daring which
must have astonished those aboard H.M.S. _Fairy_, the battery opened
fire.
For a time the smugglers held the revenue men in check, and prevented
them from landing, but at length the latter succeeded in entering the
Cove. The battery was stormed and captured. The guns were dismounted
and thrown into a pool hard by, reputed locally to be bottomless, and
the place was dismantled.
History, somewhat strangely, is silent regarding the ultimate fate of
“the King of Prussia” and his companions after their defeat. But it is
quite evident that the event put an end to Carter’s smuggling exploits;
or, at all events, to further ones of the barefaced nature in which he
had up to that time indulged with impunity.
All along the coast the revenue men were not altogether unwilling to
deal leniently with the smuggling fraternity, and even benefit by such
a course of conduct, and it seems, therefore, very probable that “the
King of Prussia” lived a quiet life upon the handsome profits of the
many successful ventures in which he had been concerned, until the time
came for him to leave the scenes of his exploits.
At all events the “stirring and veracious history of ‘the King of
Prussia’ and his comrades” forms not the least entertaining and
informing narrative of the old smuggling days in these parts.
The town of Penzance, except for its picturesque fishing fleet, and
certain old associations, is not a place of any particular charm. To
use the words of a local historian, “It is a town of to-day, and has
little or no history.” But it is not, after all, of such entirely
mushroom growth as the said historian would be held to imply. Its seal,
which dates from 1641, is an extremely interesting one. St John the
Baptist’s head on the charger appears in its design; with the legend
“Pensans,” which by some is thought to give a clue to the origin of the
town’s name, Penzance--_pen_ being Cornish for head, and _sans_ meaning
holy. Some more prosaic folk, however, assert that the name has nothing
to do with St John, and try to derive it from the ancient chapel to the
patron saint of fishermen, St Anthony, which once stood on the land
near the quay.
In the present town, which, even from the sea, is not as picturesque as
ports usually are, there is preserved in Alverton Street the old name
of the district, which comprised not only Penzance, but also Newlyn and
Mousehole.
In the Domesday Book it is referred to as Alwaretone, and was at
that period one of the most valuable estates in Cornwall. In ancient
times there stood at Penzance, Castle Horneck, the home of the lords
of the place; and from the middle of the fourteenth century a weekly
market and a seven days’ annual fair have been held. Existing records
tell us that the town prospered to some considerable extent during
the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries; but at the end of the latter,
although news was brought to Penzance of the Armada’s approach, the
Spanish galleons did not even put into the bay, but stood up Channel
for Plymouth and the English fleet. Perhaps the inhabitants of the town
were lulled by this providential escape from molestation into a sense
of security which was to cost them dear. For in the year 1595 on a July
morning, when the sea and bay alike were veiled in all too secretive
mist, as Carew narrates the event, “four gallies of the enemy presented
themselves upon the coast over against Mousehole, and there in a
fair bay landed about two hundred men, pike and shot, who forthwith
sent their forlorn hope, consisting of their basest people, unto the
straggled houses of the country ... by whom were burned not only the
houses they went by, but also the parish church of Paul, the force of
the fire being such that it utterly ruined the great stone pillars
thereof. Others of them in that time burned that fisher town Mousehole;
the rest watched as a guard for the defence of these firers.”
[Illustration: PENZANCE]
After which we gather from another account the galleys moved away to
Newlyn, when, after setting that village on fire, the men who had
been landed for the purpose marched on Penzance. Here had gathered a
little band of the inhabitants--terror-stricken as they undoubtedly
were--headed by Sir Francis Godolphin, who was urging them to offer
a stout resistance. But alas! the defenders that should have been were
so consumed by fear that when Sir Francis came into the market place to
organize his force and appoint to them their several duties, he found
only “two resolute shot, and some ten or twelve others that followed
him, most of them his own servants. The rest, surprised with fear,
fled, whom neither with his persuasion nor threatening with his rapier
drawn, he could recall.”
This is not a very flattering account of Penzance valour; but the
result of the cowardice shown must have been a heavy punishment. In a
few hours the town was but a mass of smoking ruins. Having accomplished
what they had set themselves to do, the Spaniards re-embarked; and
appeared to have seen the wisdom of not proceeding further along the
coast. At all events, ere the English Fleet, which was hastening
to give them battle, could arrive, they had set sail for Spain and
made good their escape. In this wise came to pass and ended the most
complete and serious invasion of these shores ever made by Spaniards.
Penzance arose Phœnix-like from its ashes, and in the middle of the
seventeenth century “was become a place of some importance and size,
so that King James granted it a charter of incorporation.” Till then,
at least, Marazion across the Bay, behind St Michael’s Mount, had
continued the most important town in the immediate neighbourhood.
Leland speaks of it as a “great long town,” and whatever the origin of
the name may be, and whether (as tradition asserts) Joseph of Arimathea
was connected with it and its tin trade, does not nowadays much matter.
Penzance, during the Civil War, remained for the King, and the town and
its inhabitants were destined to pay a heavy price for the privilege
of loyalty. The place was seized by the Parliamentarians--at the time
they were attacking St Michael’s Mount--and they plundered, partially
burned, and sacked as though foreign invaders had landed and had been
permitted to wreck their vengeance unmolested.
At his restoration Charles II, to mark his appreciation of the Penzance
folk’s loyalty to his father, gave the town the dignity of a coinage
town. To it, in consequence, all tin within the Stannary of Penwith and
Kerrier had to be brought to have a corner or “coin” cut off to test
its quality. And, until 1838, every hundredweight of the metal was so
tested, and had to pay a tax amounting to four shillings.
Nowadays Penzance is chiefly seeking to advance its claims for
recognition as a health and holiday resort. With many, however, the
old world claim of romantic interest will weigh more heavily than
either those of climate or modern amusements. But, as a sapient guide
book relating to a more ancient town, which is also making a bid for
popularity on similar grounds, avers, “a town cannot live upon its
romantic interest alone, nor on the light of other days,” whatever that
last may be. And so we must regard Penzance from a new standpoint,
which is easier, as it possesses practically no ancient or historic
buildings, and only one street, Market Jew Street, in one of the houses
of which Sir Humphry Davy was born, which dwells in our memory as being
of any note or picturesqueness.
But sometimes Nature is more than kind to Penzance, and we have seen
her transform the distant town, as we lay at anchor on the bosom of
Mount’s Bay, into something of almost ethereal beauty, as the soft,
pearly light of a June evening enveloped it against a background of
crimson and powdered gold.
THE END
Transcriber’s Notes
Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling were made consistent when a
predominant preference was found in this book; otherwise they were
not changed. When words in quoted text are spelled differently than
elsewhere, those spellings have been retained. Old-style and dialect
spellings have been retained.
Simple typographical errors were corrected.
Ambiguous hyphens at the ends of lines were retained.
Page 18: Likely spurious opening quotation mark removed just before
“till they were nearer France”.
Page 24: A period may be missing after “I’ll carry my ball to Calais
Green”.
Page 52: Closing quotation mark added after “laying-to in open day.”
This may not be where it belongs.
Page 61: Missing right-parenthesis added after “before his death”.
Page 62: “10ll” is followed by an explanation that the two els mean
“pounds”; the same notation is used for “8ll” on page 63.
Page 240: “philanthrophy” was printed that way.