from the Land’s End; the wail of the Cockney concertina is never heard
within these gates; and Plymouth, the nearest large town, is eighty-one
miles away. Penzance knows nothing of London. Visitors come from the
Metropolis to the shores of Mount’s Bay; but although they are--in
instances--known to his from London town, that place is the merest
geographical expression in Penwith. We don’t read London papers
at Penzance (unless we are--for our sins--authors, when our friends
kindly post us those copies containing slashing reviews, obligingly
blue-pencilled); we read few papers of any sort, and those are printed
at Plymouth. Visitors do not get through much reading at Penzance. They
have breakfast, and disappear for the day, to return only at night,
tired and hungry, from strenuous excursions to all sorts of wild and
impossible places, with names that only a Celt can properly get his
tongue round. A stranger coming into Penzance upon a mid-day of its
season would opine from the evidence of his eyes that the town had
lost its favour, but nothing would be farther from the truth. Half the
visitors are at Land’s End or the Logan Rock; some at Saint Ives; many
at the Mount, or Newlyn, or Mousehole; a few have gone to Truro or the
Lizard.
Penzance is a harmony in grey and blue, looking seaward; in grey and
green to the inward glance. Its chief street, Market-jew Street,
climbing up to the centre of the town, has at its summit the somewhat
gloomy granite building of the Market House--severely classic--fronted
with a statue in white marble of Sir Humphry Davy, a native of Ludgvan
village near by. Over a doorway of the building you may see, carved in
the granite, the arms of Penzance, i.e., the Head of Saint John Baptist
(I disclaim at once all responsibility for the apparent Irishry of
the arms of the town being a head), with the legend “Pen Sans, 1614.”
At the Alverton end of the town you may still see an old, heavily
thatched cottage, where was born that doughty hero, Edward Pellew, who
afterwards rose through his prowess to the title of Viscount Exmouth, a
title more hardly earned than some parallel patents of nobility in this
little day.
[Illustration: SAINT MICHAEL’S MOUNT: ENTRANCE TO THE CASTLE.]
’Tis a languorous air, of Mount’s Bay; thus it fell that the morning
was usually well advanced before we happened in the street or by the
harbour. Here, on certain week-days, is great bustle, when the mail
steamer is preparing to cast off for the voyage across to Scilly. The
passengers, like the poet’s “little victims,” laugh and are merry,
“all unconscious of their doom.” For, of a truth, ’tis a rolling sea,
and, as the humorist might say, the sick (!) transit takes away the
_gloria mundi_.
[Illustration: PENZANCE HARBOUR: NIGHT.]
But we leave these, and embark upon that little voyage of three miles
to “the Mount,” as you come to abbreviate Saint Michael’s crags, across
the shallow waters of the tumbling bay.
In less than half an hour our little launch runs alongside the massive
stone walls of the tiny haven, at the foot of the historic Mount,
and we presently disport ourselves upon its delightful slopes, whose
history, with that of the grey castle above, goes back to very dim
antiquity: a history of sieges, surprises, and fierce fights among the
rocks, and on the sands below. The Mount is now the property and the
residence of Lord Saint Levan, the present head of the Saint Aubyns,
whose name one constantly meets throughout Cornwall. The loyal Saint
Aubyns have zealously recorded the Royal visit to the Mount in 1846,
when her Majesty landed at the stairs of the haven; for there has been
let into the rugged granite a brass-plate, inscribed with a “V.R.,” and
fashioned to represent the Royal boot-sole, by which you gather that
the Queen wore most uncommonly square-toed shoes in those days.
I warn strangers that, before visiting the Mount, it were well to
dismiss from the mind all recollections of it as done into paint and
water-colour, for artists have all tacitly agreed to exaggerate its
height and steepness. Thus, Turner’s grand painting, and Clarkson
Stanfield’s huge achievement in water-colour, would be introductions
by which a subsequent acquaintance with the place would only
disappoint. But then, to expect topographical accuracy in these things
(and especially in Turner’s later work) were indeed vain. The best
point of view for an idea of the Mount is that half-way up to the
left hand, whence this drawing was taken; for here you have bulk and
composition without the need for exaggeration.
The castle, crowning the heights, has still much of interest to show,
though modern additions are everywhere about. Thus, the Chevy Chase
Hall, anciently the refectory of the religious house that once held
sway here, is worthy attention. Its name is derived from the decorative
frieze that runs round its walls, a representation of old-time hunting
scenes. The Royal Arms above, are, of course, a very modern addition,
and the spears and other weapons seen on the walls are, for the most
part, spoils of the Soudan campaigns, brought from Egypt by Lord Saint
Levan’s son, who went through those expeditions.
The chapel, too, though now bare enough, is of Perpendicular date.
A horrid _oubliette_ is shown beneath the stalls, a small chamber,
without light or air or any outlet when the paving-stone above is
lowered to its place in the floor. Some years since, when this dismal
living tomb was accidentally discovered, the skeleton of a man of
extraordinary stature was found within. Who he had been must ever
remain matter for conjecture--poor wretch, left here to be forgotten.
[Illustration: CHEVY CHASE HALL]
It is a darksome climb to the battlements of the old tower of the
castle, so high above the world. Penzance and Newlyn lie below in the
distance, and their white walls flash upon the grey of granite and the
dull green of the moors beyond. Presently, as you gaze, comes a trail
of smoke from eastward, and the “down” train glides into the wayside
station of Marazion Road, bringing its complement of holiday-makers,
who will swarm up the Logan Rock, sail to Lamorna, adventure (if they
be hardy pedestrians) to Porthgwarra or Saint Levan (whence Sir John
Saint Aubyn’s jubilee peerage), or Cape Cornwall; but those spots
are innumerable where the tourist loves to dwell. Above all places
he goes to Land’s End, but never or rarely does he hie him eastward,
to Perranuthno, to Cuddan Point, or to Pengersick. Civilisation goes
ever westward, and, as the tourist is its peculiar product, ’tis only
fitting he should follow its march.
I recollect another day, when we went to Land’s End, along ten miles
of ofttimes rough and heavy walking, through Alverton’s lanes, along
the short stretch of dusty road that passes by the wrecked sea-wall,
designed to join those near neighbours of Penzance and Newlyn, but
demolished by the first storm that rolled in from the south-west.
We sat upon the tumbled blocks of granite, and captured this view of
the town, and then came upon Newlyn and its decaying school of artists.
What has become of the Newlyn School, so-called, that ephemeral
blossom? Are we to assume that, its leading exponent having won to
academic honours, its mission is fulfilled?
[Illustration: PENZANCE.]
They were only a _dilettante_ set we saw at Newlyn, painting the
ramshackle old bridges and their loungers. Artists have painted these
old bridges over and over again, have composed groups of bronzed,
blue-jerseyed fishermen leaning over their parapets and gossiping,
and have given, with the convincing surety of the Newlyn touch, the
laughing, tinkling stream that flows beneath the arches, presently
to lose itself in the shallow waters of the bay. The amateur
photographer, too, is never weary of well “doing” the place. I prefer
the paintings to the photos, because, although I have a happy liking
for realism and truth, I draw the line at the camera’s uncompromising
rendition of battered tin cans, broken crockery, fish offal, old boots,
and other unpicturesque and sordid objects that lazy housewives cast
out of window into the water.
[Illustration: LUDGVAN LEAZE.]
Sad, indeed, is the state of the picturesque stream or romantic glen
that borders upon a camp of civilisation, for abundance of old boots
and sardine tins are the reward of the diligent botanist or natural
historian in these gates; bracken grows not more profusely than are
strewn the shards and potsherds of the neighbouring town. But no
matter how frequent and plentiful the wreck and refuse in the matter
of bottomless kettles, superannuated umbrellas, and broken dishes,
the Old Boot is the commonest object of the seashore, highway, by-way,
lane, or ditch--no mountain too high, no valley too deep for it to be
found. The angler lands it with language and dashed expectations from
the trout stream; the trawler finds it unaccountably in his trawl-net
when he returns from the bay; the ploughman disinters it from the
field; and children dig it up from the sands: everywhere is the Old
Boot. I have communed with Nature, and rambled amid the wildest and
loneliest of scenes, when my meditations have been arrested by old
boots, and at once the poetry and romance of the scene have flown away.
Truly, there is nothing like leather.
LXVII.
But this is a turning out of the path; let us on to Land’s End, up
Newlyn’s lanes, whose inhabitants fall into poses as the artist passes
along, so sophisticated are these one-time simple folk become.
Here winding lanes lead up to the highroad, through a country where
“stone walls do not a prison make,” but are fashioned into hedges;
where, as you near the end of all things, trees become scarce as corn
proverbially was in Egypt aforetime, finally ceasing altogether,
incapable of withstanding the strenuous salt winds from the Atlantic.
[Illustration: SAINT BURYAN.]
The villages you pass--as Saint Buryan and Saint Sennen,
storm-beaten and ashen-grey, wear a rugged, uncanny look, that
brightens into cheerfulness only in the strongest sunshine of summer,
when they become even as Saharas for dryness.
The road takes its way past Crowz-an-Wra--name of horrid seeming--on to
a level bounded by the trim hills of Bartinney--Chapel Carn Brê in one
direction, and rounded off by the watery horizon on the other, past the
Quakers’ Burial Ground, a little parallelogram of moorland walled in
with walls of grey lichen-stained granite, without door or gateway of
any kind--a dismal spot, overgrown with rank grasses. Abandon hope all
ye who inter here!
[Illustration: _Saint Germoe._]
Passing through the desolation of Sennen village, with its grey granite
church, in whose little graveyard lie many dead sailors and fishermen,
in less than a mile you come to the westernmost point of England.
Here, with the growth of touring, modern enterprise has supplanted the
Sennen Inn, the original First and Last Inn in England, according which
way you fare. A large building, close by the cliff’s edge, has usurped
the old sign, and here the Penzance coaches set down their loads of
sightseers to consume sandwiches and a variety of liquids upon the
short grass.
Now, Land’s End is a spot that has little beyond its alleged farthest
projection to the west to recommend it. Other points of this wild coast
are grander than this place of stunted cliffs overlooking the Longships
Lighthouse, with a dim glance at Scilly lying athwart the sunset.
Carn Kenidjack and Cape Cornwall, for instance, to the northward, are
grander, loftier, and more precipitous. The sea thunders upon the shore
in their sandy coves, while here the cliffs drop sheer into the water,
and you are cheated of a foreground.
But, as the chartographers have it, this _is_ the end of all things,
and therefore it is honoured of brake-parties, who sit upon the grassy
cliff-top, and hold unpremeditated picnics. What of beauty the place
possesses is (more or less) pleasingly diversified with broken bottles
and other relics of these _al fresco_ feasts, and miscalled “guides”
hover about seeking whom they may devour.
[Illustration: The Longships Lighthouse]
Ugh! the greasy paper and the broken glass of Land’s End. Let us go and
have tea at the First and Last House in England--the third of them.
Breezy, isn’t it? Rain! by all that’s holy. Don’t put your umbrella
up, you, mister, unless you want to be blown away into the sea. Come
now, hold on tightly to this wall, and take advantage of the next lull
to rush into the doorway.... That’s it.... Now, ma’am, let’s have tea,
an’--er--bring me a pair o’ bellows, will you? I haven’t a breath left
in my body.
Now, to examine the visitors’ books. I take it kindly of these good
folk, d’you know, that they have compassion upon the aspirations of the
crowd: it were hard indeed upon the Briton to deny him all means of
recording his visits here. There is no suitable substance upon which
he can carve his name, and the date upon which he honoured _Ultima
Thule_ with his presence: the common (or Birmingham) penknife makes no
impression upon granite rocks: there is never a tree for miles around:
turf is readily cut, but, by reason of its growing, affords but a
fleeting means of commemoration.
But stay, you have only to take your tea at the little tea-house to be
free of those visitors’ books. Also the interior walls of its rooms
are whitewashed. I need scarce point out the significance of _this_
fact. While you partake of tea, you can read the volumes already filled
up: other people have evidently done the same thing, for those pages
are become very horrid; rich in crumbs, flattened currants, fragments
of egg-shells, tea-stains, and transparent finger-marks. Some of
those pages stick together like Scots in London (or anywhere out of
Scotland); you can have no scruple in separating them; they--the pages,
not the Scots, are only stuck together by fortuitous fragments of
butter.
_Mem._--Napkins are not supplied by your hosts, and it would be a
pity to soil your handkerchief. Therefore, wipe your fingers in the
visitors’ book, being careful in the selection of a page, in case you
leave your fingers in worse case than before. Having done this, you
can go through the written pages and scribble insulting remarks upon
the folks whose names and observations you find there. They’ll be hurt
when next they come here, and see your comments, and any friends of
theirs will be pleased at your ribaldries--people always like candid
criticisms of their friends. Of course, you really don’t want to please
anybody; but, unfortunately, it cannot sometimes be helped.
And now let’s get back to Penzance. We walked here, but it’s raining so
hard that we must ride back. The brakes are just starting. “Hi, there!
wait a minute: we’re coming along.” “Can’t take you, sir, we’re full
up.” “But we _must_ get back. Come now, we’ll give you five shillings
a-piece for the single journey.” “Couldn’t do it, sir: ’much as my
license’s worth.” “Well, look here, we’ll spring a sov. between us.”
“Jump up, then, gentlemen; but pay first, y’know.” “Oh! go on, we
can’t do that--we haven’t so much between us; pay you when we get to
Penzance.” “No; if you can’t pay now, you’ll have to stop here or walk.
I know what paying afterwards means: _I_ couldn’t get it by law, and
_you_ wouldn’t pay without being obliged. No, thanky: drive up, Bill.”
[Illustration: CARN KENIDJACK.]
“Bless you! To the Hesperides with all brake proprietors. Never mind,
we’ll sleep at the hotel here.” ... “Can you put us up for the
night?” “No, sir, we’re full up. There’s two gentlemen sleeping on
the billiard-table, an’ I’m going to sleep on the kitchener, as I’m
rather short and a bit chilly. The chambermaid’s going to sleep in the
wash’us, and Boots is camping out in Deadman’s Cave, in the cliffs
down there. One gentleman, a nantiquarian feller, he’s borrowed a
railway-rug and gone for the night to the British Bee-’ive ’uts on
Windy Downs: better keep him company, it’s rather lonely for him, poor
gentleman.”
[Illustration: SAINT LEVAN.]
“Thanks, we’re not hankering for company. We’re going to walk back to
Penzance. Good night to you.”
A ten miles’ walk through pelting rain and along lonely roads is
scarcely a cheering experience. The whisky with which we strove to keep
out the chills was “exhibited” neat; water was not needed, for we were
speedily wet through.
Supper that night was partaken of in a manner strictly private, for we
were wrappaged round about in our lodgings at Penzance in a fashion,
dry and comfortable perhaps, but too classically picturesque for aught
but a prim and proper seclusion.
LXVIII.
Something of this description, though perhaps not so pronounced, is
always going forward at Land’s End in the tourist season. Land’s End is
effectually vulgarised, and despite Kingsley’s verses, it is impossible
to come to it in any other than a scoffing spirit. Read of Land’s End,
and retain the majestic ideal conjured up by the name of it. Visit the
place, and you find nothing but sordid surroundings.
[Illustration: Saint Germoe’s Chair.]
_We_ visited, on another day of happier auspices, Carn Kenidjack and
Cape Cornwall,--those grand and lonely bulwarks of the land,--and
returned by way of the little township of Saint Just-in-Penwith to
Penzance, regaining by this unfrequented route something of the
lost romance which had lured us to take this alliterative trip from
Paddington to Penzance.
It was now late in the season: cold winds and short days came on apace,
with rains that drove the tourists home. We, too, packed our knapsacks
for the last time, and presently were whirled up to Paddington and
London streets in the Cornishman express.
INDEX
Abbotsbury, 91, 93.
---- Swannery, 96.
Abbot’s Worthy, 40.
Alphington, 112.
Alverton, 252–5.
Anstey’s Cove, 139, 142.
Antony, 187.
Ashe, 105.
Avon Water, 74.
Axe, River, 101, 107.
Axminster, 101.
Axmouth, 107.
Babbacombe, 137, 139.
Barrepper, 249.
Bartinney Hill, 263.
Basingstoke, 35.
Berry Pomeroy, 142, 147.
Blackpool Valley, 155, 164.
Blagdon, 146.
Bolt Head, 175, 177.
Boulter’s Lock, 22.
Bournemouth. 76.
Bray, 21.
Bridport, 96.
Broadlands, 68.
Brockenhurst, 72.
Cadnam, 69.
Camborne, 247.
Carews, the, 187–226.
Carew, Richard, 188, 191, 220.
Carn Brea, 245.
Carnhell Green, 250.
Cam Kenidjack, 264, 269.
Castledour, 220.
Chacewater, 239–40.
Chapel Carn Brê, 263.
Charleton, 165.
Charmouth, 99.
Chertsey, 17.
Chideock, 97.
Chillington, 165.
Christchurch, 74.
Clieveden, 22.
Cockwood Creek, 121.
Cookham, 23.
Coppithorne, 68.
Corfe, 84–6.
Cornwall, 184.
---- Cape, 260–4, 269.
Courtenays, the, 119–21
Crafthole, 192.
Crowz-an-Wra, 263.
Cuddan Point, 260.
Dart, River, 153–61.
Dartmouth, 153–74.
Dawlish, 123.
Deadman’s Head, 230.
Devon, 101, 131.
Devonport, 155, 181.
Dittisham, 159.
Dodbrooke, 165.
Dolcoath, 247.
Dorsetshire, 95.
Downderry, 192.
Drakes, the, 106, 180, 185.
East Looe, 155, 193–5.
East Lulworth, 88.
Eton College, 17.
Exe, River, 113, 118.
Exeter City, 108.
---- Cathedral, 111, 119.
---- Guildhall, 109.
Exminster, 115, 118.
Exmouth, 121, 154.
---- Viscount, 256.
Fal, River, 235.
Filleigh, 250.
First and Last Inn, 264.
Ford, 186.
Fowey, 155, 215.
George III., 91.
Gorran, 229.
Gorran Haven, 229.
Gwinear, 250.
Ham, 10.
---- House, 13.
Hambledon, 27.
Hamoaze, the, 154, 182, 187.
Hampshire, 35, 39.
Headbourne Worthy, 57.
Henley, 30.
Hennerton Backwater, 33.
Holmbush, 222.
Holy Ghost Chapel, 37.
Hunter’s Lodge Inn, 101.
Hurley, 26.
Itchen, River, 36.
Kennet, River, 34.
Kingsbridge, 163, 164.
Kingston, 14.
Kingswear, 154, 156, 162.
King’s Worthy, 40.
“Labrador,” 135.
Lainston, 58.
Laira Bridge, 186.
Lamorna, 260.
Lander, 237.
Land’s End, 254, 260, 264.
Langstone Point, 122, 123.
Lanteglos-juxta-Fowey, 214.
Lee Mount, 124.
Lew Trenchard, 137.
Logan Rock, 255, 259.
Longships Lighthouse, 264.
Looe, East, 155, 193–5.
---- River, 196.
---- West, 155.
Ludgvan, 255.
Lulworth Castle, 88.
---- East, 88.
Lyndhurst, 70.
Lynher River, 187.
Maidenhead, 22.
Marazion, 251, 259.
Marsh Lock, 33.
Martyr Worthy, 40.
Marychurch, 139, 160.
Medmenham Abbey, 26.
Melcombe Regis, 91.
Mevagissey, 225, 228.
Micheldever, 38.
Monmouth, Duke of, 95, 102.
Morecombelake, 99.
Morice Town, 186.
Mount Charles, 222.
---- Edgcumbe, 186.
---- Pleasant, 122.
Mount’s Bay, 251.
Mousehole, 255.
Musbury, 106.
New Forest, 68.
Newlyn, 255–60.
North Haven, 82.
---- Lew, 138.
Osmington, 89.
Paignton, 141, 144.
Palmerston, Viscount, 68.
Par, 219, 222.
Pellew, Edward, 256.
Pengersick, 260.
Penzance, 249, 251, 252, 266.
Perranuthno, 260.
Peter Pindar, 165.
Petersham, 9.
Phillack, 250.
Philleigh, 235.
Plymouth, 179, 253.
---- Guildhall, 187.
---- Hoe, 179, 186.
---- Sound, 174, 179.
Pokesdown, 76.
Polperro, 207.
Polruan, 155, 215.
Pool, 246.
Poole, 247.
---- Harbour, 82, 83.
Porthmellin, 229.
Port Holland, 232.
Portland Bill, 89, 95.
Portlemouth, 154, 172.
Powderham, 119.
Preston, 90.
Purbeck Hills, 88, 95.
---- Isle of, 83.
Quakers’ Burial-Ground, 263.
Reading, 34.
Redruth, 240, 249.
Regatta Island, 28.
Richmond, 5.
Roebuck Hill, 57.
Romsey, 66.
Rougemont Castle, 109, 110.
Ruan Creek, 235.
St. Aubyns, the, 257.
St. Austell, 221, 223, 251.
St. Blazey, 251.
St. Budeaux, 185.
St. Buryan, 251, 262.
St. Catherine’s Hill, Abbotsbury, 94.
St. Catherine’s Hill, Winchester, 36, 55, 56.
St. Cleer, 251.
St. Day, 240.
St. Erth, 251.
St. Ives, 255.
St. Just-in-Penwith, 269.
St. Levan, 260.
St. Lo, 232.
St. Mellion, 251.
St. Michael Caerhayes, 230.
St. Michael’s Mount, 251, 257.
St. Ruan, 251.
St. Sennen, 251, 263.
St. Thomas, 112.
Salcombe, 154, 171.
---- River, 164, 171.
Saltash, 181, 184.
Scilly, 256.
Screasdon Fort, 192.
Seaton, 107.
Shaldon, 131, 154.
Shepperton, 16.
Sherborne St. John, 36.
Slapton Sands, 164.
Sonning, 34.
Southborough-on-Sea, 76.
South Haven, 82.
Sparsholt, 58.
Starcross, 120, 154.
Stoke Damerel, 186.
---- Fleming, 155, 163.
Stokenham, 165.
Stonehouse, 181.
Studland, 82.
Swanage, 83.
Tamar, River, 182.
Taplow, 21.
Teign, River, 130.
Teignmouth, 112, 122, 123, 127, 154.
Thames, River, 15.
Tor Bay, 140.
Torcross, 164.
Torpoint, 154, 183, 186.
Torquay, 133, 135, 139, 140, 160.
Totnes, 149.
Treffrys, the, 216.
Tregantle Fort, 192.
Trelissick, 236.
Trematon Castle, 187.
Treworlas, 235.
Truro Cathedral, 237.
---- City, 235, 236, 239, 249, 255.
Turf, 119.
Tywardreath Bay, 222.
Veryan, 229–31, 233.
Wargrave, 33.
Warren, the, 122.
Watcombe, 137, 139.
Weeke, 57.
West Bay, 96.
---- Looe, 155.
Weymouth, 90.
White, Gilbert, 37.
Whitesand Bay, 192.
William III., 143.
Winchester Cathedral, 44.
---- City, 36, 41.
---- College, 49, 54.
Windsor Castle, 19.
Wolcot, Dr. John, 165.
Wootton, 74.
Worthies, the, 40.
Wyke, 57.
Wykeham, William of, 49.
THE END.
PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE, HANSON AND CO.
EDINBURGH AND LONDON.
FOOTNOTES
[1] A recipe strongly in favour with the artistic and literary world.
[2] June 11th. The apparent error arises through March 25th being at
that time still occasionally considered as New Year’s Day.
[3] We have been told lately that it was not Napoleon but an American
orator named Adams who first applied this epithet to us. If this is
true, it comes with an additional bad grace, for whatever right a
Frenchman has to such a sneer, certainly no American can claim it.
[4] Pindar.
[5] Than satirical pamphlets.
[6]
Underneath
Lieth the Body of Robert
Comonly Called Bone Phillip
who died July 27^{th} 1793
Aged 65 Years,
At whose request The following lines are here inserted.
Here lie I at the Chancel door,
Here lie I because I’m poor
The forther in the more you’ll pay
Here lie I as warm as they
[7] _N.B._--Not responsible for pronunciation of the English language.
[8] I’m afraid your rhymes, Mr. Poet, are somewhat indiscreet.
[9] See how sadly the exigencies of rhyme fetter the poet: the palate
and not the lip give the sense of taste.
[10] _Anglice_, farm-yards.
[11] This seems a peculiarly modern touch.
[12] Fill, dear reader, these blanks _à discrétion_.
[13] Corruption also of Phillis.
Transcriber’s Notes
Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling were made consistent when a
predominant preference was found in the original book; otherwise they
were not changed.