The "good" King Arthur left some tracks, on the north coast mostly.
We heard nothing of him on the south. Tennyson followed the northern
trail, and we followed Tennyson, for a while; and we started in
comfort, which any one may do now the Tintagel hotel is running. The
King himself was never so well accommodated on the spot. The Arthur
zone is somewhat limited for mere holiday pilgrims. The Lyonesse is out
of it now, so the area is about from Bude to Camelford, and back again,
following the lines of desolation and tumuli. The anniversary of the
King's birthday is still celebrated by the ringing of bells under the
sea between Bude and Boscastle. We didn't hear them, but some people
say they have.
We had a wet Sunday--a day of pitiless rain and gloom, a day to be
remembered as long as human sensation of the dismal lasts. Everybody
took to letter-writing and addressing post-cards. So the morning
passed, and it was cheerful to hear some one say it would be all right
after twelve--it was always all right then. We struggled on, and
still it poured. There was some wind, but it was the rain which took
possession of us; and Guy suggested that the Gulf Stream had gone wrong
this time, and was pouring out of the clouds. We explored the hotel,
and tried smoking and sleeping, and sleeping and smoking, until we were
awake again, and began to take an interest in our fellow-pilgrims.
The Bookworm talked King Arthur in the drawing-room when only a few
were present, but the news somehow spread through the house, and he
soon had an audience, and everybody a Tennyson in pocket. Guy said the
little beggar must have been grinding secretly in order to surprise us
one day. The surprise came now to all who had been reading up Tennyson
with the view of following in the footsteps of Arthur from battle-field
to battle-field, from cradle to grave, and all within the borders of
the Duchy, to find that Arthurs were plentiful, and that there was one
at least for each kingdom in Great Britain, and one across the water.
The mythical Arthur, the historical Arthur, and the Tennysonian Arthur
were "reviewed."
A lady visitor in spectacles said Arthur was her ideal. One reason--she
might almost say _the_ one reason--for her coming into Cornwall was to
visit Tintagel, his birthplace, and pay homage to his sepulchre, if she
could find it.
Guy said her sentiments were exalted, and sustained one on a wet
Sunday. He was sorry that he did not know as much as his learned friend
the Bookworm, but he had a sort of impression that Arthur was not happy.
The lady sighed, and put all the fault upon Queen Jenefer. Arthur was
her ideal, but, alas! he allowed the Queen to have too much of her own
way, and should have interfered when she broke the china and threw her
jewels into the river. Guy confessed himself interested in this free
handling of the subject, and learnt the lady's views on the subjection
of women (within limitations, of course) to the men who found them in
bread-and-butter and pocket-money.
A young lady interrupted conversation by giving a recitation, and
everybody pulled out Tennyson, and read marked passages to one another,
and so the evening slipped away. Still it rained; but we didn't mind
it now, especially as we had been informed on good authority that it
always cleared after a downpour!
The Bookworm enjoyed himself most when button-holed by an antiquarian,
who listened with an ear-trumpet whilst he explained that it was of no
consequence whatever whether King Arthur ever existed, because he was
an idea. The deaf gentleman begged leave to make a note of so original
a remark; and made more notes whilst the Bookworm aired his conviction
that Arthur represented a phase--a passing phase--of civilization in
Britain, and that the legends which grew around his name served to show
how little society was prepared for the higher standards of life, known
well enough, but, alas! not followed.
The Bookworm told a little story which, he said, was not very well
known, not having been unearthed by the Historical MSS. Commissioners
until Tennyson had finished his great Arthurian romances.
KING ARTHUR'S JUDGMENT.
The King sat in his hall with his knights, and every one else was there
who could be there of right, and many who had no privilege wrote to the
King for tickets; the stable-boys and scullions fought for places round
the door, and climbed the high windows and peeped through, for the
word had gone round that the King would hear a matrimonial cause. The
King looked troubled when he took his seat, because he had been obliged
to refuse places to so many fair ladies who promised to lace in extra
tight so as to take up the least possible room. But accommodation was
limited, and every refusal made him an enemy. Such is greatness; and
the King was troubled.
[Illustration: YSEULT AND TRISTAN.]
But there was more trouble to come, as he well knew, whenever he sat as
President for the trial of matrimonial causes; and his prophetic soul
told him that he would be outwitted in the end, because there was no
King's Proctor, all ears, by his side. The case was that of Mark, King
of Cornwall, whose wife Yseult, the Helen of the day, had been carried
off by Tristan, second to none in love and war. All the parties were of
blue blood, and the fugitives had only yielded to the law by force of
arms, so the case was not wanting in interest for the upper crust.
Mark opened the proceedings by saying he wanted his wife home again,
where things were sixes and sevens, and dinner served anyhow; but
Yseult refused to return because Mark was bilious at times, and said
bilious things much better left unsaid, and, moreover, she liked
Tristan best, and would stick to him, for aye and always. There was
a fluttering of fans and applause in Court, which made the President
sad, so that he threatened to have it cleared on repetition. There
were no counsel learned in the law practising in those days before the
King, so the parties said their say and argued as they pleased; and
when Tristan sidled up to Yseult and patted her on the back, saying,
"Cheer up!" the whole assembly hurrahed, and the King made believe
not to hear it, but turned to Jenefer, his Queen, who whispered to
Lancelot, who was a sort of friend of the parties all round; but what
they said was not audible to the reporters.
The King was troubled. There were no precedents in law for a case like
this, so he made a little speech to Mark, telling him he'd be better
without an unwilling wife; but Mark was bilious, and extra obstinate,
and would have his wife, his whole wife, and nothing but his wife.
Then King Arthur changed his note, and tried his cunning upon Tristan,
who said love was above law, and he'd have his love. There was, then,
nothing for the King to do but to pronounce judgment, which he did,
dividing Yseult between the two; and the order which he made was that
she should stay with the one when the trees were in leaf, and with
the other when they were bare, and to Mark, as husband, he gave first
choice.
The trial was in the autumn, and Mark was no fool, so he elected to
take Yseult when trees were bare, saying to himself, "She will come
now, and let me but get her home, and the trees will never be in leaf
for Tristan!" But he was no match for Yseult, who threw herself into
the arms of her lover, saying--
"There are three trees of constant hue,
The ivy, the holly, and the yew;
They bear leaves summer and winter;
Tristan! I am thine for ever."
"A woman drove three chariots abreast through Temple Bar that time,"
said Guy, laughing. "If women practised at the bar to-day, it would be
a bit awkward for the judges, for they'd make holes in judgments as
wise as Solomon's."
We had a gentle reminder that it was time for all lights to be out, and
the last impression everybody had was that the right thing to do in
Cornwall was to make a pilgrimage to Tintagel.
[Illustration: THE DIGEY.]