That enlightened citizen of the United States, Mr. John B. Bellamy,
left his name, writ large, in the visitors' book. He was keen as ever
on collecting relics of the late King, and inquired if the holy grail
was yet on view at the castle? King Arthur's tables, plates, and
punch-bowls not being what he wanted, he chipped some and left the
rest. The hotel clerk told us that the gentleman left some opinions
on things in general behind him; and the impression on the clerk's
mind was that if this citizen from the States ran the show at Tintagel,
things would be a "durned sight different" in two shakes of a duck's
tail.
[Illustration: KING ARTHUR'S CASTLE.]
Sea and land and sky were deliciously clear when we started for the
ruins; and the atmosphere was so buoyant that we could not bear it more
so when walking without flying off into space.
"I don't suppose it makes much difference to a fellow where he's born,
but I'd like a more cheerful place to live in," said Guy, throwing
himself on the turf, and pulling his hat over his eyes.
A stiff climb up slippery stone steps, with samphire growing perilously
near, brought us to the "fortress," and what there was in stone
suggested little by way of poetry or romance. Guy had made up his mind
beforehand to see something quite different--Tintern Abbey, or Warwick
Castle, or something. But this! As he couldn't see what he wished for,
he would see nothing; so tilted his hat over his eyes to keep off the
sun and hide disappointment. We left him where he lay, and rambled.
A fine bit of rock scenery, even in Cornwall, and worth looking at, is
this. If there had only been a tempest, and all the elements at war,
their chorus of thunders drowning the sea-birds' cries! But to-day it
was sunshine and peace, and nothing to tell of war but sharp-pointed
rocks and landslips and slides telling their own tale, writ large.
"This is the very place in which Arthur should have been born," said
the Bookworm, when Guy, tired of his own discontent, joined us.
"I don't see any reason for it," said Guy.
"No! When Arthur first opened his eyes upon this rock, what impression
do you think he received? This was a fit cradle for great things in a
great mind, and this man was great."
"Never lived at all, perhaps."
"I don't care. This was a fit cradle for an allegory of war between
What Is and What Should be, and Arthur is as the light shining in
darkness."
"Have it your own way," said Guy; "but wouldn't some other place do
just as well?"
"Quite, if the first impressions of the newly born were of eternal
struggle. Arthur was born for the world, and not for a parish."
"I think we'd better clear," said Guy, sharply. "Here's the lady in
specs., and the antiquarian with the trumpet, and the whole crew.
They've all got their Tennysons, and I can't go over it again. If the
place was only a bit like it, I wouldn't mind."
* * * * *
Dozmary Pool is a cheerless place at its best; it is situated in a
sad-coloured region, wherein stones grow best, and everything that
has life struggles for existence. This is the place that Tennyson
selected for the King's death, and the mysterious disappearance of his
famous sword "Excalibur." In Arthur's time the mere was better worth
calling a lake than now, but the stones and barren lands and hills and
general "wishtness" of the place are pretty much the same. The locality
is marked as about one thousand feet above sea-level, and in winter
the place is said to be more breezy than pleasant. They have been
draining the pool a bit lately, but no trace has yet been discovered of
"Excalibur"--one day a syndicate may be formed to dredge the mere. An
arm "clothed in white samite, mystic, beautiful," holding King Arthur's
sword with jewelled hilt, and every jewel worth a king's ransom, would
be worth a trifle, and make the poet's reputation as an historian. Some
people are never satisfied until they can see and handle things.
Guy touched the water of the silent pool, and, finding it real, was
encouraged to sit down and discuss things in a matter-of-fact sort of
way. He said we could start with facts here, for here was a mere, and
the water was wet. Then, there were rushes growing on the margin of
the pool, and when the wind blew, no doubt they made rush music--sad,
mournful music--a sort of place where a fellow who had had a good
licking in battle would come and hide, and die, if he could, and no
one to see him do it.
"I like this story: there's something human about it, and it was a bit
rough on Sir Bedivere to be told to chuck away the only thing King
Arthur had got. I feel for him. Only fancy being told to throw away the
only available asset to pay funeral expenses! It was very human on the
part of Sir Bedivere to want to keep Excalibur, and I don't suppose
that any of Arthur's friends and next-of-kin believed him when he said
he threw it into the mere. He said he did, and we'll let it go at that;
and if it should be dredged up one day, why, of course, the good Sir
Bedivere will leave the court without a stain upon his character."
The sun was westerning; a slight breeze ruffled the waters of the mere
and the dry reeds rustled. The Bookworm said it must have been a fit
place for a great temptation, and he was glad that Tennyson made it
appear that Sir Bedivere was a man of honour. A chough skimmed across
the water, and the Bookworm said this was a strange coincidence--we
were talking about King Arthur, and the very bird which legend said his
soul inhabited came upon the scene. This was only wanted to make the
wild place a sanctuary.
"Nothing but legend," said Guy, quickly. "Wherever you are in this
county, its nothing but legend. You walk on legend, and just breathe
it all the time."
"Perhaps you never heard this one," said the Bookworm. "There's time to
tell it."
"Go ahead, old man," said Guy. "Another added to the number won't count
much."
KING ARTHUR'S CHOUGH.
Well, then, you know, said the Bookworm, that King Arthur was married
to one Jenefer (sometimes called Guinevere, which is the same thing),
and that Merlin was present at the wedding. Everybody was having a
good time, and Merlin slipped out and consulted the stars. He had a
monopoly in that business, and was paid special fees by all the swagger
people who wanted to know what trouble they'd be likely to get into if
they but went the right way to work about it. Well, Merlin slipped out
of the castle, and ran against a young gentleman singing, "The night
is clear, and I am all alone," underneath the royal bridal chamber.
"You'd better go and sing indoors," said Merlin, making a note of the
fact that this was Launcelot, a young sprig of nobility who thought no
small beer of himself in those days. He was an army man, and fond of
poaching. Merlin read something in the stars that night which he told
an old chough, who knew more of the black art than any other bird.
This chough Merlin gave the King as a wedding present. The bird was as
black as a raven in those days, and used to live so long that it was
only at its prime at a hundred years.
Queen Jenefer was much written about in the chronicles of her time; and
so the poets know what she did, and what she wore, and how she looked,
and what she said at all the grand tournaments whereat she distributed
blue ribands and prizes to knights of high degree.
The King was a busy man, so busy that in the end mischief came of
it, for when garden parties and jousts and things were going on, he
was wont to say to Launcelot, his aide-de-camp in chief: "Just you
look after the Queen this afternoon." Now this suited Launcelot full
well, for he was a born Squire of dames and a gallant man as well as
a fighter of renown. Sometimes the King sighed when he saw his Queen
riding away gaily by the side of Launcelot; but he was a fond husband,
and it was not in his heart to say her nay when she would a-hawking go,
or watch the young knights a-hurling for a silver ball.
So the habit grew as the King got busier and busier. And though
Launcelot liked more and more to wait upon the Queen and learned to put
up with her tempers, the Queen was not happy at home, where she had it
all her own way, but would look in the mirror and pity herself, for
that being plump and fair to look upon there was no Arthur at hand
to pinch her cheeks and tell her so. At times she even grew weary at
hearing how good Arthur was, and would exclaim in her tantrums--
"What care I how good he be!"
And to her little waiting maid she would say: "By my faith, I could do
with less goodness abroad and more comfort at home."
The old chough which Merlin gave the King was the wireless messenger
between the King and Queen, and carried messages to and fro. Launcelot
was left behind, as usual now, when the King went on a fighting tour in
Wales. He had, however, a fit of the "blues" just then, and the Queen
put him on milk and soda and dry biscuit diet, so he soon got well, and
trouble began. They played hide-and-seek, and found each other in the
gardens, and quarrelled and made it up again, until the Queen had fond
eyes for none but Launcelot; and the old chough hopped about the Court,
and was kept waiting for a return message which, when he got it, wasn't
worth the carrying, so light of love the words were. The old chough had
a friend at Court, a dwarf, who played the fool, and skipped about like
a withered leaf, and learnt a good deal more than people wot of. One
day he tied a paper around the chough's leg, which opened the King's
eyes when he read it; and he whispered something to the chough, which
made him turn red about the beak.
The King was still in Wales, and his sword ran crimson. A council of
war broke up in confusion, all through one Murdock, a bosom friend
of Launcelot's, putting his spoke in all the King's plans. It was
Murdock's turn to sleep on the mat outside the King's chamber, and the
old chough, acting on information received, kept his eye on Murdock.
The King was sweetly dreaming of home and Jenefer, his Queen, when the
chough woke him.
"What's up?" asked the King.
"Come and see," croaked the chough, hopping towards the door.
Then King Arthur noticed that the old chough was crimson about the
feet and legs, and great drops of blood stained the floor, and he soon
found the reason, for the chough had slain Murdock in his sleep, and so
saved the life of the King, as was proved by correspondence in secret
cypher found in the traitor's breast-pocket. Then the King called all
the Court together, and in their presence knighted the chough; and from
that day the chough family have had red beaks and legs.
When King Arthur died, his soul entered into the body of Sir Chough,
his old familiar and preserver, and now, whenever he visits the scenes
of past shame and glory, it is in the body of a chough, and that is
why the Cornish would not kill a chough in the old days, when this
story was fresh in their minds.
"Now the chough is protected by Act of Parliament," said Guy.
"Ill-protected," replied the Bookworm. "What Act of Parliament is so
effective as a feeling of reverence consecrated by centuries? You
destroy tradition at your own peril."
"All right; the story isn't bad," said Guy. "I thought we were going to
have something tasty about Queen Jenefer and Launcelot."
"No, the story is only concerned with showing how and why a black
chough got a red beak and legs, and transmitted the distinction to the
whole family of choughs. If you want the story of the whitewashing of
Jenefer, you must go to Tennyson."
"I know--the Queen and the little maid that in convent did dwell. It is
very nice reading, even if you don't believe it," said Guy.
The popular fancy buried King Arthur in a long mound in the Camelford
district--about the bleakest and most sterile in the county. There is
an ancient British fortification here, and here the old people thought
a fit and proper place for the resting-place of a King for ever at
war against men and the age he lived in. But no legend seems to have
fastened on this spot as the centre of mystic visitation by red-legged
choughs, or the shadowy repentant forms of Jenefer and Launcelot, and
all those who failed to keep the oaths of chastity and the higher life.
Only here and all around--a land of mountain, bog, and moor, bleak and
inhospitable--is a vast burial-ground of ancient Britons in kist and
tumuli, rude dwellings and entrenchments. Here King Arthur may lie and
sleep as soundly as in the "Vale of Avalon," the poet's paradise for a
grand soul born before its time; but when legend is so silent, history
is doubtful in this land.
We reached Camelford, and at night the piskies sealed our eyes in sleep
too restful even for the shadow of a dream.
[Illustration: A CORNISH STILE.]