Part 16

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.”

“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.”

“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.

_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.

Simple typographical errors were corrected; unbalanced quotation marks were remedied.

Illustrations in this eBook have been positioned between paragraphs and outside quotations.

The original List of Illustrations (LoI) distinguished between full-page illustrations that “faced” pages, and mid-page illustrations that were “on” pages. This eBook does not make that distinction. In versions that support hyperlinks, the links lead to the actual illustrations, regardless of where they appear.

Transcriber used the List of Illustrations to add captions to illustrations lacking them, and removed the printer’s notes regarding the pages to which some illustrations should be facing. The captionless illustrations near the beginning of the book are decorative.

The index was not checked for proper alphabetization or correct page references.

Page 163: The text on the mural was printed in Black Letter.

Page 185: The symbol before “War Office” is an up-arrow.

Page 191: The text taken from the chancel was printed in Black Letter.

The quotation beginning on page 205 was printed in Black Letter.

Page 217: There is a macron above the ‘m’ in the word “Comaund”.

Page 218: “and waits are lingering” may be a misprint for “waifs”.

End of Project Gutenberg's From Paddington to Penzance, by Charles G. Harper