Chapter 2
The ecclesiologist will find many interesting old churches in this neighbourhood, of which perhaps that at Probus is the most important, as it is the least known. The tower is over one hundred feet in height, being the highest in the county, and is exceptionally rich in delicate carvings and clustered pinnacles. The present building is mainly Perpendicular, but the foundation of a church here is attributed by tradition to Athelstan, who is said to have established a college of secular canons dedicated to St. Probus. The chancel screen is modern with the exception of the lower portion, which has been made up of the old fifteenth-century bench ends. A full and highly interesting account of this church, by Canon Fox Harvey, appeared in the _Truro Diocesan Magazine_ for 1905. Above the woods of Tregothnan, on the left bank of the Truro, stands the fourteenth-century church of St. Michael Penkivel, with numerous brasses to the memory of the Boscawens; while on the right bank of the Fal is Trelissic, a classical building whose portico is an exact reproduction of the temple of Erectheus at Athens.
All visitors to Truro make their way to the historic port of Falmouth by water, when they travel along a length of river scenery that possesses no equal in beauty with the exception perhaps of a somewhat similar reach of the romantic Dart, in the adjoining county of Devon. Any mention of the Dart, however, as a possible rival to the Fal, is much resented by Cornishmen, and one that had better be left unsaid within the boundaries of the delectable Duchy.
The old port of Falmouth is situated in a sheltered bay with the glittering sea beyond. Landward lie the villages of Mabe and Constantine, with their great granite quarries, and beyond them wide expanses of undulating and treeless land that is not devoid of beauty. Here the climate is so mild that hydrangeas become large bushes, and the eucalyptus attains the proportions of a forest tree. The port rose perhaps to its greatest height of prosperity in the days of the fourth George, when the famous Falmouth packets--ten-gun brigs officered by naval men--carried the mails to various Mediterranean ports, and to the North American and West Indian stations. A well preserved relic of these good old days may be seen at Swanpool, where, in a cottage built by Commander Bull, may be observed a chiselled relief of the old "Marlborough" packet at the top angle of the façade. As a port Falmouth has not kept pace with the steady growth in the size of steamships, although the opening of the railway to Truro set Falmouth cogitating great schemes in the way of spacious docks and large hotels. Some of us do not regret that the town's maritime ambitions have been but partially realized. We have many busy and flourishing seaports, but there is only one Falmouth, with its quaint little alleys leading to the waterside, inconvenient and hopelessly behind the times, yet picturesque beyond description and redolent of the spirit of the past. One of the most pleasing views of Falmouth is that obtained from the little township of Flushing across the harbour, once a quite fashionable suburb, but now a rather poor little fishing village.
The excursions from Falmouth, and the places of interest that lie within easy reach are too numerous to mention, for their very names are an attraction to the inquisitive topographer. Mylor lies over the hills of Flushing on the beautiful waters of the Fal; St. Mawes and the fishing town of Gerrans are equally near; while the most hardened tourist could not fail to wish to visit a village endowed with the charming name of St. Just in Roseland.
A reference should be made to the fine promontory of Pendennis, almost surrounded by the sea, on the summit of which stands the historic castle that has played no small part in our island story.
There are two road routes from Falmouth to the Lizard--the regular route through Helston, and the other, a trifle longer, by way of the woods of Trelowarren, the seat of the Cornish Vyvyans. The most enjoyable way, however, of viewing this well-known promontory is to sail from Falmouth. Those who would woo the charms of the Cornish coast from the water should remember that even on the calmest day sailing along this exposed seaboard is no child's play, but a serious business. As a matter of fact no one who is not intimately acquainted with the coast should take a boat out of the harbour without an experienced man on board, and no amateurs should attempt unaided, to sail the lugsail boats in general use among the fishermen. The best boat for yachting in these waters is a ten or fifteen ton cutter or yawl, such as can be hired at Falmouth for quite a moderate sum. But the coast is a dangerous one, for although the morning run past the dreaded Manacles, Helford river, St. Keverne's, and right down to the Lizard, may present no difficulties, the return evening journey, with a stiff breeze from the land making a choppy sea, and the puzzling lights at the complicated entrance to the anchorage, are disturbing elements that make one feel thankful to have the skipper on board to guide the little craft through the maze of shipping, and pick up her moorings. For small boat sailing the waters of the Fal are ideal, but here also, as on the salt waters beyond the river mouth, great care is required by reason of the wind cutting down the creeks and gullies with practically no warning. What a halo of tragedy lies over the dreaded Manacles! and what wonderful escapes some fortunate vessels have had. The author once saw a schooner of five hundred tons thread the narrow channels of the needle-pointed rocks in safety, but the feat was regarded by his companion, an old sailor of Falmouth, as little short of a miracle. As a matter of fact captains who get their ships among the Manacles are so anxious to keep the news from reaching the owners that they hang a sail over the names of their ships.
By a glance at the map it is obvious to anyone that no vessel going up or down the Channel need be within a dozen or more miles of the Manacles. Yet many still get there; and few are fortunate enough to get away without becoming total wrecks. Not only on account of nearness of time do the _Mohegan_ and the _Paris_ disasters take undoubted precedence in the Manacles' victims, but on one occasion the loss of life was appalling. The _Mohegan_ was a steamship of 7000 tons in charge of Captain Griffiths, the commodore of the Atlantic Transport Company. At half-past two on her second day out she signalled "All well" at Prawle Point. Four and a half hours later, when the light was good and the wind not high, she dashed into the Vase Rock, one of the outer Manacles, and within twenty minutes all except the upper portions of her masts and funnels were beneath the water. How the _City of Paris_ got on the rocks is equally a mystery, for she is computed to have been twenty miles out of her proper course when she struck, and the weather was fine and the night clear.
As Mr. Albert Bluett says: "We have the uncontradicted statements of seamen of all classes, that the bell-buoy, fixed to one of the outer Manacles, is utterly inadequate to warn vessels of their nearness to danger. And when the sounds of that bell came in the landward breeze to where I stood looking across the reef, they seemed, not a message of warning to those who cross the deep, but as the death-knell of the hundreds of men, women, and children who have breathed their last in the sea around the Manacles."
There is no doubt that generations of smugglers and wreckers existed all along this exposed and dangerous coast, and the lawlessness of the Cornish folk in such matters as smuggling, and pilfering from wrecks, earned for them a very unenviable reputation. The deeds of Jack Rattenbury, of Beer, and the daring exploits of Harry Paye, of Poole, fade into insignificance by comparison with the doings of John Carter, who was known and feared all along the wild Cornish seaboard. He was known locally as the "King of Prussia", owing, it is said, to his resemblance to Frederick the Great. Be this as it may, Bessy's Cove, a small bay a few miles to the west of Helston, has, since Carter's day, been known as Prussia Cove, a striking tribute to the power of the smuggler. At this cove Carter widened the harbour, fortified the promontory that overlooks it, and adopted the numerous caves for the storage of illicit cargoes. These splendid and natural storehouses may still be seen, together with the "King of Prussia's" house, and the remains of the battery he erected; for this intrepid smuggler did not hesitate to open fire on any of the king's ships that ventured within range of his guns. Carter flourished in the middle of the eighteenth century, and it is difficult for us to realize to-day that such a state of lawlessness could have existed in the days of our great-grandparents.
The difficulties of patrolling the coast in the days before steamships, and the passive assistance he must have received from the people, enabled Carter to carry on a very profitable trade, although he naturally had many escapes from capture.
Even when arrested in the act of conveying kegs of brandy to his customers, he appears to have found no difficulty in proving an _alibi_. The reason for this of course is that smuggling was regarded with more than toleration by the people and the gentry alike, while even the local administrators of justice had an interest in the ventures. The result was that it was impossible for the Revenue officers to obtain a conviction, for the magistrates regarded the flimsiest _alibi_ as excuse sufficient for them to set the "King of Prussia" at liberty.
At length the authorities appear to have realized that the ordinary legal methods, as administered by the local magistracy, were quite useless. Accordingly a strongly armed Revenue cutter sailed for Prussia Cove with orders to storm the stronghold and destroy the battery. As the cutter's instructions were not sent through the usual local channels, there was no leakage of the commander's intentions, and having received no warning of the expedition, the smugglers were taken completely by surprise. As soon as the hostile intentions of the cutter were revealed, Carter opened a heavy fire on the small boats that conveyed the landing party; but after a fierce fight, in which there were heavy casualties on both sides, a landing was effected, and the fortress carried by storm. The work of dismantling the fort was considered of more importance than the immediate capture of the smugglers, and nothing seems to be known as to whether they were ever arrested and tried.
For the exploration of the Lizard and Kynance districts there is no better centre than Helston, although those who find little to interest them in the interior of the peninsula may be advised to proceed direct to Lizard Town, as being in closer proximity to such attractive spots as Mullion and Cadgwith. Helston itself is an oldfashioned town that has not many attractions for the modern tourist. It is a borough of some antiquity, and once possessed a Norman castle which fell into ruin in the reign of Edward IV. The annual festival known as Helston Flora Day is generally considered to be a survival of an old Roman custom. It was originally held on the 8th of May, but in recent years has taken place on any convenient date. The greatest attraction of the place to-day is the Loo or Loe Pool, a large sheet of water two miles in length and five in circumference. This is quite one of the largest natural lakes in the south of England, and is a favourite resort for anglers. It is separated from the sea by a bar of shingle, scarcely three hundred yards wide at low tide. On this bar, in 1807, the _Anson_, a 40-gun ship, was wrecked, with a loss of sixty lives. One of the small inlets of this lake, Penrose Creek, is well known to botanists as the home of the little plant _Nitella hyalina_. The weed is found in four feet of water, occupying less than twelve square yards, and is not known to exist in any other locality in Great Britain.
Mullion Cove is considered by many people to be the most beautiful spot along the Cornish Riviera. It certainly has many attractions for the artist, and its caves and crags have been photographed, sketched, and painted _ad nauseam_.
No one with antiquarian tastes should neglect to visit the church of Mullion Church-town, a good Perpendicular building that was restored in 1870. The many features of interest include portions of the old rood screen, and a very fine set of carved bench ends which are justly considered to be the richest in carving of any in the west of England.
The view from the high land above the cove is one of great beauty, with St. Michael's Mount rising abruptly from the waters of the bay, and beyond it the clustered houses of Penzance.
Kynance Cove is an equally charming place that lies one and a half miles to the north-west of the Lizard. The bay is studded with a quantity of scattered rocks, which rejoice in such curious names as Devil's Bellows, Devil's Throat, the Letter Box, &c. At Landewednack in the parish of Lizard Point, the last sermon in the ancient Cornish language is said to have been preached in 1678. The church is one of the most beautifully situated along these wild southern shores.
The first view of Penzance from Marazion (known locally as Market Jew) is one that is never forgotten. Right before us, rises the famous St. Michael's Mount, capped with its architectural adornment; to the right the bay swings round in a semicircle to Penzance, beyond which is the harbour of Newlyn, the village that has played so great a part in the history of our modern school of painting.
Certainly nowhere else in England is found the like of St. Michael's Mount, with its curious mingling of a mediæval fortress and modern residence; of antiquarian treasures and up-to-date conveniences. At the foot of the rock is a tiny harbour and a cluster of cottages, and here also is a kind of station for the railway, which carries coal, provisions, and luggage up to the top of the Mount. When the tide is out the Mount can be reached along a causeway, but the road is very rough for walking, as one would expect from its peculiar position on the bed of the sea.
The Mount is really a pyramidical mass of granite, a mile in circumference, capped by a cluster of castellated buildings. The steep ascent up the side of the rock is commanded by a cross-wall pierced with embrasures, and a platform mounting two small batteries. The house itself has a few interesting points and an excellent chapel with some good details of the Decorated and Perpendicular periods. From the summit of the rock a superb panorama of the Cornish coast and the wide-spreading Channel may be obtained. The mythical legends and traditions that have grown up around this solitary rock bear much resemblance to those that are told about its French counterpart, the Mont St. Michel of Normandy. The romantic legends of both concern great heroes and super-terrestrial beings doing battle with evil dragons and fiendish monsters.
The Mount is certainly a very attractive spot, and, by the kindness of the owner, access to the castle is generally allowed. The building has been much modernized during recent years, but many of its original features remain. Some alterations at the chapel led to the discovery of a blocked-up Gothic doorway, which, being opened, revealed a flight of stone steps terminating in a dark vault, wherein lay the skeleton of a man. The old refectory of the monks is the most distinctive feature of the present house. The Mount is a parish without a public-house, the only one which ever existed there having been closed a few years ago.
In an old volume on Cornwall, published in 1824, we learn that "Turbot are caught in great plenty during the Summer Season. In Mount's Bay there have been instances of 30 being taken in an evening with the hook and line. When plentiful, they are sold from 4_d._ to 6_d._ per pound." Leland writes: "Penzantes about a mile from Mousehold, standing fast in the shore of Mount Bay, is the Westest Market Town of all Cornwall, Socur for botes or shypes, but a forced pere or Key. Theyr is but a Chapel yn the sayd towne, as ys in Newlyn, for theyr paroche Chyrches be more than a mile off."
The neighbourhood of Penzance is rendered very attractive by the variety of its scenery, and the glorious bay offers unlimited opportunities for boating and fishing. The mother church of Penzance is that of Madron a short distance away. The building stands 350 feet above the sea and contains some old memorials, including a tombstone to the memory of George Daniell, a local benefactor. His epitaph reads:
"Belgia me birth, Britaine me breeding gave, Cornwall a wife, ten children, and a grave."
Madron Well is a chalybeate spring once in much esteem for its curative properties, and its prophetical powers in respect to love and marriage. The holy well here, situated on the moor about a mile to the north-west of the church, was partially destroyed during the Parliamentary wars, by Major Ceely of St. Ives.
One of the most delightful excursions from Penzance is that to Mousehole and Lamorna Cove, and one for which the whole of a day should be allotted.
While in the neighbourhood of Penzance the visitor who is fortunate enough to be a good sailor should not fail to make the trip to the Scilly Isles, although the passage is generally a trying one. The islands consist mainly of low rocks, covered with gorse and heather where their slopes are not given over to flower growing, that great industry of these solitary isles. The coastward sides of the downs terminate in granitic rocks which are a terror to navigators. Even under the guard of three lighthouses and a lightship, thousands of lives have been lost on the Scillies, and there is a prodigious litter of wreckage wedged in among the granite boulders. Probably the worst disasters were the wreck of Sir Cloudesley Shovell's fleet in 1707, and that of the _Schiller_ in 1875. Of the hundreds of lesser calamities there is no record. St. Agnes is perhaps the worst offender, and the lighthouse keeper there is a gloomy man. It has been fittingly said that his landscape of rocks must be about as enlivening to him as a square mile or so of tombstones.
Penzance itself is a town of many attractions of the civilized order, and the whole of the neighbourhood is lovely. It is the most westerly town in England, and one that has a good deal of ancient history. The older part of the town, lying between Market Jew Street and the harbour, has retained a good deal of its ancient domestic architecture, but the churches have no features of any particular interest.
The fishing village of Newlyn is a picturesque but ill-built group of old cottages, fish-cellars, bungalows, and artists' studios. As an art centre it has played, and is still playing, a very considerable part, while many of the native models of the place look out from gilded frames in half the picture galleries of Europe. It must unquestionably be the most painted spot in the British Isles, and it would be difficult to find a single nook or corner that has not been depicted on paper or canvas. One of the curious little streets bears the exotic name of "Rue des Beaux Arts", a reminder of the fact that it was in a dwelling of this street that Frank Bramley painted his dramatic picture "_A Hopeless Dawn_", now in the Tate Gallery. There is a considerable artists' colony still resident here, although a good many of those who first brought the place into fame have migrated to pastures new, and particularly to the neighbouring port of St. Ives. At the same time Newlyn is still, and always will be, a magic word in art circles, for here such painters as Stanhope Forbes, Frank Bramley, J. A. Gotch, Walter Langley, Sydney Grier, Chevalier Tayler, to mention but a few, introduced a new if somewhat exotic phase into the traditions of British art. Mr. A. Stanhope Forbes, A.R.A., writes: "I had come from France, where I had been studying, and wandering down into Cornwall, came one spring morning along that dusty road by which Newlyn is approached from Penzance. Little did I think that the cluster of grey-roofed houses which I saw before me against the hillside would be my home for so many years. What lodestone of artistic metal the place contains I know not, but its effects were strongly felt, in the studios of Paris and Antwerp particularly, by a number of young English painters studying there, who just about then, by some common impulse, seemed drawn towards this corner of their native land.... It was part of our creed to paint our pictures directly from nature, and not merely to rely upon sketches and studies which we could afterwards amplify in the comfort of a studio."
The road from Penzance to Land's End being rather dull and devoid of interest, the best way to reach the outlying promontory is by one of the G.W.R. motors that make the regular journey. A stay of a short time is usually made at the Logan Rock, perched on the summit of a pile of crags. To reach it involves rather a breakneck scramble down and stiff climb up, and it is doubtful if the satisfaction of having done the feat is equal to the amount of fatigue involved. The stone rocks to a considerable degree, but less than it did before it was upset in 1824 by Lieutenant Goldsmith, who was commanded to replace it by the Admiralty. St. Buryan Church and Cross are both worth inspection. The former has a tower ninety feet in height, while the latter has been attributed to the Romano-British period. It is a plain little erection of stone standing on a base of five steps. On one side is carved in low relief a fully clothed figure of the Saviour with hands extended horizontally.
The first aspect of Land's End, with its covering of turf, worn smooth by the feet of many trippers, is disappointing; and it is only when we begin to wander about the lesser used trackways that it is possible to realize that this is no ordinary promontory, but a lonely headland broken into a hundred beetling crags, with huge granite boulders piled one on another, forming a stalwart bulwark against the onrushing waves of the Atlantic. In the crevices of these miniature precipices purple heather and golden gorse have set them here and there, while the silver lichens have clothed the scarred surfaces of rock with a tender grace. The wind-swept downs that cap the lonely headland are also not without a certain beauty, from the very nature of the surrounding waste of wild grey sea.
As we gaze over the waters from the top of this lonely rock, we think instinctively of the lost land of Lyonesse, that antiquaries and geologists tell us once stretched from our feet to the Scillies.
That such a denudation actually occurred is of course within the bounds of geological possibility, if we take the precaution to date the incident far enough back, to remote and prehistoric days. There is little credence to be attached to the local traditions, which affirm that fishermen on a calm, clear day, have seen the ruins of house and castle, cottage and farm, covered with dulse instead of stonecrop; or the shattered spires of one or two of the reputed "hundred and twenty churches". If such a kingdom ever existed it was long before the mediæval era, and a spired church belongs to the Gothic period.
Sir Richard Carew, the friend and contemporary of Raleigh and of Campden, assures us not only that proofs of the lost kingdom remained in his day, but that the fishermen's nets frequently brought up portions of "doors and windows" from the submerged houses.