Pleasurable Excursions in England - forgottenbooks.com · In the Land of Lorna Doone. IT is a very beautiful and romantic coast, this of Somerset and North Devon, with the Bristol

AND OTHER

PLEASU RABLE E! CU RS IONS

IN ENGLAND

WILLIAMH . R IBBING

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BOSTON : zoo PU RCHASE S'

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COPYRIGHT, 1895 ,

BY T. Y. CROWE LL COMPANY.

TYPOGRAPHY BY C . J.BOSTON .

C O NTENTS .

IN THE LAND OF LORNA DOONE

IN CORNWALLwR AN UMBRELLACOAcmNG TRI PS OU T OF LONDON

A BIT OF THE YORKSH IRE COAST

AMY ROBSART, KENI LWORTH, AND WARWICK x43

In the Land of Lorna Doone.

IT is a very beautiful and romanticcoast

,th is of Somerset and North

Devon,with the Bristol Channel flowing

between it and the vapory hills andshores Of South Wales . From desolate

moorlands it drops into the sea by cragsand precipice s of red and ye llow rock,sandstone

,and granite

,with here and

there a narrow sandy or shingly beach,which appears or disappears as the tidecomes in or ebbs. Seen from the sea,without a closer acquaintance

,it seems

to fall inland in softly rolling valleys,high

enough for the clouds to rest upon them,

but easy of passage,billowed in tran

qu illiz ing curves, peaceful and arable .

There is noMd,

however, than this . It is al l moorland,

2 IN THE LAND OF LORNA DOONE.

wild,uncultivated, sol itary ; Open to all

the winds that blow ; clothed w ith onlygorse and heather and bracken, or clumpsof scrub oaks and dwarf pines, in whichthe wild deer still finds shelter and multiplies. A good part of it is Exmoor

,

and what is not Exmoor is like Exmoor.Pitiful the plight of the wayfarer who

thinks it is as easy to cross afoot as itlooks ! He sees from the coast nothingbetween him and the horizon but oneshallow basin after another, with barelya ridge between them ; no steep h ill s toc l imb

,or gullies to descend ; a comfort

able farmhouse,or a cluster of cottages,

appears,perhaps

,in the lap of one of

the valleys . He is spent before he isundeceived . The wild moorland fallsaway everywhere into dark and difiicultravines ; and the cottages, instead Oflying in a vale

,are on a cliff with a long

descent to the Opposite Slope . Thereare few levels on Exmoor, few gradesthat do not drag the breath out of us.

IN THE LAND OF LORNA DOONE . 3

It is uphil l and downhi ll all the way toLynmouth

,whether we come from Barn

stable, M inehead, or Dulverton ; most sofrom Barnstable

,least so from Minehead.

And the wonderfu l th ing is— some

fixing unanticipated when one se es theblackness and desolation of the moorland - that while the uplands are so

austere, all the valleys, or most of them,

especially where they are narrowest,sup

port a vegetation of a richness unsur

passed even in England. Here you willfind the hydrangeas growing in colorsnever seen before ; roses cl imbing upporch and lattice ; the fuchsia as highas the chimneys

,and raining like the

thorns of Calvary ; myrtle and laurel,and hedgerows that are nothing butsolid banks of flower and leaf.J'

TO'

Eome from above is l ike exploringa nature harsh on the surface , but warmand generous at heart. Thes e combesare cut and threaded by the greenestlanes

,in which wild flowers follow the


march Of the months with such responseto the soft rains and velvety airs thatthey outlast their due season . Here youwil l find well-kept homesteads

,a pastoral

l ife,meadows

,and orchards in which

the fruit,if not showy

,is full of flavor

and sweetness . There is not a prettierglen in England than Glen Lynn

,and no

brook makes sweeter music than Brendon Water ; and Porlock, with its white,thatched, brier-covered cottages !eventhe village bank is thatched and coveredwith vines at Porlock! , i s an unspo il edvestige of the golden age when rafterswere low and hearths were wide .

But look Skyward from the combe,and

all is verdure, and you see th e foliagecease before the upper edge of the slopeis reached ; a shelving rock crops out asif it would tumble into the valley, andhigher than that is the heather ; a mileor so away the deceptive moorland isseamed with another “goyal,” or glen,or combe .


!All readers Of “Lorna Doone ” wil l

remember that Plover’s Barrows Farmwas amid scenes l ike these .

“Al l aboveis strong, dark mountain, spread withheath and desolate, but near our housethe valleys cave and Open warmth andshelter. Here are trees

,and bright

green grass,and orchards full of con

tentment, and a man may scarce espythe brook, although he hears it everywhere . And indeed a good stout piece

of it comes through our farmyard,and

swells sometimes to a rush of waves,

when the clouds are on the hilltops.But all below

,where the valley bends

,

and the Lynn stream goes along with it,

pretty meadows slope their breast, and

ye sun spreads on the water.”

Every one who comes here brings Mr.Blackmore ’s romance with him

,and this

part of Devon is as Often called “TheLand of Lorna Doone as by its propername . Along the coast are Minehead

,

Porlock, Glenthorne, Lynton, and Lyn


mouth, Ley Abbey, and the Valley OfRocks, all scenes in the story. A fewmiles inl and we find Oare, where Plover

’sBarrows was ; the Doone Valley, in whichthe outlaws had their stronghold ; Badgeworthy Water and the Waterslide, upwhich John Ridd climbed with so muchdifficulty. On the other side of Exmoorare Dulverton

,where Reuben Bucka

back prospered under the s ign of theGartered Kitten

,

” an honest hosierand draper

,serge and long-cloth ware

houseman,

” as he described himselfwhen the Doones robbed him and sethim adrift on the moor, stIAppfidh like

Mazeppa, along__ the spine of a wild

ponyJ ! North Molton,where a man of

great renown,Tom Faggu s the High

wayman,was born ; and Tiverton, the

chief boast of which used to be itsworthy grammar school

,founded and

endowed in 1604 by“Master Peter

Blundell, of that place, clothier.”

V These are no trifling matters to read

IN THE LAND OF LORNA DOONE. 7

ers of the romance,though local histo

ries an tteers may not take note ofThey are the verities while the

family histories of Sir John This andSquire That

,with their stag-hunting

,and

squabbles,and hard drinking

,fade out

of sight. It is not too much to say thatof all that has been written about thispart Of Devon, nothing possesses usmore than Mr. Blackmore ’s story ; andthe steady march of history through so

cial and political changes has left nofootprints which are scanned with thesame interest as those of the charactersin the romance .

Blundell’

s is at Tiverton still,though

changed in its habitation,and they had

a Greek play there the other day ; theyhave more Of the classics than knucklesnow

,but as Exmoor is uncrossed by the

railway, which is so destructive of an

cient things, innovation has displacedless there than in other parts of the

To reach Porlock,Oare

,Lyn

8 IN THE LAND OF LORNA DOONE .

mouth, or Lynton, we must travel bycoach ; and though the distance fromLondon is less than two hundredfifty miles, the j ourney takes a day. Ther

’

oads-

a'

r

'

e hilly and solitary,but in good

condition ; too good to satisfy the imagination, which would welcome as anovelty, in these pampered days, suchvicissitudes as John Ridd and John Frymet on the ir way from Tiverton to C are,— the sloughs in which the horses sankto the withers, the gibbets with theirgrewsome pendants

,and which were the

only guideposts to reassure the travellergroping his way through the fog.

“Then there came a mellow noise,

very low and moumsome ; not a soundto be afraid of, but to long to know themeaning Of

,with a soft rise of the hair.

Three times it came and went, as theshaking of a thread might pass awayinto the di stance, and then I touchedJohnFry

,to kn ow that there was some

thing near me ; so wri

IN THE LAND OF LORNA DOONE. 9

Doon’t

’e be a vule

,Jan ! Vaine

mooz ick as iver I ’eer l God bless the

man as made un do it. ’

Have they hanged one Of theDoones

,then, John ?

’

Hush,lad ; niver talk laike O

’thiccy.

Hang a Doone Hang a Doone ! Godknows, it

’s the King would hang prettyquick if her did.

’

Then who is it in the chains, JohnI felt my sp irits rise as I asked

,for

nowI had crossed Exmoor so Often asto hope that the people sometimes deserved it, and think that it might be alesson to the rogues who unjustly lovedthe mutton they were never born to .

”

We al so miss the excitement !a verypleasurab le excitement it must have been

,

unless the li terature of the highwaymcannot be believed! Of falling in with anyknight of the road, such as the ingeniousTom Faggu s, and seeing him gallop Off,cocked hat in hand, an epigr his

lips,and our watch in ere

IO IN THE LAND OF LORNA DOONE .

are no highwaymen on Exrnoor ; but letal l travellers beware Of The CarnarvonArms at Dulverton .“The moorjswild a nd yagantmenggg h,however ; and he who loves solitude mayhave his fil l of it, if he keeps out of a fewbeaten paths, like the Doone Valley. As

but the moor, swelling with the softestcurves, and dressed with heather, gorse,and the trembling plumes of bracken ;the Sprinkled gold of the gorse is lostsight Of in the rich flood of purpleheather, but the scent Of both is blownthrough the air by the sea wind ; for themoor ends on its northern edge in awall of clifi

‘

s. White mountains of cloudsfloat over him ; he hears the bleating ofsheep

,and sees the gulls circling from

the she lves of the precipice.“M

day,and thus hy__th_e W indand“ !

o

the clouds . Nothing will break his isolation but the bark of a colliexor, towards

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the wave, the rustle of the bracken, theW ‘

ahfi h -ahfj of”the chance

come over the moorland,a sound that

will remind those who hear it of thenoise that mystified the inmates of P10ver’s Barrows Farm, though its cause isnot the same . It begins with pulsations

,

as of the gush of water on soft turf, followed by the accelerated patter of aheavy rain

,and that soon is magnified

by the beat of hoofs ; voices becomerecognizable

,though blurred and Ob

scured by the more penetrating yelp of

hounds and! the! thumping breathing Of

horseg'fle caves of the sea have let

”

IDES? upon our quietude an army of destruction

,but it passes us with its goad

ings and strainings, and leaves us topeace again w ith explanations in afterthoughts. That any explanation shouldbe needed would probably be as good ajoke as could be heard at dinner thatnight at any country house in the triangle between Minehead and Dulverton,

IN THE LAND OF LORNA DOONE . I 3

and Dulverton and Lynmouth . Whodoes not know that the Oldest family ofthe ne ighborhood is that of the wild reddeer

,who was here before the Conquest,

and fostered after the Conquest to suchan extent that death or mutilation wasthe penalty upon any one less than theking who harmed h im ? He is protected

still,though he is said to be a very de

structive creature,capable of doing

much m ischief in the field of turn ips orOf ripe corn. He is such a devil of afellow that when he is among the turnipshe w il l take only a bite out of each andthrow the rest away. So royal an animal, so fam iliar with the ways of sport,cannot be so ignoble as to complainafter so much protection

,when there i s

a“meet ” to hunt h im down .

It would be unfair to the reader to lethim think that this country is altogetherunspo iled by the tourist and all the evilsthat follow in the tourist ’s train .

VLarge

hotels have grown n upmatp Lynton and

I 4 IN THE LAND OF LORNA DOONE.

Lynmouth,and ous and dirty ex

cursion b oats cheap trippers

from Cardiff,and Bristol

,

only a few,however

,compared with the

crowdswho go to Ilfracombe . The wateris too shallow for the steamers to comealongside the j etty

,and even in good

weather the landing can be made only insmall boats. In some tides and windsthese do not dare to put out ; and thoseof the trippers who have meant to landhere are carried on to I lfracombe

,which

is no isy enough to suit them better.5/ But though the twin sisters

,as Lyn

ton andm ynmouth are called, have not

wholly escaped the van ities of changingfashions

,they have lost but l ittle of the ir

quietude and beauty. The distance between them is t ghLalOne : Wat“M’

same cl iff under_whighl ies In a winding l ittle street

,

with the East Lynn and the West Lynnflowing into it out Of th ickly woodedcombes and dancing together over

IN THE LAND OF LORNA DOONE. I S

bowlders into the sea. Everywhere behind us rise cliffs and hills

,heather-clad

on the tops, which roll away on to themoorland

,but on the lower slopes man

tled with a luxuriant foliage,which de

scends until it is bathed with the saltspray. Wherever there is a clearing

,it

is a garden overflowing with color ;wherever there is a wall

,some vine has

taken fond possession Of it and wrappedit up. Reaching down to the entranceOf the harbor !a harbor largeenough are strings ofancient cottages

,pink

,pale blue

,and

yellow, with thatched roofs and leadedcasements

,and roses

,fuchsias

,and ivy

climbing over them . Some Of themface the street

,with gardens choked up

with geraniums,hollyhocks

,marigolds,

sweet-W illiams, sweet pease, and sun

flowers,and in the rear hang over the

stream,with l ittle tr0picalmbalconies,

and stairs to the water’s e An el

bowOf sea-wall, with an Old tower at


the end of i t, shelters a smack or two,glossy as a porpoise w ith a pellicle of

coat upon coat Of tar, and beyond thatthe breakers rush in and roar over afloor of loose, tumbled bowlders . S it

you down there on the parapet and listen to the gulls as they take their protesting chickens farther and farther outand nearer to the voluminous whiteclouds that follow the south-west windacross the channel like smoke from volcanio explosions.j The splash of therivers is l ike a minor chord woventhrough the sombre harmony of the surf,and the land-b irds are still audible alongthe shore ; the air has lost its sting sinceit came down from the moor

,and has

picked up in the gardens other scents

besides heather. Sit you down here,

and be Silent and content ; or, if you willhave conversation, there is a fishermanwith a beard of gold and a face of fire :he is always propped in h is blue Guernsey shirt against the sea-wall

,he or his

IN THE LAND OF LORNA DOONE. I 7

mate,who has knowledge of the same

things,no more and no less.

It was on a walk to Lynton fromStowe

'

y,by the way

,that the ancient

mariner appeared in a vision to Wordsworth and Coleridge ; and the same pairof poets had selected the Valley Of

Rocks above as the scene of “TheWanderings Of Cain .

”

V There are more shops and houses atLynton than at Lynmouth, and nothingto compare with the lovely old harbor ;but just to the westward of the townl ie the Valley of Rocks and the Devil ’sCheese Wring

,under which was the den

of the Old witch, MotherMelldrum. Thevalley is amping trough on the inners ide of the cliffs

,which rise to a great

he ight along this part of the coast. On

one side of it there is a fairly smoothhill

,clothed with bracken

,gorse

,and

heather ; but on the other,huge bare

rocks are p iled up in shattered masses,

and edge the sky in a crocketed line

I 8 IN THE LAND OF LORNA DOONE .

much more savage than the crests of

the moors, which usual ly have a long,curved, reposeful sweep . The mouth Ofthe valley opens on leagues of promontories

,with bays between

,—Wringclifi

Bay,Ley Bay

,and Heddon

’s Mouth ;

but set in the middle of it, l ike a fang,i s a sharp

,dark gray peak

,with caverns

and a chafing ring Of surf around itsbase . This is Castle Rock ; and directlyopposite to it

, on the smoother slope ofthe valley

,the Cheese Wring stands

,

slab upon slab,as though placed there by

the derrick of a mason . A m ile fartheralong the coast

,Duty Point is pushed

out into the sea, and under its shoulderis Ley Abbey

,which in John Ridd ’s

time was the haunt Of smugglers. ButDe Whichchalse

,our great magistrate,

certified that there was no proof Of un

lawful importation,ne ither good cause

to suspect it,at a time of Christian

charity ; and we knew that it was a foulthing for some quarrymen to say that



of rooks look like a dark fruit, and overone corner Of the churchyard a gnarledash knots itself, suggesting an antiquityfully as remote as that of the greatwinter described by Mr. Blackmore .N icholas Snowe still l ives in the parish ;and less than two miles away from Carethe Badgeworthy Water rushes downunder the old bridge atMalmsmead,and we stand at the portals Of theDoone Valley

,holding our breath in

anticipation of the chasms, the sombrecrags, the sinister bogs, and the treacherous Waterslide that we are to see .But there wil l be disappointment and

chagrin here,unless the reader who fol

lows in our footsteps grants to theromancer the same l icense in cription

that he has in his chamgrsl Is Mr.Blackmore ’s imagination to have no playat all ? Is he to be considered as apedagogue with a primer of geographyin his hand ? or a surveyor with a linkand chain and a theodolite

,setting down


boundaries and dimensions to the fraction of an inch ? Those who take himin that sense explore the Doone Valleywithout seeing its beauties

,and come

out of it sore from unrewarded efforts toput aBainbowin a bottle .

\/ The vgllms bare and wild, and nearP! .the upper end are several mounds, whichare said to mark the location of theDoone huts ; but the scenery is lessstupendous than that of the Valley of

Rocks, or of many ravines in the course

of the East Lynn . One agrees withReuben Huckaback

,that it is a poor

place for an ambuscade . Then the

Waterslide,” what if it is not appall

ing,and that it is notmore than a few

inches deep ? It is very pretty, and theway the stream seems to gelatinate overa dark slab in its course is very curious.There is enough resemb lance to thedescription to j ustify the theory that Mr .Blackmore sat here one day wanting a

scene for John Ridd ’s adventure, and


that forthwith, in obedience to his magicpowers

,everything in the en became

magnified a hundred ti He cannotremember whether he did or not

,and

memory is not a part of the art of

fiction . Al l that he wi ll say lies in anote now before me : “I could hardlytell— with long attempts at memorywhence and how I picked up the Oddsand ends, some Of which came from mygrandfather !rector Of Oare! , circa 17 90,

and later . I know not howearly, or howlate

,for he never l ived there, but rode

across the moors to give them a sermonevery other Sunday. And when hebecame too Old for that my uncle usedto do it for him .

”

In Cornwallwith an Umbrella.

ITTLE is left of imaginative simplicity in the English peasantry. The

smock-frock is a thing Of antiquity ; theinsular capacity for wonderment thatmade any stranger an Obj ect of attention in the small vil lages has vanishedin the l ight which comes from commonschools and newspapers— an illumination which often leaves an irreverentand prosaic acuteness in place of themore interesting, if also more deplorable

,credul ity of ignorance . England

is still p icturesque in the calm spirit Ofits l ife and in its beautiful landscape

,

but its rustics have lost most of thatoddity of character which made themseem belated in contrast with the knowingness Of American villages twenty

23

24 IN CORNWALL

years ago. The bicyclist and pedestrianhave invaded every corner, and havecommunicated some sort of enlightenment where they have sojourned . TheOld inns have modern appliances ; and atsome time or other many of the people,taking advantage of

“excursions,

” havefelt the disillus ionment and expansiveinfluence of London .

This superstitious and crude simplicity Of character was preserved in Comwall longer than in any other county.

For centuries its geographical positiondiscouraged intruders . The Celtic popu lation held to its primitive language

,

and l ittle new blood was introduced toameliorate its austere and d ifficult tem

perament From the period when thePhoenicians came to Cassiterides

,like

importunate creditors, for tin, and theDruids practised their ceremonial andpicturesque hypocrisies

,thi s w ild terri

tory, girt by the sea on all its boun

daries except the north-east, was fertilein legend and witchcraft.

W ITH AN UMBRELLA . 25

The nursery Jack who killed the giantCormoran was born at Land ’s End.

King Arthur hovered above the westerncoast in the form of a bird . The evileye worked its Spells

,and was recog

niz ed by the pecul iar form of the ball,

which was sometimes clear and lustrous,

and at other times covered with a filmygauze ; or the pupil was ringed twice .Any one afflicted by the malevolentglance could rel ieve h imself by bringingaway a piece of bread from the hands

of the priest at sacrament,and carrying

it round the church a certain number Oftimes at midn ight. He was then metby a big venomous toad

,gaping and

gasping ; and when he put the bread intothe reptile ’s mouth

,it breathed upon

him three times,and thenceforth the

evil-eye could not have any influenceupon him . Whistling brought a gentlebreeze to the farmer when winnowinghis corn

,and a favorable wind to the

sailor . There were phantom ships and

Spirits in the storm-clouds .

26 IN CORNWALL

The pixies were sociable, though disposed to be mischievous they appeared

on the hearth-stones unexpectedly, anddisappeared as suddenly through thekey-holes

,without exciting any alarm .

They were conciliated by amiability andcourage . A farmer’s boy was once sentfrom Portallowto a ne ighboring villagefor some household necessaries ; and onh is way home

,when it was dark

,he

heard a voice saying,

“I ’m for Portallow Green .

” “As you are going myway

,

” thought he,

“I may as well haveyour company and he too cried, I ’mfor Portal lowGreen .

” Instantly hefound himself on the Green

,surrounded

by a throng of little laughing pixies,

who now cried,

“I ’m for Seaton Beach,

”

- a place between Looe and Plymouth,several miles distant. Instead of trying

to escape from them, however, the boyrejoined

,

“I ’m for Seaton Beach ; andin another moment he was whisked off

to Seaton,where the pixies danced


28 IN CORNWALL

his parcel to his mistress,who compl i

mented him on h is despatch .

“You’dsay so, if you only know’d where I ’vebeen . I ’ve been with the p ixies toSeaton Beach

,and I ’ve been to the

King of France ’ s house, and all in fiveminutes . The farmer said he was“mazed — mad.

“I thought you ’dsay I was mazed

,

” answered the lad,so I brought away this mug to showvor it

,producing the goblet, which

secured credence for his story,and be

came the heirloom of many generations .If the pixies have survived these ra

tionalistic t imes, it seems most likely tobe in th is country of Druidical remains

,

Of massive cairns,and of “logging ”

stones,whose ponderous bulk sways at

the touch Of a woman ’ s hand, while res isting any more violent disturbance .

Cornwal l was one of the last of thecounties to admit a railway

,and the

Falmouth coach still maintained itsglory when the others lay dismantled

WITH AN UMBRELLA . 29

in their stable-yards . But that era ispast ; and now, with a purse and anumbrella

,a tourist may see a good deal

of Cornwall without inconvenience as toconveyance

,though it is probable that

both the umbrella and the money, unlessthe latter exceed twenty pounds, will beexhausted in less than two weeks .An umbrella is essential in Cornwall .

That m ild equab il ity of climate which ithas been said would lead a Spaniard tosuppose that there was no summer

,a

Canadian that there was no winter,and

an Amer ican that the sun never shines,

i s attended by frequent rains at all seasons and unless the visitor is preparedto be content for days together w ith asteady falling rain

,it is more than prob

able that he will be defeated in his

sight-seeing. The hum idity is constantand general . The moisture in the air

holds and reveals the colors of the light,and Often imparts a foreign richness toal l physical obj ects . It seems like an

30 IN CORNWALL

other sky than England ’s,softer and silk

ier. The clouds that fly over have abundant s igns of rain, even when they passwithout emitting it ; and the sea thatbreaks all along the bristling shore pales

under constant mists . The vegetationresponds to all these benefactions witha luxuriance that covers nearly al lthings out-of-doors. At many placesthe crimson drops of the fuchs ias hangbefore the cottage fronts up to the dormer windows and wide eaves of theroofs, upon which grows a moss thatmixes its green with the dul l yellow Ofthe thatch . On the exposed coast therocks Often have a coating Of l ichens

,

and the waxy myrtle leaves few wallsundraped.

The geographical form of the countyand its climate are very enticing tobirds . Every year it is the first landvisited and the last quitted by the innumerable flocks

,which

,com ing from

North-western Af rica and South-western

WITH AN UMBRELLA . 3 1

Europe,Spread themselves throughout

England during the summer ; and in thewinter its comparatively warm climateis sought by many other birds

,driven

by cold and want of food from variousparts of Great Britain . Four hundred

b irds are recogn ized as British,and of

these two hundred and n inety have beenobserved in Cornwall.The climate is one of the most curious

things about Cornwall . The month of

January at Penzance is as warm as atMadrid

,Florence

,and Constantinople

,

while July is as cool as at St. Petersburg in that month . The Gulf Stream

,

that stands Off to the west,warms the

wind from that direction,and sends it

forward to defeat the rigorous blastsfrom the north-east . But this air that is

so kindly in winter is a tyrant in summer

,and

,as a local writer has prettily

said,

“rolls in,cloud on cloud

, till . the

sun is obscured by masses Of vapor,

which day after day no my of his can

32 IN CORNWALL

pierce ; then long pendent streams ofcondens ing vapor float over the lan

guishing ears of corn,or descend in

heavy rain to retard and injure the harvest.” It i s the west wind that makesan umbrella essential in Cornwall ; andwe were quite resigned when

,sitting in

the “Flying ! ulu,

” the fast train thatwas to carry us from London to Plymouth, nearly two hundred and fifty miles,in a little more than five hours, we sawthe fateful rain streaming down the windows of the car.Ever s ince the adventurous Phce ni

eiau s came to its shores, conceal ing theirdestination from their neighbors in orderto keep the business to themselves

,the

chief resource of Cornwall has been itsminerals . What Diodoru s Sicu lus saidon the subject is a matter of school history

,to which we need scarcely refer.

The Phcenicians found the traffic profitable

,and spoke well Of the people who

maintained them in it. After their day

WITH AN UMBRELLA. 33

the tin was transported to Gaul, andthence on pack-horses to the mouth ofthe Rhone . The demand for the metalwas increased in the Sixth and seventhcenturies by the fashion of putting bellsin the cathedral s and churches of Western Europe

,and the introduction of can

non added to it. It was found in the

several large surfaces of gran ite whichprotrude through clay-slate in Cornwall

,

and it was also procured in small grainsand nodules depos ited in alluvial sandsand gravels . It reached the market inblocks we ighing something over threehundred pounds .There is no such romance attaching to

the m ines of Cornwall as that of theComstock Lode in Nevada

,no such hap

hazard speculation, city-building, and

fortune-making. It has been under

ground plodding for very l ittle morethan the same amount of to il on thesurface would bring . A speculation thatnetted thirty thou sand pounds in thirty

34 IN CORNWALL

four years demands a note of exclamation at the end of the announcement.But as the m iners of the Comstock Lodesought for gold

,and

,in their ignorance

,

for some years overlooked the greateradvantage Of mining the superabundantsilver

,so the miners of Cornwall for cen

turies ignored the deposits of copper inthe eagerness to find tin . The COpper

did not exist in large quantities ; but thedeposits were worth min ing

,though the ir

value was not appreciated unti l late inthe eighteenth century. In 17 89 theproduction of copper ore in Cornwallalone was tons

,worth

in 1860 it had reached its maximumquantity, tons

,and its maximum

value, these figures including both Devonshire and Cornwall andsince then it has gradually decl ined. Allthe mining interests Of Cornwall are de

cayed . About three-fourths of the minesare suspended or abandoned, and thosein Operation employ a small number of


36 IN CORNWALL

neath the surface, she is generallymorose in aspect above . A few m iles off

in the south-west we could see a loftyand isolated hill

,crowned with a bleak

and caste llated building, which stood on

the very apex in an attitude of sul lendefiance . It seemed to have belongedto the scene as long as the hill itself

,

a memorial of unnumbered and unre

membered generations . The eminencewas Karn Brea

,the last hill in England

,

from which on fair days the sea is visible on three sides of the county.

The s ides are tangled with gorse andwithered ferns

,and immense granite

bowlders are imbedded in patches Of

fine close grass . The mpe is su ffi

cient to make the ascent moderatelydifficult. When it is reached

,the house

on the summit is found to be neither aslarge nor as ancient as it appears froma distance ; but proximity to it increasesthe interest in its architecture . A massOf bowlders is piled up as if with an nu

W ITH AN UMBRELLA. 37

finished design . The bowlders are of

enormous size,and all sorts of shapes,

though usually rounded on the edges andat the corners . They each weigh many

tons, and are probably not less thanthirty feet in circumference . As theirbed is a soft and grassy earth, and asthe usual signs of detrition are not apparent about them

,and their disposition

indicates some intelligent purpose, the

way by wh ich they have been accumulated excites a degree of curiosity whichcannot be definitely satisfied. Antiquarians associate the hill w ith the Dru idsthere are hollows in some of the stones

,

which,it i s imagined

,were used in the

sacrifices by which the Druids upheldthe dignity and efficacy of their r ites.A chapel once stood near the summit

,

and cromlechs have been discovered byexcavation . But the chief interest is inthe house or castle

,which is posed upon

a Titanic group of the bowlders,the in

equalities of their surface being rectified

38 IN CORNWALL

by the insertion of smaller stones ; andthough this foundation seems to be inj eopardy w ith every gale

,it has sup

ported its burden at least since thetime of Edward IV. The interior hasbeen plastered into shape as a laborer’s dwelling

,and has nothing in it

to rem ind one of the age of its shell .“NO hand ever put these stones together,

” said the laborer ’s wife,as she

served us with a cup Of tea ;“but water

dug and shaped them out,” which

,all

things cons idered,i s the most reason

able hypothesis.There is also Ou the summ it a high

p illar of gran ite erected in 1836 to commemorate a nobleman whose deeds,which are not historic, should havebeen colossal to justify this monument,which painfully intrudes on every view.

On all sides of Karn Brea the mineshave left the ir scars

,and the excoriated

earth has a purple tinge. But there islittle movemen t, l ittle smoke from the


high chimneys,and the scaffolding over

the disused Shafts is like the skeletonof the departed industry.

Picking our way through the purplishmud and stones below the Karn

,we dis

covered a little Old woman laboring overa p ile of unm illed copper ore . We hadto look twice before we could assureourselves of her sex : not only was herdress perplexing

,but there was an un

reality and we irdness in her person .

She was very small, almost dwarfish,with bent shoulders and wrinkled handsand face ; her skin had the texture of

parchment,and was curiously mottled

with blue ; her hair was thin and wiry.

She seemed very old ; but her eyes had ashrewd and penetrating quickness

,and

her movements were utterly without decrepitude . Indeed

,she applied herself

to her work with the will ing vigor of astrong young man ; and the work consisted of shovelling the heavy blocksOf ore into a small wagon resting on

40 IN CORNWALL

a temporary tramway. Shove lful afterShovelful was thrown in with an easymuscular swing

,and with much more

activity than the average navvy everexhibits. Her petticoats ended abovethe ankle

,and were stained with the

hue of the copper ore ; her Shapelesslegs were mufll ed up in woollen wraps,and her feet incased in substantialbrogans . She was not apparently un

comfortable bodily ; but her face hadin it a look of uncomplaining suffering

,Of unalterable gravity

, of a habituated sorrow which had extinguished allpossibil ity of a smile . Not understanding a question which we put to her

,she

used the words,Please

,sir ? ” a form

of interrogation which we often heard in

the ne ighborhood of Redruth.

“Youseem to be old for such hard work,

”

we repeated. Deed,sir, I don

’t knowhow Old I am but I ’ve been at it thisforty years . I m not young any longer,that’s sure,

”she answered, in a clear

“WITH AN UMBRELLA . 41

voice with scarcely any accent . “Areyou married ? ” No, sir ; nobody wouldever have me,

”she continued

,without

relaxing from her gravity or delaying herwork for a moment : nobody wouldhave me or go with me, as I was alwayssubj ect to fits— terrible they are . Istill have ’em once or twice a weeksometimes

,always with a change in the

moon .

” “How do you account for it ? ”“Why

,before my twenty-fourth year I

was in the service of a lady,who threw

me down-stairs,and that changed my

blood ; so, when the moon changes, Ihave the fits . Little can be done forthem when the blood ’s changed.

” Thissuperstition was a matter of profoundfaith with her

,but otherwise her manner

was remarkably intelligent . She told usthat her wages were fourteenpencetwenty-eight cents— a day ; and whenwe unnecessarily said that she must betired of work at such a price, She an

swered in a bitter tone , NO use being

42 IN CORNWALL

tired ; when you are tired, there ’s theworkhouse for you.

”

She had nearly filled the wagon bythis time ; and two younger women,dressed as she was

,but more vigorous

looking,came to help her ; and after

Spitting on their hands, which were aslarge and as hard as any man ’s

,they

applied themselves with shovels to theheap of ore

,fall ing into a machine-l ike

swing of the body as they scooped upthe heavy rock. Two men afterwardj oined them ; and when the wagon wasloaded

,they propelled it along the track

toward the m ill,the women Sharing the

work equally with the men,if, indeed,

they did not use even greater exert ions .The employment Of women under

ground is now forbidden by law, thedegradation resulting from it havingbeen perceived by English legislatorsonly when it had becomeflagitiou s butOf thirteen thousand persons engagedin the mines, about two thousand are


44 IN CORNWALL

near the summit is a rabbit-warren, and

therefore an attractive place to poachers

,d id not think a little j ocularity ill

timed in the consideration of so serious

a subject. It is most interesting,he said

to his audience,whichwas quite unex

pectantof any approaching levity, to contemplate the successive periods throughwhich Cornwall has passed from theearly t imes

,when there were nat ive bury

ing-places

,to the cromlech period

,the

cromlechs seeming to have belonged todifferent races passing to the south ;after the cromlech period

,the Karn

shows evidences of the Roman period ;then Of the early M iddle Ages

,and of

the late Middle Ages. He once foundarticles of the Roman-British time, and,finally

,said this playful Jar/ emf

,he found

a ferret bell .The artist who Shared our umbrella in

Cornwall used his sketch-book wh ile wewere watching the young women in themill

,and they were not at all discon


certed when they Observed him . Thoughhi s manner is characterized by a digni

fied re serve discouraging to familiarity,one of these young persons saucily saidto her neighbor

,

“He’

s going to put youinto a panoramaExcept the old woman whose blood had

been changed,we did not meet w ith any

one who entertained any sort of superstition

,and who did notmore or less fru s

trate us in our search for the unleavenedand old-fashioned simpl ic ity of characterwhich we expected to find in Cornwall .

Those to whom we Spoke took as an Offence to their intelligence our insidiouslyframed questions

,which were des igned

to betray them into a confession of faithin witchcraft . The sufferer from fits

,

”

in the Olden time, either went into thechurchyard at midnight, and cut fromone of the spouts three bits of lead, eachabout the Size of a farthing, or, if itwasa young woman

,she sat in the church

porch after service,and as the young

46 IN CORNWALL

men passed, each of them dropped apenny into her lap, until the th irtiethcame ; he took up the pence, and sub sti

tuted half a crown for them ; and withthis coin in her hand, she walked threetimes round the communion table !whenshe could get the Opportunity

,which was

a matter of some d ifficulty, as themin Ister was not friendly to this sort of thing! ,and afterward had the half-crown madeinto a ring

,which was a charm against

the disease . But even the old woman ’scredulity did not go as far as this ; sheused a patent med icine .

One day,near Land’s End

,we met a

very infirm old man, who had difficultyin dragging one leg after the other

,and

whose clothes were of an antiquated pattern

,to which we fancied his ideas might

correspond. Hewas benign and unsu s

piciou s ; it seemed probable that at theextrem ity of this very much modern izedisland we had found one individual inwhom legend still b loomed, with its roots


deep down in the imagination . His in

firmity was caused by rheumatism, andthe old Cornish cure for this complaintwas the bathing of the parts afflictedwith water in which a thunder-bolt hadbeen boiled. What do you do for it ? ”

we inquired ; and he looked so very simple that we felt sure that ’ he sought reliefby other means than the vulgar nostrumsof the Chemist ’s shop.

“Well,” he said,“it isn ’t much good doing anything ;but I mostly try Turkish baths and galvanism.

”

A local poet haswrittenThe world has grown SO wi se and grand

,

There’s scarce a witch in a ll the land .

”

It is indeed so . Cornwall reminds usof an old castle which has been strippedof its mantle of ivy. The vine mayhave been poisonous and weakening to

the structure, but it was more beaut ifulto look at than the naked stones . The

superstitions of the people may have

48 IN CORNWALL

been weeds rooted in ignorance, but

they were more interesting than the prosaic and unimaginative condition wh ichtheir extraction has left.We entered the county where the Ta

mar,reaching up to the north from the

Channel,separates Cornwall from Dev

onshire— at the busy and picturesquecity of Plymouth, where war seems tobe an ever-present possibility

,and red

coats and blue-j ackets preponderate on

the streets . The trumpets blare all daylong

,and the vast iron-clads and trans

ports of the navy are constantly passingin and out of the beautiful harbor on imper ial errands . The Sound is an irregular bay, with the city at the head of it,about three miles from the sea. Anenemy woul d be under the cover of gunsfrom all quarters, so well is the harborfortified ; but in these times of peacethe terraced embankments of gran iteand turf

,with bases Of Spiked black

rocks,are inviting to loungers

,and the


brownest of the Jack Tars lying on thegrass has most likely never seen in hislarge experience of the world a more in

teresting picture than Plymouth Soundwith its fleets of war and commerce, itscl iffs reaching to Rame Head at theestuary

,the long breakwater that shuts

out the violence of the storms,and the

softly green he ights of Mount Edgcombeon the Cornwall shore .

For several miles up the river we passalong a continuous l ine of war vessels atanchor

,all“in ordinary

,

” dismasted and

apparently abandoned : some of them

ludicrously deficient in the speed andstrength which their names imply, some

that look l ike immense fortresses,and

some that are of the latest pattern . Theold line-of-battle ships

,two and three

deckers,the smaller steam-frigates

,the

early iron-clad propellers,and the com

pact turret ships of recent bu ild,are

drawn up between the peaceful banks ofthe Tamar, even beyond the magnificent

50 IN CORNWALL

bridge,half a mile long

,one hundred

and twenty feet above high-water mark,

with which the daring genius of BrunelSpanned the river some twenty yearsago . From underneath the verticalpiers the bridge looks like a greatscreen, so disproportionate is its widthto its length and height . It has only

one track upon it, and the trains passingover it are reduced in appearance to thesize of toys .

On the summit of the west bank,it

touches the village of Saltash,which is

built down the hillside to the water ’sedge

,and which is l ike most other fish

ing villages in Cornwall clean,sol idly

put together,unomamental, and a whit

ish-gray in color. The deficiency of

color is dispiriting to the artist who hascome from the contemplation of themore Opulent architecture of the Continent. The cottages

, one and two storieshigh, of concrete, brick, and stone, withdiamond-paned windows, have been de


52 IN CORNWALL

found imbedded in the plaster. Lookfrom the houses to the people there isan infallible correspondence . The menare brown and strong

,a little sad, with

large frames,but no spare flesh ; and the

women , who are grand at the oar,are

scarcely their inferiors in physical proportions. They are frank and independent in manner

,gathering their living

from the sea. There is little vice amongthem— the smart dresses and chubbyfaces of their children are certain indications Of domestic virtue ; but thatsome of them fall to the besetting sin ofthe English may be inferred from whatwe heard one of them say of a neighbor“He wass as dhrunk as fourty maintops ’ l- sheet blocks .”

We went to Liskeard on fair-day,trust

ing that the occasion would bring insome farmers from out-Of-the-way places

whose character would be more quaintthan that which we had so far seen .

But Liskeard proved to be grievously


intelligent ; and the men who had cattlefor sale bore an extraordinary resemblance to Yankee farmers

,with sharp

features and wiry beards withoutwhiskers or mustaches . They were dressedalmost exactly alike

,and a hat of one

pattern was among them all . A chill ingwind and a pouring rain did not affectthe business or the amusements . A

shivering acrobat, whose white cottontights were wet through

,went on with

his performance unconcernedly in the

mud of the Open street ; while a verysmall and pathetic clown with a p inchedface squeaked his wel l-worn witticisms toan audience under umbrellas and mackintoshes . One Of the poor tumbler’ sfeats was the familiar rope-trick ; and anOld farmer

,with a face in which cunning

and resoluteness were blended in marked

proportions,accepted his challenge to

tie him up in such a way that he couldnot release himse lf. There was no nonsense in the way the . old farmer went

54 IN CORNWALL

about the business. He pursed up histh in blue lips

,and never a smile passed

over his hard features . Here was theOld Puritan witch-burner destroying animpostor

,and exulting in merc iless jus

tice . He used length after length of the

rcpe ; he pinioned the wrists, boundankle to ankle

,and secured the waist to

the neck so that his victim could notmove without turn ing purple in the face .The odds seemed to be wholly againstthe poor Bohemian

,who made unavail

ing Obj ections to the manner of his treatment ; while the muddy l ittle clown , inthe vermilion of whose cheeks the fastfalling rain had left some dingy streaks

,

endeavored to divert the farmer from hispurpose by irritating and even insultingremarks . But the farmer appl ied himself undividedly to what he had set

about ; and when he had nearly exhau sted h imself, and wholly used up therope , he contemptuously shoved Jackthe acrobat into the centre of the ring


which had been formed, and passedwithout a word into the surroundingcrowd. Jack had evidently caught aTartar : he stood shivering

,abj ect

,and

dismayed. This was but for a moment,however. Then an involuntary thrillseemed to pass through his body, andthe rope fel l in a tangled heap at his

feet, as the musician of the troupe withpandean pipes and a drum sent up a.

victorious flourish from his instruments.The farmer went oflin s ilent discom‘

fiture ; but in recognition of the per.

former ’s skill,the crowd threw many

penn ies into the ring,and united in the

Opin ion that“A was a stunner,a was .”

The dialect Of Cornwall is not difficultto a stranger ; it is much easier to un

derstand than that of Yorkshire or thatof Lancashire

,and yet many of the

words in use in this southernmost county

of England are also current in the north,

though they are not heard in the intermediate country. In general the lan

56 IN CORNWALL

guage is spoken with an accent ratherthan with any dialect ; and the voice hasa ris ing inflection

,which reaches its ex

treme p itch in the last syllable,as in the

Engl ish spoken by the Welsh . A fewprovincialisms have survived

,however

,

with wh ich a stranger may be confused.

What could be made of such a description as this of a child ? “A es a pih n ikin

, palchy, an totlin . A es Clicky an

clOppy, an a kiddles an quaddles Oleday. Tes wisht .” It means : “He islittle, weakly, and imbecile . He is lefthanded and lame

,and he fidgets idly

about all day. It is sad . Some of thelocal words have an indigenous vigorwhich immediately becomes apparentwhen once their meaning is known .

Thus,to be “footy ” is to be queer

,

m incing,or affected ; a

“letterpatch isa slovenly person ; to gaddle

” is todrink much and quickly ; to “ruxt” isto be uneasy on a seat ; to dowst ” i s tolower away

,as the sails of a vessel

,


or to put out, as a light ; to flosh is toSpill ; an okum-sniffey

” is a smal l, comfortab le glass of grog ; and to

“samp ”

is to prolong the drinking of a glass ofgrog by adding water and sp irits to itfrom time to time without emptying it.Wh ile we were at Penzance a highpressure sermon was delivered againstmodern unbel ief ; and a fisherman who

was asked what he thought of thepreacher answered,

“Aw ! a stunner awas . He es the boy for the inferels .

Iss aw iss ; and a sent the sances toshivereens too . Es no good for ould

Bardarlagh or Darby to come where aes .” Which meant : “He ’s very clever.He is the boy for the infidels ; and hesent the sciences to shivereens also .

I t’

s no u se for Bradlaugh or Darwin tocome where he is.” But the dialect isnot usually unintelligible ; and a fair ex

ample of it as it is heard to-day, is aSpeech addressed by an Old miner tothe late Mr. Tregellas, a well-known

58 IN CORNWALL

writer and lecturer on Cornish character.I ’ve heerd

,MaasterT’

egellas,” said the

miner,

“that you are a-goin ’ to give alecture here to-n ight in the Town Halland I ’ve heerd

,too

,that you are go in

to say somefin about me . Now, m indwhat I say. I ’ ll go to thickey lecture, Iwill ; and ef you diewsay anything aboutme theere , I

’l l get up in the m iddle ofthe congregation

,and tell ’em all tes a

lie what you said— iss I will . ” Mr.Tregellas d id not accept the challenge .

From Liskeard it is about seven m ilesto Looe by one of the narrow-gauge railways

,which

,though built for the m ines

,

and called “m ineral roads,are also

util ized by passengers . Looe is on theEngl ish Channel

,near the mouth of a

river,occupying both banks, which are

so steep that the roof of one house isoften on a level with the first floor Ofthe next house on the slope . It hasa foreign air . One can almost shakehands from window to window across


IN CORNWALL

stormy Channel ; the cumbrous-lookingyawls and sloops and schooners withrusty brown sails

,moored alongside the

granite quay ; The Jolly Sailors, withits p icturesque front and Offer of enter

tainment; and Old Parsons, the coastguardsman

,constantly parading the sea

wall at the mouth of the harbor, andconsulting an oracular telescope, withwhich he scrutinizes the horizon for impossible pirates and phantasmal smug

glers. The feeling left by the review isone of the seriousness with which life istaken . Like most people living on theborders of the sea, those of Cornwallhave a manner which declares a patient

and lasting sorrow.

Of the three things copper, tin, and

fish— which Cornwall produces in thegreatest abundance

,the fish is a source

Of no l ittle profit ; and when it is plent ifulspecial thanksgiving services are held forit in the churches . It consists principallyOf pilchards

,which are something like a


smal l herring— palatable when packedin oil

,l ike sardines

,as which they are

sometimes sold to the unsuspicious publ ic

,and not Obj ectionable when simply

salted and bro iled,or potted with vin

egar,spices

,and bay leaves . The pil~

chards are caught with certainty onlyOff the coast of Cornwall, generallytoward the end of October ; and in agood season they arrive in such shoalsthat the advance gu ard strands on thelowbeaches through the pressure of

those behind. The principal marketfor them is along the shores of theMediterranean . It is said that seventyfive m ill ions of them were caught in one

day Off St. Ives . But such good luckas this is uncommon

,and a scarcity of

recent years has left many a householdin misery. Last season was unfortu

nate, and the gray clouds that hang overthe coast reflect the dej ection of thepeople .

The fishing villages are much alike

62 IN CORNWALL

Looe, Polperro,Megavissy !where mostof the curing is done! , and St. Ives .The last is, perhaps, the most interesting. It is on the west coast

,built in

the elbow of a cape,wh ich forms the

Southern point of a spacious bay reaching some miles inland

,and bounded by

highlands,with a white shelving beach

at the foot of the cl iffs . The sea washesthe back Of many of the houses, to thedoors of some Of which boats are moored ;and at high water in heavy weather itbreaks no isily over the graveyard Ofthe bleak l ittle church . A strong galewas blowing from the south-west whenwe were there, and the harbor was ful l

of coasting-vessels sheltering from thestorm . Many of the smaller fishingboats were drawn up in long black l ineson the banks below Tregenna Castle,where they looked l ike cannon ; thethird wreck of the month was falling top ieces on the sands, and another fleet oflarger fishing-boats was moored in the


western comer of the bay, under the leeOf the j etty. On the j etty were a fewdisconsolate fishermen

,looking out in

that far-s ighted way which those who goto sea have . The ir lugubr iousness wascommun icative . One of them told u s

that they“found themselves,and were

paid fifty shill ings a month,with an

allowance of one-ninth of the catchd ivided among each crew . He hadjust retu rned from a cru ise along thecoasts of Ireland and Scotland

,and had

not even earned his “grub .

” “Happybees them as never goes to say,

” he said,

with good reason .

We had already been to Falmouth,

the port of call near the Lizard, wherea large portion of the outgoing vessels,trad ing with Great Britain, bid good-byto the shore, and where the crews of

those inward bound feel the permanenceand firmness of earth, and satisfy theireyes with the tranquill iz ing beauty of

vegetation for the first time after their

64 IN CORNWALL

voyages. Outside Pendennis Castle,

which guards the mouth of the harbor,

a fierce coast,with j agged p innacles

and perpendicular cliffs,lies north and

south,and the land appears more for

bidding than the wild sea. But oncethe castle is passed, Falmouth is gained,and Opens its w ide arms to the stormdriven vessels . The arms are a geographical fact

,and not a figure of speech .

The shores of the harbor are so embayedthat they are over sixty miles in circumference

,and it is about th irteen miles

by them from Flushing to St. Mawes,

though in a bee- line it is not more thanthree miles . They are grassy andwooded

,and a ship ’s boat can land

easi ly anywhere . Scarcely has the

anchor been dropped from a homewardbound vessel when !the captain being agood fellow! we see the pinnace or thecutter lowered away, and a part of thecrew put off to rejoice like children in

the fragrance of the earth . You meet


them in the fields beyond Flushingbrowned to an aboriginal hue

,with

clothes stained and torn by tar andweather— and it is affecting to see

their gladness in once more touching

a leaf or a bough .

If it had been a wind-sail rigged inthe Southern Ocean to receive everybreath of air

,Mount ’s Bay

,in which

Penzance is situated,could not have

been more exposed to the wind than itwas during that gale of which we feltthe reduced vigor at St. Ives . From St.Ives

,on the south-west coast

,to Penzance

on the south-east, the distance acrossthe country is not more than ten m ile s .And when we reached the latter placein the afternoon the wind was blowinginto the bay as into a funnel

,and had

whipped the sea into an awful fury . Inthe morn ing a fishing-boat had beenwrecked

,and all its crew of seven men

drowned . And all day long the waveshad been knocking for admittance against

66 IN CORNWALL

the cottages on the esplanade,as if in

derision of the notices of apartments tolet in their windows . The sea ex

ploded submarine torpedoes along thesea-wall

,and threw up p illars to a height

of s ixty feet, which, in breaking, fell likedriven snow over the roofs of the houses

,

smashing windows and breaking in doorswhere barricades had not been erected

by the terrified inhabitants . The streetfronting on the bay was strewed withstones several pounds in we ight

,which

had been cast into it by the waves, androofs three stories high were loaded

with masses of sea-weed . The customaryaffirmation of fishing villagers that anystorm which happens to be inquired

about is the severest they have everknown became audible in this instance

at Penzance But on the next morningthe sea was laughing and scatteringjewels in the sun

,and the sky was of

the friendliest,most innocent, and blue .

Penzance is unfitted to endure storms .


68 IN CORNWALL

emerald. At one time it was probablyconnected with the mainland

,and even

now the meeting of two currents of theebb tide throws up a natu ral causeway,which is passable at low water. It wasgranted by Edward the Confessor tosome monks ; and after an exciting his

tory, it became the possession of theSt. Aubyn family, by whom the fortresson the height has been converted into astately residence. The property is heldin no ungenerous Spirit . The grounds

are Open to the public, and the penniless dreamer may seat himself in theshadow of the crags and imagine himselfsovereign . Strange ideas float through

the brain in the contemplation of St.Michael ’s of a miniature monarchycreated to feed the vanity of its head,of outlawry defying ten thousand instruments of the law

, of a hermitage where

the prevailing disdain of mankind might

be cultivated under the most favorablecircumstances.


On the day after the storm the beachOpposite the Mount was strewn to adepth of many feet with sea-weed ; andfrom two O ’clock in the morning

,when

the wind and sea abated,farmers ’ carts

came to carry it away to fertilize the irgrounds . Nearly all the boats of thene ighborhood had been destroyed during the previous day

,and we had some

d ifficulty in finding one to ferry usacross . When we succeeded

,and were

well out, we noticed that the man atthe forward oar was staring at us withcurious intentness

,and that all the or

ders proceeded from his mate , who wasa much younger man . The latter thenexplained

,

“Jack’s b lind hain ’t you,Jack ? ” Jack smiled as if some honorhad been mentioned .

“He ain ’t afraidto go anywhere with me, though— are

A confirmatory nod wasgiven to this interrogation .

“Goes outal one sometimes . If I say it

’s safe,

it ’s all right— ain ’t it, Jack ? We ’ve

7 0 IN CORNWALL

been mates these nineteen year,and

many’ s the yarn we do have in winter.”

Ten miles from Penzance,England

ends . The country between has something like an appearance Of fatigue

,

as if Nature had had enough of it.There is a good deal to interest theantiquary

,but little of the beauty of

fertility. There are ancient stone cir

cles,cairns

,and“logging ” stones . The

cottages are small,and the thatch is

held down by stones slung across it byropes . The gorse is more plent iful thanthe grass

,and where there is a field it is

enclosed by low walls of stone,the crev

i ces Of wh ich are fil led with earth . Atlast we stand on Cape Cornwall, thewesternmost point, proj ecting beyondthe savage and much-indented coastline. We can go no farther in England.

The sea gl itters before us, and thevessels on it plunge into the waves,and break through the foam . But the

W ITH AN UMBRELLA . 7 1

glitter and Openness of the sea and skydo not last. A squall flies up fromthe south

,which turns the umbrella in

side out,and once more we face the

north.

Coaching Trips Outof London.

F you travel across London, from one

point of the compass to another,

from Kilburn to Lewisham,for instance

,

or from Hammersmith to Blackwall,it

seems that all of Englandmust be townthe streets, shops, and houses, withoutany relieving signs of rusticity

,except

the parks and squares, repeat themselvesbeyond the bounds of any conceivablecity, and we grow tired waiting for theend. But London is like a smoky pearlset in a c ircle of emeralds . Once out ofit, though the escape is slow,

and patience i s needed, we come upon the England we dream Of over the drawings ofAbbey and Hugh Thomson

,the Eng

land of The ! uiet Life,”of fat mead

ows,flowing verdure, tiled and thatched

7 3

7 4 COACH ING OU T OF LONDON .

cottages,mossy, dripping millwheels,

hawthorn hedges, inviting inns, and Spacions parks, where the beeches and oaksthrow out rounded, drooping volumes offol iage

,that have the soft dens ity of an

exhalation,and where the cuckoo

,lark

,

and nightingale are fearless visitors .Who

,dropping into Buckland

,or Brock

ham Green , or Mickl eham , or many villages like them , in the warm quiet of asummer’s day, would find it hard to believe that the n ineteenth century had notslipped them from its chain , and leftthem pendent to the e ighteenth, but fora disillusionary hat or bonnet, and thered sign at the post-office ?Hardly a brick is to be seen that has

not grown purplewi th age, and wrappeditself in moss and ivy. Here and theresome renewal has been necessary ; butthe builders who put up many of thehouses half - timbered cottages andstatelier mansions—were o ld when theeighteenth centu ry was young. Antiquity


76 COACH ING OU T OF LONDON.

beauty,and the roads are good

,the

coaches thrive ; and of the many pleas~

ures of the season, there is nothing tocompare with the trips they make

,leav

ing town in the morning,and

,with two

exceptions,returning in the afternoon .

You can go by them to Virgin ia Water,the lovely lake at the edge of Windsor

Park, or to Windsor itself ; to BurnhamBeeches

,the noblest in the country

a brotherhood of venerable trees toquaint o ld Guildford, straggling down theSurrey h ills to Hertford, by the way ofHatfield and Lord Sal isbury ’s demesne ;to St . Alban’s and its abbey, or even sofar as Brighton or Oxford

,though the

last two places are the except ions re

ferred to,in which the return journey

must be made the following day. Lastsummer

,seventeen coaches were runn ing

,

the nearest destination be ing HamptonCourt

,s ixteen miles away

,and the far

thest Oxford, fifty-five miles .

The starting-place for nearly all of

COACH ING OU T OF LONDON . 7 7

them is Northumberland Avenue , in frontof one of the Americanized hotels of thatneighborhood ; and the

‘

hour is betweenten and eleven . From the beginning ofthe season

,in the Spring

,till the end of

the summer, they never miss a trip, except on the great race day ; and, thoughthey may not have a passenger

,as it

sometimes happens in foul weather,they

leave punctually,and make the ir cus

tomary j ourneys.Let it be said, with due respect to the

memory of Mr. Barnum,that the great

e st Show on earth is London,and one of

its prettiest features is the departureof the coaches from Northumberland Avenue A smartly dressed crowd is thereto see it . Preceded by the musical winding of horns

,which rise above the noise

Of cabs,’buses

,and carriages

,the coaches

turn into the magnificent avenue,from the

Embankment,or from Trafalgar Square

,

where the fountains are playing over theflanks andmanes of Landseer ’s lions

,and

7 8 COACH ING OU T OF LONDON.

Nelson stands on the foretop of his ownmonument. They are party-colored, andlettered on the boot and on the panelswith the names of the towns and v illagesthey pass through . There is an inside

,

of course ; but the blinds are down , for

nobody ever wants to be inside . Outside,there are seats for thirteen

,including the

box - seat, the privileged position, forwhich a larger fare is charged.

Everything is clean,fresh

,and shin

ing,especially the faces of the coach

men and the guards,who wear white

beaver-hats,and nosegays in their but

ton-holes . Flowers are plentiful : womenwith baskets of roses and blue cornflowers are selling them on the pavement

,and everybody must have a

boutonm’

ére,to be in keeping with the

occasion,whether he is a passenger or

merely a sight-seer. The horses arefrisky

,and in splendid condition ; and

as they wheel round,and pull up at the

door of the hotel, cutting in between

COACH ING OU T OF LONDON 79

hansoms and other vehicles,it is easy

to see that the coachman is a master ofhi s art. The guard is l ike a tulip in hisscarlet coat

,with its silver or gold fa

cings ; but h is appearance, and his skillwith the long brass horn, are not hisonly recommendations . He can handle

the r ibbons almost as well as the driverdoes

,and is factotum

,not only to him

,

but to the passengers . Nowhe is atthe horses ’ heads, or diving under theirbellies, putting a final touch to the harness

,and then bestowing mackintoshes

and wraps in the interior,and sticks and

umbrellas in the basket,or handing the

ladies up to their seats,where the ir gay

bonnets,parasols

,and bouquets bloom

as a garden .

The coachman,in a long drab jean

,

or box-cloth,driving-coat

,reaching to

his ankles,overlooks it all

,with the eye

of the skipper of a double topsail shipwhen the p ilot leaves him and the windfreshens on the bar. A score of details

80 COACH ING OU T OF LONDON .

are on his mind : he must see that thebridles, or headstalls, do not pinch thehorses’ ears ; that the bits are not toohigh

, or too low,in their mouths ; that

bearing- re ins,cruppers

,pole-chains

,and

pole-pieces are adjusted so as to beneither too tight nor too loose that thepads are well stuffed

,and fitted close to

their backs ; that the traces are Of theright length

,and that the pole-hooks are

downward. A brass carriage-Clock issecured to the dashboard

,under the

driver ’s eye ; for unpunctual ity is a cardinal sin

,and at the appointed hour

,

neither a minute earlier nor a m inutelater

,he mounts the box

,tucks h imself

in h is apron,and is Off

,the leaders l ift

ing themselves up out of j oy,and the

guard wreathing his horn l ike a threadof gold through the noise of the town .

That coaching is a pleasure accessibleto the public to-day

,is due to the ap

preciation of the art of driving by richmen and amateur coachmen . The old

COACH ING OU T OF LONDON . 81

mail-coaches ceased running with theadvent of the railways in 1840 ; and, out

of twenty-seven in service up to thatyear

,not one was left. “Few people

are aware,

” says Lord Algernon St.

Maur,

“of the m isery caused by railways to innkeepers, coachmen, guards,post-boys

,

’ostlers,and horse-keepers

,as

it all came to pass so suddenly.

”

Had profit been the only consideration

,the coaches would never have re

appeared ; but there had grown up inEngland many enthusiastic amateurs

,

who found delight in driving a four-ihhand

,and they revived for the ir own

pleasure what could no longer be amoney-making venture .

Some of them,l ike Lord Algernon St .

Maur and the present Duke of Beaufort,

had done wonderful things in the way

of driving, and, out of sheer zeal, hadshared with the old professional coachmen all the hardsh ips of the ir lot

,taking

the reins not merely occasionally,but


regularly,as though bread and butter

depended on it.At first I used to drive to Oxford

,

and return the next day,

” says Lord Algernon in his reminiscences

,but I

soon wished for more work ; so,after

dining at the Mitre,I used to send for

one or two friends who happened to bein the city !Oxford! , and we sat togethertill eleven

,when I drove the Gloucester

mail back to London,by Henley and

Maidenhead,reaching London at six .

Then I went to bed for two hours,after

which I passed the day as usual . I wasvery fond Of driving by n ight

,as the

horses are always so l ively ; to hear thering of their feet in the sharp

,frosty

night, the rattle of the bars, and theclatter as they rose and surmounted thetops of the h ills

,was to me the sweetest

of music.”

The fact that Lord Algernon couldpass the day as usual

,

” with but twohours’ sleep

,after the journey to the



coachman a sovereign as a tip .

“Taketh is ; and if the box- seat is not booked

,

I will again r ide with you to-morrow.

”

Another sovereign was given the nextday

,when h is lordship touched his hat

,

and said,

“This will be a good j ob forold Clark .

Who ’s Old Clark ?

That fat Old fellow standing downthere ; he is our ballast ; when the coachis empty

,we take h im down to make the

Springs ride pleasantly ; when it is full ,we send him up to London

,or down to

Brighton,by luggage-train

,in a coach

by himself .

”

I s he your father,that he takes all

the moneyNo

,he is only my sleeping partn er,

”

replied the duke ; “and you know thesleep ing partner in a firm gets all themoney.

Clark was,indeed, the professiona l

partner of the duke ’s father in the

ownership of the coach .

COACH ING OU T OF LONDON 85

It is sometimes puzzl ing to a strangerin England, who watches the coachesdeparting, to discriminate between theprofessional and the amateur. I s thisperson

,with the scarlet scarf

,the full

skirted drab coat, with pearl buttons,the red

,bursting face

,and the bandy

legs is this the coachman, who worksfor money ? And this other person, inquieter clothes— is he the nobleman

,

who drives for pleasure,and gives both

money and time to what he considers anoble sport ?It is qu ite unsafe to depend on ap

pearances alone, and sometimes evenconversation is deceptive ; for the professionals are usually a well-spoken andintell igent class of men, though sociallyout of the pale of their friends, the amatenrs.

I remember the deep interest Of someAmericans

,on the Oxford coach, as to

the social status of the driver, a demure,quietly-dressed

,fair-faced young fellow,


with a clear,high-bred accent

,and noth

ing suggestive of the stable,or horsey

associations,about him . How pol ite he

was at luncheon ! And Sitting at thehead Of the table

,as the dr iver

,proies

sional or amateur,always does

,how so

licitously he watched the plates of therest of the company

,and sacrificed him

self to the needs of others ! What acontrast to the Jarveys of old

, who , according to Lord Algernon , were oftenvery slovenly

,and “wore glazed hats

such as sailors wear,and had bands Of

hay or straw twisted round their legsthey were rough in manner and language

,and were much given to drink.

”

The conversation between the boxand the box-seat usually touches on

meets of the hounds,racing, steeple

chasing,and other concerns of the

sporting world,or reminiscences of the

keepers of the inns on the way, or of

the owners of the great estates that arepassed

,and who are referred to as


good-uns or“bad-uns, according to

their reputations or deserts .

This young man,who drove the whole

distance from London to Oxford,had

interests and information of a higherand wider scope

,and all the tokens of a

gentleman . A sprig of nob il ity ! howeasy to see it, and how charming ! saidthe Americans . But he was a professional

,the son Of the proprietor of the

coach,after all ; though it is not to be

doubted that,in the best sense of the

word,he was a gentleman .

In some cases the coach is Owned by

one or two, or more,gentlemen

,who

support it for the pleasure of driving itthemselves

,and employ a professi onal

coachman to take the ir place on the boxwhen they are unable to be there . Inother cases the coach belongs to a professional, who works it for profit, withthe support of as many subscribersas he can find. It may be said that thereceipts from passengers alone would


not be sufficient to cover expenses andleave a profit. There are days when thecoach is not full— some days when itstarts out and returns empty . Therewould be risk, and almost certainty ofloss

,W ithout the he lp of the “subscrib

ers .

” These are gentlemen living alongthe route of the coach or elsewhere

,

who,at the beginning of the season

, sub

scribe a hundred guineas apiece,or an

approximate amount,for the privilege

of driving the coach one day a week ;and what they contribute in this waymore than covers any deficit aris ingfrom the inadequacy of passenger fares .The profess ional has another source

of profit : he buys a fresh supply of

horses every spring ; and as he breaksthem in

,and keeps them in the best

condition,never overworking or abusing

them,he is usually able to sell them in

the autumn,when the coach ing season

is over,for a handsome advance on the

sumhe pa id for them . Seventy, eighty,


and even ninety guineas apiece havebeen bid occasional ly for the horsesof a popular coach

,when they have

been put up at Tattersall ’s at the endof the season . Nor is this all . It isprobab le that the professional alsokeeps a l ivery-stable

,and is a riding

master, who gives lessons in four-inhand driving

, so that, be ing“in to makeboth ends meet

,as Charles Webling

said to me,he is not likely to fail in his

purpose .

The capital needed to work a coach isno trifle . Take

,for instance, Web ling

’s

own coach, which makes the j ourneyfrom London to Tunbridge Wells

,and

back,in one day

,a distance of seventy

two miles . There are five changes ofhorses each way

,and in the ascent of

River H ill six horses are driven together in one stage . Spare horses

,

also,are necessary to take the place

of those that may Show any lamenessor exhaustion ; for, since he desire s

90 COACH ING OU T OF LONDON.

them to make a good appearance whenhe sells them at the end of the coach

ing season, the owner has no temptationto keep them at work after they haveshown sign s of disability . Not less thanforty-six horses are thus needed by thisone coach ; and assum ing that they areworth

, on an average, fifty pounds apiece

!they may be worth much more! , it willbe seen that they alone represent eleventhousand five hundred dollars . Then

,

there are the bills Of the coach-builder,

and the wages of the guard and thehostlers

,and the cost of stabl ing at

five places on the road. It is morethan the owner would care to makeh imself liable for

,but for the security

given by the gu ineas of those guardianangels of the road, the subscribers .Each coach has its own name

, or,

rather,it is usually the namesake of a

predecessor in the Old coach ing days.Thus the Brighton coach is the “Comet the Oxford coach

,the“Age ; the



ment ; and it is the latter way wemust choose

,for we have in m ind a

trip that has in it the essence of variou s experiences— a compos ite p ictureOf a day’ s coaching out of London .

The town is bathed in gold on such amorning

,as though another Heliogaba

lus had filled the air with the dust ofmarigolds and sunflowers

,instead of

roses . The river is l ike an amberj elly ; and the gayly-painted barges,drifting down it, alone betray its motion . The Houses of Parl iament, theAbbey

,and the dome of St. Paul ’s

,

are softened and l ifted up,as through

the medium of a mirage. Flowers arev isible everywhere,— in the Embankment gardens

,and in the windows

,

and on the roofs of the cabmen ’

s shelters

,girls are hawking them under the

lamp—posts,and the donkey-carts of the

costermongers go by loaded w ith them .

Never again slander London ; for, see,how quickly that which is dingy in fog


and rain becomes beautiful in the mistysunshine ! We cross the river at Westminster Bridge

,the guard heralding our

approach with “Com ing Through theRye

,

” in clear,brill iant notes

,and

watch with admiration and wonder theeasy

,confident way our driver picks a

course through the tangled traffic of

brewers ’ drays,cabs, omnibuses, donkey

carts,and tram-cars . There is no sud

den use Of the brake , no violent pull ingup of the horses . He threads the mazel ike a pilot in a rock-bestrewn channel

,

graduating the pace so gently that thevariation passes unnoticed

,and the

horses seem to be go ing at a canter al lthe time . The blockade looks hopeless

,

and delay inevitable ; but it is not sofor ou r driver, who sees clear Spacesinvis ible to others, and glides throughthem

,by close calculations

,without

grazing a wheel, or showing in his face

a moment’s uncertainty or irresolution,

either of which, of course, would spoil


the performance . If difficulties occur,

it i s sure to be when a subscriber is onthe box ; and though the amateur willdo very well on a stretch of countryroad

,we prefer

,for our own peace of

mind,the professional when we are in

the crowded streets,or when a sharp

turn is to be made up to the inn-door.Though the coach cannot be any

novelty,its coming is a welcome episode

,

and l ittle slaveys,

” in their wh ite caps,

with smutched faces, bob up from theareas to see it pass, and giggle when thecoachman tilts his whip at them ; andchildren swing themselves on the sidewalk and shout Hooray ! ” as thoughit made a pageant in itself. Every othervehicle salutes it

,and pulls up to make

room for it,

- the doctor in his gigdoing his morning rounds ; the younglady in her pony phaeton ; the carrierwith his team of shaggy Percherons ;the cabman

,and even the glum driver

of the creep ing tram-car. The only



which are built out, to the height of thefirst story

,over the gardens that once

stood in front of them ; l ittle tavernsPloughs,

” Angels,

” “Red Lions,

and King ’s Heads which havebefuddled generations of Britons

,Show

false fronts of modern stucco,and try

to make us believe they are juvenile,though over the Cop ing you can see howbent the gables are

,and how the tiled

roofs sag,and what hoary, dissembling

old sinners they are in reality.

Then we reach the country,and hear

the Skylark drench ing the meadows withits song, and breathe the scent of redand white hawthorn, and See Nature ina smoother

,softer, mellower aspect than

she wears anywhere else in the world .

The horses are seldom allowed togallop and their pace

,especially when

driven by the professional,is so steady

and so even that there is no sense of

pressure . The m iles are reeled off,ten

to an hour ; and when the carri age-clock


on the dashboard tel ls luncheon-time,the guard

,l ike a prophet

,plays a mil

itary call,“Pudding and pie

,pudding

and pie,

” and the coach draws up witha flourish at its destinat ion .

The return j ourney to London,in the

afternoon,repeats the pleasures of the

morning,with the variation of tea at

one of the roadside inns ; and when youalight at Northumberland Avenue

,it wi ll

never again be in you to say that you donot love England.


100 A BIT OF THE

ever under a sky undarkened by thesnake-like coils of black smoke whichare forever issuing from the chimneys.The people are pale and fat igued ; andthe earth

,deprived of its proper sun

shine,supports but a feeble kind of

vegetation ; the leaves are begrimed,and even the dew seems inky. Afterdark

,which is hurried on early in the

afternoon by the accumulating smoke,

the square, featureless, prison-like workshops

,with their many windows lighted

,

look l ike illuminated gridirons of a vastsize

,and a dull red glow in the mouths

of some of the chimneys also shows thecontinuity of labor.The transition from this fetid and

dismal atmosphere to the h igh whitecoast, with the German Ocean chafingagainst it

,stirs up those whose lot is

not cast in these dark places ; but thefull effect is seen in the Operative re

leased for h is holiday from the mills

and foundries,who hurries down from

YORKSH IRE COAST. IO I

the station to the shore, and when theclean sky and the crisp sea are openedto him

,stands in rapture

,and eagerly

draws the salt air into his lungs . U nderthese circumstances

,and in contrast

with the sun-browned fisherman,the

tripper,

” as he is contemptuously called,

with h is sallow face and clothes of uglypattern

,becomes a pathetic figure

,though

later in the day he is sure to offend byhis noisy vulgarity.

But while the many watering-places

are a great sanitary benefit to such ashe

,it is not to be supposed that they

wholly owe their existence to poorexcursionists of his class, nor is it to besupposed that al l of Yorkshire is likethe belt which includes Leeds

,Dews

bury, and Huddersfield. One of them

!Scarborough! is picturesque and brilliant, and all of them attract visitorsfrom the southern counties as well asfrom their own neighborhoods . Themoorlands and hills are famous for their

102 A BIT OF THE

tonic air,and the county is rich in

antiquit ies . The coast is for the mostpart bold. The chalk and l imestonecl iffs are high and precipitous

,and some

times weathered into grotesque images,

and hollowed out into caverns suitablefor use in sensational literature . Thevillages are familiar to all through p icture exh ibitions . The houses are roofedwith deep red tiles

,and bits of wreck

age are util ized with much picturesqueness of resource . The figu re-head of

the El iza Jane smile s with woodenamiab ility over the door of a l ittletavern

,though it is nearly a quarter Of a

century since that smack went to p ieceson the rocks of Flamborough ; and ina fisherman ’

s garden, the outer fence ofwhich is at the very edge of a cliff abouttwo hundred feet high

,we see what a

cap ital porch can be made of the stern

of a boat raised up on end. The faunaincludes many rare creatures . Flam

borough Head claims to be the most


104 A BIT OF THE

tahms betther an ’ sumtahms warse . Shenayther dees nor dows, as t

’ sayin ’ is .”

She ’s failed sair leeatly, ah think,said Adam Herbert, the other ne ighbor .“Failed, ay,

” said Deborah ;“she ’s

failed all away ti nowt bud skin an’

b eeans.

”

“What yoo ’ll hev had t’ farrier fraWhidby tiv her ? ” queried Adam .

Ay,” said Deborah ; he ’s been here

twice .

An ’ what diz he say aboot her ? ”

resumed Paul .Whya, ah think he diz z ent kno what

te say,” said Deborah .

Neea,ah deean ’

t think he diz Yoor

aboot reeght there, Deborah, continued Paul t ’ farrier’s O’ neea kahnd o

’

yuse . Ah’

ve seen that fra t ’ fust. An’

noo ah’ll tell yoo what, Deborah :

’f ah

was yoo,ah wad just git oor oad neigh

bor Adam here ti gan te Stowsley, an ’see t ’wahse man aboot it ; for yoo matak mah wod for ’t

,that coo O

’ yours is

YORKSH IRE COAST. I o5

bewitched,as seear as

~we are sittin ’here .”

The local dealer in magic and spellshad up to recent years a very lucrativebusiness ; and among his prescriptionswas one to fill a cow’s heart full of p ins,and roast it before the fire at midnight— a savory Operation which broughtwitches from the ir hiding-places . Thewitches usually accompl ished the ir maliciou s work in the form of some animal .Thus

,not many years ago

,two old

women were said to annoy their neighbors by assuming the form of cats, andagainst one fam ily in particular theyworked their evil art . They scratchedthe door, clattered against the window,

and made the night h ideous with theircries . On one occasion the people inthe house

,irritated beyond endurance

,

armed themselves with various domesticutens ils

,and

,with the help of a sheep

dog, rushed out upon the disturbers of

the peace . The cats fled for their lives ;

106 A BIT OF THE

but the dog got hold Of one of them,and

tore nearly all the fur off its back,and

the other, in escap ing up an apple- tree,received a blow from a garden rakewhich broke its leg.

On the following morning one of thewitches was found with a broken leg

,

and the clothes of the other were so tornthat she looked l ike a bundle of ragswhen she came out of her house.Another family had no luck in any

thing. The horses lamed themselves,

and the cows died ; the p igs caught allthe illnesse s to which pigs are heir ; andon churning-days the butter refused tocome unless assisted by the charm of acrooked Sixpence .

One day during the churning,the coin

was purposely kept outOf the churn,and

“t’ maister o ’ t ’ hoose ” took his gun

and watched the garden from the loophole of an out-building. In the twil ighthe sawa hare creeping through thehedge

,and he shot her. The butter


108 A BIT OF THE

ica or in England, the dealer insists thatit is real Whitby j et ; for Wh itby j etis known to be finer than any other

,and

for centuries that quaint l ittle town on

the Yorkshire coast has been noted forthe manufacture of articles of personaladornment from i t.Jet is of two kinds

,— one hard

,and

the other soft ; and its exact nature isin dispute among those who have givenmost time to its investigation . To one

observer the j et rock in which the hard

j et is found seems to be a deposit of seaanemones

,and some years ago a patent

was taken out to distil petroleum fromit. Experiments proved that ten gallonsof a pure o il could be extracted fromone ton of it

,but the production was too

costly to compete with American petroleum . The hard j et itself

,lying in this

rock in a horizontal position,is said by

some to be the result of a distillation byigneous action from the enclosing shaleand others again declare their belief that

YORKSH IRE COAST. 109

it is of a pure ligneous formation similarto coal— perhaps

,indeed

,undeveloped

coal , for coal and j et are never foundcoexistent. The miners express somefaith in both modes of origin, and say

they bel ieve that the hard jet is of twodistinct formations, being both wood andpetroleum

,now in a state of h igh bitu

meniz ation . But though geologists d iffer as to its nature

,it is definitely known

that it is discovered in compressed layers Of variable sizes

,generally from half

an inch to two and a half inches inthickness

,from four to thirty inches

wide,and from four to five feet in

length. Such is hard j et .The soft j et

,which is much less valu

able than the hard,i s found in sand

stone and shale,much nearer the surface

than the latter,and may be of a pure

l igneous origin,the fibre and branches

of trees being more or less distinctlymarked in it. The greater value of

the hard is that it wears longer, is less

110 A BIT OF THE

brittle,and takes a higher polish than

the soft.Whitby j et, both hard and soft, has

always been considered better than anyother ; and M ichael Drayton sang of it

out of h is seventeenth-centu ry knowledge . The prominence given to it inthe ShOp

—window signs,and their em

phas is that the lustrous black j ewellerythere displayed is made of it alone

,

excite a good deal of respect for thegenuine Whitby article . But do coalsreally come from Newcastle

,and brass

buttons from Birm ingham ? Is Evertontaffy a myth, and are Chelsea buns madeat Stratford-le-Bow ? Are Eccles cakesthe product of Ormskirk

,and is the ori

gin of Ormskirk gingerbread to be tracedto Eccles ? I s any truth left in the world ?

When we landed at Whitby we were toldthat Whi tby j et principally comes fromthe Pyrenees ! that the j et is found insuch greater abundance in Spain , andobtained with so much greater ease, that


112 A BIT OF THE

commerce the“turnover is more thanhalf a million dollars a year. Thewages of the operatives are from fiveto thirty shillings a week.

The crude j et looks like anthracitecoal

,and comes from Spain in long

wooden boxes . It is sawn into thes izes of the Obj ects for which it is ihtended

,and then shaped on a freestone

wheel . Next the facets are put on ; andit is carved into the des ired patternby men with knives

,smal l Chisels

,and

gouges . It is highly e lectrical ; and, asthe ancient poet has said of it

’Tis black and shining, smooth, and ever light ;’Twill draw up straws if rubbed till hot and bright.”

Long before itwas used for ornaments,

it was valued for its efficacy in drivingaway devils, dissolving spells and en

chantments , helping the despairing, banishing serpents, and when mixed withthe marrow of a stag, in healing the

bite of a snake .”

YORKSH IRE COAST. I I 3

In small workshops,where the at

mosphere is fil led with a b lack or

snuffy dust, the b its of anthracite whichthe j et resembles gradually take theShape of beads, flowers, fruits, and manypretty things, as they are dexterouslywrought upon by the workmen

,who

Often ply their tools without any setdesign before them ; and when the or

naments are complete they are polished,

being held against quickly revolvingwheels

,covered with Chamois leather

and a composition of rouge and oil .

It is the rouge which produces the

snuff-colored dust, and gives many ofthe Operatives a peculiar rustiness of

appearance . The last thing of all i s

the “setting,” which is done by sealing-wax and shellac. Then they arecarded

,and boxed in cotton-wool

,each

article being guaranteed as one of“realWh itby jet.”

The trade in j et is immediately af

fected by any national calamity, as,

114 A BIT OF THE

for instance, the death of a memberof the royal family

,or any one for

whom there is a general mourning.

And when the life of the Prince of

Wales was in danger,Whitby was

thronged with buyers prepared to payalmost any price

,who lost heavily by

h is happy recovery.

There are a few mines yet in the

neighborhood of Whitby. The en

trance to them is through a horizontal drift in the hillside— a narrow passage some seven feet by five ; and thissmall tunnel is intersected by crossdrifts. as in other m ines . Here themen work cramped up in the darknessand wet

,and the rock which they ex

cavate is carried to the mouth in littlewagons on tramways . The operationsare not extensive . Each mine onlyemploys about six men

,who work in

“shifts ” of eight hours . The seamsand jet cliffs are usually rented fromthe owners of the land by the princi


116 A BIT OF THE

There was a pleasant old man inWhitby

,whose occupation for many years

was that of a j et-hunter, and who, sittingbefore his fire with a glass of toddy before him and a long church-warden p ipein his mouth

,told us of some of the

difficulties of his business,which in his

case !a rare one! had yielded a comfortab le fortune .“It’s j ust like puttin ’ thy hond in a

lott’ry,

” he said,between the puffs

,as he

stared into the slumbering glow of theOpen fire .

“Yo ’ may soon lose a lot,an ’ soon gain a lot.”

Ay,” added the comfortable wife,

who was sitting by ;“it ’s all specalation,

like gambling on hosses, an’ allus was .”

One the lucky things that sometimes fall to the lot of the cl iff hunter isa mass of j et which the weather hasseparated from the cliff and cast uponthe shore ; but oftener than comingupon such a windfall as this he has tosearch for days which lengthen into

YORKSH IRE COAST. I I 7

weeks,and for weeks which 1011on into

months,without reward.

A more adventurous plan than lookingfor “waeshed j et ” that which hasbeen washed down! i s to lower a manover the edge of the cliff from aboveto prospect ; and thu s suspended, witha bowl ine knot around h is waist

,the

hunter scans the white face of the rockfor signs of the j et. Should he find any

,

a narrow vertical groove is dug down theface of the cl iff to it ; and when it isreached

,it is tunnelled or drifted as

in one of the h illside mines. The accidents to life and l imb in th is pursuit aremany. In going up and down the cl iff

,

the workman has just room enough taestep his taoes in

,

” as the veteran told us ;and he is always exposed to some danger from the falling rock. Workingalone in his narrow prison through thenight

,with the sea beating at the foot of

the cliff , we supposed that his lonelinesswould excite his fears .

118 A BIT OF THE

Nay,said the Old gentleman

,stil l

puffing his pipe it’ s cheerful enough ;he has a b it 0 ’ candle to look at .”

And whatever consolation he hascomes from this b it 0 ’ candle .

Though the jet interest is decayed,

and we did not find the hunters following the ir hap—hazard vocation along theshore and swinging over the cliffs

, our

disappointment soon passed away. The

Yorkshire coast has a further interest.It is scarcely surpassed in the BritishIslands by grander cl iffs or bolder headlands . On one of its promontories thefirst Engl ish song burst from Cae dmon ’sl ips . Its people are simple and interesting. It possesses what is called “thequeen of Engl ish watering-places, andamong many curious old v illages andtowns it has one which strikes us as

being the most picturesque in England.

The cliffs are seen at their greatestheight near Flamborough Head

,where

they have an altitude of nearly five hun


120 A BIT OF THE

through which the winds moan withunsilenceable gr ief.One of these caverns is called Robin

Lyth’s Hole , and forms a tunnel from

the land to the sea. The entrance islow and difficult ; but, when it is passed,the explorer finds himself in a sepulchralChamber, dark, dripping, and reverberant, with a roof fifty feet high . Therock is of variegated colors

,and polished

by the attrition of the seas,which the

easterly gales send driving in . The floorseems to have been built by humanhands

,instead of by the thoughtless

gnawing of the e lements . Sometimesa shaft of sunlight finds its way into themouth ; and then every drop of water

beading on the walls becomes a j ewel,and the rocks reveal their iridescentsplendors .Coming back to Bridlington ! uay

which,by one of the anomalies of Eng

lish orthoepy,is pronounced Burlington

-we find it to be,l ike many other Eng

YORKSH IRE COAST. I ! I

lish watering-places, half new and halfOld

,a little fishing village of antiquity,

with red-roofed and picturesque cottagesand tawny men

,upon which rows of

showy new houses,new hotels

,and orna

mental parades,have been ingrafted .

The old and the new are quite apart.The old taverns still receive the smal ltradespeople of the town and the boatmasters

,who come into the smoky little

parlor of an even ing, and, after the English custom

,slowly and seriously drink

the ir allowance of hot grog,wh ile dis

cussing with gravity the news of the day.

The new taverns are large and amb itious,

with nothing characteristically Engl ishabout them ; indeed, they are growingmore l ike American hotels every day.

Nearly all the new houses are rented bySpeculative landladies

,who have to exer

cise much ingenuity in making both endsmeet. The season lasts about twomonths, and in this brief period theyexpect to profit enough for the year.

122 A BIT OF THE

After two months of excitement,of

crowded apartments,of romp ing and

aggressive children,and of incessant

piano-playing,and almost continuou s

tea and shrimps,cold mutton and beer

they have the ir establ ishments to themselves and their many-ribboned caps areseen bobb ing forlornly in the windowsof their best parlors, upon wh ich thefrost of winter has fallen .

Filey,wh ich is on the other side of

Flamborough Head,is just l ike Bridling

ton . There are the same old- time whiteplaster cottages abutting on irruptionsof modern brick arch itecture . There isthe same admixture of old and new

,the

same brief prosperity of summer,the

same insupportable languor of winter.The tasselled and pennanted landladiesare in no w ise different from those of

the s ister village But Filey has a geological curiosity which does not end inbe ing Odd, but is also of some util ity.

The coast is open to the north for hun


124 A BIT OF THE

all that the imagination can picture itas being . A narrow bay opens out

from the German Ocean , locked by highcliffs which as nearly as possible takethe shape of a horseshoe . U p the sidesof the cliffs

,and terraced

,one tier above

another,to a height of more than two

hundred feet,Scarborough is built.

Back of the cliffs is a high, undulatingcountry, with one conspicuous hill thatalmost reaches the dignity of a mountain ; cross-cutting them is a deep ravine

,full of cool fo liage . Along their

base is a wide strip of smooth goldenyellow sand

,upon wh ich the clear blue

water of the bay breaks with a moderatesurf. The foliage is quite luxuriant

,

and terrace is separated from terrace

by a belt of refreshing green . Such isthe situation .

The great natural advantages havebeen improved upon by a judiciousand spirited local administration . The

streets are clean, and well paved or as


phalted, and the buildings are handsomeand varied in architecture . Betweenthe m iddle of September and the firstof October

,when the season is at its

height,Scarborough holds a constant

carnival . The sands are crowded withprettily dressed children and women

,itin

erant musicians and acrobats,bathing

men and women, and holiday makers .Following the course of the sands is anasphalt drive and promenade

,upon

which there is a crowd of well-dressedpedestrians and equestrians

,and a cu

rious variety of veh icles,landaus

,brough

ams,wagonettes

,and donkey carriages .

At one end of the drive an enormoushotel springs up

,which

,with its ten

stories,seems higher than the highest

cl iff ; and beyond this is the ravine wehave spoken of, spanned by a splendidiron bridge . A little farther on still isthe Spa

,with its Showily decorated sa

loons,wherein the visitors assemble to

gossip and drink the waters, which have

126 A BIT OF THE

long been celebrated for their healingqual ities . The Spa is the centre of thefashionable life but there is movement

,

color,and variety everywhere .

Scarborough is not a mushroomgrowth . It reaches back to the Saxonperiod

,whence its name was derived

from two words signifying the town orfortress on the Rock

,and still earlier

it was probably a Roman camp .

U p on the northern point of the bay,crown ing a maj estic headland

,girt by

savage cliffs that spring four hundredfeet out of the sea, is a gray Old castlewith straggl ing ramparts

,which in its

prime presented a resolute face andsupreme difficulties to the enem ies thatattempted to storm it. It is now inruins

,and its prostrate and disj ointed

fabric seems like a part of the nativerock from which the earth has beenwashed away. It is given up to peaceand decay ; and there is no echo , exceptin history

, of the gallant scenes of which


128 A BIT OF THE

unavoidable ; and the Puritans marchedup the craggy steps that led to the sal lyport

,an exultant horde in sober drab

j ackets and shining helmets,to drive out

the crestfallen and starving Caval iers .In 1655 the castle was the prison of

George Fox,the founder of the Society

of Friends, who at various times wasconfined in three different rooms : thefirst he likened to purgatory because itwas filled with smoke ; in the secondthere was no fireplace or chimney atall

,and here

,be ing unable to dry his

clothes, his body became benumbed,and his fingers swollen ; but h is greatestsuffering was in the th ird, into whichthe wind drove the rain so forcibly that“the water came over his bed

,and he

was fain to skim it up with a platter.”

H is j ailers made a threepenny loaf lasth im three weeks, and steeped wormwoodin his water.Three years later

,he was not only

free,but was invited to preach at the


castle, where he was received withhonor and affection .

Beyond the castle,the summit of the

crag on which the ruins are expandsinto an almost level greensward

,which

suddenly ends in a perpendicular cliff .

Looking over that cliff,the last time

I was up there,was like looking into

the primeval . Vibrating outward to thel imits of sight was the colorless anduneven sea, meeting the gray and sad

dening roof of cloud . One object wasvisible

,as solitary as the ark in the

flood — a serpentine line of black withsmall eyes of red and green, which

slowly and tediously defined itself asa tug-boat with two close-reefed fishingsmacks in tow. There was a fascinating despondency in the incompletenessof the view which attracted us to it untilthe gloom had lowered the Spirits to anunendurable point. Then we Whee ledround ; and there before us, in the comfortable semicircle of the bay, lay luxu

130 A BIT OF THE

riant and modern Scarborough,showing

itself in the twilight in many a starrycluster Of lamps . A turn of the heelhad brought us

,more vividly than the

transition from chapter to chapter of

any book, out of the primeval into to

day.

Scarborough abounds with contrasts .There are narrow l ittle by-ways in it, andmany queer l ittle houses

,roofed with the

ever-welcome and hospitable-looking redtiles . But all things are orderly and ingood repair. The old houses do not seemto have been retained because their roomhas not been wanted, but because theyadd to the interest and picturesqueness

of the place, and they have the neat andwell-preserved appearance of be ing keptfor Show. The one objection to Scarborough is the unfair way in which it istreated by the clerk of the weather. Ithas more than its share of rain . Sometimes the rain begins in the verymiddleof the season

,and falls day after day


132 A BIT OF THE

instinct that prompts a boy to stand on

his head. From the railway,we see

reaches of dull brown moorland and deepvalleys

,which remind us of the smaller

western canons . The pale primrose sblossom on the hillsides with an unfa

miliar luxuriance .

Let us take our first look at Whitbyfrom the summit of East Cl iff, one ofthe two promontories between which theriver Esk enters the German Ocean . Onboth sides of us is a precipitous l ine Ofcoast

,with bristling cl iffs

,washed by a

boi l ing surf in some places,and in others

fringed with a narrow beach, on which

gigantic moss-covered bowlders are p iled.

The sea itse lf melts in the extreme hori

zon . The ground at the summit is uheven , and ends in a precipice . The windstrikes us with unrestrained violence .

Looking to the east and north,we see

the embattled cliffs and the restless seafilling the view ; looking to the west, theriver cleaving the valley

,with the town

YORKSHIRE COAST.

built on both sides of it. The two Characteriz ing colors of the p icture are redand blue . One house rises above ah

other,apparently supported by the cor

nice of that below it ; the floor of oneseems to be the roof of the other. The

roofs are peaked and gabled and dormerwindowed

,with tall chimney-pots shoot

ing up from them nearly all of them are

sheathed with crimson t iles,which

,with

the lazy blue smoke drifting over them,

are the things that give color to everypicture of Whitby. The color and architecture are both fore ign . The cold graylook of the usual English village on

the coast is substituted by a del ightfulwarmth and richness . Leading downfrom the summ it of East Cl iff to thetown is a curving flight of one “

hundredand ninety-Six well-worn stone steps, upwhich the worshippers come on Sundayto the old parish church

,which stands

at the head of the cliff,surrounded by a

full crop of gravestones,with the sea be

134 A BIT OF THE

hind it. It is a very old building of theearly Norman period ; and the interior,with its undecorated oak and dead-lightsin the low roof

,is more like the cab in of

a sh ip than a church . For many yearsWhitby was a favorite resort of JamesRussel l Lowell and George du Maurier.On the cliff

,also

,are the beautiful gray

ru ins of St. Hilda ’s Abbey, which are thecrown ing glory of Whitby. Oswy, theKing of Northumbria

,who was a convert

to Christian ity,vowed that if God gave

him the victory over his pagan foes,his

daughter Edelfled should be dedicated inholy virgin ity to the Lord, w ith a dowryof twelve manors for the foundation of

monasteries ; and in part fulfilment ofhis vow !his prayer be ing answered! hebu ilt this abbey

,of which his n iece, St.

H ilda,was the first abbess . H ilda is

described by Prof. J . R. Greene as aNorthumbrian Deborah

,whose counsel

was sought even by b ishops and kings ;and through her influence Whitby be


A BIT OF THE

tion of the birds may be accounted forby the fact that in crossing the GermanOcean in the ir usual migration they became tired, and stopped to rest .Ga dmon belonged to theWh itby Chap

ter ; and from h is l ips, during the reign ofthe founder of the abbey, came the firstgreat English song.

The ru ins Show how large and important the bu ilding was . The style is EarlyEngl ish

,with some decorated and per

pendicu lar windows . Shattered as thefabric is

,and though the voices of nun

and monk are hushed, it is not withoutdevotees . On every sunny day

,more

than one artist may be seen reproducingthe old p ile in oil or water-colors ; andwhen the artist has a pretty young wifenestling by him

,and reading a novel to

h im,as one we saw had

,the introduction

of the ir figures seems essential to thecompleteness of the picture . Whitbyhas been painted oftener than any professional beauty ; and the easel is SO


common a feature, in the season, thatan artist can work in the streets withoutbeing irritated to death by peeping ch ildren and ignorant commentators .Coming down the winding steps from

the cl iff,we soon learn what the charm

ofWhitby is for artists . It is unmodem,

a survival of more peaceful and poetictimes than ours . It is rich in quaint architecture

,and the atmosphere is full of

memories . We hear the voice of thetown-crier— ah institution still cherishedin Whitby. John the Bellman is

,indeed

,

one of the best-known characters of theplace

,and during the fashionable season

his services are in constant requisition.

Ordinarily the recitals of a town- crierare delivered in a high key and a severemonotone, distress ing and exhausting tohis voice

,and painful to all who hear

him . But John ’s performances are not

of this sort : they are musical compositions of no little artistic merit. He tunesthe pipe to various notes in the scale

,

138 A BIT OF -THE

as illustrated in the following example ,kindly taken down for us by Mr. J . Storer

,M.B.,and each sentence has its separate

note and p itch

at 3 O’clock

,

Fare, there and back, one shi lling.

Going along the street,we meet an

other celebrity of the town Fish Jane .She has slung her basket from her head,her quick eyes having detected a probable customer in a lady standing near adoorway.


140 A BIT OF THE

Ah,bud she ’s a good-hearted oad

sowl is Jane ! ” says a by—stander ; andperhaps we are told how

,years and

years ago,a certain poor widow di ed,

leaving a boy five or six years old quitedestitute . There was a pauper’ s grave

for her, and some of the neighbors gathered together to see what could be donefor the boy : there was the workhousefor him . Hearing this

,the lad began to

sob as if his heart would break, and thenJane interfered.

Deean’

t cry, deean’t cry, ma honey ;

thou shall not be sent to the poor-house,”

she gently said ;“thou shal l j ust gang

hamewi’ me .

”

Although she had a large family of

her own, and the earnings of her husband

,a fisherman , were scanty, and the

full meaning of Kingsley’s line, in thatsong of his,

There’s little to earn, andmany to keep,”

was known to her, she took the little

YORKSH IRE COAST. I4 I

fellowhome, and became a mother tohim .

We like Whitby not for its te

sources a s a watering-place,but for

its h istorical associations,the antique

Spirit of its l ife, and the old red-tiled

houses doz ing under the wreathing bluesmoke .


144 AMY ROBSART,

any common placeenvironment ; and hehas thought of Warwick

,and seen it

through the eye of anticipation,as a

place made up of ancient buildingsand ancient streets

,a Sleepy town

,

stealing down through time with anunchanged front, and owing nothingto later days and later fashions .Alas ! though these historical monu

ments are still there,many of their sur

roundings are not in keep ing with them,

but have the freshness, the unromanticand unmellowed properties of our owntimes . To what is new they seem tobear much the same proportion as theancestral brooch and other trinketswhich a woman attaches to a costumethat in its other featu res is exclusivelymodern— though this is only so long

as our initiatory disappointment is al

lowed to prejudice our observation. Itrequires a Spirited imagination to te

store to those streets the Elizabethanprocession which throngs out of the

KENILWORTH, AND WARW ICK . 145

pages of “Kenilworth — the courtiersand swash-bucklers

,D ick Hostler and

Jack Pudding,Wayland Sm ith and Flib

bertigibbet, the gay-hearted Raleigh, andthe dark-browed Varney. The pressureof innovation comes to oppose the ir return, not only in the modernization of

the streets,but in the intrus ion at every

point of assiduous,trifle-hunting tourists .

Of these tourists there are probablytwo Americans to one Englishman .

“Bless you,sir ! I don ’t know ’

owwe could get hon without them

,

” thewaiter at the “Warw ick Arms ” willtell you ,

after wofully recounting thevarious causes of the decline in thetown ’s prosperity.

All summer long you hear them scurtying through the streets toward theCastle

, or the Hospital,or St. Mary ’ s

Church, with guide-books tucked underthe ir arms

,and their satchels swelled by

new souvenirs of travel in the shape of

photographs, or paper-weights and ink

146 AMY ROBSART,pots cast in the image of Leicester ’sfamous cognizance of the Bear andRagged Staff. Their pursuit leavesno moment unmarked by achievement.Yesterday morning it was the Customhouse and the landing-stage at Liverpool , and since then they have been toChester and Shrewsbury. TO-day theyare debating how they shall apportiontheir time so that they may be in London to-morrow. Shall it be Shotteryand Stratford

, or Warwick and Keh ilworth ? Shakespeare and Ann Hathaway

, or Leicester and Amy Robsart ?They glance at Vandyke ’s equestrianportrait of Charles I .

,so full of l ife

that rider and‘horse seem to be ad

vancing down the corridor of the Castle ; smile at the huge caldron knownas Guy’s porridge-pot ; l isten to thelegends of the pensioners at the Hosp ital ; hover about the tombs in theBeauchamp Chapel

,and read with ques

tioning eyes the epitaph which describes


148 AMY ROBSART,and the survival of antiquity is morecomplete . One speculates as to howthe place exists, unless it is on theharvest of the summer. High Street

,up

and down,between the two old gates,

is empty,and a footfall reverberates in

the disoccupation through long dis

tances . The signs of the prosperouscountry town are not visible

,though

Warwick is the cap ital of the countyand a parliamentary and municipal borough . There are no smart traps fromneighboring manors with apple-facedEnglish girls on the high box-seats andSleek grooms in attendance ; no farmers or yokels seldom does one seea market wagon loaded up with freshgreen stuff

,or a fragrant haycart .

Since,however

,one cannot make such

a statement as this without incurringlocal displeasure and the peril of beingconfronted with figures which

,in the

mind of the disputant,are sufficient of

an answer to cover one with confusion,

KENILWORTH, AND WARW ICK. 149

let us qualify it so far as to admit thatwe are merely recording an impression

,

and that the impression does not retainimages of these things as it does of thevacancy and drowsiness which followthe departure of the tourists . Thereis nothing unfriendly in our intention ;and it yet remains for us to say howcharming and pervasive the inactivityand somnolency are

,and how

,when

we yield to the effect of them,the

harsher and more prosaic features of

the town recede as in a mist,leaving

what is old and mellowed all the moreprominent

,and making Warwick a very

hab itable place for kindred Spirits,

ghosts,and sentimental ists .

At the very entrance of the townstands a house which

,by the dign ity

of its proportions and the style of itsarchitecture

,arrests attention . It is

sadly out of repair, but it has a semibaronial

,semi-monastic grandeur in its

decay. The grayness of its stone and

150 AMY ROBSART,the sagging tiled roof tell that it is atleast tw ice a centenarian ; and ivy andmoss spread themselves over the widearched porch and over the windows

, of

which there are no less than nine,Of

enormous size,partitioned by stone

mull ions,and fil led with small

,green

ish,leaded glass The end windows

swell out on both stories,and at the

level of the five gables which springalong the roof they form balcon ies withcarved stone parapets . An unobtrus iveSign in the weedy

,tangled garden

,wh ich

is separated from the street by iron rail

ings,announces that a tapestried room

may be seen between certain hours,and

with a thri ll of satisfaction the visitorwho cares for the p icturesque perce ives

,

by another small Sign,that there are

Apartments to Let.” Originally theOld house is said to have been a hospital of the Knights of St. John ; then itwas a school ; and now so much of it asis habitable is rented by two pensioners


152 AMY ROBSART,as we have already intimated : thereis no running water

,except when it

leaks in with the rain : the leaded windows shake fearful ly, and are no matchagainst the boisterous winds which slipin and strike the tenant in the back ;the only illum ination is by lamp andcandle ; and in the dead vast and middle of the night ” there are inexplicablerattlings as though the old knights

,

arisen from their tombs,were buck

l ing on the ir armor for a new crusade.Living in these Old-fashioned quarterswe feel that the gulf between ! ueenElizabeth’s age and our own times isnot so very wide, and from them it isnot difficult to enter into the past.

What Shakespeare is to Stratford,Leicester and Amy Robsart are to Warwick . They are the leading personages

,

in the only drama the l ittle town knowsthe “stars ” in a performance which

is repeated so often that by comparisona Chinese play is a mere interlude . We


refresh our memories of them by reading Kenilworth ” again, and perhaps,it must be confessed

,do not find it as

absorbing as it was when we read itunder an apple-tree

,though our heresy

may not be as flagrant as that of Mr.Howells . Where now is the soldier offortune who can discourse as Mike Lamboume did

,with all that facility of met

aphor and exp letive, so apt and so variedthat they put us into good humor withthe “unconscionable villain ? All thecharacters in those days spoke in epigrams

,even down to the hostler at the

“Bonny Black Bear,

” who,when Lam

boume is in his cups,describes him as

speaking Spanish as one who has beenin the Canaries .” What innuendo orquip find s G iles Gosling without a repartee— he who poetiz es his own sack so

beautifully ? “If you find better sackthan that in the Shires or in the Canaries either

,I would I may never touch

either pot or penny more . Why, hold

154 AMY ROBSART,

it up betwixt you and the light and youShall see the l ittle motes dance in thegolden liquor like dust in the sunbeam .

”

Knave and kn ight, the rustic boor andthe gartered courtier

,have the same

knack of sayIng what they have to saywith Macaulay-l ike precision and with al ike appreciation of antithesis and allit

eration . There i s some contemporaryevidence that the subjects of the fieryElizabeth garnished the ir speech nomore nor set it in finer phrase than thesubj ects of Victoria ; no false modestyled them to mince matters

,and call a

spade a silver Spoon . But Scott ’s Characters have set Speeches which they deliver ore rotunda

,Spiced with color-giving

adjectives and neat turns Of wit : thereis not a flash in the pan among themall . Is it life ? Was it ever l ife ? D idpeople three hundred years ago Speak inthis st ilted

,theatrical manner ? “There,

caitiff, is thy morn ing wage.”

Draw,

dog, and defend thyself !” “

Off, ab


156 AMY ROBSARTThe three great sights of Warwick are

the Castle,the Hosp ital

,and the Beau

champ Chapel,in each of which we are

reminded of the reality of Leicester,

though there is but one trifling relic ofAmy. The town itself is said to havebeen founded by Cymbeline

,and it is

mentioned in the Domesday-book as aborough containing no less than twohundred and Sixteen houses . One of

the first earls was the famous Guy,who

exceeded nine feet in height,and who

slew a green dragon and a Saracen giantin s ingle combat . The title has hadmany wearers : the Beauchamps ; Richard Neville

,

“the king-maker GeorgePlantagenet

,and Edward Plantagenet.

For forty-eight years it was dormant ;and then it was conferred on that overreaching John Dudley

,the Duke of

Northumberland,who lost h is head

finally,having done the same thing

metaphorically several times before , onTower Hill . He was the father of Leices

KEN ILWORTH, AND WARWICK. 157

ter, whose brother, Ambrose, then heldthe earldom .

Out of the diamond panes of thechamber in our picturesque lodgings, welook on the smooth grassy court of

New Bowling Green,

” as the dwarfishlittle tavern calls itself, with a preposterous pretence to a youth which must haveended at least a century ago ; and in thelong

,melodious

,Engl ish twilight we can

hear the voices Of the players softenedto an E olian pitch in the m ild summerair. The inn is on a curving streetwhich leads down to the Avon

,and

which has scarcely been touched by thetide of change that has been so busywith alterations elsewhere . Nearly allthe houses are ancient, SO old

, so

sunken,and so bent

,that one wonders

why they do not collapse . The roofssag, the fronts bulge but age seems tohave given them a malleable quality l ikewhalebone . The highest is not morethan two very modest stories, the upper

I 58 AMY ROBSART,proj ecting over . the lower

,and resting

on oaken brackets . They are all of thehalf- timbered variety ; the huge beamsbeing visible in front and freshly paintedin broad black lines

,whi le the material

between them shows white or gray. SO

small are the lattice windows, so low andnarrow are the doors

,that the people for

whom they were built must have beeninferior in statu re to the Britons of today

,and Earl Guy must indeed have

been a phenomenon among them .

Marked with age as they are,the cot

tages are very habitable however ; andwhere an open door allows us to peepin

,the interior shows us much comfort

within a space inconceivable as to cubicfeet . The stone floor is pipe-clayed ; akettle simmers on the “hob ; thecrockery gl istens on a sideboard ; andthere is evidence of a sociab ility whichwe should not be unwill ing to share inthe h igh-backed settle drawn up at rightangles with the hearth . A thr iving box


160 AMY ROBSART,on its surface pictures of the sky, thefleecy clouds, and the willows whichbend over and dip their slenderbranches into it. Then it is ruffled bya weir for a moment, as an uneasy dreammight agitate it, before it falls into asounder sleep

,and glides as peaceful as

ever on its course to Stratford. Afterthe weir a new vision appears on theplacid surface— a vision of a great me

d imval stronghold, towered and battlemented

,wh ich springs l ike a precip ice

out of the foliage along the margin . Ithas an aerial

,phantasmal

,insubstantial

air as it floats on the stream ; but as welook up from the foot of M ill Street it i sverified

,battlement by battlement

,tower

by tower,in the walls of Warw ick Cas

tle . H igher up the river is a handsomebridge with carvings and stone balusters

,a bridge of respectable age ; but

the bridge by which Elizabeth camehere on that memorable occasion, whenshe was as much bent on twisting the


secret of Amy Robsart outof Leicester ’sheart as on pleasure

,is in ruins before

us. The arches are gone,and the p iers

alone stand out of the stream, theirstones quite concealed by moss andivy.

According to the novel,while the

! ueen was making her way to Kenil

worth ih state, poor Amy, alarmed bythe conduct of Varney and Foster, wasflying from Cumnor Hall in the samedirection

,resolved to throw herself upon

the mercy and affection Of Le icester.Surely lady never was in sorrier plightthan she in that company of mountebanks

,with only Wayland Smith to pro

tect her and provide for her ; thoughWayland

,it should be said, was as much

of a gentleman as any of the more be

ruffled and bej ewelled personages of

Ken ilworth.

What their route from Cumnor was isa matter of some mystery ; for in one

place Scott tells us that Amy and her

162 AMY ROBSART,escort avoided Warwick

,and then that

they travelled to Ken ilworth by the wayof Warwick and Coventry

,the latter a

rather inexplicable proceeding,for Ken

ilworth is between the two. Perhaps

they struck off from the main road before reaching Warwick ; and in that casewe can imagine them trudging wearilythrough the quaint v illages of Bishop ’sTackbrook, Offchurch, and Cubbington .

These places looked much the samethen as they do now ; and if we shouldsee an El izabethan figu re at the door ofone of the thatched cottages we Shouldhardly suspect it to be a masquerade .

Changes are infrequent and slow intheir Operation in nooks Of this sort ;and a new window here

, or a chimneythere

,is the only alteration a revisiting

spirit could d iscover after an absence ofa duration compared with which its mortal l ife would seem less than infancy.

The crouching l ittle church at the bendof the road, with its square Norman


164 AMY ROBSART,the same kindred dust that has alreadycovered him half a score of times Thestone threshold of his cottage is wornaway with his hobnailed footsteps shuffl ing over it from the reign of the firstPlantagenet to that of Victoria.

”

The wear of season and age, whichhas not impaired the hab itableness of

these humble dwell ings,becomes elo

quent,however

,in the castle at Keh il

worth,which m ight have been expected

to outlast them for many a year . Leices

ter ’s palace,that noble stru cture , which

dating from the time of Henry I . ,

often Sheltered kings,is now but a ru in

,

with stairways leading only half-wayfrom floor to floor

,and no other roof

than the sky in any of its chambers .Still

,enough of it remains to enable us

to trace nearly all the incidents of thestory as Scott describes them in theromance ; and stimulated by the rhyth

m ic cumulative splendor Of those portionS Of the narrative which bear all


readers along with impetuous fascination

,the vis itors witness

,when they are

sufficiently imaginative, the re enactmentof Amy’s adventures . Here is the pointat which the giant warder was posted

,

past whom she stole with Wayland,

while Fl ibbert igibbet restored to thememory of the huge creature his partin the coming masque ; here was Mer

vyn’

s Tower, where she sought shelterin the hOpe of being able to communicate with the Earl

,and where She was

discovered by Lambourne and Tressilian ; here may yet be seen the greathall in which the throne was placed ;and here

,in the Pleasaunce

,was the

grotto in whose cool recess Amy con

cealed herself, and was discovered bythe queen . The tourists are strong in

faith,and do not attempt to separate

the component admixture of truth andfiction : the novel is a guide-book tothem ; and Wayland, Flibbertigibbet,Tressilian, and Lambourne are all ac

AMY ROBSART,

cepted as historical personages . Not

in all the chron icles of England is therea chapter equal in magnetism to thestory set forth by Scott of the love of

th is unhappy country girl .At Cumnor there is much less to sub

stantiate the romance than here . Nota stone rema ins of the hall

,and even its

site is obliterated . The inn is calledthe Black Bear ; but it is not the pros

perou s, comfortable hostlery over whichGiles Gosl ing presided with such goodhumor and tact moderate in hisreckonings

,prompt in his payments

,

having a cellar of sound liquor, a readywit, and a pretty daughter. Such innkeepers have gone out of fashion withsuch shop-keepers as Master Goldthread

,

the mercer. The Old church,in which

Pap ist and Puritan have preached andprayed

,has not disappeared ; but the

testimony it bears throws doubt on theauthenticity of the story that AnthonyFoster is buried in the chancel—“he


168 AMY ROBSART,the stigma and parade of Charity

,that

the inmates may well be envied ; but,withthe perversity of human nature

,they

sometimes mutter against their lot,in

stead of constantly blessing the memoryof their patron . The bear and raggedstaff

,the motto and initials of Dudley,

are visible at every point in the quaintbuildings ; and in the kitchen we areshown a faded bit of embro idery

,glazed

in an oaken frame, which is said to bethe needlework of Amy Robsart

,a trad i

tion so insecure at the roots that it putsus in mind of that epigram of Mr. HenryJames concerning the method of TaineA thin soil Of historical evidence ismade to produce luxuriant flowers of

deduction . But centuries Shrink intoneighborly and speakable distance here,and allow us to fancy that the verifica

tion by l iving witness of the tradition isalmost possible . The past is completelyours in that snug kitchen . All the oak

of rafter, casing, and wainscot is dark


ened to ebony with age,but in a perfect

state of preservation . The floor is of redt iles, and the low white ceiling is heldup by blackened beams . There is a fireplace so capacious that all the pensioners m ight cook the ir dinners at once

,and

a settle,adorned with the omnipresent

bear,on which all of them

,s itting to

gether,might afterward smoke their

p ipes,as

,indeed, they frequently do .

The light,s ifting through the h inged

,

leaded windows,set in stone mullions

,

burnishes antiquated arms and armorhung upon the walls

,and brings out the

sheen on the fragment of Amy Robsart’sembroidery. Even after n ightfall thereis enough l ight from the fire that i s al

ways kept burning to Show the mottoacross the hearth

,Droit et loyal,

” theinitials R. L . ,

and the date,15 7 1.

Presenting to the street a many-gabledfront

,with peaked windows

,open tim

bers,hinged lattices

,and carved brackets

,

the buildings form within a quadrangle

17 0 AMY ROBSART,

and here the brick-work is picked out

with the Sixteen quarterings of Leicester ’s arms

,richly emblazoned

,and along

the mouldings of the galleries,in Old

English text, illuminated and sunken inthe oak

,run various rules for the govern

ment of the inmates Honor all MenFear God “Honor the King

Love the Brotherhood Be kindlyaffectioned one to Another “He thatruleth over Men must be Just.”

On the highest spot in the town standsSt. Mary ’s Church, its lofty tower visib le for miles around

,across field and

hedge-row,and its ch imes peal ing l ike

music from heaven over the fair Englishlandscape . Here

,in the Beauchamp

chapel,under canopies of lace-like stone

,

and screens of artistically wrought metal,

l ies Leicester,surrounded by h is coro

neted kinsmen and former earls of Warwick . There is no allusion to Amy

,no

memento of her . Another wife reposeswith him

,her hands piously clasped in


17 2 AMY ROBSART,him by “certain gentlemen that didstrive who should first take away agoose’ s head which was hanged alive ontwo crossposts . Leicester was marriedsecretly

,though not to her. It was to

Lady Sheffi eld,thirteen years after Amy’s

death,and two years previous to the rev

els. Amy ’s father was not S ir Hugh,but S ir John Robsart ; not a knightofDevon

,but a kn ight of Norfolk . Scott

,

indeed,has not allowed himself to be

hampered by any rigid adherence to h istoric truth ; though it is true that Amydi ed mysteriously at Cumnor Hall

,and

that Leicester felt himself called uponto disprove the suspicion which prevailedthat he had connived at her taking off.That he was indifferent to her is shownby his actions and by his correspondence . Beyond this, Scott

’s authorityseems to have been a mysterious and

melodramatic Jesuit,named Parsons,

whose Charges against Leicester wererepeated at a later period by that garru

KEN ILWORTH, AND WARW ICK. 17 3

lous old chronicler,Ashmole . Let us

not be too exacting,however. Truth

even wavers on the l ips of History herself when she discards the masqueradeof the historical novel

,and puts on the

academic silk. And it is to be notedthat the fable of Amy Robsart convincesthe mind of the rustic when fact goes

,

unheeded,in at one ear and out at the

other. Listen to the sounds from thecanvas theatre in the field on the Goventry road . They are playing a drama

tiz ation of “Kenilworth ; ” and, familiaras the story is

,the audience l isten to it

again with undiminished interest,and

audibly sob as the corpulent Tressilianpumps up his reproache s against thewayward heroine.

Prcuwork by Bemick Smi th , Boston, U .S .A.

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