The Cornwall Coast Part 9

Meeting the ocean westward of Harlyn is Trevose Head, with its lighthouse and coastguard station. The headland rises to nearly 250 feet, and its light is sorely needed, the coast, with its outlying ma.s.ses of crag, being a deadly peril to navigation. The views to be obtained here are of exceptional grandeur, and the lighthouse-keepers, though far less lonely than on many similar stations, generally welcome a visit.

[Ill.u.s.tration: TREVOSE LIGHTHOUSE.

_Photo by Alex. Old, Padstow._]

Padstow is situated on the western side of the Camel estuary, below the sandbank known as the Doom Bar (probably _dune-bar_). The gates of the river-mouth are the Stepper Point, with its white day-mark, and Pentire Point; the Doom Bar lies well within these, almost blocking the pa.s.sage, which, with vessels of any draught, must be made on the Stepper side. The name Doom Bar is, of course, provocative of legend, and an appropriate one has been found. It is said that Padstow had once a safe and commodious harbour, whose mouth was haunted by a beautiful mermaid. The harbour was under her special protection, and she was consequently revered by the inhabitants. But one day a youth foolishly fired on her from the cliffs. With a cry of rage she plunged into the water, but reappeared for a moment to vow that henceforth the harbour should be ruined. An old Cornishman who told the story in the days when such traditions still pa.s.sed current, used to add: "We have had commissions and I know not what about converting this place into a harbour of refuge. A harbour of refuge would be a great blessing, but not all the Government commissions in the world could keep the sand out, or make the harbour deep enough to swim a frigate, unless the parsons can find out the way to take up the merry-maid's curse." But there is another tradition attaching to the Bar. This is the country of Tregeagle--he lies buried at St. Breock, close to Wadebridge: "John Tregeagle, of Trevorder, Esqr., 1679." His story forms a curious mixture of the recent and the prehistoric. We see that a man named Tregeagle truly lived and died something more than two centuries ago; but the Tregeagle or Tergagle of legend belongs to folk-lore rather than to modern social life. Very old ideas and superst.i.tions have in some manner become attached to a recent name; tradition has a knack of bringing forward its dates; stories of immemorial antiquity are related as though they were the experience of the narrator's father or grandfather, and are modernised to suit that supposition. Legend never sticks at absurdity or anachronism. From some versions of the story it would appear that Tregeagle could not have lived earlier than the seventeenth century, in actual accordance with the date on his tombstone; but in others certain of the early Cornish saints are introduced, carrying the history twelve centuries back or further still. It would seem that Tregeagle was a landowner in the neighbourhood of Bodmin, holding the Trevorder estate; but he won his chief notoriety as steward on the lands of the Robartes family, at Lanhydrock. There is still a room in the Lanhydrock mansion known as Tregeagle's. The man doubtless did many things of which morality cannot approve, but tradition has overdone itself in attributing to him every possible crime, including the murder of his wife, his children, and his sister. He was an unjust steward, grinding the tenants unmercifully, and enriching himself not only at their expense but at that of his employer. But he contrived to purchase the goodwill of the Church, and at his death it was only seemly that the clergy should do what they could for him. When the spirits of darkness came to claim the soul of the dying wretch they were successfully repelled by the priests with the powers of bell, book, and candle. The Church wrangled with the fiends above the breathless body, defeated them in heated theological controversy, dismissed them with contumely, and laid Tregeagle to rest with his fathers at St. Breock. He was not destined to repose there long. There was a heritage of trouble in connection with the Lanhydrock estate, and the defendant in one particular case sorely needed the witness of Tregeagle himself, to settle a disputed point. By some means he managed to procure it; the clergy provided a safe-conduct, and the figure of the dead Tregeagle was led into the witness-box. A thrill of horror pa.s.sed through the court, but this spectral witness gave evidence faithfully, and gained a triumphant verdict for defendant. The trouble now was what to do with Tregeagle. The fiends were still waiting for him; defendant who had summoned him took no further interest in the matter; but the clergy felt that they still owed him a duty. They knew that the dead man's chance at the Day of Doom was not a good one, but in the meantime they would do what they could. It was decided to give him a perpetual penance, which might keep the evil spirits at a distance. He was led away to the sh.o.r.es of Dosmare Pool, on the desolate Bodmin Moors, and there set to drain the pool with a leaky limpet-sh.e.l.l. In those days Dosmare was supposed to be bottomless--a reputation which it has since destroyed by drying in hot summers. For long years Tregeagle toiled at his hopeless task. If he ceased from his labour for a moment he would be at the mercy of the devils.

One night, after many years of fruitless toil, there came a terrific storm, with thunder and earthquake. In sheer horror and despair Tregeagle fled. Immediately the demons were on his track, chasing him so closely that he could not stay to dip his limpet-sh.e.l.l in the foaming water. Feeling that they were upon him, he rose with a cry of anguish, and fled across the pool, thus gaining a temporary advantage, for spirits of evil cannot cross water. He made for the hermitage on Roche Rock, the yelling pursuers at his heels. Just as they were about to seize him he thrust his head within the small window of the hermit's chapel, and thus was safe. There was still a difficulty about his position. He could not get further into the church, nor does it appear that the hermit desired it; and he could not withdraw his head lest the fiends should seize him. He had to stay and listen to the good man's prayers and liturgies, which only added to the terrors of his guilty conscience, so that his remorseful screams were heard above all the psalms and prayings. The hermit found it a great affliction, for the population of the district was kept away by the unpleasantness of Tregeagle's presence. At last two other clergy came to his a.s.sistance, and Tregeagle was led away to the coast at Padstow. His new task was to make ropes of sand--one of the familiar penances of such traditions. He could not do it; it was worse than draining Dosmare. Night and day he rendered the place hideous with his frantic cries, and the Padstow folk did not like it at all. It was making the neighbourhood unbearable. At their earnest request another effort was made by the priests to dispose of poor Tregeagle. He was ruining the harbour by his attempts to make the ropes of sand; every rising sea scattered these ropes, however carefully formed, and the sand was acc.u.mulating in a bar of Doom. It is said that St. Petrock himself, the spiritual founder of Padstow, forged a chain of which every link was a prayer, and thus led away the unhappy ghost to Helston. In the estuary of the Hel River he spoiled the harbourage also, for a devil tripped him one day, when toiling across with a sack of sand, and the sand was spilt right across the mouth of the river. At last he was cast out from Helston also, and dismissed to Land's End, where he remains labouring to this day, endeavouring to sweep the sands from Porthcurno Cove into Nanjisal. Of course, it cannot be done; the full force of the Atlantic drives around Land's End, and the sands are driven backward again and again. But he is safe from the immediate attack of the fiends, and he is out of the way of the countryfolk. His cries are lost in the crash of the seas that dominate that desolate sh.o.r.e, and the fishermen have given up thinking about Tregeagle.

The legends vary in telling his doom; some make the draining of Dosmare his last penance and some this task at the Land's End. But if an imaginative reason is desired to account for the formation of the Padstow Doom Bar, surely this tale will do as well as any other.

[Ill.u.s.tration: CLIFFS NEAR PADSTOW.

_Photo by Alex. Old._]

It will be seen that this chronicle of Tregeagle carries him back to the time of Petrock, the patron saint of Padstow, whose name is a corruption of Petrock's-stow. Little Petherick, sometimes called St.

Petrock Minor, is thought to be a corruption of the same name. Petrock was a Celtic saint, probably a Welshman, who went to Ireland for his religious education; he crossed to Cornwall in a coracle, and landed in this estuary of the Camel. He founded an oratory here, and probably another at Little Petherick. It is also suggested that he established another cell at Place, the seat of the Prideaux, but it seems more likely that the chapel at Place was founded by St. Samson. After spending many years at Padstow the saint is said to have voyaged to the East, visiting India, and also going on a visionary journey to some Island of the Blest, after the manner of St. Brendan. After returning to Cornwall he removed to Bodmin and established the most important of his religious foundations. Like Padstow, Bodmin was formerly named Petrockstow, and this has caused endless confusion to the chroniclers as well as some quarrels between the two towns.

Further, the saint evidently went into Devon; we trace his footsteps at Dartmouth, Exeter, Hollacombe, Anstey, and elsewhere. Bodmin can boast precedence of Padstow in certain respects, for it attained episcopal consequence, besides being the county town of Cornwall; but with regard to priority in connection with Petrock, it is clear Padstow has the first claim. At one time Padstow appears to have been called Lodenek or Lodernek, but in the thirteenth century it was certainly known as Aldestowe; in fact, the town has been troubled with a multiplicity of names, which is always a regrettable thing, for a person or a place. The town is about two miles within the estuary, and were it not for the sands that block its entrance, this would be truly a fine harbour; even so, it is the best that North Cornwall possesses.

Two vessels sailed from here for the siege of Calais; and in the sixteenth century some sort of corporation was granted, but this seems to have been lost. At the present day it is a picturesque, quaint old town, in a beautiful and most interesting site, dominated by a weather-beaten old church. But Mr. Hind, though he finds much to admire, does not regard Padstow as in any sense typically Cornish. He says: "An air-voyager dropped from a flying-machine upon the roof of a Padstow house would never think that he was in Cornwall. If he walked out to Stepper Point, or strode some miles westward to Trevose Head, the first land sighted in old days by Canadian timber vessels trading to Padstow, the majestic sweep of coast, the jagged headlands and scattered rocks would certainly suggest Cornwall; but the estuary of the Camel from Wadebridge to Padstow, although beautiful, has no claim to the epithet wild. The panorama induces reflection, moves one to a mood of gentle melancholy; but it does not stimulate. Nowhere in Cornwall have I seen such sand--gold, grey and yellow, equally lovely at all tides. Looking across the river, the eye is soothed by these wastes of blown sand stretching inland from the sea to where the little hamlet called Rock rises from the sh.o.r.e." Sundries are imported at the docks, and there is some shipment of corn; but the ship-building, once notable, has greatly declined, and the town now does little but repairing. It is satisfactory to find that the sands of the Doom Bar have a certain value, as they contain much carbonate of lime, and they are carried inland for agricultural purposes. The church, which stands well above the town, has a good Early English tower, and a beautiful, finely carved catacleuse font; in the south porch the parish stocks are preserved. In the chancel, over the piscina, is an effigy sometimes mistaken for that of St. Anthony, but almost certainly the figure is St. Petrock himself, with his usual symbols, the staff and wolf, at his feet. There are modern monochrome pictures from drawings by Hofmann in front of the organ. It is natural to find monuments of the Prideaux family both within the church and without; in the churchyard also are two granite crosses, one much mutilated.

Prideaux Place, generally named Place, stands a little higher than the church, in a glorious situation; it is a finely designed Elizabethan mansion--Elizabethan in style if not exactly in date--erected by Sir Nicholas Prideaux about the year 1600. Its old staircase was brought thither when Stowe House, once the seat of the Grenvilles, was broken up. The Prideaux are a Cornish family of ancient note, whose names we often meet with in the Duchy's annals; but the most widely known was Humphrey Prideaux, born here in 1648, who at one time was Rector of St. Clement's, Oxford, and later became Dean of Norwich. He wrote a Life of Mahomet, and also a work in which he attempted to bridge over the interval between the Old and New Testaments--rather a ticklish job, one might imagine. There are a good many excellent pictures at the house--a Vandyck and many Opies; but the visitor, unless specially introduced, will have to be content with the outside of the beautiful manor-house.

Padstow has been a.s.sociated from immemorial times with a special celebration of the May-Day festival, immediately deriving from the old folk-plays and mummings that were once universal. The special survival here is of the Hobby Horse, that once played so prominent a part in these boisterous masquerades, but such life as it still enjoys at Padstow is somewhat a galvanised existence, just as children still occasionally dress in poor tinsel and gaiety in order to collect a few coppers. Such exhibitions are melancholy rather than interesting--

"For who would keep an ancient form Thro' which the spirit breathes no more?"

The horse is a wooden circle, with a dress of blackened sailcloth, a horse's head, and a prominent tail. Readers of Scott's _Abbot_ will, of course, remember that the Hobby Horse was equally popular in Scotland. The Hobby Horse song, as rendered at Padstow, was probably only a variant of verses common elsewhere, but local and topical allusions were freely introduced, and stanzas were addressed to special personages. The performance is in a moribund condition, and it is certainly not worth while for a stranger to travel to Padstow on May-Day to see it. Very likely he would not see it; it is a thing that may be discontinued at any time. If we were devoting our attention to Cornwall as it used to be, much would come into this book which is now utterly obsolete, and would cause as great surprise to Cornish folk as to others.

[Ill.u.s.tration: A ROUGH CORNISH SEA.

_Photo by Alex. Old._]

If the tide serves, it is certainly worth while to go up to Wadebridge, if only for the sake of the grand old bridge, originally built of seventeen arches, in the year 1485, by Thomas Lovibond, Vicar of Egloshayle. The bridge has been widened since its erection, but is not otherwise much changed. There was a ferry here in the past, but it was perilous, and Lovibond could not rest till, with the a.s.sistance of his bishop, he had collected money for this beneficent work. There was a great difficulty in sinking foundations for the bridge, owing to the shifting sands, but, guided by a dream, Lovibond is said to have resorted to packs of wool--the same method reported by tradition of Bideford Bridge. The bridge is 320 feet long, and remains the best specimen of its cla.s.s in England, as it retains its protecting angles for the use of pedestrians, which at Bideford have been removed.

Lovibond was not only a bridge-builder; he also erected the fine tower of his church at Egloshayle (the mother-parish of Wadebridge).

Egloshayle probably means the "church by the river" (_eglos-hel_); its church is particularly interesting for its western doorway, its Norman font, and its Kestell monument, while there is some good carving in the roof of the south aisle. The church of St. Breock is distant nearly a mile from Wadebridge, on the western side of the river, and is perhaps still more delightful in its position; it is noteworthy for its monuments, which, however, have been much displaced. It is here that the remains of Tregeagle lie entombed; his spirit, if we may credit tradition, is otherwise engaged. St. Breock is supposed to have arrived in Cornwall, from Wales, earlier than Petrock. He was an old man, and, as Mr. Baring-Gould tells us, one day his companions "left him to sing psalms in his cart whilst they were engaged at a distance over some pressing business. When they returned they found a pack of wolves round the old man, but whether his sanct.i.ty, or toughness, kept them from eating him is left undecided." Surely it must have been his sanct.i.ty. His name attaches to the Breock Downs, a high-lying moorland rising to about 700 feet, thickly strewn with prehistoric remains.

Wadebridge has suffered by the opening of the railway to Padstow, but it can boast that its rail to Bodmin was the second line to be opened in England. Many jests were current in reference to the speed of this early railway. Professor Shuttleworth, who was born at Egloshayle Vicarage, says: "I have often seen the train stop while people got out and gathered blackberries. But it is lovely country down around Egloshayle and Wadebridge, just as pretty and quiet as can be." Mr.

Arthur Norway also has a very tender regard for the district, for a similar reason, and he has given some weird stories of local superst.i.tion. But it cannot be claimed that Wadebridge is on the coast, and we must retreat seaward.

[Ill.u.s.tration: WADEBRIDGE.

_Photo by Alex. Old._]

Readers of Baring-Gould's stirring novel, _The Roar of the Sea_, are sure to look eagerly for St. Enodoc's Church. It lies among the sand-dunes on the eastern bank of the estuary, and is now protected from the sands that once practically buried it by the growth of rush-gra.s.s and tamarisk hedges; even now it lies low within a deep trench, and we can easily picture its condition in days when the parson used to enter through the roof to perform service, so as to keep his t.i.thes. Built in 1430, it was the successor of an earlier cell of the saint's. Its slightly crooked spire of slate is the sole landmark to guide a visitor. In the graveyard is a curious collection of stoups and water-bowls. It is about forty years now since the church was excavated from the sands that rose to its roof and restored to usefulness. Those familiar with Mr. Baring-Gould's book will remember that he places the home of Cruel Coppinger in this district, with his house at Pentire Glaze; but we shall find the true home of Coppinger further northward, near Morwenstow. Just within Hayle Bay is the little village of Polzeath, which in time may become a popular watering-place; it has a wonderful charm of position, and enough sand to satisfy anybody. The fine headland of Pentire reaches beyond, with its off-lying islet of Newland. Mr. Norway thinks that the stretch of coast visible from Pentire is the finest in all Cornwall, and he speaks with authority. On the west the view extends to Trevose, and embraces the whole of the beautiful Padstow harbour, together with an unlimited ocean of marvellous ever-changing colours. "On the east the prospect seems almost boundless. Port Isaac Bay lies just below, sweeping far back into the land, half hidden by the Eastern Horn of Pentire. Across the bay Tintagel lies directly opposite, eight miles away over the sea, every crevice and gully of its riven island clearly marked in the translucent air; and beyond it the eye follows leagues and leagues of iron cliffs towering far higher than any others in the west, and point after point of n.o.ble jagged promontories, past Boscastle, set back a little out of sight, past Bude and Cambeak, and rugged Morwenstow, till it rests at last on the dim line of Hartland Point, full 40 miles away as a bird would fly. It is idle to compare any other view in the West Country with this either in extent or grandeur, or in the immediate beauty of its surroundings. It is little known, and rarely visited by any but by shepherds. Yet it is more easy of access from Wadebridge than the Land's End or the Logan from Penzance; and there will be some to whom its very loneliness is an additional attraction. However this may be, those who leave Cornwall without visiting Pentire have missed its n.o.blest scenery."

[Ill.u.s.tration: PORT ISAAC.

_Photo by Gibson & Sons._]

It is a large claim that Mr. Norway makes, but surely it is justified.

The parts of Cornwall that are best known are naturally those that come within range of the more popular resorts--Newquay, Bude, Penzance, St. Ives, Falmouth--while eastern Cornwall is accessible from Plymouth. But this stretch of coast is near no popular centre, and, with the exception of Tintagel and Boscastle, it remains neglected. If Padstow or Polzeath, Portquin or Port Isaac, ever become more popular, visitors will flock to these grand cliffs and marvel that they never came here before. There is a remarkable triple entrenchment on the eastern Horn of Pentire, above its stark, rugged caverns; but those who came here and fortified this n.o.ble headland, in far-back days of which we can only dream, came not in search of the picturesque as we do, nor probably for the spiritual repose that we crave in this age of hurry. Even sterner necessities governed their existence. Cliff-camps of this nature cannot have been designed against any foe from the sea--even to-day it would be a perilous thing indeed to attempt a forcible landing at such places--they were more likely a last refuge from invading tribes that came overland from the south-east. The struggles witnessed here must almost certainly have been far earlier than the coming of Roman or Teuton; it was probably successive waves, or antagonist tribes, of Stone Age men that here contended and opposed each other. But the ditches and embankments have little to tell us; tradition is silent, the lonely barrows are dumb.

Yet the blood of the peoples still flows within Cornish veins; and those characteristics that we vaguely speak of as Celtic often derive from a far earlier source.

The little island to the east of Pentire is the Mouls, and to the right is Portquin Bay. Port Isaac Bay, beyond Kelland Head and Varley Point, takes its name from the delightful little fishing village of Port Isaac, of which Port Gaverne may almost be considered as a suburb. Both are in the parish of St. Endellion, but Port Isaac has its own church, erected in Early English style in 1882. Its small pier is said to date from the time of Henry VIII., and before the railway a good deal of Delabole slate was shipped here. The fishing for pilchards is here done by trawlers, not by seines, as round Land's End. The name may probably be interpreted as _porth izic_, the "corn port," though certainly this is not a grain country. Very appropriately, it is said that fish are exhibited among the fruits and flowers at the Port Isaac annual harvest service. Some other West Country fishing-towns have introduced nets and oars at such services, but to bring in the actual fish seems peculiar to this place. The fish has always been a sacred symbol in Christian art, and it represents to fisher-folk what the fruits of the earth do to the field labourer.

Both these little twin ports--Isaac and Gaverne--are entirely charming, and much to be commended to all who would know unspoiled Cornwall. Nestling within their tiny coves, they have a varied background of interesting country, pleasant little beaches, beautiful cliffs, and a glorious sea. There is one other resort to be visited before reaching Tintagel, and that is Trebarwith Strand, which similarly reaches the sea by a tiny cove, with the Gull Rock lying off sh.o.r.e as a target for storms. Trebarwith is likely to become fashionable. It has a fine stretch of sands, and provides some of the best bathing to be had in North Cornwall. Those who wish to be near Tintagel and yet close to the sea had better come to Trebarwith rather than to the Tintagel village itself.

CHAPTER XVI

TINTAGEL AND BOSCASTLE

When we come to the region that is specially sacred to traditions of King Arthur we find ourselves in the presence of wonderful natural charm and of considerable historic perplexity. Those who are content with the ordinary guide-books, and who have no conception of Arthur beyond what they may have gained from s.n.a.t.c.hes of Tennyson, will not be troubled by this perplexity; they will take the crumbling walls on Tintagel heights to be the actual castle in which the Celtic prince was born, and any round table will suffice them as being that around which the king and his chieftains sat. But something a little better than this is desirable. We want Arthur to be something more than a mere ghost, something even more than the blameless hero of a beautiful Victorian poem. Yet if we go to the learned authorities the ghost becomes more ghostlike, the phantom becomes more dim; it is mainly destructive criticism that we meet with, and a.s.sertions that are largely negative. In spite of this, there must be something tangible behind so persistent a rumour as this tradition of Arthur. Wherever the Brythonic tribes extended, there we find traces of him. The Gaels know nothing of him. Finn, Oisin, Cuthullin, Cormac--such as these were the great Goidhelic heroes. But the British tradition reached from Armorica to the Forth, and carried Arthur with it. The Welsh claim him, the Bretons, the Cornish, the Lowland Scotch. Cornwall, with Tintagel as an a.s.set of faith, claims his birth; Somerset, with Cadbury on the river Camel, claims Camelot; and Glas...o...b..ry boasts of his grave. Of these claims, that of Cornwall is the most powerfully supported; there is not only Tintagel, but Kelly Rounds, Damelioc, and Cardinham. One of the Welsh Triads speaks of the three chief palaces of Arthur as being Caerleon-on-the-Usk, Celliwig in Cornwall, and Penrhyn Rhionedd in the north. Celliwig may safely be identified with the partially effaced earthwork near St. Kew Station, known as Kelly Rounds (probably from the Cornish _killi_, meaning woods or groves), standing in what may be described as a Kelly district, for we have here in a cl.u.s.ter such names as Kelly Green, Kelly Farm, Bokelly, Kelly Brae, Calliwith. The Rounds have been cut across by a road, but there are distinct traces of two ramparted circles, with some remains of a sheltering earthwork to the west. Damelioc, a large and strong entrenchment with three concentric ramparts, lies about seven miles south-west of Tintagel; and it was here that Gorlois, Duke of Cornwall, took up his position after placing his wife Igerne for safety within Tintagel itself. The common story says that Uther, mad with love, overcame and slew Gorlois at Damelioc, and gained admission to Tintagel in his guise, thus becoming the father of Arthur. Of course, there is the other tradition that represents Arthur as of supernatural birth, washed to the sh.o.r.e by the waves, rescued by Merlin, and given to the world as a son of Uther. Cardinham, the other almost certain Arthurian locality in Cornwall, is about five miles east of Bodmin, and is identified with the Caradigan where Arthur sometimes held court. It is a large, lonely earthwork, in a field near a farmhouse. It must not be forgotten that the guide-books usually put forward Camelford as another most important Arthurian place, mentioning Slaughter Bridge as the scene of the king's last battle.

There certainly was a battle here between Britons and Saxons, but this took place at least two centuries after Arthur's time; and though a spot named Arthur's Grave is shown to visitors, all definite connection between the king and Camelford must be surrendered. The last great battle, according to all authentic tradition, was fought against Picts, and what would Picts have been doing in Cornwall? The grave at Glas...o...b..ry, it must be owned with regret, is now generally understood to be a monkish fable. It is not pleasant for a West of England man to surrender either Camelford or Glas...o...b..ry, but truth must be faced, and the fact is almost certain that Arthur's last battle, and therefore his grave, must be sought in Scotland.

[Ill.u.s.tration: TINTAGEL.

_Photo by Gibson & Sons._]

We may a.s.sume that Arthur was a Romanised Briton, born in the late fifth century at Tintagel; his name being possibly a Celtic form of the Latin _Artorius_. He became the champion of his race against encroaching Saxons, North-Country Picts, and wandering pagan hordes who fought for l.u.s.t of bloodshed and pillage. Against these it is likely that Arthur sought to maintain a semi-Romanised, partially Christianised civilisation. He is credited with twelve great battles, in all of which he proved victorious; some of these were certainly in Somerset, and the last of his triumphs, that of Badon Hill, somewhere in Wess.e.x. His rule thus established on a firm foundation, for many years Britain knew comparative peace and good government. The Round Table of which we hear so much is probably a symbolic addition of the bards, unless it means that in Arthur's time persons of good cla.s.s began to sit decently together at tables. The thirteenth battle, in which he lost his life fighting against his nephew Mordred, has usually been given to the West of England--Malory and Tennyson both do so. But the traditions that became most popular sprang up in an age when the Cymry were forgetting the former wide extent of their tribal sway, and were limiting their racial pride to a part of the country that was still free from the Teuton. The fact that Arthur's last fight was with the Picts, and against Mordred, is almost conclusive as to its location. His sister, the mother of Mordred, had married Llew or Lot, of the Lothians, and there is reason to believe that the king was already familiar with this part of Scotland. The battle is always given as fought at Camlan, and this name has diverted later writers to the Camels of Cornwall and of Somerset. But the Celtic _cam_ in place-names is quite common; it signifies crooked, and we find it in a number of river-names. Mordred had become a chieftain of the Picts, and he possibly resented any claims of suzerainty on the part of Arthur. The fight, whose date is stated as 542, was almost certainly waged at Camelon on the river Carron, near Falkirk. Arthur was defeated--it is likely that his forces were greatly outnumbered; and he died, either on the field or as an immediate result of a wound then received. Not many miles distant is an earthwork still known as Mordred's Castle; and at Carron, nearer still, there was formerly a mound or cairn known as Arthur's Oon (oven). All the picturesque detail in Tennyson's wonderful "Pa.s.sing of Arthur" must be attributed to Cymric bards, to the genius of Malory, and to the poet's imagination; we must be content with the conclusion that Arthur was born but did not die in Cornwall.

[Ill.u.s.tration: KING ARTHUR'S CASTLE.

_Photo by Alex. Old._]

In any case nothing of the present ruins at Tintagel existed in the time of Arthur. Geoffrey of Monmouth, who wrote about the year 1150, says of the stronghold that "it is situated upon the sea, and on every side surrounded by it; and there is but one entrance into it, and that through a straight rock, which three men shall be able to defend against the whole power of the kingdom." Even Gorlois, we remember, only gained admittance by stratagem. Tintagel, Dundagel, or Dundiogl, the _Dunecheniv_ of Domesday, seems certainly to have belonged to Gorlois when Uther was Pendragon or Head-king of Britain; it would have been a cliff-castle such as that on Pentire Head. As years pa.s.sed the rock probably became more insular, and when the Norman stronghold was built it was connected with the mainland by a drawbridge. From earliest times the castle attached to the Earls of Cornwall, one of whom protected David, Prince of Wales, during his revolt against Edward I. Later it was used as a kind of prison, a Mayor of London being confined within it. Elizabeth had some thought of restoring it, for it had already become ruinous; Leland says: "The residue of the buildings of the Castle be sore wetherbeten, and yn ruine; but it hath beene a large thinge." Its outworks extended to the mainland, but the great keep was on the isolated ma.s.s of rock. Here also are the remains of St. Juliet's chapel, with its altar-slab and stone benches.

It is not easy to say much about the Juliot or Julitta to whom this chapel was dedicated; but the chapel is certainly that mentioned in the thirteenth-century _High History of the Holy Grail_. "They came into a very different land, scarce inhabited of any folk, and found a little castle in a combe. They came thitherward and saw that the enclosure of the castle was fallen down into an abysm, so that none might approach it on that side, but it had a right fair gateway and a door tall and wide, whereby they entered. They beheld a chapel that was fair and rich, and below was a great ancient hall." But the spirit of modernism now comes very near to this sacred spot of antiquity; on an opposite headland stands a commodious hotel, and the Tintagel golf-links come very close to the castle. A tiny port lies below, from which a little slate is sometimes shipped. The village, whose correct name of Trevena is being displaced by that of Tintagel, lies about a mile inland; it is clean and comfortable, but not remarkably picturesque except for the old gabled building that was once its post-office. Those who want the perpetual presence of the sea will not be contented with it. Its church, dedicated to SS. Marcelliana and Materiana (of whom the latter may be the Welsh Madron), stands at a distance, above the cliffs west of the castle; it is a stern, bare building, magnificently placed, so fully exposed to the force of Atlantic gales that the very tombstones have been b.u.t.tressed. A portion of the walls, in their rude simplicity, appears to be Saxon, but many orders are represented here, from the late Norman chancel-arch to the Decorated south transept and Perpendicular screen.

There is a rugged circular font, and what is supposed to be a Roman milestone. The vestry was formerly a Lady-chapel, possibly Saxon, with a thirteenth-century door and a curious mutilated altar. The south-transept window is to the memory of J. Douglas Cook, founder of the _Sat.u.r.day Review_, who returned to his native Cornwall to die. In the churchyard are the graves of drowned seamen, British and foreign.

It is a striking and solemnising little church, quite in harmony with a district of myth and sublimity. It is possible that some who come to Tintagel for the first time may be disappointed. If so, they have expected too much, or have expected the wrong thing. There is no gloss of false romance about the place; the ruins have not the hollow pretentious grandeur of some Norman castles; what we see is the unadorned, unveiled reality of a majestic coast, the low, stark walls of ruin on an immemorial site, the naked wind-beaten church on the heights, the sea breaking into gaunt caverns below. Sheep feed within the enclosure to which we scramble by a ragged path. Sentiment may resent the hotel and the golfers, but any jarring note can easily be ignored. Yet even Tennyson seems to have been disappointed at first; afterwards, the spirit of the place sank into him and prevailed.

Perhaps old Hawker has described it best, in few pregnant words:--

"Hark! stern Dundagel softens into song.

They meet for solemn severance, knight and king, Where gate and bulwark darken o'er the sea."

He gives us the words of Arthur, when the listeners "hush their hearts to hear the king":--

"I would not be forgotten in this land: I yearn that men I know not, men unborn, Shall find, amid these fields, King Arthur's fame.

Here let them say, by proud Dundagel's walls-- 'They brought the Sangraal back at his command, They touched these rugged rocks with hues of G.o.d,'

So shall my name have worship, and my land."

And after the king had spoken:--

"That night Dundagel shuddered into storm-- The deep foundations shook beneath the sea."

And we have the grand final picture:--

"There stood Dundagel, throned; and the great sea Lay, a strong va.s.sal at his master's gate, And, like a drunken giant, sobb'd in sleep."

There was a time when Trevena, with Bossiney and Trevalga, formed a borough, and sent members to Parliament, of whom Francis Drake was one. It needed little apology to disfranchise such a small corporation as this, but the first Reform Bill had to deal with far greater anomalies. Bossiney has other attractions than such memories as this, having a delightful cove protected by the fine headland of Willapark.