For long the son, fearing the sadness of old a.s.sociations, refused to preach in the sister parish, and when at last his reluctance was overcome and he stood in his father"s pulpit it was only to hesitate and break down. He explained with faltering voice, "I stand amid the dust of those near and dear to me."
Morwenstow is reached from Marsland Mouth by the Henna Cliff (The Raven"s Crag--and Welsh legend hath it that King Arthur was changed into one of these birds, though the Cornish say, a chough), from which is obtained a magnificent view of that wild coast, Dizzard, Cambeak, Tintagel, and Pentire, rising one beyond the other in shades of blue deepening to purple. The Norman doorway of the church, which like that of Marhamchurch is dedicated to St. Morwenna, is crowned with zigzag and chevron mouldings which are surmounted by a range of grotesque sea-faces--mermaid, dolphin, whale, and so forth. Mr. Hawker tells how the old piscina was found and reinstated. "The chancel wall one day sounded hollow when struck; the mortar was removed, and underneath there appeared an arched aperture which had been filled up with jumbled carved work and a crushed drain. It was cleared out and so rebuilt as to occupy the exact site of its former existence. It is of the earliest type of Saxon architecture, and for all we know may be the oldest piscina in the land."
The church roof is of wood, and shingles of rended oak occupy the place of the usual tiles. "Outside the screen and at the top of the nave is the grave of a priest. It is identified by the reversed position of the carved cross on the stone, which also indicates the self-same att.i.tude in the corpse. The head is laid down toward the east while, in all secular interments, the head is turned towards the west."
On the south side of the churchyard--as in so many along this ruthless coast--are the graves of wrecked sailors; and Hawker, a great-hearted man and to some extent a poet, was foremost in rendering the last kind offices to the dead. Over forty men, the crews of three lost vessels, lie here, while the figurehead by one lot of graves is that of the brig _Caledonia_ from Arbroath in Scotland. No wonder ships give these stupendous cliffs as wide a berth as possible. An occasional steamer is sighted, some tramp in search of cargo goes hurrying by, but, as a rule, the wide expanse is empty of surface life, a fact which is both noticeable and suggestive.
On a spot where he had seen the lambs sheltering from wind and weather, Mr. Hawker built the vicarage. With one of his personality as architect, it was impossible it should quite resemble any other manse; therefore it is not surprising to find that in the chimney-stacks he has reproduced the forms of certain church towers that he admired, while inset over the doorway is the distich:
"_A house, a glebe, a pound a day, A pleasant place to watch and pray, Be true to Church, be kind to poor, O Minister for evermore!_"
TONACOMBE AND STOWE
Not far from Morwenstow lie--or rather did lie, for though Tonacombe still preserves its original design, Stowe, near Coombe Valley, the home of the Grenvilles, was unfortunately destroyed in 1715--two old manor-houses. The former, which was built in the fifteenth century, has a fine stone-floored hall with timbered roof, old open fireplace, and minstrel"s gallery. Some of the rooms, which have lattice windows, are panelled, and Charles Kingsley stayed in this "in some respects the most remarkable mediaeval house in the west of England," while he was writing "Westward Ho."
Of far greater interest, however, is Stowe (Anglo-Saxon for a stockaded place), at one time a magnificent building. Of it only the moat remains, but when Sir Beville rose for Charles I., many a Cornishman, who in his boyhood had stayed at Stowe, practising arms under the eye of Anthony Payne, rose with him.
THE BATTLE OF STAMFORD HILL
To Stratton, a little south of Stowe, came in 1643 the Parliamentarian General, Lord Stamford. The cavaliers, not then very prosperous, but gallant gentlemen all, were lying at Launceston, and the Roundhead made the mistake of underestimating their strength. Sir Ralph Hopton and Sir Beville Grenville marched the twenty miles from the capital town without more food than a few biscuits. Intent on intercepting and driving out the intruder, they found when they reached Stratton late in the evening that he had entrenched himself strongly on a neighbouring hill. As he had the advantage in numbers, having about twice as many men and must know that they were tired, hungry, and in poor condition, the Royalists stood to their arms through the short May night in momentary expectation of an attack. Their leaders were at one of the Poughill cottages--they bear date 1620 and are still to be seen--and Sir Beville, while he waited anxiously, must have wondered how it had gone with wife and children, over above in the moated and stockaded house of Stowe.
Lord Stamford, however, did not take advantage of his enemy"s weariness.
No doubt he thought it would be more convenient, as the country was unknown to him, to scatter the little force by daylight. At any rate he sat still on the top of the hill and did nothing. In the grey dawn, therefore, the Royalists, the fiercer for their hunger and sleeplessness, decided not to wait any longer. Since he would not come down they must go up. Dashingly they attacked his entrenchment, doggedly they continued the fight. After nine hours of it, word was pa.s.sed round that their scanty store of ammunition had come to an end. But they were nothing daunted. Grimly and in a strange silence they made the last a.s.sault; and this time were successful, the leaders of the four narrow columns meeting at the top of the hill. As they did so, Lord Stamford, who had looked on from a safe distance, set spurs to his horse, and fled headlong. Cornwall was won for King Charles, and from the battlefield Francis Ba.s.set of Tehidy could write to his wife "Dearest soule, ring out the bells, raise bonfires, publish these joyful tidings."
A year or two later, however, Stratton told a different tale. Cornwall might in the main be Royalist, but all England was for a change in the government; and presently Lord Ess.e.x, driving Sir Richard Grenville--a brother of Sir Beville--before him, crossed the Tamar and stormed the house at Stowe. It was the beginning of evil days. In 1646 Hopton, the Royalist General, retired to Stratton with a broken, dispirited and, alas! disorderly army, and from thence Sir Thomas Fairfax drove him back across the pa.s.s at Wadebridge which Cromwell--it is the only mention of him in Cornish annals--was sent to secure.
THE BATTLE OF LANSDOWNE HILL
But by then Sir Beville was dead. After the--surely the name is ironical--battle of Stamford Hill, he and his victorious troops had marched to the King"s aid. At the battle of Lansdowne, on the heights above Bath, Sir Beville, sorely wounded, was struck out of his saddle by a pole-axe. The pikemen he was leading fell into confusion, and in an instant the Parliamentarians were among them, hewing them down. Then did Anthony Payne, Sir Beville"s giant retainer, come to the rescue.
Catching his master"s riderless horse, he set on it young John, a stripling of sixteen, Sir Beville"s eldest son; and led him to the head of the wavering pikemen. The appeal was irresistible. The Cornish followed their beloved leader"s son like men possessed; and so, while Sir Beville lay dying on the hillside, his regiment, led by his faithful servant and his young son, swept all before them.
One is glad to remember that at the Restoration when the family"s confiscated estates were restored to them, young John, in memory of his own deeds and those of his greater father, was created Earl of Bath.
TENNYSON AT BUDE
Bude with its wide sands and unsafe harbour is without historical a.s.sociations, but it can be used, having hotels, as a centre from which to visit the more interesting towns (so-called, but they are no bigger than an ordinary village) and hamlets of the neighbourhood. Tennyson, when he had it in mind to write his Arthurian Idylls, came here--no doubt for local colour, though being a Victorian what he said was, "That he must go to Bude and be alone with G.o.d!" During his visit he rode out to Morwenstow to call on Mr. Hawker, and the less-known bard has left an interesting account of their interview.
"I found my guest ... a tall, swarthy, Spanish-looking man with an eye like a sword. He sate down, and we conversed. I at once found myself with no common mind.... Before he left the room, he said: "Do you know my name?"
"I said: "No, I have not even a guess."
""Do you wish to know it?"
""I don"t much care--that which we call a rose, &c."
""Well, then," said he, "my name is _Tennyson_."
""What!" said I, "_the_ Tennyson?"
""What do you mean by _the_ Tennyson? I am Alfred Tennyson, who wrote "Locksley Hall," which you seem to know by heart."
"So we grasped hands, and the Shepherd"s heart was glad."
CHURCHES OF THE NEIGHBOURHOOD
With regard to certain old churches, St. Olaf"s, at Poughill, has two rather crudely restored mural paintings and, set heavily in the south door, what is reputed to be one of the few genuine sanctuary rings still in existence. The church at Marhamchurch also shows the remains of frescoes, while Stratton has a fine stoup, and in the north wall of the chancel an Easter sepulchre, probably the only one in the county. That of Swithin--dear apple saint--at Launcells, has a circular font reputed to date from Saxon times, and the fifteenth century bench-ends, though rudely carved, show a play of symbolic fancy, unusual in Cornwall. On one you see the visit of Mary when she mistook the gardener for Christ, Mary being represented by a spice-box, the gardener by a spade! On another the Harrowing of h.e.l.l is represented by the jaws of a dragon, and so with the various subjects. An empty grave and cross triumphant tells the story of the resurrection, while the supper at Emmaus, though faithfully suggested, is given without the introduction of a single human figure. It is all symbolism--riddles which are interesting to guess, but not always easy.
WEEK ST. MARY
Some five miles or so south of Marhamchurch lies Week St. Mary, about a native of which village a sort of d.i.c.k Whittington story is told. In a field adjoining the churchyard the remains of extensive buildings can be traced, and these, once a chantry, were said to be due to the pious energy of Dame Thomasin Perceval. As a girl she herded geese on the common of Greenamore, until in the shape of a staid and, alas! already married merchant, the Prince came riding by. He spoke to the girl and found her as pleasant in discourse as to the eye. Without more ado, therefore, he took her away with him--and here, though propriety is preserved, the fairy-tale suddenly drops to unromantic fact--he took her to wait upon his wife! In course of time, however, that good lady died and the middle-aged Prince was free to marry his goose-girl.
After many years she returned as a rich widow to her native parish, and there spent the remnant of her days in a cheerful and rather bustling philanthropy, repairing anything in the way of churches, bridges, and roads that required attention, portioning the virtuous and hard working of her own s.e.x and generally playing Lady Bountiful--or so it is said!
In the churchwardens" Accounts of Stratton under date 1513 we read:
"paid for my lady parcyvale ijs Meneday [_i.e._ day of prayer for her soul] to iiij preistes & for bred & ale 1s. 1d."
CHAPTER II
NOOKS AND CORNERS FROM WIDEMOUTH BAY TO ST. TEATH
THE HEADLANDS
The cliffs from Marsland Mouth to Trevose Head are fine, much finer than those on the better known south coast. The seas also are wilder, these sh.o.r.es seeming to suffer from fiercer onslaughts of the Atlantic. On a bl.u.s.tery day it is nothing to see the tortured waves break into a spray that is flung full forty feet into the air, while except in sheltered dips and coves--of which there are none too many in this part--neither tree nor shrub can live. This gives the headlands a barren look, the bold outlines are of grey boulders rather than vegetation, and behind them on the windy downs crouch the grey hamlets and solitary farms. For sheer beauty of crag and precipice, of mighty seas and broken slipped sea-front, there is nothing in the duchy that can compare with this piece of coast. Upon the great cliffs of Widemouth Bay, of which the name is sufficiently descriptive, follow Dizzard Point (500 ft.) with its landslip, Castle Point, so called from the circular earthwork on its summit, Pencarrow Head (400 ft.), between which and Cambeak (500 ft.) at the mouth of a wooded valley lies the lovely Crackington Cove and which brings us to the High Cliff with its sheer drop of 735 ft. This last is the highest in Cornwall, nearly double the height of the Dodman, that glory of the southern coast, while it is far higher than the Land"s End and the Lizard. A little inland is yet higher ground, for Tresparret Down, a barren and desolate heath, is some 850 ft. above sea level!
Somewhat to the north of the High Cliff is St. Genys, the saint of which is said to have been one of three brothers, all of whom were beheaded.
This particular brother is believed to have walked about afterwards, his head held under his arm, a proceeding which reminds us that "King Charles walked and talked, half an hour after his head was cut off!"
There is here an interesting example of an Elizabethan communion cup and paten cover, but it must be remembered that many cups of that date are older in material than in shape. When the word cup was subst.i.tuted for chalice, we find by the churchwarden"s accounts that the vessels were frequently re-shaped. We have, for example, one of 1571, "to Iohn Ions, goldsmith, for changing the chalice into a cup, 1 15_s_. 5_d_."
BOSCASTLE
After the High Cliff the sh.o.r.e gradually a.s.sumes a less terrific aspect, until Boscastle, with its tiny firth and its blow-holes, is reached.
This little straggling place took its name from Botreaux Castle (or Castel-boterel), which was built here in the twelfth century. The last Lord Botreaux died in 1462, and of the castle only a gra.s.sy mount, called Jordans, from a neighbouring stream, remains. This mount is on the hill, that steep and wooded hill which leads down into Boscastle, and on the sides of which the houses are hung like birds" nests on a cliff.
At the end of the valley the hills unite into slaty cliffs which take a sudden fjord-like turn before reaching the sea. This short and tiny estuary cannot, of course, compare with the smallest of those winding inlets which make the strange beauty of the Norwegian coast, inlets whose walls would dwarf the High Cliff and whose majestic desolation would make the barrenest headland in the west seem mild and fertile.
If the tide is in, the islet at the mouth of Boscastle Harbour sends up sudden showers of spray which suggest a geyser, but are in reality due to a blow-hole, and there is another on the mainland.